Islam also has the notion of a middle place, the pulsaraat. It is a kind of bridge of doubt over which you have to pass before you reach your ultimate destination. I have always regarded this bridge as a period of uncertainty between declaration of love and response from the beloved. To wit the famous Punjabi Sufi poet, Inayat Qadri:
Pahlee pauri Prem dee
Pulsaratey dera;
Haaji makkay haj karan
Main Mukh dekhaan tera.
Ai Inayat Qadri,
Hath Pakreen mera.
(The first step of love I make my home on Pulsaraat. Men of faith make pilgrimage to Mecca, I keep looking at your face. O Inayat Qadri, hold my hand and help me across!)
As far as I am concerned, I believe that a clear conscience makes life on earth a paradise and a guilty one makes it hell. My authority for saying so is my philosopher-guide, Allama Iqbal:
Amal se Zindagi bantee hai,
Jannat bhee Jahannum bhee;
Yeh khaaki hai, apnee fitrat mein
Na nooree hai na naari hai
(’Tis how we act that makes our lives;/We can make it heaven, we can make it hell,/In the clay of which we are made/Neither light nor the darkness of evil dwell.)
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Swastika
The Kipling Journal published by the Kipling Society of which I am a member has a letter from the owner of a book store dealing in rare books about the swastika symbol on the earliest editions of Rudyard Kipling’s works. He complains that customers object to it as being the Nazi emblem till he explains to them it is ‘Ganesha’s symbol’ and that Kipling had dropped it after Hitler took it on.
There are many misconceptions about the swastika, the most popular being that it is exclusively Aryan. Nothing of the sort. It has been found in China, Egypt, Greece, Rome, Scandinavia, Mexico and Peru. However, while in other civilizations it went into oblivion, it is preserved by the Hindu to this day. The word is used extensively in Hindu ritual following the sacred invocation, ‘om’. It is made up of three syllables, ‘swa’ meaning ‘well’, ‘asti’ meaning ‘is’ and ‘ka’ which is its noun ending. Put together, swastika means ‘it is well’, hence its use on auspicious occasions. That also explains why the yogic posture for meditation is called the Svastikaasana or the good luck pose.
The arms of the Hindu swastika are in the opposite direction of those of the Nazi emblem—although the Nazi shape can also be seen in Hindu temples and homes.
I was curious to know why Kipling regarded it as the Ganesha symbol. Kipling was born in Bombay. It is during the Ganapati festival during the monsoon that you see more swastikas than at other times as Maharashtrian women draw it on floors of their houses and worship it.
Sunday, 2 March 1985
Murder by Moonlight
Psychiatrists have established connection between phases of the moon and human behaviour. Statistics show that the crime graph takes an upward trend with the waxing moon and declines as it wanes. Contrary to the popular belief that thieves and robbers prefer to operate on moonless nights, it is the chaudhveen ka chand (night of the full moon) that stirs evil in evil men just as it stirs passions in the hearts of lovers. Crime statisticians have overlooked human response to silvery moonlight. Besides wanting the beloved by one’s side, moonlight also enhances the desire for drink. Love and liquor heighten emotions and make people irresponsible. I am sure if figures were compiled for days when dark rain-bearing clouds cover the skies and easterly winds blow bringing showers, it will be found that because of the longing for drink and desire to have the beloved in one’s arms, the rate of mischief-making will have gone up. I am reminded of lines in Persian composed by Emperor Akbar. Since he was unlettered and could not even sign his name, they must have come spontaneously to him and taken down by one of his courtiers:
‘Last night in the wine-sellers’ lane
I paid gold to buy a flask of wine;
Now I realize when my head throbs with pain
I gave gold to make headache mine.’
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Paradise through Pornography
It amazes me to see how much pornography you can get away with in India and how little can get you in trouble with the police. D.H. Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover was struck down by the Supreme Court as obscene; magazines like Playboy and Penthouse are banned. But explicitly illustrated versions of the Kama Sutra and books on Indian erotic art which leave nothing whatsoever to the reader’s imagination can be bought in any bookstore by anyone, however young. Why not scrap laws against obscene publications and be done with this hypocrisy?
