Stamping the police/Khushwant Singh
MY opinion of the Indian Postal Services rocketed sky-high ten years or so ago when an irate Canadian Khalistani wrote me a very abusive letter in Gurmukhi with the address in English which read: "To bastard Khushwant Singh, India". It was delivered to me within a week of its despatch from Canada. I can't think of another country in the world where postal services would have bothered to locate an individual with so unsavoury reputation to discharge the duty entrusted to it.
We've had postal services of some kind or the other since times beyond memory. Every ruler employed dak runners to carry information to and fro from the outposts of his kingdom to the palace. At later stages, people trained pigeons to carry messages tied to their legs. It was during British rule that postal services were linked to the police. A regular police force was set up in 1829; the first Indian postage stamp issued in 1840. To start with, post offices were located in the same buildings as police stations. Then postal services outstripped the police and had to have large buildings like General Post Offices to handle mail, telegrams, money orders, fixed deposits, etc. Now postal services are on the decline. People use telephones, courier services, e-mail and fax. In the near future, post offices may become a relic of the past.
The story of our postal services and their close collaboration with the police needed to be put on record. They could not have found a better authority than S. Kitson, now living a retired life in Kolkata, to do so. The outcome is a handsomely produced coffee-tabler: A Philatelic Tribute to Police of India & the Sub-Continent (published by the Bureau of Police Research & Development). Six names appear on the editorial board. I could recognise one, Rajbir Deswal, IPS, of the Haryana cadre. He has written several books on Haryanvi humour. I am pretty certain most of the donkey-work in producing the profusely illustrated book of the policepost office liaison has been done by him.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
What Mr Khushwant Singh wrote about me
This is what Mr Khushwant Singh wrote bout me in his column This above all published in The Telegraph, The Tribune and about a dozen other national dailies.
Backdoor entry to journalism
You need not go through the mill of acquiring a degree or diploma in journalism and work your way up from being a cub reporter, to correspondent, and if you are lucky, becoming an editor. Continue in the job you are doing and start with writing letters to the editor. Editors have big egos; so pick up a singularly bad editorial and write a few lines praising it. It will be published. After a few letters appearing in the papers, move on to writing middles. This needs more skill and a touch of humour. Middles are more read than articles or editorials. Once you have established yourself as the master of light, witty pieces, the chances of your being taken on the staff of the paper at a higher level become brighter.
This is roughly the course pursued by my young friend Rajbir Deswal (46) from Anta village in Jind district of Haryana. He has an MA degree in English and has no trouble with the language. He is in the Indian Police Service and is currently Assistant Director of Research and Development. The itch for writing never left him. Being a police officer, he could not indulge in writing letters to the editor. He skipped that ladder and went straight to writing middles. He has set up a record of sorts: over 400 middles in different national dailies. Also book reviews, short stories and travelogues. In between he produced Wit and Humour of Haryana and Culture Bright and Dark. He is a strappingly handsome six-footer Haryanvi Jat who could well have become a matinee idol. He, however, prefers to remain a police officer and a man of letters.
Backdoor entry to journalism
You need not go through the mill of acquiring a degree or diploma in journalism and work your way up from being a cub reporter, to correspondent, and if you are lucky, becoming an editor. Continue in the job you are doing and start with writing letters to the editor. Editors have big egos; so pick up a singularly bad editorial and write a few lines praising it. It will be published. After a few letters appearing in the papers, move on to writing middles. This needs more skill and a touch of humour. Middles are more read than articles or editorials. Once you have established yourself as the master of light, witty pieces, the chances of your being taken on the staff of the paper at a higher level become brighter.
This is roughly the course pursued by my young friend Rajbir Deswal (46) from Anta village in Jind district of Haryana. He has an MA degree in English and has no trouble with the language. He is in the Indian Police Service and is currently Assistant Director of Research and Development. The itch for writing never left him. Being a police officer, he could not indulge in writing letters to the editor. He skipped that ladder and went straight to writing middles. He has set up a record of sorts: over 400 middles in different national dailies. Also book reviews, short stories and travelogues. In between he produced Wit and Humour of Haryana and Culture Bright and Dark. He is a strappingly handsome six-footer Haryanvi Jat who could well have become a matinee idol. He, however, prefers to remain a police officer and a man of letters.
Me the middleman
This is going to be My Page in my maiden Middles compilation--Holypol
Me the middleman
Compiled middles, until and unless have something special in them cease to belong to all times since they are written to felicitate a daily feed of the edit page with events , situations, atmosphere, environment, characters, ironies, agonies and exuberance of the concurrent times.
By the time a compilation is conceived and brought out in book form, an element of staleness sets in to put the reader off considering the middles to be recast and recycled stuff.
I am saying it here to impress upon the readers that this is not all true. The only requirement to enjoy a middles collection is to travel back in time to the situations and scenarios once obtaining with the middle writer. Synchronise your sensibilities with those of the middle writer, feel as he felt when he penned that piece of pure literature—yes it is one—and enjoy it.
In the present compilation—Holypol—in your hands, you need to overlook the element of time and space juxtaposed with your current period, phase or stage. These middles were written at different junctures, legs and holds.
Feelings and impressions are what the middle writers seek to transfer to the readership in the most objective fashion so as to make them identifiable with some kind of a universality of appeal. Hence, the stuff that middles are made up of belong to all times and to all and sundry.
If I have a right to assess myself as a middle writer then let me confess I am still a learner. Self deprecation is the key to letting the readers come along for they do not see a holier-than-thou facade of the middle writer.
I gainsay that I have human-relations, irony, plain humour, satire, situations, atmosphere, environment, society, customs, people, places, incongruities, simplicity, innocuousness, inspiration, philosophy, psychology, history, entertainment, enough Bollywood and much more in my picnic basket. I promise you pleasure of reading folks.
Rajbir Deswal
Me the middleman
Compiled middles, until and unless have something special in them cease to belong to all times since they are written to felicitate a daily feed of the edit page with events , situations, atmosphere, environment, characters, ironies, agonies and exuberance of the concurrent times.
By the time a compilation is conceived and brought out in book form, an element of staleness sets in to put the reader off considering the middles to be recast and recycled stuff.
I am saying it here to impress upon the readers that this is not all true. The only requirement to enjoy a middles collection is to travel back in time to the situations and scenarios once obtaining with the middle writer. Synchronise your sensibilities with those of the middle writer, feel as he felt when he penned that piece of pure literature—yes it is one—and enjoy it.
In the present compilation—Holypol—in your hands, you need to overlook the element of time and space juxtaposed with your current period, phase or stage. These middles were written at different junctures, legs and holds.
Feelings and impressions are what the middle writers seek to transfer to the readership in the most objective fashion so as to make them identifiable with some kind of a universality of appeal. Hence, the stuff that middles are made up of belong to all times and to all and sundry.
If I have a right to assess myself as a middle writer then let me confess I am still a learner. Self deprecation is the key to letting the readers come along for they do not see a holier-than-thou facade of the middle writer.
I gainsay that I have human-relations, irony, plain humour, satire, situations, atmosphere, environment, society, customs, people, places, incongruities, simplicity, innocuousness, inspiration, philosophy, psychology, history, entertainment, enough Bollywood and much more in my picnic basket. I promise you pleasure of reading folks.
Rajbir Deswal
Where have the Ghosts gone? Eeeee! Vanished.
Searching abode for ghosts!
By: Rajbir Deswal
Nobody, these days, seem to be interested in talking of ghosts and witches. Apparitions and spirits don’t (really) make their appearance, except in dictionaries. It is not very long ago that we heard stories of ghosts but nowadays they seem to have simply vanished in thin air. Where have our spooky and formless friends gone, is the question!
