Middle : Admit it, no child’s play

key words: Middles, school admissions, police officer, CM

Jupinderjit Singh

         

ASKED what is tougher — scaling the Everest or their child’s admission in an institute of choice — parents would surely choose the latter, without blinking an eye.

Each parent has some experience — an ordeal through fire — to share on this subject. Hapless parents often go for sifarish to anyone, who they think has the right contacts in the right places: politicians, bureaucrats, cops, journalists, to name a few. 

A daunting task, but one that offers unique lessons of life. Not very long ago, I faced such a challenge. A friend’s son could not get through a certain school, despite rich parents and powerful connections. My ego hit the ground with a thud when my name too was added to the ‘high and mighty’ who had failed to deliver! 

A Punjab SP suffered similar humiliation over his daughter’s admission. Trying again, he got ‘recommendation’ from the DC and the DIG and went in person to request the principal. He waited for over an hour outside her office. All the power and aura of his uniform melted away. He was asked to come the next day. He waited again, in civvies, when, to his astonishment, he saw an SHO simply walk into the principal’s office. The SHO noticed him when he came out of the office. Bingo, the SP’s daughter got admission. That day, he said, he understood the real meaning of the police term ‘mauke da afsar’. 

The son of a senior journalist was not good in spoken English, but was proficient in his mother tongue, Punjabi. He was not selected. The exasperated father somehow managed to see the principal. After all arguments and influence failed, he begged her to listen to a story. He recounted how a Punjabi couple worked hard to educate their son and send him abroad for higher studies. The son did well and got a job there. He returned after over a decade but conversed in English. The parents cried, saying for them he was dead as they could not talk to him. “I will not discourage my son from speaking in his mother tongue as that is the language his parents and grandparents understand,” he said firmly. The son got admission.

I was never at home with the idea of using influence for admissions. Once, a colleague was tense over the admission of his daughter and believed that only a recommendation from the CM’s office will work. He got it, but was unhappy about using it for this purpose. He went to meet the principal with the letter in his pocket. “Madam, I have a letter of recommendation from the CM’s office for the admission of my child. I can get more also. But I am not comfortable with it. I don’t want to start my child’s education using influence.”

The principal smiled, admitting she was taken aback. “I have never come across such a parent. People approach us boasting of money or position. I can handle that. How do I respond to you?” she said, pausing, and adding, “Your child is admitted. With parents like you, she surely has the values to deserve it.”

courtesy: http://www.tribuneindia.com/news/musings/admit-it-no-child-s-play/547602.html

Middle - Chess on LoC

Jupinderjit Singh

MY first visit to Uri town, the latest target of a terror attack, was some 13 years ago. I was visiting the Valley as a journalist and not a tourist. The situation was such that from Jammu to Srinagar, there was fear of a terror strike. Only two dhabas were open. At one of the dhabas, a group of soldiers nearly took away our taxi, saying they were in hot chase of militants. The taxi driver pleaded against it. Fortunately, I had an Army letter authorising my visit to the forward areas. It saved the driver for that day. 

The Brigadier at Uri was warm and welcoming. He had deputed a young Captain to look after me. “Be safe, no adventurism,”  the Brigadier cautioned me in a chilling voice and a smile that gave me goose bumps. We drove in a Jonga on the zigzag road that climbed one hill and came down the other. The Jhelum, the de facto border between India and Pakistan, criss-crossed the Valley, flowing beautifully in the deep gorge. We passed tiny hamlets and apple and apricot orchards. 

The destination was an advanced military camp near a village called Sultan Dhakki, a few hundred metres short of the LoC. I was thrilled to inhale the aroma of roasted meat that wafted from somewhere in the vicinity. The Captain pointed down the hill towards two large vessels, where food was being cooked by soldiers in the open in the village common ground. That would be our dinner. 

 I was delighted. But still worried about the night stay in bunkers. I needn’t have. After a few turns, we stood in front of an opening in a rocky hill. It was a khul ja sim sim experience. I could have fathomed that the Army had burrowed into the hills and created an accommodation, no less than a five-star stay. 

After bathing, we sat outside for a cup of tea and snacks. The spot was at a safe angle from the enemy behind the hills. “You will see Diwali at night as  rockets will fly,” chuckled the officer. His soldiers grinned. 

As we talked, the conversation veered around on how soldiers kept their mind off death and bullets. “I play chess,” the Captain said. “Voila! I too,”  I exclaimed. Soon, two armies were set in black and white on the chessboard. It took me no more than 10 moves to grab the rook and the queen. The officer was visibly hurt. He was losing in front of his jawans, who sat around us in a semicircle. He lost the second too, after much struggle. One last game, he said, ordering meat for both of us in a tone that expressed his anger. He won the third. 

Back in the lodge, he sipped beer and remarked: “I was flustered. It was not about losing or winning. It was about you killing my army while it had not moved from its squares. No jawan would like an officer, or for that matter a government, that lets this happen to them.”
first published in The Tribune Sept 23, 2016

Middle - The Tolerant Indian

key words: Middles. creative writing, tolerance, Indian, Prime Minister Narendra Modi

Jupinderjit Singh

MR Prime Minister, 

like millions of Indians, I too am aghast at the ongoing debate on intolerance in the country. I am not writing this to take a side. There are too many intellectuals busy in arguing and counter-arguing the issue. But yes, I am pained, rather deeply pained. For, no country and its citizens are more tolerant than us. 

I can prove you that. Our life is all about tolerating something or the other every moment of our existence. Start from the air we breathe or the water we drink. I wonder if anyone has more tolerating immunity than us. Anti-pollution policies are framed, crores are spent and yet we tolerate the deterioration in these basic elements of our survival. 

We call our river sacred and yet we tolerate its pollution. We are so tolerant on throwing all kind of pungent, poisonous stuff in water bodies and still happily take dip in those. Not just rivers, we tolerate people throwing garbage on roads and streets. In fact, our tolerance starts in the wee hours of the day. Loudspeakers atop a religious place shake us out of our slumber and disturb children’s studies. We let it be. The milk we drink is without the promised nutrition. The fruits and vegetables we eat are laced with chemicals and contain dangerous metals. But do we complain? No. We tolerate. 

We also ignore people jumping red lights. We tolerate people jumping queues or forming a third or fourth queue on a road. We tolerate people pushing and jostling us at bus stands, railway stations and markets. We tolerate when VIPs get preferential treatment. We even smile and embrace our destiny when VIPs first get darshan of deities in religious places. We tolerate never-ending serials, high-decibel meaningless TV  debates; we tolerate the same kind of movies and see them happily. 

We tolerate paying 10 times more for popcorns and water. We tolerate political parties promising the moon during every election and we don’t remind them. We tolerate listening again and again to their anti-poverty slogans. We play along with their divisive politics. We tolerate riots. We tolerate scams. Our farmers tolerate spurious seeds and ineffective pesticides. They tolerate selling potato for Re 1 kg only to buy it later at Rs ten a kg. We tolerate delayed medicare and salaries. We tolerate when merit is ignored merit and remain happy in the ‘chalta hai’ attitude. 

