Chandigarh Tourism Club Finale 2007

Chandigarh Tourism Club organised their 'Finale 2007' at Kala Gram on Dec.29th. Seen in the pic are(from left) Dr. Gulshan Sharma,Mr. Jasbir Singh Bir IAS, Mr. Rajbir Deswal IPS DIG CID and Mr. Prem Mahindru, Executive Director of Channel Punjab. The event was Corporate Networking for Business Development--Raod Map 2008 where nearly 300 professioanls congregated.

Chandigarh celebrates the spirit of XMAS. Sector 17 Plaza is all abuzz with stage performances, shopping and eatouts

That's why perhaps people who have lived in Chandigarh never forget the time spent in the City Beautiful.

There is nothing yet enough to do in Porlock, Somerset, England

The Sun doesn't seem to be in a hurry to go down at Porlock (UK).

The Tribune carried our travel piece in their magazine SPECTRUM (Click title to see the travelogue in The Tribune)
on Porlock, from where the mysterious man came and disturbed Samuel Taylor Coleridge ,while he was penning his famous poem 'Kubla Khan".

Sunday, December 23, 2007
Somerset serenity
Rajbir Deswal & Chander Koumdi visit a quiet coastal village in south England that maintains its own rhythm and pace. Even the sun seems to go down in Porlock as if it is not in a hurry...

The Methodist Church in Porlock.Horse riders are a common sight in the village lanes— Photos by the writers.

WE started from London early to avoid the morning rush. A couple of hours’ drive took us to some of the most scenic slopes. Initially we had planned to visit the three most beautiful counties of south England — Somerset, Devon and Dorset. But information collected from a tourist centre on the way changed our mind and we decided to zero down on an English village in Somerset close to the sea.
We passed by many big and small towns before we reached Porlock, a tiny hamlet that boasts of beaches, cliffs and antiquity — visible on houses, churches, marketplace, lanes and farmhouses. Yes, this was the village from where once travelled the mysterious man who shook Samuel Taylor Coleridge off his opium-induced reverie while he was staying in a farmhouse and composing his famous poem Kubla Khan. The ‘person from Porlock’ is said to have distracted the legendary poet, who could not complete his work.
Before checking into a hotel close to the famous Porlock Weir, we took a good one-hour drive through the village to have a feel of the place. We decided to put up close to the shore, so close that the tides could spray showers through the windows of our room. Yes, there was only a road between us and the boats, lying in shallow waters on the mouth of the weir. Porlock is one metre below the mean sea level.
Porlock is at one end of the renowned 10-mile-long Exmoor National Park, which has the most extensive broadleaved coastal woods in Britain. Porlock has a steep jutting cliff as well as vast sloping stretches, which are very attractive and inviting.
From the high-rise land, one can see the Caravan Camping site slightly away from habitation. It can be reached through a meandering lane, which is heavily hedged with greenery. There are hotels and restaurants with a unique inner d`E9cor, a reminder of the times gone by. The facades of the buildings speak volumes of their typically oriental looks.
While sipping coffee in the restaurant, we could hear the trot of horses. On looking out of the window, we found them riding in the middle of the road outside. There is a riders’ school in Porlock.
In the late 15th century, Porlock had a lepers’ colony, which housed 50 ostracised lepers. Stories are still rife about the priests who served here. After the death of the last leper in early 16th century, the village had none to visit it for nearly a hundred years, till in the 17th century when smugglers moved into the lepers’ colony with their loot and booty.
Uphill at Culbone, reached traversing a steep path from Porlock weir, is the smallest Parish Church of England with a seating capacity of just 35. Some distance from here is the Ash Farm where Coleridge is said to have written his Kubla Khan. Porlock has an old Methodist church besides the one with a truncated spire dating back to the 13th century.
The place is not at all different from the rest of south England, where people do not like to be disturbed. There is a typically English environment all around. It does not hurt others to the extent of discomfiture. You need to follow dyed-in-the-wool English ways and any departure from them is sure to invite attention, if not censure. But then it goes with every other place on earth which seeks to maintain its rhythm.
The evenings are very well lit particularly at Porlock Weir and provide good light for photography. Every leaf and grass blade is literally bathed in sunshine. The pebbles, lying in abundance, appear as pearls strewn all around. The sun goes down as if it is not in a hurry.
The silent Bristol Sea impresses with its dark blue-green resolution. And suddenly you hear a big, fat cat meowing, followed by another, right in the middle of the road, as if announcing and indicating there isn’t going to be any traffic till 10 the next morning. Mind you, it is only 7 pm by your watch, and you are all by yourself.
We are in the embrace of an engulfing but pleasurable quietude. We decide to spend some more time on the beach when we meet a couple, who tell us they had visited this hamlet for their honeymoon 29 years ago. "We have visited Porlock four times since then!" confessed the wife with a blush and her husband smilingly nodded in agreement. It is said that there is nothing, yet enough to do, in Porlock.

Dainik Jagran's Report

Click image to see it larger

Mauritius Prez visits Haryana:They say Bharat Mata and not Bharat. Have a Ganga Talab(pond) there.

Rajbir Deswal presenting his books(Wit & Humour of Haryana, Culture:Bright & Dark, Latke-Jhatke and Taron ke Jungle) to H.E. Aneerood Jugnauth Honble President of Mauritius. The Prez in his speech said they don't say Bharat in Mauritius but "Bharat Mata" . He made a very emotional speech in Hindi. His Lady Wife Sarojni Jugnauth accompanied him to NDRI Karnal. Suresh Ramburn surprised everybody with his flawless Hindustani.

H.E. Anerood Jugnauth, Hon'ble President of Mauritus was at Karnal with his lady wife.




Preet Pal Pannu of NIFA organised a programme in His Excellency's Honour.









A Haryanvi dance was presented alongwith a Punjabi Bhangra









Hon'ble Mr. Justice Ch. Nawab Singh also spoke on the occasion

Bhooteshwar Mandir of Jind-- a replica of Harmandar Sahib

Bhooteshwar Mandir at Jind was built as a replica of the most holiest Golden Temple of Sikhs at Amristsar. Once upon a time there were lot many mango trees on its perephery that witnessed the festival of Teej being celebrated with fervour and gaiety. The shrine has Lord Shiva as its sitting Deity. This photo was clicked by Rajbir Deswal in December 2007.

