Among the Badals (II)

THE next morning at the community centre, Parkash Singh Badal released my English translation of Japji, the sole morning prayer, music cassettes of Gurbani prepared by India Today and calendars with beautiful pictures of the Golden Temple published by Thompson Press. On the stage, with the Chief Minister was Bibi Jagir Kaur, the first woman president of the SGPC. She is quite a fiery speaker. And in the afternoon, it was again the Chief Minister and the lady president of the SGPC who jointly launched Train to Pakistan in a cinema in Bathinda. It was Divya Dutta dressed in a shimmering white gharara who stole the show. The girl has a figure which would be the envy of a Miss Universe. She never entered a beauty contest because of her short stature. I have nothing against short-statured women.

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Manpreet is anxious to show his citrus orchards. He is very proud of his oranges, lemons and grapes. He has much to be proud of. He farms acres of land alongside his large country-home using the best seeds and fertilisers he can get. He obviously makes a lot of money: his style of living is princely. That evening I sat on his spacious lawn under the light of a half moon. There were dozens of elegantly dressed attractive sardarnis strolling about and scores of children screaming as they chased each other. Everyone looked relaxed and happy. There was much coming and going of limousines. I returned to my rest house.

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The Badal clan live in feudal splendour and have feudal tastes. The next morning he takes me over to see his friend Bubbles Singh’s dancing horses. There are two snow-white mares caparisoned in silver saddles, reins and ornaments with their trainer Manphool from Suratgarh (Rajasthan) and a drummer. The mares dance to the beat of the drum. Bubbles is also a partridge fancier. He had two with him in Wocker cage; two others were nesting and looking after their eggs. Children who were not afraid of riding the dancing mares were told to keep their distance from the partridges which when threatened are said to go for the eyes of their oppressors.

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At 3 p.m. when it was scorching hot, we drove out of Badal village and headed for Ferozepore. We went through what must be the richest agricultural tract of India. Sheafs of harvested wheat lay in the fields: lines of trucks loaded with wheat sacks were heading for the nearest mandis. Citrus and pear orchards gave way to golden-yellow fields of sunflowers. It was a scene of rural tranquillity and prosperity.

We arrive at Gidderbaha, the main town of Manpreet’s constituency. Just about everyone knows him; he knows just about everyone by name and raises his hand in salutation. "How did this town acquire such an outlandish name?" I ask him.

"I don’t really know," he admitted, "Perhaps at one time it was a dirty, desolate place where only jackals (gidders)were found. There is also a village named Kuttian Wale (abode of dogs) and Moranwali (abode of peacocks)."

We pass through Muktsar hallowed by its association with Guru Gobind Singh and his 40 followers who had deserted him.

We approach the Rajasthan (Indira Gandhi) canal. Manpreet points out lines of tubewells designed to pump out saline water and keekar trees deprived of all foliage, because of salinity caused by the canal. "This Rajasthan canal has brought havoc in this region by turning highly fertile land into a barren waste. We have to first make proper drainage channels for saline sub-soil water before making the canal fully operative."

We drove into Ferozepore. I was last here in the early 1940s. I can recall the Hussainwala barrage on the Sutlej. The railway bridge which brought trains from Lahore was blown up in the 1971 War with Pakistan to prevent Pakistani troops entering to the town. All that remains are ruins of the railway station and some pylons. The large circuit house overlooking the river is intact. Robin Gupta, Commissioner (like Manpreet, an old Stephenian), senior bureaucrats and citizens are there to welcome Manpreet and his entourage. A pipers’ band strikes up to welcome the visitors. Our first duty is to pay homage to India’s three great martyrs — Bhagat Singh, Rajguru and Sukhdev — who after being hanged in Lahore were cremated here. The samadhi has waterways running criss-cross in front of a large wall with sculpted figures of the three martyrs on it. We place wreaths and garlands of marigold on black marble slabs. The memorial has a lot of open space around it which could be developed into a park. There could be booths selling picture post-cards and booklets in different languages on the lives of these men and their statutes on sale. The place deserves to be cultivated into a major tourist attraction.

Our chief purpose of coming to Ferozepore was to watch the ceremonious lowering of the Indian Tri-colour and the Pakistani flags at the Hussainiwala checkpost. No Indo-Pak traffic flows through this checkpost. Nevertheless an elaborate ritual of hoisting and lowering of the national flags takes place at sunrise and sunset. Sightseers from both countries flock to see it. Normally, Indians outnumber Pakistanis; on Fridays, Pakistanis outnumber Indians.

By the time we arrive, Indian stalls are full, there are barely a dozen Pakistanis facing us. Pak soldiers in dark grey and red uniform, some bearded, all very tall, look more fierce than the Indians facing them. There is quick-marching with exaggerated swagger of arms and legs and hard stamping on the granite floor with hob-nailed boots. Every little display of this robotic charade prefaced by militant marionettes is faithfully applauded by their Pak and Indian supporters. To me it looked silly and lacking in sophistication. I was in the minority of one in about 500.

A four yards away on the Pakistani side, is a white archway with an ayat from the holy Koran with its English translation: "And say not those who are slain on the way of Allah they are dead. Nay they are living though ye perceive it not". On the Pakistani block there is a portrait of Jinnah which Pakistani soldiers salute repeatedly; on the Indian side there is one of Gandhi which our jawans salute with equal enthusiasm. Their men shout "Allah-O-Akbar". Ours shout "Hind, Hind, Hind."

I gaze across the dividing line: Pakistani wheat looks no different than ours. Koels call from Pakistani groves; koels on the Indian side answer them. Lines of crows fly over the Sutlej towards Lahore. And here soldiers, Indian and Pakistani, bark at each other and make menacing gestures.

We are allowed to cross the dividing line to present baskets of fruit to the Pakistani soldiers and then to ours. They accept our gifts — somewhat reluctantly. They let us shake them by the hand.

A nation of shouters

Trevor Fishlock was The Times (London) correspondent in Delhi for some years and made a name for himself as a travel-writer. He has this to say about Indians’ short temper and the ability to get into a shouting match at the slightest provocation. This extract is from his book Cobra Road (John Murray) published last week.

"India has a way of magnifying, intensifying and distorting emotions and incidents, and you have to watch for the signs that you are becoming unhinged. One of the early symptoms is shouting.

"V.S. Naipaul recalled that, during his first exploration of India in the 1960s, ‘I was shouting almost as soon as I entered government offices’. His patience nearly exhausted by a fiddling bureaucracy, he found that the mere sight of clerks engaged in the futile work of sorting bundles of paper was more than he could bear. He wondered if the heat was indeed making him unhinged. Paul Scott, travelling in India to gather material for his Raj Quartet novels, stayed in a village where he had to come to terms with excreting in a field like everyone else. ‘It was a severe strain on my citilized liberal instincts. Towards end of my stay I found myself shouting.’

"I have seen many shouting tantrums. Young tourists shout with the best of them. ‘You can’t treat me like this,’ they cry. ‘I don’t need this.’ Overcharged by taxi and rickshaw drivers, they dispute pennies with poor men, shouting like the blimpish sahibs of old. Anything to do with money, flying or official documents shortens tempers, so that banks, government offices and airports are prime shouting sites. I remember a usually affable Englishman who, while talking to an unhelpful official at Delhi airport, suddenly exploded.

"Bloody hell," he roared, ‘I shall report you. Give me your name."