This introduction brings me to the latest addition to my collection of hard porn. I did not buy it; an autographed copy of the limited first edition has been given to me by the author, Jagmohan. I enjoy reading pornography for relaxation but would not have paid Rs 120 for Kama Kreeda—Sexistentialism. It is about group sex and mate-swapping in Bombay. Quite honestly, I don’t think such things take place either in Bombay or any other Indian city. At least I hope they do not. Adultery is common enough; but sharing spouses and engaging in sexual bouts with them in the same room is sordid beyond belief.
The central character in the ‘novella’ (200 pages) is a guy named Guerilla Guru, an Indian settled in San Francisco. He and ‘his female’ belong to a Yab-yum-yang-yin (4Ys club) where sexual orgies are practised with religious fervour and hard spirits replace spiritualism. They open a branch in Bombay where its founder members take an oath to render their bodies to the common kitty (Sareer Daan). Despite the musical chairs they perform in the nude and the reasonably good prose in which their antics are described, the whole thing becomes utterly prosaic. Kama Kreeda convinces me that the best way to combat pornography is to take no notice of it; boredom kills it more effectively than censorship, confiscation, fines or imprisonment. In any event, to forestall the police coming to look for my copy, I have gifted it to a friend who shares this interest.
Sunday, 16 March 1985
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The Chaudhry Obsession
It starts by being a complex and then turns into an obsession. As a complex it manifests itself in the form of a compulsive desire to be a Mr Somebody in every situation—a member of every committee—if already a member, then its treasurer, secretary, vice-president or president. To be the centre of attention at every party, the bridegroom at every wedding, the corpse at every funeral. If the desire is not firmly curbed when it raises its head, it soon turns into an obsession. You can see it in epidemic form in India. Every villager wants to become a sarpanch, every social worker a politician, every politician an MLA or MP, and every MP a Cabinet minister or the prime minister. There is no other explanation of the phenomenon of thousands of aspirants at every election—over 300 in one constituency.
The Chaudhry Complex manifests itself fairly early in life and assumes menacing proportions by campus-age. You must have known boys who were forever wanting to be elected to something or the other: member of the canteen committee, carom club executive, university union or whatever. Thereafter the same kind of fellows want to be somebodies in their beopar mandals. FICCIs, Rotary Clubs, Lions Clubs, or whatever. They append catalogues or what they succeeded in becoming on their visiting cards and letterheads of their stationery. I knew a buffoon whose writing pads had his entire biodata printed in the margin. He was the greatest clown in college because he wanted to be captain of every team. Later he became a minister, Governor and an ambassador. Then there are fellows who append honorary doctorates conferred on them as if they were men of medicine or learning. The same applies to government honours. There are regulations to the effect that they must not be used as honorifics. They are. See the number of chaps who describe themselves as Padma Shri or Padma Bhushan so and so.
The most ludicrous examples of the Chaudhry obsession can be seen at club elections: the more elite the institution, the more blatant the exercise in one-upmanship. In the recent elections of the Delhi Gymkhana Club, members were bombarded with letters solicit
ing votes. Without exception all of them extolled the status of the aspirant: IFS, IAS, IPS, Squadron Leader, and more insidious than these in a club half of whose membership comprises businessmen, chartered accountants, lawyers with taxation problems, were arm-twisting appendages like Indian Revenue Service or Commissioner of income tax. Believe it or not, these descriptions were even printed on the ballot paper.
What do these jokers get by becoming Chaudhrys? Not money (though some wouldn’t mind making a little on the side) but patronage. And for a time, being jee huzoored by the staff. Little things affect little minds as small pants fit small behinds.
Sunday, 6 April 1985
Family Planning: Punjab Style
I have before me an advertisement issued by the director, health and family welfare of the Punjab government published in the monthly journal, Art of Living. Since the journal is devoted to art and culture, the department took pains to draft a special ad which would conform to the journal’s literary standards. It is hilarious. The heading reads: ‘The Beautiful Landlady Without Mercy.’ The writer had obviously read ‘La Belle Dame Sans Merci’ without digesting its message. A landlady without mercy is approached for accommodation by a ‘school teachress’ recently transferred to the village.
