BRIDGE….BRAJA….. BRAJ KISHORE

  

 During my childhood a family came to stay in our midst adjacent to our house. They were from Aligarh. I was told he is my uncle. Accolade ‘uncle’ during those days was reserved for uncles only unlike today when every stranger is called uncle while real uncles have become strangers. So this uncle of mine had many things, in a way, common with us. We were four brothers and a sister. They were four sisters and a brother. It was so very amusing to watch the only boy in the family emulating his sisters and talking (about himself) in feminine gender. I wonder were they so short of names that he (uncle) too was my father’s namesake. Chacha ji worked for AGCR. He was extremely frugal in his habits and knew well how to go about leading a simple life. He would cut Lifebuoy toilet soap into two halves; some how he believed that this will make the cake of soap last longer. The subject matter of my tale is not my uncle. It’s his younger brother Braj Kishore, again chacha ji, for us kids. He was a fashionable Youngman looking for foothold in Delhi. He could not be called tall but he indeed was dark and handsome. He did his law and afterwards became P.P. (Public Prosecutor). Like any ‘lively’ Youngman of his time he too had hobbies such as P-3 Poetry, Photography and Pining (for romance.)

I recall, influenced by latest film of my matinee idol Dev Anand I brought no less than three check shirt pieces. My mother sensing something amiss suitably chided me. Chacha ji, promptly volunteered to take (buy) one piece but not for stitching shirt, guess what?  That was the unkind cut, for using it as ‘lungi’—the wrap around. Kishore in Braj Kishore means adolescence and indeed if Dev Anand was forever young,   Chacha ji was forever adolescent. He was nicknamed Braja and continued to be affectionately addressed so by elders and his close friends.

I was one of the invitees in his marriage in remote Aligarh interior. Sitting on the horseback decked in groom’s finery he asked me to direct the light men (the guys carrying petromax lamps in the procession) to walk in a straight line. Such a meticulous man threw all   caution to wind once he got posted in Gujarat. The cupid hit him hard with sharpest arrows emptying entire quiver. Forever adolescent that our man was.

 During his PP (Public Prosecutor) days in Ahmedabad, our man BK ‘fell’ head-on in love, with a Gujarati lass. It turned as serious as both walking hand in hand to the altar, taking holy wows to live and die together. Having done that there was no deterring back from their resolve, although in the process both bore the brunt. Physical and mental assault    not only near and dear ones but from the onlookers as well who believed, to protect morality is their prerogative and they must perform their role to the hilt. BK was so full of life. He would take care of his health, do regular exercise much before it became fashionable to talk of physical fitness. A well informed and fine conversationalist, he could strike right cord in you. He was a lovely company.

With the other woman constantly breathing down the neck so close, her presence could be felt by the entire household even when she was not present. Physical assault, public humiliation and threats from ‘unknown’ callers did precious little to shake their determination to stay together through all thick and thin.  Funny things happen; when a man enters into an extramarital relationship the boy’s folks think this must be the innuendo and misdemeanor on girl’s part.  While girl’s kith and kin believe it must be the ‘Casanova’ unbridled who must have allured the innocent girl putting our family to such unprecedented ill-repute.  So, while BK’s brothers pretended to maintain dignified silence, BK’s wife’s brothers after hearing their sister’s plight could not control their rage.  They rushed to the house of his paramour and they assaulted her with physical and verbal onslaughts humiliating her in the full glare of colony’s residents.  Little did this help.  If at all, it worsened and made both of them firmer in their resolve to ‘live and die’ together; come what may.

 In times to come and with growing age, the rage subsided. The wife No.1 resigned to her fate and thought it to be her lot being illiterate, poor and economically dependent could do little to change. Wife no. 2, in times to come bore and sired BK’s children.  They say more you try to change things more they tend to remain the same.  History repeated itself despite best opposition by BK, his sons went on to choose their own life partners through what in India is referred rather loosely as ‘love marriage’.  Daughters’ marriage did pose tough problems to BK.  Anyone who knew BK, knew his entire life’s story and his wayward ways.  A classic case of children paying for the sins of their parents.

