ishan Lal probably came into my life more than ten years ago. I knew nothing about him till he told me he was the owner of Hotel Rajdoot on Mathura Road. Thereafter he came to see me twice every week. On both days he brought me food form the hotel: dahi bhallas for lunch and fish or chicken for dinner. In the afternoon., he would ring up and ask like any good restaurateur would , how I liked the food. The dahi bhallas are the best I have every tasted:  a judicious mix of yogurt with   a couple of bhallas , with bananas, ginger, saunth and other  condiments. I asked him why he always  wanted to know how hid food tasted.’ Because  if you like something, I reward the cook. If you don’t like something, I don’t give him anything.’ I only other person he visited twice a week was Fali Nariman, who had been his lawyer and became a friend.

You know I can’t understand a word of what Kishan Lal says,’ Nariman confessed to me . It was true. His speech was a mixture of mumbled gurgles. I had more trouble with it than Nariman as Kishan Lal had a passion for Urdu poetry, which he recited to me with great gusto. He would usually come up with  one line and challenge me to come up with next. I rarely passed his test. His favourite poet was Bahdur Shah Zafar.

Kishan Lal was not well conversant with English but hated to admit that he had difficulty with the language. He insisted I give him every book I wrote. On his next visit he would tell me triumphantly : ‘I’ve got to page so-and-ago-so. I must say you must have been a rangeela.’

Kishan Lal was a self-made man. He started life with a small coffee shop,  went on to become military canteen contractor ( amongst other, he served Lord Mountbattern) till he acquired land on Mahtura Road and built hotel Rajdoot. It acquired quite a reputation for its cuisine and risqué cabaret shows. It made Kishan Lal a millionaire: he acquired a farm and built himself a farmhouse.

Two year ago Kishan Lal had Fall and damaged one of his knees. Nevertheless, he kept up his bi-weekly visits A few visits before the last one, he announced to me in English: ‘I am 80.’ Somehow 80 in English sound something one can crow about while ‘assee’ in Hindustani or ‘ussean da’ in Punjabi has a tone of decline.

‘You have another ten years to catch up with me ,’ I responded cheerfully. He threw his hand sup in a gesture of despair and quoted lines form Zauq (oddly enough also my father’s favourite):

On the morning of Monday, 7 June 2004, my daughter called me in Kasauli from Delhi to say that somebody form Hotel Rajdoot had rung up to say that Lala Kishan Lal was dead and his cremation would take place that day.

That was not the end of Kishan Lal’s story. A few days later after my column appeared I got a note form fail Nariman which ran as follows:

“No more dahi bhallas for me till we meet again ….’

‘For me too, Khushwant – a beautiful touching piece. And Bapsi and I do miss his morning “gurgles”.

The Colombian novelis Gabriel Garcia Marquez has somewhere described a dream:

‘In the early 1970s, I had an illuminating dream after living in Barcelona for five years. I dreamed I was attending my own funeral, walking with a group of friend dressed in solemn mourning but in a festive mood. We all seemed happy to be together. And I more than anyone else, because of the wonderful opportunity that death afforded me to be with my friends form Latin America, my oldest and dearest friends, the ones   I had not seen for so long. At the end of the service, when they began to disperse, I attempted to leave too. But one of them made me see with decisive finality that as far as I was concerned, the party was over.

“ You are the only one that can’t go,” he said.

‘Only then did I understand that dying means never being with friends again.’

That perhaps is the true sadness in Lalaji leaving us . for him, I am sure dying has meant never being with his friends again. We shall never know . But we do know that tow of them fondly remember him and salute him. That may perhaps make him chuckle – and chuckling ( as you will recall) always brought tears to his eyes!

The tribute to Kishan Lal yielded handsome dividends. His son Prem Mohan Kalra wrote to me saying that the  bi-weekly of dahi-bhallas would continue as during his father’s lifetime.

Respected Sir,

For many year now whenever I sat beside my father I often heard of his trips of your house and furthermore, his friendly discussions with your good self; so much so that it reached a stage where we got to know you so well even without ever having the good fortune of meeting you. While my father was in the hospital during his last days, he would  often ask me with great affection, ‘ Where is Sardar Khushwant Singhji these days?’ And I would tell him that you were out of town. That would  calm him for a while but he was not satisfied by my answer: he would then continue to ask if had read your latest article.

Even in the ICU during his last two days, he asked us for a copy of the Hindustan Times and would want me or my wife to read it out to him

I take this opportunity to thank you very sincerely with gratitude for having bestowed your affections and friendship upon my father. As per his instructions, all traditions initiated by him are to be carried out as they were being done during his lifetime. It will therefore be my humble effort to keep them going , and please let me have the honour of doing so as it will make Lalaji a very happy man in his heavenly abode. I would also be grateful if you could let me know if our dahi bhallas taste as good as they used to during my father’s time .

I will definitely come and pay my respects in the near future as and when you permit me to do so.

With fondest regards and gratitude,

Prem Mohan Kalra

Son of Kishan Lal Kalra