Sabre-rattlers, shut up

Sabre-rattlers, shut upLet me repeat for the umpteenth time: there must never be another Indo-Pak war. If, god forbid, there is one, there will be no winners. Both India and Pakistan have long-range missiles that can ruin both countries. So let us tell the sabre-rattlers in clear terms, be they Pakistanis or Indians, that war is too serious a matter to be left to soldiers or politicians. Only common men, women and children who will be most affected by its impact have the right to take this decision.

If necessary, make human chains extending from Kashmir to the Arabian Sea, one on the Pakistani side, the other on the Indian. And let the tanks and armoured cars run over the chains before they start firing their guns. There are people of peace and goodwill who will gladly volunteer to stake their lives for their countries.

We have our Kuldip Nayyars and Swami Agniveshs to lead them; they have their Asma Jehangirs, Najam Sethis and Jugnu Mohsins to lead them. This is what Gandhi would have done. This is what Ghaffar Khan, the Frontier Gandhi, would have done. This is what you and I should be doing.

So what are the options when our relations come close to breaking point, as they did after the attack in Mumbai on 26/11? We proved to the world that the perpetrators were Pakistanis. Since the crime was committed with military precision, we proved to the world that the criminals were trained by professionals on Pakistani soil. Pakistan’s rulers were reluctant to admit that because it would reflect on their inability to control subversive elements. I’m convinced that in their hearts they know our charges to be true and in due course will concede it.

We have also proved to the world that Pakistan is ruled by important men whose writ does not run beyond a few miles around Islamabad, and that its social norms are dictated by demented mullahs who close down girls schools, force women to wear burqas and impose medieval codes of conduct on the masses. They also preach hatred against Indians. We have to jointly wage a relentless war against them till they are stamped out of existence. If we succeed, we can live in peace as good neighbours.

The good die youngWhenever a young person close to me dies, my first reaction is to ask why he or she had to die without enjoying life to the full. This happened recently when my nephew Binny’s wife Happy died suddenly one morning. She was in good health. The evening before I had seen her playing with the children of the mohalla. You would not mistake her: a mass of grey-black hair cascading down to her waist and a diamond sparkling on her nose. Full of vitality and happy laughter.

Early next morning she had acute pain in her chest. Instead of waking up her husband sleeping next to her, she rang up a friend. The friend insisted she wake him up and take her to a hospital. At first, the doctor did not think it was serious and told her he would have her up and about soon. That was not to be. They brought her back in a glass coffin. I got the news from my daughter. I was stunned with disbelief.

Though the mother of a grown-up daughter Sanam, working in Dubai, I regarded her as a girl. I only knew her nickname Happy — and happy she always was. Happy had the unique distinction of being liked by everyone in our extended family in which outward bonhomie often conceals backbiting and bitchiness. She was not interested in petty squabbles and was more inclined towards spiritual matters. While others spend their evenings in the Gold or Gymkhana clubs, she did the rounds of bookstores in Khan Market. On her way home, she occasionally dropped in to chat with me.

“Mamaji, I am not interested in politics or fiction, I’m into metaphysics,” she said to me once. I didn’t understand what she meant by metaphysics and asked her to elucidate. “Religion, love, other-worldiness, spirituality and that sort of thing, you know,” she replied. I didn’t understand but nodded my head. It was a strange preoccupation for a woman who was the niece of a famous soldier, General Harbaksh Singh, and moved in high society. She did most of the talking during the arguments she had with preachers of religion and their disciples. She always got the better of them as she was better read and had thought over problems of life and death. Some relations say that she had a premonition that her time was coming to an end. She had told them and arranged some of her affairs — ‘in case’. On her 60th and last birthday, she told her friends not to bring any presents. Instead, she gave them gifts in return.
I wonder why nature does not provide a fixed period of time for people to enjoy all that life has to offer before they go.
Most people are in reasonably good shape until their 70s. Then the body begins to show marks of deterioration — life becomes a burden to oneself and those around you. I ask Happy wherever she is, “Why did you have to leave us so early?”
Exclaiming Taj
When we see the Taj Mahal at Agra we say “Wah Taj!”. But when we see the Taj Hotel in Mumbai we say, “Ah, Taj”
(Contributed by KJS Ahluwalia, Amritsar)

To believe or not ?

