Baba Amte’s Childhood Lesson
I subscribe to a Hindi-language monthly magazine called Madhusanchaya. It is in fact a modest 8 page non-profit publication circulated to a small number of subscribers. But every issue has nuggets of wisdom. In one of the recent issues there was this beautiful piece that describes a touching incident in Baba Amte’s childhood.
When Baba was just about 6 years old his mother gave him a Japanese toy. It had a human figure set on a wooden base. The figure was so fitted on a spring that one could push it down flat on the base. But as soon as the figure was released it shot back up in its original upright posture. Boy Amte found it very amusing.
One day his mother sat him down next to her and asked, “Son, do you know that this toy has an important message for you?”
“No” said Amte, “ I do not get any message. Please, mother, tell me what it is.”
The mother explained, “In life, every one experiences many big and small pit falls. But one must remember not to feel overwhelmed. Knowing that they are a normal part of life one must stand up as quickly as possible and resume ones journey.
You must remember this lesson all your life.”
“Very good, mother,” said Amte. “I will always remember what you have told me. I promise.”
Baba Amte, a towering personality of modern India, lived a long life of very difficult struggles. But remembering what his mother had taught him he faced them with courage and overcame every single one of them.
Partap
December 8, 2009
1
Enjoyed your story about Baba Amte. He must have been extraordinarily courageous to have himself injected with leprosy when it was commonly felt to be contagious. When I looked him up in Wikipedia it said, surprisingly, that he was an atheist. It then offers a poignant quote from him: "I sought my soul, but my soul I could not see, I sought my god, but my god eluded me; And then I sought my sisters and my brothers, and in them I found all three." It also said he liked to think of himself as a "mechanic with an oil can" ministering to small ills, rather than the spectacular, although he played a major role in India's struggle for independence. Your story about his childhood experience is an interesting sidelight.
Wikipedia also said he worked with the Gonds. Remember the Gond community northeast of Hoshangabad (I think it was northeast)? At Rasulia, I was told they were an "island" of the original inhabitants that survived the southward migration of people displaced by the invasion of the Aryans. Are you familiar with any studies of them? From the N.Y. Times I get intimations that Maoist groups in Madhya Pradesh are trying to appeal to them. But it's all a muddle in my head and I'd like to read more about it.
Enjoyed your account of "Renu's first visit to America." It was funny.
Partap, your example may be spreading, in the sense of encouraging others to write up their recollections as well. My cousins and I are finding great joy in sifting through family diaries and records. But we know we're missing many stories. It's important to write them down as you have been doing. So far, I've written about 45, and still have many more to go. One, incidentally, is about John Gwaltney whom I think you knew at Cornell. I'll attach it to this e-mail and hope you get it.
Again, thanks for your stories. Winter is here. Today, I've been shoveling paths through about 5 inches of wet snow. Enjoy India's beautiful winter weather!
With best wishes,
Wendell
Thanks Wendell for the wonderful rich reply. I vividly remember visiting with John Gwaltney. We were both at an Anthropological meeting in NYC. He said many memmorable things. One of them was: you know I can place you so well that if I had a gun and wanted to shoot, I could get every one of you. This was when someone asked if he could find his way down the fire escape from fifth floor. I am glad Cornell hired him. For it I give my alma mater a high grade.
JOHN GWALTNEY
The rule is: "three strikes and you're out." But not for John Gwaltney. He had three strikes against him and he was still swinging.
One strike was his poverty. Another was his blindness. A third, he was black and bore scars of discrimination from childhood.
I don't know how he afforded classes at Columbia University. Perhaps he had a scholarship. If so, it didn't help with his transportation problem.
The rest of us lived on campus, a few steps from class. Not John. He lived in New Jersey. His itinerary every day included a bus ride from his home to the terminal on the Jersey side of the Hudson. Transfer to the train under the Hudson River to the Port Authority Terminal on the Manhattan side. Find his way through the labyrinth of this massive terminal to the subway station. Take the express train on the IRT line to 96th Street. Cross the platform to the local train to 116th Street. This put him just outside the gate to the Columbia campus. Cross the campus and up the steps near Low Library, across another plaza to Schermerhorn Hall. Then down several floors to our classroom in the basement.
John did this in utter darkness, without the benefit of eyesight. Going home, he reversed the sequence.
We sat next to each other in Professor Bowles class on the anthropology of India. Occasionally, John would be late.
"I feel off the subway platform at 96th Street," he explained one morning.
Once he had scratch marks on his arms and face. He laughed. "You know how the campus is almost completely paved over. Well, I found one of the few places where it wasn't, a bed of roses!" In climbing the stairs near Low he went too far and fell six feet over the side of the stairs into a flower bed.
Once, we were talking about Franklin Roosevelt and the New Deal.
"You know, Wendell, I've got to tell you a story about his wife, Eleanor. I was a small kid. It was the 1930s and the middle of the Depression. My mom wanted something or other from Social Services and she got the run-around."
"You know what my mom did? She whipped off a letter to Eleanor Roosevelt. And do you know what happened? She got a letter back! And what's more, Social Services called up and said to come in and pick up the thing my mom wanted!"
Maybe that's where John got his moxie. Not once did he ever imply that he was a victim. Not even with three strikes against him. He was a doer and a mover.
Our paths went separate directions after Columbia. However, I heard that Margaret Mead, the famous anthropologist at Columbia, took him under her wing. She may have given him a boost. But he did the rest.
Like his mother, whatever John did, he did under his own power.
The last I heard, John was a full professor at an Ivy League school, Cornell.
Enjoyed your story about Baba Amte. He must have been extraordinarily courageous to have himself injected with leprosy when it was commonly felt to be contagious. When I looked him up in Wikipedia it said, surprisingly, that he was an atheist. It then offers a poignant quote from him: "I sought my soul, but my soul I could not see, I sought my god, but my god eluded me; And then I sought my sisters and my brothers, and in them I found all three." It also said he liked to think of himself as a "mechanic with an oil can" ministering to small ills, rather than the spectacular, although he played a major role in India's struggle for independence. Your story about his childhood experience is an interesting sidelight.
Wikipedia also said he worked with the Gonds. Remember the Gond community northeast of Hoshangabad (I think it was northeast)? At Rasulia, I was told they were an "island" of the original inhabitants that survived the southward migration of people displaced by the invasion of the Aryans. Are you familiar with any studies of them? From the N.Y. Times I get intimations that Maoist groups in Madhya Pradesh are trying to appeal to them. But it's all a muddle in my head and I'd like to read more about it.
Enjoyed your account of "Renu's first visit to America." It was funny.
Partap, your example may be spreading, in the sense of encouraging others to write up their recollections as well. My cousins and I are finding great joy in sifting through family diaries and records. But we know we're missing many stories. It's important to write them down as you have been doing. So far, I've written about 45, and still have many more to go. One, incidentally, is about John Gwaltney whom I think you knew at Cornell. I'll attach it to this e-mail and hope you get it.
Again, thanks for your stories. Winter is here. Today, I've been shoveling paths through about 5 inches of wet snow. Enjoy India's beautiful winter weather!
With best wishes,
Wendell
First Visit of Renu to America on Donkeyback
In the year 1964 Renu went to visit her Mamaji (mother’s brother) in a small, very remote village in the Alwar district of Rajasthan state in India. That Mamaji was I, and here is the story.
I was doing an ethnographic study of the Meo people, also called Mewatis, and had settled in the village named Chavandi Kalan. This was in a semi desert area and the village was about 5 miles from the nearest big town Tapikada on the roadside. Camel was our usual transport. My younger sister and her family then lived in Delhi. She wrote and asked if she could visit us. I gave her detailed instructions how to reach the village and told her to be sure to inform me in good time so I could come to receive her in Tapukada. Her letter did not reach me in time.
