Idhar Udhar Ki Baat

 “You know, a very obese man once died,” the old man began casually, as if recalling a village anecdote. “And the task of finding solution to lift the body was given to Tipu Gothra. No one seemed to know—or perhaps no one cared—that Tipu Gothra suffered from cerebral palsy. After hours of deep ‘analysis’, his brilliant recommendation was that the pubic hair of the dead man be shaved off.” The ex-fauji raised an eyebrow. “What else could he have suggested? A dead man’s weight doesn’t reduce with ideas. And anyway, why are you even bringing this up?” “Oh, I forgot to mention,” the old man added with mock innocence, “Tipu Gothra was also an ex-fauji, just like you. The task was to design a device or some clever improvisation to lift the body—without magically reducing its weight. I remembered this story because these days everyone is talking about something called ‘taxing disability’.” “Yes,” the ex-fauji nodded. “That’s to prevent misuse of facilities by some people.” The ol...

“ Papa kya garibon wali batein karte ho!(Papa, you talk like a poor man!)”    My son threw this line at me when I mentioned that  at a dinner our host had slipped a ₹500 note as a tip to the waiters.     Now, there were only four of us at the table.    It wasn’t a big party, and the service was nothing to write home about.    The tip felt less like generosity and more like a performance—perhaps to impress the waiter, perhaps to impress us. Or maybe just to impress himself.      I have a congenital defect: I feel physical discomfort when I see money being wasted—by anyone.     My family groans every time I ask the waiter to pack the excess food we ordered.     They look at me as if I’m a source of insulting them in the eyes of public.     A few days ago, I took a ride in a friend’s car worth over ₹90 lakhs.     When he casually mentioned that the vehicle has to be sent 300 kilometres away ...

  “These sycophants are a pain in the neck. Fortunately, I was often saved by my dog from their clutches when I was at home,” said a very senior retired officer, leaning back with a faint smile. I looked at him in surprise. “Isn’t it bad to unleash your dog on someone, Sir?” He laughed. “The dog never barked without reason. It would lie quietly when my subordinates came for genuine work. But the moment a flatterer entered, the tail would stiffen, the ears would rise, and a low growl would begin. As if it sensed my irritation before I myself could put it into words.” “That’s intelligence,” I said. “More than intelligence,” he replied. “It was emotional awareness. It knew my moods better than most humans. If I was tired, it would not even allow my wife or the house help to wake me up. It would sit near the bed like a sentry on duty.” This conversation had taken place nearly thirty years ago. At that time, I had smiled politely but inwardly dismissed it as exaggeration. I...

  “ Sex power thoda kam ho gaya hai (Your sexual urge has gone down a little). I will give you jadi-booti as a remedy,” declared the man at the herbal stall in the Health, Wellness and Astrology Exhibition. His flowing kurta, oversized rudraksh mala, and a ring the size of a knuckle were clearly part of the uniform of “ancient knowledge.” The air around him smelt of incense, crushed leaves and mild deception. From the corner of my eye I caught his assistant’s expression: ab murga phasa — the chicken is trapped. Two minutes earlier he had lured me with, “I can read your health by feeling your pulse. Free of cost.” Free is a dangerous word. Soldiers know it. He held my wrist, closed his eyes theatrically, and mumbled something between a mantra and a market calculation. “What is your age?” “Guess it from my pulse.” “Forty-eight,” he said generously. “Try again.” “Fifty-five.” “No, sixty.” Convinced now that I was dealing with a strategic quack. He announced, “No disease. Only li...

“Dadaji, do you just not get technology?” my grandson Goldie asked, rolling his eyes as I handed him the Wi-Fi router to reset. I chuckled. I remembered wearing that exact same expression decades ago, when my own father asked me to light the Petromax lamp after failing for the fourth time. “Goldie,” I said, “the technological transitions I’ve witnessed would make your head spin.” “Really? Tell me,” he said, sitting back, the router momentarily forgotten. “In my childhood, walking was the primary mode of transport. For longer distances, we relied on bullock carts or horse carts. I still remember the day our village got its first bus service—it felt like royalty had arrived. Trains were marvels too, though the steam engines left us covered in soot and coal dust. We carried our own bedding for journeys that lasted days. Today, a twenty-four-hour journey takes eight hours on the Vande Bharat, and you arrive fresh enough to walk straight into an interview.” I smiled at another...

  "It was sad to learn that you lost your property during the 1984 riots," I said as I sat down next to the elderly doctor. She affectionately offered me a delicious matthi . It had the perfect balance of crunch and softness, melting in my mouth with a sip of tea. "Our house was burnt to the ground in the '84 riots," Dr. Trilochan Bhatia said calmly. "That must have been devastating?" "Yes, it pinched a lot," she replied. "But then you find new motivation to work. As you can see, by the grace of God, we have rebuilt it even better than before. Bas, Waheguru da shukr hai —we are indebted to God." "Indebted to God?" I couldn’t help my skeptical reaction. "At least Waheguru saved our lives," she said. "All our family members were abroad at the time. That is His mercy." "Did the government pay any compensation?" "Yes, a pittance. We decided to give it to charity. God has given...