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