Moved and impassioned, I told my driver to take the first available U-turn. Memories of the Kargil War flashed on my mind, when I had witnessed six soldiers “brought-home-dead,” in Fatehabad District alone.

Brave people of this region are known, not only to take in their stride, the loss of their men going down fighting, on borders for the motherland, but also to feel the collective pride of the sacrifice made by their valiant sons. I can recall the skies ranting with slogans of “Amar Rahe” and “Jab tak Suraj-Chand rahega, Foji tera naam rahega”.

The mother of one of the soldiers, who when she saw the District Magistrate and the Superintendent of Police, offering with their salutes to be the pallbearers themselves, had commented, “O’ son, you have repaid me the debt of my milk!” None cried, albeit all around looked grim at the loss of the one who brought them glory. On his son’s last journey, the father had said, “I have the whole lineup of my sons if the country needs them!”

Thousands, cutting across caste, race, colour, religion, sect and ideology had gathered at the last rites. They seemed to follow only a patriot’s religion then. Military honours done, a long lineup of mourners offered floral tributes to the departed son of theirs. Volleys of shots echoed as if from the hearts of people around and the Last Post was sounded. The pyre was lit by a three year old, the martyr’s son, when some folks seemed to have lost control over their emotions.

The driver brought me back from my memory lane on reaching the Memorial site. Some civilians carried umbrellas as it was still raining. I alighted from my car to be received with dignity by a couple of smartly dressed officers. Straightaway, I was accosted to the bust. Carrying the floral wreath, which I was supposed to place at the bust of Maj Sandeep Shankla, two more men in ceremonial dress joined in ahead of me. And I too began to march.

Something in me ignited my whole self. I was, as if, spiritually energised and blessed. With every step on climbing up to the bust, I felt a lifting out of myself. An alleviation of sorts! No sad thoughts in mind but those of gratitude, indebtedness and obeisance! I offered the wreath. Prayed for the man for a while. Saluted the soldier. And with matching agility, infused in me then by the ambience, I turned right to step down.

Back in the car, I recalled to myself words inscribed under the bust of Martyr young Lieutenant Arun Khetrapal, who laid his life to the call of duty, having just then passed out of the Indian Military Academy, in the 1971 War with Pakistan, “When you go home, tell them of us, that we gave our today, for their tomorrow”.

My driver asked me if I had personally known the soldier. “No!” I said and pondered if I’d said the right thing. Soldiers are known to generations of men and not a few of them. The call of the ‘Unknown Soldier’ can command you to “About Turn,” should you chose to forget him. Remember this! Remember him!

“Didn’t you hear PC telling the country’s very senior cops in no uncertain terms and with unambiguous intent that they were all like footballs? Kicked from here to there!”

“PC? you mean Police Commissioner?” asked Football Two.

“Yes, he is the seniormost of them all and a well-meaning HM too,” said Football One. “You mean His Majesty?” asked Football Two. “Yes, after all cops of the feudal vintage like to address him and his ilk like that only,” replied Football One. “But how come PC said we were footballs? And if he had to refer to all that is round around us, and within, then he could have said, ‘marbles’ instead,” quipped Football Two.

“Big people have big brains buddy! Great ideas take birth in them naturally. PC might have thought that footballs give a well-fed look. That is why perhaps he wanted to pamper the cops, likening them to something the calling of which is all too welcome!” said Football One.

Football Two still wanted to make a point, “No, but he didn’t want to pamper them, rather give them a piece of his mind! But as I said, marbles would have best described the cops’ calling. Don’t the marbles hit, hammer and shoot at each other, and all those who are in their line of fire with a perfect aim in sight like the bull’s eye (be they public, or rival politicians in the “Marble Cops” scheme of things)?

“But buddy, they always want to bend them like Beckhem.” Football One tried to make another point, “And if it is not a football then what else will take the punch in. A cricket or a hockey ball or even a marble, may hit hard on ricocheting. It’s only a football that is flexible and resilient, as if beseeching the kicker into “one more time, come on Sir, kick me one more time hard, and I may ‘net’ you a ‘goal!” Football One tried to convince her friend elaborating on the various “Politico-friendly” traits of them all.

