My Son's Teacher

My son’s teacher
by Punam Khaira Sidhu

WHAT’S up”, queried my husband when he found me desperately rifling through yellowing papers. “I’m trying to find my degree certificates and medals”. I responded. The last time I presented them for scrutiny was when I took the Civil Services exams, 17 years ago. Now, my qualifications and competence were again on test. Only this time, it wasn’t the mandarins at the UPSC, doing the assessment: it was my 10-year-old son!

It all started rather innocently. My son was doing a routine homework assignment when I corrected the spelling of accessaries to accessories and rhynoceros to rhinoceros and pointed out that ships were not parked in a harbour, but anchored in it. The little man took umbrage, and argued, “Look, my teacher’s marked it correct in my written work”. The complete conviction in his teacher being correct and complete lack of confidence in his mother’s erudition, or rather the lack of it, was a fell blow for my self-esteem.

Every time I checked an error in spelling or fact I found myself having to substantiate it with encyclopaedia and dictionaries. I would spend evenings helping him prepare a chart with diagrams et al but, when it did not meet with his teachers’ approval, my proficiency rating plummeted. That was what had me rummaging for my degrees. Junior needed to know that his mom had gone to school too and obtained a first class first Masters degree.

The student-teacher relationship, the guru-shishya parampara, is special and has been down the ages. It has to do with the aura every child invests his teacher with. The teacher is the “significant other”, the “Guru, tutor, instructor and coach”, in every little-one’s school world. The one who knows it all, is the final arbiter of all that is right and wrong, and above all holds the key to the mysteries of the world. In school, of course, the teacher is God but even outside when we run into Brother, Ma’am or Sir, the traffic stops, and a hush descends on my noisy brat as he points them out with awed admiration. From that position the teacher’s words carry complete conviction, magical appeal and unrivalled powers of persuasion.

The epics tell us of Eklavya, who cut off his thumb as “dakshina” for his Guru Dronacharya even though it meant an end to his career as an archer. The same spirit, miraculously, imbues most younger students even in the present day.

When I voiced my concern about TV, I was labelled a spoilsport; the teacher organised a debate and my son was suddenly an articulate spokesman for the harmful effects of TV. Books lay gathering dust, until Ma’am directed that each boy read a book a week and write a report. Suddenly, my son was reading abridged versions of the classics and was an authority on Charles Dickens and Mark Twain. Every parent learns to cognise and appreciate that the teachers can get their little devils to write poetry, and prose, inspire frenzied research on esoteric topics, teach them to paint, and even sing in tune. They inspire them with the motto of ‘Citius, Altius, Fortius’ in sports, and infuse them with charity and capitalism when the proceeds of the School fete are used to fund scholarships for poor kids. The teacher is the miracle worker. Mom and Dad, are well, just progenitors, to be kept in good humour so they keep the pizzas and pocket money coming in.

There’s a lot of time and energy invested in teachers’ day and birthday: thoughtful cards are hand-painted and fresh flowers hand picked. Parents’ birthdays need a strident reminder and if you try and compare, there’s the gentlest rebuff, “...hey Mom I love you. Surely you don’t need a card or a bunch of old flowers to tell you that...” Well, who can argue with that except the green-eyed monster inside who feels she could use that brand of “special thoughtfulness” inspired in her progeny by his teachers.

I guess if you can’t beat them join them: so I have volunteered with my son’s school, as a substitute teacher. Perhaps I will now discover, that special ingredient, that will take me from Mom to Ma’am and absolution.

My Son's Teacher

My son’s teacher
by Punam Khaira Sidhu

WHAT’S up”, queried my husband when he found me desperately rifling through yellowing papers. “I’m trying to find my degree certificates and medals”. I responded. The last time I presented them for scrutiny was when I took the Civil Services exams, 17 years ago. Now, my qualifications and competence were again on test. Only this time, it wasn’t the mandarins at the UPSC, doing the assessment: it was my 10-year-old son!

It all started rather innocently. My son was doing a routine homework assignment when I corrected the spelling of accessaries to accessories and rhynoceros to rhinoceros and pointed out that ships were not parked in a harbour, but anchored in it. The little man took umbrage, and argued, “Look, my teacher’s marked it correct in my written work”. The complete conviction in his teacher being correct and complete lack of confidence in his mother’s erudition, or rather the lack of it, was a fell blow for my self-esteem.

Every time I checked an error in spelling or fact I found myself having to substantiate it with encyclopaedia and dictionaries. I would spend evenings helping him prepare a chart with diagrams et al but, when it did not meet with his teachers’ approval, my proficiency rating plummeted. That was what had me rummaging for my degrees. Junior needed to know that his mom had gone to school too and obtained a first class first Masters degree.

The student-teacher relationship, the guru-shishya parampara, is special and has been down the ages. It has to do with the aura every child invests his teacher with. The teacher is the “significant other”, the “Guru, tutor, instructor and coach”, in every little-one’s school world. The one who knows it all, is the final arbiter of all that is right and wrong, and above all holds the key to the mysteries of the world. In school, of course, the teacher is God but even outside when we run into Brother, Ma’am or Sir, the traffic stops, and a hush descends on my noisy brat as he points them out with awed admiration. From that position the teacher’s words carry complete conviction, magical appeal and unrivalled powers of persuasion.

The epics tell us of Eklavya, who cut off his thumb as “dakshina” for his Guru Dronacharya even though it meant an end to his career as an archer. The same spirit, miraculously, imbues most younger students even in the present day.

When I voiced my concern about TV, I was labelled a spoilsport; the teacher organised a debate and my son was suddenly an articulate spokesman for the harmful effects of TV. Books lay gathering dust, until Ma’am directed that each boy read a book a week and write a report. Suddenly, my son was reading abridged versions of the classics and was an authority on Charles Dickens and Mark Twain. Every parent learns to cognise and appreciate that the teachers can get their little devils to write poetry, and prose, inspire frenzied research on esoteric topics, teach them to paint, and even sing in tune. They inspire them with the motto of ‘Citius, Altius, Fortius’ in sports, and infuse them with charity and capitalism when the proceeds of the School fete are used to fund scholarships for poor kids. The teacher is the miracle worker. Mom and Dad, are well, just progenitors, to be kept in good humour so they keep the pizzas and pocket money coming in.

There’s a lot of time and energy invested in teachers’ day and birthday: thoughtful cards are hand-painted and fresh flowers hand picked. Parents’ birthdays need a strident reminder and if you try and compare, there’s the gentlest rebuff, “...hey Mom I love you. Surely you don’t need a card or a bunch of old flowers to tell you that...” Well, who can argue with that except the green-eyed monster inside who feels she could use that brand of “special thoughtfulness” inspired in her progeny by his teachers.

I guess if you can’t beat them join them: so I have volunteered with my son’s school, as a substitute teacher. Perhaps I will now discover, that special ingredient, that will take me from Mom to Ma’am and absolution.

Mussorie: The Ageing Hill Queen

The ageing hill queen called Mussoorie
Punam Sidhu

ACCOMPANYING my husband on a mid-service training course, we drive into the town on a sunny October afternoon. The filth accumulated on the narrow winding roads is appalling. The stench of uncollected garbage and defecation, noxious. By evening, however, the chill sets in and we witness a spectacular sunset, with the fiery ball of the sun dipping into tall deodars and pines in the Garhwal mountains. The lights come on and by night, the city, she is still the Queen.

The darkness cloaks the wrinkles of pollution, and neglect. The warts of urban decay are precipitated by the pressures of the tourists who take the population of approximately 30,000 (91 census) to 2,50,000 in a season. Mansoorie, is named after the Mansur shrub (Coriana nepalensis) growing on the hillsides. Captain Young established this former British retreat in 1827.

