Razai Tax on the way? May add to winter woos!

Razai tax

by Rajbir Deswal
Who is not aware of the comfort and cosiness of a quilt popularly called Razai — a natural temptation and second skin for us all during winters. Size, smell, stink, shape, stuffing, softness, snugness, sensuousness and snooze is all that a Razai is.
Curled up like a baby in the folds of my velvety Razai, with the mercury dipping to 8 degrees, I was watching a programme on TV which dwelt on funny and silly laws. The anchor informed that in South Korea, it is a law that the cops shall inform the government on bribes given by motorists.
My heart almost missed a beat. No, not at the predicament of the cops, if such legislation was promulgated here, but at the thought of they levying taxes on use of Razais in India! I wrapped myself up a little tighter and began to weigh the pros and cons of the ‘draconian Razai Tax’!
I visualised the Razai Tax raid on my house when the sleuths counted the “contraband” with us. “You are four of you in this house. How come you can afford to have a dozen Razais with you when the law permits one for each member?” R.T. Officer thundered while I sheepishly explained, “Sir, the extra ones are meant for the guests!”
“Ignorance of law is no excuse mister, aren’t you aware that the new law envisages guests carrying their allotted Razais only with them?” an unconvinced R.T.Officer howled. “Couples and the ‘like-minded’ should go for a Razai-pool. India doesn’t progress for the likes of you. None enjoys a Razai-luxury in the cold countries. Hence they are developed. You are the drones in the system —Razai-bugs! No work culture in India exists only because everyone, big or small, rich or poor, young or old, healthy or sick here is found slipping in the Razais at the first opportunity coming their way!”
Well, the Razai Tax could be levied prescribing various categories. The fibre and “shah-toosh” ones, besides the Jaipuris and those with velvet and satin covers, could be more heavily taxed than coarse cloth types. The size of a Razai could also be prescribed. The freshly cotton-ginned could have a moderate levy.
I pondered on the Razai Tax Department being always lapped up by governments as the “most revenue generating one”. Officers would opt for plum postings here while the civil services aspirants would opt for RTD as their first choice. The department’s mission statement could be “Quit-Quilt for India’s Development” and its official business could be transacted only in the sun.
There could also be a Razai-Smelling Cell in the RTD to assess “appropriate use” of Razais. The cell’s recommendations on “smell forensics” could determine the quality control of Razai manufacturing industry.
Suddenly I felt my Razai being taken off by wife at 9 that day, who said, “The only way to make people like you do some productive work is to levy a tax on Razais”. And I said, “Just half an hour more darling, please!”
A couplet to conclude:
Khuda kare ke tumko judai na mileKabhi bhi aisee tanhai na mileMujhe na chaho to kuchh aisa hoMausam ho sardi ka aur tumko razai na mile!

US immigration & us. They may have been unkind to Shah Rukh but...!

US immigration and us
by Rajbir Deswal
Holidaying in the US this summer, I did keep myself informed of happenings back home in India through the net, but had a total eclipse of the Shah Rukh Khan issue, which on landing I learnt, had put the entire country and Bollywood on the boil, on a “near blasphemous and sacrilegious” act on the part of US immigration.
Being a cop myself, I don’t find any reason why someone should not be questioned, if he needs to answer some queries. And all the more justifiable it is if the man on duty wants him to. But I have had different “tastes” of, and “treatment” from the US immigration, having made it to that country seven times, during the past nearly seven years.
First time at Baton Rouge, Louisiana, I was not at ease with myself to reply to a curt, “What brings you here?” Since it was an official assignment under an Indo-US programme, I had the cheek to tell the officer, “It’s your own country!” He looked up after scanning my official passport and smiled back to say: “A cop! Enjoy your stay!”
The second time I and my wife were questioned on our “visiting interest” in Denver, Colorado. To amuse the officer I said, “We want to have a view of the world from your mile-high city!” “Be careful not to miss out on Molly Brown House at California Street.” He smiled and “stamped” us suggesting a visit to the “Unsinkable” Titanic survivor’s History-home.
Then at Seattle, the immigration officer put to us all the leading questions and answered them himself. “And you have come to visit your son. And he works for Microsoft. And he lives in Redmond. And you will meet your grand-child. And you will do baby-sitting for him...!” All this while he was processing our passports too, which he returned duly stamped. We wondered why do they call the playful activity “baby-sitting” and not “being-baby”.
Entering the US from Canada after a visit to Vancouver, the officer, this time a woman, was informed by our son saying, “Three of us live in Redmond and my folks are from India”. Reacting to this rather American “introduction” of us, Anaysa, our three-plus granddaughter, chipped in, uninvited. “But they are my Dadi and Dadu, Papa!”
“What did the baby say?” Sawan explained it when to the Immigration Officer’s other question he replied that he worked at his West Lake office in Seattle. “But you work in Redmond, Papa!” Anaysa again connected. “Yes Beta, I work from both places. Will you play with your Leapster” said Sawan in disgust. We were let in with the woman officer waving a “bye” to Anaysa who had a longish “baaaye” to reciprocate, without lifting the eyes from her screen.
When we narrated this to a friend there, he came up with an interesting episode involving one of our own desis, who on having been otherwise cleared for immigration, was told he could not carry a basket full of mangoes from the Canadian side.
“Well, can I eat them?” he pleaded and was allowed with a “Here and now”! And the fellow ate them all in a corner, holding each piece the way a baby holds his milk-bottle. With a loud burp he thanked the US immigration for their “kindness and generosity.” Smile SRK, and forget about it!