ICL at Panchkula, Haryana.Cricket & Stars rock

Someone from the backseat called up his friend on mobile, "Hey, I am calling standing right behind Kareena" Yes she was there.

There was Kapil to say ," Baby Anaysa ka jawab nahin"

And Lalu ji said, "Photo ho gaya, baby ko lay jao !"

When you go to Simla

When you go to the Holy City of Amritsar

*Pay obeisance at Harmandar Sahib
*Visit Wagah Indo Pak Border
*Visit Durgiana Temple
*Visit Jalianwala Bagh--reminder of the tyranny of the British rule in India
*Enjoy the Bazaars
*Visit Dera Baba Jaimal Singh at
Radha Soami Dera Beas

Argument at Wagah on Wagah

Argument on Wagah

by K. Rajbir Deswal

While driving past Amritsar to Wagah, we had thought we would experience all that should be different. People, soil, food, dwellings, crops, language, etc. Also, we’d thought everything should look, as between worst enemies, torn and divided: culture, community, ancestry, history and religion. But that was not to be.
We had heard about the drill at Wagah and the sentiments attached to the event. A colleague in my office had once told me, “One is very enthused and enough prepared to die for the country at that moment, Sir”. The Indian side shouts “Vande-Matram, Bharat Mata ki Jai and Hindustan Zindabad”. The other side says, “Pakistan Zindabad, Paaindabad. Lowering of the flags on both sides is followed by a common drill in which the Border Security Force men and Pakistani Rangers “outstep” each other with overt and aggressive, macho display of strength.
Well we reached the Wagah border with barbed fencing leading from both sides. The strong iron-gates were painted in tricolor scheme on “our” side and green & white on “theirs”.
Crowds of people having patriotic blood flowing through their veins had gathered on both sides. Each half was charitable but only to itself in shouting slogans. It was here that I felt there existed two countries, two people, two communities, two entities.
But still carried away by my fondness and respect for our mutual bonhomie with Pakistan, the tales of which I had heard from my father and grandfather, I began cheering even the “other side” when they sought response to their sloganory exhortations. Suddenly then, I felt a tapping on my shoulder by “someone”. I turned back and looked someone with whom an argument ensued reflexively.

“Why are you cheering them?”
“There is nothing wrong in that”
“Are you one of those?”
“And are you someone different?”
“Don’t know they’re separate now?”
“Do rivers stop entering this side?”
“Political rhetoric is long dead”
“So will be peace-willing generations!”
“Khushwants, Nayyars, Asma Jahangirs?”
“Yes. Precisely. So let’s cheer each other.”
“Don’t you hear they swear by Allah?”
“Large number among us also does that.”
“They’re under seize and are tensed.”
“That’s why they deserve our cheers!”
“Emotional fool! Go your way”

Having been thus rubbished, I realised that “someone” was none else than my own flawed self. But what I had been looking in that crowd, even after the event of retreat drill, was the face of a child called Noor. Remember she had a successful heart surgery in Hindustan some years back. I am sure the likes of her would be the new generation in Pakistan.
The Retreat left me more hopeful. Emotional fool. Did you say that? No. Now it is “someone” again at it. Damn him and hail peace!

This middle was published in The Tribune on November 28,07.

We are proud of our Indian Doctors/click image to see it large

DO WE NEED A WALL

The Pakistani side of Wagah Border
Photo by Rajbir Deswal

DO WE NEED A WALL!

The Indian Side at Wagah border
Photo by Rajbir Deswal

Why only the Police should be ACCOUNTABLE

The Indian Police Act dates back to 1861 and there is lot these days to suggest newer ways and means to Police the society the way the modern norms dictate. But when it comes to India we only seem to indulge in what can still be called 'basking in the glory of the British system'...Fact remains ..why can't we really follow the British pattern of the modern day when in the event of the law and order failing..the sociologists,academicians,thinkers,lawmakers,legal luminaries put their heads together to diagnose the malady and suggest a remedy without blaming the police for their failure...after all the Police are working...don't mind it please...at the diktat of the 'ones who are at the helm of affairs' and not as per the diktats of their conscience...or as per the provisions of the Law of the Land...not at all to suggest that they are the people from the 'back of the beyond'....Police reforms do need some thoughtful churning at the level of the common man who are to be policed.(Photo courtesy Net)

India losing to Pak at Mohali

India losing out to Pakistan is no big deal...we may gain ground...or may not...for that should be the spirit...but why should Sachin be so nervous at Nineties that he falls at 99...after all his wife, son and daughter were there to back him up besides entire Bharat...little Anaysa seems to wonder(Photo by Rajbir Deswal)

FREEDOM TRAIN EXHIBITION :PHOTO TO PHOTO BY RAJBIR DESWAL

The British called it Mutiny though the Indians fought their
First War of Independence.The causes of the Uprising were many but what sparked off the retaliation was the religious sentiments of the Hindu and Muslim soldiers having been aroused. The entire country rose in revolt against the 100 years British Company Rule . Post 1857, the British Crown held its sway on India and persecution of those who played active role during the Uprising continued .

Azadi Train showcases the struggle. The images are photo to photo clicked by

Rajbir Deswal in Chandigarh(India) on Nov.1,07.

