The Big Fat Joke Book

by Khushwant Singh

  ‘I will tell you tomorrow,’ said the minister.

  Next day the minister drove him down the highway, stopped the car at a spot overlooking a valley and pointed his finger to a spot down the valley, asking, ‘Do you see the bridge over there?’

  ‘I see no bridge,’ said the Punjabi.

  ‘Quite right,’ said the minister. ‘The entire cost of the bridge went into my pocket.’

  A Punjabi peasant on his first flight to take up a job in England got a seat on a British airline. Came lunch time and the stewardess brought a tray of European savouries. ‘No,’ said the peasant firmly as he undid a small bundle and took out a makki ki roti. ‘What is this you are munching?’ asked the stewardess.

  ‘This bread India,’ he replied.

  A little while later, the stewardess brought a trayful of puddings of different kinds. Once again the peasant shook his head as he produced a lump of gur from his pocket and put it in his mouth.

  ‘What is this you are chewing?’ asked the stewardess.

  ‘This sweet India,’ he replied.

  When the stewardess came to take away the lunch trays, the peasant let out a loud belch.

  ‘And what is this?’ demanded the stewardess sternly.

  ‘This is air India.’

  Rajiv Gandhi, Hinduja and Amitabh decided to become partners and make a film. Hinduja said: ‘I will put up the money for the film!’

  Amitabh said: ‘I will act in the film!’

  Both of them then turned to Rajiv and asked: ‘What will you do for the film?’

  Rajiv said: ‘Hum dekhenge …’ (I shall see).

  The harried clerk suffering from insomnia never got to sleep before dawn; then slept right through the alarm and so never made it to the office on time. Upon being reprimanded by his boss, he decided to consult a doctor. The doctor gave him some sleeping pills. That night he fell asleep immediately and had a pleasant rest. In the morning he awoke before the alarm rang, jumped out of the bed with new verve and vigour. When he arrived at his office promptly, he told his boss, ‘Those pills I got from my doctor really work. I had no trouble at all waking up this morning.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ the boss replied, ‘but where were you yesterday?’

  We Indians are often called a litigious lot and many of us despair on the practice of our labyrinthine legal system. But perhaps many of us are not aware that American lawyers are no less mercenary than their Indian counterparts and some of the legal judgments handed down by US courts will amaze us.

  For example, in 1984, an American woman under the influence of drink drove her Porsche 60 mph in a 25 mph zone and killed a man. Result? Porsche was asked by a US court to pay $2.5 million in damages for having designed a car deemed too high in performance for an average driver.

  Another example: while attempting to burgle a school a burglar fell through the skylight. The company that insured the school was asked to pay $260,000 in damages and give the would-be burglar $1500 per month for life.

  The joke goes that Americans can be divided into three broad groups and each group deals with its enemies in its own way. Americans belonging to the first group sue their enemy. Those belonging to the second group shoot their enemy. And those belonging to the third group shoot their enemy and then sue his widow for mental anguish brought about by guilt and imprisonment!

  A car was involved in an accident in a street. As expected a large crowd gathered. A newspaper reporter anxious to get his story could not get near the car. But being a bright young fellow, he started crying loudly, ‘Let me through! Let me through! I am the son of the victim.’

  The crowd made way for him. Lying in front of the damaged car was the donkey it had run over.

  ‘I understand you had an argument with your wife?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did it end?’

  ‘Ultimately she came down on her knees—and said, “If you are a man, come out from beneath the bed and fight like a man!”’

  Seen inside a DTC bus:

  Aana free

  Jaana free

  Pakray gaye to

  Khana free

  (You can get in for free

  You can get out for free

  If you happen to get caught

  You’ll get dinner for free)

  The home minister sent a registered letter to the Akali leaders ensconced in the Yatri Niwas of the Golden Temple: ‘Hand over the culprit at once’, it demanded.

  Promptly came the reply from Jarnail Singh Bhindranwale: ‘We have a Harpreet Singh and Gurpreet Singh and a Jaspreet Singh but we have no Kulpreet Singh.’

  A judge, irritated by a lawyer’s behaviour, admonished him, ‘You are crossing the limits.’

  ‘Kaun saala aisa kehta hai’ roared the lawyer.

