The Punjabi in Rishi Kapoor

The Punjabi in Rishi Kapoor

Rishi Kapoor, whom we lost recently at the age of 67, was one of the Bollywood’s most popular romantic heroes. He came from an illustrious family of four generations of stars who were “born to act”. 

The Kapoor family hailed from Peshawar in modern Pakistan and migrated to India after partition in 1947.

Rishi Kapoor’s grandfather ran a prominent theatre company. His father Raj Kapoor was regarded as one of the greatest actors and directors in Bollywood. He was also called the “showman of Indian cinema”. Rishi Kapoor-or Chintu (sweet one) as his family called him-was “forever youthful”.

Rishi Kapoor was a versatile actor whose appeal transcended linguistic and regional boundaries, but being a Punjabi by birth, he was often in his best form performing such a role. A chance meeting with him at the Heathrow airport in London, about a decade back, has been embedded in my mind till date.

Before boarding the aeroplane, I entered a customs-free shop at the airport to buy some perfume for my wife. Not knowing much about the varied brands of perfume on display, I found myself somewhat confused by the sheer range of offerings. Just as I was thinking about seeking help from the store assistant, I saw Rishi Kapoor entering the shop. I daresay I was a bit surprised that, in person, this larger-than-life Indian actor seemed rather more diminutive than I’d imagined.

I saw Rishi going about to a few counters and swiftly pick up three bottles of different perfume brands. My problem was solved, as I went to the same counters and picked up the same perfumes for my wife.

When I went to the counter to pay for the perfumes, Rishi Kapoor took a glance at my purchase and exclaimed, ‘Oh, you bought the same perfume!’ He smiled when I told him that I had purchased it as a gift for my wife, and said that he, too, had purchased the perfume for his wife, Neetu.

Finding him very cordial, I tried to continue the conversation, asking him how he happened to be in London. He explained that he was returning after several days of a movie-shoot in London. He asked whether I watched and liked his movies, and where I hailed from, in India. I told him that I was from Haryana and was very much a fan of his movies. To which Rishi immediately reacted, by exclaiming, “But you look to be a Punjabi?!” When I nodded to confirm that he was, in fact, right in his assessment, he urged me to definitely watch his upcoming movie for which he was there, shooting, in London. “You will like it!” he assured me. So, I enquired about the name and theme of the movie, and he told me that the movie would be named “Patiala House’, and that its story was about a second-generation Punjabi who had established himself well in the UK but continued to nurture an affinity to his country of birth, and culture thereof.

We bid goodbye after this short interaction, and I watched the movie on screen a few months later – I found that he had played the role of Gurtej Singh Kahlon in the movie immaculately, and credited this to his own Punjabi culture and heritage. This is the only movie in my life which I have seen four times, with the last time being soon after his recent death – the movie again reminded me of my meeting with a great actor who had no inhibitions in engaging with a stranger at an airport, in a foreign land.  

(Writer is Kurukshetra based senior journalist)

Act of God vs. the Habit of Man

Act of God vs. the Habit of Man

Here we are in the midst of a 100-year pandemic that threatens to bring devastation to modern human civilization. And, in the midst of all the warnings of lockdowns and social distancing, governments and citizens - and, even the judiciary - are embroiled in arguments about the salience of liquor sales in ‘these unprecedented times’.

I am reminded of the time another strong leader once took a tough posture against liquor sales. Bansi Lal, former chief minister of Haryana, decided to impose complete alcohol prohibition during his fourth tenure as Chief Minister of Haryana, while leading an alliance government of Haryana Vikas Party and Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), from May 1996 to July 1999. Whilst the general argument then, as now, was to allow liquor sales in order to keep the bounty flowing into state coffers, and also improving public health, there was strong push-back from the nexus of liquor mafia and politicians, in addition to tipplers and occasional drinkers.

Bansi Lal was a man of conviction and determination.  A year before the assembly elections in 1996, he called some selected media journalists to a motel at Pipli, near Kurukshetra, and announced his plan to impose prohibition in Haryana if his party was voted to power. Amidst the stoic silence maintained by my colleagues, I ventured to suggest that it was likely to be a difficult proposition, and that it may even be compared with other unpopular actions taken by Bansi Lal in the past, such as the infamous ‘Nasbandhi’ (Vasectomy) during the days of the Emergency.

