IT was the mid-1970s. We were young, wore bell-bottoms and shiny shirts rich with polyester, dressed for the movies, especially the once-a-week English movies that were screened at Phul Theatre in Patiala, grabbed whatever tid- bits of information we could about the West, and shared it with friends.

Donna Summer Image: Wikipedia

We were students at Yadavindra Public School, Patiala, and the world was neatly divided into students who clung on to their Punjabi feudal roots, and the ‘Yankees’, as the somewhat Anglicised minority of students who were comfortable listening to Western music were called. Among the Yankees were friends like Gupi, Pat, Winnie, Bertie, and seniors like Mandy and Sam.

We heard about a singer, Donna Summer, who had just come out with a single that had shaken the music world. “Love to Love You, Baby” was the rage in the West, and we just had to hear it. How to do that? We knew of only one way. Patiala’s Africa connection then via the Bhattal family, and our friend Gupi’s father, Uncle Sukhminder, was an indulgent millionaire.

Off went the request. Uncle was to visit India soon and thus this was added to the multiple things he was to get for family, relatives and friends. Uncle travelled around the world, especially between the US, the UK and various African countries. He had thus earned many frequent-flyer points, and could stretch baggage and other rules to his, read our, advantage.

When he arrived in London and asked for the LP, a ‘long-playing’ record for those who belong to the post-vinyl era, he was told that it was simply not available there. It was, however, much in news, because of an informal ban by “Auntie Beeb”, as the British Broadcasting Corporation was un-complementarily called. Now Uncle Sukhminder was someone who wanted to not only say “Love to Love You, Baby,” but also show it. He was known to have showered gifts on Mohinder Kaur, the love of his life who became his wife, and also on his children and friends.

So, “What was I to do?” The query was rhetorically repeated in the later years. Off he went, to the city that celebrates love, Paris, and from there he got the LP, which was delivered with a certain ceremony. “Oh! You rascals, here it is, I had to go all the way to Paris to get it for you.”

Now the record was there, it was quickly whisked out of their house, and taken to Mandy and Tina’s house, which gave more privacy to us young souls. We heard the song. Its seductive, sensuous synthesised sound, interjected with minimal lyrics and many suggestive moans and groans soon had everyone enthralled.

Love to Love You Baby, LP jacket. Image: Wikipedia

Donna Summer, who died after a long battle with cancer on Thursday, became our favourite. Her music was era-defining. She was called Queen of Disco and had many No. 1 hits like “MacArthur Park,” “Hot Stuff” and “Bad Girls”. Then there came a period when she said she would sing anything but “Love to Love You,” though eventually she did that too. Her voice rang true, it had a power that allowed her to transcend the genre that she had launched.

As for the man who introduced us to Donna Summer, Uncle Sukhminder could be heard saying: “Oye, Where’s the LP that I got for you? Let me hear it at least once.” Now, that was not something we could afford to let happen, not after we had heard the song!

This middle by Roopinder Singh was published in The Tribune on May 19, 2012.

by Roopinder Singh

THE morning papers came in a bit late, and thus I checked up on the day’s news on my smartphone. What I read made me reach out to a bookshelf; draw out a volume that had seen much use over the years, and thumb through the pages of Encyclopaedia Britannica.

A curious child in the pre-Internet era was bound to have a relationship with encyclopaedias. It started in Yadavindra Public School, Patiala, where the library had a good set of a children’s encyclopaedia. Richly illustrated, it was fascinating to see, and instructive to read. Pears Cyclopaedia was often consulted at home, courtesy my mother’s library.

In Amritsar, subsequently, one day I got a call from my father, ever on the quest for rare books at various second-hand stores. He had stumbled upon the seven-volume “Peoples of all Nations: Their Life to-day (sic) and the Story of Their Past.” I cycled up the uccha pul, and negotiated the narrow lanes near the Golden Temple to arrive at the bookstore and take possession of the volumes, which were thereafter precariously perched on the carrier of my bicycle. These occupy a place of pride on my bookshelves till date, and it is fascinating how much of the information in this set, published in 1922, is still valid, and how much of it is not!