The protagonist in Gurcharan Das’s “A Fine Family” refers to going to the Mall “to eat the air”. The Mall as a focal point of social interaction is common to all the hill-stations developed by the British. Mussorie’s Mall Road, situated 6950 feet above sea level, starts from the Library Point, past the Gurudwara Sahib Trust and Lakshmi Narain temple, down cobbled streets past porticoed shops to Kulri and the Landour Clock Tower at the other end of the bazaar. You can take a mule or a rickshaw until the old train station or wade through mule droppings on foot to the other end of the bazaar. Rudyard Kipling, Nobel prize winner, has portrayed ‘the Great Ramp of Mussoorie’ in his book “Kim”.

Mussorie in the 40s was quite the playground for the Talukdars of Awadh and other Indian Princes. Shimla being out of bounds for them, the funseekers sought out this lovely ridge town known for its active social whirl. No one was allowed on the Mall without a tie. A Regimental band played from the bandstand regaling the strollers savouring their favourite tipple. There were two popular hotels, the Savoy and Hackmans. Sukhbir Grewal told me about Hackmans having a Froth Drinkers Club. The gentlemen gathered to drink beer, at 11 each day and blow the froth. The one who blew it furthest, was declared the champion for the day and got a free beer. Hackmans has gone to seed and the Savoy, the hauntingly beautiful Heritage Hotel is barely surviving, brooding mistily, in the shade of the oldest and tallest Deodhars in all of Mussoorie.

But if heritage is what you want then, its all there at the Savoy. As you drive up, stables line the drive. The courtyard is surrounded by large urns and a filigreed boundary wall. At the reception desk, photographs of Nandu Johar, the Savoy’s owner, and his father with Indira Gandhi, Jawaharlal Nehru, The King of Nepal, Ethiopian Emperor Haille Selassie, and his Holiness the Dalai Lama occupy pride of place. Inside the hotel there are several wings furnished with Edwardian antiques, billiards tables, panelled walls, stuffed game trophies, carved balustrades and fine wooden floors. The ballroom is an architectural marvel. A large hall, with a balcony running right around it, it is hung with taper lit chandeliers. In 1907, the tapers were replaced with electricity. The Savoy orchestra played every night and the ballroom was full of waltzing couples.

Each bedroom has its own bathtub and dressing room. Lowell Thomas who visited Mussoorie in 1926 writes about the Savoy separation-bell. This was rung before dawn, “….so that the pious may say their prayers and the impious get back to their own beds”.

The Savoy Writers’ Bar was witness to a writers workshop in 2001, where they compiled a festchrift for Ruskin Bond, Mussoorie’s adopted son. He lives just beyond Landour, in his “room on the roof”, “Ivy Cottage”. He can be spotted at book stores signing autographs for visitors. The Writers Bar is dedicated to the authors who have an association with the Savoy. Rudyard Kipling (Kim), Phillip Mason, Commissioner of Garhwal who wrote under the pseudonym Woodruff, Lowell Thomas (India:Land of the Black Pagoda),John Lang (Botany bay) and John Masters (Bhawani Junction), Charles Allen (“Plain Tales from the Raj), Pearl S Buck (Good Earth) and Peter Hopkirk (In search of Kim) have all visited this watering hole. Ruskin Bond is a regular visitor and you can join him for a drink with Nandu Jauhar at the Writers Bar just after 6 PM.

The Lal Bahadur Shastri National Academy for Administration is located at Mussoorie in the old Charleville Hotel. It was formerly advertised as “the only hotel that was patronised by Her Majesty the Queen Mary” who visited Mussorie in 1906 when she was the Princess of Wales.

Mussoorie today is truly a mini-India. There is Kashmiri, Rajasthani, Saharanpuri and Benarasi handicrafts, Tibetans and the locals with their mobile woollen rehri markets. There’s also a large Punjabi trading population. Most like Sardar Harbhajan Singh of Nirankari Cottage Industries, emigrated from Pakistan after partition. His shop has over 600 Ganesha statues under one roof. Further down the road in Landour Bazaar, his brother stocks porcelain antiques and a collection of water colours exquisite in detail.

I experience a sense of déjà vu as we walk down the steep, winding, cobbled roads, of Landour past the porticoed shops with their lacey iron grills, wooden beams and sloping roofs. The tall lamp-posts cast shadows and there is a chill in the air. If I shut out the smells I could be in the United Kingdom.

If antiques are your destination head for Irfan Ahmed’s Ancient Palace at London house or Irshad Ahmed and Son’s shop in Hill Queen Centre, Kulri or Sabri’s at 11 Landour Cantt. Furniture, paintings, crockery, books, chandeliers and lamps, the list of memorabillia they stock is endless.

There’s food of every sort as well. Punjabi, Udipi, Tibetan momos or fast food, there’s a restaurant at every 10 yards to cater to appetites sharpened by the exertion and salubrious weather. We met Anil Kapur, a St Stephens alumnus, who runs the newly renovated Mussoorie Tavern and Brentwoods Sanctuary on Kempty road. His young son has just returned with a degree in hotel management and is responsible for the spanking new kitchen. The food is sumptuous and the chairs moved over after 10 to make place for the wooden dancing floor. The Manager, Mr Ashok Mahendroo, plays on the guitar and sings holding you in thrall to the tunes of a time gone by. “Once upon a time there was a tavern,……. where we used to raise a glass or two……. .”.

The cottages and buildings beautiful in their Elizabethan architecture are patchworked with new materials without respect for the antiquity or the heritage of the original construction. Only some like the State Bank of India , housed in what was earlier The Imperial Bank are carefully restored and maintained. Jim Corbett’s father was married in St Pauls Church, Landour, and served as Postmaster in Mussoorie. The stained glass windows of St Pauls backlit with Mussoorie’s setting sun are one of my lasting memories of Landour. That, and Conkers on the Chestnut trees and roasted chestnuts being sold by pavement hawkers. The magic of Mussoorie endures.

Webchat: Naughty at Forty

Naughty at forty
by Poonam Khaira Sidhu

MY son Bilawal is a millennium kid. He’s nine going on nineteen. He’s the acknowledged computer whiz in the family. Even his father, a sometime engineer now a bureaucrat, asks for his assistance. With an uncle inside Intel and another in an Internet start-up, he gets regular updates on hardware and software. The relative merits of Pentium versus Itanium or Xeon processors are kid stuff. Little Sehaj Bir, his younger sibling, who is also very computer savvy acknowledges big brother’s ability to break through the codes in game CDs. The Internet is not the final frontier. It’s his turf, where he’s completely at home.

But millennium kids need the excitement of new challenges all the time. Also the Net has spawned its own culture and language through the virtual chatrooms. Bilawal was not allowed to chat because his old-fashioned mom thought they were dens of virtual vice. But mom was also not immune to Bilawal at his best behaviour and when he pleaded “You know all my friends are into chatrooms on the net. Can I chat too, please, under supervision only”. Well, I reckoned no harm done if he’s supervised. So come Sunday and my nine year old, seven year old and their father were all ready to enter a chatroom.

It was a crowded chatroom, one of scores on the net. There were about 18 regulars, with their names in the name-age-location sex (ALS) specification. So there was cupid 16, blonde 21, hunk20, Adonis 24, and belle15. Not one had a sensible name, or was over the age of 25 and certainly no one as young as Billy. So how are you going to sign on we asked him? “As Billy9 of course”, he said. “No you can’t give your real identity away”, we reasoned. So he signed in as action boy albeit with his real age. This is how the action went.

Actionboy 9: Hi!! I’m happy to be in this room.

There’s sudden consternation in the chat room.

Cupid16: Hey Actionboy!! are you really 9?

Actionboy: is happy to get a response.

Hunk20: You really shouldn’t be here kid.

Belle15: Clear off kid!! Go find someone your age.

And, they’re back to chatting with each other.

Blondie21: Hey hunk!! Do your muscles match your IQ?

Hunk20: Try me Blondie. I will surprise you!

Adonis24: Say Belle, are you as pretty as your name means and what do you do? —————-and so the cyberflirtations continued.

