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

Magic of the sunshine in spring

   Magic of sunshine in Spring

                                    --Dr RAJ BAHADUR YADAV

 With the onset of Spring season in India, the summer also knocks at our doors. Towards the end of March, I stopped using muffler as my small turban in the morning while I happened to be on a morning walk. I had thrown the warm clothes into the closet  much earlier. Though the wind seems to be cold a bit brushing past my ears in the morning, after two or three rounds of the track in the local public park, it becomes tolerable and quite soothing too.

                                                            Like human beings, now the birds too become active early in the morning, chirping,hopping from one  branch to another with their beautiful tails rising up and down umpteen times within a second.In every flower-bed, I notice an enchanting bloom with red,yellow and pink flowers greeting you,"Ram, Ramji" just like some people with whom I have struck a nodding acquaintance. The dew drops appear like pearls settled on flowers, bushes and grass.The long  golden beams of sunshine falling on the grassy patches and piercing the dense green boughs of the trees cast a sort of magic spell on me. I feel wonder-struck and thrilled, with my eyes riveted on the light- green leaves, above and below the little white, violet and pink blossom on the farthest-tops of the different trees. I am quite happy, watching people passing under the soul-soothing shadows of trees. When I myself enter  such a  natural umbrella or canopy , I feel as If I should halt there forever, forgetting my home and hearth. Trees have a great curative power, capable of cooling our frayed tempers. I feel myself lucky when my eyes meet the pleasant rays of sunshine filtering through the green foliage. With folded hands, I bow down to eternal Sun in reverence. Neem[Azardiachta Indica] , Peepal and a few other trees brought from hilly areas are still shedding their leaves. These fallen leaves in contrast with the freshly sprouted leaves symbolize the cycle of life and death,rise and fall of empires and civilizations.

  During Spring, the mornings are really pleasant and the people are filled with fresh energy to start their day's work. A peasant is the happiest person, visiting his fields to find his wheat crop maturing. A wordsmith or a writer like me feels inspired to muse about new tales,full of fresh ideas.

Ek shaam, shaheedon ke naam

Beauty of the word

Those were the days! -Raj Bahadur Yadav

   Those were the days!

                                             -Raj Bahadur Yadav

 I spent the golden period of my life at Kurukshetra University as its student from 1981 to 1983. It has been long 36 years since I delivered my farewell speech  at a select gathering of my classmates and teachers in the Arts Faculty building in which the Department of English was housed then. Before the farewell party took place, there was a fierce debate as to who would thank our worthy teachers[ including eminent scholars like Dr R S Singh, Dr OP Grewal and Dr Bhim S. Dahiya] on behalf of MA[English] final year students. Some of the boys and girls came forward with their written versions,citing different thinkers and poets. But the majority opined," Whosoever wants to address us, should have the  ability and courage to speak extempore." There was a pin-drop silence for a while. Some of the boys darted an impatient look at me and  I had to promptly reply, "O.K., I shall do this job but--".  But there were no takers for my "but" as I had represented the university twice in inter-university literary debates held at Panjab University, Chandigarh. One of them assured me," Don't worry. One of us will keep standing behind the back door and knock lightly at it  to signal you to end up your speech after a gap of 15 minutes. In case, you feel short of words , just leave the stage with a graceful bow,"thank you very much"!
                                                            The KU campus is spread over nearly 400 acres of land. Memories come crowding down into my mind. In those days, the crops of wheat and paddy also grew on it. A small water canal flew  through the campus from west to east-leading to ancient Bramha Sarovar. On both banks of it, stood lovely green trees and bushes. To this day, I have not been able to understand as to how so quickly I and my classmates took bath, finished our breakfast and got ready in the morning to attend our lectures.Having crossed the Narhari Hostel located in south, we would turn towards north and then towards east dawdling along the canal, laughing and talking together. I can still visualize in my mind's eye the yellow,brown and even a few green leaves floating down from trees and falling on the running blue waters of the canal. A whiff of fresh air from the east would enter my nostrils and  intoxicate me with intense pleasure.
                       One day, one of my classmates told me,"Dr R S Singh has called you in his office". Dr Singh  was a renowned expert on Indian fiction. When I entered his august office saying,"May I come in, Sir  !" A gentle smile flitted across his face and he said to me," An inter-university paper reading contest on Fyodor Dostoevsky[1821-1881] , Russian novelist , is going to be held in the Department of English at Panjab University, Chandigarh next month. I recommend your name for the two member-team for this literary event". It was a god-send opportunity for me to prove myself as a budding scholar. In the first week of February, I 1982, I started for Chandigarh, the City Beautiful--full of art,culture,literature and culinary tastes.  I had worked non-stop for almost one month to prepare my paper on Dostoevsky's famous novel,"Crime and Punishment"[1866]. I was really lucky to have read out my paper and answered all the literary questions put to me on part of the audience in the graceful presence of Dr Darshan Singh Maini[ a reputed literary critic and poet  who  contributed for decades middle articles for The Tribune ]. I held my breath when the results were being read out. I felt I had arrived when Dr Maini himself announced from the stage,"The first prize goes to Mr R B Yadav of Kurukshetra University". As a team also, we had cruised to victory and lifted the  literary trophy in the magnificent auditorium hall of the English Department of Panjab University, Chandigarh. I shall always remain greatly indebted to my worthy teachers of Kurukshetra University, my alma mater. Dr RAJ BAHADUR YADAV