Bansi Lal cast a long look at me, and then said, “you see - I am 69 years of age now, and if I become Chief Minister next year, I will be about 75 by the end of my tenure... with little further lifespan left.”  He explained that whenever he toured the villages of the state, the elders accused him of proliferating the sale of liquor through the many restaurants and bars that he had helped establish as part of the successful highway tourism model, in his earlier tenure. The village elders, he said, reminisced how drinking liquor was a stigma in the interiors of Haryana, and blamed the fancy bars for the increased acceptance and consumption of alcohol, with its negative impact on families. “I do not want to go to the cremation ground with this stigma that I introduced easy access of liquor to Haryana’s youth”, he declared.

A few of us pointed out that Haryana was a small state surrounded by several others where such liquor prohibition would not be in force, making the smuggling of liquor across state boundaries very profitable and likely, undermining both public health and state revenue. Bansi Lal exuded confidence, saying he knew how to deal with that problem.

Bansi Lal went on to win the assembly election the following year. And, true to his word, he imposed a full and draconian prohibition in the state of Haryana. As expected, the state exchequer lost significant revenue from the potential sales of alcohol. However, public health was further endangered, as liquor smuggling and counterfeit alcohol flourished unencumbered.

Ultimately, Bansi Lal lifted the prohibition after a period of about two years. He sounded bitter when he later met the same set of media journalists again at Pipli, saying that the social and religious organisations that used to complain on a daily basis about the negative impact of liquor sales failed to help government agencies in generating adequate public awareness about the downside of liquor consumption. Even the village elders, he said, failed to shore up his effort through shows of support for the high-stakes policy initiative.

As liquor vends begin to open all over the country, I am reminded of this past instance where individual choice prevailed over public health. It would appear that COVID-19 has not yet altered our choices in at least this one sphere - here’s a toast to that thought!

The Times They Are a-Changin’

By Vijay Sabharwal

The Times They Are a-Changin’

‘New’ it may well be, as the India of today diverges rapidly from the past. ‘Social’ is a word closely linked to digital media, and less to its original meaning, of being related to society. I cannot but feel nostalgic for a simpler time when individuals measured their worth on the basis of what they could do for their fellow men.

I recall that, having settled in Kurukshetra after the bloody Partition of undivided India, my father followed a simple rule: serve food to another individual before serving oneself. Quaint as it may sound, youngsters from New India may wish to take note that sometimes these selfless practices actually served one’s own best interests, as well!

In 1964, one of my father’s agricultural trading firms received a notice from the Excise and Taxation Officer (ETO) imposing a penalty of about Rupees Two Thousand (Rs. 2,000) for not submitting sales tax returns.

Now, the firm in question had, in fact, ceased trading two years earlier. On the day of the hearing, my father reached the office of Excise and Taxation at Kaithal (50 kilometers from Kurukshetra), along with the ‘munim’. My father was taken by surprise when the Excise and Taxation Officer, on seeing him, stood up from his chair and asked him to have a seat. The ETO enquired about the reason for my father’s visit, upon which he showed the notice.

At this point, the ETO said, “Lala ji, I think you have not recognised me”. My father looked at him more closely, trying to place the man, and apologized for not being able to confirm their acquaintance. At this, the ETO said that good people, after showering help, usually forget the beneficiaries of their generosity. The ETO reminded my father that he was standing in front of his office on the main road, in Kurukshetra, when the ETO stopped his ‘rikshaw’ to ask him the way to some good ‘dharamsala’. “I told you that I had missed the last bus for Kaithal and would have to spend the night at the ‘dharamsala’, to be able to take an early-morning bus at 6 am to reach my office.”

The ETO recalled that my father said that “there is one ‘dharamsala’ near the railway station, but you may not get a good ‘rajae’ (blanket) to protect from the chilly cold.” “You insisted that I must stay in the guest room, in your office. You served me dinner, and I was humbled when you woke me at 5.30 am, with a cup of tea and some eatables in your hand. You never asked who I was.” My father responded that it was only his custom to serve someone else before eating his own meal, and nothing more.

The ETO did what he could to help my father, and let it be understood simply that sometimes what one does selflessly, for the benefit of society at large, can also help oneself at a different time. There are some lessons that ‘Old India’ can still teach the new one.

Tribute to my father Sh. Dharambir Sabharwal-Poem by my 85 years old sister Chader Prabha Anand

Poem written by my 85 years old sister Mrs Chander Prabha Anand about her childhood memories