Man,Monkey and my sunglasses!!!

Man,Monkey and my sunglasses!!!

By:Rajbir Deswal

Till I visited Jakhoo temple in Shimla that December, I had only known that in every man there was a monkey. But what happened with me on that day completely changed my perception of things at least with regard to the rhesus ancestors of us the homo sapiens.We were climbing the flight of steps to Jakhoo from Sanjoli side. Parallelly runs a steep pathway for those who might like to avoid the steps. The temple is seated right on the highest hill and is known for the monkey brigade being stationed there since the times people have been thronging the temple site.We were cautious not to carry polybags etc, which are a natural temptation for the monkeys to pounce upon or snatch by deceit employing the screeching sound produced with a grinny opening of the mouth, which we normally call a Geedar-bhabkee—or just an idle threat. All the monkeys around were then their usual naughty selves. Shrieking. Chasing. Hanging upside down. Mimicking. Scratching. Frightening those who could be frightened and avoiding those who should be avoided as per their known monkey sense. And once in a while engaging in that popular sport for which they are known to be putting their descendants, with their own tails devolved into their frames (if you believe Charles Darwin), to embarrassment, discomfort and inconvenience.We were four of us. Two guests from London, who in fact had wished to visit Jakhoo, being ardent believers in the might of Lord Hanuman. Monkeys then acquire a natural right to be present there that too in large numbers like the Vanar-Sena. Since I had visited the place earlier also, so I doubled as a guide too. I was leading the group and heading towards the sanctum sanctorum when the inevitable happened.I felt kind of pulling of the jacket from behind and some creatures crouched up my waist on to the shoulders. In less than a couple of seconds it all happened and I realized, only after being informed that a monkey had taken away my sunglasses. My guests had gifted the imported brand to me the previous day only.Quite helpless and sheepish, I looked at the monkey. He was there at a safe distance, holding the black blinders in his jaws. He looked to be careful enough not to damage them though. The monkey appeared to be a teenager. Neither still growing up nor grown up. Appropriate stuff suicide attackers are known to be made up of.When we are all gazing at the monkey in bewilderment, with the sunglasses clutched by the arm in the mouth, some onlookers had good fun at my cost. In the meanwhile there appeared a man on the scene, who later turned out to be a mediator, who suggested I offer some roasted gram to the monkey, in exchange of which he might give up his “claims” to the snatched glasses and he went on to inform that there were a couple of “mischievous” monkeys at Jakhoo who play such pranks very often.Left with no option than to toe the line, I took some gram from another visitor standing close by and with the stuff placed on my extended palm to the monkey, I tried to strike a deal. Quite surprisingly the monkey, as if, beckoned me towards a particular direction. And exactly, I realized later, towards the man who was himself a hawker selling roasted gram for five rupees per packet. And who had suggested the gram offer idea.When negotiations were going on between the monkey and me, the hawker reappeared on the scene with a packet of grams. And at the same time, seeking a confirmation from us that we shall pay him afterwards (of course), he insisted he only would himself be able to click the deal with the monkey who might still not oblige and walk away with the offer as also the booty if we made the offer. Once again we had to surrender but I started suspecting a design and a trap.The hawker approached the monkey and threw up in the air the packet which was grabbed by the latter, simultaneously releasing his jaws and allowing the sunglasses to land in the hands of the hawker, like a very well taken catch. Everything happened with a masterly dexterity exhibited both by the monkey and the man and I got my blinders back.All through our return journey, I kept wondering whether or not the man and the monkey were hands in glove with each other? Whether or not it was merely a coincidence? Whether or not the hawker had really trained a couple of the rhesus. Whether or not I should call the monkeys mercenaries and the man “master of ceremonies”? And above all, whether or not there is a man too in the head of a monkey?

Withdrawal Symptoms every New Year!

Withdrawal Symptoms every New Year!

By:Rajbir Deswal
Yes, consciously or otherwise, one does feel the withdrawal symptoms in the New Year. These may be of different kinds with different people. Yet, a feeling of correcting some wrong, of which one is habitual for the past some time, takes the better of him, not only in his actions but the thinking process as well.
Most people would continue to write the date as if it belonged to the year gone by. And then with some effort they’d amend it, reassuring themselves of the continuum of existence in the New Year. The correction thus made confirms the hangover of the year that rolled into eternity, never to return.
The withdrawal syndrome fills one with a sense of loss in so far as the diaries and calendars are concerned. But this loss is compensated in acquisition of the new ones with uncrumpled and crisp pages with unruffled folds. The contents of the old diaries may still have nostalgic notes stored for posterity but the promise that the blank slots hold balances the psychological depravity.
The most obsolete thing and rightly to be treated as such should be the “year’s holiday-list”. I personally am thrilled to have a new one. And since the indolence and lethargy that had been squeezed out to the exuberance of this old list, it deserves to be filled with some alternate and refreshing replenishment. A new holiday-list is the panacea to ward off gone-year withdrawal symptoms found mostly in the Indian babudom.
The emotional fools make New Year resolutions to stand by, but in many cases they do not live up to their commitments and promises made to themselves since if they were so strong-willed, they wouldn’t wait for the turn of the year for effecting their resolve. They feel the gone-year withdrawal symptoms more than anyone else. This is so, also because, mostly the New Year resolutions are on giving up vices and less on acquiring virtues.
Well, the business types would do stocktaking exactly when the old year-ends and new one begins for they generally had had some deity or the other’s blessing for a fixed duration. The fortunetellers also guide the “stars” of their destiny in an already announced time slot. They too need some counseling to overcome to gone year withdrawal symptoms.
Call me mad, or even selfish, but this year I have decided on an altogether different way to come out of the gone year withdrawal symptoms and keep feeling elated when friends would call for nearly a week at least to greet and wish” Happy New Year” to me. Want to know it? Well, I will not say and thus share; and thus exhaust or empty, my own good wishes but will only receive them for their therapeutic properties. Thank you friends in advance!

Shimla 1999:Kandhar,Millenium & us!

Happy those year-end tidings 1999!

By Rajbir Deswal
The second millennium was at its fag end when we decided to celebrate and welcome the third one at no other place than beautiful Shimla, hoping in addition, to enjoy the excitement of an expected snowfall.
We were blessed with a mild shower of snowflakes at about four in the evening while strolling on the Mall. The flakes landing in the boiling oil, meant for frying pakoras at the nearby stalls, made crackling sound.
It portended well for a pleasurable propagation of the ensuing evening. And a nice and hot cup of coffee out in the open, with a topping of the falling snowflakes, aptly allegorised the anxiety and trepidation in our hearts, since the Kandhar hijack hostages had not till then been released.
Wherever we went, be it a restaurant, a showroom or a tea stall, the television channels constantly reminded us of the concern the entire nation had for the event, giving us mixed feelings of sorrow and joy, on the eve of the new millennium.
We went to a cosy restaurant on the Mall and ordered soup while some people took to the dancing floor on the taps of the teasing disc jockeys. Updates on Kandhar hijack were beamed as intercuts during the other entertainment programmes but no news gladdened our hearts since it was just a wait and watch scenario which takes its toll with the people with sensitive hearts.
The Master of Ceremony announced a draw of lots for the lucky winners in various themes. This had to be done on the tickets purchased. Lo and behold, he announced a certain number for the “lucky couple of the evening”. Everyone peeled his or her eyes on the counterfoils of the tickets. My son yelled from a corner signaling something. In the din we could make out his scream.” It’s you Mom-Dad!”
We were invited to the podium and asked to tell a joke or sing a song. I could have gladly performed in pursuance of both the entreaties but something deep inside held me back. Battling through the crowd we made it to the dais but not without hesitation.
And then the big news of the release of the hostages flashed on the small screen. Entire gathering went up in gyrations ranting cries of exhilaration, excitement and relief. It was a bare ten minutes short of the turn of the millennium.
Never ever before had I enjoyed singing, “Chhoro kal ki baatein, kal ki baat purani’ Naye daur main lickhenge, mil kar nai kahani; Hum Hindustani”. Needless to say the huge gathering sang in chorus with us clapping the beats that completed the most sought symphony of the moment. I noticed hardly a soul without moist eyes and revelling.
Today our hearts go out to the bereaved family of Gurgaon and we salute the brave pilot.

Clips

Writing on the breeze!!! हवाओं के नाम

शाख पर जब धूप आई, हाथ छूने के लिए

छांव छम्म से नीचे कूदी, हंस के बोली, "आईये!!!"

यहाँ सुबह से खेला करती है शाम

हवाओं पे लिख दो हवाओं के नाम

हम अनजान परदेसियों का सलाम ।

The sunlight extends its hand

To shake with that of the shadow

Perching on the bough

When the latter offers

And by making space for it

By jumping to the ground

Saying as if "You're Welcome!"

