Forgotten Soldier

 The Missing Soldier 

    

    General VP Malik wrote an excellent article about solideering in The Tribune published on 24 June 2018 . The article was titled 'In Search of the Lost Soldier'. The article can be read here by clicking on this. 

    I was reminded of  my childhood when the 'Soldier' the 'Fauji' was always part of our culture be it folk songs, village Panchayat, social function etc etc. As I thought about it, I found that the the 'soldier' has gone out of present life in Punjab. I wrote this article about it :- 

Alas the Soldier is Gone 

    I wonder where the soldier has gone whom I saw in my childhood? In the school in my village, in the 1960s and ’70s, our classroom walls adorned huge posters of Subedar Joginder Singh, Major Somnath Sharma, Major Dhan Singh Thapa and other Param Vir Chakra awardees. That was the time when the wars of 1962, 1965 and 1971 had been fought. Our village soldiers who returned from the front narrated numerous tales of bravery. Hav Karam Singh, who was in the artillery and had a penchant for writing Punjabi poems, would recite them at the village gurdwara — Kadh-kadh topan chaldiyan (guns go blazing boom boom). A soldier coming on leave was revered and held in very high esteem. In any congregation, he was offered a place of pride. Old soldiers were part of village folklore. 

    Our language books had poems eulogising the bravery of soldiers. I still remember a poem, ‘Wagan chhad de hanjhuan waliye ne pair dharan de mainu raqab utte, mere desh te bani e bheed bhaari tut paye ne wairy Punjab utte’ (O my bride with tearful looks, allow me to leave for war as the enemy has attacked my country and Punjab front has got activated). A number of stories of war heros were part of textbooks. Ballads of war and poems about soldiers featured predominantly in the Saturday Bal Sabha. No school function was complete without one or two items praising the soldiers and the Army. 

    Our language books had poems eulogising the bravery of soldiers. I still remember a poem, ‘Wagan chhad de hanjhuan waliye ne pair dharan de mainu raqab utte, mere desh te bani e bheed bhaari tut paye ne wairy Punjab utte’ (O my bride with tearful looks, allow me to leave for war as the enemy has attacked my country and Punjab front has got activated). A number of stories of war heros were part of textbooks. Ballads of war and poems about soldiers featured predominantly in the Saturday Bal Sabha. No school function was complete without one or two items praising the soldiers and the Army.  

    A soldier formed an important part of Punjab’s culture. A number of folk songs sung by women on weddings were about longings of brides for the soldier gone to war; a sample: ‘Pehli gaddi aave mera Hauldar ve” (May my Havildar come back in the first available train). Songs played on All India Radio such as, ‘Mahi ve lai ke chhuttian mahine dian aa” (O my beloved come home on leave for a month) and ‘Mahi aave jang jit ke, te main randion suhagan hovan’ (May my beloved come back after winning the war and I may become a bride again) are still fresh in my memory. 

    Soldiering was the most revered profession in Punjab. Almost all the sportsmen of national and international fame were from the Army. Be it hockey, athletics, boxing, wrestling or any other sport; almost all were predominantly represented by soldiers. Most of the players preferred to join the Army. 

    But now everything has changed. Heroes are synonymous only with films. A soldier does not find a place in Punjabi culture. Folk songs eulogising him are long forgotten. One hardly finds a chapter on brave soldiers in any textbook. Sportsmen do not join the Army. Veterans do not find a respectable place even in village meetings due to politics. 

    That soldier of my childhood days is lost.

The article was published in The Tribune on 02 July 2018 and it can be viewed on internet  by clicking here

A Funeral in London

A Funeral in London 

    I and my wife visited UK in June-July 2017. We stayed for a week with my friend Bhupinder Singh. One day I attended a funeral of a Sikh Lady . I wrote this article on that experience . 

DYING is a costly affair in England,’ said my friend. I could not fathom it till I attended a funeral service. It was my third day on a pleasure trip in England. My friend had taken a week off to show me around. One day, he sought to be excused as he wanted to attend the funeral of an elderly woman in the distant neighbourhood. I offered to accompany him, which he readily agreed to, saying ironically: ‘The crematorium is located in such a beautiful place that one looks forward to going there.’ 

We first went to a nearby gurdwara, where in the langar hall the body was placed in a casket made of the finest wood, with shining brass handles and other metallic fittings on the corners. The granthi, in attendance, recited Gurbani in a litany and loop to make the best of the occasion. I was told that the woman had expired about 10 days back and the date for the funeral had to be fixed keeping in view the availability of close relatives as well as the slot available at the crematorium. Most of the mourners were dressed in black. After Gurbani, and the last look, the lid was placed on the casket. The lid had a brass-mounted nameplate of the deceased and khanda, a symbol of the Sikh faith.

