Idhar Udhar Ki Baat

  “You are hereby sentenced to death,” said the Presiding Judge of the Court of the Republic of Banana. Somebody had to be blamed for the lost war. And as their foreign Security Adviser, I was the most convenient scapegoat. “Do you wish to say anything?” “Certainly, Your Honour. This is the first time since I was hired in September 2045 that anyone appears interested in hearing my views. You hired me because you believed India had done reasonably well in warfare during the previous decades.” “Correct.” “But you copied India’s shopping list and ignored its homework.” The Defence Minister asked, “What do you mean?” “You bought big ticket items assuming that victory would be home-delivered.” The defence minister jumped up. “Our military expenditure was the highest in our history!” “Unfortunately, expenditure and effectiveness are not identical twins.” The courtroom fell silent. “After Operation Sindoor in 2025, India learnt something important— success also has...

    "Fauji, teri maan nu..." The Pakistani terrorist on the other end of the radio followed it with a few more abuses. His gaalis gave me an excellent opportunity to unleash my considerable knowledge—and some innovation—of Punjabi gaalis . Having exhausted my vocabulary, I discovered another weapon. I kept the press-to-talk switch pressed even when I had nothing to say. His frequency remained jammed. I was delighted. Somewhere in the Kashmir mountains, I imagined a frustrated terrorist banging his radio set. My victory lasted a few days. Then he came back on air with a more powerful transmitter and happily communicated through my jamming. Twice every day, we could hear the terrorists giving their OK report to their control station. It was usually followed by a motivational tarana . Amateur that I was, I became convinced that if I listened long enough, one terrorist would surely say something like: "Kal subah nau baje hum falane jungle ke teesre ped ke neeche mi...

" Saab, Paytm kar ke WhatsApp kar dena," my car cleaner said about renumeration after cleaning my car. I smiled. In one sentence he had unknowingly narrated the history of modern branding. He neither expected me to use Paytm nor insisted that I send him a WhatsApp message. The money could go through PhonePe, Google Pay or BHIM. The message could be an SMS. It didn't matter. The brands had quietly swallowed the products. Growing up in Punjab, I suffered from the same confusion. I genuinely believed The Tribune was another word for an English newspaper. Likewise, every photocopy was a Xerox . Every digging machine was a JCB . Every instant noodle was Maggi . Every rugged four-wheel drive was a Jeep . Then came Close-Up . One of the cleverest advertising campaigns of my youth asked, "Kya aap Close-Up karte hain?" Notice the brilliance. The advertisement wasn't asking, "Do you use Close-Up?" It was trying to make Close-Up replace Colgate in ever...

"What is your favourite old song?" someone asked me recently. It sounded like a simple question. But the more I thought about it, the more difficult it became. When I was young, English songs fascinated me. Not because I understood them—I hardly understood a word. Songs by Boney M, ABBA and the Bee Gees sounded wonderfully foreign, and perhaps I listened to them more out of a desire to sound angrez than out of musical appreciation. Lyrics escaped me completely. The only English song I confidently remembered was Tequila, largely because it contained only one word. Slowly, however, I discovered that music had a language of its own. I began noticing not the words, but the tiny sounds hidden between the words. Listen carefully to "Take the Heat Off Me." The rhythm itself begins telling a story long before the singer does. The infectious beats of "Rasputin," "Daddy Cool," "Ma Baker," "Stayin' Alive" or "Cheri C...

  "Maili chadar odh ke kaise... dwar tumhare aaun."     Every morning at exactly five, this bhajan floated across the Surangani Project Colony in the Chamba hills . The bhajan was followed by the ringing of bells. Down below, the Baira River rushed over the rocks. Together they created a melody that still echoes in my memory.      Surangani was not merely a colony. It was a family scattered over a mountain. From the guest house, at night the colony looked like a Christmas tree. During the day, it looked like a carefully built sand model clinging to the hillside. The road zigzagged through four hairpin bends. The uppermost hairpin bend doubled as the bus stand. Every morning the bus left for Pathankot . Every evening another bus came carrying passengers, newspapers, vegetables and supplies.     Down the first bend stood Sharma Ji's tiny tea shack. The aroma of freshly fried samosas, matthis and warm besan barfi was impossible to ignore. A cu...

  “Woh jo saara paani absorb kar leta hai.” That was my three-year-old son’s answer when I asked him the meaning of Whisper . He had learnt the meaning of the word from a television advertisement for sanitary pads. A few days later, someone remarked, “Your son walks exactly like you.” Children copy whatever the parents do. Around that time, my neighbour, Mr Singh, had become the role model of every ambitious parent. His only son, Teetu, was born in the year an IIT topper had become a national celebrity. Mr Singh named his son after the topper, perhaps hoping that a little brilliance might arrive with the name. The entire household revolved around Teetu. In the weeks before his examinations, visitors were discouraged, the television remained switched off and all social engagements were cancelled. Nothing was allowed to interfere with his studies. One day, Mr Singh came to my office. “My parents are coming for my mother’s surgery,” he said. “Teetu’s half-yearly examinatio...