To believe or not? God knows Our ancestors made a list of five deadly sins: kaam (lust), krodh (anger), lobh (greed), moh (attachment) and ahankaar (pride). Of these, four take a deadly toll on the one who indulges in them and marginally on their family and friends. However, greed (lobh) not only diminishes the greedy in the eyes of his fellow-beings, but also deprives thousands of others of their hard-earned livings. Greed is the deadliest of the five sins.

These thoughts crossed my mind when I read news of the Satyam scandal in Andhra Pradesh, Shibu Soren’s downfall in Jharkhand, Mayawati’s birthday bashes in Uttar Pradesh and the charges of corruption levelled against Vasundhara Raje when she was chief minister of Rajasthan. I have little doubt similar cases of greed leading to corrupt practices exist in all the states of our god-forsaken land.

What makes a person who has over hundreds of crores worth of assets — eats the tastiest of food, drinks the headiest of wines, lives in a large mansion with a retinue of servants, has a fleet of limousines and gets everything he wants — want more land, real estate and more money in different banks? He should know he can’t take it with him when he dies. Perhaps he wants to provide for his sons and daughters, grand-children down many generations. He should know inherited wealth is unearned wealth and is soon frittered away in contentious litigation. He would die a happier man if he spent what he cannot use in building schools, colleges or hospitals for the poor.

I am not sure what penalties will be imposed on these people if found guilty. Our judiciary has limited options: imprisonment for a limited period or a heavy fine. It has no corrective measures. Perhaps the guilty should also be given psychiatric treatment and asked in detail why they did what they did without there being any plausible reasons for doing it; or they should be made to sit in a dark room, shut their eyes and in their own minds, go over their doings. If they themselves come to believe they have done wrong, their minds would be cleansed and this would enable them to become better citizens.

O bligh me in Blighty
It is estimated that around 40 per cent of the population of England question the existence of god and do not go to any church. The figure of doubters in the younger generation is much higher, around 60 per cent. From the little I know of Europe, I would hazard a guess that the situation is the same in the Scandinavian countries and the Netherlands. The rest of Europe is largely Roman Catholic or Greek Orthodox. Amongst them doubters do not come out openly, but it can be presumed that attendance at churches is significantly lower than it was 20 years ago.
Now the doubters in England have come out in the open. On four of London’s bus routes, buses carry huge sign-boards reading, “There’s probably no God. Now stop worrying and enjoy your life.” Doubters appealed for funds to step up their publicity. They expected to get around £5,500. They received more than £140,000. They plan to put up hoardings on underground stations, public places and all bus routes.

My estimate of doubters in India is around 2 per cent of the population. I belong to this miniscule minority. I am not an atheist but an agnostic. I accept the possibility of god’s existence but since there is no proof of there being one who creates, preserves and destroys life, and is at the same time almighty, just and merciful, I keep an open mind.

Belief in god and religion is a kind of passion which generates both noble works and evil deeds. It has produced great literature, music, art, architecture and sculpture. It has also produced intolerance, civil strife, wars, cruelty and persecution. On the one hand it provides a crutch for those who are stricken with sadness, disease and adversity — solace denied to atheists and agnostics; on the other it creates delusions of hope and betterment for which there is no basis. Men of faith believe in miracles, which those without faith do not accept. However, you can have a good time and enjoy life whether or not you believe in god. I enjoy the good things of life — tasty food, single malt Scotch, vintage wines and the company of the fairest of the fair.

At the wrong end Two elderly ladies met every Saturday morning in a café to chat and have coffee. One of them was hard of hearing, used a hearing aid and suffered from constipation, requiring glycerine suppositories to clear her bowels. One morning she turned up with a suppository in her ear. She could hardly hear what her friend was saying. The friend shouted: “Mary, you have a suppository in your ear.”

Mary took it out and replied: “Now I know where I put my hearing aid.”
(Contributed by Amit Tuteja, Washington D. C.)

How J&K taught the world a lesson

The outcome of the elections in Jammu and Kashmir has important messages for both Indians and Pakistanis. First, the healthy turnout of voters conclusively proves that the calls by some Kashmiri leaders for a boycott fell on deaf ears. All the fire-breathers of Srinagar’s Lal Chowk were silenced. Their Pakistani cousins across the line of control should now realise that Indian Kashmiris have had their fill of infiltrators with mischievous intent and should stop abetting them.