As a nation, we tolerate the regular killing of our jawans at the borders. We even take the brutal beheading of our jawans in our stride. We tolerate those occupying our lands. We smile when they interpret our offer of friendship as weakness. We forget soon the bomb and terror attacks on our motherland. We tolerated for long a PM who rarely spoke and the one who seems to be staying more abroad than in the country. No, Mr PM. The whole debate and accusation of India being an intolerant country is wrong. We are tolerant in each breath we take.

Middle-Beyond the Divide

 Key words : Indo-pak border, indo-pak unity, border life, crossborder firing, Istanbul, UK, Atatturk Airpot
Beyond the divide
Jupinderjit Singh
 

IT was music to my ears when I overheard a conversation in chaste Punjabi after spending four days in Istanbul where one could converse in either Turkish or English. I had just settled in a waiting lounge at the Ataturk Airport after the tiring security checks.  

Behind me sat three middle-aged, burqa-clad women, with a young man and a man of about 50.   They discussed shopping and the food they had brought along. I was enjoying their conversation when a security officer asked for their passports. The woman coolly switched to British-accent English, much to my surprise.  
The officer asked them several questions. They responded politely. As he left, one of the women cussed and switched back to Punjabi: “These goras try to act smart and superior but we have handled many of them.” All smiled.
Soon, another officer came along to check their passports again, this time concentrating on the younger male in the group. He also asked questions from an Indian, seated near the Pakistanis. It seemed the officer was headed towards me when he got a call on his walkie-talkie and walked away. This time the Indian vent his ire in Punjabi:
 “They single us out — Indians and Pakistanis — especially when one is headed to England.” The woman joined in, calling him brother: “Nice of you to bracket Indians and Pakistanis as ‘us’. The westerners ruled us, looted our jewels and resources and left us poor, forcing us to migrate to their countries.” I wanted to participate in the conversation but hesitated, perhaps because of the years of hatred for Pakistan. I come from a border village whose land is divided by the Radcliffe Line. I have seen cross-border firing and terrorism from close quarters in J&K.  The Indian continued:
“They ruled us due to our petty divisions. Even now we are fighting amongst ourselves.” The older man agreed: “True, the avaam (public) has suffered much. If we were united, our economy would have been better.” The conversation weighed on me.  Later in Manchester, I went to a grocery store to buy a SIM card. I started conversing in English but the shopkeeper stopped me: “Appan taan ik haan. Apni zubaan vich gal karo (We are one. Let us speak in our mother tongue).” I asked if he was from India. “No, Lahore but the ancestry is the same.”
I told him my village Khalra-Bhikhiwind (now in Tarn Taran) was less than 15 km from Lahore. I also  shared that my father-in-law was born in Lahore and had an Indian passport. He was always singled out for questioning at airports.  He responded with an insightful smile. “The world has moved on. But we are still stuck in time. The British have given us the opportunity to live together in their country. If we can coexist here, enjoy each other’s festivals, why can’t we do it back home?” he asked, pointing to ‘Happy Diwali’ greetings outside his shop.

first published in The Tribune dated November 9, 2015.

Middle -Love in the times of jihad

key words : (Love, Jihad, Love Jihad, Father, hindu-sikh marriage, hindu muslim marriage, pakistani girl, anti-sikh riots )
Love in times of jihad

Jupinderjit Singh

My relationship with my father is like a chessboard. Black squares for silence and white for peace. But rarely colorful. Yet, I believe that no one can leave a better impression, good or bad, on a man's psyche than his father. While a mother teaches values to shape one’s character, the action, behaviour and advice of a father leaves an imprint on one's thinking process and personality. Though we are rarely on the same page on the majority of issues, I remember his secular line of thinking in these days of angry reactions to love jihad.

It was the time of the troubled 1980s. Relations between Hindus and Sikhs were on the knife’s edge. When Operation Bluestar happened and a curfew was imposed, he was trapped far away in Patna, where he was posted. When he finally returned, he narrated how the lives of Sikhs in other states were threatened. We hardly slept that night.

The next morning there was a knock on the door. Who had come at this hour? He got worried but opened the door. There was an old Sikh priest, who tried to hug Dad weeping. “I heard you were badly treated. We must retaliate.” My father shoved him away. “Don't exploit our emotions. If there was peace in Punjab, there would have been peace outside also.”

A few months later, he was trapped in anti-Sikh riots. His Hindu friends and trainees saved him. Back home, during our rare morning walk together, he said there was only one way to end the hatred. That was Hindu-Sikh marriages. “I wish one of my two sons marry a Hindu girl.” And that I did.

Can Hindus, Sikhs, Muslims, Christians kill one another when tied in such knots?

Swords and pens are out on love jihad these days. Even the marriage between India’s Sania and Pakistan's Shoib Malik has been targeted. So much that Sania’s nationalism is questioned. Kapil’s comedy nights has brought Indian and Pakistani artistes together. Why indulge in war and riots when we can have love and laughter together?

A friend of mine feels it is all because of lack of trust. Talking on a lighter note, he narrated an interesting episode on how he earned by the trust of a complete stranger. At a media conference a few years ago, he met an old flame. All participants, including some from South East Asia, stayed in the same guest house. He managed to sneak in her room late at night as her roommate had not arrived. Both caught up with old times when well past midnight there was a knock on the door. First gentle, then a loud one. As both were startled at the impending scandal if caught, they took time to decide and face the situation. When they opened the door, they saw a beautiful Pakistani girl, clad in a ravishing long kurta and salwar, pulling in two big suitcases. She was confused to see them.

“I didn't know they had put males and females together in a room. I don't think I can go to another room. What should we do?”

“No no..you stay”, my friend told her. I had just come for chit chat. She was scared alone, you know,” my friend said. The Pak girl rolled her eyes.

When they met again at the conference, her gaze made it clear that she had understood everything. To end his panic, fearing a scandal if she spread the word, the girl whispered to him while munching the lunch, “Your secret is safe. Long live Indo-Pak friendship!”
first published : http://www.tribuneindia.com/2014/20140910/edit.htm

Middle-The girl in the gym- Muse of Muscle Flinching poets

The girl in the gym
Jupinderjit Singh

THE lotus pink tee she wore proved the proverbial last nail in the coffins of a number of us men in a gym at a club in Bathinda. Their hearts were already pierced with her impeccable beauty, a face as fresh as the first gush of a fountain up in the Himalayas. And the mole on the side of her right eye was nature's gift to keep the evil eyes away. To borrow from an Urdu couplet, it was a black commando posted to secure her painfully invaluable beauty.

