Tourism in Shimla

This article first appeared in the now discontinued monthly Himachal Guardian issue (Vol II) of 1994. The last issue in fact. The descriptions are now a little dated because of the decades that have passed. The author is grateful to Dr. Subhash Sharma (prof. of Fisheries, HP Agricultural University, Palampur) for giving his kind permission to re-print this article in this blog. A few corrections and annotations have been added here and there, and a few more pictures added. The original line drawings are in black and white. The newer ones have a dash of colour.

TOURISM IN SHIMLA

Tourists have always been attracted to Shirnla. Even when the British ruled India for half of the year from here, they seem to have expended most of their energies in socialising. riding on horses on the Mall, falling from horses off the Mall, golfing in Naldehra, seeing and being seen at the Gaiety Theatre, rumour-mongering, doing the Mall in the evenings, etc etc. So. even if they ostensibly came here to rule, the official work appears to have been more of an unpleasant distraction from the real business of enjoying Shimla.

What can the tourist expect to see, once he is actually there ? He will naturally see the TV tower. (but then, he need not have to actually be in Shimla to see it, the tower being visible from all the adjoining districts). If it is the Season, then the first thing he will see in Shimla is a traffic jam. The roads of Shimla were originally mule tracks. When the “motors” started making their presence felt in the Twenties, they simply kept widening the tracks and called them roads, steep mulish gradients and all. It is a wonder how the old model T Fords and Baby Austins handled those slopes. The small little car of some Viceroy, perhaps Lord Irwin, once had to be pushed up an incline near Khalini by BCS students, where he was headed to attend a function as the chief guest. Anyway, the roads which were built for wheeled traffic (the Mall, for one) are closed to the wheeled traffic of ordinary mortals. They used to be open for the old-fashioned rickshaws, which were dragged about by four sturdy fellows from Bilaspur or Arki; the last rickshaw was seen in 1992 or thereabouts. The new Tuti Kandi by-pass is too far out of the way to be of much use, except maybe as a by-pass. Tourists are advised to take a few large canvas bags with them. Then they can quietly dismantle their Maruti in some secluded spot and get a couple of Kashmiri “khans” to take those bags up to their hotel rooms.

Sports

On a Sunday, or any of the numerous holidays, holy days. mourning days etc. with which the school and office-goer is happily blessed, one cannot walk any of the bazars or by-lanes without encountering the sporting nature of the youthful citizenry, especially if it is not raining. More than once, the tourist will be obliged to interrupt his stroll on some path till the bowler has made his delivery and the batsman done his stuff. The paths having a decided gradient, the fielder’s lot is not a very happy one. The ball can roll on and still on, down the path – sorry, pitch – and  it may even roll right off. It is here that the passer-by on the road below is called upon to help. He sees three or four anxious faces peering down at him over the railing. A couple of those faces call out, “Uncle ji, ball dena.”

There are a few level playing fields on the Mall but the police does  not allow any cricketing there. And the Army booted out civilian players from Annandale long ago. Shimla never has been able to produce any international class cricketer as yet, no doubt due to the peculiar, canted nature of the unofficial pitches. Perhaps, if a cricket tournament were to be held on the top-deck of a sinking ship, a Shimla player would dazzle. Another deficiency of the Shimla cricketer, it is rumoured. is that in moments of stress, instead of shouting, “Howzzat” he lends to forget himself and appeals. “Uncle ji, ball dena”. I have not yet confirmed this rumour.

Annandale ground at sundown.

Cricket apart, a Sunday walk down the Lower Bazaar is often enlivened by lean little brats roaring down on roller skates, or by a game of marbles on any stretch of the road wherever it is level for half a metre, and not already occupied by someone selling plastic shoes. Watching a game of hopscotch (stapoo) on a 35 degree slope is an enriching experience.

Theatre/The Arts

The Gaiety Theatre is suitably located on the Mall. In case the performance in the theatre is bad, the police control room is also suitably located. Right next door. A bamboo danda on the head is known to help boisterous audiences cool down. The theatre oozes history from every dressed stone of its walls. It has seen a whole succession of well-known figures like Curzon, Kitchener. Kipling, etc. The Indian showbiz has benefited in some measure from Shimla’s theatrical traditions. Sadly, as in cricket, no hero has emerged. Only villains like Pran. Madan Puri, Prem Chopra and Anupam Kher. One girl did make it as a heroine but I am not sure if Priya Rajvansh (Haqeeqat) belonged to Shimla proper or some other town. One aspiring heroine who called herself Candy, instead of bedazzling cinema audiences, ended up as a bit player of the Emergency. To return to our villains. remember the old black-and-white movies.in which a nattily dressed Pran blows a couple of smoke rings, strokes his thin black moustache and leeringly shoots the hero’s mother? Or a nattily dressed Prem Chopra (thin black moustache etc.) gives a drawling laugh “Heh! Heh! Heh! Ab mein tumhe zinda nahin chhoroonga.” Or Madan Puri (natty dress, thin black moustache. evil smile etc.) says, “Is laash ko thikane laga do.” The audiences here have always loved those scenes. Only the last reel, in which the chocolate hero bashes up Shimla’s own, has failed to evoke the necessary appreciation among the audiences in Regal (now burnt down ), Ritz, Rivoh or Shahi. The cinema houses are running to seed now-a-days, thanks to video, cable and dish, and now the viewers enjoy the villainy from their sofas. Such a parade of villains has dampened spirits somewhat, and dramatic performances at the Gaiety seem to have given place to grand sales of ready-made garments. One hopes Shimla produces a hero soon, otherwise they might close up the Gaiety and make government offices there. (Sincere apologies to Priety Zinta, but this was written before her debut).

