Sukhjit Singh's Blog, page 10
June 23, 2020
Black Borders by Saadat Hasan MantoMy rating: 5 of 5 star...
Black Borders by Saadat Hasan MantoMy rating: 5 of 5 stars
This book was first published in 1947 as Siyah Hashiye (Black Borders), the 32 cameos that comprise this slim volume present horrifying sketches from the holocaust of the Partition.
From the very first page where author has written his dedication, To that man who, while narrating his many misdeeds, said, “When I killed that old woman, I felt as though I had committed a murder.” the author holds the reader and even after you have turned the last page of the book you are still held in that same spell.
This book is a collection of 32 cameos which describe the horrors of the partition. Manto sketches the scenes with such simplicity and such a great mastery that only Manto was champion of.
If a reader dares to live through the realities of partition, Black Borders is the book that will take you to a child who lost his father, a father who lost his daughter, a sister who lost her brother, a girl who lost her pride, a citizen who lost his nation and a nation which lost everything. Black Borders are indeed full of red colour and only Manto’s writings ever did justice to the truth and horrors of partition and this book is a supreme example of his original portrayal of life.
The translator has done every possible justice to the text by matter-of-fact and simple translation. No heavy words and no beautification of text is done as was Manto’s style of writing.
It is slender booklet worth every one of its 50 pages.
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Spirit of Mumbai
The waves start from Dahanu Road, Kalyan & Panvel, the waves start before Sun brings life, the waves start with young, old, rich and poor, the waves emanate from towers, from chawls, from penthouses and from under the flyovers, the waves start every day, even the days when the world stops.
The waves travel via Virar, Boriwali and Andheri picking up energy, the waves travel via Dombivali, Thane, and Ghatkopar assembling flavours, the waves travel via Mansarovar, Vashi and Chembur collecting sounds, the waves go over the land, the waves go under the land, the waves go over the water and for four months every year the waves come under the rains, the waves travel every hour, even the hours when Sachin bats.
And then the waves converge, converge to the heart, converge and complete the spirit with its colors and shades and then the heartbeat ticks. And like blood the waves flow out of CST, out of Dadar, out of Churchgate. The waves carry that undying spirit that is Mumbai, the waves carry the spirit every moment even the moments when the bombs go on, even the moments when the guns fire, even the moments when the swords strike, the waves carry the spirit even in these moments when the God’s chose to rest.
Lehron ka shor, hawa ka jor, daudti jindagi…
Our offices and banks in March of 1993, our markets and roads in August of 2003, our travel and trains in July 2006, our hotels, hospitals and cafes in November 2008, and again they came in July of 2011, and they came before that, they came in between and they still plan to come in future. They come unknowing that Mumbai is strong - the tetra pods of Nariman Point brave the terror of sea every moment, they come unknowing that Mumbai is accommodating - there is always space for more of us to squeeze into the bulge that is our peak hour local, they come unknowing that Mumbai teaches it’s children to live a life which is fast, hard, unforgiving and they come unknowing that Mumbai sings, Mumbai dances, Mumbai loves, Mumbai cares, they come unknowing that be it July or be it November, the spirit of Mumbai is in every breath, in every moment.
Kadmon ki taalon pe geet gati si bedhadak jindagi...
(written Nov 2012, Laxcon towers, Palm Beach road, Navi Mumbai)
Memory Lanes
Sartaj Singh’s Diwali vacation always starts with a visit to Gurudwara Chandni Chowk. Every year he reminds his daughters how the ninth Guru was killed here by the Muslim rulers of the time. “We remember him as Hind di Chadar.” In the lane behind the Gurudwara he points to the shop where his Grandfather worked after partition. “He lost all his family and property in Lahore to Muslim rioters.”
Sartaj walks at a brisk pace, his wife struggling to keep pace in the narrow lanes teeming with shoppers crowding in and out of the wholesale firecracker shops. At the foot of stairs to Jama Masjid he waits for his wife. The girls race up the stairs.
“Simran, Shoa, careful. Watch your step.”
“Come Shagufta,” he takes his wife’s hand and follows.
(Memory Lanes - Diwali & An Old Enemy, a short story, written June 2019)
Finding Memories
Up till this moment...titled as - Finding Memories
signed as ...Mithrandir...who introduced himself as...'Once upon a time,When the poems had a rhyme.There lived a lonely man,Under the tree, across the river.At long it came to pass,On his way to mountain lake.Was it black or green as grass,He crossed a waiting snake.'
signed as ...Mithrandir...who introduced himself as...'Once upon a time,When the poems had a rhyme.There lived a lonely man,Under the tree, across the river.At long it came to pass,On his way to mountain lake.Was it black or green as grass,He crossed a waiting snake.'