When my sister with four small children, one of them being Renu, got off the bus I was not there to meet them. She waited for a while and as it was getting late in the afternoon her fear of getting stranded in a totally strange village began to turn into alarm. She went and talked with a shopkeeper. He knew me well and realizing the situation of my sister and the children quickly arranged help. There was a potter in the village that offered to help bring the visitors to Chavandi. It took him little time to get his three donkeys ready. He carefully loaded the luggage on the backs of the donkeys and also made room for the youngest two children to ride. The older children and my sister had to walk alongside the animals and the potter.
The road was unpaved and passed through many rough patches. There were streams to ford and dry beds full of sand to trudge. It was a daunting experience for my sister and especially for the children who had never been outside the city. Going was painfully slow. They had covered even half the distance when the sun went down. Going became tougher. Luckily the moon appeared and lit the path. By late evening the caravan arrived in Chavandi and were safely guided a villager to our mud house covered with thatch. Wow, my sister heaved a sigh and said, “What an experience!”
They stayed with us for a week. The children had the most thrilling time of their lives. My four and a half year old daughter Indu knew the village like the back of her hand. Everyone in the village knew her. She had many good friends. In her local Mewati style dress she blended in the local setting as a Meo. Acting as a guide to her cousins she took them everywhere and showed them whatever she thought was worth showing to outsiders. My wife Sudesh took her sister-in-law to meet her friends.
We went on several excursions—by walking, on camel back, and on bullock cart. We visited the nearby hills where we had a great picnic lunch.
My sister and the children had belly full of fun and it was the most unusual experience of their life.
To Renu this was America
Renu had always heard that Mamaji lived in America. So she concluded that Chavandi Kalan had to be America. There was no room for doubt in her mind.
All her friends in Delhi knew that Renu had gone to America to visit her Mamaji.
So they came to ask what America looked like. My sister was nearby but out of the children’s sight. She sensed what was to follow and sat down quietly to hear Renu’s description of America.
“Oh, America is not as big as Delhi but very different. There are very few brick houses. Most are built with mud, a few with stone. Women wear bright colored clothes and a lot of silver jewellery. Even little girls our age wear silver ornaments. My cousin Indu dresses just like the local children. Each house has an open yard where the elders sit and chat. Most men have beards.
There are many animals because all families own some. There are donkeys, horses, camels, cows, bullocks, goats and other animals. We rode on donkeys and camels. We also rode in bullock carts.”
One child asked, how do you go to America?
Renu answered. “We first ride a train, then bus, and towards the end we ride donkeys. Adults usually walk the last 5 miles. They packed our luggage on donkey-backs and put us children on top of it. It was very scary because the road was uneven. We came many times close to falling. I even fell once but luckily did not get hurt.
Someone asked: Did you like the visit?
Renu answered that she certainly would for it is much fun playing with American children and to visit those exciting places.
I am sure Renu remembers this, her first visit to ‘America.’
Partap
September 26, 2009
In the year 1964 Renu went to visit her Mamaji (mother’s brother) in a small, very remote village in the Alwar district of Rajasthan state in India. That Mamaji was I, and here is the story.
I was doing an ethnographic study of the Meo people, also called Mewatis, and had settled in the village named Chavandi Kalan. This was in a semi desert area and the village was about 5 miles from the nearest big town Tapikada on the roadside. Camel was our usual transport. My younger sister and her family then lived in Delhi. She wrote and asked if she could visit us. I gave her detailed instructions how to reach the village and told her to be sure to inform me in good time so I could come to receive her in Tapukada. Her letter did not reach me in time.
When my sister with four small children, one of them being Renu, got off the bus I was not there to meet them. She waited for a while and as it was getting late in the afternoon her fear of getting stranded in a totally strange village began to turn into alarm. She went and talked with a shopkeeper. He knew me well and realizing the situation of my sister and the children quickly arranged help. There was a potter in the village that offered to help bring the visitors to Chavandi. It took him little time to get his three donkeys ready. He carefully loaded the luggage on the backs of the donkeys and also made room for the youngest two children to ride. The older children and my sister had to walk alongside the animals and the potter.
The road was unpaved and passed through many rough patches. There were streams to ford and dry beds full of sand to trudge. It was a daunting experience for my sister and especially for the children who had never been outside the city. Going was painfully slow. They had covered even half the distance when the sun went down. Going became tougher. Luckily the moon appeared and lit the path. By late evening the caravan arrived in Chavandi and were safely guided a villager to our mud house covered with thatch. Wow, my sister heaved a sigh and said, “What an experience!”
They stayed with us for a week. The children had the most thrilling time of their lives. My four and a half year old daughter Indu knew the village like the back of her hand. Everyone in the village knew her. She had many good friends. In her local Mewati style dress she blended in the local setting as a Meo. Acting as a guide to her cousins she took them everywhere and showed them whatever she thought was worth showing to outsiders. My wife Sudesh took her sister-in-law to meet her friends.
We went on several excursions—by walking, on camel back, and on bullock cart. We visited the nearby hills where we had a great picnic lunch.
My sister and the children had belly full of fun and it was the most unusual experience of their life.
To Renu this was America
Renu had always heard that Mamaji lived in America. So she concluded that Chavandi Kalan had to be America. There was no room for doubt in her mind.
All her friends in Delhi knew that Renu had gone to America to visit her Mamaji.
So they came to ask what America looked like. My sister was nearby but out of the children’s sight. She sensed what was to follow and sat down quietly to hear Renu’s description of America.
“Oh, America is not as big as Delhi but very different. There are very few brick houses. Most are built with mud, a few with stone. Women wear bright colored clothes and a lot of silver jewellery. Even little girls our age wear silver ornaments. My cousin Indu dresses just like the local children. Each house has an open yard where the elders sit and chat. Most men have beards.
There are many animals because all families own some. There are donkeys, horses, camels, cows, bullocks, goats and other animals. We rode on donkeys and camels. We also rode in bullock carts.”
One child asked, how do you go to America?
Renu answered. “We first ride a train, then bus, and towards the end we ride donkeys. Adults usually walk the last 5 miles. They packed our luggage on donkey-backs and put us children on top of it. It was very scary because the road was uneven. We came many times close to falling. I even fell once but luckily did not get hurt.
Someone asked: Did you like the visit?
Renu answered that she certainly would for it is much fun playing with American children and to visit those exciting places.
I am sure Renu remembers this, her first visit to ‘America.’
Partap
September 26, 2009
Britanti
Britanti
Sometimes by mere chance a forgotten event pops up in mind. It may have remained buried deep in memory for many decades, yet it surfaces in surprising clarity. This happened when in the first half of August 2009 my younger sister Santosh and I went to our elder sister in Hyderabad. We were visiting and sharing old memories. Santosh suddenly recalled meeting an interesting man when we lived briefly in Bareilly, U.P. in the year 1948. She then was 14 and I about 17.
I also quickly remembered the man, for I had noticed him in the warehouse next to our house and gone over to befriend him. His name was Britanti. This Hindi word means a narrator. Indeed, he was an excellent raconteur and to use his skill he had an inexhaustible stock of stories. But in the city nobody cared to sit down with a humble watchman and listen. Britanti naturally was happy when I went over to converse with him-- especially hear.
He was a short lean man, about 45. I found out that he was able to read but not to write. This was common in his village. People were so eager to read the epic Ramayana that they learned to do so without bothering to learn writing that was not so pressing. Working as a watchman in an isolated warehouse gave Britanti plenty of free time to read but there was none to hear his stories. Since I was a captive audience he welcomed me and told stories sometimes nonstop. Most of them were rural folklore of the area drawn mainly from the Ramayana and other classics.
As we became friends, I began to notice peculiar personality traits of Britanti. One that struck me was that he ate not twice or three times a day like most of us but only once in two or three days. I am sure he told me why, but I do not remember all the details.
Britanti cooked with great seriousness and care. It was almost like worshipping God. He first cleaned his whole house and put a coat of mud mixed with cow dung on the floors and lower three feet of the walls. This was done with special care in the kitchen where even the stove was coated all over. All the utensils were of course rubbed to shine with sand and washed with clean water. While the floors dried Britanti went for his bath. He did not use soap but rubbed his skin and hair with a mixture of gram flour, yogurt, oil, and mud. He wore only an undergarment and tied a dhoti around his waist. His torso remained bare until the whole ritual was over.
