A bottle of tharra form Ghaziabad & Milady Cologne:Chandigarh to Delhi

Olfactory odyssey
By Rajbir Deswal
I can nose-it-all, travelling from Chandigarh to Delhi. Anyone can smell the difference between Milady’s cologne and a bottle of tharra form Ghaziabad...but to name a town just by the smell of the place with ones eyes closed? Now here’s a challenge. If a Keats were to travel to Delhi from Chandigarh, I don’t doubt that he would prefer to sink down in his seat with a “wake-me-when-ye-get-there” look on his face. But for hardier souls, it’s an interesting experience to be “led by the nose down the GT Road”.Ready? Here we go. You have hardly left Chandigarh when some nauseating fumes assault your nostrils. You have crossed the Industrial Area and will soon be entering Golden Punjab, land of milk and honey. But your olfactory receptors are teased as you speed over the Ghaggar bridge and beyond. No, the air carried the faint smell of citrus wafted from the acres of kinnow plantation. You’re near Dera Bassi. A few more kilometres down the road and the fragrance of flowers will hit you. It’s the Punjab-Haryana border, nicely demarcated with hedges and flowerbeds. Good fences make good neighbours!Thereafter, many miles will flash past before another distinctive smell is picked up. This will be a very kitcheny-hot oil, frying masaalaas, rotis on the tawa. You must be passing the Ambala bus terminus, home of Puran Singh da Dhaba and innumerable “Chicken Corners”?After some 15 or 20 more minutes down the road, the traffic slows a bit. Now, concentrate, mingled with the smell of dust and auto fumes, can you make out a whiff of sandalwood, or mongra? Yes, it’s the agarbattis buring at the mazar of Nau Gaza Pir, near Shahbad.From here up to Pipli-Kurukshetra what you will encounter is the unmistakable smell of frothy sugarcane juice at the crushers. As you near halfway mark on your trip to Delhi, you will again and again pick up a smell of husk and grain-dust. If your nose is acute, it’ll recognise the aroma of rice. Shellers nearby have filled the air with the smell of basmati. Welcome to Taraori, where Indian history took a turn. Here in AD 1191 Mohammad Gauri overwhelmed the forces of the last Hindu King, Prithvi Raj Chauhan, in the Battle of Tarain. You too for your part can question the Thoughts of Americans laying siege to the basmati patent-wise will trouble you if you are pondering over India’s ancient glory snatched. The smell of cow dung and compost manure will soon bring you back to 2001. You have reached Karnal, where the farms of the National Dairy Research Institute and the Wheat Research Institute create a “Smelly Crescent” for you when your vehicle goes round as if via the queen’s necklace.But then, that dust-cum-agarbatti smell again. This has to be Pukka Pul built by the Moughals and the vast Haryana Armed Police Complex is stretched ahead. Further ahead...”Aha!” The manufacturing unit of a drink with “nothing official about it”. Could it be Gharonda? It’s, with the historic serais built by Khan Firuz in 18th century. If you were a shepherd, your nose would start to reveal something sheepish in the air. A smell like a large flock of sheep caught in a downpour. Wet wool. This can only be the Manchester of India—Panipat.This may not be your favourite smell but it will seem like perfume in comparison to the acidic fumes that choke the air a few miles down the road. This one comes from furnaces forgoing iron. Heaven help anyone who has to live in Samalkha.A hint of that Ambala smell returns not long after you leave Samalkha and you can be sure the highway is passing through a corridor of dhabas. Murthal, of course...paranthas and dal fry. Dirty but delicious. Enjoy while you can, because you are only minutes away from a devil’s bouquet compounded of paint, polish, varnish, molasses, rubber, fumes, chemicals and God knows what else. These are, thanks to all the assorted industries that crowed along the road at Rai and Kundli.And then, that familiar smell, that signals home-coming for the average Indian. The odour of the vast toilet. You are on the outskirt of outer Delhi with its slums, which in turn are ringed by fields which serve as al fresco latrines for a population numbering at least half a million. Delhi sprawls out and out, and vies with Calcutta, Madras and Bombay for the title of ‘Shittiest city in the world’. From here on the stench and automotive exhaust will drown out all other sensations. Welcome to the national capital.

