Best friend vs worst enemy

"There will always be issues on which I will be more in agreement with my worst enemy than with my best friend and I am not afraid to speak my mind!"

What do you say?

Pakistani Poets Killing Lions

If the title evokes mental images of poets in Pakistan going around like the British did in the Indian subcontinent in the past few centuries - packing guns, riding into the forests and killing hundreds of thousands of wildlife, helpless against weapons against which they really never had a chance - lions, tigers, deer, elephants, birds to bring back as trophies, then wipe them away. This article is not about such uncultured cruelty. 

This is about a refined, traditional, sophisticated, and evolved high culture that developed over many centuries, in the merging of Indian, Persian, Arab and Afghan cultures of northern India.

The killing of a lion (Sher, pronounced like 'Cher') in ancient days, before guns came around, if it had to be done because it became a menace to too many human lives near a village, required someone very skilled in shooting arrows. They usually had just one chance at the predator if they could sneak up on it, or when faced with it, to kill it dead or immobilize it, before they became its prey themselves. Lesser animals could be dealt with multiple arrows and many hunters. Lions or tigers were so good that, only a single lone hunter could hope to get past its defences or awareness. 

When that skilled hunter shot a powerful arrow that hit the mark, and directly pierced the heart, it would do the job, stop even a lion in its tracks, dead or dying. This is the analogy used by poets and of poets. 

To kill a lion was termed 'Sher Maarna'. Obviously, 'Maarna' meaning 'to kill'.

It is even more a beautiful metaphor when one considers that an arrow that pierces the heart, 'kills', which is also viewed as 'liberating the soul'. The soul is believed to be attached to the body and set free when a creature dies, according to ancient Indian philosophy and beliefs.

So, when a poet 'fires' off or 'shoots' a piece of verse that pierces the 'heart' of the listener and touches the soul (liberates it), it is applauded with a spontaneous exclamation, a clutching of the heart and high praise. The listener who is affected by the poet's rendition naturally reacts like a stricken, dying creature. The audience or critics would exclaim,"Kya Sher maaraah!" - meaning "What a lion he has slain!" 

One can hear scores of listeners all react in this manner and instead of clapping hands, the applause 'Waah! Waah!" comes from everyone. As an aside, in case you did not know, the English word expressing wonder and appreciation, 'Wow" is derived from this very word. Even the ending of "Waah", the "aah!" is an apt and perfect reflection of the reaction and exclamation of any creature that is suddenly shot. 


It is just that one verse, said right in the right context, right tone and right mood that was that powerful arrow that could slay a lion. It was not appreciation for long-winded descriptions, many weak verses or arrows. The poetic Sher had the elements of release of that perfect arrow. There was the initial picking the arrow from the quiver, the setting of the arrow on the bow, aiming it right, the pulling back and tensing of the string and finally releasing it at the perfect time! The punch line was the release!


In this area and culture of such rich language and expressions of poetry - just  one look (or glance) of a woman was described as an arrow. It might be a look of surprise, anger, love or even annoyance, but like an arrow, it would pierce the heart and conscience and reach the soul of one it was directed against. 

To die, metaphorically, was to feel something in your soul or feel a liberation of your soul from something that struck it. It was considered such a feeling of high, that the term for being in love with someone was "Kisee par marna". Kisee meaning 'someone', par meaning 'upon' and Marna meaning 'to die'.

To die or death was not considered morbid or unpleasant in the context of poetry. It was used as an analogy to meeting God, a spiritual goal and a liberation of the soul with a feeling. Hence, being in love was considered a spiritual goal. Sufism, which contributed many famous poets to this region preached love in all its forms as the true religion in practice.

So, from the killing of Sher,  we have a perfect, poetic match for the very word for a form or 'poetry' in Urdu and Hindi - "Shaayari".  Even if it was not intentionally derived, it is just 'perfect' poetic sense. The beauty of many Asian languages lies in such richness that is often lost in translation to English, though a lot of it is still seen in French and Latin based languages of Europe which had a great mixing with the Arab and Persian cultures.

It might surprise most westerners to note that in the culture of Shaayari, in Pakistan, Iran and India, there was much egalitarianism. The language was rich, but mixed with common, simple street language. The point was not to be exclusive, but convey the deepest thoughts and feelings to everyone. Women were equally famous and appreciated as poets. The most common topics were those of love, liquor, lover's torments, rejections, mischief and hurdles by those of jealous nature. Even drinking liquor, intoxication and the 'pub' were metaphors for the deep comfort and relaxation that the soul seeks.

There was often talk of changing moods and preferences of women in their love and lovers. It was a very liberal and cultured way of expressing all the human feelings, accepting and honouring them in everyday life. Women could express desire, attraction and even disgust openly towards their chosen targets. It was done in beautiful poetic form that ultimately preserved the dignity of all involved.

There were many competitions and large gatherings to recite poetry, trade poetic barbs, with musical accompaniments, judges, prizes and challenges with people from all walks of life, equal when it came to the stage or performance. The wealthier and powerful people often hosted such in their homes and invited the whole neighbourhood or village. They were the patrons of such art. Even paupers who were good poets became legends and are still, in the history of that region. One can see many examples of these in old Indian and Pakistani movies.


Now, do you wonder why Indian movies seem to show a whole bunch of people suddenly break into song and dance? The present depiction in movies is disjointed and hence seems a bit odd. But if one knew what kind of a culture of the heart and language it was, one can understand this. These songs, musicals and poetry are traces remaining of one of the world's finest cultures and actual way of life that seems to be vanishing.

The overwhelming theme of media coverage in the west, of Pakistan and the region around it, is one of negative imagery, often created with deliberate contribution from the west. Western media and values are slowly killing and strangling the best of ancient cultures and their wonderful traditions. There seems to be a desire to mask and wipe out any positive truths and brand it as barbaric and primitive. It is for the people in these cultures to take up the job of preserving the best themselves.

