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The War of the Words. And the Letters

Of course we used abbreviations and cryptic phrases. After all, who amongst us would want to be on the wrong end of a leather belt for using the term BC or MC in its full form? Oh, well, maybe not a leather belt – I am so so given to exaggeration  – but certainly we would have been told by the mater to rinse our mouths with soap. Once you have tasted soap, you certainly do not want to taste it again and again. 

When we grew up and had small children of our own, we went to the other extreme and instead of using cryptic letters, we started spelling out key words. Words like I-C-E-C-R-E-A-M and C-H-I-P-S and M-A-R-K-E-T and G-O-I-N-G-O-U-T.  I really do not know how effective it was, because soon our three-year old brat was demanding tee oh ef ef ee ee instead of a toffee. By the age of five, she was winning all the spelling contests in school and soon my wife and I started wondering whether we had been able to fool her when we said B-E-D-R-O-O-M.

Now because of the brats of this brat of ours, my wife and I are having to relearn  the use of letters and words. Naturally the brats do not have time to talk, but they can spend prodigious amounts of time typing on their small telephone screens with two thumbs. But I am all thumbs, and I reply to their text messages by painstakingly typing out replies with my index finger, using my special technique, which I call ‘seek-and-kill’ typing.  

This business of texting gives rise to new problems. Even for a simple ‘How r u?’ from my granddaughter, I need an interpreter. When I deciphered the greeting (with some help), I responded in the only way I know how. I wrote. “ By the grace of God, I am well and do not have much to complain about.” The reply I got made no sense at all. After all, ROFL spells no word that I know of. When my kind interpreter expanded the ROFL to mean ‘Rolling On The Floor, Laughing’, I was more perplexed.  What was there to laugh about? And I asked my granddaughter as much. The reply “OMG” also did not enlighten me. 

BION, in my youth, we tended to use full words. You know, full; as in full? ‘Full’ meaning the full form of the word and with its correct spelling. We did use some abbreviations that had obscure origins in Latin or Greek and often had a period as an inseparable component.  Words such as viz. etc.  ai. et al.  And some even had two periods viz. a.m.,  p.m., i.e. and e.g. There were just a handful of pop culture abbreviations. We thought that it was a cool thing to use the response ‘OK’ for a host of situations. We did not know whether OK was a shortened  form of ‘All Correct’, but our teachers never allowed us to use the term in our written submissions. Except for that young lady who taught us for just one term and graciously okayed the use of OK, provided it was spelt ‘okay’. I suspect she was considered a bit of a heretic for this reason and was unceremoniously relieved of her teaching duties lest she corrupted young impressionable minds like ours.

FYI, for us LOL was always ‘Lots of Love’. We never texted CYE because there was no e-mail. If we wanted to express gratitude, we said “I thank you.” It was acceptable to shorten it to “Thank you!” The still shorter “Thanks” was a standoffish acknowledgement, when you wanted the other person to understand that while indeed he had done something nice for you, it was not such a big deal as to merit the full “Thank you”.

From such elysian heights, I have descended to murky depths where I now accept a “Tks” or even a “Tku”. I accept “U r Osum” as a compliment.  I understand that “TTYL” means that my granddaughter will talk to me later. Sometimes I find it difficult to accept a mere ‘K’ as a substitute for OK, which in any case should have been written as ‘okay’ and which may or may not stand for Oll Korrect. I have compromised on spellings of words that do not contain vowels and even zany spellings such as gr8, which combine letters of the alphabet with digits, against the natural order of things as envisaged in the Bk of Gn6.  I have compromised on conventional use of verbs, of sentences that have no complement and, wondrously, sometimes not even a subject! But I am yet to get used to that most cardinal of sins, of use of the transitive verbs without an object!  DGMW but I do not enjoy and cannot approve.

I have also compromised on the use of punctuation marks. Oh, in our time we had them all. Not a single new punctuation mark has been invented since Wren and Martin romped around without diapers. But the manner in which the punctuation marks have come to be used (or not used) is a whole new can of worms. The asterisks and exclamation marks were never so overworked in our time. Many value-neutral punctuation marks have become emotion-loaded guns. And the innocent full stop that was used to indicate the end of a sentence or thought, is often ignored altogether. A text message with no period at the end keeps me in suspense. I am certain there is more to come. But sometimes nothing 

The emojis added an altogether complex dimension to misunderstanding text messages. What appears to me to be a sad man crying is a person laughing so hard that he is in tears. The person trying to hold up the sky is saying “Whatevs” according to my granddaughter.  Are the two hands seemingly folded in ‘namastey’ actually giving a high five? Confusing, no? So why use symbols and drawings that make the task of communication that much tougher? 

TBF, besides TMI, there is just too much emotion conveyed by the new-fangled texting methods. Even mere acquaintances send messages with XOXO at the end, which BTW means ‘hugs and kisses’. These days, strangers blow kisses and float hearts and display cupids ever so casually. When we wrote letters, the most demonstrative phrase a man would ever put down on paper was ‘Yours affectionately’. A girl on the other hand could be excused if she ended her letter “With love”. In our letters of old, there would never ever be an X, let alone an XOXO. To a man, X meant an adult movie and, to the more discerning, XO meant a finer class of cognac. A girl rarely, but never casually, appended an X to a dear one. Even a bold girl would never put her lips to paper, leaving an ever so faint impression of a kiss, unless she wanted to convey a commitment.  And it would be a stupid boy indeed who would ask her for confirmation, IYKWIM. 

IMHO, by writing less we sometimes say things we never intended and sometimes we fail in saying what we want to, notwithstanding the whole lot of smileys and frownies at our command. Maybe the great gentlemen, Messrs.  Nesfield, Wren and Martin, could still teach us a thing or two about spelling, grammar and writing.     

 

 

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Break Their Heads!

Education is a dreadful thing. It corrupts the minds of the innocent and destroys mental peace. It turns obedient docile citizenry into suspicious anti-social beings. And it incites rebellion in the most timid of souls.  Do not ask me how I know this or why I am so certain. Because if you did, I would need to tell you about Parthasarthy, who plies his taxi in the National Capital Region aka NCR area.

Parthasarthy is a graduate from some college in eastern Uttar Pradesh or western Bihar. For the past seven years, he has been preparing for and appearing at the Civil Services examination conducted by the Union Public Service Commission. By virtue of some rule, sub-rule, loophole or whatever, he is allowed to write the entrance examination many times over. In any event, back home, his folks find it more classy to say that he is preparing to be a Collector Sahib, rather than admit that he is a taxi driver. Parthasarthy himself has little hope of ever getting selected to the civil services but, year after year, he goes through the ritual of appearing in the examination. If he did not, he would have to go back to his village and assist his father till their small plot of land.

Parthasarthy says he might be able to survive the filth and squalor of his village home but he simply cannot imagine living without cable television and wi-fi! He feels it is better to sit behind the wheel in an air-conditioned Wagon R than to work in the sun like an ordinary farmer. Moreover he is a graduate, and no one can expect a graduate to work with his hands! 