This is the way the sporty

Mornings and evenings play their game

In this land where

Even a wanderer could write

His salutation on the breeze

Being stranger though.

भरोसा /राजबीर देसवाल

ज़माना हाथ से फिसला सा लगता जा रहा है

ये किस मुकाम पे जीवन के आ गया हूँ मैं !!!

कहाँ छुपूं बता यारब करूँ मैं क्या तुही बता

फ़ैल कर खुद ही अपने नभ पे छा गया हूँ मैं !!!

ये सब दुशवारियां ओ तल्खियाँ क्यूं मेरे हिस्से हैं

क्यूं इन तकलीफों तन्हाइयों को भा गया हूँ मैं !!!

कोई तो ऐसा शाना हो मिले अब सर को जो मेरे
गमे दुनिया मिला इतना की अब घबरा गया हूँ मैं !!!
सुना है तू बड़ा दानिश है तेरी ताब है इतनी
तेरी महफ़िल मैं इस ख्याल से फिर आ गया हूँ मैं !!!
तेरी रहमत मुझे बक्शे तो बक्शे ए खुदा मेरे
की सिजदे में तेरे भरोसा पा गया हूँ मैं !!!

राजबीर देसवाल

सबब !!!

सबब /राजबीर देसवाल

---------------------

तुम से सौ बार कहा है

मुझसे पूछा न करो
सबब हर बात का कुछ ह़ो

ये ज़रूरी तो नहीं

चाँद चमका है कहीं पर
सूर्य दमका है ज़मीं पर
हो हरेक दिल में उजाला
ये ज़रूरी तो नहीं

ज़िन्दगी लहर बहर है
क्या जीने का कहर है
फिर तमन्ना जवान हो
ये ज़रूरी तो नहीं

लाख छाई हों घटायें
और हों मस्त फिजायें
फिर भी बरसेंगी बदलियाँ
ये ज़रूरी तो नहीं

झोली खुशियों से भरी हो
दिल नवाजिश से अटा हो
और न ख्वाहिश की कमी हो
ये ज़रूरी तो नहीं

पलक की परत के पीछे
ग़मों की गर्त के नीचे
न हों ऑंखें भी अगर नम
ये ज़रूरी तो नहीं

..............................................................
राजबीर देसवाल

Razai Tax on the way? May add to winter woos!

Razai tax

by Rajbir Deswal
Who is not aware of the comfort and cosiness of a quilt popularly called Razai — a natural temptation and second skin for us all during winters. Size, smell, stink, shape, stuffing, softness, snugness, sensuousness and snooze is all that a Razai is.
Curled up like a baby in the folds of my velvety Razai, with the mercury dipping to 8 degrees, I was watching a programme on TV which dwelt on funny and silly laws. The anchor informed that in South Korea, it is a law that the cops shall inform the government on bribes given by motorists.
My heart almost missed a beat. No, not at the predicament of the cops, if such legislation was promulgated here, but at the thought of they levying taxes on use of Razais in India! I wrapped myself up a little tighter and began to weigh the pros and cons of the ‘draconian Razai Tax’!
I visualised the Razai Tax raid on my house when the sleuths counted the “contraband” with us. “You are four of you in this house. How come you can afford to have a dozen Razais with you when the law permits one for each member?” R.T. Officer thundered while I sheepishly explained, “Sir, the extra ones are meant for the guests!”
“Ignorance of law is no excuse mister, aren’t you aware that the new law envisages guests carrying their allotted Razais only with them?” an unconvinced R.T.Officer howled. “Couples and the ‘like-minded’ should go for a Razai-pool. India doesn’t progress for the likes of you. None enjoys a Razai-luxury in the cold countries. Hence they are developed. You are the drones in the system —Razai-bugs! No work culture in India exists only because everyone, big or small, rich or poor, young or old, healthy or sick here is found slipping in the Razais at the first opportunity coming their way!”
Well, the Razai Tax could be levied prescribing various categories. The fibre and “shah-toosh” ones, besides the Jaipuris and those with velvet and satin covers, could be more heavily taxed than coarse cloth types. The size of a Razai could also be prescribed. The freshly cotton-ginned could have a moderate levy.
I pondered on the Razai Tax Department being always lapped up by governments as the “most revenue generating one”. Officers would opt for plum postings here while the civil services aspirants would opt for RTD as their first choice. The department’s mission statement could be “Quit-Quilt for India’s Development” and its official business could be transacted only in the sun.
There could also be a Razai-Smelling Cell in the RTD to assess “appropriate use” of Razais. The cell’s recommendations on “smell forensics” could determine the quality control of Razai manufacturing industry.
Suddenly I felt my Razai being taken off by wife at 9 that day, who said, “The only way to make people like you do some productive work is to levy a tax on Razais”. And I said, “Just half an hour more darling, please!”
A couplet to conclude:
Khuda kare ke tumko judai na mileKabhi bhi aisee tanhai na mileMujhe na chaho to kuchh aisa hoMausam ho sardi ka aur tumko razai na mile!

आज ६ दिसम्बर को / रह गए तो बस !

रह गए तो बस!!!

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अभी कुछ क्षण पहले

क्षितिज के उस पार

वो ढलता सूरज

और आसमान पर उभरता

एक चांदी की लकीर का बादल ।

कुछ ख्यालों में खो गया मैं

आँख मूँद ली और तब सुध ली जब

सहसा एक धमाका हुआ ।

शायद बिजली कडकी

मैंने बादल की तरफ़ नज़रें उठाई

चांदी की लकीर रक्त-रंजित पाई

खूब जम कर खून की बारिश हुई

सब कुछ सैलाब से लबालब हुआ

हिन्दू मरा, मुसलमा मरा, सिख व इसाई मरा ।

रह गए तो बस,

नानक मुहम्मद ईसा या राम !

या फिर अकेला मैं ,

शायद इस हादसे की

तहरीर लिखने को !!!

राजबीर देसवाल

बे-सबब

बे-सबब/राजबीर देसवाल
छोड़ कर मुझको अकेला, बढ़ गया है कारवां,
कौन पीछे रह गया, मैं देखता ही रह गया.
तोड़ने को एक टुकड़ा, आसमान का, हाथ उठा तो,
लो मेरे ऊपर ही वो, सारा का सारा डह गया.
एक सहरा, प्यास का, सूखे का, बंजर का पला
पसरा-पसरा, ऊंघ कर, मुझको नकारा कह गया.
इक समंदर, ढीठ सा, ठहरा हुआ था आँख में,
आपको देखा तो फिर, वो बे-हिसाबा बह गया.
एक पत्थर कोह सा, दिल पे रहा, ता-ज़िन्दगी,
‘ए खुदा तू है ! ’ समझ कर, बोझ सारा सह गया.
क्यों किए हैं आप शिकवा, मेरे कहने पर जनाब,
जो कहा, जैसा कहा, बस बे-सबब ही कह गया.

जैसे सूरज की गर्मी से

जैसे सूरज की गर्मी से

Alas Bau Ji! और बाउजी चले गए !

Bau Ji

by Rajbir Deswal
Bau Ji was an ordinary person. But he was a special father. I had never thought of addressing him in ‘historical terms of having had been!’ Not that he was immortal, but that he was mortally alive and succumbing to all my needs, all my life, made me look up to him being more than a father. And having brought me in this world, who else could have done this to me except him! Bau Ji. My father.
As a boy, I saw in Bau Ji all that I could have dreamed to be. As an adolescent, I found him affording me all support I needed. As an adult, I discovered in him an indulgent counsellor. As a man, I had him as my spiritual guru. But more he grew old and infirm, he became a child. Dependent. Emotional. Needing to be repaid for what I owed him. Without asking for it.
He was my role model. His upbringing made me follow only him. Being his natural part. If he liked Nehru or Churchill, I too liked them. If he adored Dilip Kumar’s style of acting and Talat Mehmood’s velvety voice, I too rooted for them the same way. If he preferred to dress immaculately, I too would not let a crease on my clothes get crumpled.
I followed Bau Ji even in his initiation into a faith of his choice at the hands of his spiritual master. I heard him compose verses and sing them to small congregations in our village. He made me sing and write like him. His love for Urdu and good English was duly imbibed and emulated by me. He was a graduate of the 1940s vintage.
Bau Ji was a true son of the soil. I remember him carrying me as a child on his broad shoulders. Having grown up a little more, I started accompanying father on his tractor to the fields. I would marvel at his sinewy arms with jet black hair down the elbow.
Noticing a water channel overflow, father would stop the tractor, come down, roll up his sleeves, pick up the spade and divert the water. I watched his biceps and triceps almost frog-throbbing now and then with the lifting and dropping of the spade into hard soil.
With mother having parted company forever about 24 years ago, Bau Ji became a loner, more by choice than by disposition. He became hypertensive, diabetic, and spondylitis literally took the better of him and his upright posture. The hair on his hands turned white and the skin got loosened; sans the rugged texture it once had.
Early this month, Bau Ji called up almost gasping for breath on the phone: “I am not well, Bhai!” He had never uttered such words of helplessness — ever! It did not portend well. We took him with us. That night I slept (!) with him when he kept asking the domestic help to ‘go and relax’ but confirming about me, “Bhai, are you around?” His condition deteriorated the next day and till late evening, he could not hang on. Bau Ji was gone. For ever.
On the way to Hardwar, while carrying his ashes to be immersed in the Ganga, I received a call from his mobile left back in the village. The text which appeared on my phone-screen read, “Bau Ji calling!” For a second I preferred not to suspend my disbelief and keep feeling Bau Ji’s presence around. You were very special to me, Father! Like all fathers, I believe.

