Pashupatinath winks at Kaalu Singh
By Baljit Kang

LIKE fishermen, hard-bitten travellers too have their stock of tales. Wild, wacky stories to be swapped over a mug of beer or summer evenings or while waiting by the roadside for a seemingly imaginary bus to arrive. A sometimes subscriber to the breed, my stock of tales, while not exactly overflowing, has its element of drama and colour. Among my favourites are the unexpected adventures of one Kaalu Singh.

Kaalu’s story opens in the autumn of 1987, an unexpectedly good year for our hero. After years of nail-biting suspense, punctuated by breaks to ring in a string of daughters, Kaalu’s patron-saint Lord Shiva, had finally smiled down on his simpleton bhakta in a dusty village near Sambhal (Moradabad). Kaalu’s poor-peasant household was blessed with a son. And Kaalu, in turn, was now honour-bound to hold up his end of the deal.

But even the gods must bow before the demands of the land. What with a rich harvest of paddy ripening in Kaalu’s two acres, and the accompanying obligations of arhatia loans to be paid back. So it wasn’t until the middle of October that Kaalu could find the time to keep his tryst with his god, a pilgrimage to Pashupatinath’s seat in distant Kathmandu.

Once begun though, Kaalu set to the affair with a remarkable singularity of purpose. A spangling new hand-bag and blanket were purchased from the weekly market in neighbouring Hathras. The handknit pullover and muffler that his wife had worked on late in her pregnancy were dusted out and readied for use. Along with a warm English-style coat, a throwback to the salad days of their marriage, when money had been less of a problem.

Throw in a spare kurta, a cotton bag of roast chana and last-minute cautions by his worried wife at the railway station at Moradabad, and Kaalu Singh, who’d never wandered further afield then the ghats of the Ganga at Garh Mukteshwar, was on his way to the mystical kingdom of Nepal.

An improbable pilgrim, but the gods beamed approval. At least up until Lucknow, where Kaalu Singh, must change trains for the remainder of the journey until the Nepalese frontier at Sanauli. When his train rolled into Lucknow station with the punctuality of a chowk clocktower it was to the discovery that its more time-bound connecting number was beginning to roll out. With a fortitude born of long years of deprivation Kaalu watched it inch past, conscious that he could jump on, but that without a connecting ticket this would only engender unpleasantness, possibly a fine. Besides, there was sure to be another train along soon. Till then he could fix himself some breakfast.

Kaalu had been waiting for under 15 minutes when a polite stranger came up to him and asked him to keep an eye on his considerable baggage while he went into the men’s room. Afterwards, as if in recompense, and over Kaalu’s protestations, he insisted on buying Kaalu a cup of tea, while they waited for the train to the frontier.

It was only in the fitness of things then that when Kaalu wanted to go the toilet, the stranger offered to keep an eye on Kaalu’s single bag. Not that Kaalu could not have taken it along. But a certain propriety must be maintained.

And it was, even when Kaalu returned less than a minute later to discover he had been taken for a ride, bag, blanket and all. Though a trifle saddened, Kaalu decided, nevertheless, to continue his journey. This time in circumstances more in keeping with that of a pilgrim. So when Kaalu Singh arrived in Kathmandu two days later it was with but a single worn shirt on his back, (he had conservatively kept his new clothes aside for the sacred darshan) and a little money in his pocket.

But if Kaalu was worried he did not allow it to show on his face as he strode off the bus in the capital’s Ratna Park and stretched his limbs in the balmy mountain air to get his circulation going. It was late afternoon by then, and after 16 hours in a cramped bus over winding mountain roads, Kaalu would have liked nothing more than stretching out in the sun even if it were in the inviting lawns of the park itself, for the remainder of the day. He would offer puja at the more appropriate hour of sunrise. But his eroding stock of money and lack of warm clothing militated against his plans. So when the man at the ticket window told him there was a bus back to Sanauli at 8 PM a seat was available, and Kaalu could easily make the round trip of the Pashupatinath Temple and back in the time remaining with him, Kaalu Singh paid the deposit on the ticket. Now only the streets of Kathmandu lay between Kaalu and his patron god. And the pilgrim could hardly wait. For almost the first time since he had started, Kaalu’s face showed a trace of emotion as he strode up to a well-built elderly Sikh, a familiar face in this foreign street, to enquire about the way to ‘Pashupatinathji’.

But Kathmandu, it would appear, had more imperious plans for Kaalu Singh. The annual South Asian Association of Regional Cooperation conference was to open in the city in two days. And, given the backdrop of militancy in the region and that the heads of state of all Nepal’s neighbours, including Big Brother India, would be present, the city’s inadequate police force had been whipped into a frenzy. As if that were not enough, Indian intelligence agencies had swarmed in — foreign hands sounding ominous warnings of other foreign hands out to get Prime Minister Rajiv Gandhi, heightening the paranoid atmosphere. Till, in sheer panic, the police acted with the autocracy that is the hallmark of the kingdom.

Anybody who could not satisfactorily explain his presence was to be expelled from the city for the duration of the conference. ‘Militant’ ethnic groups were to be questioned and, even if remotely suspect, incarcerated. Thus, within a matter of hours, much of the city’s sizeable Sikh population hit up against a quite unexpected barrier, a set of steel bars. As did many ethnic Tibetans, (an improbable story had the Chinese trying to assassinate Rajiv Gandhi by infiltrating the local Tibetans. The truth was more pedestrian, the King feared Tibetan exiles might embarrass him by raising the Tibet outside the venue) Sri Lankans. Even an Iranian was imprisoned to give the detainees a more cosmopolitan character.

