Aapko eye flu ho jaye!!!

Punjab Kesari, Hind Samachar and Jagbani veresions of my middle--Wish you eye flu!

Wish U Eye Flu! Don't get well soon!

(Middle in The Tribune today)

Wish you eye flu!

By Rajbir Deswal
KNOWING that I am a late riser, friends generally don’t call me early. But that day I was in for a surprise, as the call was from someone who generally doesn’t call me, even late during the day.
Half in sleep, my hand drifted to the cell-phone, to read with my purpose-tuned eyes, when on the screen flashed a name I couldn’t believe. “All’s well, I wish!” I said when he started laughing. And a tad too loud at that, betraying his general disposition of routinely carrying a wooden face.
Laboriously I snail-paced to reach a sitting posture, adjusting the pillow to support my back, when my friend’s laughter evolved into a kind of shrill-scream of Mr Kohli, as in ‘Bride and prejudice: From Amritsar to LA’.
And then he became poetical reciting to me an Urdu couplet, “Har tarha ke jazbaat ka ailaan hain ankhen/Shabnam kabhi shola kabhi toofan hain ankhen! (Eyes proclaim emotions of all kinds/Eyes at times are dewdrops, fire or even a storm).
Even without an encore, or a ‘wah-wah’ from me, he seemed to fly again on wings-of-poesy when I chipped in to enquire if everything was alright with him. “Three days at home, and enjoying!” and presto he began crooning again, “Jab se tere naina mere naino se lage re/Tab se deewana hua sab se begana hua...!”
“What storm has hit you dear?” I asked a bit relaxed. “I have eye flu you see. Conjunctivitis you see!” He informed musically using ‘you see’ twice as if as a note to enhance effect and as if to convey Blind (sic) Milton’s approval of ‘those who stand and wait’. “But being not on leave, do they permit you to stay home?” I asked and refrained from embarrassing him saying, “—to relax and sing and be poetic!”
“No, I went to office intentionally. He emphasised the last word and clarified, “lest they thought I was a shirker.” Seeing my red eyes, the boss said, “You seem to be having eye flu. Why not stay at home.” “No, I have no problem working in office. I told him with my tongue firmly in my cheek, when the boss kept insisting.” He said laughing again. “The boss said, I would spread the malaise and sought himself too to be excused!” he said.
“It’s after centuries that I lay curled in the bed, with no eye-shy business to blink, except having them closed all the while, and calling up friends to do some gup-shup!”
His boisterousness did not let him drop the receiver, which he generally is inclined to, and told me about one of his Muslim friends, who on Eid came to visit him, and insisted on hugging the festival way, about which he cautioned, proclaiming he had eye flu. “Arre chhodiye Sahab, gale miliye! And the next day, he reported on the phone that he had irritation in his eyes. Ha ha ha heeeeeeee!” my friend again guffawed.
“So that is how one needs to laugh away one’s sorrows!” I had a dig at him when again he sniggered, “Ig-jaktly” a la Javed Jaffrey in “Salaam Namaste.”
Then it was my turn to tell him to let me sleep, and hang up saying, “I wish you eye flu. Also a relapse. Don’t get well soon!”

Copped Out! Train him to love!