In the Desert Wine Country: Osoyoos. We spent three days in this Canada town

Oasis in Osoyoos
By : Rajbir Deswal & Chander Koumdi
The Cascades, a mountain range east of the water body of Puget Sound was in sight with its lofty peaks. The meters high Steven’s Pass presented a commanding view. The Columbia river...which had accompanied us with its moods manifested in currents, big splashes, and roaring gurgles, sometime to our left and at others to our right, looked to be a capricious blue rivulet from here. Ski tournaments are held here in winters.
We were on our way to Osoyoos in British Columbia (Canada) from Seattle.
Passing through the beautiful Leavenworth—a town with its unique German and Bavarian flavour, we reached Wanatchee from where you take a turn alongside a river that keeps company up to Osoyoos. You can also take a detour for the beautiful Lake Chelan from here—tourist destination for ‘desis’—our own people.
For about three hours from now the drive through the famous Okanagan Valley with huge sand dunes on either side. On the slopes close to the river, are spread farms, ranches and fruit orchards. The sharp contrast of greenery at the foot hills and sprawling and spiralling yellow slopes of the dunes present a sight mixing awe and admiration. All through the highway runs a railway track which confirms the region’s growing historically from a mining activity area to a full fledged agriculture chunk.
Narender Virk and his wife Rattan were waiting for us in the lounge of their Holiday Inn. Narender owns the hotel besides vast property—‘Village on the Lake’. He migrated to Osoyoos about 30 years back and made good fortune. Rattan, his wife was a practising lawyer in Punjab and Haryana High Court before she joined Narender. The couple offered us goblets full of pinot wine in the lobby itself. We moved on to the restaurant with a beautiful view of Lake Osoyoos.
Some 50 KMs of Osoyoos is the famous Rock Creek where they had discovered gold in the mid 18th century. One can have a full bird’s eye-view of the entire Okanagan valley from Mr. Baldi which is also a ski area. North of Osoyoos is beautiful town of Oliver where again one can have lot of history, architecture, food, wine, fitness or family fun.
On the same route just about 10 minutes drive, one can enjoy being at the Spotted Lake which has about 365 round pools of water and saline deposits giving you and impression as if you are looking at a dress with polka dot designs. Aborigines i.e. the Indians hold the Lake as sacred and congregate annually for a pilgrimage.
Close by is the Desert Model Rail Road Museum.Under one roof here is a tiny town showing up life in a criss cross of moving slowing, stopping and zooming trains. Anaysa had than screamed with joy with her small little hands on her cheeks saying “Oh! There is so much to see here”. The owner-curator is his 60’s informed us about the population and life style in the mini-town. We had no option than to willingly usher into his make-belief fantasy world.
We had fun with water at the private beach of Holiday Inn. Till about 200 metres from the beach you can be in the shallow waters, only waist high. Children play splashing games here while the seniors can enjoy sun bath with a punch of juice or beer. We had thrill of riding jet skis. Narender and his son Vincent took us on a long boat ride in the evening close to the lake shores showing us canals, vineyards and the Indian reservations which are politico-cultural reserves where Aborigine Indians practice and their own traditions while the State does not generally interfere in their day-to-day governance.
We visited a Reservations NK’MIP called in-ka-meep whichis about 200 acre chunk of a dune with vinyards flowing down to the shore level of Lake Osoyoos. From the Winery we purchased a couple of bottles of white wine. Also we had lunch on the Patio with a commanding view of the small town of Osoyoos and the Lake. The ambience here gives you a mixed feeling—of irrigation of the self and dryness of mind—symbolically represented by the Lake waters and desert dunes. But it is all too exciting to even imagine oneself in such a mysterious world of contrast. They have nine holes desert links golf, a spa and RV camping too here.
The 36 holes beautiful Gold Course created on the western dune of Osoyoos was a good place to have our lunch before saying, “Bye-bye Osoyoos!”

तू प्यार का सागर है मन्ना दे को मेरी श्रधांजलि

जाने क्या ढूँढती रहती है ये ऑंखें मुझमे

तेरा मेरा प्यार अमर

Audio quality may not be good here...will uplaod again.

शाम-ऐ-ग़म की कसम आज तनहा हैं हम

दिल ऐसा किसी ने मेरा तोडा

Footballs all! Jai Hind Sir!

Footballs allby Rajbir Deswal
Look, I am a senior cop and you need to salute me,” “said Football One. “What an introduction buddy! You were a nice, round-faced, round bodied, roly-poly, rotund football. When did you become a cop, of all the silly things in the world?” asked Football Two.
“Didn’t you hear PC telling the country’s very senior cops in no uncertain terms and with unambiguous intent that they were all like footballs? Kicked from here to there!”
“PC? you mean Police Commissioner?” asked Football Two.
“Yes, he is the seniormost of them all and a well-meaning HM too,” said Football One. “You mean His Majesty?” asked Football Two. “Yes, after all cops of the feudal vintage like to address him and his ilk like that only,” replied Football One. “But how come PC said we were footballs? And if he had to refer to all that is round around us, and within, then he could have said, ‘marbles’ instead,” quipped Football Two.
“Big people have big brains buddy! Great ideas take birth in them naturally. PC might have thought that footballs give a well-fed look. That is why perhaps he wanted to pamper the cops, likening them to something the calling of which is all too welcome!” said Football One.
Football Two still wanted to make a point, “No, but he didn’t want to pamper them, rather give them a piece of his mind! But as I said, marbles would have best described the cops’ calling. Don’t the marbles hit, hammer and shoot at each other, and all those who are in their line of fire with a perfect aim in sight like the bull’s eye (be they public, or rival politicians in the “Marble Cops” scheme of things)?
“But buddy, they always want to bend them like Beckhem.” Football One tried to make another point, “And if it is not a football then what else will take the punch in. A cricket or a hockey ball or even a marble, may hit hard on ricocheting. It’s only a football that is flexible and resilient, as if beseeching the kicker into “one more time, come on Sir, kick me one more time hard, and I may ‘net’ you a ‘goal!” Football One tried to convince her friend elaborating on the various “Politico-friendly” traits of them all.
Football Two seemed to be convinced by now and quibbled with an eye to eye grin, “Look what happened when even the non-political, world famous French footballer, Zinedine Zidane headbutted Marco Materazzi during the 2006 World Cup final! No political player ever would like to repeat Zidane’s feat? And invite unnecessary trouble when the likes of us are there to oblige.”
And to conclude and clinch the issue in favour of PC’s calling the cops footballs, Football One quoted Shakespeare, “Hey Buddy know what? Even the most popular Roman king Caesar had wanted to ‘have men about me that are fat, sleek-headed men and such as sleep a-nights.’
“So as to let the thieves do their work. Footballs all! Jai Hind Sir!” greeted Football Two bending over backwards a little more than desired.
Also at http://rajbirdeswal.instablogs.com/entry/footballs-all-jai-hind-sir/

रोका कई बार मैंने दिल की उमंग को क्या करूं मैं अपनी निगाहों की पसंद को

कसमे वादे प्यार वफ़ा सब बातें हैं बातों का क्या

नज़र न लग जाए किसी की राहों मैं

अब क्या मिसाल दूँ मैं तुम्हारे शबाब की

एहसान तेरा होगा मुझ पे

कहीं दूर जब दिन ढल जाए

इक हसीं शाम को दिल मेरा खो गया

घुंघरू की तरह बजता ही रहा हूँ मैं

इक लड़की को देखा तो ऐसा लगा

हुए हैं तुम पे आशिक हम

दिल के झरोखे मैं तुझको बिठा कर

टुकड़े हैं मेरे दिल की ए यार तेरे आंसू

जिंदगी बहर नहीं भूलेगी वो बरसात की रात

Teri duniya se ho ke majboor chala तेरी दुनिया से होके मजबूर चला

Tere mere sapne

US immigration & us. They may have been unkind to Shah Rukh but...!