His staple was chapattis, lentils and vegetables, or khichdi of rice and lentils with cooked vegetables. To garnish his food he used salt, turmeric, green chilies, and green coriander leaves. He used no expensive spices like black pepper. After the food was cooked he put some ghee over it to add taste and nutrition. He always ate alone sitting on the floor of his kitchen. No visitors were allowed at mealtime for it was a strictly private activity. He allowed me to sit and watch only after we had become very close friends. He also began to invite me to share his food when he noticed that I wanted to taste it.
The food was delicious, indeed very tasty. His favorite lentil was Tur that I had never tasted before. I liked it very much and always relished it also in the homes of many other local friends. Another dish I tasted for the first time was khichdi made with rice and split urad (black gram). This too was delicious.
Since Britanti did not eat daily as most of us, the quantity he ate appeared excessive. Both my sister and I noticed the huge heap of food he gulped down. We shared with other members of our family these peculiar habits of our friend. They were also interested and wanted to taste it. Britanti gladly cooked extra quantity and gave some to me. Everyone liked the food. In fact they were amazed that it tasted so good without using any nuts, spices or ghee at the time of cooking.
We noticed, or perhaps imagined, that his stomach bulged out enormously after eating the big meals. But I am sure we exaggerated the size of the bulge to add spice to the story. My sister had blown up the whole thing and thought that Britanti ate once a week and his stomach stretched out by 6 inches!
Partap
9th August 2009
Sometimes by mere chance a forgotten event pops up in mind. It may have remained buried deep in memory for many decades, yet it surfaces in surprising clarity. This happened when in the first half of August 2009 my younger sister Santosh and I went to our elder sister in Hyderabad. We were visiting and sharing old memories. Santosh suddenly recalled meeting an interesting man when we lived briefly in Bareilly, U.P. in the year 1948. She then was 14 and I about 17.
I also quickly remembered the man, for I had noticed him in the warehouse next to our house and gone over to befriend him. His name was Britanti. This Hindi word means a narrator. Indeed, he was an excellent raconteur and to use his skill he had an inexhaustible stock of stories. But in the city nobody cared to sit down with a humble watchman and listen. Britanti naturally was happy when I went over to converse with him-- especially hear.
He was a short lean man, about 45. I found out that he was able to read but not to write. This was common in his village. People were so eager to read the epic Ramayana that they learned to do so without bothering to learn writing that was not so pressing. Working as a watchman in an isolated warehouse gave Britanti plenty of free time to read but there was none to hear his stories. Since I was a captive audience he welcomed me and told stories sometimes nonstop. Most of them were rural folklore of the area drawn mainly from the Ramayana and other classics.
As we became friends, I began to notice peculiar personality traits of Britanti. One that struck me was that he ate not twice or three times a day like most of us but only once in two or three days. I am sure he told me why, but I do not remember all the details.
Britanti cooked with great seriousness and care. It was almost like worshipping God. He first cleaned his whole house and put a coat of mud mixed with cow dung on the floors and lower three feet of the walls. This was done with special care in the kitchen where even the stove was coated all over. All the utensils were of course rubbed to shine with sand and washed with clean water. While the floors dried Britanti went for his bath. He did not use soap but rubbed his skin and hair with a mixture of gram flour, yogurt, oil, and mud. He wore only an undergarment and tied a dhoti around his waist. His torso remained bare until the whole ritual was over.
His staple was chapattis, lentils and vegetables, or khichdi of rice and lentils with cooked vegetables. To garnish his food he used salt, turmeric, green chilies, and green coriander leaves. He used no expensive spices like black pepper. After the food was cooked he put some ghee over it to add taste and nutrition. He always ate alone sitting on the floor of his kitchen. No visitors were allowed at mealtime for it was a strictly private activity. He allowed me to sit and watch only after we had become very close friends. He also began to invite me to share his food when he noticed that I wanted to taste it.
The food was delicious, indeed very tasty. His favorite lentil was Tur that I had never tasted before. I liked it very much and always relished it also in the homes of many other local friends. Another dish I tasted for the first time was khichdi made with rice and split urad (black gram). This too was delicious.
Since Britanti did not eat daily as most of us, the quantity he ate appeared excessive. Both my sister and I noticed the huge heap of food he gulped down. We shared with other members of our family these peculiar habits of our friend. They were also interested and wanted to taste it. Britanti gladly cooked extra quantity and gave some to me. Everyone liked the food. In fact they were amazed that it tasted so good without using any nuts, spices or ghee at the time of cooking.
We noticed, or perhaps imagined, that his stomach bulged out enormously after eating the big meals. But I am sure we exaggerated the size of the bulge to add spice to the story. My sister had blown up the whole thing and thought that Britanti ate once a week and his stomach stretched out by 6 inches!
Partap
9th August 2009
My Father
My Father
I was born in Jaranwala on May 21, 1931. My father was in jail at that time. Earlier in the year he was participating in a peaceful, very mild, and harmless procession that was marching through that small town. People were carrying the tricolor Congress party flag and shouting slogans asking the British to go home and to leave India free. This kind of activities had begun several years earlier in other parts of India and had just begun in this area. The police arrived at some point and asked the people to disperse. Those who didn’t were arrested, later produced in court, and sentenced to jail terms of various lengths. My father at that time got one year. I have heard that this was his second and last visit to jail.
About 7-8 years later, as a small boy, I remember witnessing a similar scene. Its image is so well etched in my memory that I can quite vividly recall it to this day. There were about 100 people in the procession walking through the town’s main street. Most of them were young men belonging to shopkeeper families of different religions. There were Hindu, Sikh and Muslims and all of them looked quite serious about what they were doing. The long 3-4 abreast column of people began to spread into a circle at the end of the street where several policemen, some on horseback, were standing in the middle of the road.
They were shouting orders; ‘disperse, go home, you are breaking the law.’ The officer in charge of the police contingent was British. He had come from the District station. People ignored the orders and stayed put. Orders were shouted again and yet again. No one moved. Then the British officer rode forward and facing the crowd said in his highly accented Hindi: “Since you are not obeying I am asking one of the policemen to draw a line across the road. Those who dare to defy the law by crossing the line will be arrested.”
The police gave several minutes to the people to make up their minds. Fifteen to twenty men defiantly crossed the line. One of them was uncle Dewan Chand, my grandfather’s brother’s son. They were handcuffed and marched to the nearest police station. There they were locked up. We were not allowed to visit them. We learned that they would be produced before a judge in a court in Lyallpur in a week’s time. Later the exact date of the trial was announced. I went there with my older cousins and some of their friends. After waiting for some time we saw several handcuffed men being taken out of a court room. Among them was uncle Dewan Chand. He signed to us with two raised fingers and shouted with gleeful enthusiasm saying, ‘I got just two years in jail.’
I was very impressed thinking how brave he was. This experience added a big chunk to my knowledge and understanding of the world around me. Since then what I read and learned in school about British rule and our struggle for Freedom was real and highly meaningful.
Uncle Dewan Chand’s father Harnam Das lived in Lyallpur with his oldest son’s family. He was a congress party leader and very active in local politics. I met him many times and remember him clad in his beautiful handspun and hand woven clothes including his large turban. It was our elder Harnam Das who inspired my father and others to get involved in the Freedom struggle.
July 18, 2009
I was born in Jaranwala on May 21, 1931. My father was in jail at that time. Earlier in the year he was participating in a peaceful, very mild, and harmless procession that was marching through that small town. People were carrying the tricolor Congress party flag and shouting slogans asking the British to go home and to leave India free. This kind of activities had begun several years earlier in other parts of India and had just begun in this area. The police arrived at some point and asked the people to disperse. Those who didn’t were arrested, later produced in court, and sentenced to jail terms of various lengths. My father at that time got one year. I have heard that this was his second and last visit to jail.
