Malwa versus Majha

Malwa versus Majha
Punam Khaira Sidhu

IT was after the “Anand Karaj” at my wedding, when the Baratis and the Kudiwallahs break bread together and bonhomie prevails, that I heard my father say: “We Majhails did not marry our daughters to Malwais”. Not having lived in Punjab for the better part of my growing years, I did not then understand the connotations underlying that remark. Having been married to a Malwai for the last 12 years I now do, and what can I say except, “Vive la difference”.

The river Sutlej runs through Punjab. Historians refer to the region west of the river as the Trans-Sutlej, and that east of the river as the Cis-Sutlej. This division corresponds roughly to the Majha-Malwa divisions. Majha is the ‘Bari Doab’ area that lies between the Beas and the Ravi. The people living in Majha are referred to as the Majhails. The Malwais are the people who live in the area that lies between the Sutlej and the Jamuna. Majha is essentially the area encompassing Lahore, present day districts of Amritsar. Gurdaspur and Pathankot. Malwa lies spread over Ferozepur, Faridkot, Patiala and Ludhiana. The traditional divide manifests itself in linguistic, culinary, cultural, psychological and sociological differences.

The linguistic differences were what struck me first in my Malwai marital home. ‘Taqi’ is window in the Malwai Punjabi and Khirki in Majhail. “Mure” is in front of in Malwai, “agge” in Majhail, “sumbharna” is cleaning up in Malwai as against “safari” in Majhailese. “Bhalna” is “to search” in Malwai as against “labhna” in Majha. Linguistic differences apart, you know a Malwai when he asks for ‘Dudh-patti’ while a Majhaili asks for “cha” at teatime.

But the major difference is psychological. Malwais are shrewd strategists, practical and farsighted: their heads rule their hearts. The Majhail acts before he thinks. His heart rules and he is impulsive rather than practical, an idealist who can be passionate about his causes. Both Malwa and Majha have thrown up leaders who have left their mark on Punjab and a keen rivalry has marked their interactions. The royal families of Patiala, Nabha, Faridkot and Jind from Malwa while Jassa Singh Ahluwalia, Maha Singh Sukerchakiya and his son Maharaja Ranjit Singh, and his generals Hari Singh Nalwa, Desa Singh Majithia, Attar Singh Sandhawalia, and finally Sir Sunder Singh Majhithia from Majha fashioned the fabric of present-day Punjab, pre-partition.

Post-partition, think Majha and the images that loom large are Master Tara Singh, Pratap Singh Kairon, a political Science graduate from the University of Michigan, and Gurnam Singh, Gopichand Bhargav and Comrade Ram Krishan. Maharaja Yadavindra Singh, Gyan Singh Rarewala, Parkash Singh Badal, Harcharan Singh Brar and Giani Zail Singh are only some of the many Malwai statesmen. There are many whom the constraints of space do not permit me to name. But the luminaries I name best illustrate the Malwai versus the Majhail psyche comparison.

And finally encapsulating the traditional Malwa versus Majha rivalry, there’s a humorous tale about a Malwai Brigadier and a Majhail Honorary Captain. They met long after they had served together. The Malwai proudly informed the Majhail that he had three sons one of whom was a Major General, another an Air Vice-Marshal while the third was a Commodore in the Navy on the verge of promotion. The Malwai version has the Majhail reluctantly informing that he had three sons too. One recently out on bail, another doing time for alleged drug peddling, while a third was facing charges for 107/151 Cr PC for apprehension of breach of peace.

The Majhail version ends a little differently with the Majhail informing the Malwai that he too had three sons, one a Major General, the other an Air Vice-Marshal while the third was a Commodore in the Navy on the verge of promotion. “But I hope you know that I never married”!! .............. Long live the Majhails and the Malwais and long may they connive and compete.

The Sardarji in the Bulb and his Sardarni

The Sardarji in the Bulb and his Sardarni: a love story
Punam Khaira-Sidhu

IT was in the winter of 1994 that we first met Khushwant Singh and his Sardarni Kaval Malik. A party had been arranged in the Canal Guest House at Amritsar for the “Sardarji in the Bulb”. Due to escort him was the then Director General of Police, Mr Kanwarpal Singh Gill. These were the “ men who commanded huge TRP” much before Ekta Kapoor’s “soaps”. Both men had a larger than life image, a taste for fine scotch and a certain weakness for women. The women invited must have viewed the evening ahead with some trepidation. It was a full house. Everyone invited attended. The security accompanying the Director General of Police (DGP) was intense. The circuit house swarmed with gunmen. Those were the days of bulletproof cars, walkie-talkies and sub-machine-guns ; terrorism cast a long shadow.