Encyclopaedia Britannica was the Holy Grail that still eluded me. One day, just after I passed out of school, I was told to make a choice, between a Bajaj scooter and the Britannica. I found it interesting that the two things that I coveted so much were similarly priced, but for a youngster who prized physical mobility over mental agility, it was a no-brainer, the scooter won. ‘Hamara Bajaj’ came home and the Britannica stayed away.

I went off to college and lived in residence. The library was exceedingly well stocked and I would consult the Britannica often. My class-fellow, Bikram Kirti Singh De’s father Sudhendra Narayan Singh Deo featured in the edition that we had in college at that time, not because of his royal connection with Seraikella, but because of his contribution to Chau Dance for which was honoured by the Government of India with the Sangeet Natak Akademi Award in 1962 and also with the Padmashri.

As time went by, my scooter became old and I felt that it needed an upgrade. My mother, ever mindful of my edification, still felt that I needed the Britannica. This time, I agreed to continue with the old ‘Hamara Bajaj’ and opted for the encyclopaedia. I would refer to it; sometimes check out the brief entries in the Micropædia, and at times, the longer ones in the Macropædia…. Simply browsing through random pages was fun. Year-Books kept the set updated, and the affair continued. Encyclopaedia Britannica remained in my life long after the scooter scooted out of it.

I bought a CD with the encyclopaedia in it, but it remained largely unused. However, the same could not be said for the edition I downloaded for my smartphone. The feature of showing random entries was the first allurement; the quick reference it provided was a life-saving feature, and the immediacy of having it everywhere, all the time, a major convenience. The print edition now took a backseat… till I read the news that Britannica was being discontinued 244 years after it was first published in 1768. It was almost a physical blow. What! No Encyclopaedia Britannica!

The digital move had been inevitable ever since 1981, when the company published what could have been the world’s first digital encyclopaedia, even though it was only a text version, without illustrations and graphics, which came in later. Well, the content will still be there, in a different form. Encyclopaedia Britannica is dead. Long live Encyclopaedia Britannica.

A slightly shorter middle on this topic was published in The Tribune on March 16, 2012

‘Hamara Bajaj’ and ‘Meri Britannica’

HERMAN was corrupted to the Punjabiised ‘Har Maan’ in a short while as our new guest was made to feel at home. A few weeks ago his mother Charin informed us that she would come to take Herman back. Naturally, we welcomed a chance to meet her, since till now we only knew her from a long distance, via phone calls, e-mail messages, and Facebook, along with conversations with Herman. A smart woman, she is measured with her words, and remarkably well informed about India too.

Herman came to us as an exchange student from St Stithians Boys College, Johannesburg, South Africa, where our son Jansher maintains was the best time he had in his life, as an exchange student earlier in the year. The boys met at school, though Jansher was hosted by the ‘awesome’ Leigh family. Herman’s mother Charin had taken them to Soccer City and some other places. Herman came to us after a stint at Doon School.

He is a handsome well-behaved child who has a ready smile, and as we soon discovered, is quite witty and a pleasure to have around the house. Yet there was also something about him that made you wonder about what exactly made him tick. It stuck a familiar note, since I have seen something similar, having spent much of my childhood with people from privileged families. They had a background which would make others envious, but one which they took lightly.

We did not know too much about Herman. He didn’t go into any details regarding his parents and we did not want to probe. In any case, it was a welcome change, since the statement “Don’t you know who my father is?” reminds one too much of spoilt children asking for special treatment.

As days passed, he became a part of the family and we started sharing much more. He would often talk about his father, who we now knew, was a senior official with the international auditing giant, KPMG. It was, however, his mother, who obviously had much influence on him, and who he looked up to. “What does your mother do?” I asked him one day. “She is a prosecutor,” he said.

Over dinner, yesterday, as we munched our way through tikkas and kababs, we found out much more about her. Herman had neglected to mention that not only was his mother a prosecutor, but that she was actually the Director of Prosecutions in Johannesburg. “After the Zuma episode, I decided to devote my time to my family, and stopped working,” she said.