Joys and travails of writing

   Joys and travails of writing

                                                  Raj Bahadur Yadav

 Albert Camus, the French philosopher and the author has said,"You cannot create experience. You must undergo it".  Last week, one of my old classmates  asked me,"How did you learn the art of creative writing?"  I thought for a while and told him, "From the artless people of my village,particularly my grandmother. Having finished our night  meal, my grandmother used to light a bonfire, using  dry dung cakes and logs of wood. All the family members sat around it and she would anchor the long story session". Her  tales,intermittently backed  by pithy folk songs, kept the audience spell-bound and enthralled. At the end of every tale, I underwent a "spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings" as a listener. The seed was sown, and the first cotyledon sprouted from my creative urge in the form of  a short tale"Sachcha Nyaya"[ True Justice]  published  in the Hindi daily, Punjab Kesari ,in 1975 under a weekly column "Baal Katha". I was studying in the 10th class then. In those days, we didn't subscribe to any daily newspaper. I was in the air when I came across my first published piece  at a hair dresser's shop. I requested  its owner," Uncle, can give you me this newspaper as it has carried out my short story today?" The middle -aged owner said," Quite nice,  but I cannot give it to you right now as I have myself  yet to go through it. Come in the evening to collect it."  As soon as the sun set in , I rushed to his small shop located in the local market of Hisar city. The moment I got that newspaper, I felt I had come to possess the most precious treasure of the world. This tale[ with its genesis in an ancient fable] related to the greedy milkman who mixed water with milk in order to make a fast buck and a monkey snatched his purse full of coins. Sitting on a distant branch of the tree, our primordial ancestor  had dropped half of the coins into the nearby pond and the other half at the feet of the milkman who cheated his innocent customers. 

