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!

The Jamun Tree and sweet childhood

The Jamun Tree and sweet childhood

                                                                             By: Rajbir Deswal

My great grand old mother who as  reverently addressed as Boodhi Maa if asked to tell her age, would always refer to and point towards the huge jamun tree in our village.  Boodhi Maa died a nonagenarian while the jamun tree still stands, though gone almost denuded, and out-lived.

There was a time when its delicacy ripened, got rain-kissed and dropped, aplenty. Children could be seen eating them to their guts’ content and bringing some for the home-bounds.  There used to be a women-vendor also, who collected the fall in her basket and carrying  it later on her head, would go round the village, to return to her home within minutes, for the fruit was sold like hot cakes (sic!)

Come the month of Sawan and the Teej celebrating women thronged the jamun tree singing folk songs, to be suitably harboured on purpose-made wooden flat seats, fixed on the swings.  Young men and boys vyied with one another and gladly took upon them to fix the swings, and also to make the women folk ride them, turn by turn.  The competition involved how high a swing could be swung so as to have the roller-coaster (sic!) riders touch and pluck the leaves almost on the tree top.  Due care was taken to fix the swings on strong branches since mango and jamun trees are said to be having fragile branch joints.

The Jamun tree was a land mark and could be seen from a distance of 3 kos (four and a half) miles.  It stood the village skyline as silhouette.   I remember an instance as a child when I went to taste jamuns with a band of my cronies.  Being the only son of my parents, besides my five sisters, I was never allowed by my mother to go for a swim in the nearby canal; and also not to climb a tree.  She always feared for my safety. 

While many others climbed the jamun tree along with one Karna, the barber’s son, I had to stay content with what ever they dropped from above.  Naturally they devoured the best fruit themselves and spared me half-ripe or even beginning-to ripe jamuns.  On my beseeching, they would let once in a while, drop a good one, and really a parrot-bitten (considered to be more delicious) jamun for me.  This was perhaps their revenge upon me who came from a feudal family, while they came from very humble homes. 

It so happened that Karna ate too many jamuns that he did not realize their choking trick played on the palate as also on the guts inside.  He was then at the tallest branch, when his throat and chest started feeling a chocking and Karna making gestures to others to help him climb down.  He was brought down half-way when he couldn’t take it any more and preferred jumping..  Instantaneously on landing, he headed towards the nearby puddle, to drink muddy water from it, to relieve himself of choking.  Only after a few minutes he could breathe properly.  Obviously I was the one to have the last laugh. 

I recall all this nearly after forty years, when something happened with the domestic help in our house.  He never stole anything.  I told him in the morning to put a container having ten black rasgula like balls of jamuns in the refrigerator to let cool down further.  But he brought back nine, not knowing that I had unwittingly (being uncharitable to him!) had counted the delicacy.  He would not even know that even one jamun leaves stains on the tongue.  I made him grin by telling that I knew it, but he refuted still.

Once again, I had the last laugh.  Jamun’s you are too much.