It occurs to me that, well, maybe this is one reason no ghost wants to be run over on the busy roads not only because of the heavy load of traffic and red lines in particular but also for, who knows, the police photographer who, after the mishap, may click them, and ‘expose’ them.
The roads are no longer safe for ghosts and spirits because almost every nook and corner has been illumined by mercury and sodium bulbs.
Then, should they have found shelter in ruined castles and buildings or deserted havelis, where the land-lady having had been issueless for a decade, died in mysterious circumstances? No. Even these structures have been encroached upon by property dealers. Haunted houses are unheard of these days, thanks to existentialist human beings talking them over.
Once upon a time the heroes and heroines in our granny’s bed-time stories, who these long forgotten ghosts and witches were, did need a roof above their ‘heads’; after all going by the popular belief, they, too, had been human beings only whose life was cut short by some accident.
Should the endangered species have been hibernating in the hollow stems of haunted trees or their thick and leafy branches, the environmentalists’ axe could not really axe the tree-fellers’ axe and even the trees being thus lessened, there seems to be no befitting and respectable place for the formless phantoms.
Wells, too, could be another habitat, a makeshift one, till moving in a proper accommodation, for the ghosts. But with the ground water level dipping down, farmers have put electric motors and pump sets some 50 or more feet deep into the wells. This must surely have disturbed the real estate dreams of ghosts. Those who were known to be giving shocks are obviously afraid of electric shocks!
What does remain then where the ghosts could hide themselves? Crevices and cracks? But these are already infested with crabs, scorpions, lizards, snakes et al which are fast becoming edible stuff for human beings at fast food jaunts all the world over.
These creatures, too, in a way belong to the ghost family, since many people are afraid of them, too. Yet, given a choice, ghosts are still a better option for me atleast for the reason that they inspire awe but not hatred and nausea.
I wonder if the ghosts have migrated to foreign lands but a question, which baffles me is the passport and visa issue. Their counterparts in the U.S.A. or the U.K. must have definitely objected to this mass refugee-like exodus from a Third World country to theirs. An American or an English ghost. I am sure, and going by the presumption that ghosts, too, have similar temperament as human beings, should have looked down upon our light and bare-footed bhoots.
And who knows, how, sheepishly our bhoots would stand before their drakulas, phantoms, and the Loch Ness monster. Not only would our bhoots only be branded as not having a scientific temperament, they would even be accused of shop-lifting. And with that vanishing capability, all the more.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
COPE BHAWAN
COPE BHAWAN
BY: RAJBIR DESWAL
Like they have Confession Boxes in the Churches, to have the ‘sinners’ unload their chests, before ‘His’ representatives on Earth for redemption, our ancestors too had Kop-Bhawans(anger management or sulking chambers), for purgation of the self, employing and effecting a kind of catharsis. I wonder at the wisdom of our forerunners, who gave enough importance to curing the wounded self in their own way, if one was to suffer the pangs of a tragedy, agony or anguish.
If you refer to the Indian scriptures and books of History, you will find mention of Kop-Bhawan, which used to be a compartment in the palaces, mansions and stately homes of rich and mighty in earlier times, where one would convalesce, lament, brood, grieve, sulk or even cry to come to terms with oneself. This closet was also used to be in, for longer durations than usual, to invite attention of someone who mattered, and also for seeking favours from him.
Kop-Bhawans provided the desired calmness of ambience for one, to cope with the malaise troubling his or her mind. Step-mother of Ram, Kekayee, removed herself to the Kop-Bhawan in order to invite concern of her husband Dashrath, who in order to console her and fulfil a promise he gave her for saving his life once, agreed to banish Rama to jungles for fourteen years. Later, Dashratha himself died in the Kop-Bhawan, grieving separation of Ram, Sita and Laxman.
If you are not able to rein in your emotions on being a little overwhelmed, you always give in to the incessant and uncontrollable flow of tears, but generally not in full view of everyone around, unless the intensity of your agony compels you either to scream, shriek or cry.
To cope with your predicament then, either you hide your face with your hands; or you turn it the other way. Or you look below; or relegate yourself to a corner. Deposit yourself in the store, or even the washroom. And then being all by yourself, you weep or cry or sob. You mostly recover and regain your resilience and put up a fresh face, trying to cope with your agony.
And here does ‘kop’ become ‘cope’ in its pronunciation and meaning too. On a lighter note, I was rather wondering why they should not have Kop-Corridors near the Courts, Police Stations, Hospitals and Tax Departments! Parliament and Assemblies too could have their separate Kop-Lounges for these places are full of souls who are the most troubled either at the hands of the electorate, or their opponents and detractors. Kop-Cabins near the Wells of legislative Houses would stop many an unruly member to torment the Speaker.
Kop-Corridors near famous play grounds and stadia is another good idea where large number of sports-lovers on losing a match by those who they rooted for, could nurse their wounded psyches in preference to burning the houses of their sports-icons.
Nida Fazli says and how so apt to our theme of Kop-Bhawans, “Jane walon se rabta rakhna/Dosto rasme fateha rakhna/Ghar ki jaisi bhi tamir ho uss main/Rone ki kuchh jagah rakhna.” (Keep them in mind and lament the loss of those who depart. Have a corner/chamber to weep your heart out when you build a house).
BY: RAJBIR DESWAL
Like they have Confession Boxes in the Churches, to have the ‘sinners’ unload their chests, before ‘His’ representatives on Earth for redemption, our ancestors too had Kop-Bhawans(anger management or sulking chambers), for purgation of the self, employing and effecting a kind of catharsis. I wonder at the wisdom of our forerunners, who gave enough importance to curing the wounded self in their own way, if one was to suffer the pangs of a tragedy, agony or anguish.
If you refer to the Indian scriptures and books of History, you will find mention of Kop-Bhawan, which used to be a compartment in the palaces, mansions and stately homes of rich and mighty in earlier times, where one would convalesce, lament, brood, grieve, sulk or even cry to come to terms with oneself. This closet was also used to be in, for longer durations than usual, to invite attention of someone who mattered, and also for seeking favours from him.
Kop-Bhawans provided the desired calmness of ambience for one, to cope with the malaise troubling his or her mind. Step-mother of Ram, Kekayee, removed herself to the Kop-Bhawan in order to invite concern of her husband Dashrath, who in order to console her and fulfil a promise he gave her for saving his life once, agreed to banish Rama to jungles for fourteen years. Later, Dashratha himself died in the Kop-Bhawan, grieving separation of Ram, Sita and Laxman.
If you are not able to rein in your emotions on being a little overwhelmed, you always give in to the incessant and uncontrollable flow of tears, but generally not in full view of everyone around, unless the intensity of your agony compels you either to scream, shriek or cry.
To cope with your predicament then, either you hide your face with your hands; or you turn it the other way. Or you look below; or relegate yourself to a corner. Deposit yourself in the store, or even the washroom. And then being all by yourself, you weep or cry or sob. You mostly recover and regain your resilience and put up a fresh face, trying to cope with your agony.
And here does ‘kop’ become ‘cope’ in its pronunciation and meaning too. On a lighter note, I was rather wondering why they should not have Kop-Corridors near the Courts, Police Stations, Hospitals and Tax Departments! Parliament and Assemblies too could have their separate Kop-Lounges for these places are full of souls who are the most troubled either at the hands of the electorate, or their opponents and detractors. Kop-Cabins near the Wells of legislative Houses would stop many an unruly member to torment the Speaker.
Kop-Corridors near famous play grounds and stadia is another good idea where large number of sports-lovers on losing a match by those who they rooted for, could nurse their wounded psyches in preference to burning the houses of their sports-icons.
