Interpreter of neighborly themes

Interpreter of neighborly themes

By: Rajbir Deswal

I am having a post dinner stroll in the front of our Seattle home. The pavement is well lit with yellow light. Life-sized hedge has a couple of silhouettes appear on it from the other slightly lesser bright side. They approach and materialise in front of me flashing a smile. I reciprocate when they stop by to pronounce the clichéd reference to the weather being so good.

“Yeah! It’ refreshing and salubrious here!” I add a comment. Finding me interested, they are now firm holding the ground to pull a conversation with me. “You come from India!”—is not a question asked in Redmond, for a sizable number of engineers and management professionals are Indians. I hum in affirmation and ask if they had been to India ever. “No! But would love to!” says the slightly hunch-backed woman who was till now just listening with a quirky smile on her face. I noticed she could hardly babble but spoke in a way that her partner repeated for me. The reported speech turned out to be very good content in English. The couple seemed to be academics.

Before I could tell the woman she had immaculate language to speak and luring content to taste and savour for me, she scored a first in telling me almost the same thing in the same celebrating vein. I felt pampered and tried further to fine-tune my account. I couldn’t resist the temptation of telling the couple about my pretensions of being some kind of a writer and that I also have dared to bring out a small anthology of poems titled “My Own Khajuraho”.

Obviously they found ‘Khajuraho’ to be some foreign word, when more than the appellation, I had to explain the other finer nuances and ‘sexplicit’ references, in a much milder way than starkly stated in the sculptures. Further pampered into a kind of gratification, I offered to loan a copy of “My Own Khajuraho” to them realising little that ‘sexplaining’ the theme would be more demanding than scripting a few more verses, on the wayside scattered stones, than the compromising idols!

A week later I received the book back, with a note neatly written and appropriately tucked between the leaves, saying: “Thank you for the loan of your book. You have a reverence and awe for the daily appearance of God in the scenery of our lives and you share it in a way that doesn’t invite us to gawk at each appearance but only to reflect. Thank you. Yours neighbour Susan Boe”

I got another couple in my own ‘Khajuraho’ besides adding another poem—of human relations. The neighbours’ reference to the Divine and interpretation of Him confirmed Khajuraho being a temple, built in hearts of people even if they belong elsewhere!

 

 

 

Interpreter

The Bristol Park

 

The Bristol Park

By Rajbir Deswal

Redmond near Seattle in the US, being the headquarters of Micorsoft has a sizable population of Indians, largely engineers and other management professionals. These boys and girls match up in matrimony on an equal eye-level basis seeking to pursue their respective careers. Obviously then that, if they stay as what they call DINK—Double income no kids, it’s OK, but having decided to ‘let’s be a family now’ entails in the offing newborns and toddlers, being taken care of largely by importing parents from back-home in India . The young and the old are then parked gleefully in the near proximity of the house. And it’s a world of a different kind—in the Bristol Park and such like.

The grandparents from India like to be with their grand children being fondly in affection with them as against the western dubbing of it as an activity called baby-sitting—which can be hired too. At the park school bus stop, they come to send off and receive back their grand children. They wave them with bye-byes, love yous with flying kisses—something they had never done at home. Hugs are universal though.

When the School Bus leaves, many of them stay for a little while more. To share things that they miss. To reflect the times they spent back home. To discuss the cultural differences. To empathise if need be. To promise to stay in touch after returning to India. And so on. All this is very much like the ‘Sunset Club’ conceived and penned by Khushwant Singh. Ritualistic and ceremonial occasions too are celebrated here. A unique bonhomie is seen sprawling here, taking into its fold all the diversities that exist between us back home in Inida. Everything seems to melt down to a commonness of sorts. Indian men here generally play cricket too. They are formed into different clubs that they think would introduce this ‘religion’ of India to the Americans who love Soccer, Baseball and Rugby more.

I witnessed the Ganesha devout Hindus congregating at the park on the start date of Ganesh Chaturthi. The Deity was mounted on a truck and recorded hymns and aarti were being played. Some women wearing traditional sarees were there to sing along. Two Brahman priests too were performing rituals while some amongst the men-folk did their shop-talk. I paid my obeisance when a women walked up to me to offer Prasad which I carried home in a use-and-throw plate. There was a polyethylene bad appropriately placed to put the trash in. While walking away from the Bristol Park, I thought how close India is parked in this alien land.

King of Hearts & Paan ki Beghum           By : Rajbir Deswal

Entertainment activity, as simple as playing cards, has always been vulnerable to mischief and cheating. We set gestures with the partner, to let him know our side of the game. It ranged from winking, raising brows, putting finger on the lips, showing teeth, stroking hair, arranging fingers—one, two, three—behind the cards to convey the number, besides humming and brandishing a card as if it was a trump, even if it was not.

Cards are said to have been discovered by the Chinese who then played the game with leaves. The game spread to other eastern countries later. The number of cards in a pack being fifty-two is also said to be having some symbolism with the number of weeks in a year; as is the number of cards in one deal—being thirteen—thought  to be associated with the single lunar cycle—ascending or descending. Yes they seem to have some relevance to time, atleast in killing it, or making good use of it—enjoying the indulgence.

Poker, Bridge, Rummy, Flash, and our own desi games like Paploo, Taploo, Sweep, Pata-Daab, Kot-piece, Teen-Do-Paanch, Athee-Satee, Teen-Patti are some of the games known to me but I also like Patte-Pe-Patta when you take out a card from your hand and without knowing it, open it on the anvil-spread . If your other partner by the same process deals another card which matches yours, then the entire heap of unmatched cards is his gain.