I am overjoyed at the emergence of young Omar Abdullah as the unquestioned leader of new Kashmir. There’s more to him than just a spokesman of Kashmiri aspirations. His voice resounds across the length and breadth of the entire country. He is perhaps the first Muslim leader since Independence who commands the respect of all Indians.
He is articulate and a good orator in Kashmiri, Urdu and English. What he says is not empty rhetoric but makes good sense and warms everyone’s hearts. He has all the qualities of leadership laid down by Allama Iqbal to the leader of the caravan: Yaqeen mahkam, amal paiham, mohabbat Fateh-aalam Jihad-e-zindagani mein hain yeh meer-e-kaaraavan kee shamsheeren (In man’s crusade in life, he has three weapons: Faith that his cause is just, courage to wage a war till eternity, love that embraces all humanity)

Omar Abdullah’s lineage is impeccable. He is the grandson of Sher-e-Kashmir Sheikh Mohammed Abdullah who opted to remain in secular India rather than join Islamic Pakistan. He is the son of Farooq Abdullah, ex-chief minister of Kashmir. He is highly educated, a product of Burnhall School, Srinagar; Lawrence School, Sanawar and Sydenham College, Bombay, from where he passed his BCom to become a management consultant.
He has plenty of experience: twice elected to the Lok Sabha and minister in Vajpayee’s BJP-led government. The right kind of family: mother, an Irish; wife, Payal, a Hindu; sister, married to Sachin Pilot, a Hindu. He is above communal prejudices.

He should see that the residents of Jammu, who are largely Hindu, feel that they are Kashmiri. He should rehabilitate Kashmiri Pandits who have been rendered homeless. He should also outline in specific detail what he means by autonomy for his state. So far this has never been clearly spelt out.
He should bring peace to the Valley so that once again, people from all over the world come to visit this paradise on earth, his homeland. Let him regain it.
The country needs younger, forward-looking leaders. Old fuddy-duddies have miserably failed. Let young men like Rahul Gandhi, Omar Abdullah, Sachin Pilot and Milind Deora come forward to take the reins of the government in their firmer hands.

What they worry?Kapil Sibal, a central minister, mailed a poem, ‘The Art of Denial’. Some excerpts:

Ajmal Kasab trained to be A terrorist, Pakistani.But Pakis say they do not knowWe’ll have to prove if that is so.His parents at Faridkot claimThis is our child the one they named.Since then they have been whisked awayWhere they are now? No one can say.Be upfront, says Nawaz SharifYour version is beyond belief.Denial of open access,Why bar parents to meet the press?House out of bounds most Indians feelYou’d rather have the truth concealed.Your plea, government unfairly blamed........Non-State actors even if PakTheir whereabouts cannot be trackedArrest, wanted Azhar MasoodWill vitiate our national moodArresting him would not be rightWe have no means to extraditeThe fallback is we are in doubtDo not quite know his whereaboutsWe did admit erroneouslyThat he is in our custodyIf you question our honestyWill deny his identity.

Secretarial workForgiving terrorists is god’s job. Fixing their appointments with god is our job.
(Contributed by J.P. Singh Kaka, Bhopal)

A first lady for all seasons

Gursharan Kaur released Songs of the Gurus (Penguin/Ravi Dayal) by Arpana Caur and me at Delhi’s Le Meridien. It was the third book to be launched by Gursharan that week. As expected, there was a large turnout, not because of the book but to have her darshan and hear her speak.
She spoke very well. The audience had a hearty laugh when she said something about my boorish manner. She had come to visit me and apparently after 15 minutes or so, I told her, “Gursharan, now you go — toon hun ja.” I said so because I felt a prime minister’s wife had more important things to do than to waste time making polite conversation with an old man.

I returned home happily exhausted and served myself a hefty Patiala to re-charge my battery. I began to muse over the work of wives of men in positions of power. In Western democracies they play positive roles. Besides looking after their homes and children, they receive visiting heads of States, sit beside them at State banquets and join their husbands at social functions.
Not so in India. I went over the names of past presidents. Not one of their wives — with the marginal exception of Begum Fakhruddin Ali Ahmed — played any role in events at the Rashtrapati Bhawan. It was the same in the cases of our prime ministers.

