तेरा जाना दिल के अरमानों का लुट जाना ! Parting protocol…!!!

Parting in style
by Rajbir Deswal
NOW that 2011 should be saying goodbye to us all, let us ponder a bit over parting protocol to be followed without which what is left in sensitive minds is an ever-lurking unfulfilled feel of a desire, besides a pinch of nostalgia to be experienced with a kind of negative stimulation later in life. Hence wise people make the parting moment charitable, memorable and at the same time such that doesn’t leave a sense of “O’ it could’ve been this way!” It applies to situations when you call it quits but some exceptional people have exceptional ways of executing parting.
Former Italian Premier Berlusconi, while transferring power to his successor effected a smoother and musical transition. On the last day of his office, he sang “songs of love” for his fans and followers. He handed the reins of governance employing an enthralling performance and ensuring a kind of grand finale to his tenure; his checkered record of having been involved in a sex scandal, notwithstanding. Parting and departing verily are two different things
I am reminded of Dr. Faustus, who repenting being an actor with pure flesh and blood and enjoying un-tasted pleasures in the world, begs the Almighty, “My God! my God! look not so fierce on me!”
I am also reminded of Kaka Hathrasi, the famous humorist and poet, who in the town of Hathras in UP, told his near and dear ones, well- wishers and fans to let him depart from the world the way he lived here – jocularly. He had his mourners take him for his funeral reciting his poems with huge, uproarious guffaws, “which should rant the skies”. So they did, on his death.
A common refrain in the Army is “When you go home, tell them of us, for their tomorrow, we gave our today!” A movie made after the Chinese aggression of 1962 ‘Haqeeqat’ had a song Kar chale hum fida jano tan sathiyo / Ab tumhare hawale watan sathiyo which reverberates still, and more as a signature-song for all patriotic functions in our country.
Contrast the above scenario of departing with that of the Watergate protagonist, President Nixon, who remained glued to his chair with his upper limbs gone round and round with arms on the chair like a creeper coils around a branch or a trunk; and his lower extremities woven around the legs of the chair in a similar fashion. He at a later day had to untangle and go away unsung, and in the most unceremonious manner. The scene described here was the subject mater of a cartoon in those days.
Similarly General Musharraf extracted every tear and the last drop of sweat from his people while shedding his uniform first and then shedding his tenuous dictatorial stance. He could have sung a qawwalli —Teri mehfil men kismet azma ke hum bhi dekhenge, London!
Basheer Badr, the famous Urdu poet, has a couplet to his credit – Dushmani jam ke karo lekin ye gunjaish rahe, jab kabhi hum dost ho jayen to sharminda na hon.
Even the Bollywood movies have the hero fade away, crooning songs. And we all lap it up, singing along! When parting becomes inevitable, sing on, sing on and sing on! All hail Berlusconi!

Positive Indicators from the Khap-Panchayat Scenario

Postive Indicators frm the Khap-Panchayat Scenario

RAJBIR DESWAL

In the normal course, these panchayats are nothing more than kangaroo courts. Yet the diktats find acceptance

Adverse publicity seems to be making the Khaps more cautious, more saneReining in the Khap Panchayats

I was attending a seminar recently when I had cause to squirm. A representative from South India made a case for changing the name by which the grass-roots people’s organisations are called. He argued that Panchayats had got a bad name, especially since in some North Indian states, there were Khap Panchayats that had awarded death sentences to perfectly innocent young people, whose only fault was falling in love! I come from the land of Khap Panchayats, and I felt deeply embarrassed. The death sentence is pronounced by the Khap Panchayats, which adjudicate matters relating to a gotra across different villages, since there are perceived insults to clans or gotras, based on the transgression of conventional sexual mores. The speaker at the seminar, aghast that the bodies proclaiming such brutal punishment were called Panchayats, wanted the rather more benign bodies in South India to be renamed. But in the recent past, we have had two instances of good news that are worth taking note of. A court in Mathura, after a Haryana court in Karnal, which had passed sentence in the famous Manoj-Babli case, has dealt with an iron hand in another case of honour killing. The Mathura court on November 16 sentenced eight persons to death and 27 others to life imprisonment for killing a Jat-Jatav couple 1991. The ‘adjudicating’ Panchayat members allegedly did not appreciate the couple’s ‘audacious’ plea that they were in love; they wished to live together as man and wife. The Panchayat ordered them to be hanged to death; they were hung on a tree, then their dead bodies were dragged to the cremation ground. The court ruled that this case was among the ‘rare of rare’ ones. In another instance, a Sarvjatiya Sarvkhap Panchayat in village Bhainswal, Sonipat district, Haryana, has so far successfully averted a bloody feud between two rival groups. A Sarpanch has lost his life in this rivalry. The Panchayat, it is hoped, will be instrumental in having the accused person, now evading arrest, surrender. That is the agreement that has been reached. Of late, there is reason to think that the saner elements among the Khaps and Panchayats, feeling the heat of adverse publicity, have been rather more careful in deciding matters. In the normal course, these panchayats are nothing more than kangaroo courts; yet, its diktats are followed and the punishments it pronounces meted out; even when human blood is so often spilled in that process. It is a good development that at least in some instances, we see a less blood-thirsty form of justice dispensation from the caste courts. When, as a collective entity, these Panchayats are held guilty of bloodlust, the stain is perhaps hard to bear. And the role of the country’s judiciary in stepping in and righting some of these wrongs cannot be underplayed. To put these killings in perspective, it might be worthwhile to recall that there is one universal cultural taboo, across all societies - that is the taboo against incest. Each society might define the degrees of kinship between which sexual relations are forbidden differently, but the fact of treating some blood relations as out-of-bounds for a sexual relationship obtains, across all human societies. There is also great revulsion at the thought of breaking this taboo, which too is a deep-seated cultural trait. Those who break the law in matters sexual are treated to the most reprehensible reprimand and admonition. Honour killings are usually carried out against men and women found to break these traditional barriers; they are seen as despicably pernicious, unfit even to live after the act is committed.Expressing concern over the manner in which gory punishments were meted out to young couples for transgressing these traditional boundaries, the Punjab and Haryana High Court recently issued directions to the authorities, particularly about the life, safety and security of those who perform what have come to be called ‘run-away’ marriages. The court has directed that the arrest of the boy in such cases be deferred, until a statement is obtained from the girl whom parents often allege, was ‘abducted’. Any social group that hives off and becomes a ‘ghetto’ willtend to be extra-sensitive about upholding its ‘honour’. The proper assimilation of groups into a larger sense of nationhood would aid in eroding such brutality, as the crime itself will become less reprehensible as it will not strike at the root of the collective identity as sorely.A greater understanding and sympathy for practises in other communities, other societies, would leave people with far greater reserves of tolerance, in my opinion. It is when caste groups operate with a notion of threat that they end up taking on each other.There are also other considerations of a purely pragmatic nature that would help end such brutality that is held as acceptable by caste groups. When the runaway couple leave their traditional homes and set up home elsewhere, they are quite often left alone to do as they please. If the ‘law-breakers’ continue to live in close proximity with those who hold that they have transgressed laws and deserve punishment, they are more often than not going to face the wrath of the angry people. The gravity of the misdemeanour is usually also inversely proportional to the distance between the locations of the two caste groups. When the offending people are not constantly in the presence of the elders whom they have offended, they have a far greater chance of leading normal lives, less scarred by hate and punishment. A girl found running away from home to enter into a relationship with a man may have a tough time finding acceptance again. She could be left to fend for herself, or married off to someone against her wishes, forcefully. The risk to the girl is also cited as a reason for why the boy deserves to be killed. There is, however, nothing that cannot provoke murderous ire in such circumstances. Even a bad word about the offending caste group could invite violence. Given this scenario, it is just as well that we have some sanity from Karnal Mathura and Bhaiswal.

I in Big Boss Family with Sunny and Swami--Why not?

What a rise my countrymen!
by Rajbir Deswal
(IN THE TRIBUNE)
FRIENDS, I have come to praise Swami and Sunny, not to lampoon them. They are honourable man and woman, respectively. Though the Swami is out of the House but he dubbed the redoubtable parliamentarians as being not a shade better than the members of the celibate-spiritualist’s new-found family of Big Boss. They, too, are honourable men.

The Swami had chosen to be among the chosen few. The chosen few are sure honourable men. Dolly, Shakti, Khalee, Veena are all honourable men and women. The Swami dons saffron and Sunny almost nothing. All men in saffron are honourable men. All women donning nothing, too, are honourable women.