I also wonder who called the two additional blank cards with a funny figure on them which can be substituted for any lost or torn off card, as jokers! The die-hard card players would not mind carrying on with a pack gone unusable due to over use—the hard to separate old cards. The corners of this pack are rounded. But a typical mark of a card, and an important one at that, is something that the entire group discounts, for its being thus known, since they can’t afford a new pack.

One good thing about the cards is their simple calculations. And when you repeat them time and again, you almost seem to have mastered the art of addition, subtraction and multiplication. And there is yet another thing in our desi deals which is called ‘ Tashan’. It implies a fad or an obsession which committed or omitted, has its desired effect on ones game, in his own understanding of things. No obstruction in the execution of a ‘Tashan’ is easily tolerated by the inflicted players.

Some people are known to be experts and they are much in demand in a gamble. It’s mostly the sleight of hand that works. Some are considred to be lucky as well and they are trusted by others to play as pawns and proxies for them—being lucky. Dark goggles and colouful dices, counters and coins go with the game of cards in casinos and clubs. I don’t know in a deal, if it’s the shuffling of cards thst plays the trick or something else, but some die-hard players always win. Those who play a blind game are more risk bearing, or maybe they are too confident of their moves and treasures

Spade, heart, club, diamond, ace, king, queen, jack, or even our own badshah, beghum, ghulam, ikka have given birth to many sayings, idioms and proverbs.

I recall from my college days, when in the boys hostel, a card-game afflicted fellow knocked at his partner’s room past midnight, smoking puffs and walking half in sleep, almost not being able to bear with the sense of loss at a defeated deal the just gone evening, telling him—Ramphall, jai tu wa paan ki begam nahin chalta to hum jeet gaye they! (If only you had not dealt that Queen of Hearts Ramphal, we were sure to win!)

 

 

 

Dead letters brought alive!

By RAJBIR DESWAL

Any idea about the dead letters? Not many youngsters would know. Letters that did not the reach the addressee were directed and dumped to be retrieved when the address was found, in the Dead Letter Offices(DLO)—I can recall one that was located in Amritsar. Spirited letters that we wrote with so much of indulgence are dead now, thanks to emails, SMSs and other communication vehicles available on the internet .

There was always a suspense and an apprehension if at all a letter would reach its destination or not, unless you sent it with a paid ‘Acknowledgement Due,’ especially in a registered cover, that would cost you ten times more than the usual postage. The best way then to make a letter reach the (actual) hands of the addressee was to send it as ‘bearing’ which meant that the recipient had to pay double the postage. Most of the lower strata, especially labourers or workers class from other states, used this mode. A bearing letter could be written on an exercise book page, folded appropriately.

Best way to ensure that a letter wasn’t opened by anyone unauthorized, was ink-marked on folds, with straight lines that would appear not in line and’ tinkered’ with, if the fold had been scrap-opened. Hardcore  writers left their missives their ‘identity cum emotion cum physical clue cum mental condition stains’ in the form of symbols, tears, blood, lipstick or turmeric, as the situation warranted. A postcard torn on one edge sounded an alarm for it contained information about someone’s death.

Addresses were written in full measure, as if taking into account every lamp-post or a municipal water-tap, if one of these was a local landmark. The usual stereotype could be: “Mile Pandit Dinanath ji ko, Patanjali Yogacharya, Mandir ke peechhe, Kumharan Kuan, Nazdik Govt Boys School, Chungi ke pass, Court Road, Allahabad”. If the addressee had relocated himself, then his neighbour could provide the postman a new address, on which the letter could  be ‘redirected’ (superscribed with red pen)  without landing in the DLO or being paid extra postage.

A proper salutation in a letter to the addressee was a must. Care was taken to make it as respectful as possible but clichés like Poojay Pita Ji, Adarniya Bhai Sahab, Azeez-O-Mun, Barkhurdar were invariably there. Closing the letter one would sound a tad more submissive—Apka agyakari beta; or, Sirf tumhara! In some letters, the available space too was filled up, making the reader turn it in many ways to decipher the entire scribbling.

The more animated letter writers invariably put a couplet, either at the beginning or at the end. It could be anything like—By God’s grace we are all fine here and hope you are also sailing in the same boat; Atra kushlam tatra astoo; Aage motor peechhe car, badon ko Namaste chhoton ko pyar. And then there were cautions—Chitthi ko taar samajhna; Thode likhe ko zyada samajhna! There could be none in the family or circle of the addressee who would go unenquired about—Jeeja ji ki naurki lagi ke nahin?  Meena ke liye ladka dekha ki nahin ?Abki baar Pappu pass ho gya ki nahin?—all this would end with “Khabar dena!”

In the 1949 Ashok Kumar-Madhubala blockbuster ‘Mahal’, the DLO retrieved a letter written by one Ranajna, who committed suicide making it appear to be a murder by her husband, but confessed it in a letter that did not reach the right hands . When the suspense was known after the letter was handed over to the judge, Ashok Kumar was saved from the gallows. A human error led to a blunder; a human effort sorted matters out—in letter and spirit.

 

 

 

When their mere glance burnt the grass

When their mere glance burnt the grass

                                   

Rajbir Deswal

I was happy to see at a Railway Officers Club recently, many of its members being happy and active octogenarians. Also it is heart-warming to see Army officers giving due respect to their old hats. Teachers are satisfactorily, if not gainfully engaged, post retirement. Judges remain in demand till their last breath.

Advocates and politicians never retire. Senior bureaucrats retire, but stay still useful to further adorn chairpersonship of NGOs. But I am afraid, police officers after hanging their boots are comparatively lesser placed on the happiness quotient.I witnessed while traveling on Shatabdi, a retired Inspector General of Police trying to put his luggage on the shelves above with hard labour all by himself.