Last heard BK had two houses one each in Mehsana and Ahmedabad for his two wives, a real life case of one man torn apart between two worlds. However, Braj Kishore, must bravely reminiscence ‘Dil le gayi kudi Gujarat ki’

My Name is Mango

 its nice to watch the Arabian sea from Queen's necklace and brood over life such as mine, for more of my snaps please visit entry '2009' at the bottom of this page.

ONE (SLIPPER) IS NOT ENOUGH

Legislative bodies have vital importance in a democracy. They have, if nothing else, immense educative value for all those who care. Hitherto, hurling shoes and slippers (S&S) was the prerogative of the legislators. Our legislators are our role models in more ways than one. We so very readily and eagerly adapted and in no time became well-versed in the art and science of S&S hurling. It is said, it’s Science if the results are same every time irrespective of time and place. A shoe hurled at Chidamabaram did hit the target right in bull’s eye and Tytler bit the dust. Kalmadi may lament and justifiably so, that why just one slipper, of what use is one, why not a pair. Had it been a pair, he could have sold and made some more money out of this ‘individual’ event. Now that is what I call sportsman spirit. He may still be feeling sad, for while it was for the entire World to watch Bush, Omar and Chidamabaram being hurled at costly and branded shoes, poor Kalmadi had to be contended with ‘cheap chappal’. Now this is what I call I to I (Insult to Injury).

A great feature of this Government OF the people and FOR the people is that people are at LIBERTY to curse, use and abuse each other. This is what is called EQUALITY and FRATERNITY, two great hallmarks in the evolution of mankind in human history. Anthropologists will tend to agree with me there. It is people’s right and duty both at the same time to curse and criticize, to use and abuse. What a novel concept called Democracy, Greeks gave us.Its various facets and nuances are still Greek to us. Whether shoe hurling is a science or art may remain debatable till the topic is shunned and shooed away by the ‘intellectuals’. Everyone agrees that Democracy is an art – art of hair splitting ‘splitocracy’. Keep splitting the trivia, so that people are kept busy and hence, off the scent from real issues. Kalmadi may still feel hurt... why just me… why not that Kill Bill Gill, not even She La and why spare that LG (not the tv brand). If you say it is a scam involving billions than each of billion plus citizens of India (NRIs included) have a right and sacred duty too, to not just ‘hurl’ but bash up with the slippers or shoes as the case may be. A nation of billion plus people and just one lone slipper, no sense of ratio-proportion at all. Are we that poor in Three Rs ( Reebok, Red Chief & Relaxo).

          We the people of India pride ourselves in being intellectuals.  Being intellectual is different than being man of intellect, while the latter are few and far between hence, needed to be protected and prodded like Himalayan Panda, the former are parasites that live off our ignorance and indifference.  Look at the poor guy!  Who started selling salted grams in post independent India.  We all pounced upon him and scolded him to educate his kids.  He thought, if nothing else, he will be able to save his future generation from selling salted grams and bribing cops from Marine Drive to Marina Beach and Victoria Memorial to India Gate.  How naïve of him.  His educated son has no employment and refuses to sell gram.  He is no illiterate so why should he be selling grams.  Education has singularly taught us one thing from Rann off Kuchh to Sundarbans and from Kashmir to Kovalam --- hate manual labour.  So, we the people of India, too educated to sell grams have become arm chair/ drawing room critiques – a forte of intellectuals. 

          India has all along been jeopardized, harmed and corrupted hollow by this so-called educated class.  The simple toiler who lives off his sweat still remains a simpleton, honest and God fearing.  Why just God fearing he breathes under constant fear of society, Gotra, Khaps, ‘what others will say’ and last but not the least his ‘conscience’.  On the contrary the educated suave, articulate homo-sapiens is the devil who devours what he fancies/ sets his eyes on.  He is so very game for every scam, cheating and embezzlement. To him, bribe is sweet as bride to his ears and eyes.  Ever ready for sweet indulgence and get away.  For you and me, India is our mother land, for him, her included, its not mother land rather a plot of land whose records can be tempered, FSI enhanced adding floor after floors and a sky-scrapper constructed.