When the chief guests arrived, KPS Gill did not disappoint. At 6½ feet, clad in formals, he was every inch the DGP in mufti. The famous visage, caricatured in the bulb, identified the nondescript Sardarji dressed in a rumpled Pathani suit, accompanying him as “the Khushwant Singh”. Also accompanying them was a lady, slim, well maintained, dressed in loose salwars. Her grey hair was worn simply but elegantly. She had that indefinable air of breeding and refinement, that clung to her like a fine toosh, sensed even when not felt. She had a calm unpretentious manner. When she spoke she looked you directly in the eye, listening more than talking. She enjoyed her glass of whisky. It was much later that we learnt that she was the lesser known “Kaval Malik, Khushwant Singh’s wife”.

As the evening progressed I remember thinking how little truth there was in media reports about Khushwant Singh. He was no womaniser or drunkard. He is in fact a scholar, widely read with a fine repertoire of anecdotes, jokes and urdu poetry. He enjoyed his drinks, he had two that evening and almost took a third, until his wife reminded him that he was over his limit. He politely declined it then. His manners were impeccable, even after he had downed his quota of drinks. He spoke to the women, but with a lively sense of curiosity. He was like a sponge soaking up nuggets of information, and his memory would have put a man half his age to shame.

He shared an easy air of companionship with his Sardarni. Their affection for each other had a tangible identity but there was also a clearly defined independence; each occupied separate space. This was a couple whose marriage had traversed the uneven terrain of life and matrimony and weathered the rocky spots.

Amritsariâs are a people with a taste for good food and good life. In the good old days, Lawrence Road did not sleep till way past midnight. But in 1994, bomb blasts and kidnappings were still fresh and there was a virtual curfew after 9 pm. A walk after dark was still not fashionable in those times. Khushwant Singh was, however, determined, security risks notwithstanding, to walk down the Lawrence Road like in the old times. It was a security disaster. My husband Karan Bir Singh Sidhu, then the Deputy Commissioner at Amritsar, and all the district and police officials walked on eggshells down Lawrence Road, with fingers and toes crossed. But I believe that Khushwant Singh and his Sardarni Kaval extended the curfew deadline that evening for Amritsar. It was the beginning of the end of terrorism.

We met with Mr Khushwant Singh and his family again when they visited Amritsar, on and off, to donate a substantial sum to the energetic Dr Inderjit Kaur’s Pingalwara foundation. We met again, last year, on his trip to Kasauli. He spoke with regret about his Sardarni’s affliction with Alzhiemers. He was deeply disturbed by what had become of his “beautiful tomboy”. She could not speak or remember much. “I am not comfortable leaving her alone or with a nurse, so I don’t travel much now”, said Mr Khushwant Singh. He spoke also about his son and daughter who set aside domestic priorities and willingly took turns to nurse their mother, when he travelled to meet his professional commitments.

When the news reports about the Sardarni having left behind her grieving family made it to the newspapers, they also carried a message from the Sardarji. He wanted to be allowed to grieve privately for his wife. While allowing Mr Khushwant Singh the time and space to grieve for his companion, this piece is dedicated to his Sardarni, whom he has described in his writings as his “gawky schoolmate at Modern School Barakhamba”. She blossomed into a beauty, whom the Sardarji fell in love with and wooed and won in a Quaker Hostel in Buckinghamshire.

His famous liaisons notwithstanding, Khushwant Singh was a man a little in awe of his fiercely independent wife. He relied on her to bring order into his life. She was ill for quite a while, and did not speak much after her affliction with Alzheimers. But theirs was clearly the classical case of true love “in sickness and in health... till death did them a part”, a companionship of 62 years. They were married in October, 1939.

I thank Mr Khushwant Singh for permitting me to share in print my memories of a brief encounter with him and his Sardarni Sahiba.