It was a male-dominated gym. The men drawn from different professions usually went about their exercises quietly. Not much conversation happened between us.

Not much thought seemed to be given to the gym wear. Badly fitting T-shirts and un-matching socks worn in dusty shoes that didn't seem to be washed ever. Very few were regulars in the gym. At times, men stopped exercising and looked unashamedly at the TV screen perched high up in the hall. Scantily dressed models, dancers gyrating provocatively in lewd music videos were the focus.

And then she arrived bringing a new aura to the place stacked with lifeless ugly iron machines. The air-conditioners began re-circulating an aroma of freshly bloomed flowers instead of the nauseating foul smell of our sweat.

The gym began filling with more men, most of them twice her age during the one-hour which she trained. Those with pot bellies became conscious of their potato figure. They ran faster on the treadmill. Some doubled the crunches. Those lifting 20-25kg began trying 40-50kg and heavier plates.

All kept looking at her from the corners of their eyes while trying to evade staring directly at her. They sheepishly looked in another direction when she caught the person ogling.

The girl rarely smiled. And whenever she returned someone's smile, the guy was visibly on cloud nine. Men started wearing branded sportswear and came dripping with costly deos. Obscene songs on the only channel running on the TV were looked down upon. No one looked at the 'lowly' stuff.

As she left the hall for the day, it seemed the soul of the gym left the place. Men seemed in a hurry to finish the exercise and leave. A pall of gloom seemed to engulf all.

Then, one of us, who could not control himself any long, shared her admiration. Confessions outpoured. One had changed his routine to suit the training time of the girl. Another said he missed the last two days as he had pumped iron more than his capacity to endure, all for impressing her. If one learnt the prized info of her name, the other got to know where she lived. Everyday someone brought titbits of information about her.

She often took break of a day or two but when she didn't turn up for a week, there were worries all around. They all kept looking through the windows at the parking to spot her. Each of us had a different theory of her disappearance.

Soon, one by one, the men stopped coming. The gym became deserted. Being a crowd-hater, I was never comfortable with the swelling numbers but working on my abs and triceps alone was more unbearable. The muse of the ‘muscle-flinching’ poets had vanished.

key words : gym, muscles, poet, dunes club, bathinda, muse, love, mole on the face

link : http://www.tribuneindia.com/2014/20140529/edit.htm#5

Middle -Chess and Mathematics

Chess and mathematics
Jupinderjit Singh

ARITHMOPHOBIA — which means a persistent and abnormal fear of numbers -- is a word I heard again recently. It cropped up during a discussion on mathematics, a subject that was my Achilles' heel in my student days (which subject wasn't, my father would say).

I almost lost two academic years to it. Yet, that subject taught me a great lesson of life. I remember it more following the World Chess Championship between Magnus and Anand. Chess and mathematics had a topsy-turvy relationship in my life. I excelled in the game to a certain level but failed in the subject of numbers.

How's that possible? I have been often asked. One is supposed to be good in both being the common refrain. Not in my case, dude. So, after securing exactly passing marks in the subject in the tenth, I crawl-passed the mark on the basis of grace marks in the eleventh. Providence doesn't help the brave always. I got just three marks in the subject in class 12. The certificate is still shown to me — a constant ridicule. Even my 11-year-old niece does it at times, all for a hearty laugh at my expense.

In the supplementary exams, my bro and his IITian friends ensured I got solved 'parchis' of the paper. It was mass copying in a school in the walled city of old Patiala. Still, I jumbled up the answers. I flunked. I stared at a dead-end road.

No teacher of maths could help me till someone told me about a young teacher of the subject in Thapar Engineering College. His fee was astronomical. And he only taught engineers or prospective IITians.

A few days ago, I had become Under-19 North India chess champion. I mentioned it to the teacher wishing I could focus similarly on maths also. He blurted out the same question. Why not good in maths if in chess? Beats me, I said, perhaps because chess doesn't have calculus and theorems, though it has theories. "Can you beat me in the game?" he asked

I did, several times that evening. Not just him but the team of him, his wife and brother. He was impressed. He saw the syllabus of my exam, asked me a few questions and took me in. The next day, he did what no teacher had done.

He separated the syllabus. One part for 60 marks, and second for 40. "You are not programmed to understand the 40 marks part, mainly calculus", he said. "Forget it. We will focus on 60 marks".

In a few weeks, he made me go through the sums again and again. The practice stretched to nearly hundred notebooks. There was hardly any question possible from that 60 marks section that I had not seen and done again and again. And the benevolent teacher took half the fee but with a rider. I had to play chess with him and his brother so that they could win the chess tournament in their college.

He did. And I too passed the exam easily, submitting the answer-sheet to the examiner in half of the stipulated time. I secured 57 out of 60, making a careless mistake, so integral and still incorrigible part of my nature, to lose three marks.

I tried in vain to find the teacher recently. But his lesson stayed with me. In life, you just can't do and attain everything. One can lose what one can do in the bargain. The great Sachin Tendulkar was not made to be a great captain. He left it in good time. He learnt his limitations.

Life is like that. It is good to have a 'nothing-is-impossible' attitude but one should know one's boundaries as well. That, sometimes, defines the fine line between success and failure, and importantly, helps to come to terms with the latter. I have revisited it at times of distress and returned smiling.

first published : http://www.tribuneindia.com/2013/20131119/edit.htm#4

Middle : Greenery on Fire

by Jupinderjit Singh

I am not a religious person. I am God-fearing though. During my travels, it is never a priority to visit a religious place. It may be because of the historical or architectural importance of the place or out of sheer curiosity. I am attracted more by the mysticism of a place, maybe religious or not. Misty meadows on the hills caressing the dark tresses of the wild attract me more.

I am particularly averse to the loud speakers perched atop religious places in a set of four. The different religious heads may not agree that God is one and all religions are basically one. Still, they are unanimous that religion demands chanting or reciting at a high volume with the loud speakers screaming in all directions.

But there are two places where I wish this practice never stops. One was at the Renuka lake in Nahan. I was sitting on the stairs of the rest house there one evening trying to be at peace with myself. I was looking deep into the valley trying to understand the serenity of the lake despite darkness gulping it like a giant carnivore.

I was startled by a rhythmic drumming and chanting emanating from a temple on the left end of the lake. It echoed in the hills, whose shape is famous as being similar to a sleeping woman, in this case, Mother Renuka. It seemed mother nature was spreading the music of love to all. Years later, I can still feel the ripples of the transcendental experience.

The second place that moved me similarly was Poonch, a forgotten district of Jammu and Kashmir. The country remembers it largely when the Pakistan army opens fire along the LOC on the villages of this district. Far away from the heart of the country, Poonch was in the news recently due to cross-firing on the border.

The lush green valley, the paddy fields with a seasonal river criss-crossing through it provides an enchanting view. The silent valley broke into music as I heard the reciting of Gurbani from a local gurdwara. Soon after, the sound of the Azaan reverberated the soul. The moment it ended, aarti from the temple stirred the soul further towards the oneness of God.

