Remembering writer Ajay Khullar, whose last book of short stories has been published posthumously

In February 2021, we lost Ajay Khullar - writer, travel journalist, screenwriter, poet and a friend to many - to suicide, a few weeks before the second wave tore through our lives. The title of this work, Ekarat, was a nom de plume Khullar employed, and it is a poignant collection of novellas and stories he published in his lifetime. 

The posthumous anthology has been lovingly and painstakingly put together by Palash Krishna Mehrotra and Brigadier DK Khullar (Ajay’s father). It’s a heartbreaking read of one of the greatest and underrated storytellers of our times.

— Jairaj Singh

Ajay [Khullar] was inspired by Graham Green, his favourite author. Like his role model, Ajay’s writing also explored the ambivalent and darker side of life. He had a similar build, height, and lifestyle. Graham Green had coped with manic depression (bipolar disorder) all his life and lived to a ripe old age of 86 years. So, at heart, I nourished a faint optimism for similar near-about longevity for Ajay, but it was not to be.

Ajay was, at heart, lonesome and did want to marry. Both he and I had decided that we would not cheat some innocent girl by concealing that he was bipolar. Some attempts were made but he wanted someone who was beautiful and intellectually his equal. He had relationships that didn’t last. Ajay mostly thought that I was a bad father who had failed both his mother and him. He said that I didn’t remarry because I enjoyed being alone. He also accused me of being closer to his elder brother who was at Bangalore, and where I began spending part of the winter and summer months because of its salubrious climate and my grandchildren. When he was in his manic phase, he would accuse me of many wrongs and the sarcastic comments I had made in the past.

He could be very abusive, and he would curse me. I tried to draw a red line and would tell him off. But I also knew: On who else could he unload his turbulent mind, miseries and anger but his father? The reality is that I loved him more dearly than most fathers; I don’t really know if he believed it. In some of his dark moments, he would tell me, “Dad, it is my misfortune that I was born to you. You are the cause of all my suffering and misery.”

It hurt and, in a way, he was right because nature had used me to pass on those vile genes to him. Time and tide wait for no man. I could have ameliorated his suffering. I should have been demonstrative in my love. I should have hugged him as often as possible. I never did that when he was a child or later. It is no use delaying such emotions because they count and then it is too late and only regret remains.

Not that there weren’t happy moments of small talk and banter. He would love to pull my leg and he had a great sense of humour. In his college days, he had helped me in running adventure camps as an instructor; those were happy times. We shared a common interest in reading and writing. He would routinely send me the kind of books I liked and surprised me with a state-of-the-art record player, knowing that there were nearly a hundred of my favourite LPs lying idle at home, for want of one.

We would sit down together in the evening over a drink, with our favourite music playing in the background. He would share his many plans and ambitions. He loved to share his writing and constantly seek feedback. He would sometimes bring a friend or two to Ambala as his guest for a short, pleasant holiday. He would ring me up whenever he was down with a headache or unwell with cold, fever or a bad tummy and ask what medicine he should take. We were constantly in touch, other than when he happened to be in throes of psychosis.

In 2017, while on a holiday with a few friendsin Dharamshala, he suffered a heart attack and was rushed to the Fortis Hospital at Kangra. I immediately drove up to be with him. Angiography revealed a major blockage in the LAD artery. Angioplasty followed and a stent was implanted. He showed remarkable recovery, gave up smoking and was back at work, and his intense socialising; he was not one to give up on life and indulge in self-pity.

In early 2020, he developed stiffness in his left upper body and a tremor in his left hand, the initial symptoms of the onset of Parkinson’s disease at a young age of 42, a side effect of the medicines he was taking for bipolarity. He consulted a neurosurgeon who prescribed some medicines and physiotherapy. He seemed to take it on the chin, just like he did the other blows that fate was regularly dealing out to him.

Without a job for two years, plus multiple rejections from publishers and film producers, and the pandemic, it must have been the last straw that broke the camel’s back. A cripple’s life was not for him. God only knows what he must have been going through. A lesser person would have given up long ago. That he had already made some terrible plan to end his afflictions, and do away with his inner demons, did not occur to me.

In the middle of October 2020, I got a call from him which was an early warning that he was heading for an episode. I was certain all was not well. I reached Delhi, checked into a nearby hotel and got in touch with Dr Rani Bhatia, his psychiatrist, who advised that he be given Serenace on the quiet. I had not met Harpreet, his girlfriend, who was presently at the receiving end of his menacing outbursts. She was scared, but she agreed to give him Serenace in his tea. I found her to be a very charming and a wonderful person who really cared for him. He was soon better and was back on medication.

By December, he seemed to have recovered fully. January was a month of serendipity. I was at Bengaluru when he visited Ambala for a week hoping to add some momentum to his writing. On return, he sent me a message to say how well he was looked after, especially by Tiwari, the domestic help. I was happy but I found a trace of formality and an extra politeness which was quite uncharacteristic in our relationship. For the last couple of years or so he had got into serious spiritualism and meditation, which I learnt could cause more harm than good in people suffering from depression and bring on suicidal thoughts. He was a regular reader of the Bhagavad Gita; he had also begun to delve in Buddhism and become a firm believer.

He gave me a call during this period and said, “Dad, you have given me two things in life, the Gita and my name ‘Ajay’. I’ll keep them both”. I found it odd and in retrospect, it was a sign of things to come. After he passed away, I reread the Gita. What struck me was Chapter VIII and particularly, verses twelve and thirteen:

“All the gates of the body restrained, the mind confined within the heart, one’s life force fixed in the head,
established in concentration by yoga.”

“He who utters the single syllable Aum (which is) Brahman, remembering me as he departs, giving up his body, he goes to the highest goal.”

Harpreet later forwarded a video of the bhajan “Prabhujee Daya Karo” by Ravi Shankar to me, which he used to listen to during his meditation. I couldn’t bring myself to listen to it. It reminded me so much of him and it was too mournful. In retrospect, I have a feeling that he may have decided to seek renunciation through self-annihilation.

Excerpted with permission from Introduction by DK Khullar from Ekarat: Stories He Left Behind, Ajay Khullar, The Browser.