                           Henry Miller , an American writer, aptly thought,"Writing is its own reward".  While studying in the Government College, Hisar, I contributed a poem ," Matmailey Gaon Ki Or"[ Towards the dusty villages] to the college magazine in late seventies. Justice Surya Kant [ then a student of this college] had edited the Hindi section of the magazine and appreciated my poem, extolling the virtues of rural life. From the 1980s onwards, I started penning down my thoughts and feelings in English. One day, while taking rounds of a  public park in the morning, I asked Prof MM Sharma,my English teacher,"How can I write better articles,Sir?" To this question, he promptly replied," Write,write and write!" I have authored several middle articles in the recent years. Some of them have appeared in The Tribune too. I have continued writing despite  struggling hard to come out of a debris of rejections. The editor's thoughtful reply,"I regret we will not be able to make use of  it",  leaves me floundering around and I find myself getting nowhere. On sober reflection, I am able to discern the flaws in them. Then, once again, I sit back and start musing about some new theme.The day my article appears in The Tribune, I am extolled as a genius by my friends. But  I am fully aware that my  craft has not yet reached the threshold of "flowering" though every fresh piece I compose  gracefully shows  that my last published write -up  was no fluke. I happen to be a writer with a little modest success , believing firmly in Benjamin Franklin's famous quote," Diligence is the mother of good luck". 

Dr RAJ BAHADUR YADAV

Joys of creative writing

Joys of creative writing

A tale of cold and cloudy day

On the death of a humble social worker

Life after retirement

Life after retirement
                                --Dr RAJ BAHADUR YADAV

We are incorrigibly nostalgic people; whatever is past is golden to
us. Having retired from government service, I am now not in haste in
the morning to get up with the lark. While sipping hot tea at a
roadside tea-stall,one of my old friends said to me,"Ab to aap khaali
ho gaye ho!"[Now you are jobless]. These words shocked me a bit but my
friend was just underlining the truth. I replied with a modest smile
on my face,"Yes. Sir, ab to sara din makkhi marani hai[ Now I have to
kill flies all the day]. At this, he and some other people sitting at
the tea-stall rolled with laughter. I believe in telling my story
without artifice or guile. When I returned home, I faced the
vegetables' vendor in the street. He was quite aware from his daily
interactions with our family members that I had recently retired from
active service. With a twinkle of mischief in his eyes, he said
aloud,"Aaj chhutti hai kya, Sir?"[Is today some public holiday?].
Within a week, everyone in our street had come to know about hanging
up of my boots as a school principal.

We are all curious about as to what is in
store of future for us. I remember to have participated in dozens of
retirement parties held in honour of my colleagues and senior
academics. When the people would have finished eating samosas," gulab
jamuns and burfies"[ popular Indian sweets], I was very often urged to
say a few kind words in their honour. When my own retirement came
nearer, I too was a little nervous about the last day of my teaching
career. I grew a bit sad when somebody said," Achcha to ab aap retire
ho rahen hain"[ Now, you are going to retire]. I would promptly
philosophize just like William Shakespeare," Whatever is born,must
die,passing into eternity". There was a time when I was a school going
child and my grandmother's loose skin folds due to oldage amused
me,"Can anyone grow so old?"She used to advise me," Respect everybody
in the village. Never address them by their names but as "uncle' or
"aunt". Don't laugh at those who have grown old like me because you
too one day will certainly grow old and have loose skin folds like
me". My grandmother joined the heavenly choir forty-five years ago yet
her wise words of advice still resonate into my ears. On the last day
when I said "goodbye" to my colleagues, I missed my grandmother the
most.She was very kind and affectionate towards me and prepared me for
the school in the morning for some pretty good years. It was the most
awaited moment in my life. My colleagues were talking about me and I
was listening to their kind words. I felt that an important phase of
my life had come to an end. I felt as if I had started going to
school only yesterday itself and covered up a long journey of many
decades in no time. Shakespeare has quite beautifully enlightened us,"
We are such stuff as dreams are made on/ Our little life is rounded
with a dream". To my great surprise, life remained as tedious and
busy as it was before my retirement.Perhaps, life 's beauty lies in
its being rough,tough and challenging. There was a time when I was
young and inexperienced, but I was lucky to have got the company and
blessings of my family elders and exemplary friends. Perhaps, the last
phase of my life's journey has begun. I know from my own personal
experiences that one should work against the clock and should never
giver up hope. While summing up this piece, I quote Emily Dickinson,
the most popular poetess of America,"Hope is the thing with
feathers/That perches in the soul/ And sings the tune without the
words and never stops at all".