‘Number of children?’ asks the landlady ‘frowningly’. The ‘teachress’ admits to having a three-month-old baby.
‘What is the guarantee that you won’t multiply soon? My previous house was anyway spoilt by a football team called family. The helpless parents could not afford to pay the rent even. I forewent two years’ rent to get the house vacated!’ The poor ‘teachress’ promises to pay rent regularly. The cruel landlady agrees to consider her case favourably provided she has a tambi (copper T) inserted and vouches for its ‘100 per cent efficacy’. Apparently the ‘teachress’ has already a second child in her womb. ‘Then get a nivaran (abortion) from the primary health centre near here: Do you agree?’
The ‘teachress’ agrees. She also agrees not to undergo tubectomy. The landlady summons her husband as witness to the fact that ever since she had laparoscopic tubectomy, he has become more obedient. Her husband acknowledges his gratitude: ‘You underwent a major operation after all. I avoided a minor one. So I must respect you. Is this ‘henpeckedness?’ he asks.
Do you get the message? Punjabis apparently do.
Sunday, 13 April 1985
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Central Hall Chit Chat
Telegrams were sent out inviting members of the party to attend the Congress centenary celebrations in Delhi. Some telegraph clerks not familiar with the English language changed the word ‘centenary’ to ‘sanitary’. Another variation of the word was used by Prakash Patil, son of Vasant dada Patil, then the chief minister of Maharashtra. When questioned whether his father had really met Prime Minister Rajiv Gandhi, he replied in the affirmative: ‘Yes, at the century celebrations.’
Then there was a member of Parliament who having spoken on the budget, was correcting the transcript of his speech taken down verbatim. He lost his temper and exploded: ‘These fellows who prepare our Hansard get simple words wrong. I was talking on the baajet and they have taken it down as ‘budget’, not once but every time.’
Sunday, 29 June 1985
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Bombay Revisited
Everytime I come to Bombay it looks different. It was always crowded; it has become more congested. It was always dirty; it has become dirtier. It was always smelly; now it stinks. Monsoon showers wash away floating sewage into the gutters and for a while there is a breath of fresh sea air. When the sun comes out the city’s myriads pour out of their multi-tiered anthills and soon every street becomes a seething mass of crawling human insects. Or so it appears from the windows of air-conditioned penthouses perched like machans up half-a-kilometre in the sky from where the privileged look down on the denizens of this man-made jungle of cement and glass. Shiv-Senapati Bal Thackeray and ex-Maharashtrapati Dada Patil have a good case: there are more people in Bombay than Mumbai can cope with. It may not have occurred to them that far too many of them are Maharashtrians.
I was in Bombay for the sixth anniversary celebrations of Mid-day. At the innumerable receptions given by the proprietor-editor, Khalid Ansari, I tried to count how many of his guests would pass the linguistic and/or sons-of-the-soil test often invoked by propagandists of the Maharashtra-for-Maharashtrians school. Most of them like his Parsi guests like Rusi Karanjia (Blitz), his brother Burjor (Screen) and Gulshan Ewing (Eve’s Weekly) are Bombay-born. They understand a little Marathi, but I doubt if any of them can speak it well enough to pass an elementary viva voce test. Most of the others were domiciled Bombayites whose Marathi vocabulary would barely go beyond yelling Ganapati Bappa.
Why do I pick on Bombay when all our metropolitan cities are quite squalid and congested? And that in every one of them the recently domiciled are doing better than those with deeper roots? For the single reason that urban overcrowding is a national phenomenon which has to be tackled on a national level. Bombay is the only city where leaders who should know better are trying to solve their problem by rousing parochial passions. They should know that appeals to local pride can be dangerously infective. If Mumbai sneezes today other cities will go down with cold tomorrow.
Sunday, 20 July 1985
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A Tale with a Moral
I write this story with malice aforethought for four reasons: it is true, it depicts the inability of our people to digest success, it tells of the common man’s reaction to the arrogance of upstarts, and it has a moral ending. I mention no names because I have had enough trouble facing poseurs and liars who hauled me before the Press Council and courts of law all over the country. The foolscaps I hoist in this piece will fit many fat-heads.
