I am 96 years old with more than 100 book titles (I have lost count) to my name. I have no great opinion of myself as a writer and am often assured by my publishers that I have good reasons to regard myself as a second-rater. A somewhat peevish editor of one of India’s leading daily newspapers once told me: ‘You have made bullshit into “an art form”.’ Evidently people like to read bullshit. Though I am often described as a dirty old man, a drunkard and a womaniser, I have quite a few readers. I am reminded of lines by Hilaire Belloc:
When I am dead, I hope it may be said:
‘His sins were scarlet, but his books were read.’
My books may not sell like proverbial hot cakes but they do cater to the tastes of those who like to read spicy hot stuff like they relish bhel-puri on the sands of Chowpatty beach. I feel amply rewarded to know that once a while I bring a smile on my readers’ faces.
These articles and essays were written for different magazines over almost half a century. I had all but forgotten about them as I kept no records of them. I owe a debt of gratitude to readers like N. Krishnamurthy who took pains to keep clippings and made them available to publishers. The readers will find a lot of repetitive views and quotations which may irritate them; I tender my sincere apologies to them.
– Khushwant Singh