Sunday, January 7, 2001		Lead Article

Laughing at ourselves

Punjabis are known the world over for their exquisite sense of humour, and they take pride in the fact. Suddenly, the Punjabis have stopped laughing at themselves and at others. This has introduced the hitherto unknown element in the Punjabi psyche, viz, intolerance, spelling death for genuine and innocent laughter that came so naturally to them once upon a time. Amar Nath Wadehra and Randeep Wadehra recount a few episodes from those merry times.

QUAINT humour in Punjab had to face two onslaughts over a period of time. One was from city slickers who propagated ribaldry by painting the ruralite as an uncouth simpleton. This did an enormous damage to the image of Punjab and its culture.

Despite its present political boundaries, Punjab still is a cultural entity that encompasses a vast region extending from Peshawar in Pakistan to Delhi, touching the boundaries of states like the Uttar Pradesh and Rajasthan. Even the state of Jammu and Kashmir has not remained untouched by this vibrant culture. Simple by nature, the region’s rural folks were generous to a fault. One could enter any field and help himself to sugarcanes, maize-ears, spinach-mustard leaves etc. without provoking even mild reprimand. But it would be wrong to look upon them as some sort of blockheads. Imbued with earthy cleverness, they had a unique ability to look at the funnier side of even mundane happenings.

The second blow came in the form of militancy. Suddenly, the Punjabi stopped laughing at himself and at others. A scowl enwrapped his visage. It introduced the hitherto unknown element in the Punjabi psyche, viz, intolerance. This spelled death for genuine and innocent laughter that came so naturally to us once upon a time. We do crack jokes now, but we are always wary of "not hurting someone’s psyche or sentiments." The anecdotes recounted here are an attempt to hark back to the era of uninhibited frolic sans malice.

Today’s generation will find it hard to believe, but there was a time when buses used to run on coal. Life flowed at a leisurely pace. A ‘steam-bus’ from Samrala would trundle towards Ludhiana at the exhilarating speed of 15mph. Its frequency was uncertain and hours irregular. The bus would wait for as long as three hours to have the required load of passengers. One could see the folks getting down the bus and having their meals while waiting for the conductor to signal the start of the journey. The more impatient ones would simply walk down to their respective destinations -- beating the bus by healthy margins.

One wintry day, after all the seats were occupied, the bus chugged off. The conductor, after a quick headcount, discovered that one of the passengers had not purchased his ticket. When repeated appeals followed by stern warnings did not elicit the requisite response, he began to check the passengers’ tickets from one end of the bus. Painstakingly he reached the other end when he espied a weather-beaten-granite-faced rustic, munching peanuts nonchalantly. Dressed in the traditional khaddar kurta and pajama, and cozily snuggled in a woollen blanket, he seemed lost to the world.

"Baba, toon ticket litta hai (Grandpa, have you bought your ticket?)," the conductor’s shrill query broke his reverie.

"Nah." The elder replied with a why-bother-me-with-trifles tone, and poured a fistful of nuts into his yawning mouth.

"Meri marjee (my wish)!"

"Ticket tann laina paiyega (You will have to buy the ticket)!," the conductor declared firmly.

"Changa (OK)," the old man dipped a huge hand into his kurta’s pocket. Then he rummaged through his pajama. Finally, just when the impatient conductor was about to explode, he came up with a coin. It was as weather -beaten as its owner.

Its value appeared dubious.

"Mere kol taan ehi hai." The sexagenarian expressed his helplessness, with a twinkle in his eye.

That was the last straw. When a Punjabi conductor blows his top, the details are best not enumerated. While the verbal fusillade was still on, he managed to ask the driver to stop the bus. Then he caught hold of the old venerable and pushed him out on the road. As the bus resumed its wheezing trek towards Ludhiana, the old man shouted, "Son, where was the need for all this shoving? My destination had arrived anyway."

Years later, a woman replayed the above incident at the Ludhiana railway station, a bit differently. Let us call her Kailasho. Whenever she had to travel from a village near Jagraon to Ludhiana, she took the bus. Like many others of her times she was unfamiliar with the ways of the railways and studiously avoided journeying by train. But one day, as luck would have it, she had to board the train for Ludhiana. Jagraon was a tiny one-platform station, so she could easily identify the right train. She innocently assumed that tickets would be issued in the dabba (the compartment), as was the case with the bus.