Marigolds are vulgar?

Misplaced perceptions
By: Rajbir Deswal

Obviously obsessed with the pretension of studying and knowing literature, a student tells me about the marigold being a “vulgar flower”. Taken aback as I am, it is not that easy for me to gulp the bitter potion down the throat, for I am a flower-lover.I ask her to dent an explanation in me for I am not at all willing to accept anything in dishonour of a lovely, full-bloomed, smiling marigold, with each petal proclaiming the tenderness of touch and yellowness of mood.To make matters worse, this student goes to the extent of calling the marigold “stupid and lecherous”. Piqued at this second salvo, I caution her, “Stay on, stay on, young lady. After all, how can the poor thing be lecherous, admitting that in your estimation it may be stupid for one meaning of this adjectival attribute is foolish as well. And this ‘phholish’ does not make a marigold more flower-like.These days, I can understand the poets’ constraints, in this fact changing world, of not being able to afford and fantasise for daffodils, while lying on the couch in a pensive mood because people nowadays do not venture out to have an aesthetic feast for the soul but for the eyes, in “arranged chrysanthemums (show)”. The “exhibitionism” in the flowers does have the better of the onlookers, the so-called flower-lovers. Now I understand how the flowers could be blamed for a “vulgar” show but…?Do I not now contradict myself like Walt White man? And am I not being driven nearer an agreement with the young dame sans mercy for the poor marigold! She, and I too, may be right for even Whitman admits, “I am large; I contain multitudes”.Perceptions play pranks and prejudice popular beliefs. Hence everything looks pale to a jaundiced eye. Two and two makes four ‘rotis’ (bread) for a hungry person, and a Dr. Faustus perceives the face of sweet Helen, capable of launching a thousand ships and burning the topless towers of Illium!For one, Taj Mahal may be an object created to poke fun at the steadiness and consistency of lovers of humble origin. But for another person, it may be the ever-burning candle in the mausoleum of love. (Remember the film numbers (?) “Ik shehanshah ne banwa ke ek hasin Taj Mahal, hum garibon ki mohabbat ka udaya hai mazaq”, and “Taj wo shama hai ulfat ke sanam-khane ki”.For a Jehangir, Kashmir may be heaven on earth, and for the present day inhabitants, it may be a place to drive oneself away from. Likewise, a marigold may be a stupid or vulgar or even lecherous flower for the young lady, but for me…!Let me give it another serious thought. I am introspecting, and what I see before my “inner eye” is a pair of shoes of a woman removed by the bedside. One shoe is off its so(i)le and is lying parallel to the ground and the other is slightly tilted on the former’s side. The scene may be quite suggestive for some, including me.Well, if I can see lust in a pair of shoes, why can’t the young lady perceive the flower, a marigold, to be stupid, vulgar, lecherous and so on. I am still a student of, and she has mastered literature.

Photo:http://www.pretty-small-shoes.com/news/wp-content/uploads/2009/11/petite-size-flat-shoes-womens-WildCat.jpg

Gods on Roads: Routine of the blessed trade!

Routine of the blessed tradeBy: Rajbir Deswal

I wrote this for The Tribune,The HindustanTimes and The Pioneer long back.