  ‘How dare you call me saala—brother-in-law? I’ll have you charged for contempt of court,’ said the judge angrily.

  ‘My Lord misunderstood me,’ replied the lawyer coolly, ‘I do not call you saala, all I said was kaun sa law aisa kahta hai—which law says so?’

  Three friends, a Hindu, a Muslim and a Sikh, were discussing intimate matrimonial problems. How best to send a signal to the wife that the husband desired her company?

  ‘I have evolved a formula,’ said Rehman. ‘AU I have to say is, “Begum, you are looking like a newly-wed bride”—and she knows what I have on my mind.’

  ‘I have a similar formula,’ said Sham Lal. ‘I ask her if she is wearing the same sari she wore on the wedding night. She gets the signal.’

  ‘Why this gol mol, roundabout approach?’ questioned Banta Singh. ‘When I want her company, I simply ring the bell and she comes over to my room.’

  ‘This is wonderful,’ agreed his friends. ‘But how does she communicate to you that she wants your company?’

  ‘She has her own formula,’ replied Banta Singh. ‘She asks me, “Sardarji, tuseen ghantee tay naheen vajaaee?” Sardarji, did you ring for me?’

  A young entrant to the army was posted at a non-family station for many years. When he got news of a son born to his wife he had left behind in the village, he entertained his pals and told them that he had decided to name his son Pandey. ‘Why?’ asked his friends.

  ‘In our village the neighbours are very co-operative,’ he explained, ‘and so we number our children according to their vicinity. If it is neighbour number two, we name the child Dua; if it is number three, he is named Trivedi; number four Chaturvedi. In my case, it was neighbour number five, so he is named Pandey.’

  His friends were nonplussed. ‘What if it is the produce of a mixture of neighbours?’

  ‘Then we call him Mishri.’

  ‘Disgusting!’ they remarked. ‘What if the paternity is unknown?’

  ‘That’s very simple, we name him Gupta.’

  ‘What happens if the mother is too shy to divulge the identity of the father?’

  ‘Then we name him Sharma.’

  Two Hindi speaking friends who were trying hard to learn English decided to correspond with each other in angrezee. The first letter went somewhat as follows: ‘My dear mitr, I am in the well. I hope you are also in the well.’

  The following ad appeared in a daily paper: ‘Are you illiterate? You don’t know how to read or write? If so, do write to us and let us help you.’

  Anne Landers’s syndicated column is not famous for wit or humour; it is largely devoted to ‘Dear Diary’ kind of confessions and emotional yearnings. But this piece sent to me by Inder Gujral is truly hilarious. I reproduce it in totality, in ignorance of copyright. In any event it is not by Anne Landers but by one of her many readers who sent it to her. It is about problems that can arise if you give a dog a bad name. This is how it goes:

  ‘Everybody who has a dog calls him “Rover” or “Boy”. I call mine “Sex”. He’s a great pal but he has caused me a great deal of embarrassment.

  ‘When I went to city hall to renew his dog licence, I told the clerk I would like a licence for Sex. He said, “I’d li
ke one, too!” Then I said: “But this is a dog.” He said he didn’t care what she looked like. Then I said, “You don’t understand, I’ve had Sex since I was nine years old.” He winked and said, “You must have been quite a kid.”

  ‘When I got married and went on my honeymoon, I took the dog with me. I told the motel clerk that I wanted a room for my wife and me and a special room for Sex.

  ‘He said: “You don’t need a special room. As long as you pay your bill we don’t care what you do.” I said: “Look, you don’t seem to understand, Sex keeps me awake at night.” The clerk said: “Funny, I have the same problem.”

  ‘One day I entered Sex in a contest, but before the competition began, the dog ran away. Another contestant asked me why I was just standing there, looking disappointed. I told him I had planned to have Sex in the contest. He told me I should have sold my own tickets. “But you don’t understand,” I said, “I had hoped to have Sex on TV.” He said: “Now that cable is all over the place, it’s no big deal anymore.”

  ‘When my wife and I separated, we went to court to fight for custody of the dog. I said: “Your Honour, I had Sex before I was married.” The judge said: “The courtroom isn’t a confessional. Stick to the case, please.”