(The Tribune lead-oped on Governance Sept 27,2010, also at http://rajbirdeswal.instablogs.com/entry/copped-out-train-him-to-love/)
Setting the police house in order
Rajbir Deswal
WHAT ails the police? The malady is not difficult to diagnose. If the police has to deliver and measure up to the expectations, a lot needs to be done to recruit the right candidates with suitable reforms in the recruitment process, training, posting and welfare programmes.
As constabulary is the visible face of the police, the recruitment process needs to be made more transparent, foolproof, standardised and objective. Merit should be the sole criterion for selection. The foot-soldier constable has to be available whenever needed — be it a law and order situation, crime against person or property committed, traffic management or even while performing other regulatory duties. Any mishandling of these tasks will make him appear thick-skinned, insensitive, ruthless, supercilious and despicable in the public eye.
This writer had the opportunity to oversee the training in two Centrexs in the United Kingdom — one at Talli-Ho (Birmingham) and the other at Riton in Coventry. There the police jobs are divided into categories like general, detective, investigative, specialised, tactical and technical. In our system, we expect our constables to be masters of all trades. Training of these lower subordinates needs be on a ‘need-to-know’basis without the intricate laws, procedures, manuals and drills.
Reforms needed at the grassroots
The outdoor training imparted to the lower subordinates, particularly the parades and drills, consume equal training hours as imparting acquisition of knowledge of laws and procedures. This is not a proper ratio. The British Police are trained only in areas which are strictly commensurate and in direct proportion to the demands of duty. For example, they may not be taught the ticklish aspects of ‘Relevancy of facts’, yet they can identify a happening in front of their eyes which they can definitely perceive is illegal, as it would flow from the common understanding of an ordinary citizen who is suitable and a little more trained in making his own assessment.
The physical training having parameters of parades, drill, shooting, unarmed combat, crowd dispersal, etc. should form part of the tactical squads’ training while the knowledge of laws, rules, procedures, instructions, regulations, directions, etc should make better investigators and detectives.
The recent incident of a constable having been murdered after he chased criminals is enough indication that he should have received adequate training in unarmed combat; it should only have been part of a tactical squad trained to chase, contain and attack. The constabulary is the interactive face of the police. The poorly trained lower subordinates seem to be failing in their duty to deliver and live up the people’s expectations.
The time-tested Beat System of which the main protagonist and hero was the Beat Constable, allowed the police to keep an eye on the anti-social elements, smugglers, hoarders, black marketers, pickpockets, eve-teasers, molesters, thieves, burglars, thugs and even strangers. The recent detection of a car loaded with explosives reported from New York was the result of an eagle-eyed observation of the Beat Patrol Officer. Unfortunately, this system is no more followed in India.
In the UK, there is the peer system where the ‘elder brother-younger brother’ concept of the buddies ensures professional growth in the junior partner and assured dependence on the elder one. When Best Practices is the keyword in all spheres of management these days, why should it elude the Indian police?
Our constabulary does not take pride in their uniform because of the historically maligned image of the police. Senior officers can do more in leading by example and by being in the front. Conversely, there is less of motivation, crises of discipline and execution of dishonest intent. Hence, they are found wanting. For ills like misbehaviour with the general public and insubordination, the governments cannot be blamed. For, it is setting their own house in order by the seniors themselves. More than the government intervention, the police department is capable of stemming the rot.
Maslow’s Theory of the Hierarchy of Needs is more relevant today. Besides the physical needs, those attributable to socialising, rising in one’s own esteem, healthcare and safety needs are of paramount importance if we want to instill confidence in the rank and file.
The Barracks System of housing the police personnel in the police units has miserably failed. Nowadays, policemen want to stay with their families and children. The system of police officer on duty round the clock is no more practical and the shift system has become imperative.
While theft and burglary generally take place during the night, traffic violations take place during the day. Cyber frauds are specific to cities and ‘murders for honour’ are resorted to mostly in rural pockets. Hence, we need to identify specific crimes (time, area, demography, topography and rural and urban-specific) and make policemen specialised in tackling them. Standard operating procedures (SOPs) need to be laid down to address such tasks.
The policemen need to be more people-friendly, having good etiquette and a pleasant and ever-willing-to-help disposition. Owing to the country’s diverse demographic and cultural parameters, adequate precaution needs to be taken to appreciate each citizen’s right to be treated equally.
What is needed today is zero tolerance for acts like custodial deaths, rape, misbehaviour, corruption and highhandedness while policemen deserve suitable rewards for exemplary acts of gallantry, public service, detection and investigation and winning the people’s hearts.
The writer is the Inspector-General of Police, CID, Haryana

आईना !!!

आईना कभी हंसाता है रुलाता है चिढाता हैं मगर समझाता भी है,
कहता है असलियत यही है प्यारे !!!

Dirty naked legs

Dirty naked legs is what the caption says under this still from Room No. 9 a movie of late Forties.
To change time, it doesn't take much time.
To change mores, they do not take more .
To time, both change and mores must yield!!!





(pic:Film India)

आज गुस्ताख हुई जाती हैं क्यूं बादेनसीम!

(A Tribune report)

Mushaira enthrals audience

SD Sharma
Chandigarh, September 25Impassioned verses with rich and varied thought content recited by acclaimed poets enthralled audience in the “Kul Hind Urdu Mushaira” at the Randhawa auditorium here today.
The event organised by the Pracheen Kala Kendra, known for propagation of classical arts, was dedicated to memory of its founder, late ML Koser, a noted dance maestro and choreographer.
The poets touched all moods and passions, joys, distress, ecstasy and grief. If Meeruti excelled with wit and humour, super cop poet Rajbir Deswal Aamil turned romantic with “Aaj gustaakh huyi jaati hai kyon vaade naseem kya kisi shokh ki zulphon se lipat aayi hai..” Another Haryana Sahitya Akademy awardee poet Madhav Kaushik disclosed “Kya jaane kisi raat ke seene mein chhipi hai, sooraj ki treaj ham bhi sehar dhoond rhe hain..”
With his ornate poetry, Padma Bhushan Dr Sardar Anjum took the lead, while Balraj Bakshi Haq Kanpuri, Shams Tabrezi, Ved Deevana, Ateeq Zia, Anis Ahmad Khan, Javed Anwar, Namita Rakesh, Nayeem Rasheed, Pritpal Singh Betab, Rukhsaar Balrampuri, SL Dhawan Kamal, Savita Aseem, Sabeeha Naaz, Anjum Barabanakavi, Krishan Kumar Toor, Madhav Kaushik and Rajbir Deswal Aamil recited soothing couplets from their vast literary works receiving thunderous applause.
Their recitations reflected the contemporary sensibilities about the prevailing socio-political scenario in the country.
Poet Shamas Tabrezi conducted the mushaira with commendable competence. Kendra secretary Sajal Koser welcomed Justice Virender Singh, Justice Parmod Kohli, Justice Sunil Hali, Justice Ajay Tewari.