Blue Mysteries

Blue mysteries
By Rajbir Deswal
One of the recognised astrologers of the country proclaimed that blue would be the colour of the new millennium. After hearing this, my mind was all set to explore the blue world.
Why is a woman keenly interested in literary pursuits called a blue-stocking? Why is the blood flowing in the veins of members of royal families called blue? Why is the hard-so-swat big fly termed bluebottle? Why is making an appearance or doing things after long intervals said to be doing so, “once in a blue moon”? Why is a product on celluloid with porn details dubbed a blue film? Why is something untoward labelled as “a bolt from the blue”? Why is a blue ribbon always a mark of distinction? Why does a depressed man look blue? Only an athlete representing his institution can wear a blue scarf or a blue cap. Why? Why is a sea-man called a blue-jacket? Why are hardships and inconvenient things termed blue? Why is a loyal member of a party called “true-blue”?
Why, in business and finance, is a stock that is considered strong and reliable in terms of dividend yield referred to as a blue-chip? And in the computer era, why should a blue-chip control your daily routine? Why is a murderer of children called a “blue-beard”? Why is “blues” the nomenclature given to melancholy lyrics which are tales of woe or unhappy love in African-American music? Why does a blueprint deserve that appellation in making plans before they are executed?
That should be enough, I think. And blue is not only blue. It’s navy-blue, sky-blue, ocean-blue, British-blue, Oxford-blue, Cambridge-blue and so on. If I were to pluck a piece from the sky, it might not be blue, yet it looks blue. Nearer home, in Hindu mythology, Lord Shiva is believed to have swallowed the poison that emerged after the sagar manthan. When the poison reached the throat of Shiva, he retained it there because if it had been gulped down, the Devtas residing in his stomach would have been endangered. Hence, Neelkanth is appellation given to Lord Shiva’s throat, which turned blue as a result of harnessing the deadly poison. And since poison, in all its form, when it effects the human body, turns it to blue, no edible stuff was given this colour by Mother Nature. The fathomless depth of the oceans confirms the profundity of blue.
The vastness of the expanded skies proclaims the infiniteness of blue. The blue-shift in the spectrum exhibits its frequency and intensity in a striking manner. And all that is even described as blue, as we have seen, may not at all be blue. Surely then, here it becomes mystifying. Blue is not the colour to eat. Hence, no blue rasgullas; no blue cheese! Any takers!

More than what meets the eye कैनवस के पीछे क्या है ?