Ever since that ordinary farmer named Rakesh Tikait decided to block the roads to the national capital, I summon Parthasarthy when I need to travel to Delhi from my home in the down-market eastern suburbs. At my age, I simply do not have the energy or the patience to suffer the aggravation of driving my own Maruti 800 to Delhi along the assault course that the road has become. Instead of driving along a smooth multi-lane highway, one has to take a narrow potholed diversion of about four kilometers. The route can take up to an hour to negotiate and is hardly a scenic ride, runs as it does beside the fish market, perennially smelling of some putrid hell, and that stinking mountain of rubbish which is mistakenly called the Ghazipur landfill.   

 The road remains choked with trucks, buses, motorcycles, hand drawn carts, bicycles, earthmovers, bullock-carts and tractors with unwieldy trailers. The heavy traffic, coupled with our driving habits, results in everlasting chaos, frayed tempers, long blockades and even fisticuffs. The people riding scooters, or sitting in the buses or pulling the carts pass the time of day exchanging the choicest of abuses in the loudest of voices.  

All this is unavoidable because the kisans have been protesting for the past several months, blocking the road to Delhi. The kisans might be just a handful, but how else will ignorant people like me know that the farmers are not in agreement with the laws of the land? Unthinkable though it might be, the Union Government was so arrogant as to not take permission from Rakesh Tikait before enacting the laws!

Educated people like Parthasarthy fail to understand this. His ignorance is evident because he keeps cursing the kisan leaders and the government in equal measure when we get stuck in the traffic or when we hit a pothole of more than average size. With this level of ignorance, Parthasarthy is unlikely to ever get selected for the civil services.

The other day he feigned innocence and asked, “How long will this tamasha last, Sir?” As if I know. The farmers are squatting comfortably. They have even installed air-conditioners in their temporary shacks. Free water, electricity and sanitation services are being provided to them so that they can exercise their democratic right to protest. None of the ministers or farmers needs to take the bumpy stinky road via the Ghazipur landfill. So why should the farmers abandon their vigil? And why should the ministers bother about them?

But Parthasarthy is the argumentative Indian, if there ever was one.  He said, “Sir, I read somewhere that this road is used by the equivalent of one lakh and twenty cars every day. If I take half the figure for traffic from one side, it translates to two lakh forty thousand kilometers of extra journey. If a car runs twenty kilometers on one litre of petrol, the unnecessary burning of petrol aggregates to twelve thousand litres of petrol. So the cost of petrol wasted is about twelve lakh rupees per day. Most of the time, the traffic moves at snail’s pace so the actual fuel burnt must be at least double. Sir, let us take a round figure of twenty-five lakh rupees. Every day. The farmers have been squatting on the road for about two hundred and fifty days. The direct monetary cost is therefore more than sixty crores since early December last year. Sir please add the wear and tear on vehicles because of this potholed road. Add the time lost. A few patients would have died because of delays on this road.”

“Pish posh!” said I. “What is sixty crores and a few lives lost? The right to protest is priceless.”

To prove my point, I leaned out of Parthasarthy’s taxi and shouted to a man pushing a hand-cart laden with iron rods. “My good man,” I said, “Do you mind pushing your cart four extra kilometers in this heat because the farmers have blocked the way?”

“Not at all Sir,” he said. “If the kisan leaders and the leaders of this country think this is the way the country should be run, who am I to object?”

“See?” said I. I refrained from adding that it is the poison called education that is the culprit. The illiterate guy pushing his cart was not unhappy. The truck drivers sitting resignedly since last night for the traffic to move were not unhappy. The urchins weaving in and out of the stalled traffic asking for money were not unhappy. Only Parthasarthy had problems. Because he was educated.

“But Sir,” persisted Parthasarthy, “Even the Supreme Court has said that protesters can’t block roads in this manner. Why can’t the police chase these guys away?”

I again explained patiently that we are a democracy and our Constitution has enshrined within it our Fundamental Right to block roads.

“No Sir! This is wrong. These guys can’t block the road in this manner. I take this road at least five times a week and I am absolutely fed up. I don’t care a hoot as to who is right and who is wrong. All that I know is that I am the joker who is being squeezed from all sides.” 

“My good man, whatever gave you the impression that you matter?”

“But Sir, I pay my taxes. The Delhi Municipal Corporation levies an entry fee each time I take my taxi into Delhi. Yet this road which now takes all the traffic has not been kept in repair! The farmers don’t even pay taxes! And their agitation site has been provided free water and electricity. It is so unfair!” he wailed.

“At the risk of repeating myself I ask you, Parthasarthy – why do you think you matter? Why do you think life will give you a fair deal? Your fate is to keep paying taxes. It is not your job to question the actions or inactions of the government.”

“I disagree, Sir,” he said disagreeably. “I think the farmers have no bloody business blocking roads. The police should disperse them, and if they won’t disperse peacefully, force must be used. If they resist, their heads need to be broken!”

“Oh my God, Parthasarthy!” I said. “Heaven forbid that you get selected to any civil service or the police. With your weird notions about breaking the heads of law breakers, you will definitely jeopardize and destabilize elected governments!”

Just then, the taxi hit a huge pothole and, inadvertently, I bit my tongue.                   

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Casting a Spell

In the early 1970s, a dacoity was – and may be still is – the most dreaded of crimes in rural Bihar. The number of dacoities that took place in their jurisdictions was often used as the primary yardstick to judge the performance of thana officers, and sometimes even of District Superintendents of Police. It was no wonder that crime prevention and investigation was almost wholly centred on controlling the number of dacoities. This was more applicable to rural areas like Madhepura, where I was posted as the sub-divisional police officer.

The SHOs – the Station House Officers – resorted to various stratagems to avoid registering a case of dacoity; which is defined by the Indian Penal Code as theft by use or threat of use of force by five or more persons acting in concert. The commonest ploy was to register a case of robbery by four, and not five, persons. The more creative of SHOs used sections of law relating to theft, unlawful assembly, rioting, rioting armed with deadly weapons, causing hurt, causing hurt by dangerous weapons, causing grievous hurt, criminal trespass, trespass by night, mischief and acting with common intent.  They would go to any length to avoid using Section 395 of the India Penal Code, the specific section that relates to dacoity.  

 A number of superstitions also grew up around the obsession with dacoity – the commonest of which was that in the police station the First Information Report register and the Station Diary should not be allowed to come in contact with each other; else a dacoity would certainly take place. Policemen were superstitious about even uttering the word ‘dacoity’, choosing instead to refer to it simply as ‘D’. It was not unusual to be woken up at night by the sentry on duty, calling from the veranda outside the bedroom to say, “Huzoor, ‘D’ ho gayee!”

In much this manner, I was woken up quite early one winter morning by a constable who called out from outside my bedroom. “Huzoor, Singheshwar thana!”  

