29 Powerful & Brutally Honest Quotes By Khushwant Singh
Khushwant Singh was an Indian journalist and novelist famous for his work ‘Train to Pakistan’, ‘A History of Sikhs and various other short stories’. He also served in the upper house of the Parliament of India (Rajya Sabha). His writing involved humor and sarcasm coupled with incisive non-conformism. He was awarded Padma Bhushan and Padma Vibhushan, which he later returned in protest of Operation Blue Star in support of Sikh community against the Indian Army. hushwant Singh was famous for his fearless writing and journalism. He was also a lawyer, politician and also the creator of our all-time favorite Santa Banta Jokes. He was also a well-known columnist famous for his 'With Malice Towards One and All' column. We have curated many of his famous quotes from this very famous column. Read through these popular passages from this icon in Indian literature and Polity.
The last to learn of gossip are the parties concerned
When the world is itself draped in the mantle of night, the mirror of the mind is like the sky in which thoughts twinkle like stars.
Freedom is for the educated people who fought for it. We were slaves of the English, now we will be slaves of the educated Indians—or the Pakistanis.
Morality is a matter of money. Poor people cannot afford to have morals. So they have religion.
I asked my soul: What is Delhi? She replied: The world is the body and Delhi its life. Mirza Asadullah Khan Ghalib
The doer must do only when the receiver is ready to receive. Otherwise, the act is wasted.
Maorality is a matter of money. Poor people cannot afford to have morals. So they have religion
Your principle should be to see everything and say nothing. The world changes so rapidly that if you want to get on you cannot afford to align yourself with any person or point of view.
If the blanket of man’s fate has been woven black, even the waters of Zam Zam and Kausar cannot wash it white.
Once through this ruined city did I pass I espied a lonely bird on a bough and asked ‘What knowest thou of this wilderness?’ It replied: 'I can sum it up in two words: ‘Alas, Alas!
Consciousness of the bad is an essential prerequisite to the promotion of the good.
Poor people cannot afford to have morals. So they have religion.
We are of the mysterious East. No proof, just faith. No reason, just faith.
But big people’s illnesses are always made to sound big. The simple shutting and opening of the royal arse-hole was made to sound as if the world was coming to an end.
When you have counted eighty years and more, Time and Fate will batter at your door; But if you should survive to be a hundred, Your life will be death to the very core.
One Sikh may argue with one Sikh. One Sikh must never argue with two Sikhs–certainly not after dark.
We also knew that it was in the nature of an empty stomach to produce illusions of grandeur.
So many gods, so many creeds, so many paths that wind and wind When just the art of being kind is all that the sad world needs.
Little mother of ancient days: Thou hast cunningly dyed thy hair but consider That thy bent back will never be straight!
In a country which had accepted caste distinctions for many centuries, inequality had become an inborn mental concept.
Men have many faults, women only two: Everything they say, and everything they do.
A Sikh woman takes the surname Kaur on baptism. Kaur was also a common surname for Rajput women and means both a princess and lioness.
In the absence of men all women are chaste.
Under the circumstances the only honest answer an intelligent person can give to the question ‘Is there a God?’ is to say, ‘I do not know.
The Indian peasant is the world’s champion shitter. Stacks of chappaties and mounds of mustard leaf-mash down the hatch twice a day; stacks of shit a.m. and p.m.
We had heard that the people of Delhi loved their city as bees love flowers. But we could not believe that the child of a courtesan would prefer to live in a Delhi brothel rather than in our palace in Iran!
A Turk for toughness, for hands that never tire; An Indian for her rounded bosom bursting with milk; A Persian for her tight crotch and her coquetry; An Uzbeg to thrash as a lesson for the three.
How downhearted was Meer at night! Whatever came to his lips became a cry for help. When he started on the path of love, he was like fire; Now it’s ended he is a heap of ashes on a pyre.
The eye hath ruined me,’ the heart complained. ‘The heart has lost me,’ the eye replied. I know not which told the truth, which lied Between, the two, it was Meer who died.
