Roman dream

My seven years in Lahore (1940-47) to make a living as a lawyer had failed miserably. I continued to live on my patrimony to the last day. I philosophized that living on other people’s quarrels was not worthwhile. When I was driven out of Lahore and returned to Delhi, I gave away my law books, black gown and lawyer’s collar tabs. However, I lost many Muslim friends who had no problems with my staying on. I also met one man who looked down upon me and never lost an opportunity to belittle me. This was Veer Sawhney. Like me, he had also failed to make a living as a lawyer and lived on his patrimony. This included a spacious bungalow with a garden not far from the high court. From the day we met, he decided to dislike me. I returned the compliment.

So it went on day after day. He was a shameless name-dropper and claimed to be close to VIPs, including the British-Indian politician from the Punjab, Sikandar Hayat Khan. When Khan died, Veer was there for the funeral, embracing other mourners and wailing loudly. He entertained in nawabi style — all males except the latest entrant of Heera Mandi (Lahore’s red-light district). His wife returned to her parents. He stood for elections for the post of secretary to the high court bar association. I put my name up just because I wanted to give him a drubbing. And I did.

Our fortunes changed after Partition. I returned to the comforts of my father’s home. He had nowhere to go. The last time I met him was when he was wandering around Connaught Circus.

It was quite a surprise when after 70 years, I had three collections of poems with a letter from his son, Ashok Sawhney, delivered at my doorstep. The letter claimed that the books were published in London and India. I am pretty certain that they were vanity publications, paid for by himself, because there are very few takers for poetry. I refused to meet him. A few days later, another letter with two poems in English and some couplets in Urdu came by post. I was in for a surprise. It was good stuff in both languages. By way of apology and appreciation, I publish one of the poems:

“I Dream”
I dream of ancient times,
I do,
Of Greeks, Romans and Xanadu,
Of Kubla Khan and his
pleasure dome,
Of coins in the fountain,
In the heart of Rome,
I dream, I do.
Vision I see of aeons
gone by
Arjuna’s plea and his
fervent prayer
To the Master of the
Universe,
And Krishna’s response
in warrior’s verse,
I do,
Of the Prophet I dream
and the holy tablet
Of Allah and his eternal decree,
I dream of things of long ago,
Was I there, did I know?
I dream, I do.
Of the masters of the written word,
Of Shakespeare, Shelley and others
I’ve heard,
I dream of Ghalib with relative ease,
I dream of philosophy and Socrates,
I dream.
I dream of evolution and modern
man,
Of Darwin and how his theory ran,
Of what I was to be an ape,
Because I live, I gape,
I dream, I do.
Gautam Buddha and renunciation,
Gabriel and Annunciation,
Myriad are the dreams I dream,
Divinity and sea bream,
I dream.
I dream of Christ on the Cross,
Pilloried and at total loss
To understand the likes of me,
Was that his natural destiny?
I wonder, I do.

Amorous rhyme

My friend, Amir C. Tuteja, often sends me some interesting pieces from Washington to entertain my readers. Here are some entries for a competition in The Washington Post asking for two-line rhymes with the most romantic first line and the least romantic second line:

Roses are red, violets are blue, sugar
is sweet, and so are you.
But the roses are wilting, the violets are dead, the sugar bowl’s empty,
and so is your head.
I want to feel your sweet embrace;
But don’t take that paper bag off
your face.
I love your smile, your face, and
your eyes
D***, I’m good at telling lies!
My love, you take my breath away.
What have you stepped on to smell
this way?

What inspired this amorous rhyme?
Two parts vodka, one part lime.