Soft is all that’s born,

Soft is all that’s born,
Be it a nut or a thorn,
Be it a hulk or an angel,
To elasticity, hardiness is prone.
Bark falls apart to decay,
Pliable, Supple, Sinuous, Clay,
Lumbar to limber shall decay,
Soft is all that’s born,
Oxidises iron not to stay.

RAJBIR DESWAL Sept 24 2010

It’s raining! It’s raining! It’s raining still,

It’s raining! It’s raining! It’s raining still,
Mind makes calculations, heart though is full.
Holes, burrows, cracks, niches, dens n tunnel,
Deluge all over, upto the brims and full.
Mind makes calculations, heart though is full,
Rains bring rainbows; clouds do the sky fill.
Breeze whacky, abrasive but chiefly cool,
Not to miss, thunders too do clamour shirll.
It’s raining! It’s raining! It’s raining still,
Soggy eogs tell raingods to wind up the kill.
Leafy, soft fingers at the rings marvel,
Ever-dreamy eyes have rains for a fill.
It’s raining! It’s raining! It’s raining still,
Mind makes calculations, heart though is full.

RAJBIR DESWAL

There is something : कुछ बात है जो हस्ती मिटती नहीं हमारी !

There is something : कुछ बात है जो हस्ती मिटती नहीं हमारी !(Rajbir Deswal wrote this for The Tribune sometime back!)
News has reached us from Sonepat and Karnal in Haryana that Muslims will not offer sacrifice (Qurbani) on the occasion of Id this year since Mahavir Jayanti falls on the same day. Now I understand what the famous poet Iqbal had in his mind when he said, “Kuchh baat hai jo hasti mit-ti nahin hamari...”.
Iqbal perhaps hinted at this tolerance and Mahatma Gandhi perhaps had only such feelings when he propounded the “Sarva Dharma Sambhav” theory and left no stone unturned in practising the concept, much to the annoyance of some of his own ardent followers but in the larger interest of natinalism, Indianness and, above all, brotherhood of mankind.
I remember a very touching number in a movie, “Dhool ka phool”, rendered soulfully by Mohammad Rafi, “Tu Hindu banega na Musalman banega; Insaan ki aulad hai insaan banega” and further in the song were the finest expressions of amity and respect for each other’s religion—“Qur-aan na jisme ho wo mandir nahin tera; Geeta na ho jisme wo harem tera nahin hai”.
Only a couple of years back people of both communities celebrated Id and Ram Navami in Hazariabagh together by joining felicitations collectively and by exchanging gifts, sweets and greetings. Such signals should not be allowed to go unnoticed by the media for they act as balmy material on the wounding stories of communal violence.
I remember a scene at Moscow airport when I and my wife were waiting for breakfast to be served to us. Sitting next to us were two correspondents of a daily of Pakistan, Nawai-Waqt, as we could gather from their conversation. We did not know that beef slices were served to us with black, milk-less coffee. When one of the two gentlemen picked up one slice and announced that it was beef, we removed the paper-plates from our table.
The other one noticed this. When he was asked by his friend to go ahead with his beefy-helping, he looked at us, smiled and said, “No, thanks, you please carry on!” He might not even be knowing us yet he thought it proper to respect our sentiments. Our reciprocal smile to him confirmed millions and millions of spiritual bondages tolerant human beings can boast of.
It is high time people had shown the vested interests the door. I am reminded of a beautiful couplet by the noted poet Bashir Badr: Dushmani ka safar ek din, do din; Tum bhee thak jaoge, hum bhee thak jaayege.
Id Mubarak and Jaya Jainendra!

Hoor Menaka

‎"Hoor Menaka" in the hands of Mr Bhupinder Singh Hooda CM, Mr Raj Chengappa Editor in Chief The Tribune, Ms Sharda Rathore CPS, Mr Ramesh Vinayak R Editor HT and Prof Virender. I too am there . RIGHT there!

टेंशन खल्लास !

