Why aren there more frank memoirs being published?
There have been some in the West. Arthur Koestler’s, for example, which ran into two or three volumes. They are much better written than anything I can hope to achieve. But in India I can’t think of any autobiography (of that nature). Most memoirs are self-glorification. How did you recall so many details of your encounters and experiences after so many years? I’ve kept a diary for most of my life but I didn’t have to consult it for writing this book. I have a reasonably good memory that abides with me. I am accustomed to noticing people’s quirks and mannerisms; whenever I recall these persons, they come back. I’ve always been attracted to the ridiculous in people. I remember it forever. It’s also selective memory—that’s why nasty people stick in your mind and nice people fade out. But there are some people and some incidents that can never fade out. For instance, Giani Zail Singh once invited me for dinner at the Rashtrapati Bhavan. He was in his kachchas and a yellow safa tied around
