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)

Wrapped in ochre, damned in deed

Khushwant Singh

We are told that India is the homeland of sants, mahatmas, rishis and sadhus. We believe we are guided by those who have spent years introspecting or meditating to find out the truth about themselves and the world. After that, they achieve peace of mind and are qualified to become gurus entitled to preach peace and love for humanity. To show that they have no worldly ambitions, they wear saffron or ochre robes, symbolising renunciation. Does this hold good in today’s India?

I give three instances of women who wore saffron and style themselves as Sadhvis. One is Rithambra. Sudhir Kakkar, India’s leading psychiatrist has quoted her speeches spouting hate against Muslims. She is also the author of the slogan ‘ek aur dhakka’ — one more push — to bring down the Babri Masjid. On TV channels, she preaches love and understanding. She is also seen with children, to create the impression of being a loving mother. 

Then, there is Uma Bharati, who does not call herself a Sadhvi but wears saffron. She has not made up her mind whether she wants to be a politician or a spiritual leader. She celebrated the demolition of Babri Masjid by embracing Murli Manohar Joshi. She has been the Chief Minister of Madhya Pradesh. She is also seen hugging cows and calves, a living image of a gau-rakshak (protector of the cow). We saw her sitting in the front row in one of Asaram Bapu’s congregations and proclaiming in English, “I love you”. That was before Bapu lost his aura and was accused of amassing property. Whatever her other achievements, she is unable to control her temper. We saw her fling her papers and storm out of a meeting of the top-brass of the BJP. And recently, in full view of thousands of her admirers she slapped an important supporter. Realising what the political outcome would be, she ran after him to apologise and kissed him (on the forehead). 

Most of all I am disillusioned by the charges laid against Sadhvi Pragya Singh Thakur. Her doctor father is a member of the RSS. She was an activist of the Akhil Bharatiya Vidyarthi Parishad (ABVP), the student wing of the BJP. She evidently has a personality problem: a girl with masculine tendencies. She wears a turban, rides a motor cycle, and ticks off strangers she thinks are making passes at girls. What she needed was psychiatric guidance. What she is accused of is being one of the gang that planted bombs in Muslim localities, which took six lives. She is in dire trouble if she fails to clear her name of this diabolical conspiracy. She has shaken my confidence about saintly men and women in saffron or ochre robes. We may have to change the name of our beloved Hindustan to Pakhandistan — the land of humbugs. 

New lingo

India and Pakistan have invented a new language that I have named IPA, short for Indo-Pak Angrezi. In Pakistan, it is English mixed with Urdu and Punjabi. In India, it is English mixed with Hindi, Punjabi and Mumbai Hindustani. In both countries, grammar is ignored, as is spelling. In India, the pioneers were the late Devyani Chaubal of Bombay and Shobhaa De of Mumbai. In Pakistan, it is Moni Mohsin. Her weekly column in the Friday Times of Lahore is the most widely read in IPA in both countries. She is the maharani of this bastard language. She made her name to fame with her novel The End of Innocence (Penguin), based in a country estate close to Lahore. Now, a selection of her articles in IPA have been published in India: The Diary of a Social Butterfly (Random House). It makes hilarious reading for those who know a little Urdu and are not fussy about spelling. I give a few samples. This one is on her organising a protest march against the US-British intrusion in Iraq and her family’s reaction. “I’ve chup karaoed everybody — The Old Bag, the Gruesome Twosome, Janoo, even Bush and his English chaprassi, ‘Tony the Phoney’ as Janoo calls him. I’ve chup karaoed them with anti-Iraq war jaloos, which has come on CNN, BBC, even Fox. After all, five thousands women and children marching through Gullberg is no joke, And all khaata-peeta khandani types who are doing it for their principles and not for the hundred rupees the rent-a-crowd types get. Nobody can say after this that we Gullberg-wallahs don’t stand out and speak out — or was it stand up and speek out ? Khair, whatever. Sab ko hum ne impress kar diya hai, and that’s that.”

Again, this is from the impending visit of the Indian Polo team to Lahore: “So much of mazza!! I’m tau going off my rocket with all the parties-sharties, shaadi-vaadis and khannas galore. And the Polo: voh tau even more better. So many polo functions, and all by special invitation only so that no aera-vagheras could get in. Serves them right, I tell you. Trying to muscle in where they don’t belong.

But what a pity keh no glam Indians showed up at the polo. Itna main look forward kar rahi thi, na, to entertaining Shahrukh Khan and Salman and Hrithik in my new sun room with its pink wall-to-wall and apple green velvet curtains. Chalo, next time.”

Gujarati common sense

One day, many years ago at a school in South London, a teacher said to a class of five-year olds, “I’ll give $20 to the child who can tell me who was the most famous man who ever lived?”

An Irish boy said: “It was St Patrick.”

The teacher said sorry Alan, that’s wrong. 

A Scottish boy : “It was St Andrew”. 

“That is not right either,” the teacher replied 

Finally, Jayant, a Gujarati boy, said, “Jesus Christ”. That is right, Jayant and the teacher gave him $ 20. But he said, “You are Gujarati, so I am surprised you said Jesus Christ.” 

Jayant replied: “Yes, in my heart I knew it was Lord Krishna, but business is business.”

 (Contributed by Vipin Buksey,New Delhi)