The roots that are withering away The Tribune, Chandigarh[ Published on April 3, 2025]

A library that opened a new world

Words inspire, words hurt ! - Raj Bahadur Yadav

    Words inspire, words hurt !

                                                            - Raj Bahadur Yadav

 In my childhood, I was an innocent witness to family squabbles in our village when the elders scolded an abusive young man,"Jabaan sambhaal kar bol!"[ Guard your tongue].In the heat of the moment, the rustic people said a lot of things they regretted later on. The harsh words always leave a bad taste in our mouths, whereas the polite and pleasant words build up an ambience of mutual trust and selfless attachment .Now when I have turned 59 year old, I find  humming softly to myself the most popular lyric"Ek din bik jayega matee ke mol" sung by Mukesh Chand Mathur better known mononymously as"Mukesh" in  the legendary filmmaker and producer, Raj Kapoor's film,"Dharam Karam"[1975]. In my humble opinion, this is one of the most melodious and soul-stirring songs the Indian cinema has ever produced . Let me recite its opening lines," Ek din bik jayega maati ke mol/ Jag me reh jayenge pyare tere bol"[ One day, you will be sold for the price of clay/ All that will be left in the world will be only your words". I cannot help sharing with the readers another inspiring line of the lyric," Koi nishaani chhod phir dunia se dol"[Leave a mark, then depart from this world].

                                                                                  On getting the congratulatory comment,"Shabash"[Well done!] from my school teacher in my notebook, I felt greatly elated and would show the written remark in Hindi to my father at home in the evening. I felt inspired to study with more enthusiasm when he patted on my back saying," Bahut achcha, Shabash!"   In 1978, as a student of Government College, Hisar,  I was jubilant to see 80/100 marks on the front page of  my answer-sheet of English paper with a  special compliment ," Very, very good", from Prof Balhara, who taught us the famous novel,"Animal Farm"[ 1945] authored by George Orwell in B A--I [Arts]. Some of  the toppers and brilliant students from four sections of our undergraduate class had applauded me,"Quite excellent. Keep it up!" Such kind words of my teachers and classmates kept me inspired for decades together  to burn the mid-night oil and  become a diligent student and teacher.

                                                  There is a well-known English proverb,"Whoever guards his mouth and tongue/ Keeps his soul from troubles". The words spoken by reckless and thick-skinned people pierce our hearts. They can hurt us beyond description, make us forego our meals and sleep. Once a villager visited his maternal aunt. The peasant woman prepared"Kheer"[rice boiled in milk with sugar] for him. When she had served him the food, she asked him,"How does it taste?". Instead of answering her question, he put a counter question to her,"How many buffaloes have you got, dear aunt?" She gave a plain reply," Only one". The fool in him became active," If this buffalo does, what will you do?' She got alarmed at his unexpected query yet she told him," We shall buy a new buffalo, my son!" But the country bumpkin in him did not feel satisfied with her honest answer and blundered into the avoidable folly," If that buffalo too dies because of some disease?" Now, the old lady seemed to have run out of her patience. She picked up a bamboo stick lying near her to teach him a lesson," Thahar paaji, abhi maja chakhati hun"[ Wait a moment, rascal, I will teach you a lesson! ]. The youth stopped enjoying the sweet dish and made  a rush for the exit door.The sweet liquid in white was  trickling down from his shirt. Somebody standing in their courtyard asked him," What is this dripping down from your shirt?" The fool now felt ashamed of his thoughtless words and could acknowledge his folly," This is the juice of my tongue!"

Fragrance of my childhood memories - Raj Bahadur Yadav

  Fragrance of my childhood memories

                                                                  - Raj Bahadur Yadav

 

I feel quite happy and hopeful while going through  William Shakespeare's sensible advice,"With mirth and laughter/ Let old wrinkles come".  I happen to be on the wrong side of my middle age and my body has lost the bounce and vigour of my youthful days.  When some friend or acquaintance asks me", What are you doing these days?" I answer in the lighter vein,"likely to complete the last unit of the bulky syllabus of my life !" They burst  into peals of laughter. They tease me further," What is that, Sir?" Having retired from government service, now I have to reconstruct my old house and marry off my grown up children. I am in the last queue of my life,waiting for a call from God to join the heavenly choir! " They take my leave saying," You crack good jokes!" I cannot deny that the  child in me still lives.

                                                            My face perks up when I go  down the memory lane. Childhood memories still inspire me to dream  and take keen interest in real life. Graham Greene has very perceptively observed," There is always one moment in childhood when the door opens and lets the future in".Here is a vivid account of a small incident of late sixties. During the summer vacation of 1969, I visited our native village alongwith my father in Pratapgarh district of Uttar Pradesh. On return journey to Hisar, while boarding  a bus, my foot slipped and I had suffered several cuts and bruises on my  ribs and right knee. As the fate would have it, my father had had to leave me behind in the village, requesting my grandmother,"Let him study in the village primary school here once his wounds heal up. I have to go back  to Haryana to rejoin my duty. Mother ,please take care of your prattling grandson. He is the "birva"[ a small plant  ] of your family garden".  I had nobody in the world to care for me except my father and grandmother as my own mother had passed away a couple of years ago.