Beautiful bonds of friendship

Dr O P Grewal: Dedicated teacher and fearless thinker -- Raj Bahadur Yadav

 

Dr O P Grewal: Dedicated  teacher and fearless thinker  

                                                  --     Raj Bahadur Yadav

  I have always considered myself quite lucky to have been one of the countless students of English literature whom Dr Om Prakash Grewal taught at the Kurukshetra University in early eighties. He was a tireless classroom teacher, immensely popular among students with a rural background.He looked stocky and plump with a big forehead. His mental agility was wonderful as he went on elaborating the literary texts for hours together without any sign of fatigue on his face.He did not bother much about the quality of clothes he wore. Sometimes, we could notice a patch or two on his old shirts. He arrived in the morning at the Arts Faculty building  in   which the Department of English was housed , riding a bicycle with a load of literary books in his hands.His every lecture used to be a big event in itself. He delivered his profound discourses in a such a lucid manner that no student would ever like to miss it as the regular presence in Dr Grewal's classes automatically prepared him to write his final examination without consulting any help-book or notes from outside. Dr Grewal was thought-provoking and prompt to answer all the questions of students on the spot. His spoken English was grammatically very rich, a light touch of Haryanavi accent made him easily understandable among all the budding scholars. He looked very emphatic and erudite when he extended his arguments with adverbs like "however" or "moreover". His sound was pithy and resonant yet subordinate to his logical thinking. No doubt, Dr Grewal was the architect of democratic and rational thinking on the campus of Kurukshetra University. 

                                                                    Dr Grewal taught his students to burn the midnight oil, behave sensibly towards others but never to accept any thing blindly. I met several research scholars who would show me their essays or research papers with spelling-mistakes and the shaky arguments underlined in red by him, lamenting,"Look here, Dr Saab has once again rejected my draft and instructed me to further improve upon it". It goes without saying that those research scholars who had obtained their Master of Philosophy[M.Phil] or Doctor of Philosophy[Ph.D.] under Dr Grewal, today happen to be reputed scholars teaching in different universities of the region.Once, while he was busy teaching his M.Phil students, I saw a well-dressed gentleman waiting outside his room. Having delivered his lecture, Dr Grewal came out  of his room after forty -five minutes and then that person bowed down to touch his feet," Sir, I have been your student a few years back. Currently, I am posted as an IPS officer--". Dr Grewal patted on his shoulders affectionately and said," Congratulations! You should have called me earlier!" The young IPS officer humbly replied," Sir , I didn't want to disturb your class".

                                                                We felt greatly inspired by the tale of Dr Grewal's grim struggle to emerge as a respectable voice in the academia of Haryana. He was born on June 6, 1937 at Bamla,a village of Bhiwani district. He earned his Ph.D. degree from Rochester University, New York[USA]. In the beginning, he taught at M. D. University, Rohtak. Then, he moved on to become Professor of English and Chairman, Faculty of Arts and Languages, Kurukshetra University. Dr Grewal was always down-to-earth,miles away from  a lavish life style. I found him very often attending seminars of Hindi and Punjabi departments also.He edited a  literary magazine like 'Naya Path"  for years together. He was elected the General Secretary of the Janvadi Lekhak Sangh, a national level organisation of Hindi and Urdu writers. He undertook a powerful analysis of the famous novel,"Maila Anchal"[ The Soiled Border], authored by Phanishwar Nath Renu in a seminar held on the university campus  Mr Renu was awadred Padma Shri for this great regional novel which discusses the growing interest of the  villagers of Bihar in the Quit India Movement . Renu has shown in his magnum opus the deep impact of casteism on the people as it nibbles  away at basic unity of the rural poor. Dr Grewal was a great human being also. He was very argumentative as a scholar yet very kind and soft towards his  diligent students. Sometimes, we had a taste of his sharp wit also. One day, when he entered the classroom, he heard another teacher talking to his students in a high-pitched tone in the adjoining room, he smiled a bit saying," Though I am feeling disturbed at his high decibel [intensity of sound], I know I am capable of shouting him down but courtesy demands that I should not do so. Please one of you go there and ask this respectable teacher to "'slow down" a little. We all burst out into peals of laughter. It was a great treat to attend his lectures on the novels of Jane Austen, Henry James and the plays of William Shakespeare. While teaching the play, King Lear, Dr Grewal looked as a  very effective, towering and moving teacher of English literature. His sound became lofty as  he himself  completely came to identify himself with the tragic character of Lear who carried the dead body of his daughter, Cordelia, in his arms," Howl,howl, howl,howl! Oh, you are men of stones. Had I your tongues and eyes, I 'd use them so that heaven's vaults should crack. She is gone forever. I know when one is dead and when one lives. She is dead as earth." On such occasions, we felt that our eyes had become flooded with spontaneous tears. He completed his worldly journey on January 24, 2006 and joined the heavenly choir.I solemnly salute my great teacher, Dr OP Grewal from the depths of my heart.