Coins and coinage

Coins and coinage
by Rajbir Deswal

History, or even some evidence of myths, is generally substantiated with findings related to coins of specific times gone by. The earliest information about coins provides proof that these had almost no proper form. Coins then were like a lump or a flattened piece of metal, assessed as valuable.
That the coins got birth would have been due to greed and avarice in man. That these acquired definite forms — stamped, imprinted, etched and embossed with the ruling figure on one of their sides —speaks volumes about generally the ambition in man and his desire to have his name travel to times even after he or she ceases to remain at the helm of affairs.
Let me lighten the serious tone a bit, and shed light on other aspects of coins and coinage — “shine like a penny just out of the mint” and, of course, not “returning like a bad coin”. Well, the hidden treasure you hit upon always has a box, a pitcher or even an urn, full of the tinkling metal-money. Their appearing in your dreams confirms a hidden desire in you — for valuables and riches — although experts may interpret it in various ways.
The more coins and currency someone possessed, the more insecure he became and devised ways and means to store, salvage and package them so as not to allow even a look at one’s treasure-trove, not to talk of a heist being executed against it. That is why they had purpose-made boxes and safely-tucked-in-wall-and-earth pitchers, containing metal-money.
The coins have given us many phrases, idioms and sayings. Once out of the dye in which they are moulded and cast, it confirms their currency, utility or otherwise in accordance with one’s own understanding. A coin’s value varies from person to person — a man in the street, a beggar, an ascetic, or someone who never needed money or any of its manifestations in concrete terms — pun intended.
So far I have only been talking of the third dimension of the coins whereas they are said to have only two. Except the one made-on-order by Big B in “Sholay” who engages a trick to fool his friend Dharmendra. Big B in “Deewar” was also saved when the bullet landed on a coin-like badge with an inscription of the holy Islamic number 786 in his pocket. We sometimes refer to children as “khareej” — change.
Remember Nizam Bhishti, one who obliged Humayun, the Mughal king, by saving his life while he was fleeing from captivity. He was rescued by one using a buffalo-skin water-bag (mashak) while letting the king float in water. Humayun, as a token of payment for his obligation, allowed the Bhishti to rule “Hindostan” at least “for one day”. Nizam Bhishti is said to have allowed “coins of leather” remain in currency as “dinars” for that particular day.
Not very long ago but there was a time when even a four-anna coin called “chavanni”’ made a musical and tinkling sound for a long time after its landing on the floor, and now even a tenner doesn’t jingle. No, it’s not inflation, but enough fall in the currency’s rebounding cacophony, nay, capacity — jokes apart.
I recall a dacoity in my village long back when, trying to take on the dacoits, one of my forebears was killed. The dacoits had enough time, during the execution of the dacoity, to test each and every one-rupee silver coin by hurling it up in the air, employing a thumb against the finger, to listen to the tinkle that the coin made, and ascertaining if the coin was genuine or a khota sikka.
Yes, they carried away jute-bags full of silver coins then. Otherwise, why should a rendered-poor-me have been talking of coins and coinage?

UNEXPLORED, AROUND SHIMLA

 UNEXPLORED, AROUND SHIMLA

BY RAJBIR DESWAL & CHANDER KOUMDI

(Published in The Times Of India on July 1, 2012)

If you visit a hill station that is only a station at a hill, and not really having a base around in the otherwise natural, sylvan, heavenly nestled spots and vistas you have not been to: it’s just like going for shopping in a mall, with an artificial skyline littered with wooden cut outs, looking as silhouettes of mountains. To be in the hills is to feel being in the hills. To have a feel of the hills, one needs to not only look out of the window but be there. Just be there, right there!

The Hill Capital of the British Shimla is thronged by tourists, honeymooners and holidayers but there are very few people who would really venture into areas where nature abounds in plenty with not only bird tweets, monkeys’ caterwaul, jungle creatures’ screams, rabbits’ hollering around, and a pleasant sunshine with fresh air to not only fill the nostrils, but also the lungs.

We are not talking about the places around Shimla which are a must-see as ticking them as ‘seen’ is a must, to brag about a later ‘been there done that!’ If there is a likelihood of snowfall, or otherwise also, one has to visit Kufri. If one wants to see highest cricket ground in the world, he needs to go to Chayal. If one has to see a natural golf course then Naldhera is the destination. And if one has to slide down the hills on to the town of Rampur Busher on the Satluj, or has also to climb the Hatu Peak with a temple by the name of Hatu Mata—a local deity, then one needs to windup at Narkanda. And that’s all.

Being in Shimla only, you can go to the Ridge, the Scandal Point, Kalibari temple, Gaiety Theatre, Lakkar Bazaar, Chhota Shimla, New Shimla, Summer Hill, Jatog or a village called Tutu, on which a movie was also made.

But these writers wish to take you around Shimla in the nativity of the state of Himachal Pradesh, at one time spot specific and at another, quite serendipitous . Here we go then.

Going about 5 kilometers from Naldehra, on your way to Tatta Paani, you come across a beautiful hill range, with a drive quite close to its feet. The entire range generally looks yellow and when in summer months the grass turns brown, it looks all the more awesome—quite like the sand dunes in California. The scene creates a magic. You can see cows, buffaloes and goats grazing at such high vantage points where you would find it difficult to climb and envy the animals for having a bird’s eye view of the valley down below.

All through about 15 kilometers stretch up to Basantpur, you have beautiful trees laden with flowers of different variety ranging from the red rhododendrons besides purple, mustard and white ones on the fruit trees. The embellishment of these colourful flowers reflected as against the yellow and brownish black drop of the hills, that descend down slope from Naldehra up to Basantpur, is a seeing and believing experience.

When you cast a glimpse at the valley from where the town of Shimla stays visible for quite sometimes, you then really feel that there is really a difference between a habitation with construction of concrete and mortar, and a habitation where only nature lives.