Margaret Tobin Brown: The Real Heroine of The Titanic

That she did not sink with the Titanic is fact. That Jack Dowson, who met her on the ill-fated liner, is fiction. But the stories that go with Margaret Tobin Brown that she ran for the Senate when women did not have voting rights and that having rolled into millions, she died penniless—are pure flesh – enough meat. We came to know all about the real side of the legendary actress, philanthropist and crusader, Molly Brown, as she is popularly known, on reaching Denver – ‘the Mile High City’ in Colorado.
Boarding the shuttle on Downtown D&F Tower, built as a general store in 1909 which was the tallest building on the west of Mississippi then, we reached the terminal close to the State Capitol. Everyone seemed to know the famous house of Molly Brown at Pennsylvania at the 17th Street. The structure is identifiable from a distance since it has a Victorian stamp and boasts of its antiquity – unsullied and intact.
The Entry Hall has one of Margaret’s Blackmoor Statues. From here, a staircase takes you to the upper chambers.The parlour, the dining room, the library, sunrooms, bedrooms, study etc are preserved with tapestry and upholstery all of which is not claimed to be original, but ‘very close’. Very well niched are the artifacts and souvenirs, brought by Margaret from far and wide, almost from all corners of the world. “These paintings and photographs of the Titanic and the Boat Number Six are attractions that all the visitors evince keen interest in” the tour guide tells us. The old cooking tools and utensils in the kitchen including a state of the art pressure cooker besides the cutlery are rare antiques meriting a look.
‘Molly’—the calling—though was a later day Hollywood invention yet the amount of marketing this new ‘Avtar’ did, in once again living the legend of the ‘unsinkable Molly’, was remarkable, whether the field was best selling fiction, or movies, or thrillers. Margaret had married a miner J.J. Brown at the age of nineteen, when the man she took by her side was thirty-two. She bore him six children. JJ’s sudden switch over, and exploits in the mining trade, made him rich over-night, and the couple bought a house in1894, which is now the Molly Brown Museum.
The House allows a peep into an era brought alive with exotic flavors from Egypt, China, France, Greece, Belgium and also India. JJ wasn’t much fond of travelling while Margaret had it as a passion besides being an actress and a socialite. During a tour of Europe, Margaret had to board The Titanic at Cherbourg, France, compelled by the circumstance of hearing about her grand child’s suffering, in New York. Her daughter, Helen’s decision to stay back in London, and not boarding The Titanic, on that fateful day of April 1912, made her afford a chance to live till the age of ninety-seven. She died in Greenwich in the year 1993.
Although Margaret Tobin Brown had enough stuff, as reflected in the elements combined and put together in her persona, and as obtained all through her life, before she survived the sinking of The Titanic, yet the way she exploited for good, the later part of her life, particularly the last twenty years, till her death in 1932, for promoting causes of women suffrage, juveniles, labor, maritime laws and human rights, is remarkable.

Befittingly thus then, Molly Brown has very much been part of the ‘Historic Denver’. She fought for women’s rights and organized women’s clubs but was, quite ironically though, ostracized in testifying, during the hearing of The Titanic, since she was a woman. But her courage and conviction were undefeatable and she proved her mettle in all walks of life she stepped in; most of them found in her a harbinger and a leader.

Again it is a big irony of ‘impressions and perceptions’ that when The Titanic sank in the Atlantic, the master of ‘Boat Number Six’, Robert Hichens, deserted the boat, fearing the women in it might not be able to row as fast, to steer out of the suction effect of the ship. It was here that Margret took up cudgels, and goaded her women compatriots, to fight till the finish. She shared her blanket, offered her stockings to other women and put her stoll around the neck of a raft-mate at the same time speaking words of encouragement, like war cries, and believe us, even singing.

They rowed for two hours continuously in dark hours after Molly, who just a little while before was reading a book smugly in Dock B, when the Titanic crashed into the iceberg seconds after the seaman Frederick Fleet rang a bell thrice, from the Crow’s Nest of the ship and shrieked “Iceberg right ahead!” They were all lapped up by the waiting ship Carpathia after the ordeal. All thereafter is history. Her great sense of humour later made her recollect and exclaim "After being brined, salted, and pickled in mid ocean I am now high and dry...!” and that “Water was fine and swimming good..!” She died in New York in 1932 of brain tumor.
Indian Express published an abridged version of this article which is reproduced below....

Our group with the Mayor of Baton Rouge

Baton Rouge photos by Rajbir Deswal...and more...

The State Capitol
Baton Rogue Plantations
Mardi Gras Gaiety

Bobby Jindal's Baton Rouge

When Rajbir Deswal
was made Honorary Mayor of
BOBBY JINDAL'S Baton Rogue
reminiscences published in Indian Express
(click image)

R U Game !

A wishlist- Hindustan Times
A wishlist for all be it cops, journos, politicians, Blueline drivers, Gen-X brats or lawyers, writes Rajbir Deswal.

Loosely flipping through half a dozen newspapers, my friend said to me, yawning a bit too wide, “Nothing really exciting!” “What happened? There is enough these days to mull over. And be happy about it!” I contorted mischievously when he said, “Complacence. Isn’t. Can’t we send them all to Coventry?” “Whom?” I asked. “To begin with the likes of you—Cops!” he concluded with all the contempt hurled at me and my tribe.
And he unfolded his intent to banish all the policemen of the country to the “Island of the naked” to learn a passive resistance, a la Gandhi, having no temptation and situation, when they should be able to rob anybody of their belongings. “Leeches all!” he said.
“And what about you, journalists? Should they all be not packed off to jungles—even Abdul Kalaam, kind of, suggested that—where being unable to sneak in private lives of people, they can experience not stinging themselves, but being stung by wild scorpions, snakes and black widows. Only then they would be able to concentrate on issues related to environment and nature and spare Uma Khuranas.” I said and quizzed my friend, winking, if he had any solution for the politicians.
Presto, he propounded a wonderful idea. “These moral lepers be made to spend a year or two in Universities and Centres of Excellence. “ To improve their qualifications?” I quipped poking fun at my friend’s proposition but he said matter of factly, “No! For the simple reason that they should learn how our academicians fight—and on issues that are so trivial that put to shame even the infants in their pans. The politicians may thus, learn to take up issues in larger public and national interests. You know how party politics is, where action begins exclaiming, “1,2,3…!” and finishes claiming, “ Lo! We’ve done that”.
“Look buddy, this gives me enough food for thought and I suggest that all our Blue line drivers should spend atleast a fortnight sleeping in a mortuary; the Gen-X brats be bundled off to old age homes to hammer a point in their psyche that they themselves would grow that old and infirm; the Bollywood brokers be sent to factories making furniture lest they learn that the ‘couches’ are for comfort and not ‘kaam front,” I philosophised.
“Makes lot of sense!” my friend exclaimed and with his tongue firmly in his cheek said, “Let all the lawyers go to Pakistan, where they can atleast learn to ‘really’ fight. “What about the religious bigots?” I asked and my friend had a ready answer, “To the abattoirs and butcheries where they may have a change of heart and develop aversion to spilling blood.”
When this tete-e-tete between me and my journalist friend was going on, I flashed back to the time when I myself was once sent to Coventry. From the nearby Rugby Police Training Centre, we were taken to downtown Coventry from where we strayed into some sidelanes. Here we encountered some junkies and one of them tired to snatch my camera. We looked for the cops around but were later told that even for the police that was a ‘no visit area’. Was it really a part of our training to feel the helplessness of a victim? Or, were we to know the real meaning of being “sent to Coventry” I still wonder.
Dashing down to earth form my fanciful flight of thoughts, I urged myself to make a point, “And …!” But I was checked by my friend, “Hold on dude, for everything else Judiciary hai naa!” I laughed and quibbled “but atleast the middle writers need not be sent anywhere for they are already there, where they should be.”