I am no Shaayar, but I will take a stab and pen this composition along with it translation in English, to hopefully provide a crude feeling for this form of poetry for those who know even less about it than I do. I apologise to those who know and understand real Shaayari and might be purists who are outraged at my violation of most of the formal rules of this form. I am just making an attempt to share something in English.

"Qaathil ki ek nazar ne kiya ghayal,
Dil thaam kar dher ho gaye.
Dum nikalte huey muskurakar kahe,
Yeh marna hi mere liye jeena hai!"

Translated into English, not entirely literally, but to convey the meaning and feeling of a lover who must have got one meaningful glance of acceptance from the object of his love:

"The Killer's one look/glance smote and wounded him,
He fell down in a heap clutching his heart,
As the last breaths slipped away, he smiled and said,
Such dying, is for me, living!"

Life's Non-Contradictions

Life's Non-Contradictions

Happy and sad, angry and calm, loving and hateful. The examples go on. We usually teach  our children these pairs are opposites. Apparently if you are feeling one you are not feeling the other. One of them is branded 'good', or 'positive' while the other is 'bad' and 'negative'. We even have feeling good and feeling bad as opposites!

Ask someone, "How are you feeling?"

Usually an honest reply would be, "Feeling good", or "Feeling bad", but not both. Rarely, if ever, would you hear something like,"I am feeling really good and bad!"

The word 'happiness' is, in my opinion a catch-all word in English for many different feelings.

We are usually 'happy' when things go the way we would like, or we win something, or do well in an exam or when our team scores a goal. It would perhaps be more appropriate to use the word - 'elation' to describe this kind of happiness. We would tend to jump up and down, shout, do a strange dance or something. Such happiness is tied to a single event or occurrence.

Then there is the quiet kind of happiness that does not require a great exhibition to express. It may be just an awareness and knowledge that we are doing well, thankful for many good things and comforts in life. It does not require one single event or incident to trigger this kind of happiness. It can sometimes be a more powerful happiness than that of other kinds.

Similarly, there is sadness, grief or feeling bad. Some tied to a single event, news and cause us to express it loudly or externally with a burst of expression, crying or lamenting. There is also quiet sadness associated with the knowledge or awareness of great tragedies that might not cause us to burst out in tears. 

We tend to use the same words - happiness and sadness (positive and negative) to describe all kinds of feelings. 

Usually, we tend to be in a certain mood where one kind of feeling dominates - happiness or sadness. This is considered normal, as if feeling one thing at a time is the norm. It is considered that feeling one excludes the supposed opposite. If we are happy we are not supposed to be sad. If we think positive we are not supposed to be thinking negative.

 Rarely, do we go around with 'mixed' feelings, which we are supposed to quickly resolve one way or another and move on to one or the other.

Society also conditions us to be immersed primarily in one kind of feeling - happiness, positivity. 

Looking around in life, things are as they are - always there are good, great things happening in the world, all around us, all the time - some heroes doing things that make us happy hearing about them, there are bad, terrible things happening - innocent children and people hurt, killed, cheated, manipulated, insulted and exploited in the most cruel manner. There are tragic accidents worth mourning for and beautiful, heartwarming stories that make us happy to hear about - often in the very same 'event'. This is reality, always!

So, the question is - why can we not, or why do we not feel happy and sad at the same time, most of the time? Is it a contradiction?

I am sure we are all aware of the fact that there are reasons to be happy and reasons to be sad at any time, but somehow that our expression and dominant mood should be one or the other. Why? 

Why is not possible to accept that we can feel happy and sad (equally or as appropriate to the things we are aware of) most of the time, since that surely matches reality?

Of course, there are some news or events that will and should grab our attention and mood and dominate our feelings for some period of time. But that is the one that should pass quickly and we should get back to our normal mode.

But what should our default, normal mode be? Should it be one of irrational or unreasonable 'happiness' (really elation?) or a balanced and appropriate mixture of both, depending on the things that we are aware of?

When happy things happen, no one calls us to 'restrain' ourselves and not let it overwhelm us, usually, unless we go crazily overboard. We encourage oversized displays of elation.

When sad things happen, we are told to keep the positives in mind and restrain ourselves from getting overwhelmed by sadness or grief. We cannot accept or encourage oversized displays of sadness or grief.

Is it because we are addicted to a feeling of elation? Do we believe that it is a normal state to be in, most of the time? Is this a cause for many of societies problems? I find this true to a great extent in the western societies where I have lived and live.

Could a good form of happiness be a mix of feelings of both elation and sobriety?

I find that many seemingly contradictory or mutually exclusive feelings are not really so. They can all be present at the same time and help us achieve a better mental balance and outlook to life. 

Strangely enough, when true happiness and joy overwhelms us, we humans shed tears and cry and when grief turns us crazy, we smile or laugh! I have never seen animals do that.


Copyright  (c) Kannan Narayanamurthy 2015


All rights reserved 

Why 'Bad' English is Good!

As many of you, my readers and my critics have probably noticed by now, I often write in English that is not perfect. In fact, you might even believe it is not just imperfect but ‘bad’ English. Many of my posts and published pieces will fail the test for grammar, syntax and perhaps some spelling too. The punctuation is not always right, the tenses and ‘person’ that I write as may not be consistent throughout an article. It would not usually make it to that stage in most Western English media without being edited, but the article is published easily in the ChinaDaily website.  I even get many viewers and positive feedback. I know, I know! I have apparently, litera(ture)lly gotten away with it many times!!

                        While many of you know this, I too am very aware of this. While I am imperfect and even if I put my mind to write ‘perfect’ English, I will likely fail and there will still be errors. This is something I do with a purpose in mind, especially when writing on ChinaDaily. I let many known errors remain, on purpose, while deliberately adding some. I often twist the structure of a sentence such that it seems a word for word translation from another language (Indian) with a different structure where it makes perfect sense. It may sometimes be the way English speakers in India or another country might frame a sentence, coming from their knowledge of their own native tongue. The result might be a strange or ‘convoluted’ sentence for an English purist. I don’t seem to care!