Once upon a time a young man on the make hitched his wagon to the right re-emerging star. His fortunes rose as the bandwagon on which he found an empty seat rolled on past the winning post. He demanded his dues. And got them: he found himself a Member of Parliament. He had arrived. India was his oyster (it should be idli-dosa because he happens to be a vegetarian). His personality underwent a remarkable metamorphosis. From being palm-folder always Jee-huzooring everyone, he began to talk down to the rest of the world and only Jee-huzoored people from whom he would get better positions or money. If you had known him before he became an MP you wold not have recognized him after he had become one.
One fine morning he decided to call on one of his moneyed friends—whether for a cup of coffee or something else, we will never know. This Mr Moneybag who had got used to being milched regularly like the fabulous Kamadhenu had quite a security bandobast about his multi-storeyed office. Unfortunately for our MP, the chief security man at the entrance happened to be a Haryanvi Jat. Those who know Haryanvi Jats will agree that it is wise not to get into an argument with one of them for they can be rougher than Punjabi Jats. Our MP friend either did not know the stuff Haryanvi Jats are made of, or, failed to recognize the fellow in uniform as one of the tribe.
To make a long story short, the MP alighted from his newly air-conditioned car and proceeded to stride into the multi-storeyed building. The Haryanvi put out his hand to stop him and asked him to go to the reception desk to get a pass. He brushed the Haryanvi aside rudely and walked up to the elevator. The Haryanvi ran after him to try to stop him. The MP roared. ‘Tu jaanta nahin main kaun hoon? (Don’t you know who I am?)’ and hit him a back-hander which knocked off the Haryanvi’s cap. After half an hour with this Money bag and getting his cup of coffee, or whatever else he had come to see his Kamadhenu for, he went down the elevator expecting an apology and politer behaviour from the security man. The guard was waiting for him. By then he had even got to know who the VIP visitor was. In front of all his colleagues and other visitors waiting in the reception room, the guard planted a tight slap on the MP’s face which not only knocked off the MP’s glasses but sent him staggering on the floor. If you don’t believe me, next time you run into a Haryanvi
Jat, provoke him to slap you on the face and you’ll understand what I mean.
There are quite a few moral lessons to be learnt from this anecdote. First, nothing is harder to digest than success. It not only creates gas in the stomach, it can also turn your head. Second, no one loves an arrogant man, not even his wife or children, least of all aira-ghaira (hoi polloi) who outnumber VIPs ten million to one. And finally, when you run into a Haryanvi, to be on the safe side, address him as you would address Chaudhary Charan Singh:
‘Chaudharyji, Ram Ram.’ Or wear a face guard.
Sunday, 27 July 1985
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Dear Madam/Sir
In future the order is to be reversed. The opening formula for letters, ‘Dear Sir or Madam’ should hereafter read ‘Dear Madam or Sir or whatever the case may be,’ otherwise you may be exposed to the charge of being anti-feminist. So the Equal Opportunities Committee of London’s Hackney Council has opined. It warns men to be more careful in their choice of words pertaining to females of their species. Before putting pen to paper they should ask themselves: ‘Are women being excluded, trivialised, patronized, stereotyped or made fun of?’ Examples of words which when converted to the feminine gender might offend feminine susceptibilities are appended: dustman must not be dustwoman but a ‘refuse operative’; foreman not a forewoman but ‘supervisor’, and housewife, ‘consumer-shopper’. Similar verbal reforms are proposed for disabled persons: a sightless person must not be called blind but ‘visually handicapped’; and if he or she is one-eyed, as ‘suffering from partially visual handicap’.
In Shakespeare’s time, a cobbler had been elevated to the status of ‘a surgeon unto men’s shoes’. In my time I have known a cook designated ‘canteen officer’, dhobi, a ‘launderer’ and a sweeper, a ‘garbage remover’. How does change in the nomenclature change the drudgery of the occupation or assuage the feelings of the deprived?
Notes On the Great Indian Circus Page 7