I also witnessed the other day a retired Director General of Police along with an Army General, pacifying an infuriated Assistant Sub-Inspector of Police, when on their way to the Golf Club, the tee remained sticking out of the boot.

Yet another instance that put me to much shame was when a retired police officer had other still serving juniors of him, whispering near expletives on his being sighted at a function.

These officers, when they were at the helm of affairs wielded unfettered powers and commanded influence to the extent that ‘if they puff-hurled a strong breath at someone, the latter would remain suspended in air for some time.’Also that, when they moved Caesar-like, ‘a glance from them would burn the green grass around’.

These defunct men were once upon a time pampered with adjectival attributes, and titles such as--Motiyon wale- generous; Banda parva’-nourisher; Sahab bahadur’ – brave savior and Alijaah-God- like. Anybody having their eyes and ears would be envied for being the officer’s Manzoore nazar’- the favourite one.

I think my grandfather’s elder brother Ch. Jai Ram Singh a police officer in PEPSU days was a wise man who could foresee a retired future for him, when none in his department would look at him but with a stranger’s eye and attitude. He had to depose in an enquiry into a dispute involving an Inspector and a Constable. When he sided with Constable, the guilty Inspector asked him later, as to why did he not support his equal-ranking colleague and instead a minion.

He replied “Look Inspector Sahab, some ten years from now, if you will meet me in a bus or a train, you may only ask as to how I was doing.

But if this minion should even spot me there ever, he would not only rush and grab my bag to hold but would also offer his seat and would genuinely be happy on meeting me.” The common refrain at a cop’s farewell is—How lucky of you to have returned from the battle, unscathed!”

O’ for a thousand Suns!

         

O’ for a thousand Suns!

By: Rajbir Deswal

“Andhere se main darta hoon Maa ! (I fear darkness O’ Mother!)” This number from Aamir Khan’s ‘Tare Zameen par’ is not only a fearful child’s seeking a secure cover while being enveloped, embalmed and mummified in darkness, but speaks volumes of an important aspect of human nature. The only remedy, not only redeeming but resilient in letting things return to their normal shine, is then surely a source of light. I throw some light on them, prompted largely by the recent couple of blackouts.

Primitive man started with striking the stones to make fire. Thereafter, man literally played with fire and discovered it’s other forms, many of which nature had already lit. Lightening filled man’s heart with reason to sparkle; also being apprehensive, fearful and turn a believer in a super power. Till the discovery of radium, mankind believed in all kinds of natural sources of light and not an artificial one. From mashaals to earthen-lamps to lanterns to petromax to hurricane lamps, it was a long journey, in creating need-based light. Then came candles—my favorite. And with them, poetry and much more.

With the discovery of the alternating current and the direct current, bulbs and torches came into being. They gave the lily-livered more confidence—whatever that means. Even to the extent that one of my friends does not sleep without a torch for he says during the night when he has to use the toilet, he hits the walls making his foot-thumb thicker like that of a camel. Look even the Olympic Torch is just a proxy—of our own desi mashaal. One’s comely countenance has him seen by others in the dark, only when one flashes a smile, showing his white gems. Contrasts bring shine too, besides recognition.

There dawned curiosity of a kind in a couple (actually—Curie and Pierri) of France, who discovered an artificial glowing substance radiating with the name Radium, adding luminosity to the hither-to-fore dark ages of scientific haze. The faint bluish-green then started adorning watch dials, buttons and glow toys. I think the best creation of nature in flaming up life is found in a glowworm. And it uses a switch too, to turn it’s radiance on and off. Perhaps it has been giving a message to mankind to save energy since it was born! And look at another one of the smart species, the Weaver-Bird has in its nest, a glowworm fixed on a muddy-paste, to light up its twiggy-abode during the night.

That a face lights up, eyes sparkle, stars, moon and the sun shine, reflections weave patterns, mirrors cast beams, prisms add a rainbow to rays, and a flood is caused with mercury and sodium through halogens—the picture presents a whole haul of brightness, oozing out in abundance and taking over all the darkness, all the grossness—physical and spiritual—Winning.

I present a glowing scenario reflected in a Hindi short story ‘Jagmagahat’ by a Sirsa based writer, Roop Devgun. A head clerk asks his secretary to stay after office hours since he has an urgent work to dispose off. She had never overstayed, ever. She becomes apprehensive of the boss and conjures up a plethora of ugly moves on his part, at the same time preparing herself to be ready to face any eventuality.

Suddenly the lights go off. Her heart starts beating faster. The head clerk moves from his table in darkness. The creaking sound of screeches frighten her no end. The head clerk calls her, “Can you please look for a matchbox lying in the almirah near the window Beti (—daughter like!)” She then has a thousand suns dawned the room lighting up even the cockles of her fearful heart.

 

 

http://www.tribuneindia.com/2012/20120903/edit.htm#5

Men from the east

Men from the East

By Rajbir Deswal

Whenever I hear these lines—Mehmaan jo hamara hota hai wo jaan se pyara hota hai—from a Raj Kapoor movie of yesteryear, my faith in my land and people gets reassured. Being someone’s guest amounted to being in his care. But more than the aspect of security, what a guest was entitled to, was all that which was not only spareable and sharable at the command of the host, but also that, which was even beyond his routine reach and stretch. Also in the same number is a claim, which now unfortunately seems a boast—Ye poorab hai poorab wale har jaan ki keemat jante hain!

Let me tell you about a settlement that flourished at some distance from my village Anta. It was called ‘Poorabiyon ka dera’. Those men and women came from ‘Poorab’—Eastern UP in this case. They did not stay in my village, not because they were unwelcome there but because what they traded in was bootlegging—brewing country liquor. People from my village routinely visited them to fetch a bottle or two.