Nehru was a widower. Shastri’s wife remained unknown during his brief tenure. Indira Gandhi’s husband was living apart when she was PM. Sonia remained largely homebound during her husband’s time as prime minister. No one heard of the wives of Morarji Desai, Charan Singh, Deve Gowda, V.P. Singh or Narasimha Rao. And Vajpayee was a bachelor. Inder Gujral’s wife was a minor exception — a poet in her own right and evidently not an enthusiastic participant in her husband’s official activities.

Gursharan Kaur is the first woman who has performed the duties expected of the wife of the prime minister of India.
I don’t know much of her background and the Internet data on her is very scanty. She was born in Jalandhar in 1937. Her father worked for Burmah Shell. At the time of Partition, he was posted in Lahore where she had her primary schooling. They migrated to the Indian Punjab. She joined Guru Nanak Kanya Pathshala and went on to do her degree from the Government College for Women in Patiala.

Then she moved to Amritsar and got a BT from the Khalsa College, evidently intending to be a school teacher. She married Manmohan Singh in 1958. It was an arranged affair. Both are Kohlis, one of the sub-castes of the Kukrains, comprising of Anands, Chadhas, Sahnis and some others. They prefer marrying within the biradari. It was a happy union, which produced three very bright daughters who earned distinctions on their own.

Gursharan is devoutly religious and has a melodious voice. She sang keertan and songs for All India Radio several times before she accompanied her husband who took up a job in the World Bank in the US. It was in America and later in Bombay when her husband was Governor of the Reserve Bank of India that she imbibed a Western sophistication.

She was not so much in demand as the wife of the finance minister as she is now as the wife of the prime minister. She acquits herself with great poise and dignity. Perhaps wives of all our future presidents and prime ministers should do a course in a school that teaches the proper deportment for ladies in positions of importance.
Let this man go
If you can’t remember who he is, let me jog your memory — and your conscience. He is the product of the Christian Medical College, Vellore where he was given the Paul Harrison Award in 2004 for being the most outstanding student. He could have set up a lucrative practice in any city.

However, he chose to train villagers in rural centres in Hoshangabad district of Madhya Pradesh, largely inhabited by tribals suffering from malnutrition, malaria and tuberculosis. He and his wife Iliana have been doing so for the last 30 years based in village Rasulia. He is the first Asian to be honoured by the Jonathan Mann Award in 2008 for his work in health and human rights.
He did not care to distinguish between ailing villagers on the basis of their political allegiances: Naxalites or Salwa Judum. If they were sick they had to be healed.

His clinic is named after Indira Gandhi. He was arrested on charges of treason for siding with the Naxalites. He has been in jail for 18 months. His bail application has been rejected. More than 20 Nobel Prize winners have appealed to our president to intervene on his behalf.

Dr Binayak Sen continues to languish in jail. It is a slap on the face of Bharat Mata. Raise your voice against the miscarriage of justice: Write to the president, prime minister, home minister, L.K. Advani or Rajnath Singh (Chattisgarh is ruled by the BJP) to release him and allow him to resume his noble mission in life.

Gimme four!

The digit ‘4’ appears to be significant in US president-elect Barack Obama’s life. He was born on August 4, 1961. H was elected president on November 4. He will be the 44th president of the US.
(Contributed by KJS Ahluwalia, Amritsar)