It was Tuesday. The bell rang and I called our of Ramu to see who was there at the door. What I heard was a “khareech” followed by a mix of a shriek and laughter of the servant.I got anxious and sought to know from Ramu about the visitor. “It is a monkey, sir,” he replied giggling and almost calling him names.“Idiot...do monkeys ring the doorbell before entering...?” saying this, I hurried towards the door.I too was greeted with a “khareech” and in front of me was a man in the guise of the Monkey-God, Hanuman. He had a long tail, a bearded face with a swollen upper lip and body well oiled with vermilion.Less out of my own devotion and more for the Monkey-God’s dedication being in that apparel bearing the icy winds. I made him some offering. But, and since Monkey-God himself was there at my door, courtesy demanded that I should let him in the make him seated for a photograph and brief interview in exchange for the offering. I beckoned him in, but his tail would not allow him either entry in a small doorframe or even being reverentially seated. After all, Gods too have their limitations, and standing in the porch, we began to talk business.He introduced himself to me as Ram Saran. I asked him about his daily-routine to which he replied that he had a weekly-routine. “And what is that?” I enquired, thinking it should be interesting to know that. “Well, sir...”, he began on a humble note, but I cut him short. “No, no, please don’t address me as “sir”, after all you are in divine mantle”, and immediately he switched over to “Bachcha”.“Well, Bachcha, on Mondays I sport a big turban, carry Lord Shiva’s photograph (!) and a snake around my neck, for it is His day, and I collect offerings for Him from His “bhaktas”.“On Tuesdays...you have already seen...However, if you don’t mind, send for the camera...” he reminded me, and I again called out for Ramu.He continued. “On Wednesdays I and my caged-myna do fortune-telling either in front of the police stations or the courts. My myna beaks up the card where the fate of our clients is enveloped”.“On Thursdays I go to Baba Pir Ka Mazar with a bunch of peacock-wings and give my blessings to the devotees.”“On Fridays I assist my wife who dresses a la Santoshi Mata or Kali, depending on the availability of costumes”, for we lend them alternately to another family of our tribe”.“And on Saturdays...” Here, I again intervened, “Oh-no...aren’t you the Shani Maharaj who regularly makes is appearance in all white, from top to toe?” He smiled indigenously and reminded me of the camera.“But, Mr. Ram Saran”, I was now being more human-like, “does your trade in anyway benefit society at large or is it just to earn your bread that...?” He cut me short, “I too am relevant, sir, (now this was a man-to-man talk). What more suitably can I benefit society than my sermonising on all days of the week that my clientele should abstain on that particular day from meat, wine and woman!” He had a man-like lustre in his eyes.The camera arrived and having clicked him, I asked him what did he do on Sundays? Pat came the reply, “We too are human beings, after all. On Sundays we have our couple-kitties, bachcha, sir!”

Ghalib was a mad man!

Ghalib was a mad man!
By: Rajbir Deswal
From my sick bed. Viral fever has taken the better of me. And once again, despite the discomfort and body-ache, I rather am enjoying my predicament in the sense that some rustic things which I cannot otherwise do, I allow them a full play now. And the family members too have their share of tickling their funny bone at my cost. No, no that they are not concerned about me, but the way I behave amuses them.
For example, I will have a full blown sneeze whiffed out of my system with all the saliva sprayed concoction adding a notation of a longish—Aa-k-chheeeeeeeenn!!! And for added effect I would always like to repeat performance even if it’s not coming out of me in a natural course of business. Then in the case of cough, I will make an additional phono of ‘khown-khoooown’ followed by a loud clearing of the phlegm chocked throat.
And the more amusing part of my falling sick as I said is watching the family members exchange glances and smiles when I will in a state of feigned disorientation blaming everybody around with exhortations like—O’ God, none in this house cares for meeeeeee!!! Who the hell should be bothered about meeeeee!
I send everybody burst into peels of laughter when I will remember my late mother screaming, “Hai-Maaan! What for did you bring me to this uncaring world? Hai Maaan, where are youuuu! I miss you Maan!!! Etc etc.
O’ yes, Mr Ghalib must have been really a stone-hearted man when he exclaimed, “Padiye gar bimar to koi na ho timardar/Aur gar mar jaiye to noah-khawa koi na ho
Loosely translated it means—If you fall sick, there should be none to look after. And if you die, there should be none who would have any connections with you. Mad cap! No, mad fool’s cap that he wore.
I am happy to have viral fever. And I am in no hurry to recover. More over, I will pray for all my friends, for the Bible believes that those who are sick, God hears them first. So, in my being indisposed, I am gonna dispose off your urgent matters pending finalization at Almighty’s hands.
Still if you want an early recovery for me, well thank you very much. Let me for the time being enjoy my body-burning and body-breaking; I mean jism jalna aur jism tootna!

Research on Couples on The Mall!