          Be it 2G, KarGil (Adarsh), Games (Commonwealth) all are the illegitimate offspring born out of the incestuous alliance of educated elites. Poor Bharat still lives on pavement and has stray dogs for company enabling you to turn your head other way in sophisticated snobbery wrinkling your nose and snaring with right tinge “the country is going to/gone to dogs”.

          ‘Savior with the Slipper’ is our poor men’s Gladiator with Excalibur.  Critiques sprung and wasted no time in issuing condemnation – in democracy other than wearing there is no room / use for slippers or shoes.  It is nothing but slipper assassination er ... character (?) assassination of a sports lover. Calling poor Kalmadi The Sports Czar is so very fascist. Whoever said the World loves the lover. I find on the contrary the world hates this sports lover and wants to beat him not in steeple chase but with chappals, shoes, hockey sticks, and finally with baton, Queen’s or otherwise. But the omnipotent statesman of his stature hardly gets ruffled by such petty misplaced bravados.  For him, these are merely childish pranks.  More so, when this lonely chappal could not come anywhere near his splendid aura, leave alone touching / hitting him.  He is beyond all slippers and shoes.  Remember the benediction  Hirankashyap had received.  Gods had blessed and assured him that neither man nor beast will be able to kill him, he will not be killed during day or night, he will not be killed on earth or in sky.  So is our man, no less than Hirankashyap. No prison. No penalty. No police. No politician. He is above P-4. None will ever be able to reach His Holiness… the Most Beneficent and the Most Merciful.

          I am saddened beyond words by the utterance of people including the ones in authority who are going around ‘loose talking’ that Kapil Thakur (The S-3 – Shining Star of Slipper) is having disturbed mental balance. So very mean!  Dear countrymen, among  we the 120 crore people of India, I find he is the ONLY ONE having right mental balance.  If you call him mentally disturbed or mad I wish and pray to the Almighty O God ! pray give us 120 crore the same mental disturbance, the same madness.  We too have slippers rather are left with slippers alone, rest everything else is taken away by successive governments in new and newer taxes.  God, if this is Adarsh (ideal model) save us from Adarsh, if this is Raja… give us ‘Rank’ (pauper) and if this is the 'Game', let us not host / watch any.  We are not yet ready for this ‘Demonocracy’.   

Did I hear Kalmadi say….   “Thaam mee yeto ! baraa!”

                                                          ==

एक चप्पल से मेरा क्या होगा

सदन का लोकशाही में शैक्षिक महत्व होता है. जो चप्पल-जूते अभी तक सदन में चला करते थे अब वे सदन के बाहर भी आन पहुँचे हैं. कलमाडी जी को यह ग़म हो सकता है कि एक ही चप्पल क्यूँ मारी. दोनों तो मारते. और कुछ नहीं तो इन्हें बेच कर कुछ मुनाफा और कमाया जा सकता था. या फिर उन्हें यह रंज भी हो सकता है कि बुश, उमर और चिदमबरंम को तो महंगे वाले जूते फेंक कर मारे थे और मुझे बस सस्ती सी चप्पल में ही निपटा दिया. यह तो सरासर अपमान है.

लोकतंत्र की एक महत्वपूर्ण विशेषता है कि सभी ‘लोक’ एक दूसरे को गाली देने, कोसने, को अपना अधिकार और कर्तव्य दोनों समझते हैं. उसी तरह लोकतंत्र के तंत्र की बाल की खाल निकालने को वे स्वतंत्र होते हैं. तदनुसार एक बुद्धिजीवी ने बक़ौल पान - मसाला एड कहा है “भला एक चप्पल से मेरा क्या होगा”. यह जितने हज़ार करोड़ का घपला / स्केम है, कम से कम उतनी चप्पल तो पड़नी चाहिये थी. कुछ तो अनुपात होना चाहिये, ये क्या कि हज़ारों करोड़ का स्केम और महज़ एक चप्पल. यह तो सरासर बे-इनसाफ़ी है. ना ऐसे नहीं चलेगा.

