And malice, there was none

It's a typical September evening as we drive up the hills for a special dinner engagement at Raj Villa in Kasauli. Tales abound about our ho...

It8217;s a typical September evening as we drive up the hills for a special dinner engagement at Raj Villa in Kasauli. Tales abound about our host. He is a fastidious man. Dinner for him must be carefully cooked, preferably by the hostess. The gathering has to be small, and the wines carefully selected. And dinner served by eight. In 1948, Sir Teja Singh Malik, our host8217;s father-in-law bought Raj Villa for Rs 13,000. Kanwal, his wife, inherited the house and since then he visits Kasauli twice or thrice a year.

It is a picture perfect cottage straight out of an English storybook. Ivy trails carelessly up mossy walls. The garden is carved out of the hillside. The wind whispers as it blows through the tall trees growing in gravity-defying magnificence, along the hillsides.

Our host greets us with twinkling eyes. Inside, there is a fire burning in the fireplace and large logs of wood to replenish it. The carpets are fading on the beautiful wooden floors, but they have the genteel patina of careful maintenance. The rooms are redolent with memories and momentoes. There are books everywhere, displaying an eclectic choice. Pictures of the family, his beautiful wife, Kanwal, his daughter and son, his granddaughter. The paintings, mainly watercolours of Ranjit Singh by Emily Edens, would do an art gallery proud. The host shares his memories of how each was acquired. Tucked away in a corner, with a clear view of the hillside, the spartan study where our host and famous author has penned his works in longhand.

The furniture is colonial, the beds four-posters and the desks roll-tops. The sofas are meant to be sunk into with a shawl and a book for company. But there are guests for the evening: the station commandant, Kasauli, and his quiet wife, a publisher and his sprightly better half and us, a boring married couple. While the rest of us have known him for a while, the soldier and his wife are new acquaintances. But not for long. I watch our host work his usual magic on both, especially on the lady. He is a great raconteur. He speaks much as he writes 8212; with honesty and forthrightness. I watch him draw the guests into the conversation, focus on their areas of interest. There8217;s a mellow mood by the time our host has finished his quota of three large whiskies. But a glance at his watch, and at 8 its dinnertime. Dinner is served in the long dining room. Dessert is served and we bid au revoir.

His reputation notwithstanding, our host is a family man, recounting with affection how his daughter set aside all personal commitments to nurse her mother, involved in his grandaughter8217;s doctorate, viewing with some trepidation her lack of interest in marriage and settling down. His wife figures in his conversation constantly.

Khushwant Singh is a gentleman, even when provoked. He is also a thoughtful friend and generous host. And he can still raise the odd goosebump when he holds your hand and looks you in the eye, ever so attentively.