The Mall Watch

By:Rajbir Deswal

Walking on The Mall in Shimla at the fag end on 2009, and watching couples of various ‘amalgamations’, I was reminded of a ‘research’ we carried out at Nainital. This was pulished in The Hindustan Times.Here we go...!!!
The best part of the training course we were undergoing on Government Management at a popular hill-station last summer came at the end of the official proceedings. After our fill of lectures, audio-visuals and interactions we had much interesting stuff to look forward to in the evenings, which not only soothed our tires eyes but was refreshing and rewarding.
Free of the academic constraints, we would be ushered into a more ‘enlightened’ world a la Buddha, when some half a dozen officers daily visited the Mall for a ‘research’. In that wanton crowed of revelers and holidayers, the scope of our study was limited only to the youngish category of couples. Excluded strictly from our eagle-eyed observation were the oldies, even if they walked more couple-like.
We would position ourselves at a vantage point from where we could have a researcher’s view of the subject under study, the topic of which was no less interesting: “the dynamics of the relationship between the malling couples.”
Here we go:
The came walking not only hand in hand but with a bodyline-to bodyline contact, resting their head on each other’s shoulders, turn by turn. The man’s hand would go reconnoitering the posterior of his partner once in a while. They would not lift their eyes to see the world around them, picking their way through a romantic realm in which others didn’t exist. Thus, sleep-walking, they would every now and then bump into a passer-by, pleading an unmeaningful “sorry”. The collided one could only look back at the apologetic couple, forgiving their “blindness” with a smile. Well they were the honeymooners.
The second category of couples looked more homely. Without hanging on each other literally they preferred walking their own, self-confident way. The man would ogle at other women, and the woman by his side would also not force herself to ignore the admiring glances coming her way. The man would carry a shopping bag in one hand and the woman her purse both with a firm grip on their belongings and their sentiments acquired through experience. Their’s was not a hush-hush talking tone, rather others could also hear the stuff. Perhaps they seemed to be hiding nothing from the onlookers. They were surely married couples of about five years conjugal bliss.
The third category of couples looked ready to pick-up a fight not only with each other, but with all others, be he a shop-keeper, a hawker, a passer-by, or a rickshaw-puller. They walked keeping a safe distance from each other, but carrying on a conversation all the same. One could very well hear their arguments on the child’s progress in school or the mutual tirade on managing household affairs. They would talk about their budget and postpone further individual purchases in favour of a pair of jeans for their teenaged son or a dress-set for the daughter. Surely, these couples were in the bondage of matrimony for a decade and half.
The fourth category was not of the couples but a “coupled” heterogeneity. This man-woman duo cast their apprehensive looks at the on-lookers. They were quite close to each other yet the fear of being caught strolling together was quite evident on their faces. Flamboyantly dressed most of them were husbands and wives of other wives and husbands. Or one partner of this combination might have had a marital status and the other might have been unmarried. The strain of trying to look natural only confirmed the forbidden aspect of their relationship with each other. If someone passed some remarks on them they would simply choose no to have heard it. They were, as the Bard of Avon put it, “no other stuff than what adultery is made up of.”
The last but not the least important category that came within our study was that of the unknown and unexplained relationship of man and woman walking on the Mall. Well, they could be at least cousins, if not, brothers and sisters our for some fresh air, while the parents relaxed elsewhere, with not a worrisome thought.

Nachhattar in New York: न्यू यार्क में नछत्तर सिंह

In Newjerk!