The green valley is on fire these days. The frightening noise of gun shots, mortar shells fills it in the evenings and all night. Those who live far away, in the seats of power, may find it exciting. Some feel that a full-scale war can only silence such off-and-on firing. But the devastation of such a war and bloodshed can only be understood when one visits the hill city.

Poonch, despite having Sikhs, Hindus and Muslims, has rarely participated in communal frenzy and riots. The residents were united even in the face of recent riots in other parts of the state. It is here that I wish loud speakers atop religious places continue to fill the morning and evening atmosphere than the devilish man-made gunshots and rockets. May the world learn from the peaceful co-existence here.

(link : http://www.tribuneindia.com/2013/20130911/edit.htm#5 )
key words : Middle, Indo-Pak border, Cross firing, poonch, kashmir, peace, border village, shelling, love, communal harmony)

kings and pawns

of sarabjit's, kasabs and indo-pak border
By Jupinderjit Singh


I do not have many bright memories of Khalra, my ancestral village. It is just 11 km short of Lahore and is situated right on the Indian side of the Radcliffe Line in old Amritsar district.

I relate more to Patiala. I was born and brought up there. Unlike most kids visiting their native village and growing up on unbridled love of maternal and paternal grandparents (the daadke and the naanke), my visits were brief. But can one escape one's roots? Often during discussions about one's family, I talk about Khalra and how it is perched right on the border and how border pillars were located right on our land in the pre - fencing era of the '70 and the '80s.

Not many know about the village. I often have to bracket it with Bhikhiwind, a larger village located not far away. It is a small town now. When people still don't show much recognition of the village, I educate them about the valour of Amritsaris. I narrate lofty tales of how Bhikhiwind-Khalra was a place known for its martial race.

Other than hardened farmers, the place is known for courageous soldiers, cops and also infamous terrorists. Amritsaris have been known for their fighting skills , their sense of humour, their uncontrolled eating habits and especially their short temper.

Bhikhiwind- Khalra being on the border does not remain much in the limelight, which made it difficult for me to tell people where it was. The place had three major events, to the best of my knowledge, in the last several decades. It was known all over when the late jathedar Gurcharan Singh Tohra was put under arrest in a guest house ( I don't know forest or PWD guest house) there during the peak time of militancy. Khalra also remained in the news for being the native place of human rights activist Jaswant Singh Khalra. Bhikhiwind had been in the limelight due to the exploits of a family which fought militants for nearly two decades from their highly fortified house, which militants could never break into.

Today, Bhikhiwind is known the world over. Sarabjit Singh, who hailed from Bhikhiwind and was killed a few days ago in a Lahore jail, was accused of being an Indian spy and a terrorist. I feel proud at his martyrdom. As I read about him straying by mistake into Pakistani terrirtory, I recall how in the late 1970s it was no big deal for area residents to venture into a Pakistan area despite the three wars fought by the two countries. I have hazy memories of how a group of youths made me step into Pakistan's territory by mistake on a visit to the Indo-Pak border. The young boys even challenged each other on how many steps they can go across the border, which was nothing but an imaginary line between the pillars.

Once a youth drove his tractor around the border pillar much to the amusement of others. Men of the Pakistan Rangers and BSF soldiers were located at quite a distance and not much notice was taken. I was fear-struck the first time he did it. I was an urabanite grown on the history of hate between the two countries and had seen the border line on the maps. Soon, fun overtook the fear. I too strayed into "enemy" fields on a few occasions on foot and on the tractor. It was fun. It was sheer adrenaline.

To get more attention of people not knowing Bhikhiwind -Khalra, I often narrate such experiences on the border. Sarabjit may have done this several times in his life. On that fateful day he seemed to have gone too far. And it was no longer "cool" for anyone to cross over like that after the 1980s.

Sarabjit is a true martyr for us. It doesn't matter if he was a spy or not. He suffered as an Indian. By my small experience of reporting on spying and the life in border villages right from Rajasthan to Kargil, I am very sure that Pakistan must have tried to lure him into becoming a double agent. It is so common among spies. But he didn't. He stood his ground. And that is what makes him a martyr.

But does the story end there? Would he be the last one sacrificed at the altar of Indo-Pak hatred and animosity for each other? He can surely be not compared with the Bombay Butcher kasab, but wasn't Kasab too just a pawn in the game of hatred , mistrust between the two countries? I am reminded of the famous words of Gerald Seymour, who in his book, Harry's Game, famously said in 1975 , " One man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter."

Killing each other in retaliation won't serve any purpose. The day both countries realise this, Sarabjit's can venture again unnoticed and unperturbed into the other's territory.

(first published on : http://www.tribuneindia.com/2013/20130521/edit.htm#5)

Middle : The joy of writing

by Jupinderjit Singh

IT does not matter if a person like this writer is not able to write much these days. After all, one is no Keats or Salman Rushdie. The world may not miss anything. But in such a situation one does feel suffocated.It is scary.

All writers don’t produce best-sellers. All don’t get a Booker. All don’t even get published. And then, not everything we write is for public consumption. I know a number of my friends who have written several poems and stories but they don’t want those to share with others.

Still, people write. Why?

It is because the real joy of writing is in writing itself. No doubt, the printed word brings with it some recognition but the greatest delight is to simply write.

I miss that joy badly. The great philosopher Aristotle felt one of the major aims of an art form was catharsis — the cleansing of the soul. It clarifies, clears the haze in the mind of the writer much before it provokes varied emotions of the reader.

As famous novelist Taslima Nasreen said in her novel the "French Lover” that she felt labour pains once a thought or an idea sparked her imagination. The pain remained till she ‘delivered’. She had to suffer for days, months or even years.

Writing starts in the mind, a small faint thought; an idea that throws multidimensional rays of light like through a prism on something or the other. It can just be a word or a sound or a scene that kindles fantasies of future or brings back memories of the past — both good or bad. It builds a storm inside one’s system to such an extent that the person becomes restless, uneasy and uncomfortable till he sits down to write.

And as words flow from the keyboard to the computer screen, the person starts feeling light as if gravity has an effect on him no more. He smiles by himself. His soul sings. It is like a stream flowing on a piece of paper through a pen. He feels like floating in the air.

Aristotle’s catharsis or Taslima’s labour pains become crystal clear at that moment.

I remember as a student of journalism I wrote a small piece on Mowgli — the jungle boy. It was one of my first attempts. There were too many errors in it. My teacher liked it while politely pointing out the mistakes.

In the write-up, I envied Mowgli’s carefree life and his friend Jageera and others saving him from dangers. Most of all, I loved his Radha. A few days ago, I found that piece. It was never published. It did not deserve to see the light of day. It was so childish. But I remember the joy I felt when I was able to write, even in broken English, what I felt about Mowgli and Radha. I smiled.