The Swami once gave the impression that his worth was no less than an Anna. After all, Anna is also an honourable man.

I have come to bury bossism, not to endorse it. But suppose if I myself were to be in Big Boss’s family. Wait a minute! Let me rejoice at the thought of it. Let my soul come back to me. The Swami, too, must have fantasised. Sunny made no bones about it and declared that she couldn’t believe she was in India. But I am also no less an honourable man.

So here I go, sharing with you what I would have if I were to be there in that sanctum-sanatorum. Even that is a sacred Man-sion . House is a name given to a place where ugly brawls keep taking place. Isn’t it, the Swami?

Okay then! I wouldn’t laugh but grin, showing my smart denture less on things not laughable and more on silly mishaps. If someone cracked a joke, I would ask it to be repeated. And then not laugh at all. And change the topic to ‘save the environment’.

I would talk less sense and more profundity and would look for reactions. If someone really understood me, I would rubbish it and give my own explanation of my concept, shouting and howling.

All my expressions should betray what has been there in my mind. Total hypocrisy at play, I must declare. I should keep throwing tantrums but at times look serene to convey that I had variety in me. I should be careful not to be emotional. I must rejoice at the very ouster, and not shedding of a tear, to look normal. My expressionless face should confuse the cameras.

Even realising being rude in my conduct with others, I would try to be still worse. I would make faces at my detractors when they did not look towards me while my jogging would continue with thumping in my training shoes. I would keep in mind my opponents while chopping vegetables. I should not miss out on making sentences having unparliamentary expressions — Big Boss would take care to ‘beep’ them.

I don’t know if they serve drinks there, but I would make sure that I looked inebriated to be excused for my ‘civilised’ behavior if at all I indulged in realising little that it was a reality show. I would look more anglicised and less ‘desi’, for once I have chosen that style, there should be no looking back.

Lastly, I would not mind what was fair and what was foul even if I had to take a lesson or two in the art of choosing a platform more profitable than Ahem, Ahem…! That round-round building in the Capital — saying it in a roundabout manner! Right, Swami?

OF UNWORTHY FRINEDS

OF UNWORTHY FRINEDS
(IN DAILY POST)
Rajbir Deswal‘
She looked white. Run down. Weather beaten. A hoary picture with scars. She buttonholed me on my stroll. “I lost my father!” she told me. “Oh, I am sorry!” I said and asked, “Do you want to inform someone? “ My hand drifted towards the pocket for my mobile phone.

“Do you live here?” I sought to know as I hadn’t ever seen her in that house. “No, I live in Sector 4, house number 56!” she said, her voice trembling. She was restless. She wiped her parched lips with her hands, every now and then. She kept looking at the main entry of the house she was standing at.

“When did it happen? Do you want a doctor called in?” I asked her. “It’s been a year now! But it feels as if it happened just now!” she said. I was taken aback. I pulled my hand out of the pocket, dropping the mobile phone there itself. Many women in the neighbouring houses were standing at their gates and exchanging glances and nasty smiles while looking at me talking with the woman.

Things were beginning to become clear in my mind. I began to feel uncomfortable too, not with what I was then indulging in, but that people around should be thinking I am a fool. “Did she lose her mental balance after the tragedy?” I thought to myself and asked her, “What do you want me to do?”

“Just call them from inside,” she said pointing at the door of the house we were standing outside. “They were my father’s best friends. They had been with us through all ups and downs. They stood by us when my marriage hit a rough patch. They had even promised help in case my father didn’t survive his cancer. They are a decent couple. My father and uncle were best of colleagues, known more as pals,” she said. The door didn’t open. The lights went off.

I was at sea and couldn’t instantly decide what to do. I tried to wriggle out fearing her father’s friends may not like my intrusion in their personal matter. And if the neighbours’ glances were so conforming to a weird thing happening, then they must have a reason for it. “But would they not mind a stranger like me calling them when you already know them? I mean when they are your father’s friends, then they should definitely help you!” I said to her and began to walk my way, so very nonchalantly.

She was, as if, waiting for a reassurance. She was as if wanting some endorsement of her views. She was, as if, wanting to justify her presence at her diseased father’s friends place. Excitedly, she told me, “Yes, exactly. They should help me. And who else would, if not them? But why aren’t they opening the doors and coming out?” She started snapping her fingers and leapt to press the call bell yet another time.

Having waited for a response for a few moments, she turned to me,” Don’t worry, I will manage. After all, it’s me who has to manage. You may go. Thank you very much indeed!” She excused herself, stretching a very genuine and not purpose-manoeuvered smile, either reading my thoughts or realising that I was yet another unworthy friend. I had already moved away from her. Unmoved.

Of rat-killers,pied-pipers & scare-crows

Set an animal to catch an animal, instead of human Pied Pipers !
By: Rajbir Deswal
(IN HINDUSTAN TIMES)
Though he gets paid for his services to his clients, to earn a little more he doubles as a rat-killer by night. I am talking about Prateik Babbar in the film Dhobi Ghat. This character from Mumbai takes my mind all across to Srinagar, a city where the dog count is said to be some 80,000, as against a human population of 1.4 million.
There's now news that ten vacancies for the post of city dog-catchers have been advertised after the Jammu and Kashmir High Court directed the government to create dog-pounds. This, after the court feared that the dogs “will be stoned to death“ by locals. Dogged by the demand of R20 crore by the selfstyled Pied Piper of Kashmir, Khursheed Ahmed Mir, the government had to finally have a re-think on the issue. Hence, the headhunting exercise for career dog-catchers and the picking of the finest for the job at a talent hunt in the offices of the Srinagar Municipal Committee.

Sometime ago, I had seen a TV show, which was a `success story' about a town in Africa infested with nettlesome insects that made the townspeople live in misery.
The mayor stumbled on to a brilliant idea: of increasing the population of an insect-eating bird. The municipality there had bird-houses (not cages) put up in vertical rows on stakes, pillars and poles with enough bird feed to go around. They also passed a local resolution not to torment, injure and kill the birds. And sure enough, lo and behold! when the bird population swelled, it almost wiped out the entire insect menace.

They have a langur on the payroll to scare away the brown monkeys inside and outside Yojna Bhawan in New Delhi. In a town in Punjab, residents had hatched a plan to feed the monkeys something that made them infertile, which stopped them from multiplying. But thanks to that legendary force called `Hindu sentiments', there were no buyers for the idea that was seen in some quarters to be antiHanuman. In my village, we had a problem with monkeys for five years. They became so audacious that they started attacking women, children and even lathi-wielding men. It continued till the time the whole village stood up against them by kettling -a police technique used to contain a large, unruly crowd, gherao being a kind of desi version of it. One by one, with a little nudging, the monkeys surrendered themselves, offering no resistance, with some of them feigning being unconscious. They were taken in sacks and transported to a faraway place.

Animals seem to adapt better than food-price-affected humans. The scarecrows don't frighten birds for long, and other creatures catch on pretty quickly.
So it's better to use animals to stave off other animals. Otherwise, you're left with the option of some Pied Piper pretending to be an expert against pests.

Pappu pass ho gaya! Yes, it's me!

Pappu pass ho gaya!
By Rajbir Deswal

We may now laugh it off, but as kids, if anyone rubbed us the wrong way, even if unintentionally, we reacted the way we did because those were the days of innate innocence. Later, maturity robbed us of that innocence and made us less prone to impish impulsiveness. Colloquially, we call it ‘chhed’ or someone’s weak spot for poking fun at. A happy-pack of six brothers and sisters, each one of us had his/her anathema, which triggered instant and reflexive retort.

Well, my eldest sister, now 62, had a favourite song—Meri tasveer lekar kya karoge tum. When the song went on air, we rushed to her with the transistor, to pamper her and win her silky smile. And we knew she had a near crush on Manoj Kumar, a fact she is willing to lap up even today, grinning ear to ear.

Sister number two was always conscious of her well-chiseled long nose. Once while travelling on a train, a fellow passenger and a tribal woman said it abundantly loud, “Look this girl has a beautiful, pointed nose!” Reaching home, she made us all repeat umpteen times what ‘that’ tribal woman said in the compartment.

Sister number three in the series did much of lisping and would pronounce words dragging them smoothly but sweetly, when she was just a kid. Once when the deputy commissioner visited our village, she announced it to my grandmother, “Aye ree majee, dee-chee aa rhya chai!”

The mere mention of dee-chee made her frown in reaction then, but now, she flashes a pleasant smile. Her gait resembled that of my mother and we still ask her to walk just six steps in the room to reconstruct a scene, now lost for long. The ‘chhed’ makes her happy a great deal.