Rajbir Deswal : On a migrant Punjabi who took famously to Big Apple !
Nachhattar Singh is from Punjab and lives in New York. A school dropout, he had no other option but to pick up the bellboy’s job in a hotel after migrating to what he calls “Newjark”. We met him in his hotel. On noticing that we could speak Punjabi and that we were visitors from his own 'kontry', he took interest in us.
By no standards he appeared to be a man out of place. In his late-thirties and with a trimmed beard and pinkish-white complexion, he looked as if he was born and brought up in America. But the secret was out to the likes of us only when he opened his mouth to speak.
While in the lobby, we heard him interact with his customers. Sample this: “But tam flat?” “Phor tonty?” “Bill gat ban phrom hottal”. “Next” (He meant: “What time is your flight? At 4.20?) You will get a van from the hotel. Next please”).
Nachhattar Singh became quite friendly with us and he offered to double as our guide in New York. He would tell us, “Its going to be a bindy (windy) day, so better bear (wear) another jaa-kut (jacket),” and “Nyagra-Phaal beiwed from Kanada said looks marblous”. Hope you can make out what he said.
More than his ear-pleasing style (as enjoyed by us) of speaking English in an unadulterated Punjabi accent, his help rendered in saving some dollars was welcome. He would accompany us to his friendly vendors on the Time Square and get us cheaper stuff like phonecards or souvenirs. He even arranged a conference on phone to Delhi through the gadget at his residence.
He had a nephew Vimpy, whom he addressed as Bimpy, and who was employed as driver for the hotel van, courtesy Nachhattar’s connections. When we were to leave for the airport, he clubbed us with other customers in the van, which had four extra seats, saving us nearly $100.
Bidding goodbye to Nachhattar Singh with hugs, we thanked him for his services. As a last gesture of taking care of us, he called Vimpy and told him, “O’ Sambhaal Kay, Kaka! Raah-ch koi raff-ad na paa-een” (Take care boy. Avoid entering into trouble on the way).
Vimpy looked like his uncle and spoke after his fashion, but he needed to be groomed for living in New York since the boy did not have his “papers” in order.
As ill luck would have it, a car banged our van from the rear. The driver gave mouthfuls to Vimpy for no fault of his. Vimpy then alighted and charged menacingly at him and doled out choicest of Punjabi abuses which only we could understand.
Back in the van, Vimpy said, “Bladdy-phoolz! Eh sochday nay inha day pyo da kontry hai” (They think it is their father's(!) land). We recalled Nachhattar Singh’s cautionary and sagacious advice to Vimpy and wondered how bravely had he been putting up with hostilities in a land that is not his own Patiala or “Batala”.
While we made fun of Nachhattar’s language, the Americans made sense of it. This was precisely the lesson our friend wanted to give to his young nephew if the latter had to stay in Nachhattar’s “Newjark”.

Photo courtesy http://hindimoviesong.net/Blog/wp-content/uploads/2008/08/hindi-movie-singh-is-king.jpg

Exam blues,clues and flues इम्तिहान उफ़ तौबा !

EXAMS BLUES,CLUES AND FLUES !
BY: RAJBIR DESWAL
April may have been the “cruellest month” for T. S. Eliot, for it prompted “mixing memory and desire”; but March seems to deserve that description in respect of students, who have to write exams missing the colourful fun of Holi. Memorise and revise. Desire, but don’t deserve fun.
Even now when I have successfully written all my educational and professional examinations, I cannot understand why I still occasionally have nightmares of not being able to reach my exam venue in time. I always dream, “Hell barring my way!”
If I make it on time in a certain dream sequence, then invariably I am unable to attempt all the questions. Ink spills on paper or pen goes dry. Things keep going wrong. The reason perhaps lies embedded in my psychological make-up at the subconscious level. So, may be, this is the case with all examinees who stand to various tests in life.
Empathising with the hard-pressed examinees of today, I recall the times when we took tests in a comparatively relaxed manner. My friend Bheema, a wrestler, during my pre-university course studied what we called “26 hours a day”. He believed that desi ghee could make him win a bout, as also “enlighten” his mind to write exams. He, however, failed and attributed his flunking to “impurities” in the desi ghee he consumed.
We had in our hostel boys who spent more time on preparing “chits” for copying. These were “compressed chips” - small in size but enough for storage. The chits being deposited at the appropriate places on their person used to be the copycats’ delight. And being caught with this “explosive material” - as the invigilators called them, would invite devising newer ways of concealing.
Then we had groups of “crazy” guys who would be united in purpose of not appearing in the exams for all the silly reasons. Their aim was “not to pass out of the hostel”; classes they seldom attended. They would have their heads shaven to demonstrate their solidarity. Admitting honestly, they were there to redeem us of our scoring less, thus saving face.
The stereotyped examinees entered the “Hall” with folded hands and prayer on their lips. They would be alarmed if some others finished in time, or asked for more sheets to fill in. They had their own stock of ink, pens and pencils. They would always leave margins on the answer-sheets and attempt questions with clinical precision.
Then there were the ones who popped anti-sleep pills, kept waiting for the desired effect, and slept over the whole night, to wake up all blank. Very few had what is called examination fever. In high school and college, the invigilators were known for being either “Khadoos” or “Biba” (inconsiderate or gentle).
I recall with nostalgia a test which was given to me in the 2nd or 3rd standard by a female teacher who, I thought at that time, was in love with me. She stood at my back to have a peek at how I was solving a sum. I made a wrong answer subtracting, while she very gently spanked my head. I promptly made it a “plus” and looked up at the “Miss”. Her smile is with me till date. “Mera Naam Joker” was made later on.
Recalling our exam days to my son the other day, I was shocked and surprised at what he told me in return. Four of his friends decided neither to prepare for exams nor know the syllabus, nor even revise, but write the exam straightaway. Lo and behold, they got through with fair scoring! On second thoughts then, I must say, that only filling sheets have been replaced with online tests and OMRs (optical mark readers). Otherwise, the examinees remain the same, whatever times they live in — stressed and de-stressed.
ALSO FIND AT: http://rajbirdeswal.instablogs.com/entry/teacher-in-love-helped-me-in-exams/