था जिनको हरियाणवी बोली से परहेज ,पंडित लखमीचंद को पढ़ेँगे वे अँग्रेज ।पढ़ेँगे वे अँग्रेज किया जिसने कमाल है ,...मान गए सब, बेमिसाल वह देसवाल है ।राजबीर ने खाकी मेँ वह कर दिखलाया ,इस माटी का लाल विश्व का मित्र कहाया ।- कृष्ण गोपाल विद्यार्थी

मेरा जवाब भी सुन लो भाई :

तेरी विरासत के सुनना, हैं जो असल हक़दार ,

उनमे ओ दादा लखमी चंद, तू लेना अवतार,

तू लेना अवतार, फिर उसी ढंग-चाल से ,

बचे रहना मगर विद्यार्थी कृषण गोपाल से ,

करे ऐसी तारीफ, दिलों में भरे ऐसा उल्लास ,

तेरी तरह सभी लोगों की करे टेंशन खल्लास !

राजबीर देसवाल

Die die Lavinia!!!

SHAKESPEARE ON HONOUR KILLING—DIE DIE LAVINIA!!!
FROM HIS PLAY TITUS ANDRONICUS: Act 5, Scene 3

............................................................................................................
TITUS ANDRONICUS
An if your highness knew my heart, you were.My lord the emperor, resolve me this:Was it well done of rash VirginiusTo slay his daughter with his own right hand,Because she was enforced, stain'd, and deflower'd?
SATURNINUS
It was, Andronicus.
TITUS ANDRONICUS
Your reason, mighty lord?
SATURNINUS
Because the girl should not survive her shame,And by her presence still renew his sorrows.
TITUS ANDRONICUS
A reason mighty, strong, and effectual;A pattern, precedent, and lively warrant,For me, most wretched, to perform the like.Die, die, Lavinia, and thy shame with thee;
Kills LAVINIA
And, with thy shame, thy father's sorrow die!
SATURNINUS
What hast thou done, unnatural and unkind?
TITUS ANDRONICUS
Kill'd her, for whom my tears have made me blind.I am as woful as Virginius was,And have a thousand times more cause than heTo do this outrage: and it now is done.
SATURNINUS
What, was she ravish'd? tell who did the deed.
TITUS ANDRONICUS
Will't please you eat? will't please yourhighness feed?
TAMORA
Why hast thou slain thine only daughter thus?
TITUS ANDRONICUS
Not I; 'twas Chiron and Demetrius:They ravish'd her, and cut away her tongue;And they, 'twas they, that did her all this wrong.
SATURNINUS
Go fetch them hither to us presently.
TITUS ANDRONICUS
Why, there they are both, baked in that pie;Whereof their mother daintily hath fed,Eating the flesh that she herself hath bred.'Tis true, 'tis true; witness my knife's sharp point.
Kills TAMORA
SATURNINUS
Die, frantic wretch, for this accursed deed!
Kills TITUS
LUCIUS
Can the son's eye behold his father bleed?There's meed for meed, death for a deadly deed!
Kills SATURNINUS. A great tumult. LUCIUS, MARCUS, and others go up into the balcony

"Soul of lingerie" Holypol

Rajbir Deswal's middles compilation of the Write in the Middle series reviewed by Randeep Wadhera for The Tribune:

IN newspapers, "middles" provide a relief of sorts from the incessantly somber intellectual analytical articles that make things insufferably serious for most of us who would like to have a glimpse of the lighter side of life. Worse, most of the stuff is seldom less than thousand words long and looks longer to the unsuspecting, uninitiated reader who, perchance, happens to go through it. So, the clever op-ed editors use middles in the same manner as Bollywood movies of yore had used comic interludes to keep the viewers interested in the teary saga of tragedy queens and kings.
The fact that these are strategically placed between the main opinion article and the Letters to the Editor column, with edits on the left, tells you something about the importance of middles in the popularity stakes. Therefore, a middle writer has to be adept at conveying his thoughts in a few words in the most attractive manner. No wonder, writing middles is considered an art that requires a certain attitude: one has to be an expert in brevity. Of course, brevity could be the Shakespearean "soul of wit" or the less demanding but equally alluring—what the late US writer Dorothy Parker had described as—"soul of lingerie".
In this volume one comes across a wide range of situations, moods, persons and places. In the very first piece, Holypol, Deswal takes a dig at his profession where some cops wear uniforms with rather long pockets. Doting on balcony treats the ubiquitous aesthetic/ architectural adjunct that facilitates ventilation as a strategic listening post to know what’s happening in one’s neighbor’s house; it also has been described as time-tested meeting place for lovers a la Romeo and Juliet, where kisses are discreetly exchanged. Did you do it is a sardonic take on scoop hunting journalists who would go to any length to get a "story"; mercifully paparazzi haven’t yet grown roots in our country.
When would the school start takes a concerned look at the way teenagers spend their time during the holidays. Their attempts at enjoying thrilling rides, etc., soon end up in a frenetic attempt at completing the long ignored schoolwork as holidays reach their last legs. Easier said than done cautions against taking any job lightly—even if it is retrieving a soap-cake that slips from your hand just as you have applied it to your face – eyes and all! Aptly, the pièce de résistance comes in the last. In Dating advice to Vijender, one learns how Bipasha Basu’s offer to date the Olympian pugilist had scandalised the Haryana folks. Deswal gives him tips on how to avoid provoking such reactions and go on dates too!
One can go on talking about the various topics dealt in this volume. Deswal is known for his wit, of course. A wit that has its roots in the rural ethos of Haryana happily amalgamated with an urbane sophistication. A tough call, but that’s Deswal!

