Modern Love in Punjab

 Love is the biggest paradox of all times of our lives . It’s Valentines in a day and I wonder about the exchange of gifts , balloons and presents to each other . When I was growing up , if a kissing scene came or there was a hint of love the birds would start twittering , or two buds would kiss each other ! Also , what we kept handy was the remote , suddenly the channel would change or one of us would get a hint with humph from our father or uncle and we would hurry up and  twist the knob!

It’s no wonder we are still grappling with ever increasing population and one of the highest consumption of condoms but we still have no knowledge of sex ! Valentine cards are sold at an all time high , red roses , strawberries coated with chocolate , presents which can be from the mundane to the exotic depending upon your pocket or even beyond it .  I was in the market and it’s as a sight for my village eyes and one could see the materialistic fervour and the marketing gimmick to sell an utopian dream , imagine you could only love or declare your love if you had given a teddy .

This year , I seriously followed the promise , teddy , hug , promise , kiss day and I was wondering how we ( women ) put ourselves out for a morsel of affection or approval ! How about if we just gave ourselves these without the time line or the stress and pressure of the dates ?

I found the best ones here , they were dual purpose love balloons, one was proclaiming my love and on the other side was the political party symbol!  One could be the love charger and also remind one of the political affiliation ! In the last political election , we had a couple that was divided over the parties they support but strangely now their shop is selling the balloons with different party symbols and trying to make a quick buck buts when I asked about their love they said it was evergreen but sharam karo no one talks about it !

Apparently , now life’s pace has changed and as the netas changed their parties so does the youth change the partners and the biggest change is that we have accepted all this as well sab chalta hai .. Now , no one shies away when a kissing scene comes nor do the birds coo , the flowers don’t kiss nor do the pigeons come , all there is a rating to check you. 

I’m all for love , Cupid and the roses and even good governance but this crass commercialisation has put me off! Imagine getting a ballon and on the other side it says vote for …

The Sorting Hat

 The sorting hat in Punjab 

I am transported to the great hall in Hogwarts with a bit of Punjabi swear words , ok a lot of them ! The current scenario is such that we have so many candidates crossing parties and barriers as if the philosophers stone lies with the other party . All of us are perplexed. Everyday one of them stands up , from Akali Dal , Congress , Lok Congress Party , AAP , SSM , all the acronyms in the alphabet have been used now and the ballot paper seems to have run out of space now . This is a situation that not even the finest author can get it self out , be it Agatha Christie or Jk Rowling . Imagine a situation where every politician is trying to sell his or her idea to save Punjab. 

 As a Punjabi , I am wondering whether why we need saving and from what ? Why do we need to be given money to lure us to vote? Every time , you want to make us vulnerable or susceptible to being dependent on a card that a said party has given ! Why aren’t these my rights? Isn’t this my Haq? 

I need , deserve and demand good health, better infrastructure , a balanced education system , and an economy where  I am not crippled . Why are these given as lure bait ? Are we the hunted?

Even in the magical forest , unicorns weren’t hunted , and we are precious too . And it was forbidden and dark too . This is what we foray into , a dark path . 

Punjab is at a cusp of ruin or greatness after fighting a valiant war on the borders of Delhi. Why is it convenient to be called a terrorist , a Khalistani when it suits the powers to be , but are hailed as a saviour during covid pandemic ? Yes we are emotional fools that’s why the maximum deaths at the border or any skirmish around the country after 1947 are Punjabis. 

But to prove ones nationality or allegiance is what pains me .

Also , how do leaders who are not even Punjabis come and make tall statements to save Punjab? When a turban is wrapped , so does great responsibility come forth . You couldn’t even pay your municipal corporation employees salary and then cried foul to the central government. Let’s not get int mud slinging , and the covid pandemic was too horrible or devastating to make a statement, so why don’t you concentrate on your state and its dismal state of affairs and abysmal pollution ? 