(What you just saw is the detailed version. HT used the smaller version)

This is what The Tribune said in its Magazine Spectrum

Gripping tale of survival

There, Where the Pepper Grows

by Bem Le Hunte

HarperCollins

Review by K. Rajbir Deswal
Follows...

This is a masterly work of purposeful fiction in the backdrop of a historical perspective, advocating tolerance and fellow feeling. A saga of atrocity, intensity, conflict and despair, it finds a happy ending; while throughout the narrative, the uprooted Jewish characters had "no sense of belonging" to any place in the world till they reach Calcutta by chance, and the place becomes their "Palestine and Jerusalem."
The story has two settings—one in the war-ravaged Warsaw and the other in the refugee capital Calcutta. The timeline has World War II in it.
Compelled by Nazi persecution, a Jewish family fights a battle for survival and manages many an eventful escape from Poland via Russia and Japan to reach India—the land of peace and tolerance. Interwoven in the tale is the exuberance of platonic love and horrific details of torture meted out to the Jewish community by the German army.
Benjamin, the hero and a young doctor, attempts a near fatal and silly misadventure in taking on the might of the invading German tanks in Warsaw. Thereafter, leaving his love Eva and his parents behind, he moves on to a small town called Piaski, where he finds work under Dr Ruben, who has a widowed daughter, Rivka, and her six-year-old son, Daniel.
Dr Ruben is taken prisoner by the authorities for writing an "offending" communication to them. When the fate of Dr Ruben remains unknown, Benjamin has to flee from Piaski with Daniel, and Rivka taken as his wife.
From here begin the hair-raising accounts of atrocities committed in Nazi camps. People are uprooted, dragged out of their dwellings, humiliated, tortured and killed. The heart-gripping narration compels the reader go biting nails.
The most pathetic is the scene when Rivka, like half a dozen other members of the party escaping through a tunnel, hits Daniel with a chair, to test if he would scream and wake up the guards. Benjamin’s parents are shot dead and his house taken over in Warsaw but he is able to bring along Eva for moving to some safe place out of Poland.
When Benjamin, Rivka, Eva and Daniel disembark in Calcutta with other refugees, with their boat Asma Maru developing some problem, they are very well received by the local Jewish community. With two women staying with Benjamin, one his wife and the other his childhood friend and old flame, Eva, they encounter some conflict when the man confesses he still loved Eva. But then she finds a match in Joel, turns to Judaism, and migrates to New York.
The author Bem Le Hunte was born in Calcutta and he has described the details about the city with mastery of an indulgent chronicler. Daniel grows here to become a proud Indian while Benjamin practices medicine with a local doctor and spends about 50 years in the City of Joy, with Rivka.
The couple is quite surprised to find that in a country of many faiths, the Jews and the Muslims live together with others. Local hospitality impresses the refugee Jewish family from Poland and they make India their home and hearth.
However, a small patch of desperation again proves traumatic to the family when towards the Indian Independence, Hindu-Muslim riots breakout and the fear of Japanese bombing the port of Calcutta keeps looming large on their minds. Once again, Benjamin has to treat men and women attacked by the warring communities but soon peace prevails. Benjamin and Rivka have children and grandchildren and ultimately, on insistence from their children, they decide to migrate to New York.

Published in The Tribune on October 7, 07

Fortune favours while success succeeds...

This photo was taken by me at the Pikes Peak(US)Colorado .The elevation is 14000feet

RICH & FAMOUS--CHOSEN ONES
WHO doesn’t want to be rich and famous? And who won’t like to pool all the resources at one’s command to be in the hall of fame? Since all of us cannot make it to that status, do we not seek identification to impress the world about our acquired level of superiority? But destiny is somewhere there, playing its quiet role.
Lady Luck doesn’t smile on everyone. You have to be a “chosen one” to have that divine favour; boon or benediction. Hitting a jackpot, winning a lottery, being the millionth buyer of a car and getting it free, or stumbling on a hidden treasure, are all in the hands of God. Or providence, if you prefer that word.
There may be other parameters to judge one’s being lucky or unlucky. Being fortunate and being successful are two different things. Fortune favours while success succeeds. One may wait for Lady Luck to smile but one has to really be in a hurry and strive to be successful. Skills, of course, do make a difference in shaping one’s destiny. Also if you are possessed with the ability to bend your bones or pull a truck by your eyelashes, it does make a difference.
Epics, sagas, tales, episodes, incidents, instances are mostly made up of stuff that providence provides and protagonists possess. Yet a fair or unfair distribution of what is perceived as booty makes one lucky or otherwise.
Indian films provide enough material on divine allocation of resources. If a starving hero saves the life of a rich man, or still better, his daughter, then he mostly has the best of both worlds. Remember Ifteqar in “Amar Akbar Anthony”, who places his bet on a shoe-shine boy who grows up to become Big-B, saying, “Ye lambee race ka ghora hai (He will go a long way in life).” While in the first case, it is being lucky, and in the second, successful.
There may be many ways to be rich and famous. Some people do name-dropping and proclaim and clamour about their relationship with the already rich and famous. For example, you can always find characters who brag about, saying, “I have direct access to 10 Janpath!” or “Madam recognises me in a crowd!” Those who are not able to make it to Bollywood in any recognisable way can be seen dropping names like “Ramu is dependable!” or “Vidhu is just like a younger brother!”
By way of a reverse argument, if you at least verbally take on the might of a biggie and pose a challenge to his authority, you become one of the debated ones. Heard of that couplet from Zafar Gorakhpuri, “Kitni aasani se mashhoor kiya hai khud ko; Maine apne se bade shakhs ko galee dee!” (How easily have I made myself popular by simply abusing someone really great.)
You can think of various ways to be in the news at least, if not rich enough. Come in the way of a wealthy man’s car but do please avoid Salman Khans. Also if you are able to survive an air-crash, train accident or a boat capsizing, when all about you are gone, you definitely make the stuff when curious journalists could be seen interviewing you, almost gagging your mouth with that instrument which they call an ID, “How are you feeling now?” or “How really do you feel now, when the entire world knows you?” True, some are born great while others strive and gyrate. Sorry, Mr Shakespeare!