Beauty of the rainy days -Dr RAJ BAHADUR YADAV

   

 Beauty of the rainy days

                                                              -Dr RAJ BAHADUR YADAV

Ashley Smith, an American author , has very beautifully remarked,"Smell the rain, and feel the wind'. In the mornings, I like to be left alone, strolling in the public parks and the country lanes. In the summer season, I start perspiring very soon and halt under a neem or peepal tree to take some rest and recharge my lost energy. But when a cool breeze starts blowing and I sense  a mild rustle in the leaves, I consider myself the happiest person on the earth. The presence of clouds in the sky confirms my hope for rainfall. Clouds are also of different types. The stratus clouds are found in the lower elevation with extended horizontal sheets. The cumulus clouds are dense and they condense at the altitude of 1800 meters. They are bright white and look like big puffs of cotton. The nimbus clouds are also very thick clouds with their lower parts being dark and fagged. When I was a small child, I saw the family elders pointing to the oncoming  broad white sheet of  clouds  from behind the mango groves and sounding a sort of weather alert,"Barkha aayi,barkha aayi"[ the rain has come]. It was a very thrilling moment, first the small drops fell into the dust,raising still more dust around them. Then, big drops followed the tiny ones and we could see pools of water in no time and big puddles outside the village in the morning.  I watched and felt delighted to find the fish in groups moving  in the reverse direction in the flowing  rain water.

                                                                                              The monsoon has  not burst out with a fury in the month of July this year. It has  moved at snail's pace so far yet the common people have welcomed it with great enthusiasm. On July 13, I was on a routine morning walk along with a poet friend,many years older than me. He said to me prophetically," Let me share a poem with you which I have penned down on the topic,"Rain"!" No sooner had he uttered these words than the tiny drops of rain started descending on the ground, some of them  gently hit our  heads and shoulders also. Within seconds, they grew bigger in volume, forcing us to look for shelter under the thick boughs of a sprawling bakain tree. Now, it was raining cats and dogs and I could notice the rain-water dripping down on our bodies through even minor gaps between the huge green foliage. Despite all this, we could spot some men and women still busy walking on the track, getting drenched to the bone  Roger Miller has quite pertinently observed,"Some people walk in the rain, others just get wet". On July 22, there was a heavy rainfall in the region. I grew up in a family of peasants so I have a special liking for the rainy season. While on a personal visit to a small country town in the morning, I could see the green cotton plants freshly bathed in the rainwater,some of them in initial flowering stage also. The entire landscape looked marvellous,lush green and mesmerising. It appeared as if we were passing through deep forests and a land dotted with lakes,rivers and rivulets everywhere. Percy Ross has very thoughtfully said,"Many drops make a bucket, many buckets make a lake, and many lakes make an ocean"

The Spiritual Warrior (Daily Post : Soul Matters ,Sunday 8th July,2018)