बुद्धिजीवी हिन्दुस्तान में बहुत इफ़रात में पाये जाते हैं. चने बेचने वालों ने पूरे मरीन ड्राइव, चौपाटी, विक्टोरिया मेमोरियल, इंडिया गेट पर चने बेच बेच कर अपने बच्चे पढ़ाये ताकि उनमें शैक्षिक योग्यता के साथ साथ कुछ बुद्धि आ जाए. उन्हें क्या पता था कि इतने बुद्धि आ जाएगी कि वे बुद्धिमान बनने की अपेक्षा बुद्धिजीवी बन जायेंगे. नतीजा ? नतीजा आपके सामने है, नौकरी है नहीं और उन्होने चने बेचने से क़तई इंकार कर दिया है.

       न खुदा ही मिला, न विसाल-ए-सनम

बस तो जनाब इसी तर्ज़ पर, न वे चने बेचने वाले ही बन पाये न नौकरी – पेशा. मेरा निजी मत है कि मेरे भारत महान को ख़तरा हमेशा पढ़े-लिखे लोगों से रहा है. ग़रीब, मेहनतकश तो भगवान से, समाज से, गोत्र से, खप से, ‘लोग क्या कहेंगे’ से और कुछ नहीं तो अंतरात्मा से बारह महीने, तीसों दिन, 24 घंटे,1440 मिनट और 86400 सेकंड डरता है. यह पढ़ा- लिखा जीव, बिंदास होता है. वह हर घोटाले, हर बेईमानी, हर दलाली, हर जालसाज़ी को कर गुजरने को आतुर है और बच निकलने का माद्दा रखता है. जिसे आप मातृभूमि कहेंगे, पढ़े-लिखे के लिए वो महज एक प्लॉट है जिसको घेरा जा सकता है, कागजों में हेर-फेर कर एफ.एस.आई.बढ़वाई जा सकती है. मल्टीस्टोरी माल बनाये जा सकते हैं, फ्लोर के फ्लोर बेनामी बेचे जा सकते हैं. आदर्श घोटाला, 2 जी स्केम, कॉमनवैल्थ सब पढ़े-लिखे, ओहदे दार  लोगों की कारस्तानी है. ग़रीब, अनपढ़, सिम्पल लोग तो आज भी दूसरे ग़रीब, अनपढ़, सिम्पल लोगों की हर संभव मदद को तैयार रहते हैं. वे उन्हें सड़क के किनारे देख कर नाक-भों नहीं सिकोड़ते. हाऊ डरटी या हाऊ अन्हाइजेनिक कह कर मुँह नहीं फेरते. ना ही यह कह कर अपने कर्तव्य की इतिश्री कर लेते हैं कि ‘ दिस कंट्री इज गोइंग / गॉन टू डॉग्स’

ये जो चप्पल योद्धा, वीर पुरुष है वह मध्य प्रदेश का है, जहाँ विपक्ष की सरकार है. अतः यह कहा जा सकता है कि यह विपक्ष की एक और साज़िश है, सरकार के एक कर्मठ देशभक्त, एक क्रीडा – भक्त, आर्य पुत्र के सम्मान को ठेस पहुँचाने का शिशुतुल्य प्रयास है. दैदीप्यमान-सूर्यपुत्र ऐसे अनायास लकड़ी के खड़ग से किंचित भी मस्तक पर बल नहीं आने देते, वो और होंगे जो इतनी सी बात पर कलामंडी खा जाएँ. इस बेचारे कपिल ठाकुर का निशाना भी चूक गया. चप्पल अगले को लगी ही नहीं. तप-साधना में सचमुच ही अगाध शक्ति होती है. अब अगले ने तो कहते  फिरना है ना मैं तो पाक-साफ़ हूँ तभी तो चप्पल मुझे छू तक ना सकी. बिल्कुल वैसे ही जैसे आज तक कोई भी पुलिस, सी.बी.आई उनके अधो वस्त्र तो दूर, शिरो-वस्त्र की चीर के स्पर्श से भी वंचित रही है.

मुझे तो सुन कर बहुत दुख हुआ, अब यह बात ना जाने कौन फैला रहा है कि कपिल ठाकुर पागल है, मानसिक रूप से विक्षिप्त है. अरे भले- मानुषो ! इस 120 करोड़ के मेरे भारत महान में एक वो ही तो बंदा बहादुर है, समझदार है, बुद्धिमान है.