Nida Fazli says and how so apt to our theme of Kop-Bhawans, “Jane walon se rabta rakhna/Dosto rasme fateha rakhna/Ghar ki jaisi bhi tamir ho uss main/Rone ki kuchh jagah rakhna.” (Keep them in mind and lament the loss of those who depart. Have a corner/chamber to weep your heart out when you build a house).
Marigolds are vulgar?
Misplaced perceptionsBy: Rajbir Deswal
Obviously obsessed with the pretension of studying and knowing literature, a student tells me about the marigold being a “vulgar flower”. Taken aback as I am, it is not that easy for me to gulp the bitter potion down the throat, for I am a flower-lover.I ask her to dent an explanation in me for I am not at all willing to accept anything in dishonour of a lovely, full-bloomed, smiling marigold, with each petal proclaiming the tenderness of touch and yellowness of mood.To make matters worse, this student goes to the extent of calling the marigold “stupid and lecherous”. Piqued at this second salvo, I caution her, “Stay on, stay on, young lady. After all, how can the poor thing be lecherous, admitting that in your estimation it may be stupid for one meaning of this adjectival attribute is foolish as well. And this ‘phholish’ does not make a marigold more flower-like.These days, I can understand the poets’ constraints, in this fact changing world, of not being able to afford and fantasise for daffodils, while lying on the couch in a pensive mood because people nowadays do not venture out to have an aesthetic feast for the soul but for the eyes, in “arranged chrysanthemums (show)”. The “exhibitionism” in the flowers does have the better of the onlookers, the so-called flower-lovers. Now I understand how the flowers could be blamed for a “vulgar” show but…?Do I not now contradict myself like Walt White man? And am I not being driven nearer an agreement with the young dame sans mercy for the poor marigold! She, and I too, may be right for even Whitman admits, “I am large; I contain multitudes”.Perceptions play pranks and prejudice popular beliefs. Hence everything looks pale to a jaundiced eye. Two and two makes four ‘rotis’ (bread) for a hungry person, and a Dr. Faustus perceives the face of sweet Helen, capable of launching a thousand ships and burning the topless towers of Illium!For one, Taj Mahal may be an object created to poke fun at the steadiness and consistency of lovers of humble origin. But for another person, it may be the ever-burning candle in the mausoleum of love. (Remember the film numbers (?) “Ik shehanshah ne banwa ke ek hasin Taj Mahal, hum garibon ki mohabbat ka udaya hai mazaq”, and “Taj wo shama hai ulfat ke sanam-khane ki”.For a Jehangir, Kashmir may be heaven on earth, and for the present day inhabitants, it may be a place to drive oneself away from. Likewise, a marigold may be a stupid or vulgar or even lecherous flower for the young lady, but for me…!Let me give it another serious thought. I am introspecting, and what I see before my “inner eye” is a pair of shoes of a woman removed by the bedside. One shoe is off its so(i)le and is lying parallel to the ground and the other is slightly tilted on the former’s side. The scene may be quite suggestive for some, including me.Well, if I can see lust in a pair of shoes, why can’t the young lady perceive the flower, a marigold, to be stupid, vulgar, lecherous and so on. I am still a student of, and she has mastered literature.
Photo:http://www.pretty-small-shoes.com/news/wp-content/uploads/2009/11/petite-size-flat-shoes-womens-WildCat.jpg
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
छब्बीस जनवरी
आज क्या दिन है ?
अरे दोस्त छब्बीस जनवरी है
क्या हुआ था आज ?
आज किसी ने पूर्ण स्वराज क़ि कसम खाई थी
क्यूं?
पता नहीं
मगर छुटी है आज
तो क्या करें ?
एक एक बियर पियेंगे, पिज्जा खायेंगे और ?
और क्या 3 ईडियट देखेंगे !
कहाँ?
हैप्पी फन रिपब्लिक !
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Stone hearted!
How insensitive are the ones who say
लोग मरते हैं तो मरते रहें
अपनी लकड़ी क़ि टाल है यारों
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Helplessness with honesty
I love it when someone expresses his/her helplessness with honesty like in सोंग्स:
मैं तो तुम संग नैन मिलाते हार गई सजना
तेरी दुनिया से दूर चले हो के मजबूर हमें याद रखना
पंख होते तो उड़ आती रे
तेरी आँख के आंसू पी जाऊं ऐसी मेरी तकदीर कहाँ
मैं तो तुम संग नैन मिलाते हार गई सजना
तेरी दुनिया से दूर चले हो के मजबूर हमें याद रखना
पंख होते तो उड़ आती रे
तेरी आँख के आंसू पी जाऊं ऐसी मेरी तकदीर कहाँ
Sunday, January 17, 2010
धुआं और बादल
वह जो धुआं उठ रहा है
उस पहाड़ पर
ज़रूरी नहीं
की वो कोई बादल हो .
धुआं और बादल
दो माओं
आग और पानी से
जन्मे हैं
फिर भी
सगे से लगते हैं.
गर धुएं और बादल में
कोई फर्क नहीं
तो इतना फर्क क्यों है ?
शायद यह फर्क
दूर से नज़र नहीं आता
मगर जो नज़दीक से
महसूस होता है
वह फर्क
फर्क क्यूं है ?
क्यों नजदीकियां
नजदीकियों में
फर्क करती हैं ?
क्यों दूरियां
नजदीकियों का
दम भरती हैं?
राजबीर देसवाल
उस पहाड़ पर
ज़रूरी नहीं
की वो कोई बादल हो .
धुआं और बादल
दो माओं
आग और पानी से
जन्मे हैं
फिर भी
सगे से लगते हैं.
गर धुएं और बादल में
कोई फर्क नहीं
तो इतना फर्क क्यों है ?
शायद यह फर्क
दूर से नज़र नहीं आता
मगर जो नज़दीक से
महसूस होता है
वह फर्क
फर्क क्यूं है ?
क्यों नजदीकियां
नजदीकियों में
फर्क करती हैं ?
क्यों दूरियां
नजदीकियों का
दम भरती हैं?
राजबीर देसवाल
ऊधार
लोग नाराज़ रहते हैं मुझ से
क़ि में कुछ ऊधार नहीं रखता
ये तिजारत का कौन सा उसूल है यारों
ये सलीकों का कौन सा स्कूल है यारों
क़ि में कुछ ऊधार नहीं रखता
ये तिजारत का कौन सा उसूल है यारों
ये सलीकों का कौन सा स्कूल है यारों
Saturday, January 16, 2010
बुल्बुल
Flipping through the albums I found this pic taken at Tragalgar Square, London. I got reminded of Iqbal's verse:
मानूस इस कदर हो सूरत से मेरी बुलबुल
नन्हे से दिल में उसके, खटका न कुछ मेरा हो
(So very familiar with me should be the nightingale as not to distrub her peace)
Friday, January 15, 2010
सूर्य ग्रहण
चलो चलता हूँ अब--- धरम-क्षेत्रे कुरुक्षेत्रे-- बचाने अपने सूरज को-- राहू और केतु के प्रकोप से ---अभी सूरज की काफी ज़रुरत है--- इस ज़बरदस्त सर्दी में !!! कुछ और जानों को भी राहत मिलेगी !!!
