Looking through the lens

THERE is nothing more flattering to one’s ego than to see one’s name or photograph in the morning paper and on the T.V. screen. By now I should have had my fill of both. But ego is a bottomless pit; the more you feed it, the more its appetite grows. I have begun to tire of the demands of T.V. channels not because I have seen enough of myself on the small screen but because of the disturbance they cause in my daily routine. The crew usually consist of six to eight people. They are rarely punctual. They take their own sweet time putting up lights, white umbrellas, cameras and shifting the furniture around. When they are ready; the door bell, telephone, A.C and fans have to be switched off. For a five minute shoot I have to waste about one-and-a-half hour. I am cheesed off with T.V.

Now I discover that a simple photograph which takes a fraction of a second to click can take as much time as the recordings. Photographers have their own paraphernalia of different types of cameras, lenses, light meters, white umbrellas etc. They insist that you dress properly, smile, scowl, laugh, look pensive etc while they click away at machine gun speed. I was put through the ordeal by a panel of photographers of India Today. It started at 11 a.m. We broke for lunch: it commenced at 3 p.m. and went on till 5 p.m. Of the hundred of snaps taken only two were used.

However, I have to admit that though I am notoriously unphotogenic,I was made recognisably pleasant. Twenty-eight-year old Bandip Singh, a burly sardar with a bedraggled beard, came armed with a set of highly ornate robes. He had discovered I had no coats or ties, no sherwanis-achkans but only awamisuits. I refused to wear any of his robes. "You want me to look like Daler Mehndi or Vallaya?" I demanded. "Take me as I am — the worst dressed man in India. Or we call it off."He relented. He made me hold a cognac balloon in my hand and raise it as if I was proposing a toast. He knew what his editor wanted: An ageing rogue who loved his liquor. It was Bandip more than I who made the cover page of the journal.

Bandip is the only son of his parents. His father was in the CRP and now lives in retirement in Jalandhar. Bandip went to a dozen different schools depending on his father’s postings. But it was in Central School and D.A.V. College, Jalandhar that he started writing and publishing poetry in The Indian Express and The Tribune. At the Agriculture University, Ludhiana he took to photo journalism. His articles, illustrated by photographs that he had clicked, attracted the attention of Aroon Purie, owner-editor of India Today, the largest circulating magazine of India. So Bandip has made the top grade.

In the Shivaliks

I travel by Delhi-Chandigarh-Delhi Shatabdi Express at least a dozen times a year. I have no complaints against the train service: The compartment is clean, properly air-cooled, seats are comfortable with plenty of leg-room, the food served — breakfast on the way to Chandigarh, lunch and tea on the way back— is wholesome and tasty. Although it starts on the dot, it is hardly ever less than half-an-hour late in arriving at its destination. It speeds through what must be the dreariest part of the country; flat lands of Haryana, Punjab and Chandigarh with only stretches of wheat, rice and sugarcane; past ponds covered with hyacinth, ugly, over-crowded basties surrounded by pools covered with green scum. A point in favour of this train is that one invariably meets a few familiar faces and the atmosphere is very friendly. Of the many familiar faces I see in this train the one I look forward to meeting is M.L. Kashyap, train supervisor. Besides checking tickets, he spends a little time on gup-shup with me. He is an unusual train-conductor. He reads books and occasionally writes articles which are published in the papers. Once when he visited my home in Delhi, I offered to give him books I am unable to accommodate in my small apartment. He invariably helps me take out my baggage from the train to the platform: Any man of my age has to be grateful for such courtesies. Last month I read an item in the newspaper which made me proud of knowing this train supervisor. When locking up the compartment at its destination at Kalka, Kashyap found a plastic bag containing Rs 1 lakh in cash, four air-tickets and a diary. With some difficulty he located the owner on his mobile phone, dining in a restaurant in Parwanoo, a few miles uphill from Kalka. The owner of the bag who had been blissfully unaware of his loss rushed to Kashyap’s home in Kalka to retrieve his property. Out of gratitude, he offered him a reward. Kashyap refused to take anything. Where do you find people like him in India!

* * *

A fortnight ago I was in Parwanoo to attend a meeting of Viking-Penguin at Hotel Timber Trail Heights. I often stop at the hotel on my way down from Kasauli to Chandigarh. Its proprietor Ramesh Garg and his wife Swarn have become friends. Once Garg took me from his hotel on the Kalka-Shimla road to his other hotel Timber Trail Heights, 5000 feet above sea-level, by cable car which spans the valley of the Kaushalya. From this hotel you get a spectacular view of the plains of Haryana and Punjab. I decided to use this hotel in my novel Company of Women for an episode where a newly-married couple spend their honeymoon. They are so enchanted by the scene that they make love with the moonlight streaming through their open window. The next morning the bride goes down with a bad throat, cold and fever. The couple hurry back to Delhi.

Here I was in the location of my novel, in a bridal suite but without a bride. Zameer Ansari who handles the sales department of Viking-Penguin and Ramesh Garg saw me into my suite of rooms and left me to fantasise. In my novel I also describe the end of the monsoon in the Shivalik Hills. As if to confirm I had not gone wrong, by the evening dark clouds covered the sky. As I left the dining room, the rain began to come down in sheets. Though covered by an umbrella, by the time I came to my room, my shirt was soaking wet. All night there were flashes of lightning and thunder of clouds. I felt vindicated.

The bandobast for the conference was flawless. There were almost 50 men and women from England, Sri Lanka and Australia to interact with Indian representatives. Viking-Penguin India had much to crow about: Within the short space of 12 years it had become the premier publishing house in the country. Peter Field from Australia who presided over the conference gave full credit for the achievement to David Davidar, Executive Manager of the Indian company. This man is full of demonic energy and vision: What he does not know about publishing is not worth knowing.

I took my leave while they were still at their deliberations. Down the cable car over the Kaushalya to the hotel below. Then driven by Ramesh Garg’s friends to Kasauli, shrouded in a thick fog with the rain pouring down. No sounds except the rain smacking down on the corrugated tin roof and dogs barking at monkeys who consider my little garden their playground.

The trick worked

Bhootnath, the gate peon of British SDM Dudd in pre-independence days, did not know a word of English, and Dudd knew no word of Hindi. There was always the problem of getting the door opened and closed. Eventually, the head clerk, Chooni Lal, solved the problem. He advised Dudd to hurriedly speak out, "That was a cold day" (Darwaza Khol De) and Bhoot Nath at once opened the door. To get the door closed, Chooni Lal suggested, "O, there was a brown crow" (Darwaza bund karo) and Bhoot Nath at once closed the door. So the trick worked.

(Contributed by S. Chaudhary, Pehowa)

Sardar sense

A sardarji recently inherited 1500 acres of farmland in California. He arrived there without money but was confident he could make the farm an instant success if he had a tractor. He put the following advertisement in the matrimonial column:

"Sardarji, 40, recently arrived from Punjab wishes to marry woman, 30, owning tractor. Please send photo of tractor!"

(Contributed by H. Kishie Singh, Chandigarh.)