A surreptitious check on Google through my cell-phone revealed much, even as we went through plates full of Indian savouries, which she wanted to try out. The screen was full of news on her. This petite woman had taken on the former deputy president Jacob Zuma, who was accused of raping a 31-year-old HIV-positive family friend.

The case was a hot potato which no one else wanted to touch and thus it landed in the lap of the person who had become the youngest prosecutor in South Africa at the age of 24, and had risen to the top. According to many newspaper accounts, this was by the dint of hard labour, integrity and a good record of convictions.

She fought the Zuma case hard, but in the absence of some crucial evidence, which never reached the Johannesburg High Court, Zuma was acquitted.

Charin de Beer found herself in a position where she might have had to compromise her integrity to keep her job. She quit, and has been devoting herself to her family, especially her children, Herman and his sister. Well, the woman who took on Zuma faces the ultimate challenge every mother faces, of bringing up her children well. From what we have seen, she has achieved much success here also.

This article by Roopinder Singh was published as a Middle in The Tribune on November 10, 2011

Taking on Zuma and other challenges

LOVE is in the air these days, much more expressively than in my younger days, but I must admit to have written a love letter or two. The objects of this rather public confession were intensely private missives, ones that seemed at that time to express the deepest feelings that I had for the person they were addressed to. You know, it took time, and a lot of guts: “Pyar ka pehla khat likhne mein, Waqt to lagta hai, Naye parindon ko udne mein, Waqt to lagta hai.”

Before you launched your missive, you crafted it. Sometimes your emotions simply poured out on paper, many, many sheets of ruled notebooks, spotless sheets of shining white paper and sometimes scented stationery. The message, the medium, and the whole experience sought to convey much more than mere words could.

I have never spoken or written about these love letters, and now would be as bad a time as any to discuss them or their contents. Yet, I am doing so, and the reason for this somewhat uncharacteristic indiscretion is an advertorial that I have just seen. Something called the “Google Docs: A love letter”, which over two lakh viewers have already watched on YouTube.

Call it a generation gap or whatever, I am simply appalled, amazed is a politer term, at the very idea of someone sharing his or her most intimate thoughts with others. At least in my days, when we wrote a love letter it was (ideally) meant to be strictly personal between the two of us. When you bared your soul, you would be accorded the courtesy of privacy, at least that was the presumption. Sometimes you hit a very wrong number and became an object of ridicule, but for most of us, privacy was an essential part of such an exchange.

Of course, for some this opportunity was simply not available, since they were not educated. In came the ‘Dakiya daak laya, daakiya daak laya‘ option. The somewhat educated and definitely literate postman was used by the masses to convey their message of love to those in distant lands, often he also acted as the scribe.

Before I deride Google Docs on the corroborative issue, it must be admitted that this is hardly a new idea. In college, I remember one time when a college mate tried out the collaborative route.

The amorous young man asked some Dada friends to help him out with snagging a date. The only thing, which these worthies had in common, was their absolute ignorance of the fairer sex. It is not that they could not talk to girls. It was a matter of record that they could say a ‘Hello!’ Beyond that, they became tongue-tied.

Yet, they were more than up to the task of telling others what to do. This poor chap followed their advice. His flowery presentation left her unmoved and she shared the experience with others. The affair that had hitherto been confined to his head now made him the laughing stock of the university.

Now, to be fair to Google, they have taken a diametrically opposite route. Michael writes out a long, elaborate, and flowery letter, quoting Shakespeare, throwing in a bit of French, and even including an elaborate list of possible date activities.

He asks his friends to help and they collaborate to produce the perfect letter for Jessica, whom Michael has met at the beginners’ French class. They do so by pruning the unnecessary flourishes and emotions in Michael’s letter to make it a simple request to meet after class. In the process, someone has included Jessica, too, by saying: “I know that I shouldn’t be showing you this, but this is so cute…”

Jessica accepts the request for coffee after the class, but with the proviso that next time he should ask her in person. Now, isn’t that simple! If only my friend in college had known not to seek advice but follow the dictates of his heart by directly addressing the girl, he might well have succeeded.