Football Two seemed to be convinced by now and quibbled with an eye to eye grin, “Look what happened when even the non-political, world famous French footballer, Zinedine Zidane headbutted Marco Materazzi during the 2006 World Cup final! No political player ever would like to repeat Zidane’s feat? And invite unnecessary trouble when the likes of us are there to oblige.”

And to conclude and clinch the issue in favour of PC’s calling the cops footballs, Football One quoted Shakespeare, “Hey Buddy know what? Even the most popular Roman king Caesar had wanted to ‘have men about me that are fat, sleek-headed men and such as sleep a-nights.’

“So as to let the thieves do their work. Footballs all! Jai Hind Sir!” greeted Football Two bending over backwards a little more than desired.

It was my wife’s observing her Karwa Chauth last year. Days ,months and years may have rolled into eternity for the rest of the world, but of the two of us it was as if we had been blessed with conjugal bliss only yesterday (excluding the courtship period, of course!). In all these years, I had not changed a thing about my typically Indian “husbandry”.

The day began with instructions to the domestic help. The do’s and dont’s were notified in clear terms. Nothing was to be served in two portions. Not even water, for the boy might out of habit bring two glasses and my wife might drink some by mistake and thereby commit an “indiscretion”. “Khana sirf sahib ke liye banega,” my wife too joined to say in a matter-of-fact manner.
During the early phase of our married life, my wife used to coax me into observing a fast with her: “All good husbands are supposed to stand by their spouses in difficult times.” But being a hard-nut, I maintained my expected standards of masculinity, guided more by the time-tested traits of playing husband than mutual feeling. After all, I had to think about what society could say—I dreaded being called hen-pecked, one who swears by the wife!

The day of Karwa Chauth being a holiday, I followed my wife to all the nooks and corners of the house, particularly to the kitchen, lest she be led to consuming any edible stuff. I doubled as her conscience-keeper, doubtless adding to her woes. The fact she told me that, for the last one quarter-of-a-century, she had been taking care of herself did not cut much ice.

I watched her dress in a green silk saree we had purchased for the occasion. I noticed her tenderly putting on bangles on the wrist. I saw her putting a bindi with extra care in the middle of the forehead. And I very nearly felt butterflies in my stomach when I put sindoor on her head as she touched my feet. Rather than given in to the intensity of my feelings, I chose to think I was the best “husband” in the world and that my wife was still the prettiest woman on earth—my zohra-jabeen.

By afternoon some ladies came to our house to listen to the kahani which a Brahmin woman was supposed to relate to the fasting women. I eavesdropped and listened to the story, the plot of which would frighten any husband-loving Hindu-wife. I, for once, thought that the theory of imitation propounded by Aristotle had its universal relevance. Quietly I went to the kitchen and prepared tea for my wife. The domestic help couldn’t help giggling, for he had never seen me look at kitchen even by mistake, let alone enter it.

The evening set in, and I escorted my wife to the rooftop to “discover the moon”. After all it was the moon’s turn now to clinch the issue of fasting. I tried to locate the celestial body with sincerity. Lo and behold, the shining ball appeared on the northeastern horizon to relieve countless souls. Who said I didn’t take care of my better three-fourth as they say these days on Karva Chauth? And, if I said at the beginning that the husband in me hadn’t changed a bit over the past several years, well, I was lying.

Holidaying in the US this summer, I did keep myself informed of happenings back home in India through the net, but had a total eclipse of the Shah Rukh Khan issue, which on landing I learnt, had put the entire country and Bollywood on the boil, on a “near blasphemous and sacrilegious” act on the part of US immigration.

Being a cop myself, I don’t find any reason why someone should not be questioned, if he needs to answer some queries. And all the more justifiable it is if the man on duty wants him to. But I have had different “tastes” of, and “treatment” from the US immigration, having made it to that country seven times, during the past nearly seven years.

First time at Baton Rouge, Louisiana, I was not at ease with myself to reply to a curt, “What brings you here?” Since it was an official assignment under an Indo-US programme, I had the cheek to tell the officer, “It’s your own country!” He looked up after scanning my official passport and smiled back to say: “A cop! Enjoy your stay!”