My son couldn’t quite figure out the ongoing chatroom conversations. He asked quite plaintively: Why don’t they talk about hobbies or science or game-CDs or chest codes?” We the supervising adults really had no answer to that one. Not one to give up, he tried again.

Actionboy9: Isn’t there any one who will talk to me? Please!

Blonde21: Hey kid, clear off!! Learn to take good advice, OK?

Hunk21: (Taking pity) OK kid talk, but after this you leave.

Actionboy9: What’s your favourite game CD?

Hunk21: Doom, I guess, but my college assignments don’t leave much time to play.

Actionboy9: Do you like science and do you know what a Supernova is?

Hunk21: Hey kid! This is getting a bit too techie. Go to bed!! Bye!!

Actionboy9 a.k.a Bilawal, my nine year old, saddened and disappointed, signed off.

Dad, dangerously close to 40, when men get naughty, was, however, hooked.

It had been another one of those days in office. I was tired, and stressed. So, after an early dinner and putting the kids to sleep, I hit the bed and within minutes I was in slumberland. When I awakened, it was dark. A look at my wristwatch set the time at 3 AM. I glanced over at the sleeping kids and discovered my husband was missing.

I was up like a shot. Hey!! Where was my better half? I jumped out of bed and rushed out into the living room. No signs of him! Where could he be, it was hardly a civilised hour. I had visions of him running away with a secret girlfriend or a neighbourhood siren. I sat down on the sofa, trying to compose myself and sent up some silent prayers. It was then that I heard the tap-tap of the keyboard from the study. I gingerly climbed upstairs and peeped in.

My husband of 10 years sat glued to the monitor. He was much to my horror in the midst of a conversation with 21 year old sirens in a chatroom on the Internet. The old adage, “Men get naughty at four- O, forty”, is true. My sober, almost 40-year-old is now a confirmed net chatroom junkie. He’s up at unearthly hours surfing the net and chatting away in any chatroom he can find. What did I say about kids filter? Please ladies, use the husband filter too. Don’t allow your husbands unsupervised access to chatrooms!!

Of Love, Courage and Parkinsons

Of love, courage and Parkinson’s
Punam Khaira Sidhu

FIGHTING ODDS: Mohinder with her husband

The melodious notes of the harmonium waft to me in the wee hours. I could almost visualise the couple — Pritam Singh Kohli playing the instrument, and his wife of 50 years Mohinder sitting close by. Some days Mohinder, "Mindi" to her friends, appears quite normal, with just the slight tremor of her hands giving away her affliction but on other days she is rigid and incapacitated.

But the Kohlis’ routine remains undisturbed. Their life has fallen into a mellow pattern. P.S Kohli, a retired IAS officer who has been Advisor to three Punjab Governors, is today full-time caregiver and also part-time Sufi poetry enthusiast. The man who served as Consultant to the World Bank for agriculture and irrigation projects is now an unofficial consultant to others battling Parkinson’s disease like his beloved wife. But friends they were and friends they are, tranquil in each other’s company and in the ebb and flow of their daily routine.

Mindi, mother to four children, two boys and two girls settled in the US, was travelling in the US in 1992 when she first felt involuntary tremors, signalling the onset of Parkinson’s. Today the Kohlis are grateful for the early detection of the disease and administration of levedopa, the miracle drug which has substantially slowed down the spread the disease.

Parkinson’s disease is a neurological disorder caused by a degeneration of dopamenergic neurons that control normal movement. The early signs include resting tremor (shaking back and forth when the limb is relaxed) bradykinesia (slowness of movement), rigidity and postural instability. Some other common signs are shuffling gait, stooped posture, small handwriting, constipation, sweating, dementia, depression and muscular pain. Parkinson’s can also easily degenerate into Alzheimer’s, which results in impaired cognitive functions. And this is where Mindi emerges as a ‘poster girl’ for she has shown how early diagnosis, disciplined medication and strong will power can beat the odds against this degenerative disease. Post-retirement, the Kohlis settled in the US. Mindi underwent deep brain stimulation surgery (DBS) in Sacramento, California. The options at that time were between pallodotomy i.e. surgery to burn the damaged portion of the brain, an irreversible process, and the less effective but reversible DBS. In a 12-hour-long operation, surgeons drilled a coin-sized hole in Mindi’s skull, and stimulated her sub-thalamus with electrodes. These electrodes were inserted into the patient and connected to a power pack implanted under her breast. The battery life is three to five years like that of a pacemaker. Today, DBS is being done in India at AIIMS, Apollo and other advanced centres.

Mindi displays a streak of self-deprecatory humour when she says that like "Pyaar ke side-effects" the levedopa drug has a lot of side-effects too. These include nausea, digestive problems, depression and hallucinations. It was these hallucinations that brought the Kohlis back to India from the US. Mindi hallucinated and dreamt frequently of her brothers and parents. Ensconced in the protective warmth of family and friends, the Kohlis set about re-building their lives in India. Kohli, at his bureaucratic best, has actually maintained a diary recording his wife’s daily medicine schedule.

Chandigarh has a large number of people suffering from Parkinson’s but very limited medical resources to provide the specialised treatment this disease requires. The Kohlis are happy to volunteer information about resources required for battling the disease.

The Kohlis have lived their marriage vows`85 through health and through sickness. Their partnership of love and support serves as a shining example to couples in the present times when relationships are so quickly tested by minor hindrances.

Sister Nirmala

Unconditional love — that’s Sister Nirmala
Tribune News Service

Chandigarh, March 4
Sister Nirmala, the Superior General of Mother Teresa’s Missionaries of Charity, paid a brief visit to the city to its local unit, Shanti Dan in Sector 23.

The Sister had been invited to attend the CBCI meeting at Jalandhar. On her way back to Kolkata, she stopped over to spend time with The Chandigarh family. Ms Punam Khaira Sidhu, a volunteer in the home, says that she was greatly privileged to see Sister Nirmala at close quarters. Sitting in the little room that serves as a reception area in Shanti Dan, her eyes brimmed over with unconditional love and empathy. She was dressed in the order’s uniform of coarse white, blue bordered, handspun cotton sari. Her small feet bore cracks and were shod in rubber chappals. But the aura surrounding her was bright with peace and purity. When she spoke she radiated love. She said,” Love demands that we give until it hurts not from our abundance but from our wants.” Her message for the people was “ God loves each one of you tenderly. Trust Him totally and seek His will in your love. His will is to love one another as God loves you”.

This frail, tender, woman presides over 676 convents in 129 countries. Sister Nirmala handed out what she called Mother Teresa’s visiting cards, and narrated a story for how it came about. A visiting business man calling on the Nobel Prize winning missionary, apparently handed out his business card while asking for the Mother. She wrote down a small prayer and handed it over to him, saying, “This is my business card”. The card reads, “The fruit of silence is prayer; the fruit of prayer is faith; the fruit of faith is love; the fruit of love is service; the fruit of service is peace.

The mission of Mother Teresa’s Missionaries of Charity is to do all they can for the poorest of the poor. They reach out to take the old, the destitute, the disabled and retarded and abandoned children into their homes and look after them, surrounded by the love of the Lord.

Ms Sidhu says that a visit to the convent in Sector 23, “Shanti Dan”, always “rejuvenates me in spirit and mind. I always return full of faith in all that’s good and pure.” The poorest of the poor , the sick , the abandoned have a home here. Babies abandoned at birth are nurtured and cared for. The stench of neglect does not enter here. Instead, there are smiling faces and love pervading every nook of the home from the cabbage patch outside, to the nursery with the babies fragrant with talc. There is a beautiful statue of Mother Mary in the grotto at the entrance.

While she was exceedingly articulate about order and the work being done by the Missionaries of Charity, Sister Nirmala refused to talk about herself. But a browse through news archives yielded the following information. Press releases had stated that Sister Nirmala, was elected almost unanimously as the New Superior General of the Missionaries of Charity, Mother Teresa was present for the election and blessed Sister Nirmala. Sister Nirmala, 63, was never groomed as a successor to lead the order which has 4,500 nuns in more than 129 countries. Pope John Paul II had advised the nuns, in a letter, that the Missionaries should be led by a woman of deep spirituality. Her selection was unanimous by 132 senior nuns in a closed door vote. It ended an 8-week selection effort.