As luck would have it, at the very moment that Kaalu Singh chose to approach his Sardarji for directions to Pashupatinathji, plain-clothed policemen were also moving in for the kill. And before Kaalu could pop his single question, they had popped theirs. So, while Kaalu waited impatiently in the wings, the Sardarji, a prosperous local transporter mollified his interrogators.Questions over, both the policemen and their intended victim were planning to move on when Kaalu, unwittingly drew their attention to himself.

"Sardarji, Pashupatinathji...", Kaalu began hesitantly to the Sikh’s departing back.

The words were like nectar to a bee. The plain-clothed policemen who’d just registered the bedraggled figure now swung back.

‘Tum kaun’ (Who are you?)
‘Main Kaalu Singh.

The Sardarji, sensing Kaalu’s imminent plight before Kaalu himself did, returned to stare at the poor farmer in perplexity, asking him what it was he wanted. This unwitting admission of lack of acquaintance sealed Kaalu’s fate. After that both the Sikh’s plea that the dark, clean-shaven Kaalu was an improbable Sikh still less an assassin, and Kaalu’s own rambling explanations of a son in Sambhal and a god in Kathmandu cut little ice. Instead Kaalu, the latest entrants to the ranks of the Khalsa, found himself staring out of the imperial Durbar Square lock up, towards Pashupatinath — so near and yet so far.

Still, unwitting convert that he was, Kaalu soon had cause to identify with his new faith. For once he discovered that he might be in the lock-up for a few days and that inmates of the lock-up had to arrange for their own, high-priced, food from outside, he sensed that the choice before him was starving here or — should he spend his remaining money — starving out on the streets of Kathmandu. And, too proud to contemplate the latter, he refused to eat.

But by dinner time, the Sikh sangat of Durbar Square lock-up had already realised the plight of the dark and lean and not-so-young Khalsa in their midst. And, as it was unthinkable that the Singh be permitted to starve so soon after his public demonstration of allegiance they, in turn, pitched in with that other venerable Sikh institution — the Guru ka langar.

For the two days that he was in Durbar Square, Kaalu was treated to a generous fare of Nepali food and anti-Nepal grouses. Afterwards, the same mysterious logic that saw it fit to incarcerate Kaalu, now singled him out for dispatch to the high-security Central Jail to sit out the remainder of his sentence while lesser Sikhs were dispatched to the neighbouring open-air Bhadragol, reserved for less-demanding detainees.

Late on the evening of the seventh day of his arrival, Kaalu finally walked out of the gates of Bhadragol, a free man at last. There was no ceremony to his exit, no grins or congratulatory backslapping. Instead, with a singularity of purpose honed to an edge over the past days he strode purposefully out to the local bus stop, and onwards — to keep his now long overdue date with Pashupatinathji.

Thanks given, he back-tracked to the fledgling gurdwara at Naya Bazaar to spend the night. He was up at dawn to attend morning prayers at the gurdwara. It was when he was accepting prasad that Kaalu manifest the only visible trace of emotion — gratitude, faith, recognition rolled in one. Later that day he caught the bus out to the Indian border.

Majestic forefather of modern bicycle
By Jupinderjit Singh
A CLASSIC bicycle made of wood and iron dating back to 1870 in one of the most sought after antique pieces at the Museum and Arts Gallery of Punjabi University, Patiala.

Visitors irrespective of age are bewildered at the very sight of this primitive model of a bicycle. Children and elders alike insist upon having just one ride on it. Even VIPs who keep frequenting the university to attend some function have a look at this "majestic" forefather" of the modern bicycle. So it’s little wonder remarks praising this bicycle dominate the visitors’ comments about the museum recorded in a register.

This masterpiece functioned like that of a modern three- wheel cycle of children. Without any brakes, chains and axle, the functioning of the old model is completely different from what we have today. The wooden pedals are permanently fitted in the front wheel instead of the centre axle, as in the modern version. For bringing the cycle to a halt, one had to just stop pedalling.

Besides having an interesting history, the cycle is also an excellent blend of Indian handicraft and the technology brought in by the Britishers. The wood and iron used in the bicycle has not worn out even after more than one and a half centuries.

The spokes of the wheels are of wood while the outer covering of the wheel is of iron. Beautiful carving has been done on the wooden pedals as well as the handle.

The cycle could be used by persons of different heights as the saddle can be adjusted to suit the length of the person’s legs. Above all the benefits, is the fact that this cycle with iron wheels could never get punctured.

Dr Saroj Chaman, incharge of the Museum and Arts Gallery, informed that the cycle was donated by Hazara Singh, Director, Publication Bureau, Punjabi University, nearly 10 years ago.

He had got the cycle from the owner of Krishna Engineering Works, a cycle manufacturing unit in Patiala. The forefather of the owner of the factory used to ride this cycle daily from ‘Beghowal’ village to Ludhiana in 1870. It is said that the man was inspired to manufacture such a cycle, a rare commodity in those days, when he saw some Britishers riding such a mode of transport. As he could not afford to buy the cycle, he understood the functioning of the cycle from one of his British friends and designed his own model. This cycle remained a proud possession of the family for generations. During this time, innumerable offers from various cycle manufacturing companies came about purchasing the antique model at any desired cost. However, the family did not yield to the lucrative offers as the company owners would have projected the cycle as if manufactured way back by their own company.

Hazara Singh, who had donated a number of antique pieces to the university, was able to persuade the family to donate this ancient cycle model to the Museum and Art Gallery.

Unfortunately, while the museum deserves praise for preserving the cycle. The absence of any note detailing the historical background of the cycle is deeply felt by the visitors.