The Sunset Club

Review of a book by Khushwant Singh

The truth is, we Indians are full of contradictions: we preach peace to the world and prepare for war.

I don’t remember the names of the three old ‘farts’ that this book is about. They are old men, who have been ‘friends’ for 40 years and are engaging each other during the sunset years of their lives. Names are honestly not needed, as the differentiations in their characters relies on their varied religions and cultural backgrounds. Hindu, Muslim and Sikh, these are the tree leads of a book that is literally full of ‘shit’. The denominator of The Sunset Club is old age, and the 12 chapters covering 12 months in the lives of these men are just as tasteless.

I do not criticize the book, merely am stating how the dullness attached to this book is directly reflective to the dullness of old age. For the characters in this book talk about world events today while comparing it to their times, being the time they were young. On and on, they compare and argue how times have changed, lives have slowed down and needs have changed. This made me very sad. Primarily because the entire book is the living proof of the presumptions attached to old age. This is a ‘old’ book with an old soul, and every dialogue from the first to the last is reckless in attaching more weight to the slowed and uninteresting plot of The Sunset Club. To top it off, it failed to keep me engaged as I put in too much effort to resume reading once a chapter was over. Why was this happening? I believe we are accustomed to only calling youth as ‘our’ time and refer to old age as a plight one has to go through till death knocks at our door. So while reading the three friends talk about their bowel movements, sexual adventures of their youth, secrets and desires, frustrations and bodily incapabilities, more bowel movements, health concerns, farts, loud grunts and analysis of their current world, I was primarily worried about my life turning out like that. Immediately my thoughts went to reminding myself that every man is different, and so my life would be different. But Khushwant Singh shredded that belief too, for in the coming pages I read how varied histories of three men also could not differentiate between the demise of these friends. They were all old, and they would soon die, life may have been kind or unkind to them, but they stopped ‘living’ it the day they decided their youth was gone; And every day after that has been a soft push closer to the area of non-existence, waiting to die, hoping to not die alone.

Old age is hard, it is anything but peaceful. Khushwant Singh may have just drilled in me that all my preparations will be in vain, I will be old and frail and my time is now, not later. However, I personally have decided to pretend that this revelation does not affect me, I will not give in to the incapabilities of ageing. That too would be my time. Pick this book, prepare yourself to be disappointed.
Read it. Return it.