ये बहादुरी, ये ‘पागलपन’ हमें दे दे ठाकुर.

 चप्पल तो हम पर भी है, बल्कि चप्पल ही रह गयी है, नयी पीढ़ी के बच्चे भारत माता के लिए गा रहे हैं --- ........नानी तेरी मोरनी ( भारत कभी सोने की चिड़िया था) को मोर (अंग्रेज) ले गए बाकी जो बचा था अशोक  (आदर्श) नरेश (राजा) और सुरेश ले गए.  

ELEGY OF VICTORIA MESS

The name suggests it is some place in Britain or at best in one of the numerous British colonies. It is said that the sun never set in British rule. The exact meaning of this phrase is the sun was always visible in one country or the other where Britain reigned. The Victoria Mess I am writing about was right here in the heart of New Delhi. Just a stone’s throw from the finest examples of British architecture i.e. the monumental Assembly House (Parliament), Viceregal lodge (Rashtrapati Bhavan) and war memorial (India Gate). Why just Victoria Mess, there existed this Edward Mess on the same road, a little distance away. The road was Dr Rajendra Prasad Road. These two mess were situated opposite and behind the National Archives of India, the imposing building at present day Janpath (Queen’s way) just before it cuts historical Rajpath (King’s way). As you pass the cross section of Janpath and Rajpath you have National Museum at the left side if you are travelling from Connaught Place end. Behind National Museum you have offices of Archaeological Survey of India and the famous Vigyan Bhavan, the official venue for those big sarkari events. The Vigyan Bhavan also Ashok hotel were got built fondly by Nehru ji for the first ever Non Aligned Meet. Those were the heady and dreamy days of Pt. Nehru, Gamel Abdul Nasir and Marshal Tito, of Non Alignment Movement, Afro - Asian friendship and awakening in Asia remembered as Nehruvian ideology. Geography at its place, lets go back to our Victoria Mess.

In our childhood we used to often wonder why the complex has bungalows number 15, 17 and 19 and not logically in continuity i.e. 15 (where we lived), 16 and 17. It was much later we came to know that the bungalows were numbered as odd and even No. All odd ones at your left and even at your right (if you are entering from Rajpath end). So that is how you have 10 Janpath at the right hand. 10 Janpath once was the official residence of Lal Bahadur Shastri, Prime Minister of India. We are a nation of hero-worshippers. Teen Murti House official residence of the first Prime Minister of India was promptly converted to Nehru memorial museum after his demise on 27^th May 1964. I am sure Nehru ji would not have liked the idea one bit. After all Gandhi ji was killed on 3oth January 1948 in New Delhi’s Birla House and it’s not a memorial. The road on which Birla house is situated was named Tees January lane nevertheless. After Lal Bahadur Shastri’s untimely demise on 10^th January 1966 in Tashkent, (capital of Uzbekistan) then part of USSR. (We used to have fun, asking full form of USSR, five out of six times one was bound to miss a word, and by the way it stood for Union of Soviet Socialist Republics). The bungalow was labelled as evil omen and none dared stay there for years. It remained office of Youth Congress during hey days of Sanjay Gandhi. Later Rajiv Gandhi showed the courage and shifted to this bungalow after he was no more the P.M. The big round about at your right, if you are facing the 10 Janpath was named York Place by the British, later rechristened Moti Lal Nehru Place. Let’s come back to Victoria Mess. The Victoria Mess was an Air force officers Mess. There were whole lot of double storied tenements in row. These quarters had occupant with shops of sweet meat, mutton shop, general store, cycle repair shop, washer men and what have you.

Evenings were full of such a din and fanfare. The round about of Dr Rajendra Prasad road and Janpath There did exist one, I felt sad when found it dismantled and levelled to make way for seamless tarmac ride to Parliament House. There would be these Pan shops and opposite a shoemaker sat. Right across the road four-five barbers sat with their apparatus in funny looking iron boxes, though some did have cute leather kit too.