This middle, by Roopinder Singh, was published in The Tribune on February 14, 2011

Google love-letter, a middle published on Valentine's Day 2011

“Please call when you have the time, I have something for you,” said an SMS on my mobile phone. I was so busy that I didn’t even notice it, and called back a day later.

Now, in a typical Punjabi conversation you find out how everyone and everything is before you get to the crux of the matter. This conversation, too, took the same course.

In due course of time, the subject of the SMS came up. “We have managed to get some copies of Parkash,” said Devinder Singh, who has been responsible for digitising a large chunk of literature from the region and has pursued his goal with singular dedication.

The Nanakshahi Trust, of which is has been an energetic part, has been on this mission since 2001, the year Wikipedia was born, and it and has ratcheted up significant success in this endeavour.

What he said was very important to me, personally, since my father, the late Giani Gurdit Singh, published Parkash, a newspaper in Punjabi, and for some years in Urdu, from 1947-1978. It was a daily for many years, before turning into a weekly paper.

My father had a formidable collection of manuscripts, newspapers and books, but in part because of our having to move from one city to another, we do not have proper records of the paper of which he was the owner, printer, publisher and editor.

Since a few years, my mother, Mrs Inderjit Kaur, and I have tried to get copies of the newspaper, photocopies or otherwise. She is in touch with Sukhdev Singh of Ludhiana who has an archive of Singh Sabha Patrika, a monthly journal that my father edited from 1973 to 1988, but we have yet to come across someone who has preserved Parkash in this manner.

Naturally, as we were talking about the paper, my fingers got busy on the Internet, and in Google books I found a ‘Snippet view’ of an entry of Press in India (1965), published by the Registrar of Newspapers for India.  Under the heading Circulation Levels, it said: “Among Punjabi dailies, the Parkash from Chandigarh had the highest circulation (8,110) in 1964.”

Now I work for a newspaper that is also published from Chandigarh and has the highest circulation in the region. On the way to office, I often drive past the building where Parkash was printed.

Devinder told me that his colleagues had traced a kabari- wala who had many papers of the 1960s and the 1970s with him, and among them were copies of Parkash.

While I don’t exactly know how he managed to get such old papers, it seems that these are a part of an estate sale of someone who had been a collector of old newspapers. Thanks to his passion, something of the past has been salvaged. But it was almost lost.

“We almost had a fight with the kabari wala last night,” said Devinder.

“Why? Was it over how much he wanted?”

“He reneged on the deal we had made and wanted more,” was Devinder’s reply.

“How much did he want?”

“We had agreed to give him Rs 17 per kg, but he wanted more. He broke his word, but then I thought of the value of what he had and we went back to him today,” said the digital archivist, his outrage obvious.

Even as I was soothing ruffled feathers, my mind leapt at the possibilities of resurrecting the times and moods of those decades, and reading some of my father’s Rajnitak Kundilias, the satirical poems that were memorised by many and are still quoted.

Thanks to a dedicated archivist, and a deal that did not go sour. Musty bundles of old newspapers are being examined, and soon they will be scanned and made available on the Internet. A digital light will illuminate an era gone by, as seen through varied visions published in newspapers, including Parkash.

Middle on Parkash

The middle was published in published in The Tribune on January 24

OH! Google, that child of cyber space, finally came out with its electronic book store, which promises to create yet another revolution in the way people use their screens, on computers and other devices, like cell phones, e-book readers and what have you.

A screen grab of the Home page of the Google Books website

Google has finally made an entry into the world dominated by Amazon.com Inc, a company founded by Jeff Bezos in 1994, which started as an online bookstore, but morphed into an online marketplace for DVDs, toys, CDs, MP3 downloads, computer software, electronics, apparel, video games and even furniture.

Amazon Kindle, an e-book reader that the company launched in November 2007, slowly changed the way people read books and a year later, Amazon’s Kindle-based library included two lakh titles.

The publishing world and the public at large were shaken up when in July 2010 Amazon announced that e-book sales outnumbered sales of hardcover books. The latest figures say that the company sells as many as 180 digital books for every 100 hardcover books.