                                                     In those days, the school teachers were full of missionary zeal. As a student of class four, I was expected to wear "Gandhi cap" of white colour, possess a "takli"[ spindle] to spin khadi .We had a few lessons on "krishi"[ agriculture] also and allowed to dig with spades, sow seeds and grow plants of wheat, .barley and mustard on the school land. One day, I spotted a tiny plant in our field. I took a" khurpi"[blacksmith made spud] from our house and dug it out very carefully so that its roots remained intact. We had a thatched roof over our "dalaan"[verandah], supported by thick mud walls. Grandma smiled at me," Kisan banega, beta?"[ Will you become a farmer,son?]. I dug a hole  into which I set the root ball very gently with my little trembling hands. I  filled the hole with  the same soil which had come out.  On getting up in the morning, out of sheer curiosity , the first thing I did, was to take a close look at the young plant. It was rainy reason so it grew rapidly. Every fresh leaf gave me immense pleasure. I had embedded a few thin bamboo sticks into the ground around it. Soon its tender , thread like green stems gripped them and the gourd vine aggressively climbed up the thatch-roof.  I made it a point to water it when there was no rain for several days. The entire thatch  was replete with broad green leaves and white flowers. I thrilled with great wonder when I could locate the first baby  gourds growing. Once, a vegetable farmer of our village, chanced upon the  bloom of this beautiful vine, and exclaimed in delight," Bahut hi sundar hai eh gol lauki ki bel?" My grandma told him with a sense of great pride," Mere potte ka kaam hai yeh bhai!"[ This is the handiwork of my grandson] My grandma tired plucking the "gol lauki" for cooking vegetable for home and preparing" raita". Then, she started giving it as a gift to villagers and relatives who would visit her. When they thanked grandma and admired me for  my keen interest in trees and plants, my joy knew no bounds.   In fact, I was myself  like a  young tree being looked after my grandma. She woke me up early in the morning, took me to the well for a fresh bath, baked fresh chapattis for me laced with  desi ghee. Then, she would very affectionately say, " Now go son, don't be late for your  school!" Having borne gourd fruits in abundance, the  vine wilted and withered away in course of time. But its splendid  image still lingers in my mind and heart . My grandma too left this world in 1974. Though I did not take to farming when I grew up as my grandma had guessed, yet I developed a strong passion for books and became a teacher of English language, and, in the end, retired as school principal. I  shall never forget two of these: that mesmerizing gourd  vine and my kind and loving grandmother.

Mother, O my dear mother !

Mother, O my dear mother !      

                            --Raj Bahadur Yadav

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Mummy!  O mummy!  I heard my 26 year old son calling out his mother from the bedroom. On not getting an immediate response from her, he repeated,"Mummy, O mummy!" When I asked him,"What is the matter, my son? Can I help you?" He replied,"No papa! You cannot do it!"  Meanwhile, his mother came rushing from the backyard of our house assuring him loudly,"Aayee beta! Abhi aayee"[ I am coming son, I am coming at once].My heart leapt to my mouth, watching my only son, Monu, groaning in severe pain, struck unfortunately by rheumatoid arthritis,a chronic inflammatory disorder. On seeing her, he demanded," Where are my clothes? Have you  placed the steel chair in the bathroom which I use while having my bath?" The doting mother replied," Go now and take bath my son! I have placed everything in order there."

                                        The filial bond between my son and his mother reminds me of my own dear mother. She was a tall and well-built peasant woman. We were fated never to meet again after she fell ill and died in 1967. My grandmother used to narrate her tales of deep affection for me," In the mornings, she gave you a bath in fresh water drawn from our brick-lined well , massaged your whole body with mustard oil and applied home made "kajal"[kohl]  in your eyes. She added carefully a dot of "kajal" on the left side of your forehead in order to ward off "buri nazar"[bad glance]. Once you fell very sick. Your father said, " I am going to call the "hakeem"[ an expert in using herbs]  to treat him". But your mother insisted,"  I am not ready to take any risk. You must take my son to a good hospital in the  city. In those days, nobody owned a scooter or motorcycle in the village. Your father  hired a "tanga"[horse-cart] to reach the "Swaroop Rani Nehru Hospital" in Allahabad. In reflective moments, my heart cries out,"Mother,O my dear mother!"