US immigration and us
by Rajbir Deswal
Holidaying in the US this summer, I did keep myself informed of happenings back home in India through the net, but had a total eclipse of the Shah Rukh Khan issue, which on landing I learnt, had put the entire country and Bollywood on the boil, on a “near blasphemous and sacrilegious” act on the part of US immigration.
Being a cop myself, I don’t find any reason why someone should not be questioned, if he needs to answer some queries. And all the more justifiable it is if the man on duty wants him to. But I have had different “tastes” of, and “treatment” from the US immigration, having made it to that country seven times, during the past nearly seven years.
First time at Baton Rouge, Louisiana, I was not at ease with myself to reply to a curt, “What brings you here?” Since it was an official assignment under an Indo-US programme, I had the cheek to tell the officer, “It’s your own country!” He looked up after scanning my official passport and smiled back to say: “A cop! Enjoy your stay!”
The second time I and my wife were questioned on our “visiting interest” in Denver, Colorado. To amuse the officer I said, “We want to have a view of the world from your mile-high city!” “Be careful not to miss out on Molly Brown House at California Street.” He smiled and “stamped” us suggesting a visit to the “Unsinkable” Titanic survivor’s History-home.
Then at Seattle, the immigration officer put to us all the leading questions and answered them himself. “And you have come to visit your son. And he works for Microsoft. And he lives in Redmond. And you will meet your grand-child. And you will do baby-sitting for him...!” All this while he was processing our passports too, which he returned duly stamped. We wondered why do they call the playful activity “baby-sitting” and not “being-baby”.
Entering the US from Canada after a visit to Vancouver, the officer, this time a woman, was informed by our son saying, “Three of us live in Redmond and my folks are from India”. Reacting to this rather American “introduction” of us, Anaysa, our three-plus granddaughter, chipped in, uninvited. “But they are my Dadi and Dadu, Papa!”
“What did the baby say?” Sawan explained it when to the Immigration Officer’s other question he replied that he worked at his West Lake office in Seattle. “But you work in Redmond, Papa!” Anaysa again connected. “Yes Beta, I work from both places. Will you play with your Leapster” said Sawan in disgust. We were let in with the woman officer waving a “bye” to Anaysa who had a longish “baaaye” to reciprocate, without lifting the eyes from her screen.
When we narrated this to a friend there, he came up with an interesting episode involving one of our own desis, who on having been otherwise cleared for immigration, was told he could not carry a basket full of mangoes from the Canadian side.
“Well, can I eat them?” he pleaded and was allowed with a “Here and now”! And the fellow ate them all in a corner, holding each piece the way a baby holds his milk-bottle. With a loud burp he thanked the US immigration for their “kindness and generosity.” Smile SRK, and forget about it!

A glimpse into the small little world of Deswals

Blue Mysteries

Blue mysteries
By Rajbir Deswal
One of the recognised astrologers of the country proclaimed that blue would be the colour of the new millennium. After hearing this, my mind was all set to explore the blue world.
Why is a woman keenly interested in literary pursuits called a blue-stocking? Why is the blood flowing in the veins of members of royal families called blue? Why is the hard-so-swat big fly termed bluebottle? Why is making an appearance or doing things after long intervals said to be doing so, “once in a blue moon”? Why is a product on celluloid with porn details dubbed a blue film? Why is something untoward labelled as “a bolt from the blue”? Why is a blue ribbon always a mark of distinction? Why does a depressed man look blue? Only an athlete representing his institution can wear a blue scarf or a blue cap. Why? Why is a sea-man called a blue-jacket? Why are hardships and inconvenient things termed blue? Why is a loyal member of a party called “true-blue”?
Why, in business and finance, is a stock that is considered strong and reliable in terms of dividend yield referred to as a blue-chip? And in the computer era, why should a blue-chip control your daily routine? Why is a murderer of children called a “blue-beard”? Why is “blues” the nomenclature given to melancholy lyrics which are tales of woe or unhappy love in African-American music? Why does a blueprint deserve that appellation in making plans before they are executed?
That should be enough, I think. And blue is not only blue. It’s navy-blue, sky-blue, ocean-blue, British-blue, Oxford-blue, Cambridge-blue and so on. If I were to pluck a piece from the sky, it might not be blue, yet it looks blue. Nearer home, in Hindu mythology, Lord Shiva is believed to have swallowed the poison that emerged after the sagar manthan. When the poison reached the throat of Shiva, he retained it there because if it had been gulped down, the Devtas residing in his stomach would have been endangered. Hence, Neelkanth is appellation given to Lord Shiva’s throat, which turned blue as a result of harnessing the deadly poison. And since poison, in all its form, when it effects the human body, turns it to blue, no edible stuff was given this colour by Mother Nature. The fathomless depth of the oceans confirms the profundity of blue.
The vastness of the expanded skies proclaims the infiniteness of blue. The blue-shift in the spectrum exhibits its frequency and intensity in a striking manner. And all that is even described as blue, as we have seen, may not at all be blue. Surely then, here it becomes mystifying. Blue is not the colour to eat. Hence, no blue rasgullas; no blue cheese! Any takers!

Of Aindees & Khoppartunns ! रोहतक के एंडी और हरियाणा के खोप्पर-टन

Of Aindees & Khoppartunns !

By:Rajbir Deswal
One doesn’t to be a Haryanvi to know aindees and khoppartuns because they are typical to all societies and the Haryanvi dialect has labelled them with a definite nomenclature.

To pinpoint the habitat of the aindees, Rohtak region can be truly given the credit for producing them, or if you hail from outside, there are fair chances of you too becoming an aindee if you possess HIS qualities, while in Rohtak, Mind you, Rohtak for this purpose is not a city but a region, a breeding ground for aindees.

If you are a daredevil, a go-getter, flamboyant, impressive, aggressive, a carry-along type, brave, rescuer, and self-possessed then you stand a good chance to deserve the appellation – Aindee. But it is to be remembered that an element of rusticity, uncouthness, rashness devil-may-care and hardihood has always to be there besides your “ability” to retrace your steps, go back on your word and “when did-I-say-that(?)” or “when-did-I-do-that”, if your scheming turns topsy-turvy.

Yes, of course, for all that is good, if you are able to grab credit. “Who could have otherwise done it, rhetoric” and “Here I throw the challenge”; It is guaranteed that some magnanimity and larger than life façade, has to be there always.

An aindee is always more smartly dressed than others; he is the one who will break the ice and is the least of an introvert. He is to be overriding all others’ arguments even if his conscious mind accepts the facts contrary to his perception and to the admittance of all others. The aindee has really to have one-upmanship and he is a cut above all.

In the countryside any act can be hilarious if it is not really so and any act can be un-inspiring which is actually the other way round. It depends on the sharpness of the mind of the aindee how beautifully he gives it a turn in his favour or not owning the idea at all.

While in Rohtak to be an aindee or to envelop one in that mantle, titled or self-assumed, the word is his. A mere mention of AINDEE is praise of you or prefixing or suffixing this title with your name gives you acceptance in that seemingly sleepy society. Sleepy because these are the very people who have still retained their untainted character typical of the (Jat-heart) land!

Now (and how?) about khoppartunns? The expression is quite suggestive. The only thing you have to do is translate it into English. Well ‘Khoppar’ is the Khopri or the skull and ‘Tunn’ is the sound produced resonating from a hollow utensil, bell, pitcher, well etc. etc. So the empty skull with its resonance of blankness or nothingness above one’s shoulders will make you a good khoppartunn.

Khoppartunn is not the exact antithesis of an aindee for the latter has an imbibed and inculcated trait of deceit, craft and machinations. Yet,l while the aindee will do some smarting also the khoppartunn will blissfully miss all that and will work in a blind bargain situation. The khoppartunn will never think and act, will never accept a sound advice to think and act, will act but on his own and not at someone’s bidding, goading, coaxing, inspiring, commanding, cajoling, luring, and do what you will to stir him up.

Khoppartunn will jump in a well, dash against a wall, swing on the tallest tender branch of a tree, make pace with a running vehicle, lift a quintal stone, burn his fingers literally and have no regrets, not even the wisdom of not repeating the act again will “tunn” against his khopri.

Khoppartunns are quite close to simpletons but only to the extent that while all khoppartunns may be simpletons but all simpletons cannot be khoppartunns. Amongst the simpletons there is always an element of innocence while the khoppartunns may not even know what is innocence. Yet they will justify their acts as “done-so-done”. A simpleton may repent on his deeds but a khoppartunn may never ever say a word of remorse or feel the guilt of it.