Leave Punjab to us .I would really want and wish and pray that magic unfolds and there is light int he darkest hour so that the zameer that is sort of missing in our leaders comes out and we all work honestly and conscientiously for a better Punjab . In the meanwhile I am also throwing in my candidature as Neeti Aloo wali ( no relation to the shutteranwala ) .  An open appeal to all , when we all are wise and have the acumen to crack the exams , IELTs , build careers abroad , stay back give this mitti a chance . And please , we ruined the system , no Martian came from universe , so the onus lies with us . 

Sincerely yours ,

Ravneet Sangha 

A mother waiting to go to Hogwarts . 

The strike continues

 The entire state is on strike ironically and we are named after rivers that flow and carve its own path and history that has been testament to its tryst with destiny . I think we all are rebels to a cause , and we take this  a bit too seriously . The teachers are on a strike , even begging for food in the next village ( it happened yesterday ) and we have nurses , students who sat for the police constable exam on a strike. The transport staff is on strike , its a godly miracle that how we are functioning . For over a year and half we have been battling with a pandemic and just when things are normal because the elections are around the corner everyone wants a stake. 

The state is facing its toughest electorate where we are being polarised on caste and every politician is giving out freebies as if God will fill the famous empty coffers ! Punjab has a famous drug rehabilitation policy and every day addicts are given medicines to wean them off , which is one per day . Bhatinda which is famous for its heavy weights , made the headlines for this where the entire hospital staff that dispensed this medicine to large crowds was on strike and the lone lady doctor was giving out the dose. And ,the drug addicts themselves were in uproar because they could not make do with one pill a day.

How is one supposed to function here, where even the famous Patwaris who  can change fortunes overnight are on strike and I have an uncle who is desperately  praying for them to resolve their dispute so that he can fly back home before Omnicron closes borders .

We all are dependent upon the gimmickry of the participants and also the interesting twist was when I wanted to start my evening school again so that kids could come and study . It seems they are all so used to studying online that they have two groups , one on strike to not go and study and the other that wants to come . The siblings have divided themselves because one dish to come and the others don’t but the conflict is there ; hence the strike .

My cook had the best idea he wants me to take adult literacy classes for all of the adults in the village . His reasoning being that maybe God understands English and he would need English for his pleas to be heard. It’s a sad day , should I laugh or cry or go on a hartal or a strike so that I could teach and help? We are a state that is so far gone that even God will join ranks to protest . 

The Knitting Bag

 The Knitting Bag

It is an ordinary knitting bag , faded brown and of no use us to anyone anymore. A wool bag with handles in which women put their knitting needles and wool and a pattern book carrying it along fashionably . Now it sit sin my room cupboard holding memories and hiding secrets and whispers of a lady who used it . It’s my Naniji’s ; reminding me of her and all that she made and knitted . Arent women wonderful ? They knit , they sew , they build lives, they persevere and plant and dig roots as deep as they can to  stabilise her life and her family .

And , this is what she did, in 1950’s a young immigrant beautiful lady who travelled from Ludhiana to Ohio, without knowing the lay of the land or the language fluently but followed the path to her husband. I wonder where do the things go , when the person dies, what do you do with the things ,objects that she had collected over the years lovingly from the travels abroad as an expat . It is what life is , our houses are already full, our houses have a certain decor and these old fashioned crochets or embroidery have no place with the avant grande or the minimalistic approach to our lives now.

She must have sat , huddled with other expat wives learning how to knit and fix these handles and learning a foreign language . The snow , the weather , the conditions , the food all different . This sentimentality stems from the fact that I have so much of the dust catchers ( as they say ) or the silver I have collected over the years or the trolls that I feel are my lucky charm. Who will take them ? 

I wonder , where will it go ? Life is fluid , transitory but does that mean one shouldn’t buy anything or one should have less desires . Who takes care of the dying objects that remain in a corner gathering dust ? I would probably be remembered for the books I bought that would fetch a hefty price from the raddiwala  and the empty coffee  jars .