  ‘Then I told him that after I was married, Sex left me. He said: “Me, too.”

  ‘Last night Sex ran off again. I spent hours looking around town for him. A cop came over to me and asked, “What are you doing in this alley at four o’clock in the morning?” I told him that I was looking for Sex. My case comes up on Friday.’

  A Panditji and a Maulvi sahib happened to be close neighbours in some posh locality of Delhi. Even though both were good friends, there was a certain amount of competition between them. If one had his drive done up, the other had his relaid and so it went on.

  One day the Panditji had a new custom-built Chevrolet, so the Maulana bought a Mercedes. When the Maulana looked out of his window it was to see the Panditji pouring water over the top of the car bonnet. He opened the window and shouted, ‘That’s not the way to fill the radiator, you know.’

  ‘Aha,’ said the Panditji, ‘I am purifying it with Ganga jal, that’s more than you can do to yours.’

  A little while later, the Panditji was taken aback to see the Maulvi sahib lying in the middle of road, hack-saw in hand, sawing off the last inch of his car’s exhaust pipe.

  In his introduction to Fabulous Oriental Recipes, Johna Blinn lists the following:

  ‘Happy Home Recipe’

  4 cups Love

  2 cups Loyalty

  5 quarts Faith

  2 tablespoons Tenderness

  1 cup Kindness

  5 cups Understanding

  3 cups Forgiveness

  1 cup Friendship

  5 teaspoons Hope

  1 barrel Laughter

  Sunshine to taste

  Take Love and Loyalty; mix thoroughly with Faith. Blend with Tenderness, Kindness, Understanding and Forgiveness. Add Friendship and Hope; sprinkle abundantly with Laughter. Bake with Sunshine. Serve with generous helpings.

  Two pandits riding on a scooter were stopped by a Punjab police constable. ‘Don’t you know riding pillion is forbidden in Punjab?’ asked the constable. ‘I am going to challan you.’

  The pandits pleaded their innocence of rules but he refused to let them go. Very exasperated, the pandit who was driving the scooter replied, ‘All right, Ishwar is with us. Do what you like.’

  ‘In that case, I’ll challan you for having two on the pillion behind you.’

  This is about the spelling of the word ‘assassination’. A boy who was having trouble remembering the sequence of letters was provided with the following formula: formula: An ass after another, after that I, followed by nation.

  A joke doing the rounds of Delhi’s diplomatic cocktail circuit, though slightly over the line of propriety, deserves to be told because it illustrates the kind of feelings that obtain between Indians and Pakistanis. It is said that the President of the Soviet Union was celebrating his silver jubilee. As head of state he desired that all countries accredited by it should present him with the best of their products. First came the American ambassador with a brand new Cadillac. The President graciously accepted the gift. It was followed by the British ambassador presenting the latest model of a Rolls Royce. The President was delighted and desired that his thanks be conveyed to Queen Elizabeth II. The next was the ambassador of Israel. He had brought a new variety of elongated lemon developed in his country. The President was furious and ordered the lemon to be put up the Israeli’s posterior. Then came the Indian ambassador. He presented a luscious Alphonso mango. The President was not amused and ordered the fruit to be stuffed up the Indian’s behind. Having been subjected to the painful insult the Israeli and the Indian ambassadors met in the lobby of the Kremlin Palace. The Israeli looked woebegone. The Indian was wreathed in smiles.

  The Israeli asked the Indian, ‘How can you manage to look so happy after what has been done to you?’

  The Indian ambassador replied, ‘You’ve no idea what is in store for the ambassador of Pakistan. He has brought the largest watermelon developed in his country.’

  Hitler and Mussolini go to hell after their death. There they meet God. God asks them to come to his room one at a time. The first call is for Hitler. He goes inside. God asks him, ‘Hitler, how many women have you had …’ He replies, ‘Sir, one and only one.’

  God says, ‘Very good,’ gifts him a Mercedes and tells him to have a nice time.

  Now it’s Mussolini’s turn. He goes inside and is asked the same question. He replies, ‘Sir, six.’ God gets very annoyed and tells him, ‘Take this Ambassador.’