Tana-tunn ! टना-टन

Tana-tunn ! टना-टन
By: Rajbir Deswal
Slangs may be more tolerable and less sober. With sufficient amount of faithfulness, sincerity and honesty, they convey the sense, in its perfect tone and tenor. This undoubtedly makes the conversation more enjoyable. In our own Hindustani, the slangs’ list may be exhaustive, but let us take up some of these colloquial expressions.
Consider Tana-tunn first. Enquire about someone’s health and he may quip, “Tana-tunn!” Now there are a thousand meanings that can be attributed to this argot. Tana-tunn may connote ‘condition,’ ‘position’ and so on. Generally, it is an overstatement made, when (and mostly) it comes to ones potency or inadequacy, or both.
Mall does not refer to Mall Road or Shopping Malls only. The slang means everything, ranging from merchandise to even someone you may have a crush on. More so, when it comes to supply of beetle leaf, footwear, cosmetics, fabric, medicine, machinery, screws, anything or everything on earth including ‘kidneys’, the dispenser may say, “Mall hi nahin aaya!”
Take for example our own indigenous Jugar. It means an alternative, when the actual is unavailable. Jugar encompasses ‘virtually’ everything that ‘works’; be it a government, a machine, a system or even an improvisation. In the Indian context, jugar may be a stop-gap-arrangement, which can be ‘dragged’ on without inviting frowns, and with impunity.
Phoonk remains my personal choice ever since I became conscious of my ego. You assume airs and inhale enough phoonk. Others also make you inflate with phoonk. In case of a failure, they always refer to some kind of a deflation of phoonk only; but then they will say, “Sahib ki phoonk sarak gayeei” I don’t know if it is a pointed adaptation to ‘taking wind out of sails!’
Sho-sha is again exhibitionist in character. It is a gimmick. A prank. A trick to lure. Blandishments. All combined to make one indulge in an impulsive ostentation, or showing off. Sho-sha entails expenditure, and is considered dispensible for the critics, who call it extravaganza. Sho-sha is feed for some, and food for many.
Fukrapan relates to ones style. Of dressing. Of talking. Of ones conducting himself or herself, in a maner generally perceived to be a fetish, fixation, mania or obsession. Fukrapan also takes its toll on the practitioner’s expenses.
In a Rajesh Khanna movie of the seventies, I was shocked (then) to hear him call his soulmate a Kutti Cheeze—a hurricane, or a bewitching beauty! These days they use callings which in due course have become ‘acceptable’. Be they relate to ‘wear’ and ‘tear’—no pun intended please. We are middle writers. Kutti may be a bitch, and cheeze (also vastu) may mean more than that cheesy white stuff.
Bindaas is someone who is bold, from out of the world, adventurous, overbearing, go-getter, and what not. Late Luxmi coined this expression which may, no doubt, one day find place in Oxford and Macmillan dictionaries. Other slangs from Bollywodd include, Mamu, Beedu, Dhakkan etc etc.
Last but not the least to mention is tahsan. Finer and even bolder nuances of this slang connote something done as a precursor to another thing which has the force of a firm belief, be it religious, personal or societal. For example, if someone distracts at that very moment when the die is to be cast, then they say the tashan is lost. Remember the successful gimmick of, “Yaaran da tashan” in an Amir Khan ad, of a popular brand of cold drink!
What? Did you really comment on my pen? Well it is tana-tunn! No pun intended please. We are middle writers!

