Great Jat writer!!

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snrsingh

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Hello!
a great jat Rajbir Deswal,he's IPS haryana cadre and is currently Assistant Director of Research and Development.He's great writer ,writes middles in Tribune .He has also produced two books Wit and Humour of Haryana and Culture Bright and Dark.He seems to be very great man.I had seen me ,but never had honour of meeting him.His recently produced article are:

http://www.tribuneindia.com/2003/20031001/edit.htm#6

http://www.tribuneindia.com/2003/20031017/edit.htm#6

is any who can intoduce me to this great jat!!
Regards
surinder singh
 
Dear SUrender

I met him in London 15 years ago. When he was writing his book on JATOO JOKES. We heard and enjoyed his jokes all night. I still remember most of them.

RAJBIR DESWAL is from village ANATA in JIND DISTRICT if i remember correctly.
You will meet him one day.
POLICE KI YARI AACHI NAHI HOTI- just kidding
Cheers
 
Hay Surinder..!!

Hello..!!

Nice to find you surinder at jatland, how are you?.Look i had read all the book of this writer.He has great sense of humour.This is his recent article published in Tribune.

Love
Niti


“Rebibal” of Haryana connexion"
K. Rajbir Deswal


“Axe-kyooj me Bhai Shaab, are you note Raaz-Beer!” He held me by the shoulder at the World Trade and made me turn a full hundred and eighty degrees. “Yes I am but…sorry I couldn’t place you, sir,” I said, meekly protesting against the whack.

A white-skinned woman in her late forties with bobbed hair accompanying him pronounced his calling to me smiling, “Mr R. P. Singh!” My school time memory came to my rescue and having recognised my friend, I exclaimed, “Arrey, Ram Phall?” “Thanx Goad, you riko-gnized me. But you sad you kud note place me! Hab you re-ully phor-goatten awer nay-tieu place Roih-Tak where we stud-deed?” He reminded me.

Ram Phall was a wrestler and his tongue was as abrasive in pronouncing certain phonetic sounds as his might was in knocking down his opponents in a bout. He didn’t make any difference between S and Sh; F and Ph; J and Z; G and Gh; B and V, etc. To make matters worse these sounds were conveniently similar for him. He also found certain vowels and diphthongs equally interchangeable e.g. got was goat for him; caught was cot; bomb was bumb; might was mat and sight was sat.

He pronounced the silent consonants with accentuated effort e.g. coal-men for column and soul-men for solemn. Also g-nat for gnat and k-no-lidge for knowledge. His mayyar, pluyyar, truyyar and okayyan were tersely tolerable for measure, pleasure , treasure and occasion, respectively. The best thing about his original style was that he cared two hoots in seeking to mend his wayward ways with spoken English.

Ram Phall got married at the age of 17 while he was still struggling through his higher secondary phase. His being madly in love with his early-found soulmate who bore him two sons in succession, made him flunk a couple of years. I then lost track of the man.

“Sori, I phor-goat to introduce my baif Show-Phia. See ij phrom Middle-Sex… (pause)…(longer pause)…!” A grin and a wink. He probably read my thoughts and hastened to inform, “Oh your Bhabi Sharlaa? See ij in the billage and looks aphter the landz with her phor sunz.” He further told me that he had gone to the UK a couple of years back as a wrestling coach where, “Thish sosull-shantisht phloored me when I waj out of the ring,” he grinned from ear to ear when Sophia smiled gently.

“Show-Phia’s grand-phaather was a soljer in the Britis Army and had stayed in Roih-Tak for a long time. See haj come with me hair for a re-bibal of the Haryana connexion,” Ram Phall said when I quipped with my tongue firmly in cheek, “Yes for me as well, in meeting you Mr R.P. Singh.”

“Bhat a releeph!” Did you say that?



http://www.tribuneindia.com/2004/20041126/edit.htm#5

Regards
Niti
 
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Rajbir Deswal...

Bhai Surinder,

I have known Rajbir Deswal since 35 years and we are also related. Dosti pahle hai or rishtedari baad mein. Dudee saheb is right, Rajbir belongs to Village ANTA, near Safidon.

He has written a couple of books, two of them recently. Years back he also managed a website www.hariana.com He is a well travelled and has a very good knowledge and perspective of JAT history and culture.