The second time I and my wife were questioned on our “visiting interest” in Denver, Colorado. To amuse the officer I said, “We want to have a view of the world from your mile-high city!” “Be careful not to miss out on Molly Brown House at California Street.” He smiled and “stamped” us suggesting a visit to the “Unsinkable” Titanic survivor’s History-home.

Then at Seattle, the immigration officer put to us all the leading questions and answered them himself. “And you have come to visit your son. And he works for Microsoft. And he lives in Redmond. And you will meet your grand-child. And you will do baby-sitting for him...!” All this while he was processing our passports too, which he returned duly stamped. We wondered why do they call the playful activity “baby-sitting” and not “being-baby”.

Entering the US from Canada after a visit to Vancouver, the officer, this time a woman, was informed by our son saying, “Three of us live in Redmond and my folks are from India”. Reacting to this rather American “introduction” of us, Anaysa, our three-plus granddaughter, chipped in, uninvited. “But they are my Dadi and Dadu, Papa!”

“What did the baby say?” Sawan explained it when to the Immigration Officer’s other question he replied that he worked at his West Lake office in Seattle. “But you work in Redmond, Papa!” Anaysa again connected. “Yes Beta, I work from both places. Will you play with your Leapster” said Sawan in disgust. We were let in with the woman officer waving a “bye” to Anaysa who had a longish “baaaye” to reciprocate, without lifting the eyes from her screen.

When we narrated this to a friend there, he came up with an interesting episode involving one of our own desis, who on having been otherwise cleared for immigration, was told he could not carry a basket full of mangoes from the Canadian side.

“Well, can I eat them?” he pleaded and was allowed with a “Here and now”! And the fellow ate them all in a corner, holding each piece the way a baby holds his milk-bottle. With a loud burp he thanked the US immigration for their “kindness and generosity.” Smile SsssRrrrrKkkk, and forget about it!

Find the story here too

One doesn’t to be a Haryanvi to know aindees and khoppartuns because they are typical to all societies and the Haryanvi dialect has labelled them with a definite nomenclature.

To pinpoint the habitat of the aindees, Rohtak region can be truly given the credit for producing them, or if you hail from outside, there are fair chances of you too becoming an aindee if you possess HIS qualities, while in Rohtak, Mind you, Rohtak for this purpose is not a city but a region, a breeding ground for aindees.

If you are a daredevil, a go-getter, flamboyant, impressive, aggressive, a carry-along type, brave, rescuer, and self-possessed then you stand a good chance to deserve the appellation – Aindee. But it is to be remembered that an element of rusticity, uncouthness, rashness devil-may-care and hardihood has always to be there besides your “ability” to retrace your steps, go back on your word and “when did-I-say-that(?)” or “when-did-I-do-that”, if your scheming turns topsy-turvy.

Yes, of course, for all that is good, if you are able to grab credit. “Who could have otherwise done it, rhetoric” and “Here I throw the challenge”; It is guaranteed that some magnanimity and larger than life façade, has to be there always.

An aindee is always more smartly dressed than others; he is the one who will break the ice and is the least of an introvert. He is to be overriding all others’ arguments even if his conscious mind accepts the facts contrary to his perception and to the admittance of all others. The aindee has really to have one-upmanship and he is a cut above all.

In the countryside any act can be hilarious if it is not really so and any act can be un-inspiring which is actually the other way round. It depends on the sharpness of the mind of the aindee how beautifully he gives it a turn in his favour or not owning the idea at all.

While in Rohtak to be an aindee or to envelop one in that mantle, titled or self-assumed, the word is his. A mere mention of AINDEE is praise of you or prefixing or suffixing this title with your name gives you acceptance in that seemingly sleepy society. Sleepy because these are the very people who have still retained their untainted character typical of the (Jat-heart) land!

Now (and how?) about khoppartunns? The expression is quite suggestive. The only thing you have to do is translate it into English. Well ‘Khoppar’ is the Khopri or the skull and ‘Tunn’ is the sound produced resonating from a hollow utensil, bell, pitcher, well etc. etc. So the empty skull with its resonance of blankness or nothingness above one’s shoulders will make you a good khoppartunn.