But now unable to write, I am lost like Mowgli in the jungle. Neither Jageera nor Radha is in sight. I wonder what will inspire me. It could be the wilderness of a forest or a Radha or the security of a Jageera or the challenge of a new path, a new forest. I don’t know what the stimulus will be. I don’t know who shall be my muse. I know just one thing. I miss the joy of writing.

(first published in The Tribune - Opinion page dated January 25, 2013)

a daughter to every rapist

MIDDLE - The Tribune dated November 27, 2012

In defence of daughters
by Jupinderjit Singh

CONGRATULATIONS! It is your first baby!” said Rajiv Kumar excitingly to Devesh. “What congratulations? It is a girl.” Devesh sighed. “So what? You are discriminating between boys and girls in this age?” Rajiv could not control his disgust.

They were sitting on the waiting seats outside a ward at a local hospital. Devesh was receiving visitors coldly. “You will understand my sadness when you will bear a daughter. I agree women are equal to men. But I am worried at something else.” Devesh fell silent for a moment before walking outside the lobby.

He sat on a bench in the park hunched up looking at his hands. “Don’t you read newspapers, watch TV? They tell you this girl was raped or that one was molested. No girl of any age seems to be safe. Even two or three years’ old girls are becoming victims.” “But that has been happening since ages. You can’t blame all humanity for that. You can’t generalise.” “Exactly, that is what I was talking about. It is happening since ages. When would the time come when girls would venture out freely knowing the beasts out there were civilised. When would their parents feel safe?”

Rajiv looked at Devesh trying to think of a response. “I read how seven persons, aged between 25 and 50, raped a 14-year-old girl in a village. One of them was a neighbhour under whose care the girl’s father used to leave his family while going outstation. The victim girl used to call him and three others as Uncles. With whom do you think my daughter would be safe?” Devesh opened up.

“And the entire state is talking about elopement of a 15-year-old girl of a border town, who they say was in love and had decided about her life partner at such a tender age.” Rajiv continued agitated. “But the girl said she was in love with that boy and parents stopped her.” Devesh hinted at freedom of females in the modern world to choose their life. “What do you expect the parents of a 15-year-old girl to do when she chooses a boy having nearly one and a half dozen cases against him? You expect them to say ‘Yes’?” Devesh questioned.

Silence engulfed them. A nurse called Devesh inside. Rajeev walked along, "I have known you since long. You, I and many others have known to have many relationships. You think someone will have the same with your daughter?" Devesh spoke his mind.

Inside the building, the nurse handed over the "cotton bowl" wrapped in a soft towel to Devesh. "She is so soft and light," he said. "Like petals of a rose," added Rajiv the moment he held her in his arms. The baby giggled.

"Now I know what needs to be done. Killing girls is not the solution. We should pray that a daughter is born in the house of each rapist or a molester. Only then may this nasty crime end! “Amen”, they both said.

link : http://www.tribuneindia.com/2012/20121127/edit.htm#5

Middle - Earning Hands

(inspired from a true story)

Earning hands
by Jupinderjit Singh

OUR roof will surely leak this monsoon”, muttered Karuna Devi, lying with her back on a worn-out mat, half-asleep but fully worried.

Excruciating waves of pain passed through her feeble frame as she tried to turn and lie on her stomach. She rose before the sun rise and went to bed when even the moon looked tired in the sky. She dreamt sometimes of better days, when her six daughters and three sons would grow up and the family would earn more.

Her husband returned home late, smelling of liquor, as ever, mumbled abuses at all, especially at the eldest son, Ramdin. “He roams around all day, and returns home without much picks. I thought I got two more earning hands when he was born and then two more with the next birth and so on, but in the end I got more stomachs to feed and more bones to cover. To cap it all, you frustrate me more by talking about the weak roof.”

His abuses went on and on and eventually lulled all of them to sleep. Next day began as usual. They went out from their shanty to do labour work. Ramdin went to his “area” — the bus stand. He was determined to fight a group of urchins, who snatched his picks.

They robbed him again. No one in the busy bus-stand intervened. For them, the fight of the rag-pickers was like the fight of dogs. It seemed a group of stray canines just attacked an intruder in their area. Just that. Nothing special.

How would he go home now? “Bring some good stuff. We need to plug the leak of the roof. Do you understand?” he remembered his mom’s words.

He wanted to end her misery as fast as possible. He often dreamt of finding a diamond in the rags some day. “There are so many careless people in the world. Some can drop those by accident”

At that precise moment, a shining object caught his eye lying besides two empty bottles under an AC bus. He got up slowly and slid under the bus. It was just a heart-shaped yellow button. He was disgusted. He extended his hand to pick up the bottles that had rolled towards the centre of the bus.

Just then, he heard the roar of the engine. In panic, he gripped the bottles and tried to come out swiftly from the other side. It was too late. The rear tyres crushed him like a bee gets swatted. His shriek was no louder than the sound of a lifeless dry leaf when it is trampled upon.

The driver of the bus ran away. No one tried to catch him. The parents cried and beat their chest. By the evening, they were all quiet. The powerful transporter had compensated them “suitably” with Rs 20,000.

She sat that night against the wall, all numb. She touched the currency notes in her lap shining above her soiled sari. Her other children too stared at the pad of notes out of their deep sockets.

Once she used to cuddle her son in the same lap. She looked at the roof and through the holes, she spotted clouds hovering above the sky.

“He did have earning hands,” said her husband.

Then, he looked at his other children who were looking at their earning hands — a total of 16.

Middle : Matters of Heart- by Jupinderjit Singh

MIDDLE

Matters of heart
by Jupinderjit Singh

CHUNNI Lal did not come for duty today. He had not come yesterday and day before that also. He was the most simpleton and funny domestic help I ever had. With his right eye damaged since birth, he appeared ugly at first look.

The moment he smiled, he looked quite cute, and even the yellowish cream eye shined. He came to my house on his own after knowing that my previous cook 'Rambo' had gone to his native village on two months’ leave. I took him in and thanked for God's benevolence. Little did I know that my miseries had just started.

Chunni Lal was a night watchman, who claimed to double up as a cook-cum-domestic help. "Barre ghar mein kaam kiya hai. ( I have worked in big houses)," he announced himself.

I asked him to buy and cook green peas and potatoes in the evening and do the dusting. As I set myself to eat that evening, I got the first shock. He had taken about 10 big-sized potatoes, cut those into half and taken about 20 green peas only. I had to virtually set the potato pieces, equal to the size of a mutton piece, aside to find a pea.

Exasperated, I asked, “Chunni Lal ji, what is this? So less peas?”

" Arre saheb, peas and potatoes have to be the same quantity and I counted them also." he said with a grin.