Bachelors Ahoy

Bachelors Ahoy!
Punam Khaira Sidhu

LIKE every married woman, I believe that there’s a perfect soulmate waiting out there for every eligible male. I am, much to my husband’s disgust, an inveterate matchmaker. It is with considerable concern, therefore, that I comment on the current scenario. Never before in the history of this wonderful land of Heers and Ranjhas , Sohnis and Mahiwals has there been a time such as this. Not one, not two, but three highly eligible bachelors looming large over the social horizon. A soon-to-be Prez, a PM and a Governor. There’s something wrong with the Indian Eve or else the institution of marriage is under siege.

The latest Census figures are shocking— 933 women for every 1000 males, while in Punjab it is lower at 874 for every 1000. Notwithstanding the declining sex-ratio, there is an incredibly large number of eligible females. The long line of Indian lovelies, the Miss Universes, and Miss Worlds who have articulated over satellite television, that “the new Indian woman knows what she wants and how to get it”, should be training their sights on these irresistible men. Let’s take a look at the lineup.

Heading the list is the man who reportedly doesn’t own many suits and shoes but will shortly be moving into the most coveted address in the country: Rashtrapati Bhavan. Nobel Laureate stuff, he’s called the father of India’s nuclear programme. His CV lists the development of SLV 3, Agni and Prithvi missiles and Pokhran. He’s responsible for India’s membership into the exclusive Nuke Club. Plays the veena and writes poetry. Put your hands together for the Presidential nominee and the confirmed long-haired bachelor lighting up our television screens.

Keats, Tennyson, Wordsworth, and Shelley notwithstanding, poetry is not a preferred macho male activity. A man who writes poetry is usually a man in touch with his soul. Sensitivity and compassion are invariably the natural corollaries.

The next bachelor on the list is a poet of repute, besides being the poster boy for the NDA combine. At home in a dhoti or a suit, a bandgala or chinos. Warm, witty, erudite and articulate, he is the gentleman Prime Minister of the country.

A retired soldier and a gentleman who dwells in the stately splendour of the Punjab Raj Bhavan at Chandigarh. He is an immaculate dresser with an enviable collection of hats. A man of many parts, he takes his role as Administrator (UT) very seriously. What endears him is his special soft corner for the less privileged. So whether it’s the football academy or the night schools in the UT villages or a new wing for the City Museum and Art Gallery, the Governor tackles them all with indefatigable zeal. His latest quest to do away with the Inspector Raj by reviewing building bye-laws and zoning restrictions in Chandigarh should earn him a place for posterity even in the notoriously shortlived public memory. He is the Governor of Punjab.

Three distinguished men, powerful and good-looking to boot. And in a world full of married men, breathtakingly single and fancy free. The road to success evidently requires sacrifices. Long, hard years of arduous work, take their toll of normal family life. But having climbed to the very top rung of the ladder of success, it would surely be nice to have someone with whom to share their achievements. So what are you waiting for ladies?

Words and Meanings

Words and meanings
by Punam Khaira Sidhu

“Hail to thee, blithe spirit”, words from Shelley’s “To a Skylark”, chanted by my 11-year-old son, resounded through our home one evening. “What does blithe mean”? asked the young one. Reference to a dictionary yielded four meanings: cheerful, carefree, lighthearted and gay. With typical 11-year-old instincts he settled for the smallest and simplest meaning: gay. I wondered then, whether I should tell him that gay no longer referred to just joie de vivre. But then I postponed the decision to another day and another time. Innocence is like the skylark, “bird thou never wert” and I did not want to snatch it away from my little one.

All went well until one day when I was interrogating my older son, who happened to be in a black mood, on his return from school. The little one very helpfully informed me that his older brother and his friends were quite gay in school and only pulled a long face at home. My teenaged son cried blue murder while I hastened to admonish the little one and tell him that thenceforth gay was not to be used as a synonym for happy or cheerful because it had several other meanings. But I left it at that yet again. Honestly, I couldn’t fathom how to explain sexual preferences to a 10 year old.