HOOR MENAKA: THE SEDUCTRESS

HOOR MENAKA: THE SEDUCTRESS
(From prologue of Hoor Menaka)








(More pics here...http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=8594196657107954493)
While reviewing my first book, “Wit & Humour of Haryana”(1991), Mr। Khushwant Singh had observed that “dialects are absolutely untranslatable”। The present endeavour to translate and adapt a ‘Swang’ (Play) has its seeds in Mr। Khushwant Singh’s endorsement and encouragement।Choice of a play of the legendary Pt। Lakhmi Chand was very natural then. Of all his works, I selected ‘Hoor Menaka’ for translation and adaptation since I was moved with the predicament of the heroine in the first instance, used by the Devtas themselves, to be precise Indra; and in the second, to be left alone to fend for herself, repenting on her bartered away virtue, and lost womanly dignity.As if to add insult to injury, the daughter born out of an alliance between a hard-pressed fairy and a gullible sage, having been deserted by both, and taken care of only by Kanva, a bird, left me overwhelmed with concern for our daughters.The present document is my personal tribute to destitute women and the endangered species i.e. the girl-child herself. I gainsay, that it’s a matter of pride for us all to look into the mythological background of ‘Bharat’ after whose calling was our great country was named, was the son born unto the same deserted girl-child of Vishwamitra and Menaka, who was later known as Shakuntala.That the play ‘Hoor Menaka’ could not be enacted for more than 4-5 times by Pt. Lakhmi Chand himself,was because of the fact that the contemporary rural society, particularly of Haryana, did not appreciate a plot, involving making a woman lose her virtue, a saintly figure fall from grace and a girl-child abandoned in the jungles—unattended, uncared and unaccounted. The fact remains, why do we pride ourselves in killing for honour today?Since I can claim this to be the first ever adaptation of a Haryanvi Swang in English, I wish to share the intricacies involved in the effort; most important being the technique of Swang, which is less diction and more articulation. As a genre, Swang invariably has to have a Sootradhaar managing the stage, directing actors how to live a character, simultaneously remoulding to enter into a character that he himself has to play as a narrator.For me, even Pt. Lakhmi Chand became a character in the adaptation-plot. Accordingly then, I tried to retain the true character of a Swang having its format with ingredients like Commentary (Vaarta), Couplet (Doha) and Verse (Gadhya). I marvel at the maestro’s dexterity and spontaneity using in the rhyme schemes employed in various Literatures all over the world.Hoor Menaka in your hands may have deficiencies in sequencing, architecture, faithful conversion of folk idiom and wisdom, yet this very humble creation of mine will surely benefit the readers of English, and will bring alive to them, a whole panorama of folk lore and folk literature.I am indebted to my family and friends who encouraged me to take up this trivial-looking but momentous task which will now be judged by the interest readers and experts in the field.

Rajbir Deswal

(http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#!/album.php?aid=228450&id=551702506&fbid=433540432506&ref=mf)

हिंदी डे !!!

Teachers teach like this in the KG Nursery etc : Look children आ has a मात्रा अ doesn't have a मात्रा....!!!

The General Marched in and Killed Me !!!

Troops in the General to kill me!!!
by Rajbir Deswal
Taking my bath I am informed that a ‘Gernal Saab’ has come to meet me. “Who,” I shout from the shower. “He says he is a gernal,” the domestic help announces.
“What the bloody hell,” I start murmuring. Such a high rank and he can’t even inform me on the mobile. Simply walks in. Without even realising I have to rush to office within minutes. Retired fellas!
I stagger to the dressing room and slip into what is wearable for the office. Shouting for the footwear, I climb down the stairs to make an ‘unwelcome General’ appreciate my disgust.
Slouched in the black sofa, he wishes me a ‘Good Morning’. He can very well read my not so charitable expression for he has seen life. “I am in a great trouble and you need to help me out, being a good neighbour. Look, I cannot rush to the police posts,” he continues.
“I lost my identity card. I have searched everywhere. Even wife’s help did not help,” he concludes.
I have a flashback, when I see the General visiting posts, being presented with guards-of-honour-flags, stars and medallions. I can see officers and men, looking up to him. His identity of being a soldier appears sharper to me. I gather myself to face him with a smile now.
“Is that all, sir!” I ask him, being a little mellowed. I experience sobering of my enraged sensibilities. Immediately, I send for the officer-incharge in the police post closeby, who promptly arrives.
I tell the officer that General Sahib wants a loss report recorded and a copy of it. The officer prepares to leave when I call him again to tell him: “The copy of the report has to be delivered at his residence. And in 15 minutes!”
“Ho jayega huzoor”, he assures me and marches out.
The General is neither amazed nor amused, for he knows the triviality of the issue. I give him a full smile. He returns it with a big ‘Thank you,’ and seeks leave of me.
I follow him up to his car, open the car door and wait till he is comfortably seated. I feel he is a General once again.
His private car moves. The General looks at me with his astute face and looks, that he donned all those years, when he himself wore the uniform. I keep standing at the iron-gate of my house, behind which stays a man of equally ‘ironic’ elements.
My footwear is brought to me. I wear the shoes and psychologically feel that somehow they are too big for me. And that I need to size up with them. Then only shall I deserve them, not as an officer of a force, but as a humble servant of the people-always ready and willing to offer his services.
All this happened only a day after Independence Day. Needless to say, I must learn to behave. Thank you, General!

