In deference to the brave Pakistani soldiers who dove into the nearest trench when the Diwali patakas went off across the border in Ferozepur, the gallant Ferozepurians had toned down their crackers. Besides the Pakistanis, the pigeons on both the sides of the border were thankful for this great gesture.
But not our Chacha Cartar Singh. He preferred a Diwali that left the eardrums buzzing for days. He taught English at a Middle School for girls in Ferozepur's Chui-Chawk (the Mice Square). In protest, Cartar Chacha left the city during the holidays and descended on us in Delhi because the capital's robust patakas were music to his waxed ears.
My dad was the eldest of the dozen brothers and Chacha the baby of the formidable line up. For us kids, Chacha's Diwali visits not only fattened our piggy banks with the saved pocket money and pataka expenses, listening to his English in a lilting Punjabi accent was pure joy.
When he descended from the tonga at our gate, he shouted, "Oye nephews, whenever I see you two, the peacock of my heart goes 'Ta-Ta-Thayya'," and hugged us. Lovely man !
One evening, he invited all of us to the Kake-Di-Hatti dhaba for a Peshawri dinner. Going through two full tandoori chickens, he told an amazing story.
"You know, bhabhiji," he addressed mom, "last year, I nearly lost my teachership because the students were not interested in English. Many parents said to me, 'Look, the Brits were in Punjab for 200 years? They never learnt Punjabi. Then why should our daughters learn English?' And soon girls started dropping out."
"Sorry to hear that, devarji," Mom said patting his hand, "and then?"
"Thanks to the almighty," Chacha Cartar pointed a chicken leg at the ceiling, "suddenly one morning, help arrived on two legs in the person of my fauji neighbour.
He borrowed my stationery and sat down to write an urgent letter to his CO, 'Colonel sahib ko havaldar Mangat Singh ka Ferozepur se salaam pahunche!' he wrote in Roman-Hindi, the lingo of the jawans that enables them to express their thoughts in Hindustani with English alphabets, 'Sir ji, aaj subeh, I am learning from the burning ghat that hamare regiment ke 103 varsh ke subedar Gunput Singh ka kal raat XXX-Rum peetay peetay dehaant ho gaya!'
I jumped, hugged him and shouted, 'Idea, sir ji! You have just lit a 100-watt batti inside my turban.' I then shot off to school and met the principal. When I asked for his permission to experiment with Roman-Hindi, he said, 'Cartar, you will be standing on two stools. Don't fall off, and good luck!'
An hour later I gathered all the girls, including the drop-outs, and on the blackboard I drew three vertical lines wide apart. Then in the first column I wrote in Hindi, "Dhobhi ka kutta, na ghar ka, na ghat ka." And in the next column I wrote the same in Roman-Hindi. I could now hear the class buzzing with curiosity.
"I used the third section to write the English translation of this idiom in my own words; the one who stands on two stools runs the risk of falling. And then in the last column, I chalked its literal translation in Hindi."
"Clever, devarji," Mom complemented chacha, "and then?"
"Then, the girls were hurling questions at me which felt like a flower shower. A clever one pointed at the third column and asked, 'Teacherji, what happened to the dog and the dhobi? And why should anyone stand on two stools?'
Right then I knew my Roman-Hindi idea would succeed. And the very next day a girl stood up and asked me boldly how 'Uska bhai mere per lattoo hai' would translate into English. I replied 'his brother is crazy about me.'
Quickly a back-bencher was up on her feet wanting to know why he wouldn't spin like a top!!!'
"Thanks to almighty, bhabhiji, my treachership survived and now my classroom is like the Ferozepur Express. Full. No vacant seats."
But not our Chacha Cartar Singh. He preferred a Diwali that left the eardrums buzzing for days. He taught English at a Middle School for girls in Ferozepur's Chui-Chawk (the Mice Square). In protest, Cartar Chacha left the city during the holidays and descended on us in Delhi because the capital's robust patakas were music to his waxed ears.
My dad was the eldest of the dozen brothers and Chacha the baby of the formidable line up. For us kids, Chacha's Diwali visits not only fattened our piggy banks with the saved pocket money and pataka expenses, listening to his English in a lilting Punjabi accent was pure joy.
When he descended from the tonga at our gate, he shouted, "Oye nephews, whenever I see you two, the peacock of my heart goes 'Ta-Ta-Thayya'," and hugged us. Lovely man !
One evening, he invited all of us to the Kake-Di-Hatti dhaba for a Peshawri dinner. Going through two full tandoori chickens, he told an amazing story.
"You know, bhabhiji," he addressed mom, "last year, I nearly lost my teachership because the students were not interested in English. Many parents said to me, 'Look, the Brits were in Punjab for 200 years? They never learnt Punjabi. Then why should our daughters learn English?' And soon girls started dropping out."
"Sorry to hear that, devarji," Mom said patting his hand, "and then?"
"Thanks to the almighty," Chacha Cartar pointed a chicken leg at the ceiling, "suddenly one morning, help arrived on two legs in the person of my fauji neighbour.
He borrowed my stationery and sat down to write an urgent letter to his CO, 'Colonel sahib ko havaldar Mangat Singh ka Ferozepur se salaam pahunche!' he wrote in Roman-Hindi, the lingo of the jawans that enables them to express their thoughts in Hindustani with English alphabets, 'Sir ji, aaj subeh, I am learning from the burning ghat that hamare regiment ke 103 varsh ke subedar Gunput Singh ka kal raat XXX-Rum peetay peetay dehaant ho gaya!'
I jumped, hugged him and shouted, 'Idea, sir ji! You have just lit a 100-watt batti inside my turban.' I then shot off to school and met the principal. When I asked for his permission to experiment with Roman-Hindi, he said, 'Cartar, you will be standing on two stools. Don't fall off, and good luck!'
An hour later I gathered all the girls, including the drop-outs, and on the blackboard I drew three vertical lines wide apart. Then in the first column I wrote in Hindi, "Dhobhi ka kutta, na ghar ka, na ghat ka." And in the next column I wrote the same in Roman-Hindi. I could now hear the class buzzing with curiosity.
"I used the third section to write the English translation of this idiom in my own words; the one who stands on two stools runs the risk of falling. And then in the last column, I chalked its literal translation in Hindi."
"Clever, devarji," Mom complemented chacha, "and then?"
"Then, the girls were hurling questions at me which felt like a flower shower. A clever one pointed at the third column and asked, 'Teacherji, what happened to the dog and the dhobi? And why should anyone stand on two stools?'
Right then I knew my Roman-Hindi idea would succeed. And the very next day a girl stood up and asked me boldly how 'Uska bhai mere per lattoo hai' would translate into English. I replied 'his brother is crazy about me.'
Quickly a back-bencher was up on her feet wanting to know why he wouldn't spin like a top!!!'
"Thanks to almighty, bhabhiji, my treachership survived and now my classroom is like the Ferozepur Express. Full. No vacant seats."