GURU-CHELA:NOT SO STRANGE BED-FELLOWS
From my book: Wit & Humour of Haryana:
NOT SO STRANGE BED-FELLOWS
The guru-chela (master-disciple) relationship in Haryana has never assumed much of significance for the reason that mostly this duo consists of wandering modas (ascetics). It is primarily for acquiring the assets owned by the gurus in their ashrams t...hat the so-called disciples have been found to be most of the times the cronies of their ‘spiritual masters’, at some stage of their life, or the other. So, the non-serious type of guru and chela were readying for sleep on a winter night, in their hut. The guru asked his chela to shut the window as the cold breeze was becoming intolerable for the half-clad guru. “Guru ji cover yourself with the quilt and for you atleast the window is closed,” said the lazy chela. “O.K. put off that diya (earthen lamp) bacha,” asked the guru. “Guru ji cover your face and all will be dark around you,” suggested the un-obliging chela. Quite annoyed, the guru commanded, “Acha bacha shut the door lest some one should break in”. And with a banter, the chela quipped, “Look guru ji I have performed two tasks; the third one, you carry out yourself.” Another of the above described cult of chelas was setting forth for Haridwar and the hut of a sadhu (hermit) was on the way. He stopped there, and just by the way, asked the sadhu if he needed anything from Har-Ki-Pauri. “Get me a good shankh (counch) bacha,” the sadhu demanded. The villager returned from the pilgrimage and on reaching the village-outskirts, he was reminded of the sadhu’s demand. He searched for, and laid hands on a dried-up, donkey-skull. On reaching the sadhu’s hut he found him sitting crosslegged on the assan (platform) out side the kutia. With an expression of pride in his eyes, he offered the sadhu the ‘sought gift’. The sadhu tried in vain to produce a counch-like sound by blowing breath through the skull. Ultimately, he said, “But it does not produce any sound bacha.” Replied our friend the pilgrim, “It is only a matter of time baba ji, otherwise its sound could be heard at miles’ distance.”See More
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Gods on Roads: Routine of the blessed trade!
Routine of the blessed tradeBy: Rajbir Deswal
I wrote this for The Tribune,The HindustanTimes and The Pioneer long back.
It was Tuesday. The bell rang and I called our of Ramu to see who was there at the door. What I heard was a “khareech” followed by a mix of a shriek and laughter of the servant.I got anxious and sought to know from Ramu about the visitor. “It is a monkey, sir,” he replied giggling and almost calling him names.“Idiot...do monkeys ring the doorbell before entering...?” saying this, I hurried towards the door.I too was greeted with a “khareech” and in front of me was a man in the guise of the Monkey-God, Hanuman. He had a long tail, a bearded face with a swollen upper lip and body well oiled with vermilion.Less out of my own devotion and more for the Monkey-God’s dedication being in that apparel bearing the icy winds. I made him some offering. But, and since Monkey-God himself was there at my door, courtesy demanded that I should let him in the make him seated for a photograph and brief interview in exchange for the offering. I beckoned him in, but his tail would not allow him either entry in a small doorframe or even being reverentially seated. After all, Gods too have their limitations, and standing in the porch, we began to talk business.He introduced himself to me as Ram Saran. I asked him about his daily-routine to which he replied that he had a weekly-routine. “And what is that?” I enquired, thinking it should be interesting to know that. “Well, sir...”, he began on a humble note, but I cut him short. “No, no, please don’t address me as “sir”, after all you are in divine mantle”, and immediately he switched over to “Bachcha”.“Well, Bachcha, on Mondays I sport a big turban, carry Lord Shiva’s photograph (!) and a snake around my neck, for it is His day, and I collect offerings for Him from His “bhaktas”.“On Tuesdays...you have already seen...However, if you don’t mind, send for the camera...” he reminded me, and I again called out for Ramu.He continued. “On Wednesdays I and my caged-myna do fortune-telling either in front of the police stations or the courts. My myna beaks up the card where the fate of our clients is enveloped”.“On Thursdays I go to Baba Pir Ka Mazar with a bunch of peacock-wings and give my blessings to the devotees.”“On Fridays I assist my wife who dresses a la Santoshi Mata or Kali, depending on the availability of costumes”, for we lend them alternately to another family of our tribe”.“And on Saturdays...” Here, I again intervened, “Oh-no...aren’t you the Shani Maharaj who regularly makes is appearance in all white, from top to toe?” He smiled indigenously and reminded me of the camera.“But, Mr. Ram Saran”, I was now being more human-like, “does your trade in anyway benefit society at large or is it just to earn your bread that...?” He cut me short, “I too am relevant, sir, (now this was a man-to-man talk). What more suitably can I benefit society than my sermonising on all days of the week that my clientele should abstain on that particular day from meat, wine and woman!” He had a man-like lustre in his eyes.The camera arrived and having clicked him, I asked him what did he do on Sundays? Pat came the reply, “We too are human beings, after all. On Sundays we have our couple-kitties, bachcha, sir!”
Saturday, January 9, 2010
मेरा आसमान आज फिर डह गया
मेरा आसमान आज फिर डह गया
रोज़ डह जाता है
आज फिर डह गया .
न जाने क्यूं
शायद दूर से
लुभावने नजारों की खातिर
रोज़ आसमान को सीमेंट लगाता हूँ
मगर उस पार के
शून्य को देख ही लेता हूँ
क्यूं न उस शून्य में ही
खोकर रह जाऊं
और पा लूं निजात हर रोज़ के
आसमान के डैहने से
सदमे से
मेरा आसमान आज फिर डह गया.
ये बिजली भी
अजीब शै है
ऊपर ही ऊपर
कड़क कर रह जाती है
कभी मुझ पर पड़े
और धराशायी करे
शायद मुझमे ताक़त नहीं
की कहीं भी गिरती गाज के
रस्ते में आ जाऊं
इसी लिए अपने आसमन को
पैबंद लगाता हूँ
मगर
ये थूक के कचे पैबंद
कितनी देर टिकेंगे?
अपनी पे उतर आते हैं
और संभाल नहीं पाते हैं
मेरे आसमान को
मेरा आसमान आज फिर डह गया.
इस आसमान के चाँद-तारे
अपनी निश्चित दूरी पे टिके हैं
मुझे से उनका फासला
ज्यों क त्यों है
बरकरार, बदस्तूर
तारे भी तो टूट जाते हैं
खीचते हैं पृथ्वी की और
मगर मेरा आसमान
मेरे टूटते तारों को भी
जला कर रख कर देता है
गिरने नहीं देता मुझ पर
स्वयम गिर जाता है
मेरा आसमान आज फिर डह गया.
कभी कभी गौर करता हूँ
क्या मेरा आसमान मेरा ही है?
शायद सभी का होता होगा
मगर क्या सभी का आसमान
मेरे आसमान की तरह
चीथड़े चीथड़े रहता है
बिखरने को तैयार
टूटने को तैयार
डैहने को तैयार
शायद मेरे सीमेंट में
वो पकड़ नहीं’
वो जकड नहीं
वरना
टुकड़े टुकड़े डैहने की बजाये
एक बार सारा ही गिरे
और ढाम्फ ले मुझे
इस लायक भी न छोड़े
की में फिर पैबंद लगाऊं
मेरा आसमान आज फिर डह गया।
वैसे भी तो मेरा आसमान
बादल विहीन है
जीण क्षीण है
बस झोंके ही झोंके हैं
गरम हवा के
और इस गरम हवा से बेखबर
में सर उठा कर
अपने आसमान तो सर पर उठाये
गरम हवाओं में
घूमा करता हूँ
मगर डरता हूँ
कहीं ये गरम हवाएं ही
न गिराती हों
मेरे आसमान को
मेरी सोच के बहार है मेरा आसमान.
मेरा आसमान आज फिर डह गया.