Two sisters, younger to me, had a bigger share of pokes from all of us seniors, and obviously so. You could never force anything on one of them who was someone with a free will. If she was pampered, she could do any or all of your biddings, but not otherwise. She could not withstand cold weather.

Once in the month of June, she was found nowhere in the house. While everybody was worried, she lay cozily under a heap of quilts! We then began making fun of her, calling her ‘doom’, a tribe known to keep themselves under wraps even in scorching summers.

Now, there was a time when biscuits were made ‘right in front of our eyes’ with pure ghee, milk, sugar and flour sent to the bakery from home. Once while standing under a mounted shelf, the youngest of us all, hardly a two-year-old then, was looking up, her hands raised in prayer, in letting her being handed over the biscuit container: ‘Hey Ram, peepa patra de!’ Oh, she has been blushing at the very mention of that day ever since!

If, by now, you’re thinking my siblings spared me, then, well, that’s not the case. I have two of my favourites amongst the many: One, that if someone showed me a packet gone oily, as if there were sweetmeats in that, I would jump to grab it. But my lower lip protruded and tears trickled down my eyes on knowing of the prank played on me!

Two, if they wanted me to do a thing, they needed to tell me not do it. For instance, a ‘Don’t pick your nose Pappu!’—yes, that’s my nickname—met with a ‘I will’. And my finger would drift to my nose.

Well, the latest chhed of me is ‘Pappu pass ho gaya!’

अंचला क्यूं कलोल करे कच्छ से Why should the cloth pat the bosom?

अंचला क्यूं कलोल करे कच्छ से
बीज परयो बिरवा उपज्यो
फिर फुल्ल के फुल्ल भयो ऋतू से
चुनिए ने चुना बुनिए ने बुना
धुनिये ने धुना अपनी धुन से
दर्जी की सुई को जिगर में सहा
धोबियन की मरोर सही पट से
इतने जब कष्ट सहे अंचला
फिर क्यूं ना कलोल करे कच्छ से
This is from an unknown author
I translate it in English
Why should the cloth pat the bosom
Seed grew, in a plant,
In season flowers on it did blossom
Picker picked, weaver wove,
ginner ginned with his craft
Swewing needle pierced its heart
When washerman beat it with moves smart
When cloth suffered strokes a tonne
Why wont cloth pat bosom n have fun!

(RD)

Mr Pesky's Lament: O' for the SMS

Mr Pesky’s elegy on SMS!

By: Rajbir Deswal
If you have tears, prepare to shed them
now!” Thus spake Mr Pesky, mourning the death of the ubiquitous SMS. “Now he
lies here...dead and gone! When comes such another! O Service Providers, if I
were disposed to stir your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, I should do TRAI
wrong, and DoT wrong!” Lamented Mr Pesky and continued grieving.
“Of the slain SMS, they call him names in frilled alliteration, woven in
expressions like pestering, pestiferous, plaguey, and, to suit their taste, more
offending ones like teasing, annoying, bothersome, galling, irritating,
nettlesome and what not!”
“History should repent also for its undoing. What people think comes gratis,
or as a freebie, has its own value too. The innocuous SMS may be dispensable for
some, but for others it may have been the mainstay. The announcement that you
will not be having these SMSes by simply texting a DND — Do not disturb — may be
some friends’ loss too, who would recall later with nostalgic pinch felt within
— O’ for a pesky one!”
“My uncle Frisky once told me that in Chandni Chowk, when they introduced
telephone connections for the first time, it came with buy-one-get-one-free
offer. Look at them now. The same people orchestrated the killing of a ‘service’
that charged almost nothing from anyone. O’ temopra! O’ mores!”
“So what if we have over 130 million mobile subscribers carped with the
National Do Not Call Registry till as late as August 25, there are others
(670-million strong!) who may be retired persons, or not too engaged in their
daily chores, or the indulgent ones who look up to the dreamy world of real
estate, banks, multinational companies, business houses, new launches, etc, to
pass their time in a fruitful activity.”
“What was the harm in being updated in the chosen field, even if it was from
soccer or cricket? Do you not stop the Shatabdi Express by pulling the chain to
know the score if it’s not available by other means? SMSs had a cure for this.
“What was the harm if someone called you up to assist you in getting faster,
and easy (in instalments) loan? What was the harm if looking for a flat, some
brokers sent you information desired by you? What was the harm if Liliput or
Koutons had announced a further reduction for you to visit their nearest
showrooms? What was the harm if friendship and social networking people
approached you for a handshake, if not more? All this baffles me a lot.”
“The services being what they are at the governmental and bureaucratic
levels, was it a sin if you received some really informative SMSes and acted
accordingly. Think of the millions of the mobile users, who are suffering from
ignorance about what is the latest? What is up market? What are the add-ons?
What are the offers? I feel sad though I will have to not only lie, but also
feel low!”
“What a fall my countrymen? Does the highway rattling not disturb your sleep?
Are you not shaken out of your slumber at the fast approaching and
alarm-sounding trains with a high decible—Paaaaaaaaannnnnn! Do the Pujari ji,
Bhai ji, Mulla ji not wake you up with their early morning clamours on public
address systems? Do the Mata-Jagran activists let your kids prepare well for
CET, CAT, MAT, etc? And now a soft buzz has let you all down! And you buried the
poor SMS!”
“O judgment! thou art fled to archived apparitions. And mobile users have
lost their SMSes!”

Details

Details

Bride Swapping! Of a kind!

Bride swapping
by Rajbir Deswal

Whenever I visit my village, I come back with a plot or two of another Mother India, Waris, Rudali or Dharti Kahe Pukar Ke!

This time it is a case of bride swapping (or a mix-up!) ‘exposed’ right in time!

About 50 years ago, the marriage of two cousins, Kanshi and Risala, was fixed with two cousin sisters, both named Angoori. Both lived in the same village. Both were similar bodywise. Both were illiterate and of the same age.

Those were the days when baraatis would travel on foot, with a cart or two, to carry the bride and the dowry articles. Also, poor people who could not afford to spend enough on weddings were ‘adopted’ by zamindars who would spend once and exploit the people life-long!

Our Kanshi and Risala were thus adopted by two wealthy farmers who were rivals and kept matching muscle power to take on one another frequently enough. Both zamindars got jewellery made for the brides-to-be and the D-day arrived. All and sundry in the village decked themselves up.

But who was to follow which bridegroom? If you were seen with a party patronised by one zamindar, the other getting wind of it, would automatically persecute you later. Under such stress the joint-baraat set foot to the village of Angoori — raised to the power of two. The wedding, however, remained a smooth affair till both Angooris were body-lifted to the bullock-cart by their respective maternal uncles.

Reaching the bridegrooms’ village, both Angooris, bundled and wrapped in clothes all over, were huddled and taken to their ‘not-respective’ bridegrooms’ kutcha houses. The mix-up had taken place.

Folk songs ranted the skies when they were accosted with a copper-ware, filled with water and a Pipal tree branch dipped in it, on their head. Curious ladies of the house opened their dowry boxes. A shock was in store for all, when Angoori-I demurely mentioned that the jewellery did not belong to her. A wise man suggested they consult Angoori-II. After a little while and before the nightfall — this is critical to note for obvious reasons — the truth became known and brides replaced and restored, appropriately.

However, another version of the episode doing the rounds till date, is that the mix-up became known four-five days later only, when one of the brothers of one of the Angooris, who had come to take his sister back home, exclaimed, “Oh no! She is not my sister!” By then the ‘damage’ had been done and a point of no return had been reached.

The families in awe of the zamindars never let the secret go out of their community, till recent times when winds of ‘glasnost and perestroika’ had started blowing generally, only to be ‘check-mated’ by khaps.

Murky world of female gangsters

Mafia Queens of Mumbai: Stories of Women from the Ganglands
By S. Hussain Zaidi with Jane Borges.
Tranquebar. Pages 290. Rs 250.
Reviewed by Rajbir Deswal
WHEN one chooses to write about women’s accounts of all that is murky, gory, sleazy and scandalous, one can’t help employing the poetic license to all justiciable limits—sometimes extolling the inherent virtues of their persona and at others, depicting their limitless wily disposition.

S. Hussain Zaidi, a veteran journalist and author of the thriller Black Friday, on which a movie was made by the redoubtable Anurag Kahsyap, has done enough research while penning down the life and times of the Mafia Queens of Mumbai, with the skill, talent and acumen of a raconteur par excellence. Jane Borges is the co-author.

