Dangerous sentiments

In the last couple of months, I have lost quite a few relatives and friends. I evolved my own defence mechanism against depression, saying to myself, “sooner or later death comes to everybody. Why cry over it? Your turn will come soon.” Nothing very profound about this formula, but it worked, and I was able to cope with the grief their departure evoked. However, when on a single day, I learnt of three deaths of people who mattered to me, I was shaken out of my smugness.

In the morning, a disciple of Kripaluji Maharaj came to tell me that his guruji’s wife had died in Brindavan, and he had been told to inform me. I did not know either the lady or her husband but had made it a point to listen to pravachans of the latter on television. They made good sense to me. I wrote him a letter of condolence and I hope that in one of his discourses, he will enlighten us on the mystery of death. People like me do not believe in swarg (heaven), nerk (hell), pichhla janam (previous birth) or aglaa janam (next life). There is no proof whatsoever to back these speculations. I would like to have Kripaluji’s views on the subject since last year he was enthroned as the Jagat Guru (world teacher).

Later in the day, my son came and told me, “Auntie Chand died this morning. I’ve just come back from her cremation.” This was a bit of a shock because “auntie Chand” was my wife’s sister-in-law, Chand Ujjal Singh, mother of Vikramjit, who is a golf champion, and of a very pretty daughter, Soni. She was a frequent visitor to my home. She lived alone in a spacious farmhouse near the Qutub Minar, growing exotic varieties of roses and vegetables, and feeding peacocks which flocked to her garden morning and evening. She was a very devout Sikh.

At every gurparb, she turned up with a basin full of kadah parshad. She knew I was not a gurdwara-going Sikh and would eat it as halva. She made it with sooji, almonds, raisins, and a touch of saffron, so that I could enjoy it as a dessert after dinner. She came to every book launch I had, bought a few copies and dropped in to have me sign them and to enjoy a gossip session. She never came empty handed: always with a box of chocolates laced with Scotch, and biscuits drenched in rum. Barely an hour after coming to terms with Chand’s loss, the telephone rang. It was Ranju Kohli from Washington. In a choked voice she sobbed, “Mama chalee gayee (mother is gone)”— mama being Surjit Kaur, whom I had befriended over 20 years ago. She migrated to the United States of America largely in order to be near her only child, Ranju. She had no problem finding a good job as she was a recognized sociologist, and she became an American citizen. She bought a small flat in Falls Church, not very far from Sterling, where Ranju and her family lived. When I was in Wilson Centre, she helped me get research material from the Library of Congress to update my History of the Sikhs. I saw her everyday as she brought the stuff she had collected to my flat in Arlington. She often cooked me a Punjabi dinner before she left. Although she lived in America, her heart was in the Punjab. Even in Washington, she spent Sunday mornings at the local gurdwara.

When in Delhi, she preferred staying at the YWCA guest house because it was close to the Gurdwara Bangla Sahib and she could be there morning and evening. She was determined to spend the last years of her life in Punjab and bought herself a flat in Zirakpur. That was not to be. Last year, she was stricken with cancer of the liver. Despite the chemotherapy, it spread to her pancreas. She wrote to me at least once a week. I wrote back asking her never to give up hope. Then her letters stopped. I sensed that her condition had deteriorated. Ranju’s phone call confirmed my worst fears. Surjit was gone.

So how did I feel that evening? I can’t put it in words — it was a kind of mental numbness that can be better described as nothingness. And I don’t know what nothingness means.

Hate campaign

The tea in your kettle has become cold

Make it drinkable, do something bold;

Bring something new to this campaign

Don’t offer hate like champagne

We’ve had enough of that

Your words sound very flat

On Mama’s regrets and angst

Of deprived siblings and ill-feelings.

Indians today want something else

A leader who’ll live it up

A leader who’ll bring bread, oil and rice

For all, and peace at a low price.

(Contributed by Sami Rafiq, Aligarh)