Within the aindees and khoppartunns, although all aindees may have something of a khoppartunn but all khoppartunns should have nothing of an aindee. Admittedly, the rusticity of a khoppartunn is always the main ingredient of the making of an aindee.

The best example to differentiate between a khoppartunn and an aindee is that if an aindee should break the windscreen of a passing car he may not own it (having done so) but this accusation on being slapped on the khoppartunn, he may admit: “Yes, I did it, what then?”

While khoppatunns are born as such, the aindees have to undergo an appreciation test of their “calibre” well directed towards their “personality development”. And thus there are aindees in the making, regular aindees and super-aindees. The last category is called a ripe one or pucca hoya aindee. If someone questions: “Are you a the twice born.” Yes he is, for he is a Rohtaki. And now the last word about this supremo.

It is said of the aindees of Rohtak that if you hammer a nail in their head, you will need a screwdriver to take it out in the shape of a screw because a nail will develop grooves during its stay in the head of a Rohtaki.

This was publihsed in The Tribune

तू मेरा नाम भी ले जा

जब कतल किया मुझको तो इनाम भी ले जा
दीवान भी ले जा तू मेरा जाम भी ले जा
ले जा मेरे अशआर ये सब तेरे लिए हैं
और इनमे छुपा जज्बये नाकाम भी ले जा
सोचा था तू तड़पेगा कभी याद में मेरी
जो दिल में पले वो मेरे एह्वाम भी ले जा
अब मुझको नहीं रास आस रहा शोबए उल्फत
आगाज़ भी ले इसका तू अंजाम भी ले जा
तुने तो तिजारत से भी छीनी है सदाक़त
ले माल भी ले जा तू मेरा दाम भी ले जा
अब आने लगी रास मुझे शब् की स्याही
अब सुबह भी ले जा तू मेरी शाम भी ले जा
‘आमिल’ हूँ मेरे नाम से पहचान है तेरी
तू जा ही रहा है तो मेरा नाम भी ले जा
राजबीर देसवाल २००७

A Bouquet of Thoughts विचारों का गुलदस्ता Robin Gupta/Rajbir Deswal

'And what remains in the end?
It is the beauty of space
freed from strife and sorrow;
from the anguish and pain
of evolution;
From the veil of miscalculation;
From the checks and balances
of judgement; and merging
with the cleansing breeze
of the limitless desert
The soul is filled with understanding
with the equipoise of silence.'

और क्या बच रहता है अंततह:
केवल सुन्दरता ? मुक्त हो जाने की?
दुखों और वेदनाओ से
काल-अन्तराल से
हमेशा बढ़ते ही रहने के दर्द और कुंठाओं से
आच्छादित सही-ग़लत अनुमानों से
सधे हुए या उलझे पड़े निर्णयों से
और आताम्सात हो कर उस पवन से
जो बह कर असीम मरुसथ्लों से
निर्मल हो जाती है ।
आत्मा तब उस मौन की एकागर्ता से
सराबोर हो जाती है ।
रॉबिन गुपता की मूल कविता से राजबीर देसवाल द्बारा अनुदित

आज गुस्ताख हुई जाती है क्यूं बादे नसीम

आज गुस्ताख हुई जाती है क्यूं बादे नसीम
क्या किसी शोख की ज़ुल्फों से लिपट आई है
वो हैं ज़ालिम कि मेहरबान मैं ये कैसे पूछूं
मेरी हिम्मत ने बिखरने की कसम खाई है
जिंदगी बे-हिसो नाकाम हुई जाती है
इसमे हंगामा ऐ जज़्बात तो तो पैदा कर दे
शहर खामोश हुस शहर ऐ खामोशा की तरह
इसमे जीने सी कोई बात तो पैदा कर दे
ए मेरी जान-ऐ-ग़ज़ल तेरी वफाओं की कसम
तू नहीं साथ तो जीने मैं कोई जोश नहीं
मैं हूँ मख़मूर मये इश्क के पैमानों से
सागर-ओ-मीना-ओ-साकी का मुझे होश नहीं
मेरी पेशानी पे उगती ये पसीने की कली
मुझ को दिन रात के सब राज़ बता देती है
वो जो असरार छुपे रहते हैं नज़रों से मेरी
गोशे एहसास को चुपके से सुना देती है
जिंदगी फत्ब-ऐ-नब्बाज़ की मोहताज नहीं
नब्ज़ चलती हुई मालूम है कब थम जाए
और नस नस मैं ये बहता हुआ सरगरम लहू
बर्फ बन जाए या सड़कों पे कहीं जम जाए
मेरे महबूब ग़नीमत हैं ये लम्हे जब हम
एक दूजे के लिए ख्वाब बुना करते हैं
और महसूस किया करते हैं साँसों कि तपिश
बस यही पल है की भरपूर जिया करते है
राजबीर देसवाल

दिल पे खुशियों की वो बरसात कहाँ होती है

दिल पे खुशियों की वो बरसात कहाँ होती है
वो तो मिलते हैं मगर बात कहाँ होती है
इस नए दौर के जिंदा भी हैं मुर्दों की तरह
गर्मिए शिद्दते जज़्बात कहाँ होती है
दोस्त बातोंमें उड़ाते थे अंधेरे जिसके
अब रसीली वो भला रात कहाँ होती है
खुल के मिलते थे सुदामा से कन्नहिया जैसे
अब वो पहली सी मुलाकात कहाँ होती है
रूबरू आते ही आँचल को हवा ले जाए
अब वो जादू सी करामत कहाँ होती है
अब्र से पहले चले आते हैं आंधी तूफां
दिल लुभाती हुई बरसात कहाँ होती है
जान देकर भी जो हर फ़र्ज़ अदा करते हैं
ऐसे मर्दों की भला मात कहाँ होती है
दिल भी उसका है जुबां उसकी बयां भी उसका
हमसे तफसीरे अनायत कहाँ होती है
तेरी यादों ने ग़ज़ल कहना सिखाया हमको
इस से बढ़ कर कोई सौगात कहाँ होती है
हुस्न पर जान लुटा कर जो मुहब्बत मांगे
इश्क की इतनी भी औकात कहाँ होती है
हम फकीरों को कहाँ इस की ख़बर है ‘आमिल’
दिन गुज़रता है कहाँ रात कहाँ होती है
राजबीर देसवाल ' आमिल '

Ghaggar in full spate

We saw this fury of flash floods in Ghaggar on 12 Sept 2009. Closeby are the hutments and in the backdrop Gurudwara Nadha Sahib.

Rainy Flashback...! बरसात तब और अब मेरे गाँव में

Rainy flashback

By:Rajbir Deswal

Some three decades back if you went to my village, you had to cross three natural drains, a pretty thick jungle of wild growth with butterflies flitting about and, above all, an appreciably large water logged area.

Picking one’s way through the fields after scaling these ‘obstacles’ and with sufficient hop stop and jump and swim, one was able to catch a glimpse of a tiny hamlet with two havelis dwarfing the mud-houses. It was then the real homecoming for us, the natives.

On the way were women singing folk songs to lighten the burden of transplanting paddy while their children ‘trampled’ the slushy waters and the infants lay with their thumbs in the mouth in the make shift cradles hanging from jamun trees in the shady grove.

During the rainy season, my village became an island and you could not reach there without having to negotiate through chest-deep waters. Here and there, where the water was deeper, village urchins would put a flag for you to avoid the course. These children wore like a garland flower of a lotus-like growth with while and green combination.

There were countless people in my village who were bitten by snakes and almost everyone of them claimed having survived the bites of “a dozen snakes, each equal to a lathi measure, every time”. Oldies described the snakes as “not so dangerous for they were the species seen around so frequently only when there were rains.

Over the years, I gradually became a casual rather almost a non-visitor to the village. But there was no keeping out progress and the village witnessed reclamation of all and surrounding it which at one time used to be a large reservoir of water.

The village ceased to be an island even during the rainy season and since there was a pucca road I could drive up to my house without the obstacle race and missing at the same time the female chorus in the paddy fields. The scenario had changed to the extent that urchins chased and stoned your car.

As development proceeded apace, the natural drains, the quick jungle, the jamun grove, the mud-houses and the huge ponds, all vanished, gone were havelis too.

But recently, when I happened to visit my village once again to see my father still clinging to his moorings all alone it was just like the experience three decades back. The excessive rains had submerged all the development, making it seem just like old days.

From a distance, the village looked like an island. I stopped my car a good two kilometres away and with my pants folded up, waded through the water feeling the years slipping off my back as I experienced the long-forgotten excitement of it all. I was almost frolicking while all who gazed at me looked puzzled at the sight.

The childhood sensation once again got the better of me and like the boy who was lost in a mela and was united with his parents afterwards, I became ecstatic. But my euphoric vision got blurred somewhat when father said someone had died of snakebite in the vicinity.