            Here is a brief outline of the process I use to write. I sit down and write raw, as fast as I can, putting down the idea or thoughts down as they ‘flow’ through my mind. Often, even as I write, I can see a need to re-arrange my sentences, phrases or make some changes. If it can be done quickly without losing the flow, I do it. Sometimes, I am interrupted in the process of writing by tasks of higher priority – taking care of my children’s needs or house chores or a neighbour.

            I get back to writing, give it a quick once over to correct obvious, glaring errors that I don’t want to get through. Sometimes I merge two sentences and forget to clean up the grammar or structure and it shows.

            I am often in a rush to get it over with, blog or publish it and move on. I don’t often find time to write and publish things at a leisurely pace – I am not paid for it. If I were, I would definitely spend more time at editing and turn in better pieces. However, I would still not seek perfection, deliberately, of course! Particularly, on ChinaDaily, I would keep a fair bit of imperfection in my English.

            In fact, I try to and have kept a fair amount of imperfect or ‘bad’ English in my writings on ChinaDaily. It serves a great purpose and I am convinced that it is one of a worthy style that I can claim, proudly for myself. There is a method to this ‘madness’ as some might call it.

            You see, my friends, I have sought to prove a point and have done so, repeatedly, over a year and a half on ChinaDaily. I have convincing evidence and proof of the following:

-         It does NOT take ‘perfect’ English to be understood clearly and communicate the important ideas and feelings.

-         Readers with varying degrees of knowledge of English, from bare beginners to highly knowledgeable and nit-picky perfectionists, all, can usually understand exactly what I intend to convey. They let me know from their response, whether they agree with my ideas or not.

-         Many English novices, in fact, seem to grasp the subtleties of views I express quite easily. They are perhaps quite comfortable reading someone who writes a bit like themselves! They are not intimidated.

            I do try and edit my writings so that the more knowledgeable ones are not legitimately confused by my writing, punctuation and structure. If they can see clearly where I have written my English ‘wrong’, then I know I have done alright. They can correct my piece and still understand what I meant to convey.

            And conveying something, without ambiguity, is the true measure of any writing. It is the true purpose and if it is achieved, the goals of writing are served. Anything further is usually needed to satisfy critics and many self-appointed authorities of a language.

            I hope my imperfect writings, and the responses they elicit, provide beginners and novices in English, on ChinaDaily, the confidence to go ahead, write from the heart and mind fearlessly. I hope they keep in mind that they too can be understood perfectly well, even if they write imperfectly in English or any other language. One needs to write just good enough to be understood accurately!

            My message to new writers on ChinaDaily is – don’t be intimidated, don’t feel inferior or shy to write as best as you can. Even if you start by simply substituting English words for Chinese in a Chinese structure, you will communicate well. You will teach others a language with different structure. Many other Chinese will understand your English better than non-Chinese speakers!

            ChinaDaily is a great website with a very open, tolerant and accepting culture. It warmly accepts and publishes posts and articles highly critical of China and its government, people and culture. It supports more freedom of expression than any such publication I have come across in the West or rest of the world! They place value on the ideas and less on perfection of language to encourage anyone to write and publish!

http://blog.chinadaily.com.cn




Copyright  (c) Kannan Narayanamurthy 2015


All rights reserved 

Growing Up Alongside The Son

Tall, dark and handsome - of the three things that women look for in men, I definitely have one. I am dark! In India it should truly read tall, fair and handsome for males. However, just being dark is not considered veto worthy for males, particularly if they are from a 'well-to-do' family or have the prospects of becoming 'well-to-do'. I missed out on my father's height of well over six feet (that my younger brothers got). I also missed out on my mother's good looks. I got my height gene from her - she was barely five feet tall.

I had grown up with the belief and a gradual painful acceptance I was not a looker and that I needed to have something else to make up for that, if I was to be found attractive to some. I was of puny build and unremarkable looks. I got through my teens, twenties and halfway through my thirties with this comfortable self acceptance. My selling feature in the culture I grew up was based on my supposedly 'intellectual' capability and the fact that I became an engineer, with some reasonable prospects to support myself and a partner. I knew that I did not turn heads like some of my friends who were better built, were fair and drove stylish motorcycles (even a wimpy moped or scooter was still a vehicle that attracted female attention in those days). In many ways it made life easier for me. I did not bother to spend a lot of time and effort to groom, dress and look good or dashing. I just drifted into a comfort zone of wearing my most comfortable clothes, shoes, not shaving or shaving when i felt like. There was also another benefit - I knew that those that liked me, really liked me, not my looks. Those that hated me, hated me  and not my looks!

It was not until I was in my mid thirties, married and when my son was born that I realised how the women really felt about my looks. 

But, first, let me tell you how I came to know this happened. My son was born when I was in my mid thirties. He had turned a few months old and we had him in a stroller/pram going around the aisles on the supermarket, or taking a walk in the neighbourhood. I noticed how so many women would walk up to him, cooing to him, blowing him kisses and generally act silly in front of him. 

They would then turn to me and say things like:

,"He is so cute!"

"So beautiful!"

"Such a looker!"

"Wait till he is older! Sure to break a few hearts!"

Sometimes the women would say, "He looks just like you!"

Often, my son's mother would be there, right at my side, hearing this. In case the women did not volunteer it themselves, I would ask them, quite innocently of course, who did they think my son looked more like - me or his mother?. 

Almost everyone, to more than 99 in a 100, would reply, "He looks just like his father!"

It was then that I realized, how cute and beautiful I really looked, even to random stranger women. I was frankly surprised at how all the women had kept this fact secret and hidden from me all these years and now felt suddenly comfortable telling it to my face! I could not really understand this!  I guess, I have some difficulty understanding women.

Now, after some teen years, my son has grown big and tall. He is well over six feet (and still growing). He still has my dark complexion and my looks. 

