IDHAR UDHAR KI BAAT 65 - LAHORIAN DA MOHALLA - Brig PS Gothra(Retd)

 “Jai Hanuman Gyan Gun Sagar…” chanting would start on loud speaker from our Mandir across the Bazar around four in the morning, and five minutes later, I'd hear the familiar rickety noise of the hand pump as my grandmother, Beji, started her day. No matter how hard you tried to bury your ears under the pillow, that sound would find a way in. And as soon as the Hanuman Chalisa wrapped up, the Sukhmani Sahib would begin at the Gurudwara. Fifteen minutes later, Beji would enter with a steaming cup of tea, announcing, “Utho, padh lo!” (wake up and study).

Arguing with Beji was futile—she had a sixth sense when it came to getting you out of bed. So, with a sigh, I'd sit up, groggily sip the tea, and wonder why mornings were so relentless. As soon as I heard the gate close behind her, signaling her departure for the Gurudwara, I’d dive back under the quilt. But my subconscious mind? It still kept tabs on the ongoing Gurudwara activities, ensuring that I was holding a book in hand the moment Beji returned.

Next, I’d make my way to the fields to relieve myself. Privacy? Not in the freshly ploughed fields. Out of nowhere, I’d spot two boys—Amrika and Kukku—fighting. Over a girl, of course. People rushed in to break them up, but as Amrika bent down to pick up his headscarf, Kukku took out a knife and stabbed him in the back. Was I fazed? Nah. This was Lahorian da Mohalla, after all. Such drama was practically a daily occurrence. You just learned to keep a safe distance.

On the way, I heard Hira Jatt yelling at his crying son. "Training for the police, I guess," I thought. In Lahorian, a good thrashing was considered essential for preparing your kid for the rough-and-tumble of police encounters. The next day, I heard that Amrika’s kidney had been spared—he survived the stabbing. Another day, another near-miss.

Lahorian da Mohalla was notorious in Tanda Urmar—famous for bootlegging and opium smuggling. With only fifty households, the area was dominated by Jatt families who had migrated from Lahore, Pakistan. While a few Jatt families were highly educated and respectable, the rest took great pride in their illegal pursuits. For smuggling, some even owned horses to avoid police ambushes under the cover of night. About 30% of the population were Labana families, relying on the army to make ends meet, while the rest were Sainis and Rajputs, mainly in horticulture or teaching jobs. And, of course, there was one Hindu Khatri family running a vegetable shop.

I got ready for college and set off towards the bus stand. Along the way, I took a detour—a hundred-meter side trip—to catch a glimpse of my idol. He was always in his "janghiya" boxer shorts and a baniyan, feverishly washing crates at his soda water factory. Medium build, unkempt long hair, and a pen name that struck awe in my heart: Runk Ahiyapuri (Joginderpal). He had no clue I was his biggest fan—his radio dramas on All India Radio Jalandhar were the highlight of my evenings. One day, I promised myself, I’d write like him.

At the bus stand, I discovered I had missed the Pathankot-Delhi bus. Naturally, this dampened my spirits. The girl I admired from afar must have been on that bus. But as the local bus to Jalandhar pulled in, I was thrilled to see her, too, trying to chase the bus. We exchanged a fleeting smile as she boarded. The entire journey, my mind raced with fantasies of a life together. When she got off at the Pathankot bypass, my heart screamed, "Get off the bus, follow her!" But my rational brain quickly intervened: “Don’t be a creepy stalker, man.”

At college, I learned two professors were missing. My friends immediately ditched class and headed to the nearby tea shop, knowing full well they’d skip the next two classes too. Meanwhile, I trudged off to economics class, where our professor—who taught both English and Hindi-medium students—dictated the answers in Hindi while we took notes in English. It was a curious system, but one we’d gotten used to. Every time we didn’t understand a word, he’d generously offer us the English equivalent.

The next class wasn’t for another two hours, so I wandered into the library. The problem was, the encyclopedia I needed was in the English section, where the undergraduate boys and post-graduate girls were busy engaging in what could only be described as college romance in full swing. So, I quickly grabbed a book from the History section—Medieval India by Mahajan—and retreated to the rare books section. There, after an hour of reading, I became an expert on the Mansabdari System of the Mughals. My break? Reading old Reader's Digests, of course—especially the Word Power section, which I never missed.

After my English class, I skipped lunch and opted to walk to the bus stand. Why? Fish pakoras at Tanda Bus Stand were calling my name. But as I neared the stall, I was intercepted by 'Pammi,' an acquaintance who always seemed to be in desperate need of cash—usually for his liquor addiction. The stench of his body made me cave in and hand over the money I’d saved for my pakoras.

Back in the Mohalla, I saw the usual crowd gathered at the street corners, waiting for their fix of booze or opium.

I finally reached home, where Beji had made an irresistible baigan ka bhartha. I took my first bite, and that’s when I saw three guys leaping over our fence, doing some impressive parkour moves. But then two police officers tried the same and got themselves hilariously stuck in the barbed wire. I helped them out as they fumed about the latest police policy. The Sansi tribe, near the Bus Stand had become a nuisance with their ability to steal. They had wiped the houses of some influential people clean. So, the police gave them the choice to switch over to an easier vocation of desi liquor vending. To remove the competition the lower staff had to step up raids in the Lahorian da Mohalla so that the clientele moves to the Sansis. But the Jatts were a hard nut to crack.

By 6:30 PM, like clockwork, 'Raju' began shouting, “Kutiyo loko Ram japo!” (Worship, you dogs!). Raju, an opium smuggler who’d spent years in lockup, had lost his mind from all the beatings. So, after three pegs of liquor, his inner spiritual guru emerged.

I switched on the BBC London radio to catch the latest news in Hindi and Urdu. The repetition helped with my retention and vocabulary, until I switched over to Hawa Mahal on All India Radio. No Runk Ahiyapuri story today, but I listened anyway. Soon, the soothing sounds of the radio drama carried me off to some office somewhere, and I drifted off to sleep with the transistor still on. Beji would eventually switch it off, but for that brief moment, I was living the dream.

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