Next morning, on his own, he cooked yellow daal. When I asked him what happend to peas? He went back and after a few minutes pushed in a bowl full of raw green peas into my plate!

"What is this ?

"Saheb g, you said green peas, so I brought those."

"Gosh, I was asking about the ones you cooked last night,"

"So say directly. How would I know? I already told you my brain is weak. My wife even says I don’t have a brain or it functions improperly," the simpleton said while walking briskly towards the kitchen, swaying his hands helplessly.

More shocks were in store. I asked him as he had worked in big houses he must be knowing how to operate a washing machine. He nodded “yes” but still I gave him a demo. That evening I saw a stack of washed clothes on the bed. I was happy he did the work properly and thought of getting those ironed next morning.

My pleasure was short-lived. The clothes were still wet and had spoiled the bed-sheet and the mattress. I asked him the reason, "Arre saheb , I saw this in barre ghar ( big rich house)."

"But dear Chunni Lal, you need to hang them for drying also even if the machine dries them to some extent," I explained. He turned away briskly towards the kitchen, saying another gem that left me speechless, "I told you I have a weak brain. But what use is the machine if you have to still dry them under the sun?"

Every minute was fun with him. The other day I asked him to plug in a liquid mosquito repellent. He plugged it in upside down with a simple logic: “How would liquid come out if it is plugged straight? I had no patience to teach him science that made the liquid heat up.

Once he was told to keep the power supply bill at a safe place. I suggested him to put it in a wall hanging outside the bathroom door. He put it behind the tap on the sink reasoning he saw only the sink hanging out from the wall !

But for last two days he hadn't turn up. I remembered I had scolded him pretty harsh when he was cleaning the bed with a broom! I lost my temper at the sight of the broom touching the bed-sheet and the pillows just after he cleaned the floors with it!

I spotted him on duty at the entrance of the colony near my house. I confronted him. "I won’t work," he said in his Bihari Hindi. “You scolded me,” he added.

“Chunni Lal, if you have to leave the job when I scold you, why don't you work for free on the day when I praise you or give you clothes or something. And I scold for your betterment only. To teach you work."

“I don't know what you say. I told you my brain is weak or it functions improperly, as my wife says, but certain matters are of the heart, Saheb. When the heart is hurt, then it doesn’t listen to anything, even the brain. Then it does what it wants. Nothing is good or bad, profit or loss. Such is the working of the heart, and my heart works properly," he said walking away.
(first published in The Tribune - http://www.tribuneindia.com/2012/20120428/edit.htm#5 )

Go Hard or Go Home

MIDDLE

‘Go Hard or Go Home’
by Jupinderjit Singh

It was not a major cut on the palm of my left hand. But it had great repercussions. It meant I could not join the gym again. Just a day ago, I had visited a new gym closer to my house. And I was all set to pump the iron. But the injury happened. It was another stroke from what I believe the conspiracy of cosmic powers against me. It was not the first time when I wanted to build muscles. It is surely not going to be the last either. But ever since I attained consciousness and developed the desire to have a six pack, v-shape and bulging muscles, something or the other has prevented me from doing it. And I am talking of the effort of over two decades!

Everytime I fall to the “conspiracy” , a highly provocating slogan, “Go Hard or Go Home” flashes across my eyes. It is often seen painted in bold inside the gym or on the outer walls, right on the posters of the bulging muscles of Arnold or Sylvester Stone. It challenges you. It teases you. It torments you. I always shout back, "I will show you one day". Then one sees Salman, Amir and even Shah Rukh Khan and more even some feminine heroes developing muscles; six packs, which they brandish so shamelessly. It turns me green. I go to a gym with renewed gusto only to become a victim again of the “cosmic conspiracy against me”.

My first attempt was in the school. It was when my Hindi teacher (who I dreamt of marrying morning, evening and midnight) told me how thin I was. I hit the gym along with two friends and fantasised of impressing her fast. I seem to have become too emotional though and ended up by having spasms and neck pain.

Then in college, when you are growing up faster, I along with two other friends hit the gym again. This time we met a psycho son of our coach. He just believed in doing bench press. It is the chest that matters man, he said. And we could not get up from bed for several days due to the "heavy" chest. A few months later, all three of us suffered the fit of gym again. And this time, we wanted to build thighs first! God, why did we have the Indian style toilets at such testing times. You just can't sit after rounds of squat and if you managed, you can never get up!

Well, in between those attempts, one strange thing happened. Whosoever went to the gym with me got the opportunity and visa to study abroad or emigrate. So much so that this happened a few months ago as well when a dear friend with whom I had started going to the gym was sent to the Gulf by his employers. My friends often joke that I should mention "special arrangement for visa" on my visiting card! I tried it so many times that many gym instructors in Patiala, Ludhiana, Jaipur and Jammu are my great friends.

But my passion for having a dream body did not relent. I went to a gym again, all filled with confidence but only to get the finger injury and sulk at leisure. In fact, I was depressed at this cruel hand of destiny time and again. "Go Hard or Go Home" echoed in my mind. It vanished as quickly as I stepped one fine day in the Swami Vivekanada Special train carrying his life story, speeches, thoughts and sayings. " The strength of mind and soul is far stronger than the strength of body," he said from one such poster. I stopped, read it again and again and stepped out in all smiles.

(Middle No. 18 published i The Tribune dated January 14, 2012)
link :http://www.tribuneindia.com/2012/20120114/edit.htm#5

‘Ek chhoti si’ love story

by Jupinderjit Singh

There would hardly be anyone who has not felt love ever. Generations remember some stories. But some stories remain in the hearts only. A friend of mine is living his own ‘chhoti c love story’ these days.

He was young. She was younger. He was in Class tenth. She was in ninth. He liked her. She found him cute. He had no idea what the longing was all about. She was too innocent to understand anything.

He was the star player and the head boy. She was the first one to dare to wear trousers amidst the sea of suits and salwars. He looked in her dove eyes. She looked down.

He loved the dimple chin. She loved his humour. He followed her back home on his red bicycle. She was always ahead on her pink bicycle. He never sped up to catch up. She always peddled slowly thinking he would.

Then, one bigger boy on a bigger bicycle overtook him. He could not keep pace. The boy was aggressive and conveniently pedalled his cycle in between them. Then, there was another one on another bicycle and then a bike and a scooter and then even a car. The girl kept growing beautiful and her suitors bigger, stronger and richer.

He was silent. He was sad. He always thought tomorrow he would say it all. But when tomorrow became today, he let it become yesterday and yesterdays became the past days, the past life.

They met years — donkey’s years — later, on a social networking site. His intense eyes still peeped through the specs. Her dimple chin was more prominent in her double chin. Her husband and kids smiled from her profile picture. His wife looked on from the side of their family picture.

“Hi,” he began. She smiled. “You remember me?” he asked. “Yeah,” she wrote.

He punched in a smiley.