Collectively they were referred to as ‘poorabiyas’. They visited our village often. Their womenfolk generally was confined to indoors in their Dera but on festive and other occasions they made a conspicuous presence in Anta. Their stamp was typical. They were all generally short of stature. Men wore short dhotis with short angrakhis—vests. They had a secret pocket sewed under the armpit. Also they wore a semblance of the Gandhi cap. They flaunted uncut moustaches a la Ganga-Jamuna’s Dilip Kumar. Their womenfolk wore cholis and lehangas unlike their Haryanvi counterparts who sported huge ghagras.

The Poorabiyon ka dera was not fortified in any way though it remained tucked between the main canal and one of its distributaries, almost in an inaccessible swamp. There were scattered kacha houses and hutments and no fierce dogs guarded them. Why am I saying all this is to underscore their sense of security in an alien land being surrounded by an altogether different people. But then the communities had not been bitten by the bug of bigotry in as much as that tolerating one another despite different backgrounds, culture, religion, caste, creed, occupation, dressing, eating, dwelling and languages was concerned.

Well, if you ask me about the Dera and its habitants’ ultimate fate, I am afraid they aren’t there anymore. But they weren’t ostracized, hounded or driven out. They weren’t even made to feel outsiders. The Dera being accessible due to road-network as a result of a later day development scenario, made its habitants decide to return back home, own their own, since their moon-shining no longer seemed to stay beneficial. And who told me all this? Sita Ram, the orphaned poorabiya, who remained a bachelor all his life and who reared our herd till his death—at our place, in Anta, which became his place too.

http://epaper.dailypostindia.com/Details.aspx?id=45646&boxid=56008&uid&dat=2012-08-20

Projecting a movie scenario

 

UNFORGETTABLE PROJECTIONS

 BY RAJBIR DESWAL

(Hindustan Times)

Those were the days when an opportunity to watch a movie, if it came your way, was the greatest thing to happen to you. Not very long ago, going for a movie was never considered to be a socially acceptable thing. People would keep a watch in cinema halls, to locate and report about the boys in their streets or mohallas - of their ‘misdemeanour’ or ‘undesirable indulgence’ - to their families. That nobody questioned the ‘reporters’ themselves being there in the cinema hall was another thing. Perhaps some errant ones were to be excused.

The silver lining then was the government PR (public relations) departments which generally showed movies on social themes, and other classics sometimes, using a portable 16-mm projector. The entire scenario is worth a recall, juxtaposed with the modern-day moviegoing experience, which provides the choice of watching any number of movies any number of times.
The projection movie was ‘walled’ (rather than ‘screened’) at a building with white paint. The setting up of the projector instantaneously invited large crowds. Some peeping through the vantage windows, others sitting on rooftops, some squatting on the ground and the more daring ones perched on boundary walls. No, there were no chairs. Even the operator sat on a stool.
There would be a large box with reel spools. One by one, these spools would be fixed on the projector and the moviewatchers bore with every change of the spool. Another reel was fixed and the projection would initially show a blank luminous rectangular frame, followed by some numerals, still to be followed by a cue from where t he last reel had been shown. Focusing was needed for clarity of the moving images on the wall. These movies were largely in black and white.

The projector’s whirring sound did interfere slightly with the sound track played through a single horn-shaped loudspeaker, placed appropriately to cater to the ears of all and sundry. The projection would not be more than a 6x4 sq ft patch on the wall.
Sometimes, the flipping and flitting flying creatures would come in the way of the beamed projection, to appear with their size multiplied on the screen.
Everyone would first have a laugh, and then wish these were gone the soonest. The reels also got snapped or broken at times.
I remember having watched ‘ Amar’, ‘Andaz’ and ‘Insaniyat’, thanks to a projector, in an open, makeshift theatre. The last of this series was Dev Anand’s ‘Ek Ke Baad Ek’, which had a social message of arresting the population growth, beginning to be felt then (early 1960s) as disastrous for the country’s future.

These days, we have 3D movies, with all technological inputs of even dissolving and manifesting, on screen, of things too solid. But the projector movie show can’t be forgotten for the extra amount of thrill, excitement and association which it had at that time, when you would feel blessed having seen ‘yet another film’ which added to your account of maybe six or seven. The experience came gratis and cost you just your discomfort of not having a proper seat to sink in. But who the hell cared for it!

Memories of the ‘maar-kaat’ mayhem

Memories of the ‘maar-kaat’mayhem
By: RAJBIR DESWAL

‘The Partition’ in the northern region is dreadfully referred to as ‘maar-kaat’—mayhem or bloodshed. The canal passing through my village had corpses floating in it then. War cries of “Har har Mahadev” and “Naar-e-Taqbeer Allah-o-Akbar” ranted the streets when communally frenzied communities on both sides of the divide, particularly during the unearthly dark hours.

My father had a narrow escape since for his flaunting long hair, he was perceived to be a Muslim and the attackers’ spear stopped just short of puncturing his chest, when a local guy accompanying him announced it to the aggressors—“Hey! It is the Zaildar’s son-in-law! This happened close to Delhi in a village from where my mother came. Father used to tell us about the situation prevalent during the maar-kaat.

My grandfather had a very dear friend in Chaudhary Fazal Hussain.  He was a Railway Contractor and his business extended from Delhi up to Attari.  His family used to stay with us in our village Anta on festive occasions and other events in the family.  My grandfather and Ch. Fazal Hussian were known to be brothers in the area.  Their respective progeny addressed them as Taya Ji and Chacha Ji.

Anta  was surrounded by other Muslim dominated villages like Urlana, Nimnabad, Barod, Didwada etc. where my grandfather exercised enough influence over other powerful zamindars and clan-chiefs. Muslims en masse deposed their faith in him.  My grandfather had a gun which was a rare possession amongst the locals in those days. He was also held in awe by the trouble-makers.