This article was published in The Tribune dated Sept 28,07

My freind Dr. GS Bajpai wrote back saying it was in Diwar and not Amar Akbar Anthony that the referred dialogue figured. I stand corrected.

What is in a name...!

Calcutta has become Kolkata, Bombay Mumbai,Madras Chenni and now Banglore Bangalooru...An earstwhile State of PEPSU and a district of Haryana in India , JIND is once again in news for being "renaming". Does it really serve any useful purpose...? Jind in Punjabi has many connotations ranging from jaan, zindagi, atma,etc. The Tribune's Senior Correspondent talked to me and filed this story which appeared in their September 18 issue.May find it interesting.

Don’t meddle with names

Naveen S Garewal

Tribune News Service
Chandigarh,September17

The move to rename “Jind” as “Jeend” has not gone down well with many people in the state who feel that meddling with a city’s name is not only undesirable but also unacceptable as it creates unnecessary confusion. Besides, in the specific case of Jind, historical and documentary evidence is available that suggests that “Jind” was spelt differently at different times in history.
A senior Haryana police officer, Rajbir Deswal, has supplied The Tribune with a large number of postage stamps, photographs and an envelope of a registered letter from the British era in which “Jind” is spelt as such and also as “Jeind”, “Jhind”, etc. But the most authentic of them all is a photograph taken by Deswal outside a court that spells the state’s name as “Jheend”.
The main objection of those opposed to a name change or a change in its spelling is that it must serve some purpose. “Merely changing the name for the sake of change leads to a lot of messing up with records and documentation, besides ignoring the sensitivity and disposition of the people towards a particular name which they have been used to for generations. ‘Jind’ connotes something; we must learn to respect historicity”, says Deswal.
During pre-Independence days Jind formed part of Punjab . Historically, Sardar Gajpat Singh is documented to be the first notable chief of Jind State who made Jind town his capital in 1746. A fief of the Delhi Empire, he was given the title of Raja. His empire gained strength after he married off his daughter Raj Kaur to Sardar Mahan Singh Sukarchakya, chief of the Sukarchakya Misl, in the Trans-Satluj region in 1774 at Badrukhan. Some historians believe that Maharaja Ranjit Singh was born at Badrukhan on November 13, 1780 . Incidentally, Maharaja Ranjit Singh’s wife was also named Rani Jind Kaur or “Jindan”.


Postage stamps and postage covers and pictures showing different spellings of “Jind” during different periods of time.
There are several documents from the beginning of the current century that mention “Jind” State. One of the most important of these is the list of medals of the Third Afghan War, 1919, that mentions the Jind Imperial Service Infantry as one of the recipients of the award. Colonel-in-Chief, Jind Imperial Service Regiment, Suraj Mukhi is also listed in British records as a recipient of the Prince of Wales (1876) and KIH (1877) gold medals.
According to Prof M.R. Sethi’s narration about the history of Jind, as described on the website www.Jindcity.com, “mythologically, the son of Lord Inder, Jayant, named the city after his name. As per another mythological story, the city derives its name from Jainti, the goddess of victory, in whose dedication a temple was erected by the Pandavas. They offered prayers to the goddess to seek her blessing for success before launching the Battle of Mahabharata. The authenticity of the fact can be ascertained from the Mahabharata and the Padam Purana. Jind forms part of the Kurukshetra Bhumi i.e. divine land of 48 Kosa. That is why, unlike in other cities, the mortal remains of those who die in Jind are not taken to Haridwar for immersion in the Holy Ganges but are immersed in Jind itself in some holy pond or canal”.

That one night stand...

And once again I was compelled to repose my faith in human relations...!

That was a rain-soaked night in Chandigarh some 25 years back. Completely drenched from head to toe, and stepping in on the verandah, I thumped my feet one by one to shake off some water, before pressing the doorbell. My friend came behind me.
A woman called up to hold on “for a while”. Some creaking sound from inside and I could make out her steps leading on to the entrance. I had not met her earlier. She unbolted and pushed both door panels. There she was, with her bold and stout built. In her early thirties. And smiling.
I had met her husband only once. We had no association except that he had used some of my pieces for the magazine he edited then. He was from Himachal and since he had given me his residential address for posting my stuff, lest it be lost in a bigger postbox, I knew where he lived.
That night we were to return to our hometown but the work whole day could not be finished and there was no way out than to stay back. I didn’t know many people in the City Beautiful then. There being no other choice, the decision of trying the editor’s home was taken instantaneously. We hired a rickshaw though my friend hesitated in bothering someone at that odd hour of the rainy night.
I introduced myself to her. She let us in, informing that her husband had to go to the Press for some urgent work, and that he would come back in a couple of hours. She then pointed to a settee for us to sit on and a table in the corner to put down our bags.
She went to the kitchen to make some tea for us while we exchanged glances.
After having tea, we announced our intent to leave. “But why?” she questioned, “I guess you’d come to stay for the night. Isn’t it! Where will you go while it is raining so heavily? Moreover, think of this home as your own.”
“That’s so very nice of you and thank you indeed for your kindly feelings but…!” I couldn’t even complete the sentence when she pitched in, “Is it because my husband is not at home? I am not alone in the house. ‘Amma ji’ and my kids are here.”
I was hardly able to mutter, “Still…!” when she silenced me once and for all, “What if my brothers should visit us like you have! Should I turn them away?” That clinched the issue and there we were laying cots with bedspreads. Like stones we dropped and slept off.
We met her smiling husband in the morning over a cup of tea when he was already awake and reading his newspaper. His looks betrayed all expressions of knowledge of our feeble disposition exposed the previous night. I looked for her around but she had already left for her school. It was a fine sunny day to begin afresh and repose faith in human relations. Thank you, sister. Unknown till then. Unseen till now.
(This piece was published in The Tribune of September 10th,07, under the title The Benefactor)