“And life?” he asked. “Good, he is rich and our two kids are in best school, and I see you have progressed a lot.”

“Thanks. And love?” he asked. She paused long.

“Yes, I experienced love. It was little short of what I felt on the road when someone used to follow me.”

“That someone was one of the many,” my friend couldn’t resist, “but they were all rich and handsome.”

“Others? Who? I didn’t notice any. I felt only him everyday and I live those moments again and again.”

“I wish you had given ‘him’ some sign, maybe... ,” my friend left it incomplete.

“It is destiny, as they say,” she wrote.

My friend smiled: “Yes, and remember John Keats said in the Ode on a Grecian Urn about the permanency of love. The lovers kissing each others in the painting on the urn would always remain locked in the immortal love, unlike the real world.”

“And so those two shall be always on that road,” she punched along with a smiley. He repeated and both said time to sign off, time for the loving family.

first published in The Tribune dated August 17, 2011. link - http://www.tribuneindia.com/2011/20110817/edit.htm#5

Middle-No fiddling with drugs

(published in The Tribune on June 30)

No fiddling with drugs
by Jupinderjit Singh

THE intoxication caused by bhang (cannabis) is probably the worst, especially for an unassuming victim. Years ago, I became one such hapless victim consuming it by mistake.

For three days, I floated in a vicious endless circle, gripped in fear and reliving the events that took place immediately after I was tricked by my two colleagues in Patiala into taking a strong dose of bhang as prasad on Shivratri day.

It was all fun for others though. I just remember putting a paper into the typewriter until a colleague shook me.

He saw me staring fixedly at the plain paper with my hands in the air and fingers pointing towards the keypad, “Bhang has gripped your head,” he said.

I felt fear.

He took me to our boss who laughed as I repeated many times, “Sir, I have taken Bhang prasad. I am intoxicated.” He ordered the colleague to take me home and directed me that I should take some rum or whisky that was a good antidote.

Riding pillion on the colleague’s black Vespa, I kept repeating, “I have got bhang nasha(intoxication). Bhaji (Sir) said go home and take rum. I will recover.”

The colleague recalls much more. I pulled his hair and ears at the sight of vehicles, especially trucks coming from the opposite direction. I shrieked in fear and gripped him so tight that he was almost strangled. At the same time, I kept repeating, “I have got bhang nasha…..”

My mom had a fit of laughter as I kept saying the same sentence again and again. She gave me three glasses of buttermilk and later a huge quantity of mango pickles on the advice of concerned neighbours.

In my mind, events repeated themselves. I was at the office, sitting, telling the boss, on the road, coming home, seeking rum, made to lie down, getting up out of fear and people laughing and lying down again. My boss called me a couple of times only to be flabbergasted when I said, “Bhaji, I got bhang nasha…” and repeated everything.

Eventually, on the third day, my father returned from some outstation work and gave me rum. I came back to reality within a few hours. By that time I had consumed buckets of buttermilk and over a kg of pickles as well.

The two tricksters had their own harrowing time. One of them belonged to a hill station and was for the last few days crossing a narrow trench dug for laying telephone wires, on the way of our office. That day he couldn't dare ply his scooter on a small plank over the trench, “It is a deep khud (gorge).” It took 8 or 10 people to lift him across while he resisted his best.

The second one got stuck at traffic lights.

He kept accelerating his Chetak scooter without putting it in gears as the lights turned red to green to red to again green and so on. Eventually, a friendly cop helped him by pushing his vehicle with the help of others as my colleague sat on the vehicle shouting ‘vroooommm’.

He used gears later but got stuck at the next intersection and the next as well before somehow reaching home. We all laugh at it it now but we tell all not to play such tricks.

link :http://www.tribuneindia.com/2011/20110630/edit.htm#5

Middle----The Pleasure of Giving

(published in The Tribune on May 17, 2011)
by Jupinderjit Singh

RICH hearts do not need money. For, even the poorest, who beg or pull rickshaws to arrange for two square meals, take joy in giving.

I hate begging. For the better part of my life, I was one of those people who just told beggars to “go, find some work.” But I could never refuse one alms seeker.

This boy was about 10, often spotted at Bharat Nagar Chowk in Ludhiana. He was a little fairer than others and always had a mischievous smile on his face, with overgrown hair falling on his eyes. I always gave him some money but with the customary advice.

“Not a single rupee today,” I told him one late evening. My voice was dying down in the sound of growling tummies of me and my wife, both returning home after a hard day’s work. “We forgot the money at home and I am so hungry,” added my wife pitifully.

Before I could notice, the boy disappeared as we waited at the busy chowk, only to reappear on the other side of the car, carrying four bananas in his hands, which he offered to my wife. The spark in his eyes said all about the pleasure he had to be able to help. “Give me money tomorrow,” he said.

We could not deprive him of the pleasure he was feeling at that time by saying no to him. It is immaterial how we thanked him later. The look of joy he had when we took the fruit is permanently etched in my mind.

A rickshaw puller touched a close NRI friend’s heart similarly. As a child, she protested with elder women bargaining with boney rickshawallahs. On her recent visit, she hired a rickshaw, offered double the price for a said distance on the condition that she would stop for shopping here and there.

The puller was a young Punjabi, whose family owned a small piece of land, which did not provide much. On the way he narrated to her that he was forced to double up as a farm labourer and a rickshaw puller to attend to an ailing wife and the education of his children. She gave him Rs 100. “Didi, you are the kindest person I have ever met,” he could only say.

“You have been looted,” was what her elderly women relatives told her.

A few weeks later, the youth reached her house again. Eyebrows were raised as all thought he had came to seek more money.

“Didi, today is Raksha Bandhan. I brought a rakhi for you,” he said showing a colorful string. As she tied him the rakhi, he slipped a Rs 100 note and Rs 50 each for the two kids. “My wife is well. We both work now and had a good crop also. Brothers don’t take from sisters,” he said.

The woman could not refuse. She looked in triumph at other women showing them the sight of humanity in front of them.

(source : http://www.tribuneindia.com/2011/20110517/edit.htm#5)

Middle---MOTHER

Mother
by Jupinderjit Singh

MY mother is not recognising anyone, not even me. Can there be anything more painful than that? She is bed-ridden and lost. I see her helplessly withering away.” This status on Facebook of a dear friend shook me. Senior in age and years, he has been a picture of serenity and strength. But then even the most powerful are distressed on such occasions.

I was far away to console him in person. I rather needed help myself. His status brought out the greatest fear I had since I became conscious of life and death. It is the fear of losing my mother.

No one is bigger to a person than his mother. No one is more important. No one knows you better in and out than her. No one smiles at your lies and no one tells you to remain rooted to the ground when you fly high at minor successes.

Since childhood, I had this fear. And no amount of sermonising has diminished it. I often used to cry at the dead of night at the thought of my mom’s death. I stuck to her. And she tried her best to console quoting from Guru Granth Sahib and other religious books.