He is presently posted at Madhuban Police Academy near Karnal. Earlier he was with Bureau of Police Research & development (BPRD) on deputation. If you are interested in meeting him, his office Tele No is 01842390111

Regards,

JS Malik
 
Wardrobe malfunction

Dear Surinder :)

This is another nice one by Sh Rajbir Deswal.
http://www.tribuneindia.com/2005/20050326/edit.htm#5

Any way here-->

Wardrobe malfunction
by K. Rajbir Deswal

BARING one bosom recently on a TV show might have cost a channel millions in the US but Janet Jackson's blaming it on a "wardrobe malfunction" isn't wholly convincing. At home, we have known people who have rather benefited from such “wilful indulgence” many a time.

Taking up the cause of millions of Indians for whom there was no “kurta” available due to their “wardrobe dysfunction”, our own revered Bapu decided not to wear anything to cover his brawn, and that too, without inviting frowns.

In the typical Indian mindset, this, otherwise a macho gesture, in good measures, bullied the British in India. Even Churchill, with his tongue firmly in cheek, termed the Mahatma a “Naked Faqir”. Needless to say, he grew in people's esteem nationally and globally.

Trusting the power and prowess of Lord Krishna himself Draupadi in “Mahabharta” could never have blamed a malfunction in her wardrobe when the wicked Dushashna attempted to disrobe her at the instance of Duryodhna after the infamous gamble fixture. Draupadi's faith in her saviour stood vindicated.

A friend of mine in his zeal to look different got a turmeric-yellow jacket stitched for him. He went to a restaurant when to his utter embarrassment all the waiters were found wearing Jodhpuris of the same colour. That he did not have to offer a tip was simply because of his supporting wardrobe.

I know of a police officer who was quite unpopular among his subordinates for the proverbial “bullshit” he “spat out”. None dared to challenge him till one day when he appeared before a battery of officers with his slacks' zip open. On being pointed out in almost an aside to him, he left the room in a huff and spared the attendant officers of further humiliation at his hands.

It once happened with me while travelling in the High Lands at a place called Onich on Loch Lomund in Scotland. I was a bit flamboyantly dressed with a scarf worn after Dev Anand as in "Johny Mera Naam". We were negotiating with the man on the counter when he asked me if I was an actor.

"Yep. Do you see Indian movies?" I tried to sound more American than Indian while lying to him by putting a counter question, obviously confirming his query in the affirmative. "Won-dur-fool. Won-dur-fool!" said the Scotsman and offered me a 40 per cent discount straightaway.

Wait a minute. Please don't jump to any conclusions. Salman Khan, John Abrahim and Bipasha Basu do not perpetually suffer from the syndrome called “wardrobe malfunction” but a “non-existing wardrobe”.


Niti
 
Thanks everyone and yes I'm able to track down Deswal Uncle ji :)

Well I can see that a lot of thought went into this one I had read this morning.

http://www.tribuneindia.com/2005/20050819/edit.htm#5

Ek din ka badshah
by K. Rajbir Deswal

IT was no ordinary sight except that the jam we were caught up in had people laughing to their guts’ content. Nobody seemed to be in a hurry to rush past. No cop was around, as usual, to unwind the traffic snarl. No driver behind the wheels exhibited road rage. Rather, everyone seemed to forgo his or her right of way.

On the other hand, a curious me was asking the driver to keep moving till we found a gap. And he did the bidding. We almost reached ground zero. The happening place, atop a flyover.

Let me digress here for reasons of holding up the suspense and narrate a practice Akbar used to follow during his times when he practiced Din-e-Ilahi. Whenever the Badshah rode the streets on the royal elephant with all his Mughal regalia and he noticed a groom being led in a barat procession to fetch his soul mate, he would order halting of the royal pageant.

Akbar would then dismount, go up to the nausha (groom) and offer him an asharfee — a coin. This coin was given not only as a mark of respect but for the fact that the benevolent king believed that every groom in his wedding attire and being led in a barat was no less than the king himself at least for that day.

Now I come back to the jam I left the readers in. I alighted from the car and made it to the groundswell on the flyover. Lo and behold, a groom and his bride were there. Dressed in their nuptial largesse of clothes. Frills and appendages included. He wearing his sehra and sherwani and she wearing her churas and lehnga-choli. No “just married” inhibitions or hesitations. Both were all smiles.