Ramphall & Piara Singh Meet Mr. Bush

Bas Bas! Mr. Bus! बस बस मिस्टर बुस्!
By: Rajbir Deswal
Food Ambassador Ramphall from Farmana in Haryana, and Petroleum Ambassador Piara Singh फ्रॉम Patran in Punjab, meet George Bush in the White House to brief him on what is to be said in relation to the consumption levels of the Indians, when it comes to filling their bellies, or fuelling up their automobiles।

“Hey guys tell me saamthin abut yer great country’s burning up, I mean, eating habits.” Bush said. “Sir ji, I can only say that ‘Rice’—no pun meant pleej—tastes better than bheat.”Ramphall said with some sense of conviction.
“But haw cain you say so?” questioned Bush when Ramphall described the vicarious pleasure he once had on taste of rice, “Sir ji I never ate rice myself, I only saw the S.H.O. of Sampla police station in my state, partaking of the dhaula dhaula white stuff.”
“Ther you er! It means only when your poorchasing puwer increases, you can be in a place wher you cain buy even the caaps. And dat, then only you st‘u’art likening yourselves to the Ess-Etch-Os. Bi-laang to d middle class, no?” Bush said and swanked, “Naw look at their aadacity, they even scorn the wooerld Ess-Etch-O! Phew!”
“Bus bus Mr. Bus!बस बस मिस्टर बुस्!(Haryanvis pronounce ‘sh’ as ‘s’ and vice versa) We can’t take your contempt lying down, rather standing up. Ramphall ate a humble pie wanting Bush to eat his words. But he beseeched Bush “I pray Sir, you could well repeat what the French queen said, that is remembered till today.” He tried to sound well versed in History. “What-what did d French Kween say?” a bamboozled Bush asked and Ramphall promptly reminded to him the famous quote, “If they can’t eat bread, let them have cakes!” “Yup yup! Intelligent Kween indeed. I shad say saamthin to dat effect. Thank you.”
Then Bush turned to Piara Singh. “Hey man! Haif d cabs in New York are driven by you guys. You seem to have been born with screws and spanners (laughs with a wink at Rice by his side) I mean with the knowhow to run the machines .Do ye bleeve the aatomobeels in the U.S. consume more gas than those in your country?” he said.
“Oh na, na ji ! Aidhar thoda, yani Dubye da dab-daba hai ji. Sadde kani te Jugar chalde ne jehre sadde apne aap de banaye hoye Sky-Lab ne ji. O thora zyada deejal-patrol khande ne!“ओह न, न जी ! इधर थोड़ा, यानि दुब्ये दा दब-दबा है जी. सद्दे कानी ते जुगाड़ चलदे ने जेह्दे सद्दे अपने आप दे बनाये होए स्काई-लैब ने जी. ओ थोराज़्यादा डीजल पट रोल खा जांदे ने! (O’ no, Sir! Here Dubya has a grip over the things। In our country we run our own manufactured hodgepodge assortments which have quऐ a semblance with the vehicles। Yes they consume a little more diesel and petrol)” Piara Singh bragged with a sparkle of sorts in his eyes.
“Ther yu er again! Your aatomobeels too eat a lil more than what is required. Aren’t you guys adding to the woes of the wooerld! Bush concluded and again winked at Rice, “I think now I can name dat country with Chinkies as well, for creating a mess with the wooerld’s ecaanaamy.” “Yes I think you cain do it now Prez but a bit maayaldy, you know why!” Rice pitched in grinning.
Just then the First Lady Laura called from inside, “Hey Jaaj, tell these guys to rush aid to people in Cyclone hit Myanmar immediately. Being fairly well-off, now they can afford some charity. Let’s have some basmati rice, our own patented ofcourse, I cooked for you.
http://www.tribuneindia.com/2008/20080515/edit.htm#5

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