The Sibbals

Success is in their blood

Sibal family.

This is a story that has its origins in Dingah village of Gujarat district in Pakistan, when 18-year-old Hira Lal Sibal married 14-year-old Kailash Rani of Bhimbar which is now a part of PoK. Mr Sibal went on to practice in the Punjab High Court in Lahore where his five children were born. Partition forced them out of their home in Lahore. Mr Sibal is nostalgic when he says, “We shifted from Lahore to Jalandhar, hoping that we would be able to return to our home after conditions improved. But that was not to be, so we moved to Shimla, and then when the Punjab and Haryana High Court shifted to Chandigarh in 1955, we did too”.

Sibal’s reputation as an advocate specialising in civil, criminal and election law is well-founded. He has been Advocate-General four times and was elected as the first non-official president of the Chandigarh Club, Rotary Club. He has been president of the High Court Bar Association twice.

Mr Sibal’s eldest son, V.K. Sibal, qualified for the IAS and opted for a UN deputation with the FAO. He is presently a judge with the Punjab Human Rights Commission. J.K. Sibal also qualified for the IAS and was assigned the MP cadre. After 18 years, he quit to return to legal practice in Chandigarh and is presently an advocate of repute.

Kanwal Sibal qualified for the IFS and rose to become India’s Foreign Secretary. He has recently been appointed Ambassador to Russia. The youngest Kapil Sibal also qualified for the IAS but chose the legal profession and went on to become a reputed Supreme Court advocate before he joined the Congress and is now a minister. Mr Sibal’s only daughter Asha is married to the former MD of Metalbox and former Chairman of BATA.

Mr Sibal’s wife, Kailash Rani, keeps a beautiful home and garden in Sector 5, Chandigarh. She has a photographic memory and follows a disciplined schedule, “Discipline is the quality I passed on to my children”, she says. Excerpts from an interview given to Bilawal and Punam Khaira Sidhu:

You must be a very proud father. What inspired your children to join the civil services ?

V.K. Sibal qualified for the IAS and set the trend for the others. I am indeed very proud of all of them as they are all good humans.

Were all of your son’s good at studies and academically inclined at an early age?

Yes, they all excelled in academics. I rarely had to tell them to study. They were all very motivated youngsters, who I knew would succeed in whatever they chose to do.

What schools did they go to?

They have studied at various schools and colleges in Shimla, Chandigarh and Ludhiana as we shifted from Shimla to Chandigarh. The youngest, Kapil, studied in St Johns and then moved on to St Stephens College in Delhi.

What were your sons interests/hobbies?

V.K. was an avid reader. There is hardly a book or an author he has not read. J.K. and Kanwal excelled in debates etc while Kapil was an all-rounder excelling in sports, dramatics and a cinema enthusiast.

Was there a lot of sibling rivalry?

Yes, but it was healthy and that is why each has tried to set the bar.

What are the qualities you ascribe to their success?

My wife and I tried to imbibe the qualities of discipline, honesty and perseverence in all of them.

How much has Chandigarh changed since you first moved here?

The changes have been dramatic. Chandigarh was a city of barely one lakh population and today it is over 10 lakh. It is dirty, polluted and crowded. The civic infrastructure and law and order set-up is under tremendous pressure.

What improvements would you like to see in the city?

Planned development of the periphery and satellite cities of Mohali and Panchkula can ease the pressure on Chandigarh. Each resident also needs to be aware of his civic responsibility to keep the city beautiful.

What is your message for the youth?

Work with sincerity and honesty to achieve your goals. Let it be like an obsession and you will achieve great results. As for the rest, destiny also determines your fate.

To a grandfather with love

REMEMBRANCE
To a grandfather with love
Punam Khaira Sidhu

He was an immaculate dresser, this graduate Civil Engineer from Kings College, London. He lay now calm and serene, at the end of life’s journey, dressed in his favourite suit and tie. His silver beard was neatly tucked into place by his devoted grieving family. His wife Satwant, a doctor, who had nursed him tirelessly in his last days, his daughters Jyoti, Guddi and Nina, their husbands, his sons, KPS Gill and Birendar and their wives and his grandchildren who stood huddled close to the pyre unwilling as it were to let go of the man of steel who had formed the backbone of their family for almost a century. He was 94.

As a young girl preparing for the Civil Services exams I thought I knew all there was about the Punjab river waters dispute. But that was until I had a talk with R.S. Gill. In 1947, as an OSD, he had dealt with the claims of Punjab on Pakistan before the Arbitration Tribunal was set up. The depth of his knowledge, his insights into the politics of the dispute, was a talk I will never forget. It was also a valuable first lesson in the machinations of bureaucracy and politics.

His achievements were prodigious by any standards. He had served as Chairman of the Punjab and J&K State Electricity Boards. He had worked on the Bhakra Dam project, the Beas project for the Pong Dam, the Upper Sind hydel project and the Jhelum hydel project and finally the Ranjit Sagar Dam. He was a consultant with various engineering colleges, IITs and projects as far as Kuwait and Libya.

But above all he was a much loved and respected man both within his family and for those outside like us. After my grandfather passed away, Rachpal Singh Gill was to our family the only grandfather we knew.

If he had to be described in one word it would be the Punjabi word “Syana” and the English word “sterling”. In addition to being wise, he was mature and farsighted. Perhaps that is why whenever anyone had a problem, he or she, consulted him. And he always found time for everyone. He was a stickler for discipline adhering religiously to his schedule. The timing for his meals, his bath, his walk, was strictly implemented. The only other person in my acquaintance who is such a sticker for discipline is Khushwant Singh, another prodigiously talented man. R.S. Gill was also a keen chess player. He was a keen observer of human nature with an unfailing memory for names and details.

The last time we visited him in hospital was when his pacemaker needed a change. He returned from hospital to make a full recovery until the final accident. An almirah under fabrication sat balanced precariously. He was taking a look at it when if fell onto him. He was in pain — multiple fractures including one on the neck of the femur. So back to the PGI it was. For his family who nursed him so lovingly, it was painful to see him suffer.

Yesterday there was an official party. But we were committed to visiting him in hospital. We missed the party to visit him and spend time with him. He held my husband’s hand and told him that he had read about his organisation’s work which was doing a fine job. He remembered my sons’ names and enquired about each of them. When I told him that we would pray for him, he said, “a grandchild’s prayers are always answered but, child, I don’t have the strength to fight this time.” I have never dared hug him when he was well, but I asked if I could hug him there in the hospital bed. “Of course”, he said. So carefully avoiding the tubes and all, I did hug him.

The news came the next morning that he had passed away. At night we were grateful for those precious moments with him. Goodbye Gill Uncle, we’ll miss you. To the grieving family we can only say we all stand with you in your hour of grief for the wonderful man we have all loved and lost.

Nank The Guru: Mala Dayal

Distinctive strokes
Punam Khaira Sidhu

Nanak: The Guru
by Mala Dayal. Illustrations by Arpana Caur. Rupa. Pages 48. Rs 195.

AS a parent of one teenager and one tweenie (pre-teen), I am often concerned by their lack of interest in reading books. Television and video games dominate their leisure time. If this generation is to be weaned away from their plasma screens and I-pods, the subject has to be a visual treat strong enough to grab their eyeballs and the text has be pithy and brief. Mala Dayal, the author who has been involved with developing, selecting, editing and writing material for children for over 30 years, has clearly imbibed this lesson well because, in this collaboration with Arpana Caur, the artist, she achieves near perfection. The Ardas offered by every Sikh is to invoke Lord’s blessings to bless him with the strength and the will to read and listen to the scriptures, "Bani padhan te sunan da bal bakhsho", which is indeed a fine introduction to the Guru’s legacy for a child.