The constable did not even dare say ‘D’! He must have thought that by merely naming the police station, I would understand that a dacoity had taken place in that thana area. Why else would he wake me up at seven?  

It was almost ten by the time I along with the Circle Inspector of Madhepura, Rajeshwar Singh, reached the small village where the dacoity had taken place. The officer in-charge of Singheshwar Police Station had reached earlier and completed the initial formalities of recording statements, preparing lists of stolen property and issuing what were then quaintly called ‘hue and cry notices’.

I now do not recall the name of the village, but that is immaterial. Over the years, it is likely that things have changed. It is equally likely that they have not. But again that is immaterial. What is relevant is that all those years back, one village looked like every other and one dacoity crime scene looked like any other. Most villages were clusters of miserable huts, their mud walls barely keeping the inhabitants safe from the prying winds and prying eyes. The thatched roofs were in all shades from golden yellow to murky brown, depending on how long the straw had been in the sun. The thatch on some houses would even be black – black with dust and soot and exposure to the elements. In the middle of this squalor in many villages would be a house less pitiable, the comparative affluence of the owner being exhibited by the brick walls of the house and a roof made of tin sheets. Some villages had two or three such houses, with the richest owners going to the extent of getting constructed low walls of mud or bricks to enclose space in front of their houses to proclaim their exalted status.

It would almost always be one of these rich villagers in whose house the dacoity would be committed. The dacoits would snatch jewelry worn by womenfolk and break open the two or three steel boxes in the house. It was not unusual for the dacoits to decamp even with kitchen utensils and clothes, leaving the victims with nothing more than the clothes on their backs.

The dacoits almost always smashed open the ‘kothis’ – granaries the size of a water cooler made of mud and straw in which the affluent householders stored paddy and wheat for the whole year.   The ‘kothis’ were broken in search of those small bundles of cloth which the women of the house hid their jewelry in, sometimes without even the knowledge of their husbands.

The house of Dr. Jagat Lal Das in that obscure village looked no different. It was the only pucca house for miles around and it had been thoroughly ransacked. The dacoits had smashed open the ‘kothis’ and the floors of the two rooms of the house were littered with a thick layer of paddy. The stomping by an unending procession of gawking villagers, who trooped through the house quite uninvited, had rendered the grain unfit for consumption.  Three steel boxes had been dragged to the courtyard and broken open. It seemed that all clothes, bed sheets, blankets and kitchen utensils had been taken away by the criminals.

Dr. Jagat Lal Das and his wife sat on the floor in the courtyard, seemingly in shock.  Their daughter sat nearby, angry with the whole world. The sobbing daughter-in-law cowered in a corner of the courtyard, with clotted blood on her ears from which her earrings had been forcefully snatched. Dr. Das wore a pajama and a vest, and the three women shivered in their thin saris, which they pulled tight around themselves and tried to draw over their faces. The family had been asleep and the women wore no upper garment, as was the custom in rural areas. Since the dacoits had taken away even the blankets and sheets, there were no clothes with which the women could have covered their selves.

To me, the family seemed frozen in a tragic tableau. Without really being aware, I noticed that Dr. Das’ teeth were stained red with paan and that his vest was clean but torn; that his wife’s cheeks were streaked with tears and that the daughter-in-law was a buxom woman in her mid-twenties. But it was the daughter’s looks that arrested my eyes. She was about twenty and exquisitely beautiful.  She had well formed features and long black hair. There was a fire in her eyes and a mocking challenge in her demeanour.  Her fiery spirit was also proved by the fact that she had attacked the dacoits and grappled with one of them. Riled by her spirit, the dacoits had given her a severe beating. Later when I saw her exposed back, I involuntarily let out a gasp on seeing the angry red and blue welts on her milky white skin.    

I had seen many similar houses ransacked by dacoits, where the criminals took away everything that they could carry. Yet, the sorry look on the faces of Dr. Das and his family melted my heart. I had never seen such abject misery, underlined by the efforts of the women to hide their nakedness from the villagers, the policemen and, in the case of the daughter-in-law, from her father-in-law as well.

During supervision of the investigation, I learnt that Dr. Das was a licentiate medical practitioner, who attended to the medical needs of all villagers within ten miles. Even then, his modest consultation fee of five rupees was too steep for many and Dr. Das perforce did a lot of charitable work. His son was a jawan in the army and posted somewhere far away. The son regularly sent money home – enough to make the Das family one of the wealthiest in that poor area.

I was quite accustomed to seeing poverty in that area, as also the pitiable condition of victims after traumatic events.  Yet, the dacoity in the Das house greatly incensed me. I was angry because a doctor was the victim. I was angry because their son was away from home, protecting the country. I was also angry because the dacoits had beaten up women. And I was angry because the crime had been committed against a scheduled caste person, the surname ‘Das’ being common amongst the lower castes. 

I spent a long time with the family, repeatedly asking them for accurate descriptions of the miscreants and more details of the property that could help in recovering the stolen items. I left after giving instructions to the officer in charge of Singheshwar, and directing him to keep reporting progress to me.

About  ten days later, I had to visit the scene of another crime and, while returning, I made a short detour to meet Dr Das. His soldier son had taken leave to come home. I reassured them both that we were making all efforts to solve the case. I had hoped to see the pretty daughter too, but she did not come out.

It happens quite often that in spite of every effort, a crime remains unsolved. And so was it with the Jagat Lal Das dacoity case.  Even as I made certain that no effort was spared, the investigation made no headway. A couple of months later, I had to reluctantly admit that while the case remained open, the investigation was as good as over.

Some weeks later, I again visited Dr Das, along with Inspector Rajeshwar Singh and the investigating officer. There was really no reason to visit the crime scene yet again, but I justified the trip to myself as part of the effort to do everything possible to solve the crime in which the victim was a scheduled caste family. The beautiful daughter came out of the house briefly to serve us tea. Yes, she was as beautiful as I remembered her to be.

Days passed. In the routine of office work, law and order issues and supervision of crime, I all but forgot about the dacoity in the Das home.

One day, Inspector Rajeshwar Singh put up a wireless signal for my approval, which related to providing information for answering a question in the State Legislative Assembly. In reply to a question about the number of crimes against scheduled caste persons, Rajeshwar Singh wanted to me to approve a reply stating that no such crimes had been reported.

“How can you send a ‘nil’ statement, Rajeshwar Babu?” I asked. “What about the dacoity in Singheshwar police station?”

The Inspector looked nonplussed.

“The dacoity in Dr Das’ house,” said I to remind him.

“But, Sir that wasn’t a crime against any member of the scheduled castes! Dr Laldas belongs to the upper castes.”

“But isn’t ‘Das’ a surname used by scheduled castes?” I asked.

“Sir, he is not a scheduled caste person at all. His name is Jagat Laldas. The surname is Laldas, not Das. Laldas is an upper caste name. He is a Lala, Sir.”