रोज़ डह जाता है
आज फिर डह गया
राजबीर देसवाल
मेरा बयान /राजबीर देसवाल
मेरा बयान /राजबीर देसवाल
मैं ब्यान करता हूँ की
मैं कातिल हूँ अपनी रूह का
अपने अरमानो का मैंने
गला घोटा है
गो ये जुर्म छोटा है
मगर मैं जल्लाद की मानिंद
रहमो-करम की
गुहार नहीं सुनता
मेरा तर्क है
इस का हक नहीं है मुझे
बेशक मज़ा आता है मुझे
देख कर अपनी मरी रूह का चेहरा
जिसे एक झटके से मैंने नई
शकल दे दी है
ये निकली ऑंखें मुझे भाती हैं
ये लटकती जीभ डराती नहीं
रूह की टूटी गर्दन
मुझे एहसास कराती है
की मैं वाकई जल्लाद हूँ
मगर मैं ये इकबाल
खुदा की अदालत मैं करूंगा
हल्फिया ब्यान देना है
तलाश है इक शाहिद की
जो तस्दीक भी करे
मगर एक शर्त पे खरा उतरे की
वो शाहिद एक एय्यार न हो
अय्यारों के शहर में बसर न करता हो
है कोई?
है कोई?
जो इस शरत पे खरा उतरे!
नहीं?
तो मैं शहादत दूंगा
मगर रूबरू उस खुदा के
जिसकी अदालत मैं
हलफ से
ये ब्यान देना था
राजबीर देसवाल
Friday, January 8, 2010
मैं स्वपन देख रहा हूँ/राजबीर देसवाल
मैं स्वपन देख रहा हूँ
ठहरो
ठहरो
मुझे जगाना नहीं
मैं देख रहा हूँ
बहारों और खिज़ाओं का
उन्मुक्त आलिंगन
मैं देख रहा हूँ
बेकली और चैन का
बेमेल संगम
मैं देख रहा हूँ
रकीबों से रकीबों का
गठ-जोड़ बंधन
मैं देख रहा हूँ
काटों पर छिड़ी
मैं देख रहा हूँ
रकीबों से रकीबों का
गठ-जोड़ बंधन
मैं देख रहा हूँ
काटों पर छिड़ी
कलियों की सरगम
मैं देख रहा हूँ
लगाते शास्त्र स्वयं
घावों को मरहम
मैं देख रहा हूँ
शुआओं को सहज
मैं देख रहा हूँ
लगाते शास्त्र स्वयं
घावों को मरहम
मैं देख रहा हूँ
शुआओं को सहज
सहलाती शबनम
मैं देख रहा हूँ
मृत्यु का मृत्यु पे क्रंदन
मैं देख रहा हूँ
बूढ़े बरगद पर आया
भरपूर यौवन
मैं देख रहा हूँ
नाव तूफानों का करती
खैरमकदम
मैं देख रहा हूँ
मृत्यु का मृत्यु पे क्रंदन
मैं देख रहा हूँ
बूढ़े बरगद पर आया
भरपूर यौवन
मैं देख रहा हूँ
नाव तूफानों का करती
खैरमकदम
मैं स्वपन देख रहा हूँ
ठहरो
मुझे जगाना नहीं ।
मगर यह कहीं
मेरी मानसिकता के विरुद्ध
कोई जंग तो नहीं
कोई साजिश तो नहीं
क्योंके मैंने तो देखा है
इंसा को इंसा का दुश्मन
आग को पानी का दुशमन
रौशनी को तम का दुश्मन
तूफ़ान को कश्ती का दुश्मन
भाई और भाई की अनबन
मज्हबो मुल्को कौम की उलझन
इंसानियत भटकती बन बन
हैवानियत इतराती बन ठन
निसंदेह, यह मेरी मानसिकता के विरुद्ध
एक जंग ही तो है
एक साजिश ही तो है ।
गवारा है मुझे फिर भी
ये जंग और ये साजिश
गवारा है मुझे फिर भी
हसीन धोखे की ख्वाइश
कोई जंग तो नहीं
कोई साजिश तो नहीं
क्योंके मैंने तो देखा है
इंसा को इंसा का दुश्मन
आग को पानी का दुशमन
रौशनी को तम का दुश्मन
तूफ़ान को कश्ती का दुश्मन
भाई और भाई की अनबन
मज्हबो मुल्को कौम की उलझन
इंसानियत भटकती बन बन
हैवानियत इतराती बन ठन
निसंदेह, यह मेरी मानसिकता के विरुद्ध
एक जंग ही तो है
एक साजिश ही तो है ।
गवारा है मुझे फिर भी
ये जंग और ये साजिश
गवारा है मुझे फिर भी
हसीन धोखे की ख्वाइश
मैं स्वपन देख रहा हूँ
ठहरो
मुझे जगाना नहीं
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Ghalib was a mad man!
Ghalib was a mad man!
By: Rajbir Deswal
From my sick bed. Viral fever has taken the better of me. And once again, despite the discomfort and body-ache, I rather am enjoying my predicament in the sense that some rustic things which I cannot otherwise do, I allow them a full play now. And the family members too have their share of tickling their funny bone at my cost. No, no that they are not concerned about me, but the way I behave amuses them.
For example, I will have a full blown sneeze whiffed out of my system with all the saliva sprayed concoction adding a notation of a longish—Aa-k-chheeeeeeeenn!!! And for added effect I would always like to repeat performance even if it’s not coming out of me in a natural course of business. Then in the case of cough, I will make an additional phono of ‘khown-khoooown’ followed by a loud clearing of the phlegm chocked throat.
And the more amusing part of my falling sick as I said is watching the family members exchange glances and smiles when I will in a state of feigned disorientation blaming everybody around with exhortations like—O’ God, none in this house cares for meeeeeee!!! Who the hell should be bothered about meeeeee!
I send everybody burst into peels of laughter when I will remember my late mother screaming, “Hai-Maaan! What for did you bring me to this uncaring world? Hai Maaan, where are youuuu! I miss you Maan!!! Etc etc.
O’ yes, Mr Ghalib must have been really a stone-hearted man when he exclaimed, “Padiye gar bimar to koi na ho timardar/Aur gar mar jaiye to noah-khawa koi na ho
Loosely translated it means—If you fall sick, there should be none to look after. And if you die, there should be none who would have any connections with you. Mad cap! No, mad fool’s cap that he wore.
I am happy to have viral fever. And I am in no hurry to recover. More over, I will pray for all my friends, for the Bible believes that those who are sick, God hears them first. So, in my being indisposed, I am gonna dispose off your urgent matters pending finalization at Almighty’s hands.
Still if you want an early recovery for me, well thank you very much. Let me for the time being enjoy my body-burning and body-breaking; I mean jism jalna aur jism tootna!
By: Rajbir Deswal
From my sick bed. Viral fever has taken the better of me. And once again, despite the discomfort and body-ache, I rather am enjoying my predicament in the sense that some rustic things which I cannot otherwise do, I allow them a full play now. And the family members too have their share of tickling their funny bone at my cost. No, no that they are not concerned about me, but the way I behave amuses them.
For example, I will have a full blown sneeze whiffed out of my system with all the saliva sprayed concoction adding a notation of a longish—Aa-k-chheeeeeeeenn!!! And for added effect I would always like to repeat performance even if it’s not coming out of me in a natural course of business. Then in the case of cough, I will make an additional phono of ‘khown-khoooown’ followed by a loud clearing of the phlegm chocked throat.
And the more amusing part of my falling sick as I said is watching the family members exchange glances and smiles when I will in a state of feigned disorientation blaming everybody around with exhortations like—O’ God, none in this house cares for meeeeeee!!! Who the hell should be bothered about meeeeee!
I send everybody burst into peels of laughter when I will remember my late mother screaming, “Hai-Maaan! What for did you bring me to this uncaring world? Hai Maaan, where are youuuu! I miss you Maan!!! Etc etc.