In the space of 48 pages, most of the Janamsakhis associated with Guru Nanak Devji’s life find a place in this book in a language that is simple and lucid, yet conveys the essence of the Guru’s life and teachings through its simplicity. The prose is used as an effective medium for the Guru’s message. The teachings of Guru Nanak, the first Guru of the Sikhs who laid the foundation of the fine traditions of langar and exhorted people to rise above caste and material considerations because they were all children of one God, are as relevant today as they were when He composed the Japji Sahib, Asa di Var and Mul Mantra beneath the early morning sky in Kartarpur in the 1500s. This is a book a child or an adult can read in one sitting, yet gain a pleasing insight into the life of a visionary and a leader of men of all faiths. The author puts it succinctly through the saying "Baba Nanak Shah Fakir, Hindu ka Guru, Musalman ka Pir".

Mala Dayal, who is publisher Ravi Dayal’s wife, has dedicated the book to her father, the celebrated author Khushwant Singh, for whom this was a surprise Baisakhi gift this year. Caur’s painting of the Guru Granth Sahib, protecting her grandfather and carrying his belongings in a sack from Pakistan in her "Partition Series" has always been a personal favourite. The visuals in this book are in Caur’s trademark style of stocky figures with their strong folk motif underpinnings, the colours rich and textured to complement the elegant pared down text. The mala and khadava of the Guru have been used as a leitmotif throughout.

When I first browsed through Roopinder Singh’s Guru Nanak—His Life and Teachings, also by Rupa, my immediate reaction was: "Here’s a Collectors Edition at paperback prices". I remember buying several copies for NRI friends and family, who look forward to books, which will introduce their children to the Gurus and indeed to the Sikh faith and maryada. Mala Dayal’s Guru Nanak is another book in the same genre, though for a younger audience. It has evocative illustrations. As a parent, it is my sincere hope that this collaboration of author and artist will not stop at this single volume.

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Passage to England

Passage to England

Punam Khaira Sidhu on the Queen’s country and its sights, the attitudes and lifestyle of the Britons and the Asian immigrants

Victoria and Albert Museum

The London Underground

Hyde Park, a must-see on every tourist’s itinerary

WHEN we took off from New Delhi, it was with a head full of Noddy-inspired images, envisioning England as a country of villages with rose briars on gates, gnarled apple trees and green meadows with fluffy sheep. When we landed in Manchester, it was anticlimactic. There were lots of Indians and the Metropolis was just like Bangalore or Gurgaon except that it was cleaner, and much colder.

It was September and the country was experiencing an Indian summer. The sun did not set until 9 pm and the British, who are huge sun worshippers, were out all day in the briefest of shorts armed with large tubes of sun block. The houses did not have ceiling fans: with global warming raising temperatures around the globe the British Isles are a huge market for Indian fan manufacturers to explore.

Britain is a welfare state. The State steps in with free medical care through the National Health Service (NHS), free and compulsory education, free or subsidised council housing, benefits for unemployment, heating bills, child support and disabilities etc. The British public transport system is robust with buses, trams and trains. In the cities, the identically constructed semi-detached and terraced houses, made familiar in the Granada studios’ popular TV soap, The East-Enders, are occupied largely by the middle classes. Each area has its own market, surgery, school and pub. Residential areas in the UK are very stratified. You are where you live and are immediately slotted by your residential postal code. While students live near the cheaper City Centre, the more affluent live in country homes with gardens. That’s where you can see the rose briars and green meadows.

Welfare state notwithstanding, the Thatcher years have seen a cutback on the State’s role and deficit and there is no permanent employment only, continuous employability. Multi-skilling is the new mantra. The British are unfailingly polite and correct. Every telephone query is prefaced with a "How may I help you?" They are also very fair in their dealings regardless of the fact that Asians have swamped their tiny isle and pose a substantial burden on the welfare state. But Britons are reserved and most personal interaction is within segregated community groups. Chicken tikka may be a national favourite but notwithstanding professional achievements immigrants can only be second-best citizens.

University education is expensive and students work to support their education. Students stack shelves in stores, work at data entry and in restaurants cooking naans or noodles late into the night. Immigrant Indians, Pakistanis, Bangladeshis and Chinese abound in the UK. Bangladeshi’s in fact are the backbone of the couture garment trade in the UK of which Petticoat Lane on the outskirts of London is an example.

The first generation Asians were relatively unskilled and poorly educated but they worked hard to put the second generation through university and into professions. Almost every Asian is a success story in his/her own measure. My friends in the UK IRS told me that Asian immigrants are also responsible for widening the cash trades in this credit card economy. Hence, whether it is the weekly grocery market, homemade goodies, or repair jobs, the Asians will do them and hope the taxman does not find their trail. Most Asians also moonlight ie do more than one job in their spare time.

Pubs in the UK serve bitter, lager and the Irish draught beer, Guinness, along with delicious home cooked samples of British cuisine such as Yorkshire pudding and rhubarb, steak and kidney pie and a large variety of sausages with the omnipresent fries flavoured with barbeque sauce and vinegar. Lunch is called dinner while dinner is called supper.

Football is religion in the UK. Britons have deep-seated club loyalties and the devout sport the club uniforms and sing the club anthem with fervour. Arsenal, Manchester United, Chelsea and Liverpool top the present rankings.

Rupert Murdoch’s Sun with its Page 3 topless model, is the tabloid with the largest circulation. Other tabloids include the Daily Mirror, Star and Daily Mail. The broadsheets, the Sunday Observer, Telegraph, Independent and Guardian still command a loyal readership.

The National Lottery with a top prize of millions of pounds has a draw every Wednesday and Saturday. A ticket costs a pound and can be picked up at almost all commercial establishments. The average Briton is tolerant of the royalty, but obsesses over the colourful Beckhams and loves business pashas like Sir Richard Branson of Virgin Atlantic fame who create jobs and wealth. Stores like Debenhams and Marks and Spencer stock quality at value for money prices and their blue cross sales are sellouts. Stella McCartney and John Galliano are the homegrown stars on the couture horizon.

Heritage is big business in the UK and large homes have opened their grounds to the public for a price. Heritage buildings are protected by strict conservation laws, which do not allow even a pin to be put on the fa`E7ade without invoking a penalty. We had the temerity, albeit in complete ignorance, to put a DTH antenna on the fa`E7ade of Brian Redhead Court, a 100-year-old building which housed our student flats, to get our daily fix of Zee TV. There was consternation and a show-cause and we were almost evicted.

Third generation Asians who know which fork to use are the Britons who meld effortlessly. But for the others being away from home seems to intensify their need to stay in touch with their cultural identity in what borders on paranoia. On festivals and weddings the fervour has to be seen to be believed: remember Bend it like Beckham. There are several gurdwaras and mandirs. Most are run by devout faithfuls but power politics does prevail. They also provide a hub for social activities and help-groups.

We battled homesickness constantly, especially through the cold days of winter snow and sleet. The sight of banks of daffodils did nothing for our spirits unlike a squashed marigold that a visitor brought along with parshad from India. I remember inhaling the fragrance of India in that little blossom.

The neighbours calling to borrow jamun for curd, the smell of mango blossoms, jalebis, endless cups of tea with hot pakoras: we missed them all. Staying in the UK was a great experience but as I have said earlier it is not in the Queen’s country but in your country of origin that you are King.

The Story of Gur

The delectable story of gur
Punam Khaira Sidhu

Sugarcane is crushed in small mills run on electricity

EVEN as we celebrated Lohri, the table in my home groaned under the weight of gur ki gachak, gur ki reori, and gur ki chikki. As my sons bit into the delicious confectionery laden with poppy seeds and groundnuts, they queried: "What’s this stuff made up of mom?" "Jaggery or gur," I pronounced. To which the next query shot at me was, "What’s gur?"