Obviously, with progress man’s vulnerability also increases. The return to the halcyon days of yore is not an unmixed blessing!

Sab kuchh luta ke सब कुछ लुटा के होश में आए तो क्या किया

Rajbir Deswal sings : Sab kuchh luta ke hosh main aayee to kya kiya

With Dev Anand

I am on right side of Dev Anand and touch him on the shoulder to invite attention. We were then talking about his Prem Pujari.

We love you, Dev Anand!

by Rajbir Deswal
DEV Anand never looked more pleasant to me than when receiving the Dada Sahib Phalke Award at the hands of President A.P.J. Abdul Kalam. Being an ardent fan of the Tragedy King, I have only been an admirer of Dev Anand despite some of the “flop-sides” of the man and his mannerisms. But it occurs to me that it was largely because of this deportment that many cinema lovers liked his screen presence — a fact that he cashed in on even in his flop films.
While the frontal gap in his denture, a la Mrs Slip Slop or, nearer home, Asha Parekh, enhanced the magnetic effect in romantic scenes, as some people believe, his protruding lower lip while executing emotions made him look intolerable. His rolling of the perfectly rounded eyeballs added confusion to his performance. Yet, he was liked.
His gait, employing a three-foot swing to the left and right, made him look the biggest drunkard on earth. Coupled with this zigzagging, the drooping shoulders made him a creature deserving sympathy. Still he was adored.
His dialogue delivery always ran in the fast forward mode. The notation and pitch falling and rising every now and then as if someone was writhing in pain made the audiences lend an extra ear attempting to decipher what he was saying. Even then he was admired.
Added to all this, his way of dressing and decking gave inferiority complex to those who boast of having a sartorial sense. His scarves, his headgear, his jackets, his chosen design or pattern in a particular cloth, black buttons with scoffed collars, black seams of his stitched apparel; everything had a Dev Anand mark on it. And he was rightly “impersonated”.
Old timers recall, although he denied it in a recent TV interview, that he was advised against wearing a red tie with a black suit since the combination could prove fatal to certain swooning onlookers of the opposite sex. His raised puff of hair, resembling perching of a sparrow, made people pirates of Dev Anand’s style of balon ki chiriya bithana! Obviously he was copied.
His finds, including Zeenat Aman, Tina Munim et al confirmed his exploration of freshness, ensured permanence of charm and an anticipated success of the “discoveries”. Above all his being the one whose one single glance on a “thing of beauty made joy for ever” made many a man envy him. Nevertheless, they adored him.
That Dev Anand refuses to age gives me a naughty flash of imagination. No wonder he had said, “They decorated me with the Dada Phalke Award whereas I deserved Chacha Phalke one because the latter has more youthful connotations.” We love you Dev Anand.

Nachhattar in New York: न्यू यार्क में नछत्तर सिंह

In Newjerk!

Rajbir Deswal : On a migrant Punjabi who took famously to Big Apple !
Nachhattar Singh is from Punjab and lives in New York. A school dropout, he had no other option but to pick up the bellboy’s job in a hotel after migrating to what he calls “Newjark”. We met him in his hotel. On noticing that we could speak Punjabi and that we were visitors from his own 'kontry', he took interest in us.
By no standards he appeared to be a man out of place. In his late-thirties and with a trimmed beard and pinkish-white complexion, he looked as if he was born and brought up in America. But the secret was out to the likes of us only when he opened his mouth to speak.
While in the lobby, we heard him interact with his customers. Sample this: “But tam flat?” “Phor tonty?” “Bill gat ban phrom hottal”. “Next” (He meant: “What time is your flight? At 4.20?) You will get a van from the hotel. Next please”).
Nachhattar Singh became quite friendly with us and he offered to double as our guide in New York. He would tell us, “Its going to be a bindy (windy) day, so better bear (wear) another jaa-kut (jacket),” and “Nyagra-Phaal beiwed from Kanada said looks marblous”. Hope you can make out what he said.
More than his ear-pleasing style (as enjoyed by us) of speaking English in an unadulterated Punjabi accent, his help rendered in saving some dollars was welcome. He would accompany us to his friendly vendors on the Time Square and get us cheaper stuff like phonecards or souvenirs. He even arranged a conference on phone to Delhi through the gadget at his residence.
He had a nephew Vimpy, whom he addressed as Bimpy, and who was employed as driver for the hotel van, courtesy Nachhattar’s connections. When we were to leave for the airport, he clubbed us with other customers in the van, which had four extra seats, saving us nearly $100.
Bidding goodbye to Nachhattar Singh with hugs, we thanked him for his services. As a last gesture of taking care of us, he called Vimpy and told him, “O’ Sambhaal Kay, Kaka! Raah-ch koi raff-ad na paa-een” (Take care boy. Avoid entering into trouble on the way).
Vimpy looked like his uncle and spoke after his fashion, but he needed to be groomed for living in New York since the boy did not have his “papers” in order.
As ill luck would have it, a car banged our van from the rear. The driver gave mouthfuls to Vimpy for no fault of his. Vimpy then alighted and charged menacingly at him and doled out choicest of Punjabi abuses which only we could understand.
Back in the van, Vimpy said, “Bladdy-phoolz! Eh sochday nay inha day pyo da kontry hai” (They think it is their father's(!) land). We recalled Nachhattar Singh’s cautionary and sagacious advice to Vimpy and wondered how bravely had he been putting up with hostilities in a land that is not his own Patiala or “Batala”.
While we made fun of Nachhattar’s language, the Americans made sense of it. This was precisely the lesson our friend wanted to give to his young nephew if the latter had to stay in Nachhattar’s “Newjark”.

Photo courtesy http://hindimoviesong.net/Blog/wp-content/uploads/2008/08/hindi-movie-singh-is-king.jpg

Ulta-Pulta in US --उल्टा पुल्टा इन अमरीका

उल्टा पुल्टा इन अमरीका

US customs and us
By: Rajbir Deswal
Yes, I will talk about both customs here in the US. The custom customs and also the custom customs. Customary musts of Wren and Martins are given a go by here. We in India are still the sticklers. Here we go, seriously.
Holidaying in Seattle this summer, I was surprised to watch the reaction of a local American on seeing an eagle. “Vow, did you hear the eagle squeak!” He asked me while strolling in Idylwood Park in Redmond.
I smiled back to reassure him since it is their national bird. But my mind took me on a flash back when in my village I used to dread the shriek of a kite of the eagle family, during the scorching heat of June. The yokels in my village likened the squeaking of the kite to the popping out of its eyes due to heat.
Many things here seem to claim the theme of Jaspal Bhatti’s copyright—Ulta-pulta! The lamp switches are on when turned up, and off when turned down. You tell your kids here to ‘always keep to the right’. There are no conductors and the drivers only give you tickets to your destination. The drivers flash the headlights of their vehicles to let you go first, unlike our desi variety who assert their right of way, being ‘Road Kings’.
Back at home, we receive gifts at the same time indulging in affectations like: “No, what was the need?” “No, it’s not done every time” “Why this formality?” But here when you receive gifts you are expected to open the packaging and appreciating the stuff, there and then, with many “Thank You!”s and “O so very thoughtful of you!”s.
Ofcourse when you are reading your fresh copy of the morning newspaper, then it is still the stale news of the previous evening here to catch up with. In India we invoke our Gods and Goddesses or even greatmen and women saying , “Hey” but here “Hey!” is to either express disgust or to address someone. “Hi” here is a greeting and backhome is exclamation of sorrow meaning—Alas! And lastly, you blow horns here only to invite frowns and not sound alarm to clear traffic as we do in India.