O’ yes, Mr Ghalib must have been really a stone-hearted man when he exclaimed, “Padiye gar bimar to koi na ho timardar/Aur gar mar jaiye to noah-khawa koi na ho
Loosely translated it means—If you fall sick, there should be none to look after. And if you die, there should be none who would have any connections with you. Mad cap! No, mad fool’s cap that he wore.
I am happy to have viral fever. And I am in no hurry to recover. More over, I will pray for all my friends, for the Bible believes that those who are sick, God hears them first. So, in my being indisposed, I am gonna dispose off your urgent matters pending finalization at Almighty’s hands.
Still if you want an early recovery for me, well thank you very much. Let me for the time being enjoy my body-burning and body-breaking; I mean jism jalna aur jism tootna!
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Police for sale! A Review
Marketing lessons for police
Reviewed by Rajbir Deswal
IN a popular Bollywood flick, the entire rhetoric of materialistic possessions by Amitabh Bachchan comes crashing when juxtaposed with brother Shashi Kapoor’s matching them all with their mother, asserting, "Mere paas Ma hai?" Apart from the physical self, the mother here carries her affection, compassion, care, concerns, besides bearing and rearing. By the same token, the police service seems to measure up to being quantified in terms of value, if you believe author Rohit Choudhary, an IPS officer of Punjab. For the police to be saleable to people at large, it has to be dependable and deliverable; accessible and accountable; and satisfying and suitable.
IN a popular Bollywood flick, the entire rhetoric of materialistic possessions by Amitabh Bachchan comes crashing when juxtaposed with brother Shashi Kapoor’s matching them all with their mother, asserting, "Mere paas Ma hai?" Apart from the physical self, the mother here carries her affection, compassion, care, concerns, besides bearing and rearing. By the same token, the police service seems to measure up to being quantified in terms of value, if you believe author Rohit Choudhary, an IPS officer of Punjab. For the police to be saleable to people at large, it has to be dependable and deliverable; accessible and accountable; and satisfying and suitable.
The police service can be marketed like any other commodity with a definite business plan despite intangible manifestations of human dispositions that can be attributed to their not-so-conducive behavior. There exist compliers and violators both. Rohit Choudhary’s recommendations inter alia include fundamental transformation of systems and organisations, ensuring efficiency, effectiveness, adaptability and innovation, with toppings like incentives and accountability added to the marketability of police.
The private sector management concerns largely involve citizen-focused service, performance management, balanced scorecard, strategy map and an ingrained and imbibed inclination to change while vying with other competitors. Factors that go against marketing the police service are its intangibility, heterogeneity and inseparability since for a product you can always have a better value substitute. The crux of Choudhary’s suggestions lies in consumer satisfaction when in a ‘glocal’ (global + local) environment, citizens as customers of police service assert their rights of having best value for their money paid as tax.
For police to sell like merchandise, the author embarks on plans to improve its organisational culture incorporating changes in the police delivery scenario through (i) SWOT—strength, weaknesses, opportunities, and threats besides (ii) Eight P’s—people, products, price, promotion, pace, process, place and policies. A roadmap for the marketing plan that promises superior value, builds customer relationship and creates customer delight is the hallmark of the book.
Quoting extensively from the police commission recommendations and other resource material drawn from very renowned subject matter specialists on police and policing, the author admits that the police in India is "underpaid, undermanned overworked, demoralised and publicly despised". He presents a comparative study of police systems in the UK, US, Japan, Singapore, China, Korea, Ireland, Canada, etc.
With lack of functional autonomy in pursuing investigations, the police in India is still imbued with their ruler supportive ethic. Old laws and procedures, large number of new legislations (with no public consensus), accusatorial system of criminal trials, presumption of innocence and burden of proof, distrust of the police and a very poor conviction rate, add up to make the police helpless, inefficient and unworthy in social audit.
"Nobel cause corruption" which is almost institutionalised in the police functioning and encourages padding, planting and fabrication of evidence to ensure conviction also does not do any good to the service delivery system, the author believes.
The rank and file in the police in India deserves to be empowered with more of decentralisation of powers, less of regimental hierarchical steel frame and a participatory accountability. The sub-culture in police needs to be evolved to the level where even the lowest ranking foot soldier has a feeling of alignment and belongingness. "Happiness Model" is suggested to ensure community policing with human resource development within the organisation.
Continuous correctional and developmental appraisal is the key to building up human resource. Police training needs to shun pedagogy systems, and adopt andragogy model—a self-directed learning style. The quality of leadership in the police should be "each one serves and leads". "Management by walking around" ensures knowing on ground difficulties.
The police in India needs to come alive to customer needs by "hearing citizens voices" roping in community empowerment through pro-active and collaborative policing rather than being reactive. The conservative police culture has a rigid and para-military structure, which is not amenable to change.
Reducing cost by making marginal adjustment in budgets, spreading costs to other authorities for special police forces, enlisting self-help from citizens, out sourcing, retention of revenue generating areas will surely help. Accumulating, concentrating, complementing and recovering the resources would sustain the police in having a systematic approach to develop, acquire, accumulate and innovate. Effectiveness roped in by redressal of public grievances and streamlining cross-agency processes is also worth taking care of.
While advocating all kinds of technological support, the author dares to reduce political interference by putting in place regulatory bodies for the police. An open policy, integrating involvement of stakeholders to prioritise police tasks will help. The police also needs to have a media policy involving maintaining public relations with a police-public interface. In some countries, participative policing is the norm.
The book, recommending identification of internal issues and external influences with the focus on customer satisfaction, high performance and new-age entrepreneurial demands of the business, should be the ‘Bible’ for every policeman besides being a very well-documented research treatise.
The private sector management concerns largely involve citizen-focused service, performance management, balanced scorecard, strategy map and an ingrained and imbibed inclination to change while vying with other competitors. Factors that go against marketing the police service are its intangibility, heterogeneity and inseparability since for a product you can always have a better value substitute. The crux of Choudhary’s suggestions lies in consumer satisfaction when in a ‘glocal’ (global + local) environment, citizens as customers of police service assert their rights of having best value for their money paid as tax.
For police to sell like merchandise, the author embarks on plans to improve its organisational culture incorporating changes in the police delivery scenario through (i) SWOT—strength, weaknesses, opportunities, and threats besides (ii) Eight P’s—people, products, price, promotion, pace, process, place and policies. A roadmap for the marketing plan that promises superior value, builds customer relationship and creates customer delight is the hallmark of the book.
Quoting extensively from the police commission recommendations and other resource material drawn from very renowned subject matter specialists on police and policing, the author admits that the police in India is "underpaid, undermanned overworked, demoralised and publicly despised". He presents a comparative study of police systems in the UK, US, Japan, Singapore, China, Korea, Ireland, Canada, etc.
With lack of functional autonomy in pursuing investigations, the police in India is still imbued with their ruler supportive ethic. Old laws and procedures, large number of new legislations (with no public consensus), accusatorial system of criminal trials, presumption of innocence and burden of proof, distrust of the police and a very poor conviction rate, add up to make the police helpless, inefficient and unworthy in social audit.
"Nobel cause corruption" which is almost institutionalised in the police functioning and encourages padding, planting and fabrication of evidence to ensure conviction also does not do any good to the service delivery system, the author believes.
The rank and file in the police in India deserves to be empowered with more of decentralisation of powers, less of regimental hierarchical steel frame and a participatory accountability. The sub-culture in police needs to be evolved to the level where even the lowest ranking foot soldier has a feeling of alignment and belongingness. "Happiness Model" is suggested to ensure community policing with human resource development within the organisation.
Continuous correctional and developmental appraisal is the key to building up human resource. Police training needs to shun pedagogy systems, and adopt andragogy model—a self-directed learning style. The quality of leadership in the police should be "each one serves and leads". "Management by walking around" ensures knowing on ground difficulties.