India produces 240 to 260 million tonnes of sugarcane, out of which about 50 per cent sugarcane is crushed in 400 large sugar factories, producing 11 to 12 million tonnes of white sulphitation sugar. These giant sugar factories use vacuum pan boiling system and sulphitation process, which is carried out by sophisticated machinery and equipment. Jaggery, which accounts for half of the sugar eaten in India, is made from the remaining 50 per cent of the sugarcane grown in India.

A dark, unrefined sugar, gur or jaggery is used not only in India but in the entire subcontinent. The finished product can have a solid fudge-like consistency, or can be made into a powdery substance called shakkar. It is used to make candies, and when crushed, used as a sweetener for tea, halwa, pickles, etc. Jaggery, which has a distinctive taste, sweetens and flavours the rich coconut milk and tapioca drink from Burma, moh let saung, and Sri Lanka’s famous Vattalappam. In Thailand, it is not just used for confections but also to add a touch of sweetness to hot curries.

Making gur is a family ritual in villages of Punjab. And my earliest memories of gur-making are framed in nostalgia. A huge pair of bullocks turned the mills that crushed the cane, and the juice from sugarcane was boiled down with several people helping to stir steadily thickening syrup. Sitting around the warmth of the fire and eating the hot fudgy gur underneath a starlit sky was sheer magic. Molten jaggery is cooled before it is shaped into small cakes Back to the present I was determined that my city-bred boys should experience the magic of jaggery-making. We drove down on the Chandigarh-Patiala road to find villagers making gur. The story of gur starts in fields where sugarcane is planted. Harvesting of the sugarcane starts after Dasehra. The harvested sugarcane stalks are crushed in small mills run on electricity. The juice collected is transferred to a large settling tank. A long-handled jharni is used to clean and separate the impurities. Then the juice is transferred to a boiling pan or karaha which is arranged on a tunnel-type furnace and the juice is boiled in it. The clarification process goes on while boiling. Herbal clarificants and soda bicarbonate are sprinkled in the boiling pan frequently as and when required and dirt accumulated on the surface is frequently removed by scumming. This indigenous process requires experience and skill for maximum recovery of jaggery. The thick slurry of cane is constantly stirred so that it may not settle or form a crust on the surface. As the water evaporates from the juice, sugar crystals are formed in the thick syrup. The molten jaggery is then ready to be transferred to a large shallow wooden tray. Here it is partly cooled and set before khurpis are used to make small cakes, which are dried in the sun on plastic sheets. Gur is not just the healthier alternative to sugar but studies undertaken suggest the potential of jaggery as a protective agent for workers in dusty and smoky environments. What about the dust and smoke pollution in our cities? We could do with a protective agent too. Add gur to your diet — Gur wale chawal, gur da halwa or just plain gur ki churi — and experience the benefits of a healthier alternative to refined sugar. I’ve made a beginning by gifting gur from the family farm to friends and relatives instead of sweets in winter. Like the European tradition of the ubiquitous cheese board that finds a place on every table, start a gur board. Plain gur, gur flavoured with kaju badam, or digestive gur flavoured with ajwain (caraway) and saunf (aniseed), take your pick.

Mulk Raj Anand's Short Stories

A teller of tales
Punam Khaira Sidhu

A Pair of Mustachios
by Mulk Raj Anand, Orient Paperbacks. Pages 110, Rs 95.

THINK Indian writers writing in English and the two enduring names from the 1930s whose books are still in print are Mulk Raj Anand and R.K. Narayan. Their works have been translated into several languages.

Born in Peshawar in 1905, Mulk Raj Anand's was educated in Lahore, London and Cambridge. He lived in England for several years. What could also be of interest to readers is that Mulk Raj Anand held the prestigious Tagore Chair at Panjab University, Chandigarh.

At the age of 30, he began his most prolific period. He wrote the Untouchable (1935), followed by Coolie (1936), Two Leaves and a Bud (1937) and then the adventures of Lalu Singh, a young Sikh during World War I, in the trilogy: The Village (1939), Across the Black Waters (1940), and The Sword and the Sickle (1942). It was a richly productive literary period for him. A book a year was no mean feat. The Private Life of an Indian Prince (1953), Confessions of a Lover (1972) and The Bubble (1988) were his other well-known works.

A Pair of Mustachios is a collection of cameos, each dedicated to Anand's friends and acquaintances. The stories are drenched in the sun and soil of the Indian landscape of the 1930s and 1940s. The tale from which this collection derives its name is the story of Azam Khan, a descendant of Afghan nobility, and Seth Ramanand "a lentil-eating bania". It's a vivid pen picture of the class system under siege. Khan, who lives off pawning his wife's jewellery, prefers to defend his tiger mustache even at the cost of losing his fortune to the wily merchant. Babu Bulaki Ram is the tale of the quintessential clerk, dreading his English Karnel Sahib. On the Border, Babu Bulaki Ram and The Informer have as their backdrop the winds of the freedom struggle sweeping across the Indian countryside. Every village still has a loveable liar like Labhu, the shikari, or a cobbler like Saudagar, whose desire to own the machine he worked on drove him to his death or even a confectioner like Lala Nanakchand, who thrived by "promoting quarrels" among the simple uneducated women selling milk like Basanto and Hiro. A Rumour is the story of every simple youth like Dhandu who makes his way from the village to the town in search of a livelihood and meets with tragedy. The Maharajah and the Tortoise is a tale where the Birbalesque Prime Minister stars in a parable which could have stepped out of the pages of the Panchtantra. In sum, it's a wonderful cocktail of the writing skills that characterise Mulk Raj Anand's work and craft. It should arouse in the reader a taste for the other works that comprise the literary legacy of this talented teller of tales.

Cellphone Monogamy

Cellphone monogamy
by Punam Khaira Sidhu

MEN typically have polygamous and peripatetic propensities. They are constantly upgrading and moving on. They coast through the whole gamut of toys for boys: Cars, phones, laptops, et al, and yes even newer mates with enviable facility. It was, after all, successful older men, trading in graying spouses for younger ones, who gave currency to the term, “Trophy Wives”.

Women, on the other hand, honourable exceptions notwithstanding, tend to have steadfastly monogamous affinities.

As with husbands, so it is with cellphones. Women find it difficult to upgrade, let alone move on. And it has nothing to do with being techno-savvy. Women surprisingly are very technology-friendly. And I’m not talking about the Carly Fiorina’s but your average Anne.

Women are, today, using more technology than their male counterparts. Take the everyday kitchen, dish washers, ovens, microwaves, food-processors, washing machines and refrigerators — they all add up to quite an overload of techno-logic. Also newer phones really do incorporate increasingly user-friendly technology. So upgrading actually means progressing, metaphorically that is, from stone-age dinosaurs to sleek new age design and comfort.

But women being women will typically think with their hearts rather than with their heads. Don’t be surprised then, if you see a Prada clad female executive or a Dior sporting power-femme clutching a shabby phone — it’s a manifestation of the “Monogamy Syndrome among Women” or MSaW. It should, I believe, pose a tremendous marketing challenge for the cellphone companies.

Of late some successful, single, older women, have shown marginal movement up the emotional evolution chain. No, they aren’t trading in old faithfuls. They are just trying to get a life, after being left behind. They are the ones who have found themselves “toyboys”.

But then not everyone is a Liz Taylor, Gina Lollobrigida, Demi Moore or even a Zeenat Aman, happily sporting a much younger male partner as arm candy. And having found a partner, they then tend to be embarrassingly monogamous. It probably has to do with wrinkles and grey hair looking better on a man than on a woman or then again just plain MSaW.

Would my mother trade in her graying better half for a younger model? Never! Her whole MSaW DNA should revolt at the very idea. So also with her cell phone. It suffers from battery problems, is chipped and worn around the edges and the touch-screen wont respond to touch. But she’s loathe to part with it.

And then my father who values efficiency over mushy sentimentality, bounced off an idea, “How about a little “toyboy” on the side, he suggested helpfully, eyes twinkling with merriment and challenge?”