In my childhood, a large slice of my free time was spent going to and fro Victoria Mess for everything big or small. A milk booth selling bottled milk of DMS (Delhi Milk Scheme) was there. One could buy milk against empty bottles after showing the aluminium token similar to the smart card used these days to access your hotel room. There was this ration shop too. Those were the times of Indo-china and Indo-Pak war, scarce crops and stringent rationing. We will get Australian, Canadian or American (PL 480) wheat under some agreement between the two govt. It was widely believed that the wheat they shipped to us Indians was the one which their pig ate, at times; critique retorted, the wheat was actually the one which their pigs too refused to eat, hence, exported to India. However, the wheat was much redder than our own wheat.

Victoria Mess was abode to all sorts of people. Hardly any one was studying. They were busy carting their wares. Be it colour, balloons (during Holi) crackers and sparkling sticks (during Diwali). The population largely was either of utility workers, chefs, cooks, stewards or of small time shopkeepers selling knick-knack and items largely consumables of daily use. There must have been hundreds of quarters on both sides of cross section of Dr Rajendra Prasad road and Janpath. Edward Mess stood once, where we have Shastri Bhavan today. There is a row of M.P. bungalows opposite Shastri Bhavan. There was this austerity type school running in one room, kind of play school. The teacher – a beautiful Christian damsel would take her tuition classes also side by side. I was one of her few pupils. I recall once we were addressed by a simple dressed bearded guy in white asking us to note down names of specific Christian  Saints for a specific task e.g. snake bite.. Prayers should be directed to so and so Saint so on and so forth. I admit I was highly impressed. So very simple he made it sound.

The beautiful teacher used to come to our house also for taking classes of us brothers. No sooner she came, some smartly attired boy too would come (different boy, every time) and then both will go away abruptly ending our class. Some case of ‘class cutting’ was this, where teacher was bunking. Later, I got to hear so many tales of her escapades but that’s another story.

As I said, opposite Edward Mess were M.P. bungalows, still there. Great luminaries like Firoz Gandhi and Tarkeswari Sinha resided there. Latter acted as agony aunt for a children’s magazine ‘Milind’ The column also carried her beautiful picture with a strand of hair carelessly falling on her forehead like Mala Sinha, the cine actress. Dr Rajendra Prasad road once boasted of great leaders. Deen Dayal Upadhyay, most revered leader after Dr Shyama Prasad Mukhrji, (the founder of Jansangh, later renamed Bhartiya Janata Party) stayed there till his untimely death in a train fall somewhere in Bihar. I remember long queue of people who came with flowers and garland to pay their respect and have last glimpse of their leader. Dr Rajendra Prasad road was also the address of SK Patil, Morarji Desai and Babu Jagjivan Ram. Later one of the bungalows was converted to office and served as CVC office for several years. Just at the end of the road (India Gate end) we had Hyderabad House, now known as AP House where good quality mutton could be bought. Today one can have tastiest Andhra Pradesh delicacies in ‘Andhra Thali’ at reasonable rate there. Opposite Hyderabad House is located Dr Rajkumari Amrit Kaur Nursing College named after our first Health minister of free India. She was a spinster, scion of princely family of Patiala. In the vicinity, shrouded in mystery is Bahai’s House. Now they have the swanky address -- Lotus temple. Next building is Pataudi House of Nawab of Pataudi, a small princely state at the border of Rajasthan – Haryana close to Delhi. My father’s mentor in Delhi late Shankaranand Shastri ji lived in the officers’ accommodation there. He was Director Employment Exchanges. Sat at Rafi Bhavan, opposite Mavalankar Auditorium. Yes Dr Rajendra Prasad road’s story can not be over without sharing what happened to me on one summer afternoon. While returning from school I saw a tree in the bungalow laden with half ripe orange like fruit (Malta). There was this gap in the bushes, I entered the lawn and had plucked a Malta just then I noticed an ‘angry like mad’ gardener entering the wicket gate and charging towards me. I was paralyzed, plain immobile. My legs refused to leave ground, as if glued to ground. He thrashed me and confiscated the booty too. My school mate Dilip also stayed across the road where Ashok yatri and Kanishka hotels stood. Dilip had two sisters Asha and (strangely) Ramesh. I know when the displaced persons of East Pakistan were given refuge to start their lives it was named EPDP colony (East Pakistan Displaced Persons). The residents found the name rather unsavory so renamed the ghetto as CR Park (Chitaranjan). Today it is known as mini Bengal, where even the shopkeepers talk to you in chaste Bangla. CR Park has the grand Kali temple and the scale of grandeur during Pooja festival celebrations in CR Park is unparalleled in whole of Delhi.