Before reaching Tatta Paani, some 10 kilometers short of the place, Satluj appears majestically flowing past on your right side. From that height it looks to be a beautiful stream of grayish-white juxtaposed with yellow and green square or rectangular patches of fields having small hutments.

They offer rafting in the waters of Satluj. Drenching oneself from head to toe, at the same time manaeuvering rapids, on that inflatable boat, makes you float not only on water but as if, elevated to attain a spiritual bliss.

Tatta Paani has hot springs right in the bed of Satluj, where you can dip yourself in cold, warm or hot water, as per your need and choice. By now you hunger buds start teasing you to let them also have their share of fulfilment and some eateries on shore come too handy for price, as also for indulging in gluttony.

From Tatta Paani you have two choices to make; either to return to Shimla by the same route you came through, or go up on a kacha track to see the natives and their life style, which gives you a totally different feel of a people subsisting on a laid back disposition, and activity as well.

Nobody seems to be in a hurry here. Not even a herd of goats and lambs in eating out their fodder from bushes and other foliage. The natives seem to be attending to their daily chores with utmost calmness and serenity. You can also have a feel of song and dance in this hilly cultural milieu. You reach villages called Shimlo, Juni, Demoghat, Dumsher, Dhammi etc. Here you are with a typical Himachali culture having a Shivalikan stamp on it.

From here you can still venture out to a small erstwhile fiefdom called Arki. This is about 30 kilometeres through and through the hills, up and down the slopes, with you hitting the lowest point, from over a small bridge constructed on a very narrow gorge, to allow the river flowing down there, to expand into a free-flow largely hereafter.

Again you are on a climb, till you reach a place called Shalaghat on the Shimla Mandi highway. Arki is 7 kms down hill from Shalaghat. Here you find a small township abuzz with little commercial activity. Lutar Baba’s cave is also on the way. But you cannot miss the Regal Palace of the kings of Arki built centuries ago.

Part of the palace is nowadays a BSF Training Centre but the Deewan Khana is still with the royal family. A mention of Deewan Khana and its wall paintings is warranted here. The wall paintings are intact still, despite being centuries old. They were painted with herbal colours depicting scenes from Mahabharata, Ramayana, Sagar-Manthan, Nat tribes sporty acrobatics, demon-angel fights, besides scenery depicting western scenarios of buildings, bazaars, ports and palaces.

The roof of this Deewan Khana may cave in, got forbid, any day. Driving down from Arki, you reach a place called Kunihar which is almost plains. You can see leveled fields of wheat, maize and barley here. This plain is a sudden recess and a sort of respite, with the hills surrounding it on all sides.

Further beyond this is the beautiful town of Sabathu which also boasts of a beautifully maintained historical cantonment. Up to this place enroute, you have enough accommodation to stay and plentiful hill delicacies to cater to your taste. Local variety of fruits is abundantly available.

Now you have come closest to Kalka-Shimla highway, again to be in the routine humdrum of your daily indulgence, when the voyage though the seemingly wild, starkly natural, immensely spiritual and entirely satisfying journey into a hills world, which you had till now just heard of and not seen, will be over.

Loving and losing parents

Loving and losing parentsby Rajbir Deswal

One out of every three senior citizens in our country being subjected to abuse, ill-treatment, dishonour and disrespect, and nearly 60 percentile of their total population being made parties in property-related disputes, compels me to think as to whose property they themselves are. Whether you love your children is never a question; but whether you love your parents when they are middle-aged or really old generally varies from person to person.

When my mother died, I was surprised to see a doctor-friend of mine, who was treating her till then, breaking down inconsolably. I have always since then known him to be a parent-lover-worshipper rather!

A colleague of mine does his mother’s nursing himself who is now 80 years old, despite the doctors’ advice to engage a professional female nursing attendant. I have always found a typical glow on his face, which is surely the result of his basking in the glory of his mother’s blessings - unsaid and not conveyed though, for she is incapacitated even to that extent.

An uncle of mine, whose father was murdered when he was just 18, fought valiantly all the legal battles with his mother being around. He said he was actually orphaned when his mother died. I remember what happened when he was to celebrate his son being commissioned in the Army. He cried with his face buried in a pillow, whispering to himself, "O’ God! Only if Bebe were alive today!"

A friend’s wife living in the UK lost her mother at home. Condoling and consoling her as is the custom, I said, "Take heart, at least you have had your mother by your side till the ripe age of 82!" "What are you trying to tell me, please!" she said being more upset. I realised then that I should not have said that a ripe age is the right age for some one’s parent to go from our midst.

