AT Sardar Khushwant Singh�s Sujan Singh Park residence in New Delhi, visitors are encouraged between 7 and 8.15 p.m. only. He opens his bar at 7, and four or five �mucche-gili-ho� pegs later, he kicks his guests out at 8.15 to sit down for dinner. Like in everything else he does, there is discipline in the style and manner in which Khushwant Singh entertains.

My editor, Farzana Contractor, and I were entertained by him one evening in March. The early part of the evening, Khushwant Singh sat in a large, floppy armchair in his living room, one leg propped up on a small, cane morra, tickling a fire built up for the late New Delhi winter. I watched him toss the morning�s Telegraph into the flames, one eye of his on a small time-piece hidden on a bookshelf across the room. A

At 7, with great suppleness for a man of 86, he hoisted himself out of the chair, gratefully accepted a key that wife Kaval gave him, and shuffled off into another room. There, in a wooden cupboard built into the wall, was Khushwant Singh�s bar. I had heard stories about it, and now curious to see what was inside, I squeezed in by him.

He opened the door a crack and closed it swiftly after selecting a litre-size bottle of Tullamore Dew Irish whisky. Maybe he did not want to show me what was inside. But I caught sight of several bottles of Scotch (Khushwant Singh will not drink anything else, the Irish whisky was a passing fad), and some wines. He poured a generous slug into an antique glass, plonked in two cubes of ice and topped it with soda. �This is my �mucche-gilli-ho� peg,� he announced. �I like my moustache soaking in the whisky.�

For us, after some hesitation, Khushwant Singh poured out Scotch. Johnnie Red. Either he was not sharing the Irish whisky or he was honouring us with Scotch, his favourite drink. I accepted my glass silently. I am not much of a drinker of Scotch. Nor of Irish whisky. And when I am working, I do not drink at all.

I did not tell Khushwant Singh this. I was certain he would not tolerate me in his house. I got an inkling to the kind of man he is from right outside his front door. It had no name-plate but a small wooden sign that said, �Ring the bell only if you are expected.� We rang because we were expected. But we were expected for a drink. Not to sit down taking notes and clicking photographs while he downed one �mucche-gilli-ho� peg after another.

I was under the impression he only drank Black Label. He frowned. �I drink any Scotch, as long as it is not bottled in India,� Khushwant Singh replied. �Perforce, I have tried Indian Scotch. But then I have drank all the poisons available here, so what�s Indian Scotch! At one time I only drank Red Label. It was the cheapest and hit me the quickest. Now I prefer Black. Occasionally, I also drink Johnnie Walker Blue Label and Gold.

He does not pretend to be a great connoisseur of Scotch. �If you ask me, I don�t think I will be able to recognise the different labels by their tastes. Or the blends from the single malts. People who say they can do that are talking bakwas! But, yes, I can tell between Indian, Canadian, Irish, English and Japanese whiskies. They are just not Scotch! Even this would be difficult to do after two, three drinks,� admitted the great Scotch drinker.

For a man with such an extravagant taste, Khushwant Singh has never once bought himself a bottle of Scotch since he became addicted to it in 1940. And he must have drank enough Scotch in all these years to keep a small distillery in Scotland in business. Is he stingy? �No, but why should I spend when all my friends ever get me from abroad is Scotch,� Khushwant Singh demanded.

I reminded him of the time when he started writing for the Afternoon On Sunday in 1992 and the editor asked him what he wanted to be paid for his column. Khushwant Singh had replied, �Ek case Scotch bhej do!� He smiled at the memory and told me, �Not just my Scotch, but even my soda is complimentary. I am a director on the board of Le Meredien Hotel, and they supply me with soda and soft drinks free.

He talked about his habit for Scotch. �I had returned from England in 1939 to get married, the drinking began soon after that,� he said, as if the marriage had done him in. �My wife Kaval,� he indicated to the distinguished, white-haired Sardarni sitting across the room, �used to habitually drink me under the table. Now she cannot.� Kaval, I noticed, was nursing a vodka-tonic all through our conversation.

To hear him talk, you would imagine that Khushwant Singh came from a family of drunks. �But it�s almost true,� he protested. �My father enjoyed his drink. Till half an hour before he died at 90, he was drinking Scotch. I taught my mother to enjoy Scotch when she was in her 80s. She resisted. �Lok kiya kahenge!� she said. I told her to damn them all. Mother died at 94. She went into a coma, came out of it and feebly said, �Whisky�, then spoke no more. The doctor said give it to her. We did. But mother threw it up and died. Everybody in my family is into drinking, except my youngest brother... and he was the first to go!

If there is no Scotch to be had, then Khushwant Singh will drink wine. He developed a liking for wine after staying with a wine-making family at their vineyard in Italy. �I like French wines better, though I must say you get some extremely good wines in California and Australia too. My own favourite is Bordeaux. It travels well and stays better. I think in India, Grover is as good as any of them.

What else had he drunk, I asked him out of curiosity. Had he, for instance, cosumed country liquor in an Aunty�s bar in Bombay? �No, no Aunty�s bar, but I have been to country liquor bars elsewhere in the country and had their Santras and Mosambis. They are too strong and raw for me. One sip, that�s all I�ve had,� replied Khushwant Singh.

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