Coupled with the enormous success of the i-Pad as an e-book reader, with Nook by Barnes and Noble and Sony e-book reader, there is a growing number of platforms for e-books and now Google has entered the game.

Actually, Google has been digitizing books since 2004 and has the largest digital library in the world, some 1.2 crore books and counting. They have been putting their copyright-free books and magazines like ‘Life’ online for years.

The new project, however, is different, it allows readers to buy or download free books and sync them across various platforms, thus you can read it on a computer in office, continue reading the book on your Internet-enabled cell phone while commuting, and then boot up your home computer to read on…. Sounds alluring, and thought most of us are usually so tired of watching the computer screen in office that the last thing we want to do is read from another screen.

While publishers debate about whether e-books will allow self-published volumes to swamp cyberspace and bemoan the inevitable loss of quality that will follow, I was quite amused to see the first title that Google Books had made available for the new service. It was the Jane Austen classic ‘Pride and Prejudice’, digitized in 2007 from the volume published by R. Bentley, in 1853.

Ah, the pride I felt at this selection. For me, the debate was settled there and then. Quality writing is timeless; it will always win, no matter which format it is presented in. The permanence of word written well transcends media, and indeed, limitations of time, too.

This middle by Roopinder Singh was published in The Tribune on January 11, 2011.

MRS GILLIAN K SINGH was the first one to make valiant attempts to sort out my problems with spelling. She was our English teacher in Yadavindra Public School, Patiala. I got the place of honour in her class, right in the front, so that she could keep a better eye on this “outsider” who had just joined.

Yadavindra Public School, Patiala, Class V photo taken on November 12, 1970. Please click on the picture to see a bigger, higher resolution image.

I managed to keep my head above water, since at this school, they did not insist that I write with my right hand, something I had found difficult to do when I studied in a convent school in Chandigarh, where the nuns forced us to “take the right path,” till my mother intervened. However, by that time I had developed the skill to be ambidextrous, right hand for the class and left for homework. The result was handwriting that was truly atrocious.

Later, Mr Christopher Duffy, a US Peace Corps volunteer who taught at YPS, took our class. He spotted something that had evaded everyone’s gaze, a sliver of talent in yours truly. He encouraged me to read more, and write. He did not react as much to my handwriting, which at that time I attributed to his goodness. Only much later did I see the handwriting of my American friends and colleagues-they surely made me feel much, much better about my scribble.

Particularly pleased with my work one time, Mr Duffy declared that I could be a writer one day. Of course, I didn’t believe him at all, but a seed was planted.

I told my parents about what he said, and soon I was being encouraged to write more.

My father offered to pay me a rupee a page for every short story that I wrote, in Punjabi, his language of choice. Mother matched the offer in English, and thus came the only period when I truly felt that I could get rich through writing.

Mr Duffy left school, having introduced us to baseball and kindled our minds. Other language teachers followed, notably Mr Sadhu Singh Deol and Mr R K Bhardawaj in English and Mrs Darshan Bakshish Singh in Punjabi. Writing became much a part of life, even as I took Philosophy Honours in college. Interestingly, Mr Deol called me “Philosopher” when I was his student in YPS!

In college too, my teachers were intensely involved in the way thoughts were communicated through the spoken and written words. Dr R K Gupta, then Head of Department of Philosophy at St Stephen’s College, Delhi, was rigorous in his examination of the tutorials submitted to him. Dr Ashok Vohra made me rewrite a tutorial many times till I got it right, and Dr Vijay Tankha exposed my mind to much more than the subject at hand.

After college, I went to New York and when I wrote to Dr Gupta to inform him that I was working as a journalist, he wrote back: “But Roopinder, what will you do about your handwriting and spelling?” Pat went the reply: “Sir, I have found a solution to both: a computer.”

This middle by Roopinder Singh was published in The Tribune on November 15, 2010.

HOW terribly uncharitable of the British media to highlight the seat-wallah incident at the SP Swimming pool complex in Delhi during the recent visit of the heir apparent to the British throne, Prince Charles.