"Lady Macbeth is more complex and fascinating a character than Macbeth or King Duncan. Madam Bovary, Anna Karenina, Phoolan Devi, Indira Gandhi and Sonia Gandhi are, to me, much more interesting than their male counterparts," says Vishal Bhardwaj, the noted filmmaker in his foreword to the book.

The book deals with 13 women characters from the Mumbai’s underworld. These women remained in limelight, contemporaneous with dons like Haji Mastan, Karim Lala, Dawood Ibrahim, Abu Salem, Chhota Rajan, Chhota Shakeel, Hussain Ustara, Arun Gawli et al. Zainab Darwesh Gandhi, alias Jenabai, was the earliest known stalwart who did take part in the freedom movement, but graduated to first become a rice hoarder, and then a bootlegger tycoon, who had under her influence titans like Haji Mastan and who also was instrumental in facilitating a truce between the warring Pathan factions to take on the might of Chillyas—Gujrati Muslims who monopolised the real estate arm-twisting and eviction ventures and tactics.

Ganga Hajeevandas Kathiawadi came from an affluent family of Kathiawad, who eloped with an accountant, on being drugged and lured into the dream city of "cars, men and movies" but was left to fend for herself in the red light zones, and who summoned up courage to meet and seek help from none other than the dreaded Karim Lala himself, in avenging her exploitation by a sadist and pervert Pathan by one Sahuqat Khan. She then became "Bade Ghar Wali" patronising the cause of the sex workers at no less a platform than Azad Maidan itself and even met Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru to take up their cause.

This reviewer’s favourite is "Femme Fettle", dwelling in detail on the life and struggle of Ashraf, reincarnated as Sapna, in her fight against Dawood Ibrahim, who tipped the cops into "encountering" her husband Mehmood at Santa Cruz airport. With the help of Hussain Ustara, she got herself trained in the art of shooting and self-defence and undertook expeditions into Nepal to take on Dawood’s men and destroy his weapons consignment.

She spent days and nights collecting information on Dawood’s gambling dens, thus rendering him a severe blow in men and materials in Mumbai. Ustara sought her bodily proximity and was almost mad in his seeking her, but all in vain since her purpose in life was to eliminate Dawood, even at a place like the cricket stadium in Sharjah.

On Ustara’s "undesirable" advances on her one night, when she was being chased by Dawood’s men, she slapped him hard and left him forever. Ustara regretted it and despite his coming to know of Dawood’s plans to eliminate her through Chhota Shakeel, he could not contact her. She was done to death brutally with a score stabs in her private parts and breasts. Ustara too was murdered having been caught off guard during one of his lusty misadventures.

Then there are the tales of a narco-trio, Mahalaxmi Papamani, Jyoti and Savitri. These women had a clout of sorts and orchestrated their illicit trade through cops and peddlers alike. Their expertise made them so filthy rich that they could employ the best of the lawyers to defend them. Papamani carried Rs 40,000-50,000 to be donated or loaned to the needy amongst her clientele daily. People had her framed portrait in their houses and had her busts made after her death.

Then there are Monica Bedi and Abu Salem. One may be curious to know how could an educated girl fell for a gangster. But then, if you believe Monica, she came to know of it when she had reached a point of no return, "I made the mistake of falling in love with him".

Arsalan, alias Abu Salem, of Azam Garh, had "blood" of the likes of Gulshan Kumar on his hands, when he tricked Monica into matrimony, calling her to Dubai on the pretext of hosting an event, when all her initial films had bombed off. With Abu’s connections, Monica got films like Jodi No.1 and Ishq, Pyar aur Muhabbat which made her a star in no time. She took to Bible and kept scurrying for small screen on her return to India from Portugal along with Abu Salem. She was also hired for "Big Boss".

The book briefly touches some Hindu dons wives’ roll, including Asha Gawli, Neeta Naik, Sujata Nikhalje, and Padma Poojari; bewitching beauties, Tarnnum Khan, the bar dancer, and Archana Sharma, aka Manisha; ganglord’s girls Shameem Miraaza Beg, aka Mrs Paul, and Rubina Siraj Sayyad. But all queens depicted here are humanly women!
http://www.tribuneindia.co​m/2011/20111016/spectrum/b​ook4.htm
The Sunday Tribune - Books

अभी दिल्ली दूर है—Delhi is far cry

Also he would have had an idea of traffic webs clogging the reach to Delhi, when Hazrat Nizamuddin, who on being informed about the Tughlaq king’s plan to eliminate him, when the king was about to reach the capital, the Sufi Saint had exclaimed, “हुनूज़ दिल्ली दूर अस्त! (अभी दिल्ली दूर है)—Delhi is far cry (for the king)! Remember the king fell off his elephant and died at the outskirts of Dilli. No, I dare not question the spiritual prowess and prophesying miracles of a Saint even if he did not refer to the चीं चीं पों पों at all!

समाधी की समाधी

समाधी पे उगा पेड़
बढ़ जाता है
मगर नहीं टूटती
समाधी की समाधी
पसरे रहती है
अँधेरे की तरह
अपने अंदर के
‘प्राणी’ की तरह
सोच की समाधी
से बाहर आओ यारो
समाधी पे पेड़
उगाओ तो प्यारो
(रादे )

"HELLO EXCHANGE?"

Phoney Days
By RAJBIR DESWAL
Why we shouldn't sulk about mobiles?
No, it wasn't like it is today when you dial a number and get the person on the line. You had to call up `the exchange' those days. Not the bourses where stocks and shares go up and down, but the telephone exchange.
“Hello? Exchange? Please give me 272.“ There was a precise number you asked the operator to connect you to. If he or she was in a pleasant mood, the person would ask, “Urgent or ordinary?“ According to your response, you would be asked to hold the line. Once on the line, in the middle of a conversation, the operator's voice would butt in: “Three minutes over!“ To which your response, if you wanted to continue chatting, would be: “Please extend the time.“ It was not a statement; it was a submission. “Khatam karo jee!“ the operator would again caution you. And before you could wind up your tete-a-tete, you would hear the `toon-toon-toon' sound of a `disconnection'.
The dial tone also confirmed that the phone had a beating heart. Those days the phone rang with only one tune: `Tarran-tarran“. You also couldn't adjust the volume of your phone. These were also the days when you wouldn't be bothered by a phone ringing away with no one picking it up on the other side. It was the operator and the operator alone who had the right to listen in and tell you that nobody was picking up the phone.
If you had to talk to someone living in another town, you needed to book a `trunk call'.
This system did not, as many callers thought, refer to any elephant metaphor but was analogous to a tree trunk and its many branches. Initially, you would have to walk up to the telephone exchange or the post office to book a trunk call. The wait there could be anything up to three to four hours. An international call sometimes took two to three days. Booking a trunk call over the phone came later.
The real trauma a phone-owner experienced was when he was told to `please' call so-and-so neighbour as “it was an emergency“. Calling the neighbour, listening to him talk (who, at times, betrayed no expressions that may have pointed to any `emergency'), and offering a cup of tea after the call was done were collateral damage that came with having a telephone in the house. What made matters worse was the dreaded request: “Could I make a call?“ Any payment in money or kind was seldom made.
Cross-connections provided the comical interludes. But they were a headache when one was talking about a serious matter -like an illness, or a recipe, or sweet nothings. People today talk about the 2G scam and spam text messages in this age of mobile phones. I say much better these than those hoary days when telephony itself was a giant scam.
Rajbir Deswal is a Delhi-based writer The views expressed by the author are personal

ALSO AT

http://epaper.hindustantimes.com/PUBLICATIONS/HT/HC/2011/09/22/ArticleHtmls/Phoney-days-22092011008006.shtml?Mode=1

Love me, love my buffalo! मेरी भैंस को डंडा क्यूँ मारा ?

Love me, love my buffalo!
by Rajbir Deswal
मेरी भैंस को डंडा क्यूँ मारा ?
Nowhere on the earth do people love – rather worship — their buffaloes like in Haryana. After the formal greeting of ‘Jai Ram ji ki’, the first topic to be mentioned is invariably either the rains or the milk supply by the buffaloes.

The buffalo is the ‘neighbour’s envy and owner’s pride’. A Haryanvi will be consumed by mosquitoes, get infected, have malarial shivers, but will protect his buffaloes with huge nets, tucked all around with no letting in of machhars.

The owner pampers his buffalo to the extent of not only listening to its heart-beats, but also receiving its emotional vibes. Watching her being bathed with tender affection can make the best loved person jealous of the Black Beauty. No exaggeration then that a hardcore Haryanavi would want to become a buffalo in his next life.