“Then my good man, why on earth didn’t you tell me earlier? I visited the place of occurrence thrice! Had I known Dr. Das was an upper caste person, I wouldn’t have gone out of my way to such an extent. You could have seen that I was putting in so much greater effort.  You really are quite stupid!”

Rajeshwar Singh’s answer left me quite dumbfounded. He said in a low voice, “Sir I knew you were putting in extra effort and I know you kept prodding the investigating officer to solve the case and recover the stolen property. I thought, Sir, that you were doing this because Dr Laldas is a Kayastha – the same caste as yours.”

“You know that I couldn’t care less about belonging to the same caste!” I blurted out. All of a sudden I was intensely irritated with the Inspector for letting me labour under the impression that Dr. Das belonged to the Scheduled Castes.

I was about to angrily give Rajeshwar Singh a piece of my mind when he added softly, “And Sir, pardon me, but I thought you were going the extra mile because of being interested in the beautiful daughter of Dr. Laldas!”

I somehow managed to keep my outburst in check. I kept very quiet. For a long time. Indeed, I might have even blushed.  Ultimately, all that I said brusquely was “Okay, Rajeshwar Babu, send the nil report!”

        

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We Wish You a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year

As any year draws to a close, some despondency is inevitable. One looks back at the sands of time that one has let slip through gaps in tight-clenched fists. Achievements of the year seem insignificant when measured against disappointments and unrealised dreams. The opportunities lost during the year, as also in the past, come to mock one, especially in that grey zone between being wide awake and fast asleep.

For us, my wife and I, the year 2020 had an exciting start; with the bursting of crackers and bright fireworks shooting high into the sky, their reflection shimmering in a placid sea. It was an exotic setting that a stay-at-home couple like us would have found difficult to imagine – on a remote island off the coast of Cambodia. The end of this year would also have been difficult for us to imagine – an end so dull that even a couple like us will consider it boring. Just the two of us cloistered at home, with not even the next door neighbour to share a drink with.    

I am sure I am not the only one who can’t wait for this bizarre year to end. So today, with a week or more yet to go, I bid farewell to 2020! Good riddance to a year which made us realise we all have unsuspected vulnerabilities. A year in which we also discovered we had unexpected strengths. We realised that there is so much we can live without. And so much that we cannot live without.

No one is perfect, and before this year came around, all of us in our own ways had got accustomed to our frailties. Thus I was quite reconciled to the fact that I have diabetes and you were happy that you have only hypertension and she considered herself blessed that her asthma was mild.  But this year rudely termed our very human failings as ‘co-morbidities’, making us think that the traitors were our very own bodies! Unlike ever in the past, this year to stay healthy became an obsession, a pursuit and an end in itself for us.

I seem to have lost more friends this year than in any other. But it has always been thus. Each year is one more year added to all our lives and our ages. The Wuhan virus has managed to claim a few from among those we knew. Thus even as the tally might not be more, it certainly seems more unfair.

So, I cannot wait for this year to end. And I hope the coming year is different for you and for us. I wish everyone a year that should be unlike 2020!

I end with “Hanukkah Sameach!” to my Jew friends. “Happy Holidays!” to my oh-so-politically correct friends. “Joyous Erastide” and “Happy  Decemberween” to my friends with a literary bent of mind.  “Good Governance Day” greetings to all my sarkari and sanskari friends. “Heri za Kwanzaa!” to all my Afro-American friends and a Merry Christmas to all!

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सर का सफर

स्कूल में यार दोस्त हमेशा तू तड़ाक कर के बात करते थे। कॉलेज में भी कुछ ऐसा ही चलता रहा। मेरा नाम संबोधन कारक में “अबे!” और “ओए!” के अलावा कभी कुछ नहीं रहा। अगर किसी को बहुत ही प्यार आ रहा होता तो वह अपने राम को घोंचू कह कर बुलाता था।

लेकिन कॉलेज ख़त्म होने के साथ ही नौकरी लग गई। यकायक सब मुझे साहब और ‘सर’ कहने लगे। कई एक जूनियर तो मेरे से उम्र में काफी बड़े थे। वह भी मेरे को ‘सर’ ‘सर’ करते थे। ज़िन्दगी भर तो मैंने सिर्फ अपने अध्यापकों को ‘सर’ बोला था। अपने आप को ‘सर’ के रूप में देखने में बड़ा अटपटा लगा। कभी कभार सड़क चलते कोई “नमस्ते ‘सर’ ” कहता तो में पीछे मुड़ के देखता कि कौन से प्रोफेसर साहब आ रहे हैं।

थोड़ी शर्म तो ज़रूर आती है खुद कहने में लेकिन अपनी जवानी में मैं भी दिखने में बुरा नहीं था। तेईस चौबीस साल की उम्र में इकहरा बदन होने के नाते, मेरी उम्र के बारे में अच्छे अच्छों को गलतफहमी हो जाती थी। कोई सत्रह का समझता, तो कोई अठारह का।

इतनी ही उम्र में मैंने एक सब डिविजन में कार्यभार संभाला था । एक दिन दोपहर में मुफ्ती में अपने दफ्तर में बैठा था। एक नेताजी टाइप ने मेरे कमरे में प्रवेश किया और मेरे पर बरस पड़ा। ” शर्म नहीं आती? अपने पिताजी की कुर्सी में बैठा है? जल्दी से बुला साहब को, मेरे पास ज़्यादा टाइम नहीं है।”

कई बार बताया कि मैं ही साहब हूं, पर वह मानने को तय्यार ही नहीं था। “नाहक में क्यों परेशान करता है बउआ! बुला दे ना अपने पिताजी को।”

एक बार तो मुझे खुद गलतफहमी हो गई। एक दिन जब में घर के सामने छोटे से बागीचे में अख़बार पढ़ रहा था, एक महाशय मेरे घर सवेरे सवेरे पहुंचे । उन्होंने गेट से ही पूंछा ” वर्मा साहिब हैं क्या?”

मुझे खुद ‘साहब’ बने कुछ एक महिने ही हुए थे और ज़िन्दगी भर “वर्मा साहिब” संबोधन सिर्फ अपने पिताजी के लिए सुना था। बिना कुछ सोचे, कह दिया, ” नहीं वर्मा साहिब तो नहीं है। मैं उनका लड़का हूं, बताएं क्या काम है?”