When the maar-kaat began, till a considerably long time he did not allow Muslims to leave their place of home and hearth.  He became a strong-wall between the communally frenzied people on both sides. One night grandfather got information that the trouble makers had spread a word in the Muslim dominated villages that he (my grandfather) had buckled under pressure from his fellow-flock and that he had decided to stay calm in case they continued with their lynching of the Muslims.

He mounted his horse and accompanied by a couple of guards galloped to the Muslim villages, where people in large groups had prepared to leave the place in caravans.  Grandfather’s imploration and assurance to the Muslims then did not have much ice to cut with them on the issue of his single minded and single handed support.  The local Muslim leaders beseeched of him to ‘just let them go then’.

Next to come as a shock for grandfather was Fazal Hussain’s decision to migrate. His wife left all her jewellery in my grandmother hands which was restored to them when the couple visited our village seven years later. They narrated stories of the dreaded maar-kaat and their making it to a safe haven in Pakistan. Their family settled happily there in due course and we kept receiving letters from them which my father when read them to us had a chocked throat and moist eyes.

The only one from Fazal Hussain’s family to stay in our house was Abdullah who we all fondly called Dada Abdullah.  He wore typically embroidered kurtas and extra loose pyjamas.  He always smelt of fragrance of some kind of an ittar or other.  He ate his meals in our household and there were no separate utensils kept for him as was the practice in those days. Dada Abdullah had a weird habbit of vanishing without leaving information. We heard he too went to Pakistan later. Never to return. Letters from Fazal Hussain’s sons kept reaching us. One day a missive that my shocked father read out to us declared Fazal Hussain’s death—“Abbu bhi is jehan-e-fani se kooch farma gaye!”

Another letter informed about Abdullah’s death—“Taya ji bhi faut ho gaye!” we never heard anything thereafter.

Megh Malhar: Hills to Hall

Megh-Malhar: Hills to hall

By: Rajbir Deswal

The call of the hills coupled with the conglomeration of the clouds in lower Shivaliks invited us to be in Kasauli. We took just half hour to be in the car and began floating on the newly opened Kalka-Shimla Highway. The entire scene got spread on the wind shield like an LCD screen. The white and bubbly clouds seemed to devourer hill green-blue hill-tops. I asked my son to play—Sawan ka mahina pawan kare sore!

Turning from Dharampur we noticed the Manki Point looking like a volcano out of which only snow-white clouds erupted. The Hanuman Mandir atop too was visible. We took pictures of the pine-groves on the way downhill and uphill too. From an opening we had a clearer view of the Daghshai top—a cantonment belonging to the British era.

We stopped at the Church and strolled through the market which had not opened even till 12 in the afternoon. I love this laidback life style of the hill people. Most of the shops were as if belonging to an era gone by. The chemist, the barber, the vegetable seller, the tailor, the sweet-meat seller, were all cast in the same traditional mode. The school children began to return home and we could watch their tiny but confident steps, up and down the slopes.

Next destination was the Manki Point which took about an hour to scale. The view from this peak, the highest as seen from Chandigarh, was all covered with vagrant and drifting clouds. The Sukhna Lake was not visible due to haze. Seen during our last visit, the two-legged monkey, who we saw eating sweet prasad with his mouth like a dog, since he lost his hands (!) in some deadly prank, was not there—perhaps squared up with diabetes. A group of students doubled for the monkey sena here! The characteristics of the raag—Megh Malhar, seemed to manifest here with all the desired frolicking, longing, exuberance and spiritedness besides being soaked in the drizzle and dried with gushing cool winds .

By the evening it was experiencing the raag literally from ‘hill to hall’ when we found ourselves ensconced and enthralled with live vocal recital by Shruti Sadolikar and Pandit Vidyadhar Vyas. The theme was Ritu-Raagas. I am as barren as anyone else could be, on knowledge and information about the raags but possessing a musical ear can make one sway, the way a raag singer wants you to, casting a spell not only on human being but animals and plants as well. Music lovers believe that a Raag Malhar can cause rains while a Raag Deepak can create light around. Tansen successfully experimented singing Megh and Malhar giving it a new name—Miyan ka Malhar.

 Shruti Sadolikar who presented Raag Jayant—a combination of Raag Jaijaiwanti and Malhar informed that  Megh Malhar had many presentations and can be mixed freely with any other raga. She gave three examples. One, Malhar, having locks flowing down, sleekly, being doted on by singing and dancing bevy of nayikas . Two, a serene, calm, white haired and white bearded Malhar sitting in all peace and watching the happenings around. And three, Mallahrikas who are drizzle incarnate, rejoicing in their profuseness of overbrimming longing combined with lurking a feel to be with the beloved. Sawan aaya jhoom ke!

http://epaper.dailypostindia.com/Details.aspx?id=44777&boxid=56444&uid=&dat=2012-08-11

Musings on the hills in The Pioneer

Musings on the hills

By RAJBIR DESWAL

CALL of the hills—there!

I hear, ‘Here, here!’

Roll up, slide down

Cheer, fresh air

Highly hilly

‘Here! Here!’

You turn to me O’ hills as I retrun to you!

THERE IS attendant quietitude in the hills. Our suite has stubbornly turned its back from the road. Night creatures’flitting and screaming does penetrate the glass panes. Looks like there is nobody who lives here. Even the morning Sun will not wake anything up with loud implorations. Mobile phones too behave, thanks to the network gobble up.

SOGGY SUNSHINE, fifty grams of hail, hundred and fifty grams of sleet, balanced breeze and rest of them all were human figures in Shimla City—some locals, others tourists but only a few hill lovers. Some serendipity should find them all in the lap of nature—pure nature.