Haryanvis may make their children eat less in the lean period of their earnings, but will empty all their treasures of the best fodder and gram floor, oilseed waste and cottonseed sprouts for the buffalo, for it helps to have her udders ‘filled to the brims’ with quality milk.

Remember Udham Singh (Munish Makhija) – The bald, lanky Haryanavi sitting on a cot with a lathi in hand and a mooing buffalo in the frame of an ad? This depiction has more sense than symbolism.

Even the jokes and pithy Haryanvi idioms and sayings have enough buffalo blood flowing in them. For example, a buffalo entering the water (Bhains pani main jana ) or going up on the canal bank (Bhains patdee pe chadh jana) entail being fined for the unscrupulous but pardonable act on the part of the buffalo.

The Haryanvis sometime back stopped feeding su-babool fodder to buffaloes for they believed it had caused hairfall on the tail of their beautiful pet.

A male calf being born was not a welcome thing for Haryanavis till some time back; and only Yamraj – the death-supervising deity – was seen riding it. But now they have gainfully employed them as draft animals – fit to pull their carts.

There is a saying to the effect that you will have only male calves born to your buffaloes, for the female calves would be stolen away to be replaced by males, if you were sleeping on the care of your buffalo.

Interestingly, the buffaloes recognise their khoonta – stake or tether – in case there was a dispute over their ownership. Even the police employed khoonta-parade to settle the issue between a buffalo owner and a buffalo thief. In this case, the buffalo could without being guided, go up to her tether instinctively, to make a case for its owner.

444444444An interesting joke to end it all. A young, debonair male calf challenged a lazy, old he-buffalo to a race. The ‘infirm and inadequate’ Old Hat replied “Na bhai, baithe-baithe jugaalee karte kaan hilaate rehne ka muqabala karna ho to aaja” – No Sir, if you are willing to compete in the art of just shaking your ears while cud-chewing, then come on!n

Honking for all occasions !

Honking for all occasions
By: Rajbir Desweal
Disciplined drivers in many countries rarely honk, except in disgust or to sound an alarm. Nearer home, the honk is a signature tune, and can be amended to suit every occasion. A honk of the highest pitch and tone, blowing to the winds all norms and rules, could shatter golden silence and ruin all serenity and civility on the roads.
To get the cow out of the way, to get a pretty girl turn your way. Whatever the reason, there’s an apt honk. There’s music in it, if you will only hear it with the right ears, there’s a honk for every occasion.

But hello, why look down on something so widely accepted on our streets. What is a ride on our road without the tee-tee, pauwn-pauwn? Let’s just plunge right in and join the mob, go honking all the way, for it is also eminently needed to establish right of way. It’s a malady, and it’s also its own remedy!

For music-loving people like us who have so many ragas, whose music is made to suit various moods and climes, honking is expression too; there’s a tune for every season. We’re honkers unlimited, and we find a honk to match the mood and the reason.

For marriage, there is a honk. For a funeral, there’s another honk. If the light turns green, honk. To announce you’ve arrived, honk. For overtaking, just honk hard. To call a friend from the flat on the fourth floor, honk harder. To match a beat on the stereo system, honk. To caution a blind man crossing the road, honk. And to get the cow to make way, honk.

And the list doesn’t end there. To sound a victory, honk. To get a pretty young thing to turn your way, honk. To protest while stuck in a jam, there’s a honk-chorus. On a blind turn, there is a legally justified, PWD-desired, long honk.

There’s a euphoric honk, a guilty honk. There’s an audacious honk and a sadistic one. There is an answer-honk to a question-honk. There is a musical honk, and an unmusical honk.

There’s ‘make way in a hurry’ honk, the ‘I’m fed up’ honk. There’s a merry honk and a threatening honk. There a honk just to honk in your face and push you up the wall too, the ‘Bas, waise hee’ honk.

So since you cannot get above the din, just join in. Happy honking!

BEWARE! Your Dreams can be Recorded Now!

What if the dreams could be recorded on video!
BY:RAJBIR DESWAL
Once dreams were recorded, we could even have a modern-day Sigmund Freud set to work on them
How nice it would be if we could record a dream on video!
A patent for a dream recorder, please
I read somewhere, and now I forget where, that ideas are invited to go into a science fiction bank. Here is my idea. I’d like to patent it.

Imagine what it might be, if dreams could be recorded! How revealing it might be, to be able to see the murderer plotting his crime in his head, even as he sleeps.

I could have seen the man plot the murder of my client-yes, I work as a lawyer-and perhaps the dream could also be used as evidence of sorts in court?

A dream recorder might serve as evidence of intention, as the murderer had been plotting away his path to riches.

How nice it would be if we could record a dream on video! So what if the dreams were dreamt by a jaundiced eye, and were recorded in a device not usually used for such a purpose. These could be used as arguments against using dreams in the courtroom.

The science fiction idea could be grabbed by people in research and development in a technology firm, and who knows? It might well someday become a reality.

Was not the cellphone or the TV an idea before the reality? And who, living a few centuries ago, might have imagined them possible? Dream interpreters would lose their jobs, if my idea became reality.

Some people might go hiding, putting the videos in ‘safe custody’ so that others would not have access to them-for obvious reasons, you see!

Some dreamers would sleep under showers, to not let a single wet dream make it into the recorder? Still others who stumble on hidden treasures might seek police protection for all their wealth.

The Dream Recorder would come with user-friendly devices. Like auto-start of equipment at specific points in the dream, auto-off where the dreamer treads slippery territory.

Conferencing while recording dreams, so people could interact while at it, could also be considered. If the dream is an enjoyable one for the viewer (and I mean not the dreamer but his audience), its time could be extended.

If the dream is particularly unpleasant or erotic, the device could insert a warning: ‘unfit for toddlers’.

Once dreams were recorded, we could even have a modern-day Sigmund Freud set to work on them: what depths of psychological insight could be gleaned, from recurring images in dreams!

The role of snakes and spiders, of fire and water could be ascertained, if they reveal patterns.

Why are some people always late? And why do some people dream of examinations? What does it mean, when you dream that you are left alone in a jungle?

Why are you running in a dream? And why do you suddenly realise that you’re barefoot? Where did the clothes go? Why are you suddenly all in the raw?

ll these and more could be revealed, statistically and with scientific precision.

Dreams are not to be dismissed. Holy scriptures are replete with instances when dreams have foretold what was still to be.

Did not Caesar disregard the warning about the ides of March? “He is a dreamer. Let us leave him. Pass,” he had said, without letting the warning mean anything at all.

So here you are now, at the end of my dream! The dream of Rajbir Deswal.

Right To Impress--Magic Of Technique

The magic of technique
Form and Style in Indian English Fiction
By Jagdish Batra.
Prestige Books.
Pages 190. Rs 600.
Reviewed by Rajbir Deswal
STYLE studies in English fiction, besides the theme, do exist in the contemporary fiction analysis scenario, but only so far as the West is concerned. In case of Indian English novels, there is acute dearth of such content on the library racks and catalogues. Jagdish Batra’s initiative in bringing out the present critique, which comprises write-ups by a score of specialists, should set the pace for appreciation and exploration of the postmodern scenario in style and narratology.

Socrates’ oft-quoted remark, almost having graduated into a truism with time, "As a man is, so is his speech", seems to be a byword for Batra who appears to be subscribing to this style as a concept immensely. His book focuses on myriad aspects in elaborating and examining the works of different Indian authors from R. K. Narayan and Mulk Raj Anand to Kiran Desai and Arvind Adiga. And the process is still on, if you address the macro-level, but largely individual pursuits in this direction are underway.

The question remains as to what impresses the reader of fiction most — theme or style? Plot or flow? Indulgence or suspense? Virtual, not-so-factual or factual fiction? Or, is it purely the subject matter for academics or the academia? Well, the present is bleak but future portends well, with the attempts being made by the likes of Alessandro Monti, Z. N. Patil, S. L. Paul, Vipasha Agarwal, Rekha Beniwal, Jyoti Singh, Monika Balyan Dahiya, Meenakshi, Geeta Goyal, Umed Singh, Priyanka Lamba, Urvashi Prabhat, Sumita Ashri, Jyoti Sheoran, Anita Dalal, Urmil Hooda and Narinder Kumar Saini. The present compilation has them all.

Batra throws light on the historical developments which turned simple concepts like style and plot structure into scientifically marked complex constructs of stylistics and narratology. Some leading novelists exhibit their typical characteristics in his judgement as: G.V. Desani being known for his verbal pyrotechnics; Anita Desai for her poetic prose; Arundhati Roy for her neo-nativisation of English; Salman Rushdie for his "chutnification" of language; Vikram Seth for his use of verse in fiction; and Kiran Desai for her stylistic flourishes.