Alas!  I do not know where the DPs (Displaced Persons) of Victoria Mess got relocated. Could they be rehabilitated at all?  Today there is no sign whatsoever of Victoria Mess on Dr Rajendra Prasad road except the DMS milk booth and a small road side shrine (grown from obscure idol under a tree)

Long live the spirit of Victoria Mess.  

ERROR OF JUDGEMENT Ha... Ha…Give me another one

(It is received with disbelief, hilarity and cynicism when none other than Prime Minister tried to unsuccessfully pacify the opposition’s criticism by calling a major constitutional appointment made by his government as an error of judgment. Who he thought would be so naïve to give credence to his statement.)






We are living in interesting times, to say the least. When did you last see or hear an ‘honest’ P.M. heading a bunch of corrupt…criminal...Tainted ministers. English is a funny yet rich language. You have terms to describe every situation and catastrophe politicians can push our country to. Error of judgment is one such phrase in the weaponry. I wonder! How every one in the numerous stages down the chain suffered from this color blindness called Error of judgment. So our PM brushes all allegations and comes out unscathed, or so he thinks. He is calling it (Thomas’s appointment as CVC of India) nothing big just an error of judgment. (EOJ) CWG was another EOJ. The list is endless. 3 G scam EOJ. Adarsh scam EOJ. Purchase of MPs votes so that an ‘honest’ PM could continue at helm—EOJ. Sharma says Nachiketa who? Next day newspapers splash him in family get- together photographs, may be yet another EOJ, this time probably by the photographer.

We all have a role to play till the curtains are down. Personal honesty is one of the traits required for prime minister. You can not rely on leading a nation of billion people by just one single sail called honesty. What about efficiency and effectiveness of the armada. The captain of the ship can not navigate rough sea on fate, hope and honesty. He has to have a team of equally honest, effective and dedicated crew aboard his ship.


Mr. Prime Minister you are not responsible for your honesty alone. You are responsible for honesty of your team mates too. Dhoni can not say I am sorry but see I am honest. He is on to the pitch not to display his honesty but his batting/bowling and captaincy skills. Isn’t he responsible for the performance of his entire team down to the last ball? Similarly, sir you are a nice man. You love poetry. You are a gentleman to the core. You do not vie for any personal gain but sir! Do us a favor even if it is for the first and last time – crack the whip... Go cracking man. Show them who the real boss is. Show them two of your sterling qualities, one - honesty that you already have in plenty and the other ‘zero tolerance’ to dishonesty. Sir, you may not be after Power but we do need a Powerful PM. Is it too much to ask. Don’t we deserve him/her?

THE FLYING SNAKE

There are hundreds of genre of snakes. One of the breeds  is said to be of flying snakes. As the very name suggests, this snake flies. Have you ever seen one? Even I haven’t. However, a true story, I came across during my visit to Bandikui is here for you (as told to me by Kalyan Sahay Gaur, a retired Railway man of the era gone by).

Long long ago, during British Raj there was this C class station called flag station or way side station in Railway parlance. You might have noticed those tiny stations in your train journey when your train speeds by and there is this Assistant Station Master with green flag held at right angle from the ground. One Braj Gopal was the Station Master of this C class station. He was quite fond of ‘Bhaang’ (marijuana). During festive season folks in Rajasthan do indulge in merry-making by way of liberally consuming bhaang. Some of Braj Gopal’s staff made a rather strong potion and he along with his friends had more than he could hold. Since it was a shift change time, the staff including the Station Master who came to relieve Braj Gopal was also generously invited to the ‘party’ and offered liberal helpings of bhang. All the ‘guests’ of party were already sozzled and on a ‘high’. They had all rather forgotten that they were ‘on duty’.  They were all too inebriated to remember that they were  on duty. They had also forgotten that which trains are expected when, which trains required ‘line clear’ and which trains require ‘point setting’ through signal and caution order etc. All were in a trance. A train, not finding green signal is required to halt and give long whistles at the outer of station section, as per operating manual. Despite constant long whistles there was no green signal forthcoming Driver of the train, an Anglo-Indian, finding no signal and no effect of his constant whistling was annoyed. Driver and Guard together is the owner of the train in the mid-section. To say the Anglo-Indian driver was furious will be an understatement. The set rule in such eventuality is to uncouple the engine and ‘pilot’ it slowly into the station while continuously blowing the whistle.