I pray for Dilip Kumar's health

A date with tragedy king*

(*Published in HT & The Tribune)

By: Rajbir Deswal
During my school days I saw Dilip Kumar’s “Paigham”, a Gemini production, thrice and he became my beau ideal for the rest of my life. I would not let go a Dilip Kumar movie without being seen anywhere around till my college and university days. All my life I have remained a great fan to him. In 1979, when I was a sub-editor in a weekly in Delhi, I was finally able to grab an opportunity of talking to him.
I met him at his bungalow in Mumbai last June and spent about a couple of hours with him. The discussion took off with the mention of “Musafir”. In London, way back in 1992, I was able to procure a video cassette of “Musafir”.
Dilip Kumar, also called reverentially by his original name Yusuf Bhai by his intimate friends and admirers, evinced keen interest in me, looking at me with his deep, probing eyes. I moved on to “Paigham” and Dilip Kumar’s pairing with Raj Kumar as also that the movie, seen thrice in my childhood, was still fresh in my mind.
And when I, purposely though to open up the maestro, recalled his “Insaniyat” with Dev Anand and “Andaaz” with Raj Kapoor, Dilip Sahib instantaneously manoeuvred an expression of compassion and gratitude in his observing eyes and said, “I never knew I had admirers in a state like Haryana too.”
The rest of one and a half hours with Dilip Kumar was virtually a treat.
“Yes, those were the days....!” In Musafir” Bimal and Rishi counselled and desired it, to be a happy ending plot with Dilip Kumar dying...!” He laughed with a jerk when I intervened. “But the perfection with which your fingers dance d on the violin chords was superb”.
Acknowledging the compliment, Dilip Sahib reverted back to “Musafir” and his “dying”, “I don’t know in how many ways I have died in the Hindi films. Now it occurs to me that I have exhausted all modes to die in a film.” He again laughed and added, “it was in a light comedy, ‘Azad’, in which I didn’t die. People in the film industry started talking about then that Dilip Kumar had had his funeral’ obviously they thought if I would not die I would do a comedy film and I would be ‘finished’.”
Here entered Captain Baig, a pilot-friend of Dilip Kumar, “He has the rarest distinction of flying a plane even after having a bypass surgery,” he turned to a blend of the mundane and the philosophical undercurrents of modern life.
“Look how poorer have we been rendered in time. You start with supersonic speed from London to meet your son in New York and then you are in so much of a hurry to rush back. Your being with your son, at such a speed, does not afford you enough time to sit and chat with him.”
Here Dilip Sahib was all praise for a train journey of yesteryear when he produced the sound and imitated, “Those slow-moving trains had much solace to offer with their kha-rang-tang-kharang-tang, and if a tunnel would approach it, he would add a shatak-shatak note. If the train was going over a bridge then trong-tong-trong-tong would resonate, making the train journey an enjoyable experience. But Captain Baig...!” Dilip Kumar laughed, and we laughed at his imitating the train.
Raj Kiran, a film star, joined at this juncture and Dilip Sahib introduced him and asked him to be seated. He would only bow to him and keep standing with a file in hand. They exchanged some notes quietly and Dilip Sahib joined us back. I reminded him of his interviewing Noorjahan on television some years back. With a strange flash of smile on his lips and almost being nostalgic he recollected the melodies of olden days.
First he hummed and then started singing. “Uthaye ja unke sitam aur jiyeja; yuhin muskurayeja, aansu piyeja.” And prolonging and accentuating the notation wherever needed to render it very sweetly, Dilip Sahib did so and said “You know these days they have those Tara-Rara’s and Na-na-na-na-na-re, na-re only. The other day Lata Behan was telling me—Aaj kal hum koi gane gate those hain, ugaltey hain,”.
Suddenly, he rose and took us to his nicely maintained green backyard. But he was disappointed because the buildings near his bungalow were coming up, “blowing to winds all norms”. Here we had a brief photo-session with Dilip Sahib guiding us as to what would be the most suitable angle for natural sunlight available on the face.

Wild Beauties मिलें ना फूल तो काँटों से दोस्ती कर लो

When it comes to appreciating or arranging flowers, we always go for the apparently good looking ones with pithy and nicely naturally cut or shaped petals or green stems and almost perspiring leaves. Why do we not appreciate the wild varieties which again are a creation of Mother Nature and grow in more exacting environs than usual. I mean heat, less water, extreme winters, deserts, tropics etc etc. The spikes and thorns put us off generally. Dryness and brownness of leaves does not attract our eyes. But if you have a liberal VIEW then you will see that even the wild varieties of flora is equally beautiful.

I took these pictures wading through the Mary Moor Park in Redmond, Seattle.

Click the TITLE above to see all photos in a web album

When Michael Jackson 'Happened' to me twice!

By: Rajbir Deswal
I am more amazed at my association (?) with Michael Jackson who I didn’t know (!) till I landed in London in 1992. Being an Indian and always fond of Indian light music, I had no idea of pop except our own desi variety.When I was told by my host in London that Michael Jackson had come to perform there, I could not figure out the newsyness of the thing, nor had I an idea that the guy would make big news in the tabloids the next morning.Lo and behold, he was shown in the frontpage pics appearing in the balcony of his hotel, when thousands of his fans had assembled to catch a glimpse of their beau idol!There after, I associated myself with the legendary Michael in many ways including imitating his style (then acrobatics for me and many others of my ilk) at the cost of developing low back ache once in a while.The second time Michael Jackson ‘happened’ to me was the day he died. I was by chance in Los Angeles, his own city, when the tidings came that he breathed his last.Something in me had me rush to the Walk of Fame near Kodak Theatre in Hollywood. I stood by his ‘star’ for hours and witnessed his admirers remembering him almost singing encomiums and saying paeans with the common refrain being “We love you Michael!”People were taking their turns to offer their love and obeisance not failing to pose for a photo in the backdrop of a continuing ‘mini-memorial fans service’. I too posed for a photo which will be with me for all times to come as a reminder to the King of Pop.While they are having a memorial service for Michael Jakson in LA, I can chime in with his fans to say “We love you Michael!” See me in the pic...yes behind a Rayban!

Jab we met...! जब वी मेट

By Rajbir Deswal
We met almost every day. On our evening stroll. I didn’t know her. Nor did she know me. Her walking laps were smaller. Just close to her house. She preferred going not too far.
I saw her reverting back to her house after completing a lap or two. Then again she was there. Alone, or with someone from the neighbourhood. I could also once in a while listen to something like crooning of a song, when she passed by.
Her children used to catch up with her sometimes. She seemed to be someone who was a favourite in the neighbouring houses. But we had no interaction amongst ourselves. Not even formally greeting each other.
Then one day I found there were many vehicles parked near her house. There were no signs of any kind of a celebration or revelling. The atmosphere looked to be very gloomy.
I passed by her house. Tried to figure out if something had gone wrong. I couldn’t know. The following day when I again went on the same stroll route with my wife, she told me that the owner of the house had died.
“O’ God that is why I don’t see her out of the house anymore!” I murmured to myself.
After some days I could spot her standing near the gate of her house and talking to another woman of the neighbourhood. Suddenly, I got worried as to how would I gather courage to pass by her, without saying a few words of condolence.
And what would I say. As I said, we never talked to each other. My steps dithered and failed their direction. I couldn’t lift my eyes to catch hers. How would I do that? What if our eyes met? What would be my reaction? I was still walking towards her.
And she bowed her head and wished me with folded hands. Things suddenly became very easy for me. I told her I was sorry to have heard the sad news. “But what happened all of a sudden?” I asked her.
“He was straight-bodied like you. His heart failed.” She was able to barely speak. Her voice died in a choke. Tears rolled down her eyes and she went inside her house. I also went my way. With a heavy heart.
Now we meet oftener. Now we greet each other with folded hands. We have no hesitation at all. She seems to have come to terms with her tragedy. Time is a great healer. Also that we unite in grief and stand by each other, than in happier times! Life goes on. But walk we must.To meet one another at some point of time lest we fight shy of letting our eyes meet!

तेरे माथे पे ये आँचल बहुत ही खूब है लेकिन ...!

Poet of romance and rebellion Rajbir Deswal
RISING from the parapets of a mansion, I see a pale moon. Like the mulla’s robe and the Baniya’s ledger book, like the poor-man’s youth and the widow’s charm—It’s all useless. What to do, O my saddened heart, tormented heart. This is what loosely translated verse of Majaz Lakhnavi mean when he says:
"Ek mahal ki aad se, nikla wo peela mahtab,
jaise mulla ka amama, jaise baniye ki kitab,
jaise muflis ki jawani, jaise bewa ka shabab,
Ai ghame dil kya karoon, ai vahashte dil kya karoon"
The Indian Postal Department issued a stamp in memory of the legendary Asrar-ul-Haq "Majaz" Lakhnavi in March 2008 while very recently they held a seminar in Chandigarh in memory of this Urdu poet.
Majaz Lakhnavi had a place reserved in a pub in Hazrat Ganj in Lucknow wherepeople queued up to hearhis latest verses