About 7-8 years later, as a small boy, I remember witnessing a similar scene. Its image is so well etched in my memory that I can quite vividly recall it to this day. There were about 100 people in the procession walking through the town’s main street. Most of them were young men belonging to shopkeeper families of different religions. There were Hindu, Sikh and Muslims and all of them looked quite serious about what they were doing. The long 3-4 abreast column of people began to spread into a circle at the end of the street where several policemen, some on horseback, were standing in the middle of the road.
They were shouting orders; ‘disperse, go home, you are breaking the law.’ The officer in charge of the police contingent was British. He had come from the District station. People ignored the orders and stayed put. Orders were shouted again and yet again. No one moved. Then the British officer rode forward and facing the crowd said in his highly accented Hindi: “Since you are not obeying I am asking one of the policemen to draw a line across the road. Those who dare to defy the law by crossing the line will be arrested.”
The police gave several minutes to the people to make up their minds. Fifteen to twenty men defiantly crossed the line. One of them was uncle Dewan Chand, my grandfather’s brother’s son. They were handcuffed and marched to the nearest police station. There they were locked up. We were not allowed to visit them. We learned that they would be produced before a judge in a court in Lyallpur in a week’s time. Later the exact date of the trial was announced. I went there with my older cousins and some of their friends. After waiting for some time we saw several handcuffed men being taken out of a court room. Among them was uncle Dewan Chand. He signed to us with two raised fingers and shouted with gleeful enthusiasm saying, ‘I got just two years in jail.’
I was very impressed thinking how brave he was. This experience added a big chunk to my knowledge and understanding of the world around me. Since then what I read and learned in school about British rule and our struggle for Freedom was real and highly meaningful.
Uncle Dewan Chand’s father Harnam Das lived in Lyallpur with his oldest son’s family. He was a congress party leader and very active in local politics. I met him many times and remember him clad in his beautiful handspun and hand woven clothes including his large turban. It was our elder Harnam Das who inspired my father and others to get involved in the Freedom struggle.
July 18, 2009
My Mother (3)
My Mother (3)
Maa was married at age 15 into a joint family in Daska. My father was about 17. It was not a large family but big enough to provide most joys and glitches of a typical joint household. My father had six sisters and one brother. All were older except one sister. I am not sure, but from what I have heard, most of the older girls were married and had gone to their new families.
My father had already started the process of setting up a business at Jaranwala. It was in an area where after the First World War the British cleared the scrub and built a massive network of canals. Having remained fallow for several centuries the land was quite fertile. It was allotted as a reward to the Indian soldiers who had served in Europe. The majority was Sikh but there were also some Hindus and Muslims ex-military men.
Soon after marriage my parents moved to Jaranwala. My father’s youngest sister who was still unmarried went with them. She was exceptionally pretty and fun loving. As she came of age, boys were madly attracted to her. My mother tried to keep watch over her but the young lady was too clever. My father often heard complaints mainly through a close relative living nearby. My mother’s vigilance over her turned stricter than before but the inevitable happened. Cleaning and fixing everything up was messy. My father’s wrath found vent on my mother’s back. In fact my gentle mother suffered enormously on account of that beautiful, unruly teenager.
After several years of toil my father’s shop began to earn good profit. My grandfather and blind grandmother died in Daska. Father’s elder brother and his family locked up our ancestral home there and came over to Jaranwala. For a short period there was peace, but then my aunt died leaving 3 young children. Our weak, diabetic uncle married an attractive young sister-in-law. With her came a pack of troubles in the family. A variety of intrigues were hatched. Dubious relationships with friends in town began to surface. My aunt began to have children in quick succession. My mother too gave birth to a boy and a girl but both of them died. After that my three sisters and I came along and lived.
Clash between my mother and aunt intensified. My father often took it out on my meek innocent mother. Troubles in the family increased to an intolerable level for my father and he began to contemplate migrating to a new thriving port city called Karachi. In the late1920’s independence struggle intensified. My father got deeply involved and spent several periods in jail. When I was born in 1931 my father was in
Jail.
My father’s absence from home made my mother’s life much harder. Although my father was harsh on my mother his presence put a check on all members of the family and as a result there was less fighting. There were several reasons; my uncle was weak, my father was family’s breadwinner, and he was a strict disciplinarian.
Slowly but steadily the conflict level in the family rose to fever pitch. My father went to Karachi to explore business opportunities and within a year (1936) returned to take us there. I was about 5 years old. We lived there till 1947 when the country was divided.
My mother lived in Karachi for about 10 years and this was the best part of her life. She ran the household with love and great skill. The whole family thrived in her care. All my sisters were healthy and we did very well in school and in other activities. She watched over us with an eagle eye but remained unobtrusive as a mouse. I do not remember her stopping me from going with friends to play even when I was quite young. At as early an age as 7 I started regularly to go to an exercise and wrestling place every morning. My mother gave me money to buy a small block of butter from a dairy so I could eat it to build up my strength. I went to far off places for picnics and on expedition. Once, when I was in my 8th year, I used to go to a steep waterfront in the harbor area with other boys to learn to swim. For a time nobody in the family knew of this clandestine activity of mine but later they suspected it. By then I had learned to swim and demonstrated my skill to all my family when we went there on a Sunday evening. I was a strong swimmer and could dive from a high bridge. My mother and sisters were thrilled. My father heard and said nothing.
By her quiet but keenly watchful attitude my mother communicated her deep love and full confidence in my ability and sense of judgment. I was her only son amid three daughters. Hence in our patrilineal tradition my value as the male and carrier of the family name was unquestioned. Everyone recognized this and even I fully understood it. Yet my mother boldly gave me the freedom that most others in those circumstances would not have given. This gave me tremendous self-confidence. I excelled in studies, sports, and in many outdoor activities. Every Sunday evening with my parents’ permission I used to go with three other friends to eat at a restaurant. We went to a new place every time and paid from our own pocket money. Some years later my parents allowed me to go alone on a 1200-kilometer train journey.
When WWII started in 1939 imported hardware items became expensive and scarce. My father use to send them by post parcels to his customers in U. P. Every evening he stitched them up and made them ready for mailing. After returning from school I used to take them to the post office on my bicycle. Sometimes I made several trips because the loads were heavy. My father paid me 25 paise for each parcel. Some days I earned 2 whole Rupees that in those days was big money especially for a child. It made me about the richest kid in my class! My mother trusted me with the money and never asked my father not to spoil me with that much money.
When I was about 13 she took me as male escort to visit her brothers and parents in the city of Sialkot in Punjab. They had fallen to rock low time and the older of mother’s two brothers had TB. She took an Ayurvedic doctor with her. He was a confident young doctor and an uncle. His mother had died soon after his birth and my mother raised him. So he regarded my mother as his own. When we went to seek his help he came with us instantly without hesitation. After thoroughly examined the TB patient, he prescribed medicines according to his light. In his opinion recovery would take about a month and he sounded quite sure of it.
We returned to Karachi and bad news followed us. Mother’s younger brother, terribly depressed by the family’s miserable condition, committed suicide. A couple of weeks later the older one also died. The family was ruined; no earning member, two old parents, two infant boys and their young mother. Luckily some close relatives organized adequate help for the family to carry on.
All this crushed my mother. She did not talk much but her suffering was obvious. She was not eating properly and her movements were much slower. My older sisters were married and had gone to their new families. My father, younger sister and I were at home.
Maa complained of something clutching and pulling her heart and giving her terrible pain. Much worse than pain it was a sinking sensation that smotherd her. This syndrome was recurrent. It came and went and in between my mother dreaded its return. She suffered it for months mainly to continue to live for our sake.
A couple of times I heard her mumble (who will look after my Partap?). Childishly unaware of the meaning of her utterance, I tried to reassure her. Why do you worry Maa? You will soon be well and live long to raise me to manhood.