The whistle sound closing by was enough to sober our party people. They staggered on their feet. Suddenly it dawned upon them what it means to be found ‘drunk’ on duty with train desperately languishing at outer. They realized they are going to summarily lose their jobs. Braj Gopal, the Station Master got brightest idea flashed in his mind. His room contained all the instruments of giving line clear and communication apparatus, he locked his room from outside and sat at the doorstep with a long face. When the driver shouted at Braj Gopal “Hey Man! What’s wrong?” Braj Gopal with suitable stammer in tongue and tremble in body replied “there is a flying snake in my office ... with great difficulty I have got the room locked before it could bite anyone... I have called the snake charmer... It is just not possible to open the cabin before that… who will open? Only the one who wants to commit suicide can open the lock, here is the key. No joke. It’s a flying snake, flies right at you aiming for your forehead. Once bitten, the death is instant. Not another moment. You may go …do whatever...I can’t risk life of my staff. Hearing this, driver too lost his nerve. He instantly calmed down. The entire train was piloted to the next station. From the cabin of next station, Control Room was informed of the flying snake. Mind of Braj Gopal was racing like Toofan Mail (Rajdhani Express or Shatabdi Express were yet to be introduced) how to come out unscathed from this entire flying snake saga. Men were sent in all the ten directions (North, South, East, West, North East, North West, South East, South West, Skyward (tree tops) and underground (snake pits) to catch a snake, flying or no flying, dead or alive. Alas! All came empty handed. They were wondering the snakes, hitherto galore in the area, where have they all vanished. Till yesterday one could not have ventured out to adjacent mangrove without spotting a couple of snakes with or without venom.



Next morning when a staffer was up on neem (margosa) tree looking for a twig to brush his teeth, he located a baby viper. He shouted “Mass Saab! Mass Saab! Snake!” The Station Master couldn’t ve asked for more. It was dream catch. Immediately a cloth was thrown at baby viper to confuse him and poor fellow got caught for no fault of his. He was consigned to a pitcher. Pitcher was sealed. The seal was duly signed by three employees; a kind of ‘panchnama’ and a paper slip was promptly pasted on the pitcher. The slip read:




1. Name: Flying snake


2. Time caught: 1900 hrs


3. Length: 1.5 yard


4. Color: Jet black


5. Age: Above 100 years


(Estimated by the snake-charmer)


6. Property: Flies, aims and bites only at forehead of anything moving.


7. Effect: Instant death.


A rookie khalasi was handed over the pitcher and assigned the task of carrying the catch to Bandikui to the District Traffic Superintendent. Mr. Jennison, D.T.S. immediately called for Mr Cononi, the Chief Controller and shared his wish to see a glimpse of the legendry flying snake. As it happens in bureaucracy, this order too traveled from the very top and stopped at the junior most staffer. They caught hold of a casual labor and ordered him to break open the seal of the pitcher. Hearing this, the casual labor hid behind the bushes and started crying non stop. “Maai baap I have nine children. I am the only earning member, they will all be orphaned”. The D.T.S. realized the sensitivity of the matter and futility of his desire to see a ‘flying snake’. Promptly, Badri Prasad Chaubey, the Chief Clerk was summoned and instructed to dig a deep pit to bury the pitcher. The secret of the Station Master’s bhang orgy and myth of a flying snake was buried forever.


Years later, superannuated Braj Gopal’s grand children would never get tired of hearing the story of flying snake night after night.As for Braj Gopal, he attributed his entire creative imagination to his favorite bhaang.