Fuss over nothing

I HAD a cousin who was one of the handsomest young sardars of his time. He had lots of female admirers. He used to wear a large turban and rode a powerful Japanese motor cycle. He was an excellent photographer and was always on the move in search of good pictures which he sold at high prices to journals in India and abroad. He lived in Bombay.

One early morning he set out for a location where some incident had taken place. He was on a main highway travelling at some speed when a milk van shot out of a side street and hit him. His head was crushed. He died on the spot. The post-mortem revealed that if he had been wearing a helmet, he would not have died. His long hair and turban did not save him from the head-on impact with the milk van. He was not yet 30.

I was pained to see the hoo-haa created by some of my co-religionists against the order of the Haryana Government requiring women to wear helmets when driving scooters or sitting on pillion behind drivers. A mob was shown on TV shouting slogans that wearing helmets was against Sikh religion. A fellow was shown cracking a coconut placed on the head of a girl to prove that Sikh girls’ skulls were tougher than skulls of women of other faiths. How silly some people can be! Must they insist on making laughing stocks of themselves? I challenge any of them: granthis, jathedars, scholars to show me one line in the Sikhs’ scriptures to prove that wearing helmets is against Sikh religion and I will eat six yards of my turban. Sikh pilots in the Indian Air Force wear helmets to protect their heads against injury. Sikh men get a little protection because of their turbans. Sikh women must comply with regulations and wear helmets to protect their heads in the event of accidents. If anyone questions them, let them quote me in their defence.

Poets of Nagpur

Nagpur is known for four things: it is in the heart of India; during summer it can be hot as hell; for one session in the year the Maharashtra Assembly meets here; and it produces India’s best oranges. As Jaipur is known as the Pink City because of the colouring of most of its buildings, Nagpur is known as the Orange City after its favourite fruit. Apparently it has a fifth item to its credit: its fertile soil also produces poets. My late friend, novelist Bhabani Bhattacharye, came from Nagpur. The city has a sizeable population of Bengalis. And where there are Bengalis, there are bound to be poets, painters, song-writers and Rabindra sangeet.

The literate of Nagpur decided to tell the world that there was more to their city than a profusion of santaras and narangis. So two years ago, they launched a magazine Orange City Muses 1997: An Anthology of Poetry. The tone was set by its editor Om Biyani.

Heartland of India, a hot potato
Oranges are famous, they can’t cool it though
This is Orange City.

As in other Indian cities, so in Nagpur. Bapu Gandhi receives a lot of lip worship:

Gandhi statue here and Gandhisagar there
Gandhibag, Gandhi Chowk, Gandhi everywhere
Gandhi’s Sewagram is near at hand
Gandhian blessings bless this land
Our Minister licences his friend’s liquor shop
The drink will be desi and branded Gandhi chhaap

Though Nagpur’s roads "are probably made by baboons, surface pockmarked, imported from the moon," for the winter session of the Maharashtra Legislative Assembly they get a face-lift.

In winter Nagpur blooms with a burst of life
For Maharashtra this city is like a co-wife
In the session season, bulbs grow on poles
The roads are mica-lined, free from potholes
When the white caps and kurtas are gone
The ‘one-month bride’ burns with fever, love-lorn.

The first issue has some very readable and some not very readable contributions on a wide variety of subjects by poets from different parts of India who have settled in Nagpur. The majority of them are academics. Another poet who attracted my attention for her wit is Anuradha Paul, nee Chakravarty. A good example is

The Ass’s lament:

A calf for a cow,
Piglets for a sow,
A cub for a bear,
A leveret for a hare
A gosling for a goose,
A calf for a moose.
A pup for a bitch.
And that’s just the hitch.
Every baby animal,
Has a certain name
But, for an ass,
It’s just not the same.
Kitchens have kitchenettes,
Laundries have laundrettes,
Even spools have cassettes-
Not asses assets.

In the second issue of the magazine, Anuradha Paul admits: The free lancer today writes—and let us not mock it — From inspiration that comes from an empty pocket:

She also explains why she has to indulge in self praise:

If I blow my own trumpet,
It’s something you can’t do, I bet!
At least I blow my own,
I don’t take one on loan.

I don’t know how long this poetry magazine will survive. Most such ventures peter out after a few issues when they run out of patrons. It has no advertisements and no distributor to market it. I hope it overcomes these difficulties and puts Nagpur on the literary map of India.

Catchy stickers

Sticker at the main door of a neighbour: "Home — A place where you can scratch where it itches!

Notice discovered in the menu-card of a small roadside hotel near Khandala: "Customers giving orders will be promptly executed."

(Contributed by Shashank Shekhar, New Mumbai)