Want to know what they were doing there for which the entire traffic had come to halt? They were giving their ramshackle but frugally decorated Maruti a push. When others joined them for help, they refused it saying it is their “ghar ki gari” that they would like to steer themselves against all odds. People though caught in the jam spared them their “way of life to follow”.

Like Akbar, I wanted to make an offering to the couple but only wished them all the very best. The king and his Queen. To live happily ever after.

Small things in life make the knottiest of the jams untangle and gain their lost resilience.


Love and Respect
Surinder
 
Here is another nice one by Deswal Uncle Ji

http://www.tribuneindia.com/2000/20001013/art-trib.htm#1

Mirza Ghalib’s time travel
By K. Rajbir Deswal

THE technique may be an oft-repeated time travel, but the resurrection of the soul in its new incarnation with the subject being, “Ghalib in New Delhi,” has surely been made an interesting stuff of a burlesque ribtickling comedy. The play written and directed by Dr Sayeed Alam touched the mark of 40 with its staging this time at the Sri Ram Center of Arts, New Delhi.

The opening scene shows Ghalib in Old Delhi, sitting with a paanwala who charges Rs 6 for a couple of beetle-leaf preparations which is too high a price to be paid for a paan for the legendary poet. Ghalib carries his “deewan”, — an anthology, which people find difficult to open ‘from the wrong side’ — an apt satirical commentary on Urdu being on its way out.

Ghalib piqued at the wrong pronunciation picks up a quarrel with a tongawala who calls a passenger “sawari” while Ghalib insists on its correct pronunciation as “sawar”. “Sawar” travels in a “sawari”, he explains, but is unable to convince the tongawalla. He then expresses his desire to visit his haveli in Ballimaran where “at one time even aeroplanes could land” — an exaggeration of course — but “these days you cannot go there without bumping into countless people and losing your own identity,” informs one of the rickshaw-pullers. He tries to establish himself by quoting his couplets and coaxing that the person with a different “andaz-e-byan” is he himself, but to no avail.

The inmates of the haveli do not recognise Ghalib. He is taken to be a “jinn” — a jinni. A “maulvi” is sent for and he manages to drive Ghalib out with his exorcism. The scene in the haveli is typical where jealous women in the household are seen outsmarting each other in charm and in holding out to their men. The men even in attendance eye the women with lusty glances seeking to find opportunities to gain entry in “zanana” every now and then, the “maulvi” not being excluded.

Ghalib then button-holes a Bihari Youth, Jaihind, who offers him stay in his hired apartment of which the landlady is Mrs Chaddha who agrees to accommodate Ghalib with a tacit understanding with Jaihind that they would, at a later date, cash in on Ghalib’s status as a celebrity which they will revive in due course.

Jaihind’s Bihari accent makes matters worse for Ghalib, but he has to stay put and bear with him. He at least recognises him, but ironically enough, through Jagjeet Singh and Naseeruddin Shah.

The present-day New Delhi with its anti-encroachment drives finds an interesting reference to in Jaihind’s information. When Ghalib asks him where is New Delhi, he replies: “It is in Jagmohan’s pocket!” Jaihind’s witticism and Ghalibs own interpretation of things gone awry and skewed all those years is quite interesting.

Mrs Chaddha for her mannerism fascinates Ghalib who confesses he had been a man seeking pleasures. Having visited his “mazar”, the legendary poet laments that idlers play cards at the site and muses regretfully: Huye mar ke hum jo ruswa, huye kyoon na khake darya, na kabhi janaza uthta, na kahin mazar hota....

Until now there is a very smooth transition in Ghalib who earlier used to take umbrage at mispronunciation, misquoting of his works and misrepresentation of the actual “mayne” — semantics of his literary thought.

But now in the company of Jaihind, he has picked up the Bihari accent when he too pronounces words like “room-partner” as “d (r)oom-pat-naar(h)” and “popular” as “paa-poo-l(h)aar(h)”. Ghalib vows to settle scores with Jagjeet Singh and Naseeruddin Shah and in a bid to seek recognition he calls a press conference at the instance of Jaihind and Mrs Chaddha.

Certain top journalists of Delhi have been caricatured here. The pressmen take a dig at Ghalib and ask him offending questions on his personal life. When told that he had been visiting prostitutes also, they all flee suspecting Ghalib to be a carrier of AIDS. Jaihind then reminds them of Shabana Azmi’s ad and they all join back. The impact of the advertising affecting a common man is aptly brought home.