A rare mehfil in troubled times

It’s almost two months since it happened. The shock and anger have subsided; the pain remains. Just as a person with a toothache rolls his tongue over the tooth that hurts, I go over what happened in Mumbai on November 26 last year and the pain returns. Despite the flood of accusations based on facts known to us and the naïve pleas of innocence made by Pakistani leaders, I am still at a loss to find answers to my questions: Who exactly were the perpetrators ? Why did they do it ? Who put them up to committing these horrendous crimes? Did they know that it would bring India and Pakistan on the brink of yet another war — a war that could not be won but only lost? Meanwhile, corpses of nine murderers rot in Indian morgues because Indian Muslims would not allow them to be buried on Indian soil since almost 40 of the victims were Indian Muslims. And Pakistan will not take them because it keeps denying they were Pakistanis. And the one assassin, Kasab, caught alive is in our custody, spilling the beans. There can be no doubt that what he revealed about his father and his village was of his own free will. About approaching the Pakistani High Commission in Delhi to provide him legal aid was probably prompted by his custodians to pin down his Pakistani connection — to be replied by red-faced silence.
We should not expect honest response from Pakistan’s leaders. The writ of their government barely runs over half the country. The northwestern half is firmly in the grip of backward looking mullah-mentors of jehadi gangsters. Pakistan’s army, prodded by the Americans, wages a half-hearted war on them because they are fellow-Pakistanis and fellow-Muslims. They would rather engage in battles against Americans and Indians, neither of whom are Muslims. Nobody is quite sure of the role being played by its Intelligence Services which is often accused of patronising jehadis. We are even less sure of who is in control of Pakistan’s nuclear arsenal and who has the power to press the fatal button. The scene is so utterly confusing that it is impossible to think clearly besides concluding that if there is another incident like the Mumbai blasts, both our countries have had it.

Zila comes calling
Zila Khan is the daughter of Ustad Vilayat Khan. In his time he was the most famous Sitar player in the country. Today, she is as her father, grand-father Ustad Inayat Khan and great grand-father Ustad Imdad Khan were in the times they lived. 42-year old Zila Khan is currently amongst the best of our country’s singers of classical and light classical Hindustani music specialising in Sufiana and rendering ghazals of great poets of Urdu and Hindi. She was put through a rigorous mill of singing eight hours a day while still a child in school in Calcutta. She was not allowed to study beyond the 10th standard in order to devote all her time to music . She was the first girl in seven generations to become a professional singer. She did me the honour of singing at one of my mehfils. It was a memorable evening.
There were a few surprises in store for me. I was expecting her to come alone. She came bustling in, followed by her harmonium and tabla players, a photographer and a lackey. I expected her to be a demure and reserved young lady; she kissed my beard or both sides as I sat wrapped up in my shawl by the fire-side. I offered them sharaab (Scotch): they declined and asked for tea. The first thing she did was to keep her mobile with her while sipping tea. I am allergic towards mobiles in mehfils.
The session started with the harmonium and tabla players warming up. Zila sang a few notes to get the harmonium to the right notes and slapped her thighs to indicate the beat for the table. In between she answered my questions in fluent English and Urdu: Her mobile rang. Call from New York. She confirmed her date with the caller. Then back to singing a note or two for the harmonium, thigh slaps for the tabla, answering my questions and pressing buttons on her mobile. She was on line to Kochi telling the fellow at the other end to change the date of her performances in Kerala till after she had fulfilled her engagements in the States. She was like a six-armed goddess doing six things at a time. I lost patience and pleaded with her “Switch off that damned mobile before you start. “She did not take offence. ‘I’ve finished with it,” she replied as she put it in her hand bag. She turned to me with a bow, for permission to begin “Ijaazat?” I nodded my head: “What would like to hear first?” she asked. I was not prepared for the fermaish, so came out with the first ghazal that came to my mind : Muddat hoee hai yaar to mehmaan kiye hooey (it has been a long time since I entertained my beloved in my house).Then she broke into full throated song — arms and hands emphasising meanings. At the end of every couplet she turned to me rather than her note book for the next — whether to test me or flatter me. Fortunately, I did not let myself down. I was able to show off my memory and was mighty pleased with myself.
So it went on from Ghalib to Hafeez Jalandhari, and others she interwove lines of poets to give her songs a theme, which ghazals rarely have. I was transported into another world — as was everyone else in the mehfil. Long after I had retired for a night her voice kept ringing in my ears and her animated gestures dancing in my eyes.

Talibani translation
The phrase ‘criminal courts’, apart from its ordinary meaning of ‘courts in which criminals are tried’, has, in view of the recent reported initiatives of the Taliban in north-western Pakistan, acquired the secondary, sinister in north-western Pakistan, acquired the secondary, sinister meaning of ‘courts set up by criminals’ !
Contributed by Preetam Giani, Abbotabad (Pakistan)