It saddens and pains me , the weather changes , leaves fall and trees stand tall bereft of their foliage , I go back in time and thing of all those who have left their homes and settled in Punjab after partition and started life and some went abroad to be pioneers but what remains of them ? A speck in history and now some black and white faded pictures . I tried researching on Google ( my answers for everything ) but realised that it cant feel , or be emotive. A life is lived with emotions and feelings and the change in weather has made me accept that its ok to be maudlin got feel and to emote and to cry . And I ,keep the books ,the journals and her things because she leafed through them and i can feel her …it’s like I try with my grandfathers sweater and her bangle . Or a muffler that menaces and hugs me .. 

I wish for an embrace again ..

Meena Kumari and me

 As always ,one of the young boys who used to work outside ran away , back to Bihar . Before you lambast me and call me names or report me they are all of legal age , we had one of the social activists report us and make a wrong case because we made good press copy ! That is a story of another day . So ,his replacement , a young boy called Azad , came to work . He’s a an impressive , young lad , hard working and would not shirk his work . On the farm , we have these chickens who are slowly and slowly growing and would become hens to start lay eggs . Once you’ve started eating free range , farm fresh , organic eggs , you just don’t go back to the dark side .

They do taste better ! So Azad became the care taker and he would follow them around and would be all after them and in the evening returns hem to their coops so that they would be safe from the big fat cat or snakes ; just an everyday ordinary adventure .

The hens stated laying eggs and he would proudly run in showing the eggs  and would speak in chaste Hindi ‘ murgi me anda de diya . . Every day , it would be the highlight of his day , to bring in eggs and chase them to lay eggs .Today  ,was no exception as one of them lays eggs  in a crate of red chilies ,maybe its a habanero special . So I was outside , asking him whether there were any eggs today , so he says Meena Kumari baithi hai .

I was taken aback , and then he turns and says he’s named all of the . There is Rhea, Anjali , Kajal , Veena  and Shweta and Vani , and of course the most beautiful Meena Kumari .

I kid you not ,he’s kept names and calls them by the names . He knows which is which . I was so moved by his innocence and his ingenuity to name them and give them different characters . All our lives we want to be guided by a system of education , values and our success is defined by our degrees and what we have , what we wear , what we possess . And then , we reach a point we aren’t happy , then we try to decrease the stress and turn towards to happiness. Happiness that has been missing and is caught up in the rat race and the drive to have more , realising much later that more is not what we wanted !

Talking to him and hearing the names he’d kept , made me feel that this boy had it all , he was happy creating a life with what he had . And , to name them and to treat them so well ! I have a smile because of him and just thinking how he felt , made me realise happiness is in the little things ! 

Just his face and the twinkle in his eyes , and the way he rattled of the names , set the tone of the day ..naming the hens and not even caring whether he gets an egg , just the moments . 

Now and then its good to pause in our pursuit of happiness and just be happy .Guillaume Apollinaire .

Reflections on Independence Day

 What do I call myself ? A tired Indian who is in her 40’s fighting to tell that her country is great . She is still fighting strong. Why do I want to write about a gheesa - peeeta topic ? Why do I constantly harp about something that is a dream? I talked about it yesterday but it doesn’t seem to make a difference. The only thing the next generation is sad is that it falls on a Sunday .

My country is 75 years old , so many sons and daughters lost their lives liberating it from the Britishers , fighting the World Wars , to be killed in unknown lands , buried in unmarked graves , and then the gradual slow building of a country that at one point did not even have enough food .

Revolution , after revolution and fighting wars against China , Pakistan and the new turmoils , we started out great . No one bothered that  a Punjabi was fighting alongside a Chatterjee or a Bishnoi. We take  pride in our identity but we are a part of the nation .

Someone said there is no unity in diversity , that we have not been given our due , why don’t we all walk off into the Indian Ocean and go find our own place? Imagine all of us as small countries , we would all get annexed ! A country that struggles with independence to its women , basic rights but can you imagine where we started from? 

Do you want to go a country where one religion is divided and kills the other minority? Or do you want a Talibanised state where women are packed off as sex slaves? Where men are killed if they shave , or the maximum number of boys are maimed ...

I don’t want to bring any comparison , but sometimes brutal facts need to be told. Why do we do arm chair intellectualism? Why do you always want to look at the bad side? If you have so many answers and can bring about your change , what are you waiting for?