The police in India needs to come alive to customer needs by "hearing citizens voices" roping in community empowerment through pro-active and collaborative policing rather than being reactive. The conservative police culture has a rigid and para-military structure, which is not amenable to change.
Reducing cost by making marginal adjustment in budgets, spreading costs to other authorities for special police forces, enlisting self-help from citizens, out sourcing, retention of revenue generating areas will surely help. Accumulating, concentrating, complementing and recovering the resources would sustain the police in having a systematic approach to develop, acquire, accumulate and innovate. Effectiveness roped in by redressal of public grievances and streamlining cross-agency processes is also worth taking care of.
While advocating all kinds of technological support, the author dares to reduce political interference by putting in place regulatory bodies for the police. An open policy, integrating involvement of stakeholders to prioritise police tasks will help. The police also needs to have a media policy involving maintaining public relations with a police-public interface. In some countries, participative policing is the norm.
The book, recommending identification of internal issues and external influences with the focus on customer satisfaction, high performance and new-age entrepreneurial demands of the business, should be the ‘Bible’ for every policeman besides being a very well-documented research treatise.
Policing: Reinvention Strategies in a Marketing Framework By Rohit Choudhary. Sage. Pages XX+306. Rs 395.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Man, Moment and the Millenium
Man, Moment and the MilleniumBy: Rajbir Deswal
I wrote this piece at the turn of the Century and the Millenium(Y2K-Remember?) but I tried to liken the moment, a unit of time to ‘Man’. I don’t really know if I really relate the two but The Tribune and The Pioneer published it. May like to read my analogy!!!
How important should be the moment which will tick the old millennium off, out of its existence by kicking right near the cusp and bring the new one to its being. How crucial should be that moment which will quietly roll into eternity and heralded a new beginning. How signaled out would be that moment which both millennia would claim to be their own. “Oh to be equal in status to that moment!” many may cherish.Moment after moment, minute after minute, hours after hours, day after day, month after month, year after year, decade after decade, century after century, and likewise such a moment takes shape and fades out. And so will that special, that unique, that different moment, take birth and make history.History of its being. History of its end. History of its importance. History of its relevance. And History of its nothingness. Could a man be likened to a moment?Countless people would feel their existence quite differently in the 21st century. Others may not even know of the change. Still others may find in that situation as if nothing moves except nothingness.At the same time there would be innumerable people who would enjoy every bit of that precious moment. Its beginning, its being and its end. Isn’t it surprising to be dwelling so much on one moment? One single moment? One special moment? One moment like other moments? Just another moment!Then why so much anxiety? Why so much curiosity? Why so much of wait? Why so much of concern? Why so much of so much?—for a mere moment: I never knew that a moment was such a complex entity.Surely then, moment can definitely be likened to a man. Moment and man in their glory. Moment and man their being. Movement and man in their spacing, where space does not exist at all. All the more, moment can be “felt” like man.But hang on. I have a visual right in front of me purely in bones and flesh I see the merry-makers. I see those rejoicing. Some drowned in drunkenness. Others sun in spirits. Still others frolicking in frenzy an euphoria. One fellow sleep-walks trampling, he other sleeping on a walking path of me metropolis roadside. “Hay, wake up! Scoundrel! New millennium has arrived! It is the turn of the century.“The scoundrel” wakes up not really agitated, takes a turn to the other de (like a century) and sleeps over. The moment has come and gone. The man has woken unturned and slept again. The millennium has awaked and will end soon. Yes, very “soon”!Moment after moment. Tick after tick. Pulse after pulse. Well, tick and pulse can be likened. So can be moment and man. Tick enlivens up and consumes the moment pulse enlivens up and consumes the man. Welcome Millennium—ticking, pulsating and consuming.
Research on Couples on The Mall!
The Mall Watch
By:Rajbir Deswal
Walking on The Mall in Shimla at the fag end on 2009, and watching couples of various ‘amalgamations’, I was reminded of a ‘research’ we carried out at Nainital. This was pulished in The Hindustan Times.Here we go...!!!
The best part of the training course we were undergoing on Government Management at a popular hill-station last summer came at the end of the official proceedings. After our fill of lectures, audio-visuals and interactions we had much interesting stuff to look forward to in the evenings, which not only soothed our tires eyes but was refreshing and rewarding.
Free of the academic constraints, we would be ushered into a more ‘enlightened’ world a la Buddha, when some half a dozen officers daily visited the Mall for a ‘research’. In that wanton crowed of revelers and holidayers, the scope of our study was limited only to the youngish category of couples. Excluded strictly from our eagle-eyed observation were the oldies, even if they walked more couple-like.
We would position ourselves at a vantage point from where we could have a researcher’s view of the subject under study, the topic of which was no less interesting: “the dynamics of the relationship between the malling couples.”
Here we go:
The came walking not only hand in hand but with a bodyline-to bodyline contact, resting their head on each other’s shoulders, turn by turn. The man’s hand would go reconnoitering the posterior of his partner once in a while. They would not lift their eyes to see the world around them, picking their way through a romantic realm in which others didn’t exist. Thus, sleep-walking, they would every now and then bump into a passer-by, pleading an unmeaningful “sorry”. The collided one could only look back at the apologetic couple, forgiving their “blindness” with a smile. Well they were the honeymooners.
The second category of couples looked more homely. Without hanging on each other literally they preferred walking their own, self-confident way. The man would ogle at other women, and the woman by his side would also not force herself to ignore the admiring glances coming her way. The man would carry a shopping bag in one hand and the woman her purse both with a firm grip on their belongings and their sentiments acquired through experience. Their’s was not a hush-hush talking tone, rather others could also hear the stuff. Perhaps they seemed to be hiding nothing from the onlookers. They were surely married couples of about five years conjugal bliss.
The third category of couples looked ready to pick-up a fight not only with each other, but with all others, be he a shop-keeper, a hawker, a passer-by, or a rickshaw-puller. They walked keeping a safe distance from each other, but carrying on a conversation all the same. One could very well hear their arguments on the child’s progress in school or the mutual tirade on managing household affairs. They would talk about their budget and postpone further individual purchases in favour of a pair of jeans for their teenaged son or a dress-set for the daughter. Surely, these couples were in the bondage of matrimony for a decade and half.
The fourth category was not of the couples but a “coupled” heterogeneity. This man-woman duo cast their apprehensive looks at the on-lookers. They were quite close to each other yet the fear of being caught strolling together was quite evident on their faces. Flamboyantly dressed most of them were husbands and wives of other wives and husbands. Or one partner of this combination might have had a marital status and the other might have been unmarried. The strain of trying to look natural only confirmed the forbidden aspect of their relationship with each other. If someone passed some remarks on them they would simply choose no to have heard it. They were, as the Bard of Avon put it, “no other stuff than what adultery is made up of.”
The last but not the least important category that came within our study was that of the unknown and unexplained relationship of man and woman walking on the Mall. Well, they could be at least cousins, if not, brothers and sisters our for some fresh air, while the parents relaxed elsewhere, with not a worrisome thought.
The best part of the training course we were undergoing on Government Management at a popular hill-station last summer came at the end of the official proceedings. After our fill of lectures, audio-visuals and interactions we had much interesting stuff to look forward to in the evenings, which not only soothed our tires eyes but was refreshing and rewarding.
Free of the academic constraints, we would be ushered into a more ‘enlightened’ world a la Buddha, when some half a dozen officers daily visited the Mall for a ‘research’. In that wanton crowed of revelers and holidayers, the scope of our study was limited only to the youngish category of couples. Excluded strictly from our eagle-eyed observation were the oldies, even if they walked more couple-like.