We pull over at a McDonald's restaurant the other day, while on a long drive. I go to the line at the counter to order food for my daughter and myself, while my son goes into the restrooms. I can feel the typical politeness and corporate friendliness from the middle-aged manager and her young bright looking assistant (who is about the age of my son) at the register.

  I get a standard McDonalds's smile and greeting,"Hi, How are you! What would you like today?" (Note that it is all said in one breath)

I too politely greet them with a "Good morning" and go on to place the order for my daughter and myself. Just as we are done, my son comes from the restrooms and stands behind me in the line.

There is a perceptible change in the women behind the counter. While the middle-aged manager is taking my order and believes that perhaps my son is a customer on his own, she smiles widely at him and signals the assistant to attend to him.

That young thing comes up with a flashing smile and says to my son,"Hi! How are you?"
and actually waits to hear him reply as to how he is really feeling! It is important to note that there is a pause here!

My son who normally grunts monosyllables in communicating with people, does the same with her,"Hurff" (which I presume is Hi or Hello)" 

That does not seem to faze the girl at all. She is still looking at, actually looking UP to, him, since he towers a head above her. She is all wide smiles and really willing to serve him.

"What would you like?" she asks with an additional tone to her voice.

 I fear that if he says he would like her, she would just jump across the counter into his arms!! The middle-aged manager attending to me is also having an understanding smile on her face.

"Grilled McChicken meal," he softly mumbles in his usual style of speaking. He is totally clueless about the impact he has on the women behind the counter. 

"He is with me and it will be on our order please," I rudely interrupt the reverie that the two McDonalds women seem to have gone into. They take the order and as my son walks away to find a seat and my daughter follows him, I pay at the register. I pick up some napkins and straws nearby and head back to the counter, 

They serve my order and my daughter's first on the tray that I take away. They say they will call out or bring up my son's order since it would take just a minute more.

As his order comes up, my son sees it from our table and goes to pick it up, even as the girl seems ready to bring it to him. She says,"Here! Sorry for the delay. Enjoy it. Have a good day!"

And she says it like she really, really means it and wants him to have a good day, even if it may not involve her. As she turns her back to return to her register I can see the young assistant and manager exchange a meaningful glance, wink and a smile. They fake a swoon and fan themselves as if it had suddenly got hotter in there. 

My son is tall, dark and handsome (despite getting my looks) and still seems to be unaware of how he is looked at. I should simply let it be and not tell him. It might go to his head!

Copyright  (c) Kannan Narayanamurthy 2015

All rights reserved 

Daddy Surgeon

Daddy surgeon needs three steady hands plus tweezers and a thimble or a pincushion thumb to loosen the back of an ear stud that has pushed into the still healing,  recently pierced ear lobes.  A Band-Aid does the job of one hand, holding the earlobe bent and in place. No general anesthesia and a high -strung patient. 'Surgery' performed successfully, big relief, all happy! !



Copyright  (c) Kannan Narayanamurthy 2015

All rights reserved 

Truth and Lies

The knowledge of a profound truth can give us a sudden feeling of happiness or sadness. In this aspect, a profound truth is just like a lie! The difference is, of course, how long the feeling lasts! 



Copyright  (c) Kannan Narayanamurthy 2015

All rights reserved 

Extended Secrets Of Wars and Conflict

Extended Secrets Of Wars and Conflict

            In a war, mostly, the one you fight is not your enemy or real adversary, it might even be your friend, relative or neighbour. The real enemy is one who stands to gain from you two fighting.

          It is when enemies fight each other directly, that the battle can be honourable, else it is a tragedy and a failure of wisdom.

          Half the battle against an enemy is won by not fighting our own friends, relatives and neighbours.

          Sometimes, one has no choice but to fight a friend, relative or neighbour if they force it upon us. Such defensive battles are honourable too.

          It is those that initiate and engineer such fights that are truly evil or unwise.

          Most of us are but unwilling, helpless actors forced to play a part in the continuing human tragedy.



Copyright  (c) Kannan Narayanamurthy 2015

All rights reserved 

Earliest Memories - Part 16 - All Aboard The Train and THE END

Aboard The Train!!

The pregnant mother in the ‘Ladies’ line got to purchase tickets earlier than those in the general line. Women have long had a separate, preferential line in the Indian queue system. It was dark in the evening before their train was announced on a certain platform. The father went away briefly to help fill some reports about the incident with the taxi driver and his friends. He returned.

Looking at the obviously pregnant mother and her little children, they even got some preference in climbing on to the train. There was a mad rush and most seats were occupied by the time the family of the little boy reached the correct platform. But looking at them and the mother, the people made way and let them sit. There were very few children on the train. Some were there with the families of those that worked on the train and cooked for others.

The family of the little boy still carried their luggage on their lap, or under their seat or feet. In fact the children and mother got to sit near the window.  She put her luggage as a cushioning back rest. The one item they could not keep – the radio, was put on a thin ledge near the ceiling, on a narrow luggage platform.  It was the only space on which normally no one could fit. It was so narrow that none but a tiny child could fit in it, but no one would want to put a child up so high without any suitable restraint or padding.

There were people sitting everywhere, jam packed, More than twice the number of seats (more of benches really). I suppose the British marked the seating and spacing according to their idea of size and comfort for a big boned, fleshy, ‘average’ European body, when designing the Indian railways. The skinny, thin, small average Indian body is much smaller and their idea of private space is even normally non-existent. So, five or six people would easily sit squashed next to each other on a seat meant for three. Many sat on aisles. The top rack for luggage was also used for people. Most carried their luggage with them or sat on them. People sat in the aisles. Many men climbed on to the top when space inside ran out.

There were food stalls operating on the platform. Music was blaring interrupted often by news. The people in the carriage let the family spend some time together by giving the mother and children some space near the window. They could adjust their positions later. An older couple and a group of young labourers, returning to their home states offered to help care for the little boy, his sister and mother when they heard that they were leaving without their father.