Eternity does begin somewhere...in the rains!

Since then.
Till now.
Unto the last.
Down from a moment,
day, month and a year.
Up above a year, decade, century a millennium.
Eras and epochs,
don’t measure Eternity
That does begin somewhere.
With a seed sown in the rains.
Tap-tap and tick-tick.

Ground Zeores!

Walking on foot,
from Battery Park,
in Manhattan,
to the site of repair,
where once stood.
the Twin-Towers,
we reached,
the Ground Zero,
to see people offering,
flowers and lighting candles etc,
saying, “It happened here. Right here!”
We have our own Ground Zeroes,
but they should not hold ground!,
Nor skies, nor seas. Not even hearts!

खैर कोई बात नहीं !

खैर कोई बात नहीं !

तुम्हारी खैर नहीं !

खैरख्वा ही पूछते हैं खैर !

खैर एक दरख्त भी होता है !

खैरात मतलब मुफ्त !

नाम भी होते हैं जैसे खैरुनिस्सा !

गुड नाईट भी होती है शब्बाखैर !

ज़ज़कल्ला खैर और खुदाया खैर !

खैर का मतलब अच्छा तो बातें भी ज्यादा!

ईद मुबारक !

Forget those Mams & Sirs! You Can't!

Some of my Mams and Sirs!

By: Rajbir Deswal
Miss. Sandhu, a judge’s sister—I thought I had a crush on her in my 1st standard.
Mrs. Narang—she taught us Punjabi. I remember her Uda, Aida, Eedie!!!
Mrs.Kahsyap—the way she conducted and carried herself! Moving encyclopaedia of social studies!
Mrs.Single—my bad English cannot be blamed on her for she had the Wren & Martin in her blood . I only tasted her kindliness.
Mrs.Prabha—physically challenged but was fairly intimidating as the Principal. Only saving grace—her son, Sunny (a little slow witted than me) studied with me. And ate all the rusks in the school shop. DRY.
Mrs.Bhatnagar—she was always motherlike and doubled as music teacher since she could play on the harmonium. Had seven daughters!
Ganga and Kala Maais had us in spins but we had great respect for them for they at times addressed us as betas and betis and also touched us unlike the teachers.Ganga Maai often helped us change our costumes including knickers on School functions.
Mr. Bishan Dass—taught us Maths. He had all his formulae in his pugree—yes Dr. Radha Krishan types.
Mr. Malhotra’s Geography( his carriage included!) covered only a little more than Patiala from where he used to get telegrams ‘to reach home’ urgently!
Mother Superior—yes that’s how we knew her appellation. What name she was called by, not to be asked. (Probably Sr. Casoria!)
Sister Valentine—taught us Shakespeare. And almost enacted the Bard. She never gave me a beating since I posted a letter (on a sly!) given to me by her, meant for someone I don’t know, but she knew.
Sister Regula—Kristen, a Polish, roly-poly son of a scientist called her ‘Rasgulla’ for she was very sweet at the age of about 60 then.