But the spasms were not abating. They were coming with menacing regularity. My mother kept bearing them bravely within herself. They were so complex, so wrenching, so severe that she was not able to describe them. My mother knew suffering for she suffered a great deal, but this was something else altogether. Heart attack is nothing compared to what she was feeling. Sometimes she said, ‘it feels as if someone is physically pulling my heart out of my body.’
One early morning when all of us were sleeping a massive attack of heart wrenching came upon my mother. It must have been totally unbearable. She released her body from our third floor balcony and dropped to the ground below with a thud. Life instantly slid out of the mangled corpse. We, and the whole neighborhood were stunned. They assembled, quickly wrapped up what was left, and proceeded to the crematorium in a procession.
A ton of ice hit me and traumatized my mind but I soon recovered. Mother was all over me and filled my entire body. ‘How would mother want me to act at such a testing time?’ I thought. I stopped crying and lifting myself up thinking I must be brave, strong, and able to help. Mother will be watching from the far. It would disappoint her if I cower and bend down. Suffering of my father and sister will increase.
I did not cry a single tear after that, and never again, not for my mother. For she was with me all the time for many years, even closer than when she lived in that body from where I came. I am thankful for holding on to some of what she shared with me. Her memory I shall treasure till my last breath.
Partap
11 July 2009
Maa was married at age 15 into a joint family in Daska. My father was about 17. It was not a large family but big enough to provide most joys and glitches of a typical joint household. My father had six sisters and one brother. All were older except one sister. I am not sure, but from what I have heard, most of the older girls were married and had gone to their new families.
My father had already started the process of setting up a business at Jaranwala. It was in an area where after the First World War the British cleared the scrub and built a massive network of canals. Having remained fallow for several centuries the land was quite fertile. It was allotted as a reward to the Indian soldiers who had served in Europe. The majority was Sikh but there were also some Hindus and Muslims ex-military men.
Soon after marriage my parents moved to Jaranwala. My father’s youngest sister who was still unmarried went with them. She was exceptionally pretty and fun loving. As she came of age, boys were madly attracted to her. My mother tried to keep watch over her but the young lady was too clever. My father often heard complaints mainly through a close relative living nearby. My mother’s vigilance over her turned stricter than before but the inevitable happened. Cleaning and fixing everything up was messy. My father’s wrath found vent on my mother’s back. In fact my gentle mother suffered enormously on account of that beautiful, unruly teenager.
After several years of toil my father’s shop began to earn good profit. My grandfather and blind grandmother died in Daska. Father’s elder brother and his family locked up our ancestral home there and came over to Jaranwala. For a short period there was peace, but then my aunt died leaving 3 young children. Our weak, diabetic uncle married an attractive young sister-in-law. With her came a pack of troubles in the family. A variety of intrigues were hatched. Dubious relationships with friends in town began to surface. My aunt began to have children in quick succession. My mother too gave birth to a boy and a girl but both of them died. After that my three sisters and I came along and lived.
Clash between my mother and aunt intensified. My father often took it out on my meek innocent mother. Troubles in the family increased to an intolerable level for my father and he began to contemplate migrating to a new thriving port city called Karachi. In the late1920’s independence struggle intensified. My father got deeply involved and spent several periods in jail. When I was born in 1931 my father was in
Jail.
My father’s absence from home made my mother’s life much harder. Although my father was harsh on my mother his presence put a check on all members of the family and as a result there was less fighting. There were several reasons; my uncle was weak, my father was family’s breadwinner, and he was a strict disciplinarian.
Slowly but steadily the conflict level in the family rose to fever pitch. My father went to Karachi to explore business opportunities and within a year (1936) returned to take us there. I was about 5 years old. We lived there till 1947 when the country was divided.
My mother lived in Karachi for about 10 years and this was the best part of her life. She ran the household with love and great skill. The whole family thrived in her care. All my sisters were healthy and we did very well in school and in other activities. She watched over us with an eagle eye but remained unobtrusive as a mouse. I do not remember her stopping me from going with friends to play even when I was quite young. At as early an age as 7 I started regularly to go to an exercise and wrestling place every morning. My mother gave me money to buy a small block of butter from a dairy so I could eat it to build up my strength. I went to far off places for picnics and on expedition. Once, when I was in my 8th year, I used to go to a steep waterfront in the harbor area with other boys to learn to swim. For a time nobody in the family knew of this clandestine activity of mine but later they suspected it. By then I had learned to swim and demonstrated my skill to all my family when we went there on a Sunday evening. I was a strong swimmer and could dive from a high bridge. My mother and sisters were thrilled. My father heard and said nothing.
By her quiet but keenly watchful attitude my mother communicated her deep love and full confidence in my ability and sense of judgment. I was her only son amid three daughters. Hence in our patrilineal tradition my value as the male and carrier of the family name was unquestioned. Everyone recognized this and even I fully understood it. Yet my mother boldly gave me the freedom that most others in those circumstances would not have given. This gave me tremendous self-confidence. I excelled in studies, sports, and in many outdoor activities. Every Sunday evening with my parents’ permission I used to go with three other friends to eat at a restaurant. We went to a new place every time and paid from our own pocket money. Some years later my parents allowed me to go alone on a 1200-kilometer train journey.
When WWII started in 1939 imported hardware items became expensive and scarce. My father use to send them by post parcels to his customers in U. P. Every evening he stitched them up and made them ready for mailing. After returning from school I used to take them to the post office on my bicycle. Sometimes I made several trips because the loads were heavy. My father paid me 25 paise for each parcel. Some days I earned 2 whole Rupees that in those days was big money especially for a child. It made me about the richest kid in my class! My mother trusted me with the money and never asked my father not to spoil me with that much money.
When I was about 13 she took me as male escort to visit her brothers and parents in the city of Sialkot in Punjab. They had fallen to rock low time and the older of mother’s two brothers had TB. She took an Ayurvedic doctor with her. He was a confident young doctor and an uncle. His mother had died soon after his birth and my mother raised him. So he regarded my mother as his own. When we went to seek his help he came with us instantly without hesitation. After thoroughly examined the TB patient, he prescribed medicines according to his light. In his opinion recovery would take about a month and he sounded quite sure of it.
We returned to Karachi and bad news followed us. Mother’s younger brother, terribly depressed by the family’s miserable condition, committed suicide. A couple of weeks later the older one also died. The family was ruined; no earning member, two old parents, two infant boys and their young mother. Luckily some close relatives organized adequate help for the family to carry on.
All this crushed my mother. She did not talk much but her suffering was obvious. She was not eating properly and her movements were much slower. My older sisters were married and had gone to their new families. My father, younger sister and I were at home.
Maa complained of something clutching and pulling her heart and giving her terrible pain. Much worse than pain it was a sinking sensation that smotherd her. This syndrome was recurrent. It came and went and in between my mother dreaded its return. She suffered it for months mainly to continue to live for our sake.
A couple of times I heard her mumble (who will look after my Partap?). Childishly unaware of the meaning of her utterance, I tried to reassure her. Why do you worry Maa? You will soon be well and live long to raise me to manhood.
But the spasms were not abating. They were coming with menacing regularity. My mother kept bearing them bravely within herself. They were so complex, so wrenching, so severe that she was not able to describe them. My mother knew suffering for she suffered a great deal, but this was something else altogether. Heart attack is nothing compared to what she was feeling. Sometimes she said, ‘it feels as if someone is physically pulling my heart out of my body.’
One early morning when all of us were sleeping a massive attack of heart wrenching came upon my mother. It must have been totally unbearable. She released her body from our third floor balcony and dropped to the ground below with a thud. Life instantly slid out of the mangled corpse. We, and the whole neighborhood were stunned. They assembled, quickly wrapped up what was left, and proceeded to the crematorium in a procession.
A ton of ice hit me and traumatized my mind but I soon recovered. Mother was all over me and filled my entire body. ‘How would mother want me to act at such a testing time?’ I thought. I stopped crying and lifting myself up thinking I must be brave, strong, and able to help. Mother will be watching from the far. It would disappoint her if I cower and bend down. Suffering of my father and sister will increase.
