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| Tricky case |
It is past 10 am. I have gone through the contents of the six newspapers I subscribe to and mentally gone over what I have to do that day and who I have invited to join me over drinks in the evening. Then my mind goes blank. Recently, I have taken to drawing a balance sheet of my emotional past: people I liked and looked forward to meeting versus those I detested for different reasons. Before I say anything more, let me make it clear that I do not think much of friendship. It is largely a waste of time to indulge in gossip. I don’t have time for it. When anyone who calls me his friend drops me, far from missing him, I feel a sense of relief. I live alone but never feel lonely. There is much to do that is more fruitful than gupshup. People I hated ate up much of my time. Mercifully, they are only four or five in number. Those among them who are dead, I recorded in my autobiography: Truth, Love & a Little Malice. Those who are living, I cannot name, lest they drag me to court on charges of libel. But I do want to get them out of my mind. I can only think of three — two men and one woman. One is a very pleasant looking fellow. I let him occupy my son’s flat on a verbal undertaking that he would move out when I wanted it back. A year later, I asked him to vacate it. He had not lived in it for a single day; he meant to acquire it as his own property. I took him to court. It took me 10 years to get him out. And only because I found out that he had two passports: one with a Hindu name and the other with a Muslim name. I deprived my son of several lakhs. The other fellow got in touch with me when I was editing a newspaper. Behind my back, he spread tales that I was disloyal to my employer and to Prime Minister Indira Gandhi. The fellow was in the habit of borrowing money from staff members working under him. Consequently, my contract was not renewed. The lady I refer to is a compulsive litigant. She wanted me to write about her and gave me her biodata. She had dinner with me. Then a journalist told me about her. I sent the biodata back to her with a letter of apology for my inability to write about her. She bided her time and filed a case against me on the ground that one of my novels was obscene and her son’s morals would be affected by it. She swore she had never met me. The court dismissed her charges but my publisher was to spend over Rs 30,000 in my defence. She is often seen in Delhi High Court because she files cases against all kinds of people. She loses every time, but nothing deters her.
Singing sensation
Harinder Singh, who has made a tidy fortune by making designer clothes, is as generous as he is rich. Whenever he breezes in, he brings me his latest product. All my winter-wear of tracksuits are made by him. But the last time he came, he brought me an album of Punjabi songs sung by Sartaj Singh. He is fast becoming Punjab’s singing voice. I told him I did not have the gadget to play these discs but would get my granddaughter to play them for me. He was not content with my answer. Two days later, he brought Sartaj Singh and his wife to meet me. He is a handsome sardar just turned 30. He wife of three months was still in her bridal attire, wearing chura (multi-coloured bangles from wrists to elbows) salwar-kameez and dupatta of bright colours.
Sartaj was born in Bajrawar, a village near Hoshiarpur. Like most Punjabis (Indians and Pakistanis), he sang songs of Bulleh Shah and Waris Shah to tunes set centuries ago. He added hymns of Kabir, Guru Nanak and his own poems and set them to music. He moved to Chandigarh and got a Master’s degree in music. He drew large crowds at his concerts. Last year, he performed in the United States of America, England, Canada, Australia and New Zealand. Sartaj is recognized as the singing voice of Punjab.
Tax dodger
The famous British comedian, Ken Dodd, was charged with tax evasion in 1989. He declared that he had very little balance in his bank account but had £ 3,36,000 in cash stashed in suitcases in his attic. Taken aback, the judge asked how it felt to have so many thousands of pounds in a suitcase. Pat came the reply: “The notes are very light, M’Lord.” In a case lasting three weeks, he was acquitted, but his lawyer had the last laugh: “Some accountants are comedians but comedians are never accountants.”
Don’t trust the police
Santa’s wife was missing. His friend, Banta, asked him “Santa, why did you not lodge a complaint at the police station?”
Santa replied, “It is of no use. Six months back, I had lost my scooter. I lodged a complaint at the police station. The policemen found it, but gave it back to me after using it for two months. That is why I did not lodge a complaint at the police station.”