The train was well on its way to Ludhiana when she learnt from her fellow passengers that she was supposed to buy tickets at a window outside the Jagraon platform. The passengers gleefully added to her panic by conjuring up images of hefty fine, or worse, a stint behind bars. It was clear that the city folks were enjoying the village belle’s discomfiture. After the initial horror subsided, Kailasho’s survival instincts came into play. Quietly she hit upon a plan

When the train reached Ludhiana, she made a beeline for the exit gate. When the ticket collector asked her for the ticket, although she was quailing within, Kailasho maintained her external poise. She said sweetly, "Brother, may I place my trunk across the gate? I do not want to block the way."

The unsuspecting babu allowed her to cross the threshold. To liberty. Without breaking step, she kept on walking.

The T.C. shouted, "Sister what about your ticket?"

"What ticket? I’m yet to board a train!"

It was mid 1940s. Vidyasagar was a celebrity of sorts in his village. After all, he was the only lad who had passed the Intermediate exam, and that too in first division. He felt like cat’s whiskers when he was recruited in the Air Force soon after he passed the exams. Those days, to land a government job was the surest way to reach the pinnacle of village folks’ esteem. "Munda naukar ho gaya hai" would be whispered in a mix of pride, awe and envy. And to be a fauji, who would supposedly be flying the "jahaaj", catapulted one to the ranks of romantic heroes.

Every society has its share of mavericks and ego-busters. Vidyasagar’s village too had one such by the name of Chhinda. He was always on the lookout for the feet of clay that could be exposed and thus ridicule the ‘gods’. Villagers would always be a bit extra cautious with their words and deeds whenever Chhinda was around. He had zeroed in on Vidyasagar now. Not out of malice, but just because the rest of the village was eulogising him, so he felt it his bounden duty to correct the imbalance. He had the added incentive of getting even with Vidya who had excelled him in studies. Chhinda had dropped out of school after class three.

The relentless ribbing had started getting on to Vidyasagar’s nerves. He was saved from further ordeal by the timely call for training to the distant Bangalore. Bangalore’s scenic beauty and serenity bewitched Vidyasagar. The tough training schedule and his performance did wonders to his self -esteem. After the initial period of training, he was allowed a short leave to visit home.

A transformed Vidyasagar landed at the Samrala bus stand. Crew-cut hair, smartly tailored dress, shining black shoes and a bulging military kit bag full of exotic goodies from the distant Bangalore. With a spring in his gait and a song on his lips our hero took off to his village through the lush green fields, when a familiar greeting stopped him in his tracks.

"Oye yaraa! Aa gaya ain chhutti?" only Chhinda could talk to our "suited booted sahib" with such familiarity.

Vidyasagar threw his bag on the ground and fervently embraced his childhood friend. They talked and laughed like two long lost brothers. Chhinda picked up the kit bag and both of them began to walk towards the village.

Engrossed in small talk, light banter and reminiscing they were walking arms in arms, with Chhinda addressing him as " Oye faujiya" and "Yaraa" making our man wince. He did expect a bit of deference to his better social standing from this school dropout even if he was a friend!

Suddenly they were face to face with Vidyasagar’s cousin Taranath - a stoutly built uneducated, uncouth and quick-tempered fellow - notorious for his rough and ready methods in resolving all arguments. The ‘daang’ (seasoned bamboo stick) was his constant companion, and took pride at being a "daang-bahadur". Hidden virtues of tact and silence manifested themselves when Tara was in belligerent mode. Vidyasagar would have happily avoided crossing this family black sheep’s path. But this was not to be

He and Chhinda stopped to greet Taranath.

"Panditji, kee haal aie?"Chhinda was at his socialising best.

"Haan bir." Vidyasagar was brief but polite.

After exchanging pleasantries and small talk Taranath took leave as he had to settle a pressing problem in the neighbouring village.

No sooner was he out of the earshot than Vidyasagar turned on his companion.

"Chhindya, this is ridiculous!"

"What is?"

"I’m the most educated man in the village and have a decent job too, yet you take all sorts of liberties with me, while you address my good for nothing cousin as ‘Panditji’! Ridiculous!!"

Chhinda’s eyes twinkled with amusement and mischief.

He chuckled and replied, "Faujiya! We are friends, so I take liberties - as you call them. Moreover Tara’s daang is far more potent than any book you might have come across. What harm can your Intermediate certificate do to me? One blow of his daang can fuse all distinctions between the wrong and the right. Don’t fret my friend, the day your pen begins to wield more power than his stick you will be called Panditji with reverence by one and all."

(Top pic: Jaspal Bhatti with a co-star)