NO IT’S NOT necessary that a Mexican wave can generate only in Mexico . Also that, while in Shimla you need to do as they do in Shimla—You can stay not as laid back! Be up and about!

RAIN OR SHOWER too are like chords .They twang some musical notes too. Like a chord is only a chord if the notes are not touched at appropriate gamuts. Put your hand on the falling drops or sprout and it sings a song, not just pitter-patter of it.

AT JAKHOO Hanuman temple in Shimla, a large army of monkeys greets you but how does the management know that not looking into the eyes of a monkey will let it not torment you, frighten you, search your pockets, snatch your stuff and take away smartly your goggles or specs to be returned after the monkey is fed two roasted gram packets? Now I understand why am I always frisked at the foreign airports. Some monkey sense you see should be the key see a man.

A DAY FULL of adventure. Tata Pani in Satluj has hot springs . On the way the rafting part was a natural attraction which went a little wrong. Then a hitchhike on to serendipitous kacha route circuiting deep forests and high dusty peaks with slush on the way. Rains on reaching Shimla played the spoilt sport.Such things keep happening in the hills.

MY FRINED in Goa Allen Desa says he is a man of water—Pani ka aadmi. My frined Pankaj Molekhi from Uttrakhand says he is a man of the hills—Pahad ka aadmi. My friend Meshi from Haryana says he is earthy to the core—Zameen ka aadmi. Where do I belong?

I HAD HEARD of a simile ‘as slippery as an eel’ but in the hills, while climbing down the slopes, one must modify it to ‘as slippery as pine-needles’. If you start slipping from over them, it’s only the pine-trees that would block you from slipping further down.

Freezing temperature only doesn’t make the wall-clock hands go still. It’s a question of being charged up. But how to replace battery without inviting a lizard jumping on your chest. Eeeeeeshhh!!!

THE KITCHEN BOY is an expert in serving hot tea with one continued running sprout through four cups. You also need to splurge the stuff down hurriedly before it gets to substitute for ice-tea. Asking for another cuppa has been quite in vogue ever since the British claimed they knew best teeing-etiquette.

NOW BACK home, I recall the reaction of the kids, in a goats-flock, who probably saw our car for the first time in their life, since we chose that kacha route through and though the thick fields and jungles The moms too, spitting that leafy-feed from the high bushes rushed to the kids’ rescue telling—Me-he-he—they’re holidayers, they’ll soon go back…me-he-he!

The sun is much loved in the hills than the moon which is much awaited, for the latter keeps playing hide and seek more than it does in the plains when clouds are there or hills themselves. Yes the stars in the hills you can touch and feel raising your arm.

Whatever wild way, contrasted or matching, or even just for a trial if it gets hit for market use (sic!), nature puts colours in the flowers and they look so natural.

As is my vont, I go for serendipitous finding of places, untrodden, unvisited, unruffled and really inviting to stay for a while! Saw some very scary rocks at noontime when we thought how dreadful they should look during the night. But the thought that we could only drive through and not really see the monster rocks lessened the dreadfulness then felt. Not being able to see the dreading scenarios almost negates and wipes them off!

In the hills we are staying close to a seasonal stream. The window opens on boulders and sand brought here from God knows where and when—their grind being a different question. But I reconstruct a scence when it should flowing water in it almost proclaiming and proving to the rest of the world—supplant embankments, trees, plants, shrubs, even bridges and causeways. Almost like a child who sits in a flashy car and shows off to his cronies his sitting in the flashy car!

With jungles creatures opera played with the accompaniment of a chord of silence all around, even the casually rendered barking of a dog at a far off distance seems to add notes to the quietude of hills.

Beyond the slopes and steep, there appears a melted horizon that keeps showing and showing and showing. A hill-view to the hilt!

The evening lights dancing on, and dipping deep in the pond water, make the visual a perfect blend of spirituality serenity and ethereal inquisitiveness.

THE THREE day trip to Shimla unfolded many other things that escape the attention of a common tourist. Buildings and hotels are littered with traffic, but we had a way out.

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Versatility incarnate Mohammad Rafi

Versatility incarnate Mohammad Rafi

Mohammad Rafi died this day bequeathing his lively and soulful singing to us

By RAJBIR DESWAL

It really needs very fine sensibilities and an equally responsive sensitive ear to put in aesthetic perspective, appreciate and analyse Mohammad. Rafi’s  rendering songs of a myriad hue, a plethora of situations and his acumen for singing for quite a number of different actors.   Each Rafi number has a typical variation, attendant musicality and melody, combined with manifestation of a situation, created by the maestro himself.  Here are impressions that some of the Rafi songs left universally acclaimed, and enjoyed.

The husky start, velvety, soft combo is freshly evident in ‘Jab se hum tum nazaron mein’. A sense of loss, repentance compunction, at the same time being sobered, creates the desired effect in ‘Din dhal jaye haye raat na jaye’. The slithering rendition as required to go with a screeching-grinning Johny Walker could match the talent only of Mohd. Rafi, remember ‘Tel Malish – Champi—Sar jot era chakraye’?. 

Rafi’s sublimity of his spiritual reach had a hint in his Bhajans ‘Man tadpat hari darshan ko aaj’, ‘Badi der bhai nand lala’ and ‘Rahike tune basari churaaee’.  The futility of mundane worldliness is best depicted in ‘Man re tu kahe na dheer dhare.’ Mohd. Rafi is unbeatable in showering blessings and concern for ones daughter given in marriage in the ever emotional, ‘Babul ki duayen leti ja’.