Suddenly, Mommy seemed to look at her well-worn cellphone in a new light, and clearly the idea of having a reliable back-up on the side was appealing. “Why not!” she twinkled right back, as we watched slack-jawed.

Whoops! Is the Indian woman evolving or what, I ponder ? There’s hope then, that in time, they will get over their MSaW too. But the Punjabi males had better watch out. Women upgrading might spell boom-time for cellphone companies but doom time for MCP’s i.e. 90 per cent of the Punjabi male population.

Valentines Day Introspection

Rites de Passage: a post-Valentine’s Day introspection
Punam Khaira Sidhu

THERE was consternation in my brother’s home this Valentine’s Day. My cute teenaged niece couldn’t make up her mind about what to wear. Was is it going to be the red mini or the red trousers with the mini top. Choices, choices, choices! “Well whatever it’s going to be, it’s got to be red, with lots of skin showing” she said, as her father glowered menacingly. As she sat debating clothes with a set of cute, confused young girlfriends and her indulgent mom, I couldn’t help reflecting on how times had changed.

Red the colour of Karl Marx, and socialism is today the colour of all that represents capitalism: Coke, Cable TV and Valentine’s Day. A festival associated with a pagan ritual, the cruel King Claudius, and a tender-hearted priest named Valentine, has fusilladed into the latest icon for our consumer society. It is fuelled by card companies, soft toy manufacturers, candy, coke and assorted clothing manufacturers. They have clogged the channels on TV for the past month. The so-called Youth Channels, MTV and Channel V, the Star and Zee networks, Sony and even “sada” Punjabi channels such as Punjab Today and Alpha Punjabi were full of barely clad young things, espousing the cause of Saint Valentine.

Saint Valentine’s Day traces its roots to a pagan ritual associated with the feast of Lupercalia, commemorating young men’s rites of passage to the heathen god Lupercus. In ancient Rome, February 14 was the feast of the goddess Juno, who is associated with marriage and women. The next day i.e. February 15 would begin the celebrations for the Feast of Lupercalia. The lives of young boys and girls at that time were strictly segregated. One of the rituals associated with this festival was the drawing of names of Roman girls by boys out of a jar with a slot. The boy would then have, as a companion, the girl whose name he drew, for the rest of the festival. Sometimes these young ones married. Thus started the custom of young men selecting young women for Valentines.

At around this time, Emperor Claudius II of Rome was engaged in bloody battles. He found recruiting men into his army Leagues very difficult. Over a period of time, he began to believe that it was because men did not want to leave their wives and families. He, therefore, banned marriages and engagements. Valentine was a priest in Rome, in the days of “cruel Claudius II”, who married couples secretly. For this, he was sentenced to death by beating him with clubs and to have his head cut off. He suffered martyrdom, in the year 270 on the 14th day of February. Later the Christian Church in an attempt to do away with the pagan rituals in the Feast of Lupercalia, substituted the name of maidens with that of Saints. Pope Gelasius ordered this change in the lottery custom. Thus began the ritual of young men selecting Saints, as patrons, whose lives they would try to emulate during the coming year.

Out of the tradition for men to give girls they admired handwritten messages of affection with Saint Valentine’s name in it, emerged the present day Valentine cards. The first true Valentine card was sent in 1415 by a Frenchman, Charles, Duke of Orleans, to his wife, from the Tower of London, where he was imprisoned after the Battle of Agincourt. It was thought that birds also chose their mate for the year on February 14. Pigeons and doves are birds which mate for life and, therefore, came to be used as a symbol of “fidelity.”

Today, America celebrates this day with fervour. In terms of cards sent, it is ranked second in popularity only to Christmas. Children make a decorated box with a slot in the top for the Valentine’s day party at school. During the party, they slip valentines into their classmates’ Valentines’ Box. The first US made valentines called “Worcester valentines were crafted in the 1830s by a college student named Esther Howland. John McLaughlin, a New York printer, created the “Vinegar valentines”. These comic valentines were printed on cheap paper in bright colours and made fun of old maids and others. American cartoonist Charles Howard also popularised what were called “Penny dreadfuls” — comic cards with dreadful designs which sold for a penny.

There’s a Valentine day card for everyone — parents, sweethearts, spouses, teacher and even your dog! Cards, flowers especially the ubiquitous red rose, candy, perfume et all wrapped in red with glitter and long-suffering hearts pierced with arrows were favourite Valentine Day gifts.

The departmental stores of the city beautiful added wine, cheese and munchies to the list, this year. In the schools, the nuns and brothers and other principals had counselled their charges to show restraint.

The cops had geared up for where the real action was to be: “the geri route”. But the real dilemma was my niece’s and that of every nubile young thing: “What if they didn’t get a single valentine?” The even greater dilemma was that of cautious parents: “How to deal with rampant young teenaged hormones as they tried to do what advertisements and commercials expected of them?”!

Well, Valentine’s Day came and went. There were some hits and some misses. Cupids arrows have a way of finding their mark. My little niece and her friends also collected a lot of valentines but they showed restraint and came straight home after college for an all girls bash. My brother was a happy father this Valentine’s Day as he reflected, “At the end of the day family values and socialisation i.e. “sanskars”, still do matter. Not all the temptations and satellite TV can take that away from us”.

Valentines Day Introspection

Rites de Passage: a post-Valentine’s Day introspection
Punam Khaira Sidhu

THERE was consternation in my brother’s home this Valentine’s Day. My cute teenaged niece couldn’t make up her mind about what to wear. Was is it going to be the red mini or the red trousers with the mini top. Choices, choices, choices! “Well whatever it’s going to be, it’s got to be red, with lots of skin showing” she said, as her father glowered menacingly. As she sat debating clothes with a set of cute, confused young girlfriends and her indulgent mom, I couldn’t help reflecting on how times had changed.

Red the colour of Karl Marx, and socialism is today the colour of all that represents capitalism: Coke, Cable TV and Valentine’s Day. A festival associated with a pagan ritual, the cruel King Claudius, and a tender-hearted priest named Valentine, has fusilladed into the latest icon for our consumer society. It is fuelled by card companies, soft toy manufacturers, candy, coke and assorted clothing manufacturers. They have clogged the channels on TV for the past month. The so-called Youth Channels, MTV and Channel V, the Star and Zee networks, Sony and even “sada” Punjabi channels such as Punjab Today and Alpha Punjabi were full of barely clad young things, espousing the cause of Saint Valentine.

Saint Valentine’s Day traces its roots to a pagan ritual associated with the feast of Lupercalia, commemorating young men’s rites of passage to the heathen god Lupercus. In ancient Rome, February 14 was the feast of the goddess Juno, who is associated with marriage and women. The next day i.e. February 15 would begin the celebrations for the Feast of Lupercalia. The lives of young boys and girls at that time were strictly segregated. One of the rituals associated with this festival was the drawing of names of Roman girls by boys out of a jar with a slot. The boy would then have, as a companion, the girl whose name he drew, for the rest of the festival. Sometimes these young ones married. Thus started the custom of young men selecting young women for Valentines.

At around this time, Emperor Claudius II of Rome was engaged in bloody battles. He found recruiting men into his army Leagues very difficult. Over a period of time, he began to believe that it was because men did not want to leave their wives and families. He, therefore, banned marriages and engagements. Valentine was a priest in Rome, in the days of “cruel Claudius II”, who married couples secretly. For this, he was sentenced to death by beating him with clubs and to have his head cut off. He suffered martyrdom, in the year 270 on the 14th day of February. Later the Christian Church in an attempt to do away with the pagan rituals in the Feast of Lupercalia, substituted the name of maidens with that of Saints. Pope Gelasius ordered this change in the lottery custom. Thus began the ritual of young men selecting Saints, as patrons, whose lives they would try to emulate during the coming year.