Besides, some other equally capable novelists, who Batra mentions, include: Shashi Deshpande for her reflective style; Amitav Ghosh for the skilful focalisation of the narrator’s point of view; Rohinton Mistry for richness of language and imagery; Amit Chowdhuri for dispensing with the narrative in a novel without depending on the stream of consciousness either;`A0I. Allen Sealy for producing linguistic period piece in an avowedly indigenous "nama" (as in Baburnama) style; and Upmanyu Chatterjee for his use of pompous diction and Latinised construction.

International scenario in narratological studies is well represented by Italian scholar Alessandro Monti who very skillfully applies to the language used by Salman Rushdie in his novel Midnight’s Children, the Bakhtinian concept of a levelled and more democratic style, giving equal respect to the man at the helm and the man in the street; or Homi Bhabha’s postcolonial concern about the marginalised. Indeed, Rushdie’s "chutnification" of language as of history involves not only adding up spice but presenting a kind of potpourri in a more exotic form, transcending boundaries, which is the essence of the postmodern era.

Jyoti Sheoran finds Mulk Raj Anand’s use of slang, swear words, jargon of abuse, epithets of low life and verbal coinages taking him nearer his avowed purpose of evolving a language as rich and powerful as Irish English. Sumita Ashri describes narratives being of two types, namely Homodiegetic (narrator being present in the plot) Heterodiegetic (narrator being out of the plot). Studying Jhumpa Lahiri’s style, Shilpi Ahuja finds her "simple yet smart; sparing in words yet eloquent". Priyanka Lamba’s take on Chetan Bhagat firms up his position as the pioneer of those who understand and write essentially for the youth.

Arvind Adiga’s The White Tiger has an artful technique blending narration and description, reflection and revelation, if you believe Geeta Goyal. Monika Balayan-Dhaiya, while commenting on Anita Desai, lays more emphasis on vocabulary, syntax, morphology, grammar etc. However, this reviewer believes that quality and quantity of words used determines overall the aesthetic value of any piece of writing.

The book also dwells on a feature of narratology called "Narrative Thematics". Whereas Rekha Beniwal applies the spatial reading method to the south Indian woman writer Ambai’s fiction and charts the feminist streak, the author locates "home" as the structural principle in the story of Kiran Desai’s The Inheritance of Loss. Interestingly, theme and style combine in this category.

The compilation at hand traverses the road from style and plot, the main concerns of an uninitiated reader, to the technical aspects of stylistics and narratology — the area of study of a student of literature — with equal aplomb and should be useful to all those who wish to acquire insights into these enchanting domains, or wish to rely on clues to stylised writing.

KASHMIR BLUES: Deserted-Stolen Child's Search for her Birth Parents

Pleasurable read (In The Tribune today)
Kashmir Blues
By Urmilla Deshpande.
Tranquebar.
Pages 355. Rs 325.
Reviewed by Rajbir Deswal

YOU step out of your house with a purpose in mind, start encountering adventure and thrill with quite an indulgence or sorts, bump into myriad characters who start sharing their concerns with you by default or design; and you return home with a craving to re-live the experiences with a nostalgic pinch felt within, sums up the broad storyline of Urmila Deshpande’s Kashmir Blues.

If you are looking for finding a solution to the Kashmir problem, or if you are seeking information on insurgency, or even if you are vicariously and by way of fiction, attempting to "feel" the pain of Kashmir, then this book is definitely not meant for you. What the California-based writer has woven in her inimitable style is a personal quest that takes its shape in the most interesting scenarios obtaining largely in India. Kashmir does offer enough, but only in symbolic terms and allusions.

The fact of richness of Kashmir is manifest all over the book, taking into account its beauty and landscapes, people and their customs, trade and occupation, etc. But equally important is the lament looming large in the depiction of "Earth Paradise’s" lately "disturbed and distorted" predicament of which the author does not suggest a cure, and rightly so, for the fiction writer should not be found fiddling with facts that stare starkly enough.

Not that Urmila does not give out many facts about Kashmir but she does it only up to the extent they suit her plot. "Kashmir was once the jewel in the crown of India ... it could be that way again ... but only if all the issues were resolved ... though it is too late to reverse the damage done ...too late to re-educate the lost youth-mutilated by fanaticism, Islamic fundamentalism, economic devastation and a feeling of isolation..."

There is no central character in the novel around whom the plot revolves, rather nearly all of them make their appearance and look to be normal and not purpose-made. Naia living in Los Angles sets foot for India to find her "birth parents" with a photographer friend, Leon, after stumbling onto the fact of her being a "deserted-stolen" child.

The duo travels to Bombay and Delhi and finally to a village in North (Kashmir), where the War Lord in the making, Samaad, is as if waiting for them to guide their destiny while striving to save "from both the countries" his own inherited treasure of mines that produce Blue Sapphire.

Samaad, in fact, is the character in the novel who inspires mostly the positives, although he is placed in a situation where the likes of him are given to either insurgency or fundamentalist overtures. He is not only well educated but brainy too, and for whose blue eyes and mannerisms Maia is ready to fall in his arms. Being a Muslims himself, his clairvoyance in talking about Hindu scriptures and Lord Shiva and His "Third Eye", floors the likes of Leon and Maia.

Maia is just there with almost no action attributable to her own initiatives. She is addicted to drugs, and she loves Leon "just the way he was: manic, depressive, riddled with complexes and borderline OCD, and the most seeing photographer she had ever known".

Urmila has an interesting take on Bombay’s streets which have been "slept on, spat on, shat on, lived on, loved on, the stage of millions of little dramas, tragedies, comedies and romances". The writer is not charitable to Delhi either, when she describes, "shit lays about the streets, and then it dries up, and then it floats up into the air-that-we breathe".

Kashmir Blues involves a style not of keeping suspense and is thus a pleasurable read, although the fiction lovers always like the thrill. The writer is easy and comfortable with herself in weaving encounters of different tones and tenor at her given and subjective choice and selection.

The novel has its share of some flaws, too, when it comes to the technique. There are long pauses from one sequence to the other and a smooth transition is lacking which only the reader has to maneuver. Urmila’s very verbose style does good to her description and her recognition of observation, but it takes its toll on the readers interest which starts plummeting and dwindling. Also the novel does not relate to a specific time or period to which the reader can associate. This becomes all the more important while talking about Kashmir, because all the world has its eyes fixed on happenings on this Paradise on Earth!

When I looted in United Kingdom

Avenging theft
By: Rajbir Deswal
(In The Tribune today)
While setting foot for the UK, a senior member in our group cautioned, “Don’t go to wrong places for you will be in trouble!” The second piece of advice was in the form of a comment, but in a killing and chilling tone: “Some people have a compulsive habit of putting things in their pockets!”

For us this was not only too much, but too demeaning too. Yet, we pocketed the advice. I hadn’t then realised that I myself would become the victim of a near-robbery in an alien land.

I had a pouch ‘stolen’ from my not-so-inviting bag in Strathpeffer, Scotland. I noticed its loss when I needed to transfer the days’ photos, from the camera to the pen-drive, kept in the pouch which I couldn’t locate. I promptly announced a heist.

“What else was there in the pouch?” asked my curious wife. To this very natural query of hers (though I was expecting a quick reprimand too for my being ‘carefully callous’!) I ‘reported’ as if before the police: “Some tie pins, coat lapels, two pen drives, a Seattle-Needle souvenir and some coins worth eight or ten pounds!” Post haste I blamed the theft on the house-keeper.

With initial “tch-tchs’ of rubbishing my apprehensions of the involvement of the house-keeper, the investigation ensued: “But what would she need your cosmetic stuff for? Least the pen-drives!” I justified, “it had some change too!”

“O, come on, they’re professional people. The hotel management trusts them. And do you think they are going to question the house-keeper for your silly stuff; and fire her?” Wife suggested I didn’t make a report. I decided to eat the proverbial humble pie.

Next evening when we returned from Inverness, we found the house-keeper’s trolley in the corridor. I could not resist the temptation of ‘teaching her a lesson’ and straightaway rendered her haul of milk sachets poorer by a dozen, by a quick sleight of hand.

Reaching the room, the wife said she needed some tea bags. While trying to arrange them, I encountered the house-keeper in the corridor who greeted me in her typically Scottish accent, similar to us Haryanvis’ style of speaking the Queen’s English.