A street-singer’s talent, maneuvered so boisterously, yet in the most appealing voice as in ‘Aulad walon phulo phalo’ ‘Tujh ko rakhe ram tujhko Alla rakhe’ and “Diwane hai diwano ko na ghar chahiye’ is matchless.  Likewise, his songs filmed on the flamboyant Shami Kapoor could create a magic, gelling with  latter’s style as in “Badan pe sitare lapete hue’ , ‘Diwane ka naam to poocho’ and ‘Aaja aaja mein hoon pyar tera’.  Shami Kapoor could not have done enough justice to his romping, if Rafi had not sung for him so spiritedly ‘Tareef karoon kya uski.’ The high pitched beginning of ‘Japaaaaaan—Love in Tokyo!’ perfectly matches the tall handsome hulk Joy Mukherjee.

Social concerns, got an indulgent and inherent local brand of talent of Rafi in ‘Tu Hindu banega na musalman banega’ .His patriotic gems enthused the dullest souls into a kind of exuberance, with his clarion call--‘Watan ki aabro khatre mein hai’, ‘Aawaj do hum ek hain’, ‘ Aye watan aye waten’, and  ‘kar chale hum fida jano tan sathiyo’ etc.. Equally remarkable were the songs ‘Ye mehlon  ye takhton ye tajon ki duniya’ and ‘Jinhen naaz hein hind par.’ 

The classical side in Rafi’s treatment always remained underscored and emphasized, but some of the gems made him stretch his vocal cords even beyond the known reach of the gamuts; sample, ‘O door ke musafir’, ‘Aj-hoo no aaye balma,’ ‘Fir aane laga yaad mujhe’ and ‘Gham uthane ke liye main to jiye jaoonga’  While recording this song and reaching the erescendo, Rafi stopped at a point when the music director wanted him to go still higher. Rafi is said to have quipped—Jitender (on whom the song had to be filmed) has his voice broken raising it just higher, it would not seem unnatural on him.” Rafi had the rare ability to match his scale and voice to whosoever he sang for, especially Rajender Kumar.

Mohd. Rafi has always been known for his very wide and varying range, as also possessing a pitch which remains smoothly musical and ear pleasing, even after reaching the crescendo. A case in point is ‘Jane kya dhoondti hain ye ankhen mujmei’ and in ‘Ehsan tera hoga mujh par’.  The horizontal notation provides an apt cue for a flute to take from, as reflected in his ‘Mere mitwa mere meet re’. My all time favourite has been “Suhani raat dhal chukee”  

Rafi has also been known for singing in many languages and his pronunciation of Urdu words to their finest nuances has always been appreciated.  Rafi sang with equal ease in the country idiom and also of the thorough grasp of it as in ‘Nain lad gayee hay’’ and ‘Pipra ke patwa sarikhe dole manwa’. Equally well in the Punjabi Shabad ‘Mittar pyare noon’.  Who can forget his ’Jee karda hai iss duniya nu main hans ke thokar mar diyan’.

A friendly ease of rendering a song has its bonding as in a ‘Dosti; number ‘Chahoonga main tujhe’.  Rafi’s masti songs ‘Aaj mausam bara baiman hai bara’ and ‘Jane wale aaja teri yaad sataye’, ‘Madhosh hawa matwali fiza’, ‘Dewana hua badal’ etc are remarkable till today. Rafi could match up his voice with Mehmood in ‘Hum kale hai toh kiya hua dil wale hain’ and Jitender in ‘Aa mere humjolee aa’ .Bharat Bhushan, Dilip Kumar, Sunil Dutt, Devanand, Joy Mukherjee, Vishwajeet—he  sang play backs for them as if they found their voice in Rafi.

Mohd Rafi’s ghazals always left their lasting impression in ‘Pass bethon tabiyat bahal jayegi’ kabhi khud pe kabhi halat pe rona aaya   and ‘Guzre hain aaj ishq main’ : these have always remain gems in Rafi lover’s collection.    Rafi’s aalaps have always mesmerized the music lovers.  Who can forget ‘Tu jamuna ki mauj’, ‘Chal udd ja re panchi’, ‘ jane walon yara mur ke dekhon idhar’ Rafi was a master in leading Qawwalis, ‘Ye Ishq Ishq hai Ishq Ishq’, ‘Meri tasveer lakar kya karoge tum,’  ‘Milte hi nazar tum se’. And ‘Isharon ko agar samjho ’.

The list could be endless but try and think of the sensuous male voice, in its most innocent callowness, so softly manifest in his ‘Dastak’ number—Tumse kahoon ik baat paron se halkee, halkee, halkee, halkee…!

Tailpiece: A friend of mine in our college days said to me once – if ever on a fine morning, I was found dead, you must take it to be a pleasurable circumstance, when I was before dying, listening to  Mohd. Rafi on a transistor, tucked between my ear and the pillow.

You will live in our hearts for ever—the King of Bollywood singing.

A tear moves...!!!