The body was then taken into the hearse, a modified black Jaguar, and the husband, and close relatives, ambled into the waiting limousine; the rest into their respective cars. Wreathes of white flowers were placed in the hearse and khanda made of white flowers adorned the bonnet. The retinue of mourners reached the crematorium. 

The crematorium was shaped like a church and located inside a beautiful garden-cum-graveyard. The flowers were in full bloom, as if welcoming the ‘dear departed’. The well laidout garden and serenity of the place was to be seen to be believed. As we were walking the last few yards, I spotted a well-dressed Sikh gentleman, wearing a tailcoat, walking ahead of the hearse, holding a long kirpan to his chest. He was directing all the activities. I took him for the eldest son of the deceased, till I was told he was the ‘usherer’ of the funeral company that conducted such services. Later, I found a few offices of such companies outside the graveyard, boasting of the ‘best’ services, costing 2,000-4,000 pounds.

At the entrance, the programme of the day was displayed on a metallic stand, like the one in a band concert. We reached the hall and sat on benches. Books of psalms were on desks for mourners to read and seek comfort. In our case, the granthi and the usherer took over. In the backdrop of the cross, it appeared to be a perfect blending of Christianity and Sikhism. After ardaas and kirtan sohila, the body was lowered into the recess, as two wooden planks below the casket moved downward. Everybody moved out and started looking towards the chimney. I found another procession waiting for the ‘service’. As the ‘holy smoke’ emerged, everyone got into their cars and I saw the costly wreaths and khanda lying on the ground. 

‘From earth to earth... dust to dust...’, I mused.

The article was published in The tribune on 05 September 2017. 

The article can be viewed on the internet by clicking here

Holy Smoke, published in The Tribune on 24 August 2016

Holy Smoke 

    My friend Bhupinder Singh from the UK visited India and stayed with us for a few days. This article describes what happened before he left for the UK. This article was published in The Tribune on 24 August 2016. The article is given below :- 

Me with Bhupinder Singh

    COME winter, NRIs flock home — to Punjab — like migratory birds. An NRI friend, too, visited his native place this year. He was my class fellow and had migrated to England long ago. This year, he could manage to get just a month off due to some leave constraints of his wife. He could not get a dedicated government job. Since he knew carpentry and masonry, he worked on contract with building contractors. He was suffering from knee pain and other health problems, and with age catching up, contractors would usually look for younger workers.  

    We met a few times. The day before his departure, I asked him if he needed anything. “Yaar, I need two bundles of bidis.” I couldn’t believe my ears. This gentleman had become deeply religious, with a flowing beard, and occasionally, recited Gurbani at a gurdwara in England. Before I could launch a barrage of Punjabi expletives, reminding him of the Sikh faith, he shouted: “No! No! It is for my foreman!” He explained that the foreman, who was from Haryana, was fond of desi bidis, which were cheaper and more ‘flavourful’. “I am in a big dharm sankat,” he stated. 

    The problem was how, and from where to procure the bidis. We dare not ask someone else to do it for us as it would arouse suspicion. We got on a scooter and started looking for a wholesale dealer of bidis. Asking cigarette vendors didn’t help much. They would first give a questioning look — two Sardars, one looking holy with a flowing beard and the other not-so-holy — and then a vague response.

    Finally, we landed at a wholesale dealer’s shop and told him to quickly wrap two big bidi bundles in a newspaper, so these would not come in contact with other items. To the bewildered salesman, we muttered something like the bidis are required for some labourers employed in the fields! 

    We then rushed to my friend’s house, where his wife asked him what he had bought. He told her, only to be lashed out at. She threatened to throw him and the bidis out of the house. With great effort, we were able to calm her down. The next big question — what if the bidis were discovered during checking at the Amritsar or Heathrow airport? We envisioned a newspaper headline screaming, ‘Sikh caught carrying bidis’. Leaving everything at the mercy of Waheguru, he left. I had my fingers crossed. 

    My anxiety grew as I did not receive any news of his well-being over the next few days.    Finally, he called one day and told me he couldn’t phone earlier as he had gotten busy, and added (what I wanted to hear) that the bidis had reached safely — undetected and unquestioned. “I am now at work, having a break. The foreman is puffing away at the bidis and also thanking me profusely!” 

    “I hope those will last till your next visit!” I teased. We had a hearty laugh.

This article can be read online by clicking here.