बाद में उन महोदय को ये बात समझाने में काफी वक्त लगा कि वास्तव में जिन वर्मा साहब को वह खोज रहे थे वह मैं ही था।

तो इस तरह कॉलेज से निकलते ही मैं साहब और सर बन गया। वह जो अफसरशाही वाले साहब और सर के सरोवर में डुबकी लगाई, उससे निकलने में चालीस साल लग गए।

इन चालीस सालों में वह इकहरा बदन कब दोगुना या तीनगुना हो गया, मालूम ही नहीं पड़ा। बदन बदल गया सो बदल गया, ये भी पता नहीं चला कि बालों की सियाही और पांच छः दांत कहां गायब हो गए। दिखाने को रह गए ये झूके हुए कंधे और बेल्ट की कैद से भागती सी ये तोंद।

रिटायर होने के बाद, मैं और मेरी बीवी एक ‘सोसायटी’ में रहने लगे हैं। यकायक जैसे में साहब और सर बना था, उतनी ही फुर्ती से मैं अंकल और बाबाजी बन गया हूं। छोटे बड़े, आस पास के घरों के लोग सब मेरे को अंकल बुलाते हैं। और मेरी बीवी को आंटी। कभी कभार, एक पुराने खिज़ाब के एडवरटाइजमेंट की तरह, मेरे को अंकल और बीवी को दीदी कह कर मेरे सफेद बालों का मज़ाक उड़ाते हैं।

कोने के घर में एक अधेड़ उम्र के रिटायर्ड बाबू है जो लगभग मेरी उम्र के ही होंगे। वह तो मेरे को हमेशा अंकल बुलाते हैं, और मेरी पत्नी को दीदी। अपने छोटे पोते से कहते हैं “दादाजी के पांव छुओ। दीदी को नमस्ते बोलो।”

तबीयत कोफ्त तो होती है, लेकिन क्या करूं? यह तो कह नहीं सकता कि इन को दीदी नहीं, दादी पुकारो।

कभी कभी सोचता हूं वह दिन मैंने क्यों नहीं देखे जब कोई मेरे को भी भाई साहब, या बन्धु या कॉमरेड बुलाता। कोई तो होता जो कहता ” यार”, या “जाने भी दो यार।” मैंने तो अपने लिए वो प्यार भरे शब्द – दाज़ू, दादा, मोटा भाई या अन्ना – कभी नहीं सुने। मैं तो किसी से ‘चचा’ सुनने को भी तरस गया, क्योंकि यार दोस्त ही चचा बुला सकते हैं, और यार दोस्त कॉलेज छोड़ने के बाद कभी हुए नहीं।

कभी कभी मन करता है दफ्तर का ही एक चक्कर मारा जाए। लोग ‘ सर’ बोलें या साहब, इस अंकल और बाबाजी की उपाधि से तो कुछ समय के लिए छुटकारा मिल जाएगा। फिर यही सोच कर नहीं जाता की बाहर खड़े संतरी ने “ए बुड्ढ़े” कह कर रोक दिया तो मैं कहां मुंह छिपाऊंगा ?

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Lest We Forget

In late 1975, I had the honour of being a member of a party of policemen that visited Hot Springs in Ladakh. On a cold wind-swept hillside, in front of a simple memorial, we stood in silence to pay homage to all policemen who had laid down their lives for the country and the people they serve. Our group included Sonam Wangyal (aka ‘Hero Sahib’), who recalled the events at Hot Springs in 1959.

On October 21, 1959 a patrol party of the CRP and the Indo-Tibetan Border Force (IB) was ambushed near that spot. Ten police personnel were killed and ten others taken prisoner. Hero Sahib was present when the ambush took place.

The Chinese released the prisoners a week later, after torturing them and subjecting them to inhuman treatment. The bodies of the slain policemen were returned after three weeks. This ambush was the eyeopener about China’s designs in Ladakh.

Remembering this incident, police forces all over the country observe October 21 every year as Commemoration Day, to honour their comrades who have lost their lives in the line of duty. Functions, small and large, are held in police lines, parade grounds, and offices where the names of those who have made the supreme sacrifice during the year are read out.

Since Independence, more than 35,000 police personnel have lost their lives while discharging their duties. The number of police casualties kept steadily increasing with the years and in recent years it has been around seven hundred to eight hundred. The annual toll has often exceeded one thousand, notably in those years that saw more violence in the Punjab, Jammu & Kashmir, the North-East or in the Left Wing Extremist belt.  

Police personnel die all kinds of deaths – getting killed while displaying the highest dedication to duty and country. Valourous deaths, deaths that are the stuff of patriotic songs and ballads! A large number of police personnel get killed fighting terrorists, insurgents, robbers and other criminals. Many lay down their lives at the border, in enemy fire or by getting shot at by smugglers and traffickers. Some get blown up in mine blasts. Others die in a hail of bullets in an ambush. A few tragic incidents sometimes cost many lives and briefly focus attention on police casualties. 

There are also a large number of policemen who get killed in ways that range from the bizarre to the stupid. Deaths that seldom attract attention or find mention in newspapers. But these men and women in khaki are equally dead and their children as orphaned as the children of any hero. Policemen who die in unexpected and unusual ways. By getting mowed down by a speeding truck. By getting lynched by mobs for doing their duty. Sometimes through sheer exhaustion and fatigue. Due to sunstroke and frostbite. In accidents. By drowning while saving someone else’s life. Or getting asphyxiated in a burning building. Senseless deaths. Pointless deaths. Many that are avoidable deaths.  

The Wuhan virus has added a new challenge to the lot of police personnel. It has resulted in still longer working hours, heavier load of cases and complex crowd management challenges. Policemen and policewomen throughout the country, as a class, have been among the most exposed of ‘Covid Warriors’. The Indian Police Foundation, which has been tracking the price exacted by the virus, records that in a strength of about 30,00,000 police personnel, more than 1,35,000 have tested positive for the virus. More than 800 have died. Countless other police personnel suffer from Covid-related psychiatric issues. The infection rate is as high as one in twenty-two!

Undoubtedly, among the names read out this morning of police personnel who died on duty, there must have been of many who fell victim to the Covid19 virus.  There will be many more whose names will be read out next year.

I have attended the Commemoration Parades every year, in my office, at functions organized by state police forces, by the Delhi Police at Kingsway Camp or at the recently constructed National Police Memorial. But this year the Wuhan virus has prevented me from attending any function. This year, therefore, I offer my homage to my fallen comrades in khaki, sitting at home.       

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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ये पखवाड़ा है हिन्दी का !

कन्हैयालाल जी को चाहें कोई भला बुरा कुछ भी कहता, यह कोई नहीं कह सकता था कि वह  बुरे थे अध्यापक। ना जी ना। कत्तई नहीं।

जहां  बुज़ुर्ग उन्हें पंडितजी बुलाते थे,  हम  विद्यार्थी उन्हें कहते थे माटसाब । वह हिन्दी के प्रगाढ़ पंडित थे और साथ में थे बड़े सख्त। एक बार जो बात समझा देते थे, मजाल है कि कोई वह बात भूल पाता इस ज़िन्दगी में।

एक बार उन्होंने हम सब को लेख लिखने का दिया होमवर्क, जिसे हम कहते थे गृहकार्य। बाकी बच्चों ने वही घिसी पिटी तरह लिखा, लेकिन हमने लिखा एक फड़कता हुआ निबन्ध। हम ने भाषा का नए ढंग से किया था प्रयोग और हमारा अनुमान था कि माटसाब को नयी शैली आएगी पसन्द।

लेकिन हाय! नहीं अाई पसन्द। नापसन्द  ही नहीं, माटसाब तो हो गए आगबबूला! 