I asked her if she had some tea bags. “Yes, here we go!” She put some half-a-dozen on my palm and asked, “Do you need some milk too?” Well, I didn’t really, but something inside me made me forget all reasoning and honest intentions. “Yes!” I said and got almost a palmful.

While returning to my room, I tried to recall with sadistic pleasure, the expression on the lassie’s face, on finding a shrunken pile of milk-sachets. Having wound up the Scotland trip, when we reached London from where we had initially started, I found my ‘missing’ pouch. I narrated to our host the story and my sick mentality to take revenge on the ‘stealer’.

The host came up with a similar anecdote. He recalled the time when before migrating to the UK, he was cheated by a taxi-driver in New Delhi. He asked the latter for a match-box. Having lighted his cigarette, he removed half a dozen match-sticks, pocketed them, and returned the match-box.

The senior member in our group was right. Some people have a tendency to put things in their pockets. And some other meeker ones can be a tad revengeful too.

Whodunit??? INVESTIGATE!!!

Crime, be it local or international, has to be met with same standards, principles, norms and practices. The principle of optimum standard of proof has to be followed at all costs. Being a little extra vigilant will be good not only for the investigation but trial too.(The Tribune carries this artical today)
Rajbir Deswal
Crime is a fact of the human species, a fact of that species alone, but it is above all the secret aspect, impenetrable and hidden. Crime hides and by far the most terrifying things are those which elude us. — Georges Bataille
Investigation seeks to look beyond what meets the eye while crime investigation envisages and makes incumbent upon the seeker to dwell deeper into the skin of the mystery or issue at hand. While doing so, professionals are bound by certain legitimate, ethical and procedural instrumentalities under the due process of law.

It may seem to hinder the undesirable fast-forward mode of investigation to show quick results. However, it goes a long way in establishing the culpability of the accused beyond all shadows of doubt to prove the guilt to the hilt, thus enhancing the credentials of the investigating agency in the eyes of the judiciary.

In India, crime investigation is primarily vested with the police under section 156(1) of the Criminal Procedure Code as also by order of a magistrate vide section 156(3), who is empowered to take cognisance of an offence under Section 190. The Central Bureau of Investigation was initially handling economic offences involving frauds etc, but later it has been entrusted with other sensitive cases having serious ramifications in criminality. The National Investigation Agency was created in 2008 to exclusively tackle crimes of terror.

Crucial tasks

Investigation into crime warrants the police hurrying to the scene; protecting the site; informing concerned quarters on actionable information given out of the situation; sending for emergency services like ambulances; summoning the forensic experts and detectives; beginning to look for and collection of evidence; carrying out searches and effecting seizures; making witnesses join in; apprehending suspects followed by sequentially and chronologically documenting the entire process of investigation by writing case diaries and preparing judicial papers; and establishing the correct and unmistakable identity of the accused. These are some of the tasks that need immediate attention of the investigators, besides employing modern technologies, like cell phone interruption, clandestine recording, surveillance, etc.

Adhering to the internationally acceptable best practices is the crux of all that is modern, in the present-day scenarios of mutual interest and sustenance between nations. Crime having local and international ramifications has to be met with same standards, principles, norms and practices. The principle of optimum standard of proof has to be followed at all costs. Being a little extra vigilant will be good not only for the investigation but trial too.

Robert Peel, Father of police reforms in the UK, says, “It is common, we suppose, to all men, who find themselves involved in some unexpected and — as they think — undeserved difficulty or danger, to exhale the first impulses of vexation in reproaches against those, whose folly or wickedness have led to their embarrassment.” There may be circumstances, where tangible, direct or forensic evidence may not be found. Hence collecting enough circumstantial evidence to corroborate the commission of crime at the hands of suspect will always be met with appreciation and concern by the courts as against a flawed manufacturing of padded layers of guilt on the accused.

Investigation is a multi-directional activity that sees, foresees, imagines, suspects, but doesn’t think loud enough, since the dire straits of procedures restrict, and rightly so. A good investigator should keep the prosecution story in mind and also pre-suppose the defense side during the trial that will follow but it is desirable and advisable not to be unfair to the suspect or the accused, in trying to “fix him well.”

Denying the suspect his ‘Right to silence’; ‘ insulation against double jeopardy’; ‘right of private defense’; ‘acts done as sudden and grave provocation’; and above all, matters of privacy, including intrusion should not be lost sight of by the investigators. The Constitution of India guarantees every person right against self-incrimination under Article 20(3). The ‘Right to silence’ is well established and forcible intrusion into one’s mind. It made the Supreme Court of India declare the narco-analysis, brain-mapping and lie-detector tests as violation of such a right.

Classical example

The investigation should clearly bring out the occasion-cause-effect chain, into building up the corpus delicti. If a criminal act is incidental enough, not preceded with preparation, leading to its execution, followed by a transparent and unquestionable subsequent conduct, then trying to prove the guilt on the suspect may never succeed during the trial. The classical example to support and sustain this view point is of the experiment, when the baby-monkey was put under her feet by the mother-monkey, to gain some height, in a water filled glass jar, when the levels started reaching her nose and she began to apprehend and confront her own death right in her face.

Thus, a criminal’s predicament, mental disposition, plus any provable and scientific and biological inclination towards committing crime, should be also taken into consideration in assessing and assuming his culpability besides mens rea.

Comprehensive database

As for crime control, K. Koshy, former Director-General of Police, Bureau of Police Research and Development, says that a comprehensive database on wide ranging subjects like details of residents, criminal backgrounds, data on crime, stolen and abandoned vehicles, drug cases, money transaction and movements of persons can help in not only preventing and controlling but investigating crime.

The Village Crime Notebook, as envisaged by the Punjab Police Rules, if maintained properly and linked online with databases like Unique ID number, bank transactions, hotel occupation, BC Rolls, hue and cry notices, stolen vehicles and automobile registration details, accidents, if done on real-time basis, can detect patterns and track movement of criminals and suspicious persons, can help prevent common crimes and economic offences. The best example of this is the use of data mining techniques involving the COPLINK project in the US.

Proactive policing as in the New York City Police Department suggests proper locking and securing houses and buildings, burglar alarms, architectural and town planning designs to make crimes more difficult. If the Patrol Officer is sensitive to any unusual things in the area and probes it, many an untoward incident can be prevented. A classic example is the Broken Window approach suggested by James Q. Wilson and George L. Kelling. Prevention will largely depend on how civil society enjoins upon itself and follows self-discipline and the rule of law. Placing trust in the law enforcement agencies is of paramount importance. Otherwise, vigilante actions are sure to follow, howsoever bottled up or repressed a community may be.

In the sixties, the Police Youth Club system was introduced in the US, proactively targeting the potential offenders who exhibited signs of rebellion, even while being in school, to divert their energies to more creative activities like sports, games and social service. The Regional Employ-Ability Challenge (REACH) Project supported by the European Union and kids projects in Durham, UK, are other examples.

Important clues

Integration and availability of huge databases from public domains like payment of toll on highways, telephone call records, list of train and airplane reservations, hotel occupancy, purchase of vulnerable material like explosives, Ammonium Nitrate, etc and software to analyse and link these seemingly unconnected data can help the professionals more scientifically in the task of crime control. In the Parliament Attack case, cell phone calls analysis provided the most important clues.

Mafias of various shades and sizes exist the entire world over and their favourite indulgences include narcotics, currency, artifacts, body-shopping etc. Natural geographical features and political conditions make possible things like ‘Golden Triangles’ and ‘Silk-Routes’. Likewise, you can grow opium in Afghanistan; smuggle narcotics through Malaysia, Myanmar and Nepal; or even dump fake currency in India printed in Pakistan via Nepal, Indonesia and Malaysia.

An investigator has to be compassionate. He should have wide contacts and clear objectives besides ability to collect documents, preserve evidence, effect recoveries and assists in prosecution. He should take care to record witness statement and undo the suspects alibi. More important, he should be an expert in building up corpus dilecti. Investigators and crime-busters will have to start big that can be made small, but not always start with small, that cannot be made big, as it happened in the Arushi murder case.

The writer is the Inspector-General of Police, Criminal Investigation Department, Haryana

Summer Gifts:“लैला की उँगलियाँ, मजनू की पसलियां: गर्मियों के बेनजीर तोहफे !

By Rajbir Deswal

AS a child I often travelled to visit my elder sister married in Shamli (Uttar Pradesh). Though Punjabi food is a global phenomenon these days, the style and statement with which the UP-walas showcase their delicacies is no less interesting and mouth-watering, be it Mathura Ke Pede or Agre Ka Petha.