I did not cry a single tear after that, and never again, not for my mother. For she was with me all the time for many years, even closer than when she lived in that body from where I came. I am thankful for holding on to some of what she shared with me. Her memory I shall treasure till my last breath.
Partap
11 July 2009
My Mother (2)
My Mother (2)
My mother was raised in so small a village in Punjab that there was no school in it for girls. So she never learned even to read a write. But she was very learned in community skills such as making friends, maintaining good relationships with them, and home making. She could spin yarn, weave simple cloth, knit sweaters, and do a great deal more. When, later in life, she came to live in a large cosmopolitan city she learned Hindi and was able to communicate with most of her neighbors. We changed apartments 5 times in 12 years. In every new house she quickly found new friends.
She was a good person, but I do not remember her being religious in the sense of regular visitor of temples or a staunch believer in any ideology. Hence she never tried to teach us any kind of religious belief system. We would often go with her to the temple on some festival occasions and celebrate important festivals such as Diwali. But we were free to absorb religious ideas that appealed to us. Mother taught us many moral values and insisted that we learn to live by them.
My mother’s friends: the Iranian lady.
I vividly remember some of my mother’s friends. One was an Iranian lady roughly her own age. Our apartments were opposite each other on the third floor and we were neighbors for about 4 years. A wide cultural gap separated us. For instance, we were strict vegetarian but she ate meat or fish daily, we were Hindus and she of the B’hai faith, she spoke Persian and we Punjabi. But like my mother she had learned enough Hindi to communicate with the local people. The list of differences is long but the two became close like sisters. Both, however, had some strong ethnic constraints that were very hard to overcome. But they bridged the chasm so skillfully that nothing stood between them to dampen their love for each other.
My mother always gave food to her Iranian friend, especially to her children. But she could not bring herself to eat what came back from her friend’s kitchen. The wise Iranian lady took care to send only vegetarian food, which then our mother gave to us children. There were several other differences. But both of them understood the cultural divide and soon set up a comfortable working relationship.
The Iranian lady automatically picked up from my mother a kind of favoritism for me. She saw that I was very thin. Thinking that eating meat will probably put some extra flesh on my lean body she started to feed me fish, mutton and eggs. She would leave a plate full of food for me in one of her two bedrooms, find me and lock me in it. If other children wanted to come in she would send them away saying that she had washed the room and wanted everybody out till the floor dried. I suspect that my
Mother came to know this, but pretending ignorance she kept quiet. I am sure both friends knew what they were doing. They enjoyed keeping this loving secret for four long years until we had to leave Karachi at the time of partition in 1947.
My mother and her friend met every day, sometimes for several hours, and shared personal secrets, ate snacks, joked and laughed. Whenever we went to Punjab my mother remembered to bring some special gift for her friend. The Iranian lady too gave us gifts of food from her husband’s hotel and a variety of gifts she received from her relatives in Iran.
The Sweeper woman.
We had a Punjabi speaking sweeper woman coming daily to our house to clean the latrine and the bathroom. I remember her pretty cheerful face to this day. My mother was very fond of her and gave her some food to eat and sometimes grain or flour to take home.
Once on Maha Shivratri festival the sweeper lady asked my mother for some special food that is eaten to break the all day Shivratri fast. My mother was glad to give but she jokingly asked, “But, Jeeto, you people have become Christians. You cannot be observing fast on Shivratri?”
Jeeto replied, “Yes, Bibiji, you are right, we have become Christians. But that does not mean we have given up our Hindu dharma. We still celebrate all our old festivals, observe fasts, and do the pujas (worships). Some older Christians keep telling us to give up all Hindu customs and celebrations, but we are so far able to resist the pressure.”
Some Punjabi woman friends.
One floor below us lived two Punjabi families from Amritsar. They were of our own caste and in hardware trade like my father. Their establishment was large and they were wealthy. One of their boys was my age and we went to the same school.
My mother was friend of the ladies in both houses. They were of same age and often exchanged food, gifts, gossip and more.
During the years following Partition I met many old relatives. Whenever I met women who knew my mother I asked them what they remembered of her. Without exception they praised my mother very highly for her friendliness, kindness, and readiness to share.
No more specific memories come to mind at this time. I will write more when I recall anything.
Partap Aggarwal
June 27, 2009
My mother was raised in so small a village in Punjab that there was no school in it for girls. So she never learned even to read a write. But she was very learned in community skills such as making friends, maintaining good relationships with them, and home making. She could spin yarn, weave simple cloth, knit sweaters, and do a great deal more. When, later in life, she came to live in a large cosmopolitan city she learned Hindi and was able to communicate with most of her neighbors. We changed apartments 5 times in 12 years. In every new house she quickly found new friends.
She was a good person, but I do not remember her being religious in the sense of regular visitor of temples or a staunch believer in any ideology. Hence she never tried to teach us any kind of religious belief system. We would often go with her to the temple on some festival occasions and celebrate important festivals such as Diwali. But we were free to absorb religious ideas that appealed to us. Mother taught us many moral values and insisted that we learn to live by them.
My mother’s friends: the Iranian lady.
I vividly remember some of my mother’s friends. One was an Iranian lady roughly her own age. Our apartments were opposite each other on the third floor and we were neighbors for about 4 years. A wide cultural gap separated us. For instance, we were strict vegetarian but she ate meat or fish daily, we were Hindus and she of the B’hai faith, she spoke Persian and we Punjabi. But like my mother she had learned enough Hindi to communicate with the local people. The list of differences is long but the two became close like sisters. Both, however, had some strong ethnic constraints that were very hard to overcome. But they bridged the chasm so skillfully that nothing stood between them to dampen their love for each other.
My mother always gave food to her Iranian friend, especially to her children. But she could not bring herself to eat what came back from her friend’s kitchen. The wise Iranian lady took care to send only vegetarian food, which then our mother gave to us children. There were several other differences. But both of them understood the cultural divide and soon set up a comfortable working relationship.
The Iranian lady automatically picked up from my mother a kind of favoritism for me. She saw that I was very thin. Thinking that eating meat will probably put some extra flesh on my lean body she started to feed me fish, mutton and eggs. She would leave a plate full of food for me in one of her two bedrooms, find me and lock me in it. If other children wanted to come in she would send them away saying that she had washed the room and wanted everybody out till the floor dried. I suspect that my
Mother came to know this, but pretending ignorance she kept quiet. I am sure both friends knew what they were doing. They enjoyed keeping this loving secret for four long years until we had to leave Karachi at the time of partition in 1947.
My mother and her friend met every day, sometimes for several hours, and shared personal secrets, ate snacks, joked and laughed. Whenever we went to Punjab my mother remembered to bring some special gift for her friend. The Iranian lady too gave us gifts of food from her husband’s hotel and a variety of gifts she received from her relatives in Iran.
The Sweeper woman.
We had a Punjabi speaking sweeper woman coming daily to our house to clean the latrine and the bathroom. I remember her pretty cheerful face to this day. My mother was very fond of her and gave her some food to eat and sometimes grain or flour to take home.
Once on Maha Shivratri festival the sweeper lady asked my mother for some special food that is eaten to break the all day Shivratri fast. My mother was glad to give but she jokingly asked, “But, Jeeto, you people have become Christians. You cannot be observing fast on Shivratri?”
Jeeto replied, “Yes, Bibiji, you are right, we have become Christians. But that does not mean we have given up our Hindu dharma. We still celebrate all our old festivals, observe fasts, and do the pujas (worships). Some older Christians keep telling us to give up all Hindu customs and celebrations, but we are so far able to resist the pressure.”
Some Punjabi woman friends.
One floor below us lived two Punjabi families from Amritsar. They were of our own caste and in hardware trade like my father. Their establishment was large and they were wealthy. One of their boys was my age and we went to the same school.
My mother was friend of the ladies in both houses. They were of same age and often exchanged food, gifts, gossip and more.