Jaihind plays the interpreter and tries to pacify the journalists since no arrangements had been made for snacks etc — a well-intended dig at the newer trends in practising journalism. The news coverage the following day disturbs Ghalib a little too much when he reads headlines like: “Ghalib of Ballimaran in Luxmi Nagar”, “A Cynic Calls Himself Ghalib”, Ghalib in Servant Quarters....!”, “Ghalib Takes Rebirth as an AIDS victim” and so on.

A dejected Ghalib now seeks a sell-out of himself a la Dr Faustus and approaches an advertising agency. There people suggest that his billboards can be put up in all metropolitan cities with catchy and attributable stuff as is prevalent in the ad world these days. Ghalib agress to meet Raveena Tandon but objects to his being addressed as “Arre Abba!”

The play winds up with the last scene showing a clean-shaven Ghalib in a bright T-shirt, barmoodas and trendy footwear with a cellular phone in hand giving out information to the other end on his new address as “M.A.K. Ghalib” (elaborating out as Mirza Assadullah Khan Ghalib) and his e-mail and all that. This change in him has occurred after an ad- agency arranged his meeting with Ritu Beri.

Dr Sayeed Alam is a journalist-turned-playwright-turned-director with a vast experience in theatre. His other plays which have been immensely popular include “Zindagi Naam Hai Jeeye Jaane Ka,” “Cut...Cut...Cut,” Magar Phir Bhi,” “Modern Art-2000” etc. The other cast includes Digamber Prasad (who plays Ghalib), Vijay Gupta, Harish Chhabra, Saif Haider Hasan, Niti Phool, Gajra Sharma and Arun Bisla.

Hope you like that
 
“Your great country…!”

“Your great country…!”
K. Rajbir Deswal​

London to Paris is nearly a three-hour train journey on the Euro Star, through the Euro Tunnel. I was travelling with an English gentleman, sitting in front of me, when I occasionally hit him on his feet and legs. The leg space not being enough, and I being an Indian who shouldn’t know the niceties of “sitting properly”, I tried to pamper the Gora in an obvious bid to please him.

The entire experience that I had gathered in “handling” the foreign delegations, while working for the Government of India, was at my command. While a tendency to please, using all diplomatic jargon, was the most important thing to be borne in mind; starting every communication with “Your great country…!” was the hallmark, and it always clinched the issue.

Seeking to invite the Gora into a tête-à-tête, by virtually breaking the proverbial ice, more to please him than to have his reaction, since my long legs had been troubling him, I began: “Excuse me sir, don’t you think the cold climate of your great country is a boon for you. I mean, you can enjoy your icecream for a longer duration.” I grinned in quest of an answer. He looked up while reading from his book, only to offer a plastic smile, which did convey to me that he was interested neither in me, nor my “advances”.

I did neither relent, nor was I in a mood to surrender. Again I tried to broach the issue. “And don’t you think the shaving cream still stays hard in the cold climate of your great country and doesn’t flow like water, as it does in hot and humid lands, like India,” I said with some contempt meshed up for my “not so great a country”.

This time he did lift his eyes but dropped the gaze quickly to the pages, obviouly ignoring me.

I again spoke to the Gora caring two hoots if again he frowned at me: “Don’t you use the same set of undergarments for weeks altogether since you don’t seem to sweat and make your clothes smelly, in the cold climate of your great country?” The Englishman didn’t respond. He became deaf. Dumb. Stone.

I also thought it wise to keep my “bloody mouth shut” but not for long when the compulsive arguer in me shook me once again into making a comment, this time on the quality of being ever active in a cold climate in the Goras’ great country. “Sir don’t you think…!” “Why the hell khant yuuu mind yer oun biznis ther!” the Gora shouted. Our co-passengers looked at me with all the Great Britain’s contempt emptied on me.

I for a while lost my faith in the thawing of human relations and warmth that keeps various cultures glued to each other. I was reminded of what Margaret Drabble said in A Natural Curiosity: “England’s not a bad country… it’s just a mean, cold, ugly, divided, tired, clapped-out, post-imperial, post-industrial slagheap covered in polystyrene hamburger cartons".
 
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