Rajbir Deswal having a word with Khushwant Singh at the release of his book at the hands of Amitabh Bachhan at Le Meridian,New Delhi

Rajbir Deswal presenting his books to Mr Khushwant Singh

Nainital Summer

WE travelled upto Nainital at 6000 ft elevation in the Kumaoon Himalayas and enjoyed the clouds' invasion of lake Naini. At a height of about 8500 is the Cheena Peak and the trek is wonderful. Somehow we could not see enough birds...

Taj on top of the World

On his visit to India, the then US President Bill Clinton,while addressing the Lower and the Upper Houses of Parliament had said that the world was divided into two halves...one of those who had seen the Taj and the other of those who hadn't...

I had then weaved an encounter between Clinton and Taj-builder King Shahjehan which was published in The Pioneer. Here is the piece...
TAJ HOUSE TO WHITE MAHAL


All by himself Shahjehan the great Moughal emperor walks on the grassy lawns in front of the Taj Mahal with a flower in his hands wearing his imperial robe. He is waiting for someone. The name of the visitor is announced and Bill Clinton arrives on the scene. Shahjehan expects him to bow before in Sijda but Clinton offers his hand. Shahjehan kisses his hand and offers him to sit on a concrete bench where millions and millions have posed for a photograph. Both sit on the bench and Shahjehan assures the apprehensive Clinton that the paparazzi can not come near them and click them for sale to interested editors of the tabloids of the West. “What about the Indian press, His Highness? Asks Clinton. ”Don”t worry they are all busy with Deepa Mehta! ”Informs Shahjehan.

Shahjehan begins talking.” Infact I was quite happy to notice you say to the Darbaris, they call them M.P.s these days, that the world was divided in two halves of those who had seen the Taj and those who hadn’t. I was happier to hear you say that you were going to be on the happier side eof the divide since you had scheduled to pay a visit to the Taj. And naturally it was to be so. I can not think of a man in the world who loves and is ignorant about Taj, which is love concretised, marbled, metamorphosed. However Mr.Prezi, I think I am I right in placing you, it would have been all the more better if you had brought your wife along because it is here that she could have come to terms with you and decided to stay with you in your White-Mahal, and you would have been saved of the embarrassment caused to you by snooping lensmen who take your shots with the royal Buddy and publish in newspapers. But I am told this has generated a sympathy wave for you there in your country.”

An amazed Clinton looks agape in the face of Shahjehan and quizzes, ”But how Your Majesty, you know all this now being almost a man in another world, joined perhaps with your lady love for whom you created the grammar of love in creating the Taj. I’ll ask the C.I.A. boys to learn a few tips from your system of “information and...!And Your Majesty, could you please elaborate on as to what isnpired to build such a fine mausoleum? Was it love alone? Really? I am told you had hundreds of women in your, what do they call it, hum m m, Harem! And Your Majesty, I have heard of certain poets as well who blamed you for having created the Taj only to make fun at their cost since being poor they could not please their beloveds in such an extravagant manner as you did…!”

“Let me tell you, Mr.Prez that there have been critics of the marble, meaning thereby the cost of Taj but there has been none who has criticised it as a symbol of love and I know of a poet who had gone to the extent of calling it a token given to me to the world to symbolise love in all its forms. Since its creation, lovers have sworn by Taj. And your being present here confirms this belief.” Now Mr.Prez if you have come to ask personal questions, would you, rest assured I am not going to tell it to anybody since I live in my grave and peep out of it only once in while, tell me what was that Mohtarma story which generated.

“Oh! Jesus! Your Majesty that is an old story. You know the people. They will be the same all the world over. But shouldn’t we be above all these things? Pleaded Clinton and Shahjehan preferring not to embarrass a guest in perfect Indian traditions gave an altogether new turn to the discussion. “ Well, Mr. Prez I have been hearing stories all these years from the guides that I had intended to build another Taj in black marble on the other side of Jamuna there…!” And Shahjehan points to a direction with Clinton looking as guided, Shahjehan requests,”With all those resources at your command and the world being on your side today and you being the king of the world, can you attempt making the Taj of the guides” dreams there at that site?

Clinton did not know how to wriggle out of the situation when the most powerful king of his times, begged of him a favour –creation of another symbol of love. And this time a black one. He said, ” Your Majesty, next time I come to India, I hope Ill be able to persuade Hillary to come along and then we can surely decide to consider the proposal. Maybe she gets inspired and chimes in! Till then you can be content with my assurance that I may atleast for myself, call my own residence there in my country, The White Mahal.”