  After some time when Mussolini is taking a ride in his car, he hears Hitler laughing very loudly. He gets very angry, gets out of the car and asks Hitler, ‘Why are you laughing at me?’ He replies, ‘Mussolini, I am not laughing at you. Just now I saw the Pope whiz past on skates!’

  A youngster rushed into a barber’s shop and asked to be given a haircut and a shave immediately. ‘You wait your turn young man,’ said the barber, ‘I will get to you after the others waiting before you have been attended to. It will take an hour or two.’

  The young fellow ran out of the barber’s shop. He came the next day, the day after and for many days subsequently. Every time he was told to wait his turn, he fled. Not being able to contain his curiosity, the barber asked his assistant to follow the young man and find out where he came from and where he went after leaving his shop.

  The assistant did so and reported back: ‘I don’t know where the fellow comes from but as soon as you tell him you will be busy for the next hour or two, he runs to your home.’

  A tough Haryanvi peasant swaggered into a restaurant and ordered for an empty tumbler and a lemon. He asked everyone to look as he squeezed the lemon into the glass with his powerful hands. ‘If anyone here can get as much out of a lemon as I have I will give him five rupees.’

  A thin, bespectacled clerk accepted the challenge. With his frail hands he got more juice out of the lemon than the Haryanvi. ‘Wonderful!’ exclaimed the Chaudhary, handing over the fiver. ‘But tell me how did you manage to squeeze out more than I?’

  ‘I am from the income tax department,’ replied the little fellow.

  A little boy was asked by his teacher how one should address the Pope.

  ‘Your Sanctity,’ he answered.

  ‘And the Queen of England?’

  ‘Your Majesty.’

  ‘Very good! And what about Ayatollah Khomeini of Iran?’

  ‘Your Funda-mentality,’ the boy answered.

  During the British Raj an English commander of an Army Cantt in Madras joined a dinner hosted by the jawans to celebrate a local festival. The menu was typically Madrasi.

  Next morning at breakfast he commented to his wife, ‘Today I have discovered why the bloody Indians use water in the lavatory; toilet paper could catch fire.’

  A Sardarji
was boasting about the number of cities he had been to: London, Paris, New York, Rome, Karachi.

  ‘You must know Geography quite well,’ remarked one of his audience.

  ‘Oh very well,’ replied the Sardarji, ‘I spent four days in Geography.’

  Question: Why is a bad government like a bikini?

  Answer: Because people marvel at what’s holding it up. And they wish it would fall.

  A government servant went to a doctor. ‘Doctor sahib, I am suffering from exhaustion. Please advise me.’

  The doctor examined him carefully before replying, ‘What you need is complete rest. You should return to the office as soon as you can.’

  Banta Singh, like all good Sardars, always greeted everyone in the congregation with a loud ‘Wahey Guruji ki Khalsa, Wahey Guruji ki Fateh’. After spending a few years in England he returned home and at the village gurudwara produced an Anglicized version of the greeting: ‘Sat Sri Akal. And a copy to all.’

  My friend Onkar Singh who returned from Ahmedabad last week posed a question which I could not answer. ‘How is it that in Gujarat where every man is a bhai and every woman a ben the population keeps on increasing?’

  J.P. Singh Kaka has drawn my attention to the same kind of confusion that exists in the minds of some people. A bachelor on the lookout for a wife was advised by a friend to put in an ad in the matrimonial columns. He took the advice. A few weeks later his friends asked him if he had any luck. ‘Yes,’ replied the bachelor and added naïvely, ‘Kaee bahnon kay to khat bhee aaye hain—many sisters have written to me.’

  My friend Lakhan Naqvi told me of a dream he had some months ago of my dying and being resurrected. I was so tickled by it as a kind of summary of my life that I thought of sharing it with my readers.

  The wire services reported that I was seriously ill. (I doubt if my illness will merit reportage from either PTI or UNI.) The next morning he read that I had proceeded towards my ‘heavenly abode’. He decided to call and condole with my family. He saw me laid out in a coffin. As he came to put some flowers on my corpse, I said, ‘Lakhan, get me a bottle of Scotch.’

  Lakhan was startled and replied, ‘You are supposed to be dead. You are not meant to talk after you die.’