We live in the information age and satellites beam the world into our bedrooms. Another day and another time came sooner, than later. Watching the news on television, there was a report on San Francisco’s high-profile celebration of some 3,000 homosexual marriages and the subsequent call by the US President George Bush to amend the American Constitution to ban gay marriages. His pre-election rhetoric was, “If we’re to prevent the meaning of marriage from being changed forever, our nation must enact a constitutional amendment to protect marriage in America”. The report was accompanied by visuals of placard carrying protestors. What are they protesting queried my son. Why can’t they be gay and get married? Don’t you and dad have a gay marriage, he asked. While my husband’s jaw dropped I decided that the time had come to grab the gay word by the horns.

As I fumbled, the dictionary came to my rescue, yet again as I read out: “Gay refers to homosexuals and homosexual refers to persons who prefer the same sex”. I carried on with increasing confidence, “While it is usual for persons to have a preference for the opposite sex, however those that prefer the same are gay.” Like that movie “Girl Friends” and “Will and Grace” on television, added my cynical teenager!.

But I wondered then about who had thought of using a word that connoted fun and cheerful, lighthearted happiness for an unusual preference. It had certainly taken the innocence out of being happy and gay and as the newly anointed American President fears, changed its meaning forever.

My Sons 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.

Rakhi Musings

Rakhi musings
Punam Khaira Sidhu

YOU know what they say about sons being sons until they acquire a wife, and daughters being your little girls all their lives. Well, as I grew older I found that this homespun adage is perfectly true of real life. My brothers who were part of a close knit family unit changed after they married. No more phone calls, or flying visits to renew the sibling bonds. No more caring or sharing and keeping each other updated on every new pimple or itch.

Parents usually accommodate and come to terms with their sons’ changed priorities. They appreciate that their progeny are busy with new-found mates, even as they strive in pursuit of life’s goals. Sisters usually find it harder to fill up the yawning, aching, emotional abyss that deep-rooted brother-sister bonds leave behind. Initially every sister tries to cling to a relationship under threat. Its not easy to watch bonds, you thought were held together by something, far more durable than any fevicol commercial promises, being rapidly frayed by new emotional equations. I know it wasn’t easy for me. But eventually sisters retreat, deep into their own family unit and try valiantly to hide behind a shield of “as if I care, bravado”. I know I did too.

But deep inside they hurt and pine for their brothers “Bhais”, or ‘Veers’ and the warmth and succour of the brother –sister bond of old. We all use different methods for coping. I use my mother as a punching bag for releasing my angst over brotherly apathy. Rakhi is the time I give passionate vent to it.

She starts reminding me at least a month before Raksha Bandhan. An updated list of addresses follows. Then comes a reminder to send the “Rakhi” so that the brothers get it on time. I usually ignore it, determined to get even with callous brotherly indifference. “Do you know he hasn’t written me a letter or even acknowledged my rakhi?”.”But he sent you a cheque, didn’t he?” I ‘m not interested in their rupees/dollars. “It would be nice to get a letter of thanks, or a greeting on a birthday, or an anniversary “Remember he’s set up a new business,/or he’s got a new posting/or he’s just moved house…….. I’m sure he has his problems. .” “He could call or e-mail if he can’t find an envelope and stamps.” “He could at least have expressed some concern over what appeared to be a huge trough in my life.” “He didn’t even express an interest in my son’s wonderful achievements or congratulate me on my promotion.” . “…..So why do I have to send him a Rakhi?. He’s hardly ever there for me. Fat chance, they will protect or care for me if I should ever need it.”

I moan and groan and my mother lets me. It’s a pattern we have fallen into. Very gently she does, however, make the point that, relationships need to be nurtured. It dosen’t take much to break off a bond, but its difficult to rebuild it. What better occasion than Rakhi to remind them as an older sister of brotherly obligations. “Its your duty to do your bit darling they’ll come around.” “That’s what family is for-understanding and standing by each other” “ Its certainly not about scoring points and getting even”. And so it goes on and every year she blackmails me, emotionally, into sending that symbolic thread of Rakhi that was devised perhaps to remind brothers each year that they have a duty, indeed a responsibility for the well being of their sisters.

This year, however, at that time of the year, came news of a different sort. A biopsy and an emergency operation later, one of my brothers is minus his stomach. There’s a long haul ahead. Chemotherapy, dietary restrictions, a whole change in lifestyle. Life is never going to be the same for any of us. For me, coming as it did, at the time of the year when I usually find reasons why I do not need to renew the bond which puts me in a position where my brothers can hurt me with their careless indifference, I suddenly realise that I cannot bear to think of life without them.