Very many instances relating to the "poet of romance and rebellion" were recalled at the seminar. Experts on him, who had had the privilege of sharing some part of their life with Majaz, recalled with nostalgia certain facts, which make interesting reading.
Majaz slipped into depression and had to be kept in a mental asylum twice.
His habit of excessive drinking made his liver weak. People accuse him of "choosing to move ahead with death in mind," due to his habit of drinking, but many of his so-called friends themselves offered him liquor, so that he could "recite something new".
When Majaz used to head towards the "pub" in Hazrat Ganj in Lucknow, people used to line up to see the legendary poet and the institution that he was.
Even girls used to stop in those days to catch a glimpse of Majaz. They waited for his turn to recite his poetry in mushairas. Some had even taken a vow to name their sons after him.
He had his place already "reserved" in the pub and no one else dared to occupy the place meant for Majaz. Slowly, people surrounded him and there would be a horde of fans encircling him . He would then be requested to recite his creations.
Past midnight when the "fun" would be over, Majaz would be left all by himself. The rickshaw -pullers would then make a beeline to take him home. His mother would always keep the rickshaw fare under his pillow.
The seminarists recalled that Majaz had never touched any girl in "andhera aur ujala" and that the fascination he had was all for the simple beauty in a woman. His memorable lines from Ek Naujawan Khatoon Se say in abundant terms what the champions of women empowerment would have loved to quote:
"Tere maathey pe ye aanchal bahut hi khoob hai lekin,
Tu is aanchal ka ik parcham bana leti to achha tha."
(The cloth that covers your forehead makes you look charming yet; If you had made a loftier flag out of it, then it surely would have been more meaningful). Flag is a symbol of revolution and sovereignty (of the self in this case).
Tarana he wrote is still the anthem of Aligarh Muslim University. It goes like this:
"Ye mera chaman hai mera chaman, mein apne chaman ka bulbul hoo(n)
Sirshaare nigaahe nargis hoon(n), paabasta-e-gesoo-e Sumbul hoo(n)"
(This is my garden, my own garden. And I am its nightingale. Drunk am I on the look of the narcissus beyond by the tresses of the "sumbul" (Spikenard, hyacinth).
Majaz Lakhnavi’s sister was the mother of Javed Akhtar. The latter liberally uses his maternal uncle’s expressions in his own creations. Asrar-ul-Haq died at the age of 44.

Look before the landfall:Tackling Cyclones

A Tribune Special

The fury of cyclone Aila

People must be trained properly on disaster management,says Rajbir Deswal
WITH over 275 deaths, thousands rendered homeless and millions stranded without food and water due to the cyclone Aila ripping through West Bengal and Orissa besides Bangladesh, the question of how to tackle a crisis of this scope and magnitude has once again come to the fore.
The devastating cyclone in Myanmar on May 2, 2008 and the high-intensity earthquake in China on May 12, 2008 did revive the debate on disaster management. However, it petered out soon for lack of a sustained and consistent approach.
That Aila has weakened after taking its toll may be good news, but a recap of the devastating Super Cyclone that hit Orissa in 1999 will reveal that winds blowing at 250 to 300 kilometres an hour speed with rains and waves between 13 and 20 feet high affected nearly 1.25 crore population in that state.
Nearly 40,000 people perished. Livestock to the tune of five lakh was destroyed. Poultry farming losses were estimated at Rs 400 million. The eco-system was adversely affected with millions of trees and plants having been destroyed.
Aila, a grim reminder of the climatic change, underscores the imperative need for India to continue to “pressurise the industrialised world to keep deep and urgent cuts in greenhouse gas emissions”. Greenpace, an NGO involved in the Aila-affected areas, says that this is the root cause of climateric changes.
At the same time, domestically, India must take a bold and ambitious step to curtail emissions of carbon dioxide (the main greenhouse gas), by adopting mandatory energy efficiency and renewable energy targets, and creating fiscal incentives for the same, recommends the Greenpeace.
Hurricanes in North America and typhoons in Asia are known as cyclones in this part of the tropical world. There are three facets to the forecast of cyclones which are crucial. First, it is generally a “long warning” from the Meteorological department which does not set the damage control levers being pulled instantaneously, while it should.
Second, the onset is so gradual that you have enough time at hand to gear up your resources.
And finally, the visitation of a cyclone to a specific zone “generally conforms” to the seasonal pattern. Thus, unlike earthquakes which are almost unpredictable, cyclones should meet with adequate safeguards.
The entire world community needs to come alive to the factors contributing to climatic change before it is too late. For though earthquakes, cyclones and tsunamis have their typical regions on the globe for visitation, no country can claim to be totally immune from these catastrophes that affect humankind, livestock, fauna and flora besides other things, adversely, severely and surely.
What should be done to minimise the suffering of the affected people? Who can be more useful in taking care of the surviving victims? It is always better to keep the people living in the disaster-prone areas adequately informed about the dangers they are likely to face. They should be properly trained to cope with the crisis before any outside assistance is made available to them.
Then, the government will need to provide only rehabilitation assistance. This requires some investment and advance planning, but the difference it makes to the efforts for saving human lives, fauna and flora as well as property is enormous.
When the latest earthquake rattled China, the dam in the area developed cracks and the entire population downstream was forced to live in trauma. The aftershocks of the earthquake made people sleep in the open.
However, China, being adequately geared up to meet the situation, the people in the earthquake-hit areas did not feel the impact of the disaster as much as did those in the Irrawaddy river delta in Myanmar devastated by the cyclone Nargis.
The refusal of the military junta in Myanmar to welcome help being offered by other countries made the situation worse.
“Public seems to be more forgiving in natural disaster on anyone’s part”. This is the crux of a United Nations’ House Workshop held in 1999 on the theme, “Super Cyclone in Orissa: Strategic Planning in Rehabilitation”. While recognising the fact that the disaster management scenario in India has been conceptualised very recently, the workshop recommended the “5 R Strategy” i.e.— Relief, Rescue, Rehabilitation, Restoration and Reconstruction.
It is really shocking to know that despite 49 advisory bulletins sent by the Delhi-based Regional Specialised Meteorological Centre to Myanmar from April 28 to May 2, when Nargis caused devastation in that country, Yangon did not take the matter seriously.
Its response in time and in accordance with the gravity of the calamity must have minimised considerably the damage in terms of human lives lost and property destroyed.
The onset of a cyclone is gradual. Putting the available resources in operational mode is possible. Devastation by a cyclone in a specific zone generally has a seasonal pattern. Hence, unlike earthquakes, which are almost unpredictable, cyclones can be handled with enough safeguards. With early warnings, much of damage can be avoided.
India has a coastline of about 8,000 kilometres with 8 per cent of its land being vulnerable to cyclones. The devastation caused by recent disasters in India — whether it was the Bhuj earthquake in Gujarat, the Tsunami in the Andaman and Nicobar Islands, the Super Cyclone in Orissa or the latest Aila with 100 kilometres per hour wind-gushes uprooting all land-bounds — has alerted the policy makers. There is readiness to tackle the situation in the wake of a natural disaster.
What is lacking in India, however, is that there is no army of foot-soldiers or “first responders” to handle a disaster. It should always be borne in mind that it is only the local community that comes to the rescue of the victims immediately in a catastrophe. Arming this community with awareness, training and equipment is highly desirable.
What compounds the problem is the general public’s refusal to heed the warnings. In Andhra Pradesh and elsewhere too, fishermen are known to take their routine deep plunges caring two hoots about the alerts issued.
The general public should be made aware of the typical characteristics of disasters. For example, if the eye of a storm is passing through a certain area, there will be slight lull and the sky may be clear for some time. Then, suddenly, the cyclone may strike and play havoc.
A properly informed and trained community can prepare itself to face the situation boldly and safely during the time between the lull and the visit of the storm. Experts believe that locally available indigenous mechanism which comes in handy works wonders sometimes, if the highly technical or even the state-of-the-art support system is not put in place.
For example, if a person is trapped in floodwaters, he could have just 20 empty plastic bottles (like the mineral water ones) tied around his person and he could survive at least till help reaches him. Or, if one puts a wet handkerchief on the nose in the wake of release of ammonia gas, then, no harm should come to him. If this fact could have been made known to the people at large, the face of Bhopal tragedy would not have been that grim.
The rescue, relief and rehabilitation tasks are quite difficult to undertake when the disaster has already struck. An early warning system can be of great help if it is taken with all seriousness. However, there must always be advance planning for it.
A cyclone catching the community and the government unawares leaves no scope for an on-the-spot assessment for some time. Bad weather conditions continue for a long time, and even relief arriving from other quarters goes waste due to its being dumped.
After the lapse of the crucial first 72 hours, the authorities generally are complacent or exhausted, particularly because of the fact that all hopes of rescuing those trapped or missing are gone.
A well-rehearsed disaster management plan takes these factors in view and prioritises the tasks accordingly. The managers know when to stop looking for the dead and devote their time and energy to relief and rehabilitation. They also know what alternative channels of information, transportation, etc, are available to them.
The aftermath of a disaster is the most difficult situation to handle. The authorities get busy with the tasks of disposal of the dead and attending to the injured and the vulnerable people.
The idea of minimising the damages and mitigating the miseries of the disaster-hit should always be there in the minds of the planners.
The writer, a senior IPS officer of the Haryana government, is a graduate on Critical Incident Management from the Louisiana State University, Louisiana, USA