We voted for our leaders, they are human after all , why do we put them on a pedestal and start worshiping them as Gods? Even the Gods we submerse in the water annually so why not change the thought process? 

Imagine if Bhagat Singh or Sukhdev had said we will not fight for a Madrasi because he is not a punjabi ? Or when we were fighting in Kargil , they chose to not fight as India but as states?

Why has the pride gone ? Why is the next generation so jaded? Why cant you move your patriotism to real life rather than sharing it in Instagram, just when India wins ? How many of you would leave india and move to another country ? You think you’d have it easy there . Yes , sometimes the journey is hard , it all looks bleak but there is always light at the end of the tunnel . I am a patriot , yes it seem stupid , you will constantly mock me and my ideals but all the stories of bravery and the fact that our Gurus told us to do seva and to help all without discrimination , imagine if the Hemkund Foundation or Khalsa Aid didn’t help all? 

We are better than this , yes we are Punjabi or Rajasthani or Muslim but we are Indians foremost .would you not call Tagore yours ? The pride in the flag is what we need , claim that .

Happy Independence Day ! 

Ram or Rahim

 He was looking around glancing , scared , knowing they would pounce on him from where it was unexpected . The sun was setting and the setting rays would blind him when he was cycling back. His cycle was rickety , old , the chain had been mended umpteen times and the basket was fraying , its ropes unravelling just as his life was right now . And he was wearing an old , stained kurta pajama the trademark of every villager in North India , it was stained in different places and the underarms had huge marks of sweat . His carrier at the back had a huge bag ad it was stuffed with potatoes . Freshly harvested potatoes picked from the field after harvesting had been done .

He knew this is the way he would survive the pandemic , they had shut everything down . The thekha was open but the cobbler had no takers.

He didn’t know how long he could survive , his wife was home and his unmarked daughter too . She had lost her job again , as the maids weren’t allowed into the high rise anymore .

What was one supposed to do  ? He had called in every favour , used up all his savings and no one wanted his services anymore . This was stealing but they hadn’t bothered to check the field or any left over potatoes , he could keep some and sell the rest in the next village . The daily stealing and collecting and then cycling to the next village to sell was making him tired and a funny wheeze came after sometime. Ram Bharose knew of nothing of his village IN Uttar Pradesh , now home was Punjab and he was as Punjabi as they came.

And all the funny talk in the mandir that we are Hindus and we shouldn’t trust the Muslims ,and even the sardars were just out to get us , they were siding with the Pakistanis .

He didn’t know any of this, all this was spoken at night when people got together for the cheap drink under the guise of the darkness , no one could make out but they collected in the back alley ..

He steered clear from all this , he didn’t believe in the propaganda . Imagine the fauji , being a terrorist, he was a Subedar retired who would regale everyone with stories from the 72 war . 

The harvest season would end in a few days and he had to make most of it when it was twilight otherwise the sardars would catch him and take away his loot . They ate potatoes at every meal and he tried to sell his produce and saved a bit of the money everyday . This wouldn’t last and he wasn’t strong enough to work in the fields . Tomorrow would be the last day , when he could go pick the potatoes , and he needed to visit atleast four fields 

Covid was killing people they said , the real killer is poverty and hunger . No one talked about that , they just said wear a mask , be inside , and do social distancing . Dooriyan , my foot , the hunger was killing them .

It was the last day , the sun shone high and it was fierce , May was always unkind and the sun streamed the whole day long.it kept on stretching and the day seemed longe than before . 

He waited till the start of the setting of the sun and slowly , started collecting the potatoes , sometimes the rows had lots and some none at all . He carried on combing the field to collect as many as possible . It as dark and he was tired and as carrying his sack and dragging and shuffling his feet , looking behind his shoulder , worried and scared .

One more lane and he would be in his home. And , suddenly he was ambushed because he was wearing a kurta pajama . The blunt object hit his head and he fell , blood gushing out , potatoes scattered everywhere and the cycle fell. 

The name didn’t even save him .  Ram Bharose.