Bayia
Most of the land owning native Punjabi households employ few helping hands. A help for work in fields, a help for taking care of cattle, a help for taking care of cattle dung and upkeep of cattle space, a help for house cleaning, etc. As the average age of family members in a household decreases, the number and types of helps increase. Older generation still keeps itself busy in manual work and hence acts as a help for young ones. Young ones need more help in today’s Punjab.
Like most of the houses in this village house no. 1 also employs few helps. One of them isMukhiya. From Bihar.
He has been in Punjab for nearly two decades. Came here for the first time as a teen and has been working the fields in and around this village ever since. In this period he visited his native place few times, got married at a young age and brought his wife to Punjab as well. They have three children now – a girl of 14 and two boys of 12 and 9. These children - born in Punjab, their lungs full of Punjab’s air ever since, their feet used to Punjab’s soil like a touch of mother, speaking Punjabi as fluently as any other native Punjabi child, at home here more than their parent’s native place in Bihar – still appear a Bayia to the native Punjabis.
Bhayia – Brother. Punjabi alphabet misses the soft ‘bh’ sound. Somewhere between a ‘Bayia’ & a ‘Payia’ lies the Punjabi version.
Bayia – a word meant to represent the most honorable of bonds, a brother’s – is a symbol and a sound of inequality and discrimination for these children.
(written for blog action day October 2014. #BAD2014, #Inequality, Blog Action Day)
Like most of the houses in this village house no. 1 also employs few helps. One of them isMukhiya. From Bihar.
He has been in Punjab for nearly two decades. Came here for the first time as a teen and has been working the fields in and around this village ever since. In this period he visited his native place few times, got married at a young age and brought his wife to Punjab as well. They have three children now – a girl of 14 and two boys of 12 and 9. These children - born in Punjab, their lungs full of Punjab’s air ever since, their feet used to Punjab’s soil like a touch of mother, speaking Punjabi as fluently as any other native Punjabi child, at home here more than their parent’s native place in Bihar – still appear a Bayia to the native Punjabis.
Bhayia – Brother. Punjabi alphabet misses the soft ‘bh’ sound. Somewhere between a ‘Bayia’ & a ‘Payia’ lies the Punjabi version.
Bayia – a word meant to represent the most honorable of bonds, a brother’s – is a symbol and a sound of inequality and discrimination for these children.
(written for blog action day October 2014. #BAD2014, #Inequality, Blog Action Day)
Bahar Jana
An early morning flight more often than not implies a round-about mid-night wake-up alarm. And the company driver was stricter than one would find usually and deposited me at the airport at 2:30 for a 4:30 flight when at this airport a 4:00am check-in would have been well ahead of time. Most likely they fly a single digit number of flights from this airport in a day. As was the case I along with two other company employees found myself sitting in departure area with plenty of time to spare. I still had few chapters of ‘David Copperfield’ on the other side of the bookmark and I was happy to busy myself while the two companions talked about the fishing gear they had purchased and were carrying with them on way to their respective homes.
It must have been 30 minutes or so since I started reading when I was asked a question in a language I least expected for the place I was at. Generally, they say that Punjabis are found everywhere. I have tested this hypothesis and found that to an extent it was true but not always. For example in Baku (Azerbaijan) in nearly six months the only sardar I have seen is when I look into the mirror. Same was true for Turkmenistan. No sardars here as well (apart from me of course). Hardly any Indians for that matter. Baku, though, does boast of some Indians. In any case hearing, “beta koi pani di botal hai” at Ashgabat airport was a surprise and I looked up from my book and found a sardarji standing next to me. An old man, with hardly any black in the beard, wearing a kurta pyjama and a distant look in eyes. He was asking for a water bottle, an empty one to be precise. It was early morning and it was his time for the bowel movements and in his (our - his and mine) world they need water afterwards, toilet papers don’t suffice. It was quite a request.