Out of the tradition for men to give girls they admired handwritten messages of affection with Saint Valentine’s name in it, emerged the present day Valentine cards. The first true Valentine card was sent in 1415 by a Frenchman, Charles, Duke of Orleans, to his wife, from the Tower of London, where he was imprisoned after the Battle of Agincourt. It was thought that birds also chose their mate for the year on February 14. Pigeons and doves are birds which mate for life and, therefore, came to be used as a symbol of “fidelity.”

Today, America celebrates this day with fervour. In terms of cards sent, it is ranked second in popularity only to Christmas. Children make a decorated box with a slot in the top for the Valentine’s day party at school. During the party, they slip valentines into their classmates’ Valentines’ Box. The first US made valentines called “Worcester valentines were crafted in the 1830s by a college student named Esther Howland. John McLaughlin, a New York printer, created the “Vinegar valentines”. These comic valentines were printed on cheap paper in bright colours and made fun of old maids and others. American cartoonist Charles Howard also popularised what were called “Penny dreadfuls” — comic cards with dreadful designs which sold for a penny.

There’s a Valentine day card for everyone — parents, sweethearts, spouses, teacher and even your dog! Cards, flowers especially the ubiquitous red rose, candy, perfume et all wrapped in red with glitter and long-suffering hearts pierced with arrows were favourite Valentine Day gifts.

The departmental stores of the city beautiful added wine, cheese and munchies to the list, this year. In the schools, the nuns and brothers and other principals had counselled their charges to show restraint.

The cops had geared up for where the real action was to be: “the geri route”. But the real dilemma was my niece’s and that of every nubile young thing: “What if they didn’t get a single valentine?” The even greater dilemma was that of cautious parents: “How to deal with rampant young teenaged hormones as they tried to do what advertisements and commercials expected of them?”!

Well, Valentine’s Day came and went. There were some hits and some misses. Cupids arrows have a way of finding their mark. My little niece and her friends also collected a lot of valentines but they showed restraint and came straight home after college for an all girls bash. My brother was a happy father this Valentine’s Day as he reflected, “At the end of the day family values and socialisation i.e. “sanskars”, still do matter. Not all the temptations and satellite TV can take that away from us”.

The Small Cee

The small C
by Punam Khaira Sidhu

There was a time when advertisements for condoms featured sensuous young women like Pooja Bedi and Viveka Babajee. When these advertisements appeared on TV, my young sons usually looked away. The message was very clear: this was adult business as indeed condoms used to be.

But what happens when Rahul Dravid in all his clean-cut earnestness is pitching the message of condoms and staying AIDS-free on primetime? Rahul Dravid is a hero, not just for those who most need the AIDS message, but also for a whole generation of under 12s. When Rahul comes on screen, what you expect him to endorse is the big C:Cricket, or cricket memorabilia, healthdrinks, sportswear, or crisps, and the kids are all ears. They are not familiar with the product their hero is endorsing, but it confuses the brat audience and makes them as Alice would say,"curiouser and curioser" about it. Suddenly, condoms and AIDS are not adult business anymore.

Of late the talking point for cricket babies has been Rahul Dravid endorsing condoms, unabashedly. Naturally, there is trouble ahead, for parents and grandparents, of the legions of Dravid fans. Because the next logical question from inquisitive young minds is: What is a condom and what is AIDS ? Well AIDS is a disease, easy enough, but what of condoms? Yes, Rahul, wish you could help field those googlies. Grandma tries hard and says its a balloon. Grandpa says it's plastic underwear. Dad says it's a groin-guard cricketers wear. So when the bratpack gets down to comparing notes, the result is one confused and hyper-inquisitive bunch of young minds, looking for more.

Threshold levels for awareness are at an all-time high with satellite TV and the internet-enabled generation. Ten-year olds today ask questions about stuff we discovered in our twenties. But strangely, yet gratifyingly, no matter what the information or where they pick it up from, they still do seem to need adult ratification for it. And that's where I develop the heeby-jeebies. I'm mortally afraid of losing credibility and authority. It's a lose-lose situation: If you tell them a bird and bee story, you run the risk of appearing stupid and lose reliability. And if you tell them too much you impact on their innocent psyche, detrimentally presumably.

I have often wished some psychologist would publish a handbook on how to explain the tricky facts of life to growing children. There is help now apparently from TARSHI's Blue and Red books and Manjula Lal's I-File.

Outlook recently published the results of an urban survey of four Metros that indicates that one in four of 13-17 year olds has had a physical experience. Can you blame them? There is a constant barrage of suggestive messages being sent out through iconic satellite TV channels such as MTV and Channel V.

Even the Punjabi and desi channels carry repeats of videos of the “Kaanta laga” genre. Clothes and attitude are all invested with an “in-your-face” sexuality. I believe it’s time that parents and schools sat up and took note and realised the importance of calling in the experts. Whether it is counselling or workshops supervised by psychologists, some form of formal institutional input is both urgent and imperative so that the young ones can dispel their doubts about physicality and urges lose their novelty and curiosity value. More significantly, if the young are correctly informed, they can make responsible choices and decisions about their behaviour and relationships.

The small C

The small C
by Punam Khaira Sidhu

There was a time when advertisements for condoms featured sensuous young women like Pooja Bedi and Viveka Babajee. When these advertisements appeared on TV, my young sons usually looked away. The message was very clear: this was adult business as indeed condoms used to be.

But what happens when Rahul Dravid in all his clean-cut earnestness is pitching the message of condoms and staying AIDS-free on primetime? Rahul Dravid is a hero, not just for those who most need the AIDS message, but also for a whole generation of under 12s. When Rahul comes on screen, what you expect him to endorse is the big C:Cricket, or cricket memorabilia, healthdrinks, sportswear, or crisps, and the kids are all ears. They are not familiar with the product their hero is endorsing, but it confuses the brat audience and makes them as Alice would say,"curiouser and curioser" about it. Suddenly, condoms and AIDS are not adult business anymore.

Of late the talking point for cricket babies has been Rahul Dravid endorsing condoms, unabashedly. Naturally, there is trouble ahead, for parents and grandparents, of the legions of Dravid fans. Because the next logical question from inquisitive young minds is: What is a condom and what is AIDS ? Well AIDS is a disease, easy enough, but what of condoms? Yes, Rahul, wish you could help field those googlies. Grandma tries hard and says its a balloon. Grandpa says it's plastic underwear. Dad says it's a groin-guard cricketers wear. So when the bratpack gets down to comparing notes, the result is one confused and hyper-inquisitive bunch of young minds, looking for more.

Threshold levels for awareness are at an all-time high with satellite TV and the internet-enabled generation. Ten-year olds today ask questions about stuff we discovered in our twenties. But strangely, yet gratifyingly, no matter what the information or where they pick it up from, they still do seem to need adult ratification for it. And that's where I develop the heeby-jeebies. I'm mortally afraid of losing credibility and authority. It's a lose-lose situation: If you tell them a bird and bee story, you run the risk of appearing stupid and lose reliability. And if you tell them too much you impact on their innocent psyche, detrimentally presumably.

I have often wished some psychologist would publish a handbook on how to explain the tricky facts of life to growing children. There is help now apparently from TARSHI's Blue and Red books and Manjula Lal's I-File.

Outlook recently published the results of an urban survey of four Metros that indicates that one in four of 13-17 year olds has had a physical experience. Can you blame them? There is a constant barrage of suggestive messages being sent out through iconic satellite TV channels such as MTV and Channel V.

Even the Punjabi and desi channels carry repeats of videos of the “Kaanta laga” genre. Clothes and attitude are all invested with an “in-your-face” sexuality. I believe it’s time that parents and schools sat up and took note and realised the importance of calling in the experts. Whether it is counselling or workshops supervised by psychologists, some form of formal institutional input is both urgent and imperative so that the young ones can dispel their doubts about physicality and urges lose their novelty and curiosity value. More significantly, if the young are correctly informed, they can make responsible choices and decisions about their behaviour and relationships.