Tears apart!
by Rajbir Deswal

Tears flow in many ways. They fiercely flood, wallowingly well up, tend to trickle, flow slowly, slip sloppily, brim exceedingly and are basically emotion spurred. Shocks and thrills too bring tears, while happiness makes them purer. “I hate tears, Pushpa” — being a common refrain at many a mention of tearful situations after the Rajesh Khanna and Sharmila starer lit up the screen to let the gleam of the glowing dialogue travel till today when one is to refer to tears.
I remember Dilip Kumar in “Ram Aur Shyam” softly plucking the tiny, shiny twinkling tear-ball drop-land on his fingers trying to please his niece, but the scene lingers in my mind till date. The films have also shown the idols or statues either bleeding from the heart, or rolling down tears at the plight of a particular protagonist on whose predicament even providence takes a pity and is moved.
There are people who cannot withstand the sight of tears, particularly when one is so very emotionally attached to the other that one cannot stand the pain and predicament of the loved one. Tears in the eyes of women are believed (mostly by men!) to be the most powerful weapon with them.
The English people are known to be possessing and recommending a stiff-upper-lip sans tears, particularly for military generals, dictators, despots, royals and even bureaucrats. At Diana’s death, none of the Royal family, though sullen, betrayed any signs of a sense of loss (on the face of it), while many Britons were seen shedding tears, besides Alton John, singing his ‘Candle in the wind’, making many a tear find their emotional nemesis in flowing out of the eye-uncontrolled.
I remember an instance when having lost their parents, two brothers and a sister were fighting a bad patch in life, to slug it out painstakingly. Unfortunately, the younger of the two brothers, joined a dacoit’s gang. A police officer extracted money out of him to favour his brother ‘a little’.
The bread-earner boy had to sell off their tractor to pay the bribe. He too was then in the final year of his graduation, with his younger unmarried sister being another one to take care of.
The boy summoned up courage to approach the Superintendent of Police. He narrated the bribe story with his eyes flooding with tears, becoming red. But the boy did not let a single tear drop from either of the eyes. They were held on his eye lashes so as not to convey any weakness in his fortitude and conviction of staying bold under all circumstances. The SP ensured that the bribe money was restored to him.
I recall Lord Tennyson’s “Home they brought her warrior dead” when the widow doesn’t weep and let flow her tears. Many wise people around exclaim, “She must weep or she will die”. Nothing seems to work till “Rose a nurse of ninety years/Set his child upon her knees — Like summer tempest came her tears/ ‘Sweet my child, I live for thee’!”
Tears can move even the stones into some kind of a predicament, letting flow only elixir of hope.
I remember another story of a tombstone maker who is approached by a widow to make a tombstone for her husband. She keeps looking at each one of his chisel strokes while he keeps telling himself the same thing — ”She must weep or she will die”. When till two days she doesn’t break down, the tombstone maker has to make two tombstones.
Despite all that goes with the tears, Mahatma Gandhi wanted to wipe every tear from every eye. A tall order, Bapu! But you could do it — tears apart!

Pic courtesy http://www.google.co.in/imgres?imgurl=http://api.ning.com/files/21tNO5FzXGvgGrwb2dF*qdhMLp-*nO8p-7aJWWU2gUUnzBnMBbJXj20Mvj89EK9sRhre2MVmnUb7lGKscUIm6KSw*WLC0Een/tears10.jpg&imgrefurl=http://my.englishclub.com/profiles/blogs/silent-of-tears&usg=__WWCoOtUDHn94Ad72ItMsWoBzzVQ=&h=375&w=500&sz=28&hl=en&start=7&zoom=1&tbnid=9WHPz5jLnuM9hM:&tbnh=98&tbnw=130&ei=qlUTUMXkBoLkrAeW3oHQCg&prev=/search%3Fq%3Dtears%26hl%3Den%26sa%3DN%26biw%3D1280%26bih%3D569%26site%3Dimghp%26tbm%3Disch&itbs=1

Mad, Fad, Ad-World

Mad, Fad, Ad-World

 RAJBIR DESWAL

They add ‘mad’ to the art of advertising, only because it rhymes well with ‘Ad’.  Otherwise, ask the people in the business of advertising as to how much of creativity and thought process goes into the making of an Ad.   If I have to rhyme in continuation of even the argument, then I will rephrase it as ‘Mad, Fad, Ad-World’, for it’s only for the fads that we get sucked into while going in for a certain thing, besides of course the things that are enormously and eminently in the line of Maslow’s Pyramid of Basic Needs.

Advertising through whatever means of communication was then available, we would see only Lifebouy, Glycodin, Saridon and Anacin Ads.  With the going on air of Vividh Bharti, the All India Radio started blurbing it all with jingles with a tickling and tinkling tone marking the pauses in many ads.

But before this, I recall a jingle on Radio Ceylon which tolled like a ting-tong to announce ‘Loma time’ – a watch popular in those days besides Henri Sandoz, Favre-Leuba, Romar and Titus.

Then there were other conventional methods of advertising, on the roads and street-walls, largely of the film posters.  Rickshaws, decked up with painted sack cloth and with film posters were also seen in those days with a dhol-drummer and a professional rattle-tattle man, in the lead.

The Ad-Man sitting in a rickshaw, with a microphone  covered with a cloth held in both hands, and using a public address horn on the rickshaw’s handle, would proclaim as if in a refrain, the clichéd announcement—“Once again on great public demand ! KVM’s Meharbaan! In Eastman colour! New copy guaranteed! On reduced rates! In your own Raj Talkies!” And then a popular number would be played on the black HMV disc of which the stylus kept jumping to repeat certain parts of the musical composition. This was a common sight in those days.

Small time entrepreneurs employed pamphlets announcing ‘Khul gaya! Khul gaya’ if it was a show room. The blow-horn advertising of Beedi No. 22 still reverberates in my ears.

The more enterprising advertisers like Red & White Cigarette Company had one woman with a ten times bigger, egg shaped red shell on her head, walking in front of a line-up of four men wearing extra large pants, on their stilts, was also a common sight in Moufassal towns.  The stencil impressions on the walls was yet another mode of advertising, particularly during the elections.

During my visit to Victoria in Canada, I came across a very interesting advertising technique,  Approaching the Capital City of British Columbia, we read on a huge bill-board, an inscription on “Mention this board when you check-in at our hotel for a discount.”  When we did so on reaching that particular hotel, and mentioned the board that we had seen, we were given straightaway twenty-five percent discount.  What a way to not only proclaiming alluring-advertising but to measure and square up the effect of it instantaneously, at your customer counter!

Advertising has really traveled through what was less but really more; and now, enough but actually so very less!