A photo by Arthur Edwards which was published in The Telegraph

Now, if you are ignorant about the incident which is being referred to here, you are easily forgiven. While the Indian media was busy documenting various official visits of the Prince and his wife, Camilla, Duchess of Cornwall, The Telegraph, London, got a picture that showed an official “who is believed to work for the British High Commission” flipping down a seat, like the one we see in movie theatres, while the Prince waited and hitched up his trouser legs before being seated. He was later being joined by The Earl of Wessex, who is the Vice-Patron of the Commonwealth Games Federation.

Why, The Telegraph has even made a list of everyday chores that The Prince of Wales does not perform, like picking up his clothes after changing, squeezing tooth paste onto his brush and some other acts of a somewhat delicate nature, all based on hearsay.

At the heart of the matter is a fundamental shift in social mores. The very society that exported the tradition of titles and honours to its colonies has now spawned a culture that is antithetical to them.

We on the other hand, have not only adopted the colonial practices as our own, we have embellished them and shown the world how well democratic practices can work with traditional, read Imperial and feudal, ones.

No one in India even noticed the incident. After Delhi, where we dazzled the world with our spectacular success at the opening ceremony of the Commonwealth Games, the Prince and the Duchess were feted by the Houses of Patiala and Jodhpur, both of whom have a tradition of performing this role for generations. Surely, they know how to take care of such needs, without any intrusive reporters spoiling the fun.

All, however, is not lost for the royalists. The same report mentioned how the royal couple stayed with “the Maharaja and Maharani of Patiala in the Moti Bagh Palace after joining them for a gala dinner. The Duchess wore an ice blue Bruce Oldfield silk dress with a lace overdress, set off by a diamond and aquamarine necklace.” The item does not mention what the Prince and his hosts wore.

The Maharajas had a host of titles given to them by the ancestors of the Prince of Wales, but India abolished the titles in 1971. However, perks and posh quarters are taken for granted by our bureaucracy and the armed forces, as are hierarchies and squadrons of servants. The news that a seat wallah has been engaged for this purpose is surely of their interest, since it sets a wonderful precedent! In fact, there is no doubt that there will be much hand wringing about not having thought of it first.

One of the titles of former Maharajas that I have always found interesting is Farzand-i-Khas-i-Daulat-i-Inglishia or “the chosen son and wealth of the English”. It’s a pity that we can’t hand out titles these days. However, almost four decades of abolishing monarchy we still know what it means. In the interest of improving international relations, in our land of erstwhile monarchies and what were five rivers, we should have a permanent position for a seat wallah for to the real Farzand-i-Khas-i-Daulat-i-Inglishia.

Surely, if the Punjab Public Service Commission were to get cracking, we would have it in place before the next royal visit.

The middle by Roopinder Singh was published on the Editorial page of The Tribune on October 11, 2010.

You may also like to read my piece on the Lady Diana, the Princess of Wales, after her death.

TWO words that are indelibly associated with the Oxford dictionaries in my mind don’t figure in them, in spite of the steady march of Indian expressions that have now been accepted as English! They are “unparh” and “jahil”-the Punjabi words for illiterate and uncouth.

How? Therein lies a story that has interesting elements. The place: Bhupindra Kothi, Patiala, one of the minor palaces in the city. Time: 6 pm. Dramatic personae: A man with a large turban and a youngster wearing an under-turban or a patka. Scene: The man fuming and fretting, and uttering the aforesaid words repeatedly.

I was wary, since I thought that the words were directed at me. It was to my immense relief that I realised that some unnamed others were the target. The gentleman had come home to meet my parents, and while they were out for a walk, I was trying to entertain him. His angry demeanour notwithstanding, there was something that attracted the 10-year-old me to him.

“How dare they say that the Sikh icon was cyclothymic,” he thundered. I ventured to ask him what cyclothymic meant. “Don’t you know? Get the dictionary!” I scurried away to the nearest bookrack. I thought the world was too big for the small ELBS dictionaries we used for school and thus picked up the Shorter Oxford Dictionary, which despite its name, was quite hefty. I went to the right page to find out that the word meant “a mental state characterised by marked swings of mood between depression and elation.” In the meantime, the gentleman spoke about words, linguistics, philosophy and history, and I just sat listening, mesmerised.