But having crossed the Yamuna Bridge, what I usually saw lined up in summers in the sleepy town of Kairana were hundreds of vending stalls—mobile and static. They were all selling nicely cut and washed “Laila ki ungliyan aur Majnu ki pasliyan!”— which were nothing but Kakri or cucumber. Salted masala added taste to the cool and refreshing product on sale, besides the Laila-Majnu sobriquets.

In Shamli, they had watermelons cut into appropriate and attractive sizes, with that blood-red foamy pulp. And you had no choice but to order a big plate full beyond the brim.

I equally relished the sight of easy-going Mullas donning skull-caps eating watermelons while sitting on Yamuna Bridge sideberms, breaking the big ball into two halves and partaking of the sweet, pithy, viscous stuff, with beards dipping in the green bowl. Compared to this, I pity the white woman, who ate the watermelon with fork in a South England county, when I saw her treating herself with a not-so-ripe pinkish likeness of pulp.

In Punjab-Haryana too we witness such sights and summer months have Pudina-pani sellers. They hang green pudina leaves around a huge pitcher. Then they also put a lemon-rosary around the pitcher, for enhanced effect. Lo and behold! The elixir sells like it should!

The most awaited vendor some years ago used to be the Malai-Baraf-wala who had a pitcher of icecream, wrapped in a woollen muffler. He carried a small scale with him and enough hard but green leaves of probably Dhaak trees, on which he served his product. People invariably had a sample of this malai-baraf on the back of their palm.

Once while returning from Hyderabad, our train passed through Gujarat and Rajasthan, and the cut-tomatoes straight from the dried-up seasonal streams, sprinkled with water and served in huge plates had their own unique and organic taste.

Besides, nariyal pani, thandaee made of crushed almonds and black pepper in sweetened milk, lassi; chuskee (ice-crush candy with attractive colours of viscous sweet liquid appropriately sprinkled all over), kanji-pani, aam-panna, gond-kateera and falooda; Bhyu-Patra juice also added up to the summers’ menu card. In summers, Indians just love products having ‘thandee-taseer’—cool characteristic (apologies for bad translation).

No, I am not forgetting something special which not only acts as nourishment to the taste buds but also as laxative to constipated mortals. I cannot think of an Indian summer when I was not loyal to the king of fruits — mango.

Gate Crash at Royal Wedding

A gatecrasher's manual: Rajbir Deswal :
Not so long ago, there was a practice among boys living in a hostel to have a tie that would be exclusively worn to get entry into a wedding in the vicinity (remember 3 Idiots?). The hosts would usually be confused, regarding the gatecrashers to be legitimate guests; the gatecrashers, meanwhile, would have enough of the sumptuous spread to sustain themselves till the next wedding.
Well, here is another opportunity. Royalty no less than the Queen of England is out, inviting guests to attend the wedding of her grandson Prince William. If you don't get the invite, then try these tips.
Dress up like the mascot Maharaja of Air India, with a turban of red and blue stripes. Red and white looks more American. Also maintain that seemingly welcoming but submissive style, after the fashion of Indian kings of the British era.
Look down (looking straight in the eyes is taken as audacious) while walking into the pearly gates of the Celebrations Gardens. They will let you in without questioning and frisking for being one of the old true blues.
If you are a sports lover, carry a polo stick in your left hand. While kissing the hand of the royal receiver, keep the left leg bent near the knee, like one to be knighted. Also don a golf cap or a felt hat to be doffed and to go behind it, lest you are recognised. They will welcome you thinking you were their chum, who learnt all gentlemanly-sportsmanship from them only and none else.
If this doesn't work, adopt the guise of a snake-charmer but take care not to swagger like the Scottish Pipers, for the royals don't like them. The English are well aware of the Biblical snake-in-thegrass, and before a wedding, they would surely like to catch it while you are playing the been. With such services rendered, they might let you in, after consulting the royal priest from Canterbury.
There are some `don'ts' to be followed as well. Don't try being near the wedding site without a shirt, for they will invariably take you to be a wandering vagrant or even a `naked fakir'. A cigarette on your lips might remind them of Lady Mountbatten's `lighting up' at the hands of Nehru and given their recent aversion to smoking, they might not let you in.They are British, please.
For more such tips, you may consult the ones who have been staying in that country without valid visas. But no matter what you do, do not end up looking like a visa seeker.

When no eve-teaser anymore calls them "item"!

Midlife crisis

The Great Depression of 40s

By Rupa Gulab.

Penguin Books.

Pages 214. Rs 250.

Reviewed by Rajbir Deswal

TETHERED to tattered poles, they are like sagged wires sans current and enough flow. It is essentially an all-women world of fiction, factually fructifying from their menopausal stage, in the middle-aged weaker sex. Rupa Gulab weaves her female protagonists’ ageing dilemma, in many an intense situation, when they have to sort it out themselves, keeping their "men" away and effaced, but they are definitely there! Mantra and Anjali are sisters-in-law. Both are on the wrong side of 40. Mantra is issueless by choice and in agreement with her husband Vir, while Anjali’s good hubby Karan can’t make her ex-boyfriend Shiv wipe off her mind, even after giving her a son who is now graduating in a college. Anjali’s son Rohan stumbles on her hidden agenda and leaves her a woman more sinned against than sinning, for she had been "though-seriously-but-only" indulging and contemplating manifestations of her fantasies for Shiv. On discovering his Mom’s secret love for her ex, Rohan blurts, "Go to that b****** — my father’s too good for you!" Then, there is the wannabe starlet Samira who is tolerating being bashed up by her mate, but still staying-put with him to settle scores only after making it one day to Page 3. And the spinster maid Reshma, gaily slips into the adulterous arms of the chauffeur, and is ready to end her life out of frustration. "Hey, take a sabbatical at the very least, dammit! You’re forty-three, you prefer yolks to whites, you smoke, you give veggies a wide berth, osteoporosis and quite possibly a hip bone replacement are on their way, and you may never find out what it feels like to be truly free. Go on tell him to go fly a kite!" Unable to digest the home truth or bullshit from Partho, her boss, Mantra calls it quits to tread a path that has the next milestone as her nemesis — The Great Depression of the 40s. This leads Mantra to indulging in self-pity; nearly half her life being over, with no sustaining achievement, the career not exciting her anymore, a cholesterol-corporate-afflicted husband becoming nonchalant and the libido bidding her goodbye, and above all, with nothing to look forward to except wrinkles, scraggy chicken-neck and lousy eyesight, among other horrible things. She then decides to have a baby, but things keep on going awry and awful. Anjali, on the other hand, dwindles in a kind of "to be or not to be" and is taken over by passion for her ex, harps on divorcing good and benign Karan. She seeks a new young look with waxing and workouts to fish out pampering from the "once-upon-a-time-junkie" Shiv. Have a look at her’s and other women’s trauma when they’re dressing to impress (and in Anjali’s case — Shiv): "She had changed six outfits, agitatedly discarding each on different grounds: too casual, too wannabe hip, too unflattering to the hips, too over-the-top for the occasion, neck too high to be sexy, neck sluttishly low." Gulab’s novel focuses on the lifestyle of the very high elitist’s strata who may not be as rich but who harp on enough that is pseudo-modern. And, here is the casualty of morals that goes up for a toss: curt, business-like, self-seeking disposition and a punishingly tight schedule to survive in a corporate world of the socialites, in the common denominator of "depression". Rupa couldn’t have been more charitable, realistic and candid to women in describing how age catches up with their "depression of 40s" when no eve-teaser anymore calls them "item!". And when it’s "A for Alzheimer’s, S for scurvy, H for herpes`85!" The drudgery of the corporate scenario of upstaging, maneuvering, one-upmanship, cut-throat competition, which is the hallmark, has its toll taken even on the interpersonal relations of its operatives. When at a party, Vir’s boss calls Mantra as Mamta, obviously not correctly remembering her name, Vir asks her to keep mum and not to correct the boss for it might look rude. And, thereafter, all around address Mantra with her newly corporate-baptised calling. There is enough that exposes the inner lining of business suits. Gulab has enough to give to the foodies, Bacchus lovers, Western music fads, Hollywood celebrity fans, and much more that the contemporary generation of young readers would want to lap up. She has a unique lucid and clear style which is amazingly simple, even in depiction of the very complex and intense aspects of modern life that may warrant expression through the so-called modern lingo, for the idiom that is in vogue and is best understood these days is transnational. Societal concerns also find voice in the novel and Gen X’s perceived as unwanted and undesirable orgies are depicted with ease and acumen of a master raconteur.