Now a senior bureaucrat, once a childhood buddy of mine, went to call on his parents staying back in his village. Having met his father first, he ushered in an ante-room to meet his mother lying on her cot, struggling for breath and coughing due to an attack of asthma.

Holding her skinny hands, the son assuaged her by saying that she would be alright soon, but that his father too was worried about his mother. "Why? Did the old man say that? And does he really think about me, himself being unwell? Take care, O’ son, he is going to be gathered to his ancestors soon!" Believe it; my friend informed me that his father breathed his last the following day. And his mother died day after. He was a broken man.

When we were shifting Bau Ji, my father, from a local hospital to the PGI, Chandigarh, after he suffered a heart attack, the paramedics holding the wheeled stretcher dragged him inside the ambulance so unprofessionally that one of his hands got stuck in a latch and his skin tore off. I couldn’t bear the sight of seeing blood on the hand of my unconscious father, who might have at that time not felt any pain. But it pains me till date - his loss apart!

Emotions, bonds, tags and values enhance our love for parents. Skirmishes, demands, expectations, environment, place, sacraments, biases, circumstances and your own becoming parents make all the difference. But parents do deserve the desirable, if not equal amount of love, compassion, care and respect.

Remember your father’s finger that you held while trying to toddle, now has fissures on its skin, and the cushiony lap of your mother has only bones to make no bones about it. Take care before it’s too late!
http://www.tribuneindia.com/2012/20120629/edit.htm#5

That bottom tip of India--In Daily Post

That bottom tip of India

By RAJBIR DESWAL

Now if you think it’s just the tip of India—the size of a pin-head—at the southern-most miles-spread of the sea-line at Kanya Kumari, you will be taken in for a big surprise on being there, for what you’ve been visualizing as a  tip was only less than a dot on the map of India. I happened to visit the place when the sea was the roughest during monsoons and the seawall was being as if, thumped, pounded and crashed against, by mammoth waves that roared and soared the highest.

We were then staying in the Dak Bungalow which is the last building on land in Kanya Kumari and if you plot it on the map, this one is the last built up dot where there is the lands-end too. Vivekanand Memorial is close by but you need a ferry to take you there. Be prepared to stay bundled in that boat to the Rock Memorial. They have recently seated a Kanya Kumari—Goddess idol at the rock temple.

A view from the lounge on the first floor of the Dak Bangalow allows you marveling at the expanse of the confluence of the Indian Ocean with Arabian Sea on the West and Bay of Bengal on the East. You are filled with a real patriotic feeling when you look at a mixed crowd of tourists—local, national and international. Skyline on all sides is dotted by temples, mosques and churches. Local men and women in their traditional lungis and skirts dominated the crowd. Women are fond of putting lot of oil on their hair with a flower or two to deck the parting or the plaits. They also have a style of letting the tresses drop loose but clutched near the nape, again with a flower or two to adorn it.

The lane that leads up to the ferry dock has eateries galore. You mostly get south-Indian food here but if you ask for an Aloo-Parantha it comes only with a pungently smelling coconut oil. Curd or milk—out of question. I was amazed at the size, variety and colour of bananas here. The market has sea-shell sellers display their stuff on small vending platforms. From a small cowrey to a huge coral or a conch—everything is here, mostly in white. Beads, rosaries, earrings, bangles and all ethnic cosmetic stuff for women is available at a very cheap price.

On the way to Kanya Kumari from Thiruvannathapuram in Kerala, you enter Tamil Nadu near Nagarcoil which has the famous Shiva temple having an 18-feet tall idol of Hanuman. You are allowed entry only if you are wearing a dhoti or a lungi. The temple is surrounded by a beautiful sacred water pond. 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 Kanya Kumari temple is said to be a thousand years old. All temples in South India have huge boundary walls with white and burgundy strips.

Being afflicted with playing typically rustic gimmicks as Haryanvi officers, we committed a blunder, infact a silly and weird thing to say the least, while retiring of the day in the Dak Bungalow. We ordered out beds to be put in the open space to let us have a feel of sleeping on the sea-shore, hearing thunderous sound of the mighty waves. I don’t know when did we sleep but the sudden torrent drenched us head to toe when leaving the beds behind we sprinted to the verandah—not to save ourselves from the innocuous water—but to seek shelter against the pounding of those heavy and hurting watery missiles.

Only the keeper of the Bungalow had the last laugh.