They knew it was quite possible these could have been their last meeting alive. Everyone seemed to value human feelings more now. They seemed to value human life too above material luxuries.  They were however very possessive about materials essentials for survival.

The father stood outside the barred window of the train. The little boy and girl held his hand and played with him. The mother sat facing them.

Suddenly, there was news on the radio that the Indian army had captured a large group of Pakistani soldiers in busloads, without firing a shot. A big cheer broke out in the platform. There was also news of Indian soldiers being captured and loss of life on both sides. There were reports of towns that fell to the enemy on both sides. There were reports of tank battles with various tallies of damage and destruction.

A group of soldiers were milling around the platform, listening to the news. When they heard the report of the capture of busloads of Pakistani soldiers, apparently, by some of their own regiment, they were jubilant! They drank, sang, shouted and danced. They brought out sweets and distributed them on to anyone around. Onlookers joined in too. It seemed that the war had unleashed a torrent of human feelings. People laughed and cried, celebrated and mourned, one after another, sometimes one along with another. They would not be like this normally.

 He remembered: One young soldier among them went to the food stall and bought a tinned box of chocolates and biscuits. He was quite drunk. He came up to the window through which the mother of the little boy was looking out. He came up to her near the window. He stood next to the boy’s father. Tears streamed down his face. 

He turned to the mother and offered her the box of chocolates and biscuits.

“Behen (Sister)! Yeh le lo (Take this!). Aaj main bahut khush hoon (I am very happy today). Bahut khush. Mere bhaion ne bahut bahaduri se kaam kiya hai (my brothers have acted with great courage).

The mother was shocked at this and pulled back with fear and shock showing in her eyes and expression. However the young man did not do anything else. He just had a pleading look and kept saying, “Behen! Behen! Ye Maa aur bacchon ko do (Sister, give this mother and the children). Sab ko kehena main duty ke baad jaldi lautunga (Tell them I will return  soon after my tour of duty.)”

 The mother of the little boy looked at the father. He told her gently, “Accept it. He really does mean well and no harm. You will hurt him deeply if you refuse.”

The mother accepted the box offered through the bars. The little boy and his sister looked at it eagerly. The box was opened immediately and its contents distributed around to the all.  The soldier waved to them and went away to join his group, as a couple of his mates came up to help him. They were less drunk. The mother liked the beautiful and colourful tin box very much. She put it away in her hand luggage. It later became a valued family treasure.

The father of the little boy said to the mother, “It appears you remind him of his own sister. He is drunk and thinks you are his own sister. It looks like he has been through a lot. It happens sometimes.”

All Aboard!!

There were many soldiers and military personnel traveling. Railway police and supervisors went around making space for people by throwing out any excess or unnecessary baggage or luggage on to the platform. They started their rounds from one of the train to the other.

Suddenly, the whistle blew. There was a waving of coloured shielded lanterns as signal. The engine bellowed and with a creak and shudder started to move slowly, literally inching its way.

The family was at the back of the platform. The father waved and started to walk along the window. The little boy suddenly realised the father was not boarding the train. His face fell and he shouted, “Appa, Appa, come on. Mummy, Appa is left behind!”

“Yes, dear, say bye to him. Wave to him. Smile for him,” she said almost choking up herself. The little girl waved dutifully. The father continued to reassure the son, “I will see you in Delhi or your grandparents’ house soon. Don’t worry. Take care!”

The train still crawled. Everyone who had some loved one behind shouted farewells.

 He remembered: The railway police came over to their carriage and inspected the people and luggage. They spotted the big package with the radio up on the top shelf.

“Whose is it? They demanded.

Someone pointed to the little boy’s mother. By the time she turned, one policeman had already removed it and went to the door next to them and tossed it out on to the platform.

It was remarkable how fast a pregnant, ill woman could jump out of her seat and reach the door with all those people in the way. Her family still recounts this incident.

“Our radio!!” she screamed, “My children’s radio!! They love it so! Please let us take just that one.”

Before anyone could stop her she was out on the platform and ran up to the wrapped radio.

The little boy was now upset to see both his parents on the platform and the train moving away. He started to cry. His sister consoled him.

The father bounded up to the mother, picked her up in one hand and the radio on the other. He was a very tall, long legged man. In a few bounds, he seemed to drag the mother and the radio and was soon at the door of the train that was so overladen that it was still crawling at the rate of roughly an inch every second. With a mighty effort, he helped the mother back in through the door and as she went in, he requested the railway police to allow her to carry the radio, but they put it under the sink next to the toilet near the door.

The father jumped off the running train that was crawling along. Soon he appeared, walking briskly next to the window near his son.  Soon he had to break into a run. He waved goodbye and the little boy kept looking at his fading image with sadness.

The people in the carriage who saw this sheer act of madness or foolish courage somehow understood the love this woman had for her children’s radio. They let it be. Who knew if they would all make it alive to their destinations? Who knew what would happen to this mass of humanity on this train?

Epilogue

The little boy, his sister and mother made it safely to Delhi. The trip took three days. The train travelled mostly at night. They then stayed with their friends in Delhi for a week before heading down south to their hometown. The father was still up north until the war was over.  Just as the hostilities were concluded, he was granted leave to go and visit his family. He hurried down south. The mother gave birth to a healthy little boy soon afterwards. They soon moved to a different town where the father was posted.

The family in Amritsar made it through the war with a lot of difficulties. The old great-grandfather passed away peacefully on night during the war. The friend of the family who fixed their radio was killed in a bombing raid, soon after the family had left Amritsar. He had died at his desk, on duty in that special house. He had literally saved the lives of the little boy and his family! Harpreet and Munni fulfilled their destiny and were married a few years later.

Now, in addition to memories, there is a beautiful confectionery tin and an old valve radio set that the family will never part with!