As I grew old, I read some on my own. I learnt nothing dies in this world. It just changes form. And I learnt soul is never destroyed. I recently read psychologist Dr Brian Weiss and his regression therapy quoting real life rebirth experiences and the joy and traumas and debts we carry to our next birth.

Rebirth stories pleased and comforted me a little. I read: “Death be not proud” of John Donne again and again. All those gave me temporary relief. My fear of losing my mother persisted.

Even now I talk to her about the fear I still carry. She strokes my hair and calls me “paagal” (mad). At 65, she is hale and hearty. I want her to be like that for all times. She is contended. She wants to leave early.

I want to tell her that the womb was the safest place I ever was. Since my birth, I am used to touching her cold elbow. It has lulled me to sleep. It is heavenly soothing. My troubles vanish when I hold her elbow. And it is always cold.

Who would soothe me when she is not there? She just has to be there. I want to tell her all this when she is in a position to recognise me and understand it. I want to tell her that I knew and remembered how many times she slept on a hungry stomach to feed us. And how much she denied herself of certain essential things to provide us education and clothes and good diet!

The need to earn and make a career forces us away from our mothers. Distances do not affect this bond. She is happy if you are happy. I have a strong urge to rush to her and hold the elbow again. I want to go on and on telling her my stories and ambitions, which many, including my father, term as “Sheikhchili dreams”, while she listens with all interest and sparkle in her eyes. All the while I am with her, I want to live every moment. For, when she won’t be around, I would never have the strength to visit our house in Patiala where she lives. Wish you a long long life, mother.

And I wish that for all mothers.


LINK --http://www.tribuneindia.com/2011/20110330/edit.htm#5

Middle - The Ponytail Man

The ponytail man
by Jupinderjit Singh

Wearing a ponytail is no easy task in this part of the world. It is just not part of our culture. When I first took to this ishtyle, my wife dismissed it as “an ugly sparrow tail” announcing that she liked me in the turban more. My mother said I had to do a ‘ponytail’ one day as I was always living like an animal dirtying the house around.

A female journalist in Ludhiana took a special liking to it. She would strategically sit behind me at the press conferences to take revenge from mankind. “All my life and especially in school, boys teased girls pulling their plaits or ponytails. Now , I can get back to all of them through you.” So, at press conferences, or wherever I saw her, I had to keep more attention behind than front.

Beggars embarrass me the most. They take me as a rich NRI and keep calling, “Ammricaaa waale munde, kujh de ja.” At weddings especially in the villages, they are after you like anything. You can’t get rid of them by giving Rs 10 or Rs 50. They throw it back, “Ambricaa waale munde, dollar shollar de,” (American boy, we would accept dollars only).

Once I was visiting a school in a suburb of Ludhiana for a news story. I had hardly stepped inside when a boy saw me from the window of his classroom on the second floor, “Look, gutt wala bhai,” (see, a man with a ponytail). His entire class and then students from other classes also perched out calling me “gutt wala bhai, gutt wala bhai.”

When people say it is not our culture, I think of an incident in Jaipur, where a senior politician earned the ire of youngsters saying Malls were not part of Indian culture and holding hands while roaming around in such places was against our culture. He had to withdraw his statement when youngsters opposed it tooth and nail arguing India was a land of kamasutra and Khajuraho temples also.

Now, holding hands has different meanings in different countries. A Canadian journalist visiting Punjab shared her dilemma with this writer. “Is being gay cool in India,” she asked.

“No, why?” I asked.

“I see men hugging each other on the streets and talking holding hands. Girls also hold each other’s hands and hug. Back in Canada, only gays do this.” I explained to her the Punjabi culture of men hugging each other and just holding hands, at times, playfully checking and exhibiting their strength, so typical of college youths.”

She was surprised “Strange, girls and boys meant to hold each other’s hands walk at a distance while they playfully hold hands of their own gender.” When I explained, exhibiting love openly is not Indian culture and covering oneself completely in public was considered good morals, her male colleague left me speechless with another query. “I don’t understand what the real Indian culture is. There are decently dressed girls on the street but all girls on posters of films and advertisements are naked or scantily dressed. Which is real India and which is real culture?”

(Middle no 13 : published in The Tribune dated : February 15, 2011)

link : http://www.tribuneindia.com/2011/20110215/edit.htm#5

Middle : Of Ghosts and Printer's devil

Of ghosts and printer’s devil
by Jupinderjit Singh

Ghosts scared me a lot in childhood. I grew up hearing stories about evil spirits, all scripted to keep me indoors at odd hours.

But the ghosts in those times had some character. They killed without much melodrama. Dracula was one such ‘straight -forward’ spirit. He appeared and directly buried his two long teeth in the neck of a young damsel and sucked the last drop of blood from her body.

They were so unlike modern ghosts of the Ram Gopal Verma kind, who keep on teasing the actresses by throwing plates, entering their bathroom or disturbing the curtains and photos in the room till the end of the movie, when they finally show themselves.

While one laughs more at these, I recall how I trembled all night when my friend lent me a new comic on Dracula and instructed that it should not be kept in the bedroom as Dracula may come out. I had hidden the comic in the boring chemistry book, and kept it in the other room. My mom (trust her to spoil all my such plans) brought the chemistry book saying I had to read a certain chapter first thing in the morning. All night I lay in the foetus pose fearing Dracula as well as my mom.

Today, I laugh at those fears. But that doesn’t mean there is no evil spirit that scares me. Most frightening one is the Printer’s Devil that gives goose bumps to all.

A hapless photographer with a vernacular daily had twin assignments one day. One, to click a photo of cows in a pond and second, to cover a fashion show. The devil jumbled up the captions.

Under the picture of beautiful models, it read in Hindi , “Ludhiana ke ek talaab mein bhainsen nahaati huyi (buffaloes bathing in a pond).” On another page was the picture of the dung laced cows which said, “Ludhiana ke ek fashion show mein sundriyan jalwe bikherti huyi (beauties mesmerise at a fashion show)”.

This devil works out of the printing room also. The Indian Railways introduced new enquiry numbers in Ludhiana. I got the story first and thought we would be the first to provide public information. But by mistake, they gave me Jalandhar enquiry numbers. Next morning, I called up at one of the two numbers to ascertain if they were working.

“I will bang my head against the wall. I will kick you and burn your paper,” said a badly harassed old man from a colony in Ludhiana, whose number it actually was. He was getting calls since morning: “Is Shatabdi right time ji?” The clarification provided temporary relief.

A reporter in a town on the rail route from Ludhiana to Jalandhar got hold of the “wrong” information and filed the report five days later, this time in all the editions.

I didn’t dare call the old man again.

(published in The Tribune dated November 22, 2010
http://www.tribuneindia.com/2010/20101123/edit.htm#5

This is my 12th Middle)