THIS ABOVE ALL
Summers of bygone days
Khushwant Singh

People who are grumbling about temperatures soaring above 45 degrees should know that summers of bygone years were much more trying than they are nowadays. I recall days of my childhood when we spent our summer vacations either with my chacha in Mian Channun or with my nana in Jaranwala (both towns now in Pakistan). We had no air coolers, air conditioners, ceiling fans and yet managed to survive in good health. Summers were more scorching with hot winds (loo)than they are now and brought with them pests unknown to the present generations.

Among the most feared were massive armies of locusts (tiddee dal). They came like thick black clouds, blotting the sun, ate up all vegetation and stripped trees of their leaves. While we took shelter behind closed doors, our Muslim brethren were out on their roof tops and roads armed with large sheets to trap as many as they could. They then winged them and made pakoras which they consumed with as much relish as their Biblical forefathers did: locusts dipped in wild honey. I haven’t seen a locust around for ages.

Following locust invasion, came dust storms, the like of which we see no more. They came with a blind fury, uprooting trees and filling people’s eyes, nostrils and ears with dust. Now dust simply hangs in the air doing nothing besides making life unpleasant. Most of us wore turbans which covered the napes of our necks, casualties from sunstroke were noticeably lower among sardars.

We spent hot afternoons indoors, used khas khas shades on which bhishties periodically sprinkled water from their mashaks, while young mundoos sat outside pulling ropes which moved canvas pankhas under which we slept. Our nights were spent on rooftops with or without mosquito nets. We could make out the time by looking at the Great Bear (Saptarishis)and were familiar with the phases of the moon from the new moon to the full moon. Now we city dwellers rarely, if ever, get to seeing stars or the moon. We woke early to be baad-e-naseem (gentle morning breeze).

The monsoon also kept its date and came with greater gusto than it does these days. We celebrated its advent by running out in the open to be drenched, shouting ho, ho, ho, ho. With the rain came a myriad of moths, colourful beetles and fireflies. Frogs croaked throughout the nights. Gone are the moths, beetles, frogs and fireflies.

The big difference between the summers of the days gone by and the summers of today is people’s attitude in the past and the present. In olden times, we took them in our stride: in the present, we grumble about heat, dust, electricity going off and taps running dry.

While trying to translate selections of Urdu poetry, which I am doing in collaboration with Kamana Prasad, I thought I should include Allama Iqbal’s Taraana-e-Hind, which at one time was regarded by many as our National Anthem. I did not have Iqbal’s Kullivat with me in Kasauli and could not recall all the lines. I consulted everyone who dropped in on me: Arjun Singh and R.K. Taneja from Chandigarh, Dr N. Magon and his wife Sheena, Ashvini Kumar, retired IG Punjab Police. No one remembered all the lines. Ultimately it was my secretary, Jatoi (Multan)-born Lachhman Dass who gave me the complete version. This is how it goes:

(Of all the countries of the world, the best is Hindustan of ours

We are its song birds, we sing in its bowers.

If we happen to be abroad, our hearts remain in our homeland

We too live where lives this heart of ours.

The mountain highest of the high, neighbour of the sky.

It is our sentinel, it is also our protector.

In its lap thousands of streams play with glee

By its breath our garden blooms and makes us the world’s envy.

O Ye fast running waters of the Ganga, remember you the day

When our caravan stopped by your banks and forever came to stay?

Religion does not each us to hate teach other, you must understand

All of us belong to Hind, Hindustan is our Motherland.

While glories of Greece, Egypt and Rome have faded into the background

Our name and deeds in the world’s corridors still resound

There is something that has given us immortality

For centuries we have survived the world’s hostility

Iqbal, to look for sympathisers will be in vain

Nobody will gauge our sorrow, no one knows our hearts pain.)

I am not happy with my translation and will be grateful to readers for suggestions on how to improve it.

Banta went to purchase an umbrella. He selected an umbrella and asked the shopkeeper: "will it last two or three years?"

Shopkeeper: "Yes, provided you save it from sunshine and rain."

(Contributed by J.P. Singh Kaka, Bhopal)