During the years following Partition I met many old relatives. Whenever I met women who knew my mother I asked them what they remembered of her. Without exception they praised my mother very highly for her friendliness, kindness, and readiness to share.
No more specific memories come to mind at this time. I will write more when I recall anything.
Partap Aggarwal
June 27, 2009
MOTHER, My Mother
MOTHER, My Mother
My daughter Indu has been goading me to write about her dadi (paternal grandmother). I have been making promises. But I have not written a word till today, and as I sit down to write my emotions well up and turn into real tears. You see; my mother died in 1945 when I was only 14 years old and the gaping gash she left behind remained open for decades. Then it healed but the scar is still there. My memories of her are not long, but few and very intense. I have been keeping them in a strong box in my heart, never lifting the lid, nor letting a word slip out of my mouth.
She loved me more than I can say, and gave me more support and joy than anyone in the whole world can give. I was her only son. She often favored me over my three sisters. Did they mind? As I remember, my two elder sisters, copying our mother, loved me as mother surrogate and did so all their lives. My eldest sister is now dead, but the one next to her continues to treat me as son. Favors she has done to me all my life, I cannot possibly count. My sister’ support and true motherly love sustained me after my mother’s death. My younger sister loves me too, but we have been like equals. As children we sometimes fought bitterly. Most fault, however, is on me because being older and stronger I delivered the punches and she only the complaints. She too was not really weak and sometimes hit me back. She sometimes quibbled over favoritism shown to me. I still remember she complained every time my punches were extra hard. But mother always chided me mildly. As my younger sister grew older, she too began to treat me with deference and motherly love.
My mother was very gentle, very loving. She was a sweet and friendly person. But she also had great moral strength of the kind I have rarely seen. Thinking of all this brings back an incident to my mind. I must have been 6 or 7. I remember this vividly because we were new to Karachi and I was learning to play with children who spoke different languages and had a different culture. One day a boy threatened and abused me in a language I did not understand. Imagining the worst I angrily punched him in the chest. It must have hurt because he began to cry and howling loudly ran straight to his mother.
After some time the mother, towing her sobbing child, came to our house. She told my mother what I had done. My mother listened and pressed the crying baby to her heart. When he soothed down a little, she called me and asked if I had hit the boy. I truthfully admitted that I had. She asked what wrong the boy had done to me. I started thinking hard because the boy had not done anything awfully wrong. My mother understood quickly and did not ask for more detail. Then she said to me, “Son, I want you to look at this boy. He is younger and weaker than you. He spoke up to you in a language you did not understand. W know now that he did not say anything foul. You imagined the worst and hit him much too hard. You should not have done that. I will forgive you this time but do not repeat such a thing in future.” She said sorry to the boy’s mother and asked me to shake hands with the boy.
When my father returned from work in the evening my younger sisters blurted out to him that I was naughty and had hit a boy. He called and asked me. Being guilty I stood with my head bent low. My quiet admittance of guilt should have been enough but to dilute it I very foolishly lied that mother had already physically punished me. Later, when we came close my mother hugged me and said, “I did not hit you, did I? There is very rarely enough cause to lie. Today was not one of those times. Be brave and tell the truth. I love you.” As she talked, her hug became tighter. That incident has remained vividly etched in my memory to this day.
I am sure my mother forgave me instantly, but my guilt feeling has remained and I have prayed for her forgiveness a thousand times.
Partap
June 21, 2009
My daughter Indu has been goading me to write about her dadi (paternal grandmother). I have been making promises. But I have not written a word till today, and as I sit down to write my emotions well up and turn into real tears. You see; my mother died in 1945 when I was only 14 years old and the gaping gash she left behind remained open for decades. Then it healed but the scar is still there. My memories of her are not long, but few and very intense. I have been keeping them in a strong box in my heart, never lifting the lid, nor letting a word slip out of my mouth.
She loved me more than I can say, and gave me more support and joy than anyone in the whole world can give. I was her only son. She often favored me over my three sisters. Did they mind? As I remember, my two elder sisters, copying our mother, loved me as mother surrogate and did so all their lives. My eldest sister is now dead, but the one next to her continues to treat me as son. Favors she has done to me all my life, I cannot possibly count. My sister’ support and true motherly love sustained me after my mother’s death. My younger sister loves me too, but we have been like equals. As children we sometimes fought bitterly. Most fault, however, is on me because being older and stronger I delivered the punches and she only the complaints. She too was not really weak and sometimes hit me back. She sometimes quibbled over favoritism shown to me. I still remember she complained every time my punches were extra hard. But mother always chided me mildly. As my younger sister grew older, she too began to treat me with deference and motherly love.
My mother was very gentle, very loving. She was a sweet and friendly person. But she also had great moral strength of the kind I have rarely seen. Thinking of all this brings back an incident to my mind. I must have been 6 or 7. I remember this vividly because we were new to Karachi and I was learning to play with children who spoke different languages and had a different culture. One day a boy threatened and abused me in a language I did not understand. Imagining the worst I angrily punched him in the chest. It must have hurt because he began to cry and howling loudly ran straight to his mother.
After some time the mother, towing her sobbing child, came to our house. She told my mother what I had done. My mother listened and pressed the crying baby to her heart. When he soothed down a little, she called me and asked if I had hit the boy. I truthfully admitted that I had. She asked what wrong the boy had done to me. I started thinking hard because the boy had not done anything awfully wrong. My mother understood quickly and did not ask for more detail. Then she said to me, “Son, I want you to look at this boy. He is younger and weaker than you. He spoke up to you in a language you did not understand. W know now that he did not say anything foul. You imagined the worst and hit him much too hard. You should not have done that. I will forgive you this time but do not repeat such a thing in future.” She said sorry to the boy’s mother and asked me to shake hands with the boy.
When my father returned from work in the evening my younger sisters blurted out to him that I was naughty and had hit a boy. He called and asked me. Being guilty I stood with my head bent low. My quiet admittance of guilt should have been enough but to dilute it I very foolishly lied that mother had already physically punished me. Later, when we came close my mother hugged me and said, “I did not hit you, did I? There is very rarely enough cause to lie. Today was not one of those times. Be brave and tell the truth. I love you.” As she talked, her hug became tighter. That incident has remained vividly etched in my memory to this day.
I am sure my mother forgave me instantly, but my guilt feeling has remained and I have prayed for her forgiveness a thousand times.
Partap
June 21, 2009
Wants and Needs
Wants and Needs
Early this morning I felt the invisible Spirit whispering in my ear.
She said, you have been watching the world with curiosity. You asked why this why that. You studied in world’s most prestigious schools and you even sat in the teacher’s chair and taught others posing as knower.
You started early in life and at 78 you are still looking. Why?
Answer is simple. Like the proverbial blind man you looked under a lamp in the street when the needle was inside the room.
So you ask, what to do now?
Well, go back and look inside the room.
Do you see much furniture and a locker full of gold and diamonds, while your brothers next door have nothing? Surely you were clever at the time of division. You also humbled your brothers whenever they mumbled the word injustice.
All other issues originate from your own house.
Did you eat a plate full of rice and sambar for lunch? Well that explains why the forest was cut then and is fast disappearing now. If you have eaten yogurt and drunk majjige you know why cows are enslaved and exploit.
If you drink milk and eat mutton, you know why there is overgrazing.
If you flush away your body’s daily gift for the soil and use water out of 15 taps in house, it should be easy for you to know why there is scarcity of water.
Your hunger for electricity will never be satisfied if you use it like the Americans or your rich neighbors. Your nuclear and conventional power plants can never satisfy your want. Regardless of number your solar and wind generators will be like a kilogram of grass to a hungry elephant.
It is needless to give more examples. The answer to all your questions lies in two simple words: wants and needs.
Know that your Wants are insatiable. If you keep chasing them you will soon destroy your entire support base.
Reduce your ‘Wants’ till they come close to your ‘Needs’. Keep them there. Do not wait for the neighbors to begin. You be the first to start. Know that this is the smart thing to do for your own health and happiness. Forgive and ignore those who call you foolish, for they know not what they do.