We would position ourselves at a vantage point from where we could have a researcher’s view of the subject under study, the topic of which was no less interesting: “the dynamics of the relationship between the malling couples.”
Here we go:
The came walking not only hand in hand but with a bodyline-to bodyline contact, resting their head on each other’s shoulders, turn by turn. The man’s hand would go reconnoitering the posterior of his partner once in a while. They would not lift their eyes to see the world around them, picking their way through a romantic realm in which others didn’t exist. Thus, sleep-walking, they would every now and then bump into a passer-by, pleading an unmeaningful “sorry”. The collided one could only look back at the apologetic couple, forgiving their “blindness” with a smile. Well they were the honeymooners.
The second category of couples looked more homely. Without hanging on each other literally they preferred walking their own, self-confident way. The man would ogle at other women, and the woman by his side would also not force herself to ignore the admiring glances coming her way. The man would carry a shopping bag in one hand and the woman her purse both with a firm grip on their belongings and their sentiments acquired through experience. Their’s was not a hush-hush talking tone, rather others could also hear the stuff. Perhaps they seemed to be hiding nothing from the onlookers. They were surely married couples of about five years conjugal bliss.
The third category of couples looked ready to pick-up a fight not only with each other, but with all others, be he a shop-keeper, a hawker, a passer-by, or a rickshaw-puller. They walked keeping a safe distance from each other, but carrying on a conversation all the same. One could very well hear their arguments on the child’s progress in school or the mutual tirade on managing household affairs. They would talk about their budget and postpone further individual purchases in favour of a pair of jeans for their teenaged son or a dress-set for the daughter. Surely, these couples were in the bondage of matrimony for a decade and half.
The fourth category was not of the couples but a “coupled” heterogeneity. This man-woman duo cast their apprehensive looks at the on-lookers. They were quite close to each other yet the fear of being caught strolling together was quite evident on their faces. Flamboyantly dressed most of them were husbands and wives of other wives and husbands. Or one partner of this combination might have had a marital status and the other might have been unmarried. The strain of trying to look natural only confirmed the forbidden aspect of their relationship with each other. If someone passed some remarks on them they would simply choose no to have heard it. They were, as the Bard of Avon put it, “no other stuff than what adultery is made up of.”
The last but not the least important category that came within our study was that of the unknown and unexplained relationship of man and woman walking on the Mall. Well, they could be at least cousins, if not, brothers and sisters our for some fresh air, while the parents relaxed elsewhere, with not a worrisome thought.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Real Happiness is in it's willingness to share!
Meridian divide
By: Rajbir Deswal
Let me confess at the outset that real happiness lies with people who are willing to share it. The present epsode relates to the year 2002 and was published in The Pioneeer.
India has too many crorepatis these days compared to the past when even a lakhpati was recognised as the son of a “twice-born”. My experience last New Year’s eve compels me to think whether real happiness lives this side or that of the meridian, that answers to the calling of “class” in the capitalist world.
We got passes for the 31st December celebrations at a five-star hotel in the Capital. We were excited to be a part of the much-hyped extravaganza. Our little family made a small group, and made it to the gaiety-gymnasium past 10 pm. The flash-lights beamed in succession from different angles and played their gremlin-game in a multi-coloured range of spectrum, lighting up the revelers’ faces in diverse hues every now and then. The tapping of the dancers’ feet made music with the DJ’s dexterous fingers while near-licentious looks felicitated one another. It was gratification of sorts, with not even a modicum of “concealment”.
The meridian-moment arrived and the entire gathering went into a frenzy, bidding good-bye to the old year that was a new year only 364 days back. Welcome 2003! Happy New Year! Handshakes, bear hugs, embraces, instant and excited calls were being made and received on cellphones. Every thing was there. But I noticed that one-to-one greetings were restricted to members of only the self-same group, big or small. None seemed to be genuinely interested in greeting a reveler who wa a stranger. Persons beyond acquaintance were deliberately chosen, not to be felicitated; or so it appeared to me.
We decided to rush homeward. Stewards, bearers and staff on the way back accosted us. Our small pack was ushered out and the guards, bellboys and the tall, show-cased sentinels, wearing huge turbans, all invoked the lady luck for us in 2003. We started walking towards the parking-lot outside the hotel. The drizzle, which couldn’t dampen the spirit of the merry-makers throughout the day, had stopped. But a chill wind almost pierced through.
Some youngsters, who couldn’t secure an entry apparently for the lack of money, were dancing in rustic exuberance, as if to a average for their hard-luck in the year gone by. They too hailed us. The parking-lot attendant had a muffler round his face and I could see droplets of condensation of the freezing wind, settled on his broomy moustache, when he signalled and helped us pull the car out. He too wished us a happy new year. Reaching home, the domestic help wished each one of us in his Nepali accent: “Naya shaal mubarik hou.”
Till I retired for the day with a wish-list of hopes and dreams, something in my mind was troubling me. Why can’t the rich tide over their islander-mentality and cut across the tiny words of their own creation, of self-proclaimed superiority?” And why are the comparatively poorer people always so willing to please others, with their humane gentleness, character and disposition? Real happiness does not live on this or that side of the meridian; it is all-encomp-passing and all-pervasive.
India has too many crorepatis these days compared to the past when even a lakhpati was recognised as the son of a “twice-born”. My experience last New Year’s eve compels me to think whether real happiness lives this side or that of the meridian, that answers to the calling of “class” in the capitalist world.
We got passes for the 31st December celebrations at a five-star hotel in the Capital. We were excited to be a part of the much-hyped extravaganza. Our little family made a small group, and made it to the gaiety-gymnasium past 10 pm. The flash-lights beamed in succession from different angles and played their gremlin-game in a multi-coloured range of spectrum, lighting up the revelers’ faces in diverse hues every now and then. The tapping of the dancers’ feet made music with the DJ’s dexterous fingers while near-licentious looks felicitated one another. It was gratification of sorts, with not even a modicum of “concealment”.
The meridian-moment arrived and the entire gathering went into a frenzy, bidding good-bye to the old year that was a new year only 364 days back. Welcome 2003! Happy New Year! Handshakes, bear hugs, embraces, instant and excited calls were being made and received on cellphones. Every thing was there. But I noticed that one-to-one greetings were restricted to members of only the self-same group, big or small. None seemed to be genuinely interested in greeting a reveler who wa a stranger. Persons beyond acquaintance were deliberately chosen, not to be felicitated; or so it appeared to me.
We decided to rush homeward. Stewards, bearers and staff on the way back accosted us. Our small pack was ushered out and the guards, bellboys and the tall, show-cased sentinels, wearing huge turbans, all invoked the lady luck for us in 2003. We started walking towards the parking-lot outside the hotel. The drizzle, which couldn’t dampen the spirit of the merry-makers throughout the day, had stopped. But a chill wind almost pierced through.
Some youngsters, who couldn’t secure an entry apparently for the lack of money, were dancing in rustic exuberance, as if to a average for their hard-luck in the year gone by. They too hailed us. The parking-lot attendant had a muffler round his face and I could see droplets of condensation of the freezing wind, settled on his broomy moustache, when he signalled and helped us pull the car out. He too wished us a happy new year. Reaching home, the domestic help wished each one of us in his Nepali accent: “Naya shaal mubarik hou.”
Till I retired for the day with a wish-list of hopes and dreams, something in my mind was troubling me. Why can’t the rich tide over their islander-mentality and cut across the tiny words of their own creation, of self-proclaimed superiority?” And why are the comparatively poorer people always so willing to please others, with their humane gentleness, character and disposition? Real happiness does not live on this or that side of the meridian; it is all-encomp-passing and all-pervasive.
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