” बकवास! ये कोई तरीका है लिखने का? क्रिया कहां है, क्रिया? बेवकूफ! भूल जाते हो हमेशा! हिन्दी में वाक्य के अन्त में न संज्ञा होगी, न सर्वनाम न और कुछ। होगी सिर्फ और सिर्फ क्रिया!”

अब इस तरह की बात हम कैसे मान लेते और वह भी आसानी से ?

हम ने भी पूछा सवाल। “माटसाब, माटसाब! आपकी बात हमें लगती है तर्कहीन। फिल्मों के गानों के बारे में कभी सोचा आपने? जैसे कि ‘है अपना दिल तो आवारा‘ ; ‘ ये रात भीगी भीगी ‘, ‘मेरा जूता है जापानी‘ ; ‘मेरे पिया गए रंगून‘ ; ‘जागो मोहन प्यारे‘ और न जाने कितने और। आप ही बताइए कि वाक्य के अन्त में क्रिया  है कहां ? किसी वाक्य के अंत में संज्ञा है, किसी में विशेषण तो किसी में क्रिया विशेषण!”

माटसाब को आ गया गुस्सा। लगे चिल्लाने ज़ोर ज़ोर से। “बेशरम! गधा! बदतमीज! निकल जाओ क्लास के बाहर। अभी!”

लेकिन हम ठहरे पृथ्वीराज चौहन के वंशज! पीछे हटना तो हम जानते ही नहीं।

” माटसाब, एक पत्रिका है धर्मयुग। और एक है साप्ताहिक हिंदुस्तान। दोनों में सभी  लेखों के शीर्षक में या तो जुम्लेबाजी होती है, या होती है तुकबंदी। ऐसी ही पत्रिकाओं से तो हमें भाषा के बोलचाल वाले रूप का होता है ज्ञान!”

“बेवकूफ! ओंधी खोपड़ी वाले!” माटसाब ने आव देखा न ताव; कनपटी पर रसीद दिए तीन चार। हम थे तो दुखी, किन्तु रहे  चुप के चुप। 

और फिर माटसाब ने समझाया कि कविता और फिल्मी गाने ठीक है अपनी जगह, लेकिन बाकी भाषा के होते हैं नियम । ये भी समझाया कि ज़रूरी नहीं कि भाषा क्लिष्ट हो, या  प्रयोग में लाए जाएं  केवल शुद्ध हिन्दी के शब्द। लेकिन वाक्य का रूप तो होना चाहिए व्याकरण के अनुसार! इसी सिलसिले में क्रिया  का महत्व समझाते हुए माटसाब ने श्राप दे डाला ऐसी पत्रिकाओं को जो ऊटपटांग शीर्षक में रखती हों विश्वास। साथ में लंबा भाषण भी दिया, जिसमें उन्होंने गिना दीं क्रिया की विशेषताएं, धातु, भेद, अकर्मक, सकर्मक क्रिया और पता नहीं क्या क्या। 

ज़्यादा तो पल्ले पड़ा नहीं, लेकिन जो बात समझ अाई वह गांठ बांध ली हमने। और वह थी कि अंग्रेज़ी मे भले ही क्रिया कहीं भी चेप दो, हिंदी में क्रिया आती है वाक्य के अंत में। न आरंभ में, न बीच में। केवल अंत में। और शायद इस मूल मंत्र की अव्हेलना करने के कारण  ही दिवालिया निकल गया होगा धर्मयुग और साप्ताहिक हिंदुस्तान का! दोनों पत्रिकाएं न जाने कितने साल पहले हो चुकी हैं बन्द।

समय तो आखिर है समय। अच्छा बुरा जैसा भी हो, जाता है गुज़र। होते होते हम बड़े हो गए और अब बूढ़े। माटसाब  भी  चल बसे कई साल पहले। उनकी याद कभी कभी आयी तो ज़रूर, क्योंकि ज़िन्दगी भर  उनके  बताए क्रिया के प्रयोग के नियमों का हमने पालन किया अच्छे से। कभी भी किसी को मौका नहीं दिया कि वह उंगली  उठाए हमारे हिन्दी के ज्ञान या निपुणता पर।

लेकिन अब बुढ़ापे में  दोबारा सोचना पड़ रहा है कि क्या हमारा विश्वास सही है या नहीं। क्या वास्तव में क्रिया वाक्य के अन्त में ही आती है, कल, आज और हमेशा ? हमारी छोटी सी पोती, मुनिया,  ही  है जिसने हमें डाल दिया है इस असमंजस में।

अभी कल परसों की है ये बात। मुनिया भागी भागी अाई और बड़े प्यार से कहा, ” दादाजी! दादाजी! अभी जो हिन्दी पखवाड़ा चल रहा है उस पर ये है मेरा निबन्ध!”

हम ने देखा उसका  लेख। सभी कुछ टेढ़ा तिरछा! खास तौर से क्रिया का प्रयोग – या तो वाक्य के बीच में या बिल्कुल नदारद। कभी यहां, तो कभी वहां। हमें मालूम है कि मुनिया हर बात को सोचती है अंग्रेज़ी में और लिखती है हिन्दी में।  इसी लिए क्रिया कभी यहां और कभी वहां। हम को तो माटसाब का पढ़ाया हुआ सबक अच्छे से है याद। बता दिया मुनिया को कि ये सारा का सारा है त्रुटिपूर्ण। “क्रिया न वाक्य के शुरू में होती है न बीच में, वह तो आती है वाक्य के अंत में। लिख कर लाओ दोबारा!”

लेकिन वह नहीं मानी, आखिर है तो हमारी पोती। बोली, “मैंने तो दादाजी आज कल के  स्टाइल में लिखा है सब कुछ। आप को विश्वास न हो तो देख लीजिए न खुद ही।“

हाथ पकड़ कर ले गई टी वी के सामने। और एक के बाद एक कई टी वी सीरियल के गिनवा दिए नाम। ‘ये रिश्ते हैं प्यार के‘; पता नहीं किसका उल्टा चश्मा ‘, ‘जादू जिन्न का‘; ‘साथ  निभाना साथिया’  और ‘कौन बनेगा करोड़पति‘!

 सभी में व्याकरण की बेलज्जा अव्हेलना और कई एक में तो क्रिया का बोध ही नहीं!

मुनिया ने और जो बताया उससे हमें लगा कि ये बीमारी तो बॉलीवुड मैं भी गई है फैल। एक शब्द के नाम वाली फिल्मों को छोड़ कर, जिस फिल्म को देखो, उसका नाम ही है या तो अशुद्ध या भ्रांतिपूर्ण। जैसे ‘हम आपके हैं कौन‘, ‘ज़िन्दगी न मिलेगी दोबारा‘  आदि। और तो और, एक फिल्म का नाम था ‘तू ही मेरा सन्डे‘ ! बिल्कुल बेतुका!

