Numb scribes

“Have these mouthwatering samosas. Try this tamarind chutney with it,” said my colleague with an infectious enthusiasm and large smile pasted on her face.

Even before I could lay my hands on the oily stuff, others in the room had already devoured this delicacy and washed it down with cups of cold drinks.

Turning towards my host I asked, “What are you partying about today? Anything special.” And prompt cam the reply, “Haven’t you seen my byline on page one today describing tragic death of people? Everyone congratulated me for the unusual feat and I had to oblige them with a party.”

With these words she got up swayed away to another seat offering food to another colleague. I could barely manage to finish the contents in my plate and slyly put it under the table.
Once again I was brought face to face with people celebrating deaths. And I suddenly remembered behind every story there is yet another story. A story of jubilation over death. A story of partying on fatal accidents. A tale of congratulatory notes and SMSes.

Death always makes news. More tragic the incident, greater the casualties, make perfect equation for hitting page one.

Much goes on in scribe’s mind than is visible to an eye.

Mind giggles but face shows depressing thought when unusual number of causalities are reported. Fingers charmingly move at fast pace to send death reports to be published on the front page.

Tragedies have unveiled many faces that remain hidden behind masks of love, sympathy and caring.

But then I suddenly remembered that my profession is a place where one gets paid for numbness and insensitivity of mind and heart.

How Dera got miles and miles of land?

Some truths can’t be delivered directly. They have to be twisted, painted, polished or at times – retold in an entire different way. This short story is an effort to tell a truth that can’t be presented in its original form.

Like all other stories, this one too begins as...

Once upon a time there was a godman. A godman of different kind. Not the usual ones with just devoted following of crores, but the one who got caught up in an imbroglio. An embarrassing situation coupled with accusations of heinous crimes uncalled for a godman.

He lived in a huge house with his disciples, including men, women and children. This huge house had lawns spread in miles and miles of land and he named this entire set up as dera.

As his followers and preachers grew, his people approached him one day.
“Babaji, we need more land to augment our dera. What should be done?”
“Don’t worry. God will grant us what we desire,” he said and closed his eyes, as if murmuring a short prayer.

Now his dera used to hold religious congregations. These congregations were an attempt to bring a common man closer to Almighty. Unlike all other such organizations, his was a much disciplined one. To look after the arrangements of entire sea of humanity, Babaji assigned tasks to different people, while another set of devotees were asked to monitor them.

Witnessing a footfall in lakhs, his dera brimmed with people. Hither – thither lay men, women and children. Older ones waited under temporary sheds. All waited for Babaji to take over the stage and show them way to salvation. These lectures continued for days together and everybody usually stayed for a day or two in dera itself.

At night, people lay under open sky. Those living in bungalows with scores of servants to attend them lay on ground. After all this was Babaji’s dera, where everybody was equal. Others managed to squeeze at the roof tops but the immediate need for more space for devotees was felt.

At morning, the neighboring fields were flocked by an unusual number of visitors. Already short of space, the dera authorities have asked people to attend their nature’s call in nearby fields. Around 20 devotees were assigned task to keep these people away from Babaji’s fields.

“Mai jara agge hoke. E Babaji da khet e” (Mother please move ahead for your ablutions. This is Babaji’s fields).

Ripe wheat crop standing in neighboring fields got crumpled under the weight of last night’s langar. One irate neighboring farmer, who had been bearing this brunt for last many years, had come up with novel idea. He had built a Wall of China around his farm.

For the first season, his farms were spared, but soon after devotees started scaling walls or using walls as a barrier to hide from public view and ease themselves.

The farmer then hired handful of migrant laborers to shoo away devotees. Perched on top of wall, these laborers performed their task to fullest, but failed to put across their message to Gujaratis, Bengalis and others alien to their language.

Finally, the farmers around decided to approach Babaji and seek help for saving their crops. They appeared before Him during one of preaching session. With folded hands they requested Babaji to stop his devotees from wreaking havoc on their crops.

“But I cant stop every individual,” reasoned Babaji.
“Then what should we do? Its been years. We are losing our money to ablutions,” they pleaded.

Babaji thought over and said, “We will solve this problem ourselves. You sell the land to us and then it becomes our problem.”

So the poor farmers ended up selling off their farms at half the original price.

The next congregation…

“Mai jara agge hoke. E Babaji da khet e” (Mother please move ahead for your ablutions. This is Babaji’s fields).
“Tu tana picchli vari kehda si ki picchle khet ne?” (Last time you said that the front fields are of Babaji?”

“Babaji ne e khet khareed laye ne,” (He has bought these fields).

And Baba keeps on including miles and miles of land under his dera.

A salute to Punjab police

Corrupt, rapists, murderers, pot bellied. If this is all you think about Punjab police, here are few lines that will make you re-think. As strange as it may sound. Few Punjab police cops have a side that is lesser known to the world and the prefer to keep it under wraps.

This series brings forth the other side of men in khakhi – our very own Punjab police cops. It’s based on true incidents.

Labbi – the found child

After traveling 150 kms, as I unloaded bags off my shoulder with a thud, the girl came rushing to me. I asked her name and she replied, Labbi. In a state of names like Kaur Singh, Ladoo Singh, Shinda – Labbi came as a strange name.

I was one of many boarders, who had come to seek accommodation in new city, where I was transferred much to my chagrin. Later, the owner of that palatial house, went on to became mother-figure and we shared nuances of life.

I asked her about Labbi and she told that Labbi lived in neighborhood. At the age of to, she was found crying on a shop, someone had abandoned her, and a kind hearted cop brought her up as her own daughter. This cop lived in close vicinity of my lodging.

When I joined office, later in the day, boss asked where I had rented the accommodation.

“It’s a small non-descript area. Somewhere on outskirts of the city.”
“But still. You might have some land mark.”
“Ya. A senior police official stays opposite my land lord’s place.”

And he asked me his name. When I answered, he shifted back in his chair. He told me something that only a handful people knew. A fact that changed my perception of cops. A fact about Labbi, that even she did not know.

My kind hearted neighbor cop had found Labbi – the child – bleeding in interior parts of the walled city. The two years old infant was brutally raped and left to die near a garbage dump.

He took the child to city hospital, paid for her bills and did not have heart to leave her to her fate. Doctors operating her told that the child’s urinary tract had to be reconstructed surgically. When the infant recovered, he brought her to his home. And told his wife that he had found the child abandoned at a shop during patrolling duty.

The girl is appearing for her board exams this year. She has not picked name of the cop as her father, but that of his gardener’s. But she would always remain his child.

(some details have been changed to conceal identity of cop and the child)