Bountiful Glenwood Springs for family trips

Wrapped in mystery, Glenwood Springs in Colorado, US, appears as if it has for a long time been a favourite haunt of wanderers and holiday-makers. Today, the place is an economical and family-friendly stopover to the almost unaffordable Aspen, known worldwide for its skiing sites. Aspen is about 40 miles from here.
From Denver, we reached Glenwood Springs covering about 160 miles, through Vail, another ski destination, on the most eco-friendly highway called I-70. About 10 miles short of the place, we had an exciting experience wading through a serpentine mountainous tract that boasts of being one of the tentacles of the Grand Canyon — an awe-inspiring sight of a huge, red rock.
Until the middle of the 19th century, having been discovered as a gold mine area, this town at the confluence of Roaring Fork and Colorado rivers was called Defiance. During those times Glenwood Springs attracted tourists who were mainly interested in the ‘Fairy Caves’ with grottos and labyrinthine ducts. It was only in 1885 that Sarah Cooper, wife of one of the town’s founding fathers Issac Cooper, gave the place the name Glenwood Springs after her hometown Glenwood, Iowa.
In the late 1800s when the world’s largest hot spring pool was created here by Walter Devereaux and his brothers, the place was dotted with nearly three score such springs. Recreational activities now abound here, attracting hunters, fishermen, mountain bikers, hikers, river rafters, skiers, snowmobilers besides those who want to have a taste of yampah, meaning ‘big medicine’ since the hot water springs here are known to have curative properties to fight diseases.
No wonder then that the famous Doc Holliday, a hunter, gambler and a dentist, stayed here for 12 long years to cure himself of tuberculosis. He died in a room in Hot Springs Hotel and Lodge at the age of 38. His grave at Pioneer Cemetery is a must-visit for tourists but it is doubted whether Doc Holliday is actually buried there or not.
Standing on the rooftop of our Bed & Breakfast, Glenwood Motor Inn, and looking westward, we could have a breathtaking view of the Red Mountain, which had cottony clouds kissing its peaks. Rays of the setting sun made the entire horizon look like a collage of colours. On our east and at an elevation of about 1500 feet was the famous Cavern Adventure Park which could be approached on a cable car. One can find here the world’s First Alpine Coaster sliding through the downhill park with a speed of 50 miles an hour.
On the southern side lies the famous ski destination called Sunlight Mountain Resort offering snowmobiling and ice-skating. This place is a natural choice for "ski-stay-swim" tourists. The snowy peaks show up from here in varying hues. The average altitude of the mountains around Glenwood Springs reaches up to 13,000 feet while the place itself is at 5,700 feet. The view from the park of the Roaring Fork Valley is fascinating. Here is also America’s world famous Amtrak railhead from where one can reach the historical downtown and reach the Hot Springs pool.
The evening stroll from our hotel to the Hot Springs took us just five minutes and we again felt tempted to take a dip in the hot waters. Rain or snow, the pool is full to capacity. The mineral rich water is captured at 122 F and toned down to 93 to 104 F. There are two pools with temperatures slightly different from one another. The small Down Town area is close by with the City Hall and Police Station building. Chains of many continental eateries, besides the typically American ones, are all around. We preferred Mexican burette "to go" at Qudoba on the first day of our three-day stay. ‘To go’ means the stuff needs to be packed. ‘To stay’ means you are having it there itself.
Glenwood Springs attracts tourists all the year round and it can be reached by road as well as rail. There are about 14 direct air services but the three airports in Eagle County, Aspen and Grand Junction are 30, 40 and 90 miles from here. The accommodation is fairly cheap, almost one-fourth of what you get in the adjoining ski destination and town of fashionable and rich people, Aspen. Yes you can stay with your pets also at some of the places. They have declared a 12-mile stretch of the Roaring Fork River as the Gold Medal River where those interested in fishing find the best of trout. Back home, one is sure to miss the time spent in this beautiful valley town — Glenwood Springs.
Co-author:Chander Koumdi

This travelogue was published in The Tribune on July 1'07

American Discretion

Does the economic wellbeing of a nation afford its grassroot level functionaries enough discretion? Well,I feel so.

In a recent American contest, the “indiscretion” as attributed to Mahatma Gandhi and Indian gods and goddesses (remember the “You Tube dance” and “Maxim bout” ! ) may have been in bad taste, but the amount of discretion that society gives to its grassroots -level functionaries is something that won our hearts during our sojourn in that country this summer.

We were then in Denver, the capital of Colorado. We set out to go for a city tour when at the ticket counter of a historical monument, we were asked to present our identification documents. We had forgotten to carry our passports and what I could flaunt to the woman on the counter was my I-card.

She recognised my photo and quipped, “An officer!” “Indian Police Service”, I said with pride. With a matching glint of appreciation, she said, “Welcome, sir, and bring the lady also in.” We did not have to buy tickets; instead the tour was all gratis with a guide in tow.

At an unaffordable town inhabited by rich and fashionable people, Aspen, also famous for being one of the world’s top destinations for skiing, the question as to whether a “Group of five concession” should be given to us or not arose again. We were four adults besides our one-year-old grand-daughter, Anaysa. She being the fifth member, we claimed the group concession. The woman on the cash counter, having a good look at Anaysa, wrapped in a pink snow-suit then, smiled and happily conceded the desired concession.

While going in a city bus to King Sooper, a grocery store, the driver of the bus played what turned out to be an innocuous prank on us. He was a Muslim from Mumbai, and his complexion being pinkish-white, we could not make out his Indian connection. I offered three one-dollar bills for being fed to the ticket machine when he said I needed to put “Thirty dollars, sir”.

I was shocked, for that was a fare demanded 10 times more than the actual. I held my hand back when he smiled again speaking in Hindustani, “Hota hai bhaijaan, yahan bason main bhi chalna padta hai!” And he allowed us a free return ride on our way back. Next day again we took the same route when on our return journey on the same tickets, the new driver said we needed to buy fresh ones. When we told him about the previous day’s journey undertaken on the same route, for the same duration and between the same stations, he allowed us his discretion.

At Glenwood Springs we reached Adventure Park through the cable cars at five in the evening. The charges being quite high, we were advised to preferably come the next day, for just an hour was left when the park would close. We wanted to visit the park, time being very short with us, notwithstanding. “Alright, in that case you can visit the park on the same tickets tomorrow as well in case you are able to find some time” offered the man on the counter.

Here again at Star Bucks, ordering Chai Latte for four “to go”, we enquired as to where could we find milk for the baby, since at quite a few places visited that evening we could not arrange milk for Anaysa. Lo and behold! The stewardess filled a take-away container with two glassfuls of milk and said, “You don’t need to go anywhere else. And don’t need to pay either!”

This Article has been published in The Tribune dated June 25,2007

DID U DO IT.....?