Partap
June 6, 2009
Early this morning I felt the invisible Spirit whispering in my ear.
She said, you have been watching the world with curiosity. You asked why this why that. You studied in world’s most prestigious schools and you even sat in the teacher’s chair and taught others posing as knower.
You started early in life and at 78 you are still looking. Why?
Answer is simple. Like the proverbial blind man you looked under a lamp in the street when the needle was inside the room.
So you ask, what to do now?
Well, go back and look inside the room.
Do you see much furniture and a locker full of gold and diamonds, while your brothers next door have nothing? Surely you were clever at the time of division. You also humbled your brothers whenever they mumbled the word injustice.
All other issues originate from your own house.
Did you eat a plate full of rice and sambar for lunch? Well that explains why the forest was cut then and is fast disappearing now. If you have eaten yogurt and drunk majjige you know why cows are enslaved and exploit.
If you drink milk and eat mutton, you know why there is overgrazing.
If you flush away your body’s daily gift for the soil and use water out of 15 taps in house, it should be easy for you to know why there is scarcity of water.
Your hunger for electricity will never be satisfied if you use it like the Americans or your rich neighbors. Your nuclear and conventional power plants can never satisfy your want. Regardless of number your solar and wind generators will be like a kilogram of grass to a hungry elephant.
It is needless to give more examples. The answer to all your questions lies in two simple words: wants and needs.
Know that your Wants are insatiable. If you keep chasing them you will soon destroy your entire support base.
Reduce your ‘Wants’ till they come close to your ‘Needs’. Keep them there. Do not wait for the neighbors to begin. You be the first to start. Know that this is the smart thing to do for your own health and happiness. Forgive and ignore those who call you foolish, for they know not what they do.
Partap
June 6, 2009
Three Major Benefits of Fasting
Three Major Benefits of Fasting
One, I get a chance to recognize and appreciate my immune system. It is the most wonderful gift I got at birth to protect my body from illnesses and injuries of all kind. Its value is immeasurable, power and wisdom supreme. It is impossible fully to comprehend it.
On May 21, 2009 as I turned 78 I felt deeply thankful for my first birthday gift. Because of it I am quite strong and healthy to this day. Without it I might have died years ago. I know for sure that medicines alone cannot cure. They can at best augment my inbuilt immune system.
Life gave me this gift for constant use. Doing that is the proper way to cherish the gift. Neglecting it by failing to use it is spurning it. It cannot make Life, the giver of the gift, happy. She can rightly think that the gift should be taken back because it is not needed. What that would do is not difficult to imagine for it happen everyday (as aids) right under our noses.
Two, the fast will exercise my immune system, cure my illnesses and tone up my body.
When I am sick I fast and rest. Body is freed from the task of digesting food and doing other work. It turns all its energies over to the immune system. I heel, cure, get cleansed of toxins in my body.
This is the natural way of healing and toning up the body. All animals practice it.
Three, I will abstain from thinking during fasting; remain silent and free to listen to the sounds of the body.
My mind does not control the inner workings of my body. It can influence what I put into my mouth. But once that is done the body takes over. Body has its own wisdom and it works in full freedom.
My mind eats memory turns it into thoughts and expresses them in words. It lives in stale past and loses touch with the fresh living present.
My body lives in the present and works with living Truth.
During fasting my mind slows down and my body speeds up its healing work using true wisdom of the universe.
Partap
May 23, 2009
One, I get a chance to recognize and appreciate my immune system. It is the most wonderful gift I got at birth to protect my body from illnesses and injuries of all kind. Its value is immeasurable, power and wisdom supreme. It is impossible fully to comprehend it.
On May 21, 2009 as I turned 78 I felt deeply thankful for my first birthday gift. Because of it I am quite strong and healthy to this day. Without it I might have died years ago. I know for sure that medicines alone cannot cure. They can at best augment my inbuilt immune system.
Life gave me this gift for constant use. Doing that is the proper way to cherish the gift. Neglecting it by failing to use it is spurning it. It cannot make Life, the giver of the gift, happy. She can rightly think that the gift should be taken back because it is not needed. What that would do is not difficult to imagine for it happen everyday (as aids) right under our noses.
Two, the fast will exercise my immune system, cure my illnesses and tone up my body.
When I am sick I fast and rest. Body is freed from the task of digesting food and doing other work. It turns all its energies over to the immune system. I heel, cure, get cleansed of toxins in my body.
This is the natural way of healing and toning up the body. All animals practice it.
Three, I will abstain from thinking during fasting; remain silent and free to listen to the sounds of the body.
My mind does not control the inner workings of my body. It can influence what I put into my mouth. But once that is done the body takes over. Body has its own wisdom and it works in full freedom.
My mind eats memory turns it into thoughts and expresses them in words. It lives in stale past and loses touch with the fresh living present.
My body lives in the present and works with living Truth.
During fasting my mind slows down and my body speeds up its healing work using true wisdom of the universe.
Partap
May 23, 2009
True Sardarji Joke
True Sardarji Joke
A friend heard this true incident from a first-hand witness. She wrote it up and sent it to me. She knows that I strongly object to Sikh jokes but would like this one.
Here it goes:
A Delhi taxi driver picked up a load of four young men from Hyderabad. They were tourists and wanted to see different sights in the historic city for the whole day. The boys were in a holiday mood. They soon began telling jokes. One of them told a Sardarji joke and everyone laughed. Others began telling similar or worse ones. This went on intermittently throughout the day.
The taxi driver was a venerable middle-aged Sikh. This, the boys could not possibly have missed, for he had a flowing beard, long neatly bunned head hair, and a beautifully tied colored turban on his head.
The Sikh was so generous and kind that he did not say a word. It was surely partly because of his good business etiquette but also unmistakably because he was a thorough gentleman.
At the end of the day when the tour was over the boys were taken to their boarding house. Calculations were done, the boys paid up, and they turned to go.
The Sikh gentleman stopped them and said: “Young men I heard all your jokes. I know that many people do what you did, but many of your jokes were poor and, if I may say so, indecent. I do not usually make an issue of such foolishness. So I am not going to chastise you but I am going to do something that will enhance your education.”
The wise Sardar dug four one-rupee coins out of his packet and gave the boys one each. He then said, “I want you to keep these coins and give them to a Sikh beggar if you see one.”
The boys were stunned. They were also repentant. They took the coins and, after many months, still have them. For indeed, there are no Sikh beggars anywhere.
Partap
May 2, 2009
A friend heard this true incident from a first-hand witness. She wrote it up and sent it to me. She knows that I strongly object to Sikh jokes but would like this one.
Here it goes:
A Delhi taxi driver picked up a load of four young men from Hyderabad. They were tourists and wanted to see different sights in the historic city for the whole day. The boys were in a holiday mood. They soon began telling jokes. One of them told a Sardarji joke and everyone laughed. Others began telling similar or worse ones. This went on intermittently throughout the day.
The taxi driver was a venerable middle-aged Sikh. This, the boys could not possibly have missed, for he had a flowing beard, long neatly bunned head hair, and a beautifully tied colored turban on his head.
The Sikh was so generous and kind that he did not say a word. It was surely partly because of his good business etiquette but also unmistakably because he was a thorough gentleman.
At the end of the day when the tour was over the boys were taken to their boarding house. Calculations were done, the boys paid up, and they turned to go.
The Sikh gentleman stopped them and said: “Young men I heard all your jokes. I know that many people do what you did, but many of your jokes were poor and, if I may say so, indecent. I do not usually make an issue of such foolishness. So I am not going to chastise you but I am going to do something that will enhance your education.”
The wise Sardar dug four one-rupee coins out of his packet and gave the boys one each. He then said, “I want you to keep these coins and give them to a Sikh beggar if you see one.”
The boys were stunned. They were also repentant. They took the coins and, after many months, still have them. For indeed, there are no Sikh beggars anywhere.
Partap
May 2, 2009
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