Khoppartunn is not the exact antithesis of an aindee for the latter has an imbibed and inculcated trait of deceit, craft and machinations. Yet,l while the aindee will do some smarting also the khoppartunn will blissfully miss all that and will work in a blind bargain situation. The khoppartunn will never think and act, will never accept a sound advice to think and act, will act but on his own and not at someone’s bidding, goading, coaxing, inspiring, commanding, cajoling, luring, and do what you will to stir him up.

Khoppartunn will jump in a well, dash against a wall, swing on the tallest tender branch of a tree, make pace with a running vehicle, lift a quintal stone, burn his fingers literally and have no regrets, not even the wisdom of not repeating the act again will “tunn” against his khopri.

Khoppartunns are quite close to simpletons but only to the extent that while all khoppartunns may be simpletons but all simpletons cannot be khoppartunns. Amongst the simpletons there is always an element of innocence while the khoppartunns may not even know what is innocence. Yet they will justify their acts as “done-so-done”. A simpleton may repent on his deeds but a khoppartunn may never ever say a word of remorse or feel the guilt of it.

Within the aindees and khoppartunns, although all aindees may have something of a khoppartunn but all khoppartunns should have nothing of an aindee. Admittedly, the rusticity of a khoppartunn is always the main ingredient of the making of an aindee.

The best example to differentiate between a khoppartunn and an aindee is that if an aindee should break the windscreen of a passing car he may not own it (having done so) but this accusation on being slapped on the khoppartunn, he may admit: “Yes, I did it, what then?”

While khoppatunns are born as such, the aindees have to undergo an appreciation test of their “calibre” well directed towards their “personality development”. And thus there are aindees in the making, regular aindees and super-aindees. The last category is called a ripe one or pucca hoya aindee. If someone questions: “Are you a the twice born.” Yes he is, for he is a Rohtaki. And now the last word about this supremo.

It is said of the aindees of Rohtak that if you hammer a nail in their head, you will need a screwdriver to take it out in the shape of a screw because a nail will develop grooves during its stay in the head of a Rohtaki.
This was published in The Tribune

The girl is appearing for her board exams this year. She has not picked the name of the cop as her father, but that of his gardener’s. But she would always remain his child.

Diana, the “people’s princess”, emerges the main protagonist in this (un)fair(y) tale where her once prince-charming-turned husband, who deserted her, had to, after all, “identify” her body, literally torn into pieces. Well, this may be an irony of fate. But Diana, perhaps, entered a “tunnel” with a “dead end”.

Yes, the tunnel symbolises the pathway which her destiny had created for her, where there were no lights, no windows, no arms to stretch, nothing to look upto, no fresh air to fill the lungs and, above all, no U-turn!

Born with blue blood, deprived of parental caresses due to their separation, opting to cuddle kindergarten kids, being proposed on his knees by a prince charming, bearing two heirs, hounded till the end by “snoopies”, troubled by tabloids, “cold-shouldered” by the husband and ultimately divorced: all this gives a sub-plot of the Diana story.

Going through a transitional predicament, seeking to overcome the traumatic past, of an unhappy married life, and, rightly or wrongly, acquiring a new individualistic style of romance as personal preference, beginning to harbour a desire to settle away from “home” and suddenly providenced to “rest in peace”. This is the other side of the story.
London tabloids had said then...Where is our Queesn?Where is her Flag...!That was when the People’s Princes died. On her death anniversary let me recall what I wrote then in The Tribune.
“There is yet another angle to Diana’s personality. She was a woman of no ordinary calibre. The world has acknowledged this.

But does not all this prove that Diana was a human being too? Royalty might be made up of a sterner stuff, and I am reminded of Cleopatra, who said to her parting son, “Queens are not expected to display emotions, rather they are called upon by royalty to suppress them.” But what are we mortals, like the dead and gone Diana, made up of? The ordinary substance!

That is why those who knew Diana, those who had the opportunity to see her, those who even heard about her, those who read about her, identified themselves with her. It was only because of this unique trait of hers and that she became the queen of hearts, the people’s princess. She did not shake this factor off her personality even after having been ushered into royalty.

It is here that her former husband failed to recognise her and treated her as a mere princess and future queen. It is here that media people failed to recognise her and treated nothing more than a person who could provide them a good (photo)copy.

Adieu Diana, the prettiest face of the twentieth century.”