~~ THE END ~~

Copyright  (c) Kannan Narayanamurthy 2015

All rights reserved 

Earliest Memories - Part 15 - Taxi To The Station And Swift Justice

The Taxi To The Station

After a good night’s sleep extending to the early morning, the family of the little boy awoke to a bright day. After breakfast, the father set out to arrange a taxi to take them to the railway station. After scanning the neighbourhood thoroughly for an hour or so, he managed to find a taxi driver willing to make a run to the station. The vehicle itself looked run down and rusty. The driver asked for the details of the passengers and luggage to be carried.

“Only passengers, no luggage allowed,” he said.

The father explained that there would be two adults and two little children. The only luggage was what they could carry on them.

The taxi driver quoted a high price. The father remarked that it seemed rather high. 

“Saab (Sir)! There is no direct route, we have to take the long routes through many side streets and we still don’t know the condition of those. No guarantee when we will reach there. There is curfew on many roads, the police or army may not let us through,” he argued.

“Very well, I suppose I have no choice! By the way, I know the way and even if we have to make a detour I can guide you. If need be I have curfew pass that will see us through,” the father replied.

The taxi driver who was a long term local looked, sceptically, at the father. It seemed strange that this man, who did not look like a local, claimed to know the area so well. But he seemed to brighten up when he heard this man had passes to get him through streets under curfew.

“Aap police ki army ho? (Are you a police or army man?)” he asked looking very interested.

“Nahin, bas sarkaari kaam hai (No, I just do government work),” replied the father.

Now the taxi driver seemed more interested in the making the trip.

They brought the taxi to a nearby corner of their street and the taxi driver waited there. It would have been too difficult to turn back or make a U-turn on that street with the trenches.

The father went home and fetched his family. Again, they all said their goodbyes to the family of the house-owner. Again their grown son came to help with the luggage.

As they came to the taxi, the driver had a look at the family and luggage and shook his head.

“No, Saab, nahin chalega (cannot go)! I told you no ‘samaan’ (luggage). You have too much stuff,” he said.

“Arey Bhai (Hey Brother), don’t worry. It is all what can be carried with us. It will easily fit in the trunk. Just open it and you will see,” the father said calmly.

“No Saab! I cannot open the trunk. It is broken and will not close or work properly. There is only space for people to sit. I told you,” the driver sounded annoyed.

“Can you not try and open the trunk! It looks like it is not closed firmly anyway. Let us try and see,” said the mother. The father noticed that too and went to towards the trunk.

The driver suddenly ran over and blocked his way.

“No, Saab. Don’t open the trunk. I told you. I don’t want your fare. Just pay me for this short trip and I will go,” he said firmly, clearly upset.

The mother and the neighbours started to argue and debate with the taxi driver.  He looked furious.

The father calmed them down.

“How about I will pay you what you asked and a bit more if you try to fit the luggage in the trunk,” the father calmly offered the driver, as he patted his shoulder soothingly.

“No Saab, nahin bola tho nahin, bus (No Sir, when I said No, I mean No. That’s enough),” the taxi driver put his foot down.

“OK, we will do it your way. OK, we will not put anything in the trunk. Is it OK if we sit and carry the luggage in our laps? Will you then take us?” replied the father evenly and calmly, “Let’s go!”

The taxi driver quietly agreed.

The mother seemed a bit surprised and asked the father, “Why can you not make him open the trunk? After all we are paying for fare he asked for!”

“Look, we are lucky to get him to go. These are not normal times and he says there is a problem with the car trunk. Let us work with the man and go,” insisted the father. It seemed the mother was a bit disappointed at the father taking the side of the taxi driver against her. However, she kept quiet.

The children and the mother sat at the back. The children sat on the bags of supplies. The mother held the radio on her lap. The father carried the food and sat in the front seat next to the driver. It was a tight squeeze.

They went to the station through a long-winded route. There were a couple of places where they were stopped by police and army check-posts. The father’s curfew pass saw them through without much fuss or detailed checking. They made it to the railway station.

Swift and Brutal Justice

They parked a little distance away from the entrance. They all got out slowly. Since the father did not have exact change to give the taxi driver he asked him to accompany him to the ticket counter or food stalls, from where they could get some change.

The father asked them to wait until the taxi driver parked his taxi in safe spot. He too got out and accompanied them into the station. There were police and army personnel in large numbers everywhere around the station. Many military trucks were arriving and leaving with soldiers in them.

The father went to purchase some tea at the food stall for himself, the mother and the taxi driver. He paid with a big denomination note. Then he got the change he wanted.

He remembered: The mother stood in the line at the ticket counter. The children were set down next to it with the luggage. They started to play. The taxi driver stayed near the children.  He was chatting with a couple of hangers on. They all talked to the little boy and girl. They asked them questions about themselves. They asked them to sing, hearing the little boy hum songs along with the radio that was blaring all from the food stall. The little boy readily obliged. His sister was shy. The men then asked her to sing or do something. The public announcement system and radio were constantly on listened to with great interest by all there. There was constant news about the war and the battlefronts.

The father came over and paid the taxi driver and gave him his cup of tea. He took the money and tea but stayed put there. He was still talking and chatting to his friends. The father went over to the ticket line. The mother wanted to go and rest sitting next to the children, but the father asked her to remain in the line. He said he would go and check on something and be back.  He went over towards a group of uniformed military police in their jeep, just outside the station. He exchanged a few words. They then huddled around him. A couple of them went away. They returned soon with a serious expression. They all talked in low tones for a little while. Soon they dispersed.

The father went over to the ticketing line. He asked the mother to call her kids over to her.

He remembered: The mother called them loudly to come over. They were talking and playing with the taxi driver and his friends. They all looked at the mother and father in the line.

The children stopped their play and came over. Their luggage was left behind, right next to the taxi driver.

As the children came near their mother, she reached out and pulled them to herself and squatted down, hugging them.

