Thursday, May 9, 2013
Friday, September 28, 2012
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!
Thursday, September 20, 2012
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.
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
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!”
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
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.
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