Sister Rosali(As late as in 1194)--I always asked her if she had her BP and Sugar levels under control and she would always laugh it away with the serousness of a stoic. She took us to the Convent on Christmas and made us eat the best cake ever!
Mr. Saini—O’ my God! He came on a ladies cycle and looked like Jitender just walking out of Ashoka Talkies after doing his Jeene Ki Raah! Must have been a beau model for nearly half a dozen generations of our Convent.
Mr. Soni—his shouting capabilities disturbed all the molecules in his Lab.
Mr. Ram Singh—Ruby had the guts to tell him on being caught by her flowing locks—Excuse me Sir, I ‘ve come of age! And he dealt with her more severely.
Mr. Dixit—whose daughter Dr. Alka met me sometime back. He used to be a Colossus of Political Science. And the way he could refer to Mrs. Gandhi in those days was his forte only—as a teacher.
Mr. Sharma—he always asked me to mimic Dev Anand.
Mr. Brij Bihari—then, and even today having pink cheeks, taught us more about the style of Dilip Kumar and less of History.
Mr.Rana Pratap Gannauri—one of the most celebrated poets had his Masters in three languages.
Mr.Chawla—an Oxonian, would out of a class of fifty, catch only one student’s eyeballs and ‘pilao’ him or her, the entire lecture on Chaucer. He called nightingale –Nikh-tin-gala, as was prevalent in 14th Century.
Mr. Ashq—spoke chaste English while his Urdu lined him up with titans. The way he could prolong the seduction scene by Lady Booby in Henry Fielding’s Joseph Andrews was his ‘personal’ art!
Mr. Rattan—all feared he might call his wife too—Beta! Girls nearly swooned seeing him.
Mr. Sushil—a perfect gentleman who had to talk about Mephistopheles all the time.
Mr. Kalia—his Linguists could never make the ‘Aindees’ tell an ‘S’ from an ‘Esh’ or ‘ev’ from ‘Oph’! After thirty years, I received a letter from him appreciating my middle-writing. And in his own beautiful hand.
Mr.Grewal—simplest of them all who had Shakespeare dance for him. And Dr. Faustus turn his head away from ‘Sweet Helen...!’ to listen to him.
Mr.Dahiya—the American accent suited him as naturally as his being a local did not. His ladder through ‘The Birches’ has all the steps to climb in praise of him. Unfortunately he was attacked in his office and we rushed to PGI to see him there. He became and MLA and a VC too.
Mr. Ahuja—who can say he knows that Law is an ass!
Ka Naa Subramanyam—my mentor in Journalism and a great friend of Khushwant Singh referred me to Anees Jung of Youth Times to fear a woman journalist for all my life.
Mr.Sethi—he taught me to be ‘workably honest’!
Mr.Vasudeva—had more ‘practical knowledge’ than red corpuscles in his blood.
Mr. Koshy—I started mistaking me for a teacher with his lessons to me. He is my student now since—he has retired.
MY HEAD BOWS BEFORE YOU ALL! IN REVERENCE AND IN OBEISANCE.

Teachers made us what we are!!! Thank U Mam/Sir!

Taar Babu of the Jhaal

By Rajbir Deswal
The roaring sound of the water fall, commonly known as “jhaal” on the western Yamuna canal never seemed to disturb him. He had, perhaps, become used to it. Not even for a single moment during the whole day his ears enjoyed the serenity and calmness of silence. Added to this was the “thak-thak” rhythm of his Morse code system of telegraphy for sending messages, with short dots and long dashes, in those days. He was the Taar Babu, employed at the Anta Khaal, near my village on the canal bank.
Taar Babu was a simple man. He could be seen wearing his round collar-coat in winters and a khadi vest in summers. His grey hair added grace to his contented face adorned with a pair of Gandhi-style spectacles. His family stayed with him in a quarter behind the office. The nearest town was about five miles away. Yet he could not afford to leave his place of duty. He was supposed to transmit messages regularly, mostly about the flow of water in the canal provided to him by the staff on duty.
Passers-by could see Taar-Babu tending and pruning the plants in the front yard. The jamun and mango trees grown by him yielded good crops. Vegetables too were grown any hedges, since there was no neighbour and, perhaps, no stray cattle to damage his plant kingdom. A profusion of flowers, mostly marigolds and roses, marked the boundaries of his kingdom. Taar Babu and his family lived there alone, all by themselves.
Passer-by would never miss greeting Taar Babu and in return invite a smile from him. He was a regular invitee to all the social functions in the village. He was a regular invitee to all the social functions in the village. He was always seated next to the Choudharies and was held in good esteem by all and sundry in and around the village. Besides being the village postman, he was also the recognized reader of letters and other documents of illiterate villagers.
During panchayat sessions, he was invited to sort out certain thorny issues. He never took sides but only assisted the panchayat in understanding the technical aspects of disputes.
Taar Babu’s three children were carried to the village school on a bicycle by a belder. They were the best dressed students. Villagers admired the children’s looks and appearance since their hair was properly combed and well oiled. They were the role models for practicing cleanliness, preparing for examinations and showing social graces.
Whenever senior officers of the irrigation department visited the village, or certain sites nearby, Taar Babu was there to bring the problems of the villagers to the notice of the officers. He acted as a committed representative of the simple rural folks.
Years rolled by. Taar Babu retired. He left the “jhaal” site and shifted to some unknown place with his family. Nothing was heard of him for long.
Last summer a Superintending Engineer visited our village. He expressed a desire to visit the “jhaal”. He alighted from his car and moved in a very familiar way straight towards a dilapidated and deserted structure. He looked at the forlorn walls and fallen roof with concern. This was the place where the Taar Babu lived and worked about 40 years ago.
Near the “jhaal”, a colony had come up now. The Superintending Engineer ordered creation of a small park, renovation of the structure and planting of marigolds and roses on the small patch. He was the son of Taar Babu, one of the three role models for students of the village school.