फिर  हमारी मुनिया ने दिखाए टी वी वाले समाचार। सब सुर्खियां रोचक और तुकबंदी वाली या  धमाकेदार! किन्तु एक में भी  क्रिया का सही प्रयोग नहीं! हम  स्तब्ध से देखते रह गये सारी सुर्खियों को – ‘शारजाह में घमासान‘, ‘किसानों  को होगा कितना फायदा ‘ , ‘ बेल के पहले होगईं बेनकाब ‘, ‘ डूब गई महानगरी‘, ‘लोक सभा का सत्र समाप्त‘, ‘ महंगाई ने बिगाड़ा रसोई का स्वाद‘; ‘बिल से श्रमिकों के अधिकारों पर चलेगी कैंची‘!

अरे भाई, व्याकरण  जैसी चिड़िया का नाम सुना है कभी?

हमारा तमतमाया हुआ चेहरा देख कर हमारी पोती ने कुछ पाक कला  अर्थात कुकरी शो की ओर  किया इशारा। इन चैनलों की हिन्दी तो थी और भी माशाअल्लाह! “एक स्पून ऑयल ले कर डालें  पैन में!” या फिर “वेजिटेबल्स को डाइस करने के बाद सौट कर लें और फिर होने दें कूल।”  “टमाटर कट करें और बॉयल होने के बाद करें स्ट्रेन!”  हो मोरे रामा अजब तोरी दुनिया!

बहुत कुछ देखा टी वी में – सुर्खियां, शीर्षक, विज्ञापन। सभी में संज्ञा,  सर्वनाम, विशेषण तो थे, लेकिन क्रिया का नाम ही नहीं। और अगर क्रिया कहीं थी भी, तो छुपी सी, शर्माई सी; कहीं वाक्य या सुर्खियों के बीच में! ऐसा प्रतीत हुआ मानो धर्मयुग और साप्ताहिक हिंदुस्तान संजीवनी पीकर फिर आ गए हों धरती पर! अच्छा ही हुआ कि हमारे  बेचारे माटसाब गुज़र गए कई साल पहले। वर्ना आज के इस युग की हिन्दी, और खासकर क्रिया के प्रयोग करने के तरीके को देखकर तो उनका टूट ही जाता दिल। या वह कर लेते आत्महत्या!

कहां से कहां आ गई है हमारी भाषा? अभी हाल ही में तो भारत सरकार ने मनाया था ‘हिन्दी दिवस‘  और अब चल रहा है हिन्दी पखवाड़ा। कुछ मामला जमा नहीं। इसीलिए सब मिल कर लगाओ नारा  – हिन्दी पखवाड़े का बोलबला! चाहे होता रहे हिन्दी का मुंह काला!

 

 

 

 

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घोर कलयुग

 

जब हम छोटे थे,  ज़माना कुछ अलग था। पढ़ाई लिखाई भी अलग थी। आधी घर में, आधी स्कूल में। और कुछ स्कूल और घर के बीच में आते जाते। स्कूल में न कभी किसी बात का डर, न किसी बात का रोना। बस, बाबूजी से फीस के पैसे लिए, जमा किए और हो गया काम।

न मां कभी स्कूल आईं, और न ही कभी बाबूजी को फुर्सत मिली।

जब साल ख़त्म होता, तो हम सब को बता देते कि पास हो गए। उस सतयुग में परसेंटेज तो दूर, कभी किसी ने  डिवीजन तक नहीं पूछी।

” बेटा पास हो गया! बेटा पास हो गया!” का शोर होता और सारे मुहल्ले में लड्डू बांटे जाते। कभी कभी तो ये खुशखबरी जलगांव वाली बुआ और रामपुर वाले मामाजी को भी पोस्टकार्ड द्वारा पहुंचाई जाती।

लेकिन स्कूल की पढ़ाई से ज़्यादा, जो हम  घर में सीखते थे उसकी अहमियत थी।

बड़ो का आदर करना। तमीज़ से बात करना। सोच समझ कर पैसे खर्च करना। साफ सुथरे कपड़े पहनना। सच बोलना। उधार नहीं लेना। झूठी शान से दूर रहना। अपने परिश्रम से पैसे कमाना। किसी भी तरह का ढोंग नहीं करना।

इन सब विषयों की न तो कोई किताब थी, न सिलेबस।  न ही कभी क्लास लगी और न ही होमवर्क मिला। लेकिन कभी अगर एक भी सबक याद नहीं हुआ तो मां अच्छे से समझा देती थीं। और अगर फिर भी कोई सबक याद नहीं होता, तो बाबूजी तो बहुत ही अच्छी  तरह समझा देते थे!

जब तक हमारे बच्चे स्कूल जाने लायक हुए, ज़माना बदल गया था। घर में तो हमने भी अपने बच्चों को ज़िन्दगी के ज़रूरी सबक पढ़ाए, लेकिन ये स्कूल वाले,  वजह बेवजह, बच्चे की पढ़ाई के बारे में बात करने के लिए हमें स्कूल बुलाने लगे।

अरे भाई, फीस भर तो दी! अब पढ़ाने का काम तुम्हारा है! हमें क्यों बार बार बुलाते हो? कभी पी टी ए के बहाने, तो  कभी ड्रामा तो कभी पी टी शो। क्या मां बाप को और कोई काम नहीं होता? हमनें सोचा, “कलयुग आ गया है, रीत बदल लो।”

बदलते ज़माने के हिसाब से हमने अपनी रीत बदल ली। जब जब हमारे बच्चों की टीचरजी ने बुलाया, हमने जा कर स्कूल में हाज़िरी लगाई।

लेकिन भला अब बुढ़ापे में क्यों स्कूल जाएं?  अजी कलयुग आ गया है, कलयुग!

ये स्कूल वाले बच्चों के मां बाप को तो बुलाते ही हैं, नाना नानी, दादा दादी को भी लपेट लेते हैं! कभी ग्रैंडफादर डे कह कर तो कभी सीनियर्स डे कह कर।

अगर मालूम होता कि स्कूल से पास होने के बाद भी स्कूल जाना पड़ेगा, तो हम तो शुरू में ही स्कूल न जाते!

एैसे ही एक ग्रैंड पेरेंट्स डे में मैं और मेरी घरवाली, दोनों को कुछ महिने  पहले नाना नानी की हैसियत से स्कूल जाना पड़ा। बहुत बोर हुए, लेकिन क्या करते? मुन्नी की मुनिया, मतलब हमारी धेवती , का मन रखने का सवाल था। 

तीन चार घण्टे का प्रोग्राम । न पान थूकने की जगह न सिगरेट की कोई दुकान। टीचर लोग अलग अंग्रेज़ी में गिट पिट किए जा रही थीं। कुछ तो समझ आया लेकिन डर था कि कोई ज़रूरी बात न छूट जाए।  झेंप भी आ रही थी कि मुनिया जब पूछेगी “प्रोगराम कैसा लगा?”, तब ये तो नहीं कह सकते हैं कि कुछ ज़्यादा समझ नहीं आया?

