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Saturday, September 2, 2006 |
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THIS ABOVE ALL
Jaissee
karnee, vaisee bharnee Na maaney to kar kay deykh Jannat bhee hai,
aur dozakh bhee Na maaney to mar key dekh. (As you do so will
your reward be Try it out if you don’t agree; There is heaven and
there is also hell If you don’t believe me Try out death, and you
will see.) There was good reason for Prem Kumar’s jubilation. Some
months ago his hotel was raided by the police. Twelve girls who danced
in its El Dorado ballroom were arrested for being scantily dressed and
making lewd gestures. The restaurant was closed down; the girls and
the other staff employed there were deprived of their livelihood. A
few weeks later, the police officer who organised the whole tamasha
was charged with corruption and suspended from his job. It was
found that the fellow had been doing such things before, including
deliberately botching up cases of murder against men who had bribed
him. Maxwell Periera, once a Senior Police Officer, wrote about him.
And how officers like him confirmed the general opinion that the
police was the most corrupt in our country. Prem Kumar had good reason
to gloat over the downfall of the man who had done him so much harm.
His belief in jaisee karnee vaisee bharnee had been
vindicated. It is good to believe that one pays for one’s sins
either in one’s lifetime or after death. But it is only true for
those who have a conscience to keep on the straight and narrow path of
rectitude. Unfortunately, people who stray from this path and indulge
in corruption, falsehood and crime do not have a conscience and do
not suffer from pangs of guilt or ill-health. They manage to put aside
all scruples, enjoy good health, live long and enjoy the good things
of life. No one knows whether or not they pay for their sins after
death. Heaven and hell are not creations of God, if there is heaven
and hell, they are creations of human imagination to keep people
frightened of the consequences of evil-doings. It does not always
work.
Abdullahs of Kashmir I have known them down three
generations: Sheikh Mohammed Abdullah (Sher-e-Kashmir) and his
wife, a Nedou, described as Mader-e-millat (mother of the
people), their son Farooq and his sister Suraiya, Farooq’s son Omar
and now Suraiya’s daughter Nyla Ali Khan settled in the United
States. They have three things in common: good looks, gift of the gab
and Kashmiriyat free from religious prejudices. I got to know them
better as Suraiya and her mother asked me to help with the English
translation of Sheikh Sahib’s autobiography Aatish-e-Chinar (Chinars
on fire). At a function held later in Srinagar I quoted an Urdu
couplet which I thought summed up the dilemma of Kashmiri Muslims: Farishtay
bhee aayen to ijazat say aayen Yeh mera vatan hai, koee jannat nahin
hai. (Even if angels wish to come, they must await my
permission This is my homeland not just some kind of paradise.) This
is how Muslims of the Valley view their future. It is not shared by
the majority of inhabitants of Jammu who are Hindus nor by Ladakhis
who are largely Buddhists or Kashmiri Pandits, many were forced out of
the Valley, or the Sikhs who remain. Like it or not, the bitter truth
is that Jammu and Kashmir was regarded as one unit under the Dogra
rule, whereas in fact it was three divided along religious lines. As
long as we remain blind to this ugly reality, we will not find a
solution to the Kashmir problem. The Abdullah family is divided into
two: male descendants, Farooq and his son Omar went into politics,
female descendants Suraiya and her daughter Nyla took the path to
academics. Suraiya is a professor in a Srinagar college. Nyla got a
doctorate in English Literature from the University of Oklahoma and is
currently Assistant Professor of English at the University of
Nebraska-Kearney. She has published her first book The Fiction of
Nationality in an era of transnationalising (Routledge). Nyla
examines the writings of V.S. Naipaul, Salman Rushdie, Amitav Ghosh
and Anita Desai, all four living abroad to explain the aberrant
behaviour of emigres from the Indian subcontinent to explain why they
support religious fundamentalist groups in India, Pakistan and
Bangladesh. Having settled abroad, they develop an exaggerated sense
of belonging, swallow fabricated history of their glorious pasts and
despite having no intention of returning to the lands of their
nativity give emotional and monetary support to subversive elements.
She is objective and despite the academic jargon she uses, highly
readable.
Bun samosa There are small towns which get known for some
item of food they specialise in. On way to Shimla, there is a tiny
village Jabli which was known for its pedas. Everyone going up
by road or rail, bought a few because Jabli was known for this
delicacy. Farther on, their was a family known for its achaars, both
of fruit (mango or lime) and vegetables like carrot, cauliflower and
turnips. They added pork and chicken to their achaars. Jabli’s
pedawalas have shut shop. The achaarwalas fight a losing battle with
big firms, mass producing pickles. Kasauli specialises in gulabjamuns,
the best I have tasted. They added rasmalai as delectable
as any you can find anywhere. Till recently I was not aware they were
produced by a family of halwais who are third-generation descendants
of Sahus of Varanasi. They have added two more to their menus, one bun
samosa — stuffed with potatoes and chana and enclosed
in a sliced bun. It is India’s answer to hot-dog or burger;
belly-filling, starchy, stodgy like any American junk food. It costs
only Rs 5. I made my dinner out of one but do not recommend it to old
people. It is the speciality of Narinder Sahu halwai known to the
locals as Tannu. He also makes a dessert known as bun gulabjamun. For
good reasons, I decided not to try it out. Carry on, Sardar Man
of many seasons of many moods, iconoclastic
guru,
raconteur,
connoisseur of literature,
author, editor,
a
reservoir of
old poetry, street humour,
a has-been
advisor-teacher
to long-winded,
long-bearded politicians
in Punjab’s
landscape.
A disciplined bohemian,
politically naive, a
maverick
oscillating between Sanjay,
Indira Gandhi, KPS Gill,
and
Advani,
a no-nonsense man
when it comes to an
evening meeting,
an
evening drink.
It is impossible to write
an unadulterated eulogy of
the man
even as he sits savouring the monsoon
in his
hot-pants
waiting for a signal from a woman
to sit on his
lap!
Such, then is my uncle Khushwant,
a much likeable, wanted
man,
on earth, heaven, hell,
wherever his next port of call. |
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Prem Kumar,
son of my Dahi Bhalla friend late Kishen Lall,
founder-proprietor of Hotel Rajdoot, is a very fat man. And like most
fat people, very jovial. He breezed in one evening carrying a bouquet
and as usual sat down on the floor: my antique chairs are too fragile
to bear his weight and not big enough to accommodate his massive
buttocks. He began to sing lines of a well-known qawwaliwalla: 