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Missing Johny? Haidar!

Match-Fixing:Doggy Style!

On match-fixing:I wrote this for The Tribune 10 years back. Fixing pugnacity
By : Rajbir Deswal
THE news on the TV was on. My little puppy, Micky, lay curled on the carpet in my study, with a soft cushion under him in a corner from where he always has the TV in view. The headlines included information on match-fixing. More news followed. Micky’s eyebrows started doing a sea-saw, one up, the other down. But rubbing his snout against the wall, he fixed his eyes on the TV screen. News in detail followed and Micky lent his attentive antenna-like ears to the newscast.
With a jerk he sat on his haunches, sighed with more rapidity, sniffed a little, sneezed and left the room. I was amazed at this sudden change of mood in Micky and followed him. He was in conversation with the neighbours pet Snoopy. Good Lord! Do animals really talk? I couldn’t believe my ears and rubbed my eyes to know if I wasn’t actually watching a story being enacted out of Panchtantra.
“What rubbish, there is no animality left in these human beings and particularly the ones who are said to be living the spirit of the sports, day in and day out! “Micky spat out his disgust and articulated his criticism of the match-fixer cricketers. Even snoopy was red with rage. “Did you also hear that-unbelievable?” said he.
The debate began in a corner of the lounge and I went behind the curtains hiding myself, more out of shame and less out of curiosity, on knowing that the animals too talk, talk sense and can target the human beings raising an accusing finger at their conduct.
“Snoopy dear, now please tell me,when we pounce upon each other and fight, do we not fight with our heart and soul? When we frown at each other, from a distance, do we not have all the contempt and venom spewed in full measure? When we bark at each other on the sides of our respective fences, do we not almost tear our vocal chords to empty our disgust completely? When I hear you barking at a stranger in the house, do I not join you in the duet and our collective endeavour deters the house breaker, who leaves with a resolve to find some other house, where the likes of us, sincere fellows, aren’t there to chase or even bark to caution the landlord or the master? Micky hurled a volley of questions.
An eavesdropping me could not believe he was making those assertions to bring home the point of sticking to certain norms of decent behaviour, even while fighting. And fighting for a cause or even without a cause, as animals do. For once, I experienced as if Manoj Prabhakar was speaking through the pet in my house.
Now it was the turn of Snoopy: “Oh yaar Micky, I was, the other day witness to a cockfight in the back street where the labour class lives and regularly enjoys the pleasure of brawls. These cocks, true to their salt bury their long, sharpened-with-zeal-to-win bills, into the flesh of the adversary. For whose pleasure? After all, is it not for the human beings around, or else theirs is not the property dispute being settled then? The screams of these cocks can scare even pussy aunt Mano as also our Blackie uncle in the household of the street-Dada, the gangster. I have seen blood oozing out of the torn skin and plucked feathers of the fighting duo, confirming that they did not spare any milder or kinder thoughts while fighting, for their enemy.
Micky became all the more serious when he said: “ It is only the film actors who indulge in a blood-chilling fight but wise people know that it is a mock fight only, and everybody knows that they are paid for that. But when the entire country, nay the entire world, knows that it is a sport in right earnestness, how con they afford to go astray, and instead of being true to the pitch, develop an itch on their palms. Chi-Chi-Chi. I don’t think doomsday is any far! Remember Punit Issar? Even during a mock fight, he became a little more serious and unmindfully punched Amitabh Bachchan a little too hard.”
All this while Snoopy had become a little easy with himself. Even Micky’s coaxing did not tickle him anymore. It sounded to Micky as if Snoopy was becoming somewhat practical and he exhorted Snoopy: “I can sense you are going to make some kind of a confession as confirmed to me when I evoked my sixth sense!”
Snoopy smiled and collected the trickling saliva in his mouth and said: “Well, my friend, being true to ourselves, let us admit that whenever strangers or intruders throw a bone at us, we not only are up for grabs but wag our tails also in gratitude.” Micky shared the sense of sincerity and honesty and questioned meekly, almost whispering in Snoopy’s ears: “But when do we use cell-phones to strike a deal with the go betweens, bookies and brokers”. And even if you use them, how are they going to prove it? A mere denial should set at rest all the controversy,” Snoopy quipped and noticing me hear the canine conversation he cautioned Micky: Hey, your master!” Immediately they gathered themselves and started a fight, barking, howling, grunting, woofing, as if they were the sworn enemies of each other. Yes, at least they should appear to be on logger heads with each other not at all even suggesting fixing their pugnacity at whatever cost! I tried to scrape my dog-sense to understand human-behaviour but couldn’t.

Photo credit:http://www.ldjackson.net/wp-content/uploads/2009/07/dogfight1.jpg