In ‘Tales from Ferozeshah Bagh’, Rohinton Mistry, tells a tale of an Indian who goes to Canada. This particular Indian finds it hard to “take a dump” on the western style commodes. He can only do it squatting. This leads to a lot of embarrassing situations and in the end he decides that he can’t become westernized as he can’t do it the ‘west way’ and packs up everything and decides to go back to India. On the flight back (most likely before the flight takes off) he eats something which causes some stomach trouble and the toilet of the airplane didn’t allow him enough space to squat and in the end he, one way or the other, succeeds in doing it the west way. He was finally successful in his quest to be westernized but by that time he is already on his way home.
I did have a water bottle but it wasn’t empty and I did not want to give him the drinking water I had carried along. Had he been somewhat younger I would have just rubbished the request. But here was an old man, truly Punjabi and desi by nature. Travelling to or from some part of world where he clearly did not belong. What were his reasons? I do not know maybe even he himself don’t know. Maybe, just because it was ‘the thing’ these days. Going to Kaneda, Jurman, Amrika. The wanderlust and lust for ‘currency’ doesn’t leave space for reasons.
I told him to wait and went to the canteen in the lounge, asked them for an empty bottle and the lady there was kind enough to fish one out of the heap of bottles in rubbish bin. This I passed onto the gentleman and he was on his way to ‘relieve the pressure’. ‘Bahar jana’. That is what we say back home in Punjab. For both the things, taking a dump and travelling out of our country.
I looked around and found that the sardarji was not alone. I noticed a group of over twenty Punjabis, men, women, boys, girls, sitting in a corner. Turbans, flowing beards, Punjabi suits, duppattas. Lions of their land, sitting in a herd, apprehensive of the unknown, out of place and out of their elements. To avoid the usual situation of having to make conversation with my own type I busied myself with the book and did not look left right up or back till my flight was announced.
(written sometime in 2010)
It must have been 30 minutes or so since I started reading when I was asked a question in a language I least expected for the place I was at. Generally, they say that Punjabis are found everywhere. I have tested this hypothesis and found that to an extent it was true but not always. For example in Baku (Azerbaijan) in nearly six months the only sardar I have seen is when I look into the mirror. Same was true for Turkmenistan. No sardars here as well (apart from me of course). Hardly any Indians for that matter. Baku, though, does boast of some Indians. In any case hearing, “beta koi pani di botal hai” at Ashgabat airport was a surprise and I looked up from my book and found a sardarji standing next to me. An old man, with hardly any black in the beard, wearing a kurta pyjama and a distant look in eyes. He was asking for a water bottle, an empty one to be precise. It was early morning and it was his time for the bowel movements and in his (our - his and mine) world they need water afterwards, toilet papers don’t suffice. It was quite a request.
In ‘Tales from Ferozeshah Bagh’, Rohinton Mistry, tells a tale of an Indian who goes to Canada. This particular Indian finds it hard to “take a dump” on the western style commodes. He can only do it squatting. This leads to a lot of embarrassing situations and in the end he decides that he can’t become westernized as he can’t do it the ‘west way’ and packs up everything and decides to go back to India. On the flight back (most likely before the flight takes off) he eats something which causes some stomach trouble and the toilet of the airplane didn’t allow him enough space to squat and in the end he, one way or the other, succeeds in doing it the west way. He was finally successful in his quest to be westernized but by that time he is already on his way home.
I did have a water bottle but it wasn’t empty and I did not want to give him the drinking water I had carried along. Had he been somewhat younger I would have just rubbished the request. But here was an old man, truly Punjabi and desi by nature. Travelling to or from some part of world where he clearly did not belong. What were his reasons? I do not know maybe even he himself don’t know. Maybe, just because it was ‘the thing’ these days. Going to Kaneda, Jurman, Amrika. The wanderlust and lust for ‘currency’ doesn’t leave space for reasons.
I told him to wait and went to the canteen in the lounge, asked them for an empty bottle and the lady there was kind enough to fish one out of the heap of bottles in rubbish bin. This I passed onto the gentleman and he was on his way to ‘relieve the pressure’. ‘Bahar jana’. That is what we say back home in Punjab. For both the things, taking a dump and travelling out of our country.
I looked around and found that the sardarji was not alone. I noticed a group of over twenty Punjabis, men, women, boys, girls, sitting in a corner. Turbans, flowing beards, Punjabi suits, duppattas. Lions of their land, sitting in a herd, apprehensive of the unknown, out of place and out of their elements. To avoid the usual situation of having to make conversation with my own type I busied myself with the book and did not look left right up or back till my flight was announced.
(written sometime in 2010)