How ephemeral life is? You just can’t take anything, especially those you love for granted. Who knows what destiny has waiting for you at the next corner. More than ever before, I realise, how important my brothers, my ‘Veers’ are to me. Childhood memories, dreams, sibling rivalries inundate me washing away the trivia of my perceived neglect. Cherished memories framed in sepia suddenly come alive. As lachrymal glands go into overdrive I resolve to act, rather than brood in impotent melancholy, for a relationship and indeed a brother I value and cherish.

I can act constructively to do something about it while there is still time. I pack my bags, put in a leave application and tell my husband that Raksha Bandhan is when I need to be with my brother. So what are you waiting for?. Just get together a thali, a Rakhi and a box of sweets and go visit the recalcitrant truant who is an inextricable part of your memories of growing up.

Winters Manna

Winter’s manna
by Punam Khaira Sidhu

WINTERS are a time to wake up to the magic of the city covered in sparkling dew lit with cold clear sunlight. The farmers in the periphery are out in their fields, tending to the winter wheat, mustard and vegetables. The watered fields are covered in a fine mist, raising a magical mystical gloaming around them at dawn and dusk. The city gardens are currently bidding adieu to their crysanthemums but soon they will be feting the rose in the annual rose festival and gardens competition and their joyous celebration of all of winter’s floral abundance.

The Sukhna lake is like a giant teppenyaki platter glistening silver as it awaits the sunrise to set it aflame. The spicy fragrance of the “kachnar” blossoms hangs heavy in the air. For those who know of its medicinal value, it’s a good time to pick its buds for a healthy raita. I am a Punjabi hence don’t blame me for thinking with my stomach.

My teenaged son summed it up rather critically, when observing me attacking my food with gusto, “Gosh mom”, he said, “you eat like a teenager”. That’s true of most Punjabis. We continue to eat like teenagers right through the “middle-age spread” to comfortable later life obesity. But what’s life without a little indulgence and the comfort foods of our youth. No Punjabi, I believe ever suffered from the number one killer disease of our times: “depression”. How can they, when their stomachs are full and their hearts content?

Food is an inextricable part of the rites-de-passage of our lives. Mounds of winter vegetables dot the city markets and roadsides. Office-weary employees returning home are stopped, willy nilly by the mounds of farm-fresh peas, carrots, cauliflower, cabbage, beetroots, radishes in different colours and shapes. In the northern sector hypermarkets the exotic broccoli, red, and yellow bell peppers and iceberg lettuce make their debut.

The perfect winters day starts with “Aloo”, “gobi”, “muli” and “gajar ka Parathas” and “Amb da achaar”. Another favourite with indelible memories of my youth is the “Poora,” a pancake of gramflour, fresh mint, onion and tender green chilies served with Punjabi style tomato salsa.

Bajre-di-roti and Sarson-da-saag are afternoon favourites. Later in the day it’s time to bake new potatoes and top them up with butter and lime, slightly charred from the coal it was baked on. There’s something almost sensual in the fragrance of potato chips, and pakoras fat and fried and paired with ketchup and mint chutney, hanging heavy on the cool winter’s air. Endless cups of tea, flavoured with cardamom and ajwain, is the elixir of choice for young and old.

Come evening and the rich gravies of dinner are followed by desserts to lift your sagging spirits. The West has its rice puddings and pancakes but they don’t come close to the flavour of Malpuas drenched in creamy Kheer, “Gulab Jamuns”, “Kala Jamuns”, “Jalebi” and “Balushais”, their intoxicating aromas so tempting that it’s only too easy to succumb. Just pop the delicious morsels in one go, then sit back, and savour in their sweetness the memories of times gone by.

Add on the magic of “gur” (jaggery), “rewriis”, “gachaks” and “mungphalli” (groundnuts) roasted in their shells and you should transcend into foodie heaven. These are indeed “saddi” Punjabi rites-de-passage of the season. Celebrate, and succumb to Winter’s sweet Manna. You’ve only one life to live — live it to the full in “Charh diya Kalan” for all the Winters of your life.