Suddenly about a dozen military police closed in on the taxi driver and his friends. The men were shocked and tried to move and resist, but it was no use. They were dragged over to one side and the beating started. It was brutal.  Their clothes were mostly ripped and searched. Many small arms and items fell out from their pockets. The men stood no chance. One tried to resist and was stabbed by a knife wielding army man. All people did not seem surprised at the scene. The mother covered her children’s eyes.

Soon the bloodied and beaten men were taken away somewhere.

“Kya hua (what happened)?” someone in the ticket line asked the father of the little boy.

“It seems they were enemy agents, supplying guns and explosives to saboteurs and other agents,” said the father.

He had quietly suspected something was not quite right in the manner the taxi driver resisted in not opening the trunk. He had become more suspicious when he heard the dialect and language he had spoken to his ‘friends’ who were hanging around and playing with his children. He had spoken of his suspicions to the military and railway police which had gone and checked trunk of the taxi. They had found a stack of firearms and explosives hidden in the trunk, under a false floor. They realised they could have well prevented a deadly attack on the soldiers right at the station, that day.

Justice was swift and brutal in those times.


To Be Continued




Copyright  (c) Kannan Narayanamurthy 2015


All rights reserved 

Earliest Memories - Part 14 - Trying To Leave Amritsar

Trying to Leave Amritsar

He remembered: The father returned from work unusually early the next day – it was late next evening. There was no electricity and the house was dark. The children were playing outside, just before going to bed. The children greeted him and went along with him to their mother.

“How was your day? How come you are back early?” she asked right away, noting that something was not normal.

“Let’s pack up and get and you the children to the railway 

station, he said, “I heard that there might be a train leaving tonight.”

It was one of those times when there was no point trying to book a ticket in advance or reserve a seat or anything. Nothing was on schedule. One just showed up at the railway station, waited for any announcement of a train leaving out of Amritsar, bought a ticket when a counter was opened, rushed into the train along with hundreds, hoped to find a place to sit, if lucky (even getting standing room was considered lucky). There was little or no room for luggage. Sometimes the train was announced, everyone jumped on to it and purchased a ticket while it was moving. 

Many did not even have the money to pay for the ticket. There were no strict rules and the authorities were quite flexible.

The mother asked the father to get the children ready and put on 3 layers of clothing on them, instead of the usual two. She set about packing their clothes and some food for the way. The house-owner’s family gave them a fair bit of food, good enough for a day or two. They simply packed their own dinner – rotis, rice and ‘dry’ sabji (cooked spiced vegetables) and some daal (cooked lentils) in a container. They wrapped it all in a sheet of cloth and made it so that it could be slung over the shoulder like a bag. They decided to cook more for themselves later.

The mother had another bag with some medicines and water.  She packed a small beautiful biscuit tin too. Her childhood friend had gifted her when they had parted after her wedding. The tin contained some important documents and family treasure – the dried the umbilical cord of her two children, that falls off a few days after the birth (the length from where it is clipped near the navel and where it is cut).  Usually, the dried umbilical cord is packed into a tube of gold and worn as a talisman. The little boy’s family could not afford to make a gold talisman then. They saved it for the future, when they could perhaps do it.

The mother also packed some supplies to cook some more food on the way. The journey to Delhi would likely take more than 2 days since the train would mostly travel only during the night, slowly, crawling at running pace most of the time. There was no certainty or little possibility of getting food on the way – since many stations and food businesses were entirely shut down and deserted due to the bombings.

While they had no stove or utensils to cook on the train, they knew some enterprising people were on the trains and virtually lived on them all through the war. Their ‘ticket’ was that they had stoves with them – both those that burned wood, coal or kerosene. Some passengers too carried them, though it was normally illegal. They made their living by cooking food for the passengers with the supplies they brought, if the train was stranded or stopped for a long time. In return they got money or a share of the food.

The mother decided to carry some food grains for a day or two until they reached Delhi. It was to prevent them from starving. If the train should encounter some danger or damage, the family would still have some food of their own to use, even if someone helped them. The helpers too would be struggling for food and supplies in these times.

He remembered: The mother put some rice and lentils in a bag along with some salt, sugar and, being typically Indian, a small set of spices!! In the darkness and hurry as she packed, she got the lentils and rice mixed up in the same cloth bag. As she desperately tried to fix it, the salt packet split and it too spilt into the mix. She felt very embarrassed, but everyone simply laughed. They would have no way to separate them but would have to eat them mixed.

She also packed some snack food - biscuits, dry fruits and nuts that she had and the house owners gave some of their own, from the little store they had. They could not pack too much since the mother was the only adult who could carry any weight. This too was difficult in her pregnant condition. The little boy and girl were each given a small packet of the snack food, wrapped in a belt like cloth to be worn around their waist.

They decided to take with them only what they could carry. They would leave all the remaining stuff behind. The father knew someone in that house could surely use his bicycle. They said with a note of optimism that once the war was over, they would come and meet them. In reality, it would not have been affordable for the family of the little boy.

The old grandfather said, “Come and get your belongings when the war is over! Don’t leave us owing you.”

Unsaid, were their greatest fears, which they hid in such talk. The little boy’s family and the house-owner’s family, both, knew that they could not be sure that either of them would survive the war. It was all said in hope in front of GOD and the little children.

The father wrote a note in paper and put it into each child’s pocket. The note contained their names and addresses to contact, if they were lost and found by some good soul. There was even a phone number to contact at the father’s office.

“Are you done packing the food and clothes?” asked the father.

“Yes, those are done,” replied the mother.

“Show me all that you plan to carry,” said the father.

He looked at the two bags that the mother would have to sling and the bundled up children. He picked them up and felt they were heavy, but perhaps manageable, if he could carry them now and load them up on the train.

“OK, I shall go and try to arrange a taxi to take us to the station. Get the children to go to the toilet and all of you put on your shoes. Say your goodbyes to the landlords too,” said the father. He then went out into the darkness to try and get a taxi.

They wisely decided to wear shoes with two layers of socks instead of being barefoot or wearing slippers/sandals that they normally wore. It felt awkward and unusual, but was a good decision. They were still fortunate, many went around barefoot!