                             

                                 When I became a college student  in late seventies, I read Maxim Gorky's  novel,"The Mother[1906]" for the first time. In those days, this novel hogged  a lot of limelight. It was quite common among students to quote Gorky," Only mothers can think of the future-- because they give birth to it."  Gorky was born in Nizhny Novgorod in 1868  and became an orphan at the age of nine. He must have missed his own mother a lot all his life. The novel focuses on the role women played in the struggle of the Russian working class on the eve of the aborted revolution of 1905. Pelageya Nilovna Vlasova is a poor widow of a factory worker. Her husband was a heavy drunkard. She knew nothing but beatings and constant terror of being beaten up. Her  son, Pavel Vlasov also follows in the  the footsteps of his father and starts drinking. Nilovna feels alarmed. But her deep affection for her son brings about a big change in him.He abandons drinking. One day, he returns home with a bundle of books and talks about social and political change..From an impoverished and brutal individual, Pavel gets transformed into  the representative voice of the poor and exploited  factory workers because of a great mother like Nilovna. She taught him," You will not drown the truth in the seas of blood".

The Tribune : An authentic witness to tragedy of partition

The Tribune : An authentic witness to tragedy of partition

                                                 -Raj Bahadur Yadav

The Tribune has been the voice of the people of India in general and that of Punjab in particular since 1881 when it was established in Lahore by Sardar Dyal Singh Majithia, a Punjabi banker and an activist in progressive social reforms in the land of five perennial rivers . I have been a keen reader of this popular English daily for the last four decades. While dusting off an old  rickety box of books, I came through a handsome series of  reproduced  front-pages of The Tribune of the most turbulent year 1947 [ Page From History,  1997 ] with comprehensive news reports about the ill-fated Hindu,Sikh and Muslim refugees in millions  crossing the border from India and Pakistan.Due to constraints of space, I would refer only to some select pages of this great national daily to highlight the main political developments of those disturbed times and  huge sufferings of the victims of partition. In its late morning edition of August 11, 1947,published from Lahore, The Tribune breaks the front-page news,"New Status For Provincial Govts". We learn from this news report that the Indian Independence Act, 1947 would come into force from August 15 . The Provincial Governments in nine provinces would now  be bound to function under the Government of India Act, 1935. The Provincial Premiers and other Ministers were required to take fresh oaths without any reference to British King.  In those days, Britain was running out of dollars to fund the food imports for India.  Prime Minister,Clement Attlee, was feeling  helpless in addressing the deep financial crisis into which Britain had plunged.  Against this  political background, the people of India  were eagerly waiting for the historical day- August 15 to come soon, but  at the same time, the monster of communalism  had  come to pose a serious threat to their peaceful existence.. The Tribune[ Lahore, August 12] quotes Mahatma Gandhi,"No wish to live to see such madness. I will place my life in the hands of God". Gandhiji was greatly moved by the communal riots in Calcutta. When the country was on the threshold of freedom,  the Hindus and Muslims had gone mad.   But there were good and kind people also around. The Tribune[Simla, October 2] takes note of  their humanistic gesture,"Instances of Sikh villagers helping Muslim refugees moving from Beas to Amritsar with fresh drinking water and milk have been reported". The floods had caused a heavy damage to roads, railway lines and bridges.In Sialkot district,the railway line between Dera Baba Nanak and Jassar was under water over a distance of eight miles. The Hindu-Sikh convoys got stuck up at several places, facing great hardships. Amid reports of raids and attacks on refugee camps, The Tribune of October 5 has once  again  shown Gandhiji lamenting,"Does Independence mean goodbye to civilization?"

                                                                                          The Tribune[ Simla,October 9,1947] draws our serious attention towards its front-page headline,"Famine Threatens East Punjab".  More than five lakh Hindu and Sikh refugees are reported to have taken shelter in various  camps of Punjab..The Tribune cautions the rulers of the day,"Lakhs may perish unless timely help comes". The vigilant and genuinely a pro-people newspaper gives us "positions and numbers" of Hindu-Sikh refugee camps  located in different districts. There is a heart-rending tale of uprooted people from Lyallpur with the caption,"1.5 Lakhs Hindu and Sikh Refugees Held UP: Lyallpur D. C.'s Fiat". The Staff Representative of The Tribune reports that the people from villages on the Lyallpur-Jhang Road "have been held up by the Deputy Commissioner of Lyallpur. They have been told that unless they pay off their land revenue, they will not be allowed to proceed on to East Punjab".The innocent people had come with  one week's food on the assurance that after that they would be evacuated safely. They had left their home and hearth behind which might have been occupied by Muslim refugees by then.. Destiny had played a cruel joke with them. Their deep agony could move even God Himself but  the small men in big chairs were adding insult to their injury.   The Tribune[Simla, December 5, 1947] breaks a good news for the nation,"Hindus and Sikhs Evacuated From W. Punjab". As per the news report, over 8 million refugees had crossed the Indo-Pakistan border in both directions upto November 21, 1947. Long live The Tribune, the Voice of the common people!

Dr RAJ BAHADUR YADAV