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.

 

 

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