Nosey Parker was snooping around as usual with his beak buried deep in the garbage when to his utter exhilaration he heard the cries in the sky, “Did ye du et — Did ye du et did did?” Nosey Parker looked up to shoot; I mean record in his camera, the exclusive bytes.

The Jungle Babbler, known for his intrusive, naughty and yarn-spinning habits, tweeted at the journo, winked at him and beckoned as if to give the official version. Taken aback, as if someone else had also picked up his exclusive scoop, the journo questioned the impish bird if he also heard the shrieks of, “Did you do it!”

The Babbler knew the anxiety of Nosey Parker and in furtherance of his innate endeavour to tease him he whispered something in the ears of the stringer. “Can you arrange an interview with her? Oh please don’t say no!” “Well, it happens almost daily. It’s not something unusual with her. It’s not at all which makes news, I mean the man-biting-the-dog sort of?” the Babbler tried to rubbish the reporting idea.

Nosey Parker insisted, “No dear, what after all was there in Gudiya, Farzana and Anara episodes? Still we had to drag these poor things out of their homes and present the “real picture” before the people in larger public interest, particularly when every journalist, howsoever incredible, had been doing it”.

“Oh yes, there you are. You followed the stories since everyone was (over) doing it. Well, there ees a point in that.” The Babbler muffled the “over” part and stressed the “is”. Again the tweet of “Did ye du et duet — did did” rented the open skies. Nosey Parker became restless when the Jungle Babbler grimaced turning his eyes away from the curious reporter.

The Babbler asked Nosey Parker to watch and record from a distance when he would be interviewing the victim of “Did you do it?” “Behenji, will you tell our audience how do you feel after going through the ordeal of ‘Did you do it’ since you have been tweeting for quite some time seeking to know the culprit?” The victim squeaked at him scornfully, “D,did ye du et?” “No, no behenji, I am a journalist. I don’t do myself. I simply fling the others’ doing in public-ehm-ehm, bird interest only!” The Babbler again sneered with his tongue firmly in his beak.

Having interviewed the “victim”, Nosey Parker rushed and pridefully presented the story to the Editor. Lo and behold, everything got washed out — video, audio and everything. The disgusted Editor gave good amount of birdshit to Nosey Parker who rushed back to look up the Jungle Babbler.

He overheard the naughty Babbler talking to the forgetful Lap Wing: “I knew that you as habit would forget the place of your laying eggs and then scream around as if someone had stolen them squeaking ‘Did you do it’, but this Nosey Parker fellow thought he had picked up the best of scoops.”

Having known this now, Nosey Parker asked them as if cheated, “But what happened to my recording?” Replied the Jungle Babbler, “Don’t you know we have beepers and jammers planted under our wings to ward off the recording done by the likes of you in larger bird interests.” They laughed to their guts content while Nosey Parker again buried his beak in the garbage.

This article was published in The Tribune on Oct 21, 2005.

Picture for Profile

New Orleans Before The Catarina Hit

It's for no ordinary reason that New Orleans is among the most visited places on earth. It has a history. A mystifying geography. And a culture that forces you into identifying with strong human emotions of pain and pleasure, jubilation and desperation, ecstasy and wonder.
The magical charm of its voodoos, ghosts, and haunted houses coupled with the social whirls of Mardi Gras, the highest pitch and frenzy of tarantella, its spirit permeating the city throughout the year, adds spice to life.
Excited at an offer of a free trip to New Orleans we were waiting for our coach to arrive at the Holiday Inn at Baton Rouge, the capital of Louisiana. Our escort, John Zins was educating us on the inevitable city, in the warm sunshine rendered almost useless because the chilly breeze made us cling on to our jackets wrapping them a little more tightly around our bodies.
The highway to New Orleans floated through swamps and marshland that turned into vast lakes at places. We made our 90-mile-long journey over long bridges. The longest stretching 24 miles over Lake Pontchartrain. Early March had denuded all the tropical trees of their foliage.
New Orleans is about 200 miles off the Mississippi mouth in the Gulf of Mexico. The river with its mud-banks flows 10-15 feet above sea level. The city stands on a levee and they dig 70 feet deep foundations to erect high-rise buildings here because of a high water table. The first skyscrapers, built in the city in 1795-1811, were three-stories tall.
Long barges floating on the Mississippi packed with merchandise stand testimony to the city’s trading past. Plantations on either bank of the river were once managed like huge commercial fiefdoms owned by rich landlords who traded in indigo, cotton-ginning, tobacco, rice and employed slaves in their hundreds. The cemeteries in the city are built above the ground where the dead are buried in stacks not inside, but above the earth. Legend has it that a farmer while dying beseeched his children not to bury him underground since he had spent all his life in misery, in the marsh, mud and muck. And that he was going, he wanted some respite from the waters in his death. Since then, folklore has it, the cemeteries have always been built above the ground. New Orleans has a mystifying and awe-inspiring interest in its voodoo and haunted houses. The place has historically been associated with disease and epidemics, which the early settlers from France and Spain suffered along with the Acadians or the Cajuns – the locals. Once upon a time the city was dominated by French architecture, which later gave way to Spanish; the latter rulers ensured a systematic approach to preserving architectural impressions in keeping with the city’s history.
We first stopped at the zoo on the banks of the Mississippi, a simulated swamp with fountains and carvings as cuspy as soft tendrils. A colony of flamingos were a major attraction. An 8-feet high statue of the sitting Buddha took us by surprise in the middle of the park.
Crossing a railway track through the lush green terrain, we reached the banks of Mississippi from where we were to join a cruise to the French quarters, sailing through the Crescent Crown in a Horseshoe route. Piercing cold breeze brought black and threatening clouds from nowhere and soon it started raining. Picnickers rushed to a shelter, their beer cans literally blown off their hands by the wind. Umbrellas turned inside out and challenged their users in a chase of sorts completely drenching them in the piercing rain. Families out on a holiday packed their children and pets into waiting cars and caravans, even as half-a-dozen among us, braved the weather, clutching a pillar for support.

This article was published in The Economic Times on 27th March, 2003.