The mother and children put on their shoes, scarves and went to say their final goodbyes to the family of the house owner.

He remembered: It was hard and emotional. They all hugged each other. The little boy and girl were cuddled, hugged, blessed, given treats and much advice on how to take care of their mother on the way.  They touched the feet of elders who stood up and blessed them and wished them well on their journey. All the grownups had tears in their eyes. The little boy and girl realised something new and exciting was going to happen, but suddenly felt so important and loved. They did not feel like leaving! They were also getting sleepy and were tired.

There was a curfew outside on the roads, many leading to the railway station, but one had to somehow make it. The father had curfew passes because he worked with the authorities in his job. So, they could get through.

There was no public transport, autorickshaws (the typical 3-wheeled wonder of Indian roads) or even regular four wheeled taxis running. Most were immobilised for one reason or another. Even if you spotted one, you could not be sure they were willing or able to drive you. One had to hunt around the area for anyone willing to take you. They would have to risk their own life and limb too. There was no fixed fare, one negotiated and paid what was agreed upon. The fares were exorbitant. Many could not leave Amritsar, only because they could not afford or manage to get to the railway station.

The father walked down the road and further up ahead found that a side road that led to the railway station was cut-off due to an accident near the trenches. A big truck had slipped and fell into a trench and had turned to its side. It was stuck and blocked the road entirely. There was another truck, presumably one who had come to try and tow the one that was stuck. It could not manage it.

He went around the truck by carefully walking around the trench, through someone’s front steps. He searched far and wide and could not find a taxi. There were several taxis parked near their usual haunts and shops that were all closed down. No one was willing to go to the railway station at that hour.

Finally, as he turned towards home, he saw the driver and assistant of the truck that had come to tow the stuck truck on the side road that he had passed. They were planning to drive off soon across town. They agreed to make a little detour out of their way and drop the family of the little boy at the railway station, for a price which the father agreed to pay. They wanted to leave soon though.  The father asked them to wait while he fetched his family.  They demanded an advance payment for waiting which he paid and hurried back home.

When he reached the house, he saw the children all ready and sitting outside, with all the bags they needed to carry, next to them. The mother was still inside the house.

He called out to her, “Come on, I could not get a taxi but a truck driver has offered to take us. Hurry, we need to leave now.”

“I will be there a moment. Just a minute!” the mother replied.

Soon, she emerged, with a big long package wrapped in cloth, at her side. It was bulky and not light.

“What is this?” the father asked.

“I did not have the heart to leave this behind.  Just could not. Can we please take a chance and take it? I know, we may not make it to Delhi with it. But I want to give it a shot. Please?” she pleaded.

“What IS that thing,” the father asked picking it up from her.

“The radio,” she replied quietly. 

The children perked up and they seemed quite happy. The little boy had been a bit sad to say goodbye to it. It was the single most expensive possession of theirs, the bicycle being the next one. The radio easily cost the earnings of a few months for the father. The mother knew they could not afford to come back just for the sake of the radio even if they survived the war. She just wanted to take the risk and give it a shot, at taking it with her.

 The neighbours and the family of the house-owner were there to say goodbye too. Everyone was a bit surprised.

The father thought about it for a moment.  He said, “Come on. I will carry it carefully.”

They set off, down the road. The house-owner’s son had come to help them with the luggage. He was young and strong and carried the two bags containing the food and supplies. The father carried the radio in one hand.  The two children each held the hand of a parent. They waved goodbye and walked down the road, careful to keep away from the trenches.

They passed the house of their friend who had repaired their radio set and approached the corner of side-street where the truck was broken down.

The air-raid sirens suddenly went-off. Everyone went for the nearest trench. Soon there were planes in the air, tracers flying, anti-aircraft fire was heard everywhere.  It lasted about half an hour.  When the all-clear blew, a little later, it was dark, cold and damp with a fog settling in. They slowly made their way past the broken down truck. They could not see the tow truck anymore, anywhere nearby. It had driven off!

While the mother was upset and expressed some disappointment, the father seemed quite unruffled.

“They must have left since the air-raid. These things happen. Let’s head back to our radio friend’s place,” he said, “perhaps you can all stay there until I find another taxi or something to get us to the station.”

They walked back slowly to their friend’s house, knocked on his door. It took him a while before he came to the door. 

Before he opened the door, he asked, “Who is it?”

The father spoke up and identified himself.

The door opened into the dark room. The lights came on after everyone had crowded into the room with the luggage and shut the front door fully.

The father explained what had happened. He asked if his family could stay there until they could arrange transport to the railway station.

“No! I am sorry, but you cannot stay here. I would have liked to let you stay, but I don’t think it is a good idea, with your family and children,” said the friend.

The parents did not say anything for a while. They simply looked at each other and seemed to communicate soundlessly.

“OK, we will go. Can we just rest for a while?” asked the mother.

“Behenji (sister), I don’t know how to tell you this. I hate being in this situation, but I would suggest you not stay here even for a little while. Rest if you need to, but please leave as soon as you can. This place is a target for bombing. I have to remain here and work. I would not feel good if something happened while you were staying here,” he said in a tone of regret.

He continued, “I am happy you are trying to leaving Amritsar and I hope you make it out safely with your children. I wish you all the best.”

The mother and father quickly grasped the situation without any demur.

The father said, “I understand, my friend. We will go back to the house now. We will go to the railway station tomorrow. I know you were busy at work. I will see you later, another day, when the wife and kids have left. Please get back to your work.”

The friend said goodbye to the children, he gave them each a candy. He turned out the lights, opened the door to let them out. He quickly went back after they had left.

The family trudged back home with their helper from the house-owner’s family. They were a bit surprised to see them, but understood that the situation could quickly change and plans could easily go awry.

They all went back to sleep as they were, just removing their shoes.

To be Continued




Copyright  (c) Kannan Narayanamurthy 2015


All rights reserved