More than what meets the eye

by Rajbir Deswal
To be able to read between the lines means the clairvoyance to comprehend what is actually intended to be conveyed. But how about going micromillimetres distance between the canvas and the brush to identify as to how many layers of visuals rest there? And also that, what exactly should one pose in a portrait show-up? Isn't it all really mystifying? It may be true! It may be false!
An Italian scientist-journalist by the name Piero Angela claims to have discovered Leonardo Da Vinci's self-portrait, by going down the surface of a manuscript — Codex on the Flight of Birds, employing a micro-pixel work. A facial reconstruction scientist in Rome has even endorsed Angela's claim. What is interesting is the fact of the "resurrected" Renaissance genius's young looks, appearing twin-like when compared to his portrait showing him up in wrinkles, and with hollow cheeks.
Another world famous portrait of Renaissance, "Mona Lisa", created by Leonardo, has been in the news for various interpretations, inter alia, of the pose of the wealthy merchant's wife. That she wears a thin and gauzy stole around her neck, confirms her being in a family way, going by the mores prevalent then. That she is hiding her pregnancy with one hand above the other also confirms it. Arguments are too many, but takers some.
The latest to hit the market is the news about an Anglo-Irish family, preserving Shakespeare's portrait inherited from the Earl of Southampton, showing him with not only younger looks, but also betraying his humble background and nowhere-near-wealthy status. That having moved to London and having written his famous plays, the Bard of Avon grew popular and wealthy in the Elizabethan times, made him look more "presentable and less solemn" if one has to believe Shakespeare "experts" and "scholars" .
Nearer home, the National Dairy Research Institute at Karnal has come out with five rare photographs showing Mahatma Gandhi with a cow named Jill. Pandit Madan Mohan Malaviya is also seen in one of the pictures. Claims have been made of the photos taken when Gandhi attended a two-week course at the institute to learn the basics of dairying and keeping cows, for his Sabarmati Ashram.
The latest revelation has been made regarding the legendry Bhagat Singh's photo, taken shortly before his hanging, for keeping it in records. A portrait showing Chandra Shekhar Azad, twirling his moustache in front of a mirror, is again disputed if it had been a replica of the original photo taken without the martyr's knowledge.
I cannot help mentioning about a movie, "Lage Raho Munna Bhai", showing the redoubtable and inimitable Boman Irani to be someone obsessively interested in doctoring his life-size images, as if "actually" standing for a pose with celebrities. And for that matter, of all times! Who knows five hundred years from now, someone may come up with a theory that Boman was a President of the United States and Obama played character roles in Bollywood flicks.
However, what Ben Johnson says in commendation of the Martin Droeshout engraving of Shakespeare is worthy of taking note: "This Figure, that thou here seest put/It was for gentle Shakespeare cut... His face; the print would then surpasse/All, that was ever writ in brasse/But, since he cannot, Reader, looke/Not on his Picture, but his booke".

Say Cheese! Click.

आए बहार बन के लुभा कर चले गए ...Bringing Rafi alive

आए बहार बन के लुभा कर चले गए ...!

IT was an evening with magic woven in the air by songs once sung by the legendary Mohammad Rafi. One after the other, the performers tried to imitate the maestro and regaled the audience. Some copied his range. Others came out with Rafi-like reach of the crescendo and resilience to the base.
Still others tried likening their style to his playing sudden drops and immediate starts. Rafi’s velvety delivery with his silver tone, unbrazen, unbruised and wavy voice, posed a challenge of sorts to the singers. And above all, mixing devotion with their presentation, was each singer’s hallmark.
He too had been a Rafi admirer all his life. He too had sung Rafi numbers in his college days, drawing room get-togethers and official functions. He too used to win applause on each rendition. His friends called him Mohammad Rafi.
But now he had grown old. Too old infact. His voice did not support his range. His urge fell flat. His lungs failed him. His throat gathered phlegm even while talking, which he had either to blow out, or gulp in. Most of his admirers were gathered upto their ancestors. He had none to tell him to sing a Rafi number. But he was to the core a Rafi worshipper.
Rafi Nite made him reach the venue with his family. They seemed to know about his passion. He could not compete. But he wanted still to perform. He couldn’t find a slot. He was restless. Perhaps he could not have been allowed to sing. Or the organisers thought so. But he was determined to have his way.
He climbed on to the stage, carrying his keyboard synthesiser, carefully wrapped in a sheet of cloth. He ordered the mike to be brought near him. He also beckoned the tabla player, to give him company. With conscious effort, he could balance himself. He squatted keeping the keyboard in front of him while unwrapping it. His hands trembled.
People watching all this laughed. They made fun at his entry. His aggressive style. His tremors. When the battery cells for the synthesiser fell off his hands, it evoked a bigger laughter. The orchestra director had the courtesy to help him put the battery in place. There was whistling and hooting too. Organisers did not know how to pull this man off the stage, without being rude to him, in full view of the audience.
Then he began. His fingers started flying from one end to the other. It made sonorous music. Tabla beats added still more charm to the presentation. People’s laughter died down all of a sudden. And then he began to sing. He gave the first line, “Aae bahar ban ke lubha kar chale gaye…!” And the repeat. And the fillers. And the entire song.
The auditorium walls resounded with only his singing. No laughter. No exchange of glances. No hooting. All present were mesmerised. Photographers took him in focus. Many others also followed suit with their cameras, from amongst the audience.
There was huge applause when he finished. Some wanted him to sing another number. He sat there still squatting. Still smiling. Still in the “race”. But he chose to opt out amid thunderous felicitations and salutations.
He wrapped his keyboard equally carefully. Shook hands with the tabla player. Smiled at the audience once again with a “howzat” and joined his family, waiting with moist eyes.
Of the Rafi fans, admirers and “devotees,” this old man was perhaps the most spirited of them all. While all others sung a dead Rafi, he was the one who brought him alive.

http://www.tribuneindia.com/2009/20090122/edit.htm#५