By the time my parents came, he had inculcated in me a deep desire to know more about things in general and the beginning of a habit to consult the dictionary when in doubt. Nowadays, instead of thumbing through the pages, I tend to use my fingers to type out my query, just as, instead of writing in longhand, I input my articles straight on a computer. I thus tend to see the online editions of various dictionaries, although I must confess that I am not one of the many subscribers who pay around Rs 14,000 to access the digital version of the Oxford English Dictionary (OED), the largest and most comprehensive of the dictionaries published by Oxford. It gets 20 lakh hits a month. The many free online dictionaries widely available on the Net serve my needs.

OED takes many years to compile. The latest print edition came out in 1989 and is in 20 volumes. It will take many years for OED’ s new edition, which is still being compiled, to be published, but even then, the news that when it is finally completed, it may only be online, disturbed me.

I still use a fountain pen to write, and consult print dictionaries, especially when offline. On the Net, you type the word and get its meaning. However, when you open a printed dictionary, you look for the page, and then the word nestled among others…there is something to be said for meandering that happens, which often takes you a pleasant detour.

With this memorable encounter, and many that followed, Sirdar Kapur Singh, ICS, ignited my mind. He put on the path of lexographic discoveries and set me off on a journey that I still enjoy, although a bit more while thumbing through the pages of the dictionary than by accessing it online.

The article by Roopinder Singh was published as a Middle in the Editorial page of The Tribune on September 3, 2010.

A file photo of when Sirdar Kapur Singh visited our home in Amritsar. I am in the extreme right hand corner, and he is standing next to me, second last from the corner:

From Giani Gurdit Singh

by Roopinder Singh

IN an exclusive off-the-record briefing in which he demanded anonymity because of the sensitive nature of the subject, a senior official of the Punjab government stridently sought to put to rest all speculation regarding the visit of the state’s legislators to the country known for all things scotch. “It is not only desirable but also necessary that state legislators continually educate themselves,” he said.

He strongly refuted the allegation that the honourable legislators had gone on a pleasure trip. “This is a serious attempt to examine and understand the process with which scotch whiskey is manufactured”, he said, adding that the team would visit various facilities with a view to drawing lessons which would be of immense help to such endeavours in the state.”

When asked if it was desirable that the public exchequer’s money be used for such trips, the official came back with the following argument: “Look at all the liquor shops in Punjab. Even in Chandigarh you have many shops in a single location, like the Sector 9 market. We need quality products for such up-scale showrooms.”

In response to a pointed question about the honourable members’ dietary excursions, he said that scotch egg was a staple with many members in the morning and scotch pancake’s at tea time. Some members had even tried the scotch pie. He pleaded ignorance about whether the members imbibed the more potent drinks that Scotland is also associated with worldwide.

His PA, who had been hovering unobtrusively in the background, taking notes and doing the things PAs do, however, pointed out that it would be rude to refuse traditional scottish hospitality and the members would be expected to do all they can to further the strong fraternal bonds between the scotch and Indians.

The issue of whether the ground water around Punjabi distilleries was polluted (as claimed initially) or not (as the state pollution control board later said), was dismissed off-hand. “How does it matter? We must be prepared for all challenges, extant or anticipated. Pollution is a global phenomenon and we must go globe-trotting to study it,” the official, who is a figment of this writer’s imagination, said.

Talking of global ramifications, a request has just been received for a high-powered committee to study the designs of the scottish kilt. “There is a remarkable similarity between the tartan design and the Madras check. “It is also not a coincidence that the kilt and the lungi are used to cover the lower part of the male torso. “We must examine if there is any patent violation involved in this, and while doing so we can also explore the possibility of manufacturing scottish kilts in Ludhiana,” said the official.

“Brilliant Sir”, said the PA, “other honourable members who have been complaining of being left out. We can take care of them now”. Scotland, here they come.

This middle was published on the Editorial page of The Tribune on July 21, 2010

Here are links to middles that I wrote, one in 1992 and another in 1994, which you may also find interesting. Please click on the headings given below to read them.

Civil action in uniform

What will we do without TADA?