यही सोच कर मैंने इधर उधर देखा और एक तरकीब निकाली। पास में खड़े एक सूटेड बूटेड बुज़ुर्ग से मैंने कहा,  “मैं दादा हूं।”

उसने कहा, ” आप जरूर  होंगे, क्योंकि स्कूल में ‘दादा दादी डे’ के लिए चचा लोग को तो कोई नहीं बुलाता।”

मैंने फिर दोहराया, “दादा हूं। दरियागंज का!”

टाई धारी को अब बात समझ में आई। झट से उसने अपना बटुआ जेब से निकाल कर दे दिया।

” नहीं जनाब, आप गलत समझे,” मैंने कहा। “मैं दरियागंज का दादा हूं तो मैंने इसलिए कहा कि आप मेरी बात मानने से इंकार न करें।”

” जी बोलिए,” उसने कहा।

कुछ लजाते हुए मैंने कहा, “ये जो टीचर गिट पिट कर रहीं है, वह मेरे पल्ले नहीं पड़ रहा है। आप मेरे साथ ही रहिए। कोई काम की बात हो तो हिंदी में मेरे को बता दीजिएगा।”

बच्चों का प्रोग्राम बहुत देर तक चलता रहा। सब अंग्रेजों की औलाद, अंग्रेज़ी में पता नहीं क्या क्या बतियाते रहे। हमारे साथ जो टाईधारी बुज़ुर्ग थे, वह हमें हिंदी में समझाते रहे। कई बार लगा कि वह कुछ गलत बता रहे हैं, लेकिन यह सोच कर मैं चुप रहा कि टाई पहनी है तो सही ही बता रहे होंगे।

प्रोग्राम ख़त्म हुआ तो ओपचारिकतावश मैंने पूछ लिया, “मेरी मारुति कार यहीं है। आप को कहीं छोड़ सकता हूं क्या?”

उन सज्जन का जवाब सुन कर मैं तो दंग रह गया।

बड़े अंदाज़ से उन्होनें कहा, “न जी न। हमारी चार चूड़ी ले कर डिलैवर अभी आ जाएगा।”

चार चूड़ी? मैं और मेरी बीवी काफी असमंजस में थे कि ये चार चूड़ी क्या बला है। तभी उनका ड्राइवर कार ले कर आ गया। ये तो मेरे को भी अपनी टूटी फूटी अंग्रेज़ी में मालूम था कि इस कार का नाम  ऑडी होता है। अब समझ में आया कि हमारे टाईधारी अनुवादक का ‘चार चूड़ी’ से तात्पर्य उनका अपनी ऑडी कार से था।

साथ ही समझ आ गया कि भाई साहिब को अंग्रेज़ी का अलिफ बे पे भी नहीं आता! और जो ये जनाब हमें प्रोग्राम के बारे में हिंदी में बताते रहे, वह सब बंडलबाजी था! 

“तो आप भी अंग्रेज़ी में….” मैं हैरानी से उन्हें तकता रह गया।

“जी हां, खा गए न आप भी धोखा? मैं तो बिल्कुल अनपढ़ हूं। लेकिन ये टाई और सूट मैं अब हमेशा पहनता हूं। बड़े काम की चीज़ हैं। दो साल पहले, हाई वे वालों ने सड़क बनाने के वास्ते मेरे खेत खरीद लिए थे। बढ़िया पैसे मिले, और उन से मैंने एक कोठी, दो मरसरी की गाड़ी और एक चार चूड़ी खरीद ली। और ढ़ेर सारी टाईयां । अब तो मैं भी साहब बना फिरता हूं।”

और वो टाईधारी धोखेबाज़ अपनी चार चूड़ी में सवार हो कर चल दिया । ‘डिलैवर’ के साथ!

उस दिन को याद कर के मैं और मेरी घरवाली अब अक्सर ये बातें करते हैं – “हमने भी टाई पहनी होती तो ऐसा होता। हमने भी टाई पहनी होती तो वैसा होता।”

क्योंकि आज वही ज्ञानी है जिसके पास चार चूड़ी और चार टाई हैं। हाय कैसा कलयुग आ गया है! घोर कलयुग!!

 

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Let Us Count Our Blessings

In the middle of an unprecedented pandemic, uneasy relations with our neighbouring countries and a bleak economic situation, the attention of the whole nation is riveted on the death of one film actor. 

The major ingredients that define our existence as a country are all there – politics, crime, sleaze, sex, women, Bollywood, CBI, ED, court room dramas! And a hint of drugs!

Our elders always taught us that we should be grateful for His mercies, no matter how small.  

So let us be thankful that none of the dramatis personae played cricket!

 

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Musings of a PSO

Ours is a peculiar plight, Sir. I, and other personal security officers like me, have to protect all types of persons. We have worked with some protected persons who were truly gracious. There were some who always enquired if we had eaten or whether we had rested. We liked them. Some others insulted us; made us carry their briefcases or look after their brats. Or go shopping with ‘Madam’. Some reviled and ridiculed us. And there were still others who didn’t even see us as human beings. We did not like them.

But it’s not our job to either like you or dislike you. Our job, Sir, is to protect you. Protect you to the best of our ability, for which we are tasked and trained. We have to be vigilant every hour, every minute and every second if we are to keep you out of harm’s way.

You, Sir, face threats on account of the position you occupy, as also some threats for the person that you are. We call these institutional threats and personal threats. I have been assigned to protect you because you face these threats. I have been trained to protect, and have acquired special skills. Skills that you do not need to know about. Suffice it to say that it is expected that I shall ward off any and every threat that you might face. And if required, take a bullet meant for you.

It is expected that I will be successful each and every day. The day I am not, I will either be dead or wish that I were. 

I am with you for most of your waking hours, including when you cough or sneeze, belch or fart. Without wanting to, I do hear many of your conversations. I am witness to your peccadilloes, your quirks, your all too human failings. Even when I try not to hear what you might discuss in confidence with your colleagues and your cohorts, I am still privy to much wheeling and dealing that you have to do.

But I, and others like me, observe our unspoken and unwritten code of silence. We strive to be invisible. We try to remain noncontroversial. We observe but do not speak. And we do not reveal what comes to our knowledge while discharging our duties. Mind you, some of it is explosive stuff! Yet how many former security personnel have come out with juicy bestsellers about you and your ilk?

I don’t mind being ridiculed or made fun of. I couldn’t care less what you or other people say or think. Yet, when I am dragged by you into your petty political games, or I am indirectly blamed by you for breaching confidences or outright accused of unprofessional conduct, I am disappointed. Deeply disappointed. And I wonder whether this disappointment shall cause me to react just a split second slower at some critical moment. That split second which might make all the difference?

The disappointment also makes me wonder whether you, Sir, are worth taking a bullet for.

(Please do read the disclaimer page. It is stressed that the views expressed are the author’s, and not those of any other individual or organisation.)