Sights

A sight no tourist is likely to miss in Shimla is the extraordinary number of signboards indicating a government office of some sort or the other. Quite a few are located in the most unlikeliest of places. The Pollution Board office is a stiff climb above the US Club (which itself is a stiff climb above the Mall ) on the top floor of a high building which looks like someone started to build a hotel and then abruptly changed his mind. I also remember once doing a stiff climb (what else?) to find the Weights and Measures office in what looked like a ruined church. But then, almost all government offices took like ruins. Cubby-holes / nooks/ crannies /closets/orifices etc. which are not already occupied by a government office, are then most likely to bear a discreet white and black plate of some lawyer. Surprising, the amount of litigation the people of Himachal can indulge in, considering that we do not even number one crore.

IIAS, formerly the Viceregal Lodge, as viewed from Tutu 

Where government offices are concerned, many a visitor has remarked on a most curious phenomenon that is observed in Shimla every so often. As soon as some auditor starts getting too nosey into the records of some office — the said office goes up in flames one fine night. Well-seasoned deodar wood burns fast and bright, and tourists can enjoy a free show from outside the police cordon. They tend to blame it on short-circuits, but I believe there is a deeper and more mysterious reason. The Department of Unconventional Energy Sources should try to crack this one and solve India’s energy problems. The scholarly-looking types in the Indian Institute of Advanced Studies should stop lazing about on the benches in the sun and get some real work done on this most baffling scientific conundrum. Perhaps, I ought to apologise if I gave the impression that the scholarly types at the IIAS — formerly Rashtrapati Niwas — and still formerly the Viceroy’s Lodge — only sit about on benches lazing in the sun. A couple of them were once seen to show a most satisfactory burst of activity when it suddenly started raining on their bench.

Another sight of Shimla which no tourist can miss is Mahatma Gandhi’s statue on the Ridge. Shimla residents have lived with that statue for decades and find nothing amiss. The newcomer, however, immediately notices that the Mahatma’s glasses are missing. The statue used to have spectacles (the frame only, of course) but they were filched, some time in the Sixties. The Concerned Authorities, whoever they may be, made numerous valiant attempts to replace those glasses. For a couple of weeks, I think in 1981, Gandhi ji even wore an undersized spectacles frame of pink plastic. But they were stolen, every last one of them. A squad of policemen’s statues, in the Nek Chand style, was posted behind Mahatma Gandhi’s statue; the dummy cops presumably were to stand guard over the dummy spectacles. The glasses thief was no dummy however, and is yet to be caught. The thefts continued. Now they have got a special pair made and keep it under lock and key. The statue gets to wear them on special occasions only. For the rest of the year Gandhi ji must perforce follow the dictum of one of his own monkeys See No Evil. And someone somewhere in Shimla has a sizable collection of spectacle frames. (Note added in 2013: They probably got sick of the whole spectacles business and took down the old pedestal and put the statue on a new, higher one. Now anyone wanting to sneak the specs will need a ladder).

Doing the Mall

Scotsmen are known to have got dewy-eyed
seeing these cast iron covers on the Mall:
Glenfield & Kennedy, Kilmarnock

This is one activity which has gone on uninterrupted ever since the British dug the Mall out of the hill-sides. This activity starts off at about five in the evening and picks up tempo, tapering off by eleven. In this. one marches resolutely from the Scandal Point to the Lift and back again, over and over. It has many advantages: physical fitness, meeting old friends. meeting old enemies when they aren't expecting you, etc. Doing the Mall is a capital way to meet anyone. That person will be doing the Mall too, and you are bound to cross each other. When a regular suddenly disappears from the daily round, he may be (a) out of town, (b) out of sorts, (c) in the next world, (d) owing money or otherwise anxious to avoid somebody. Persons desirous of meeting some Mall walker, but too lazy to do the rounds, simply drape themselves over the railings around Scandal Point and wait for the quarry, ogling St. Bede’s girls in the meanwhile. Mindful of this fact, the City Fathers wisely made the railings at the Scandal Paint extra strong. Should any of those railings ever fall down on a summer’s evening, I am afraid Ripon, Snowdon and the other hospitals will find themselves running short of plaster and X-ray film.

Old friends meeting on Mall after lengthy separation of 2 hours

Doing the Mall is de rigueur for Shimla residents, both permanent and temporary. The Lajpat Rai statue at Scandal Point is a mute witness to the numerous political careers that have been built up here simply by doing the Mall. If ever it is frustrating, it is to the Mall’s shopkeepers. Seeing such crowds, the commercial transactions taking place in the Mall’s shops is surprisingly tiny. Nobody seems to buy anything. Even the students thronging the Alfa, and the oldies crowding the Coffee House, only order a coffee and then sit around chattering or dozing meditatively for two hours. This helps explain why the managers and waiters have that resigned, tired look in the evenings.

Some Tips on What to Wear and Sundry Useless Advice

Like they say, do in Rome as the Romans do. Look carefully at the Shimla resident: what is he wearing? He is certainly not wearing a light summer dress. He will have a sweater, June or Jan. An umbrella completes his outfit. If the bowler and umbrella means London, duckback gumshoes with umbrella and sweater means Shimla. It starts to rain in Shimla without proper notice. None of that leisurely build-up of strato-cumulus, the lightning flashes, the rolls of thunder, the first few patters in the dust. No, In Shimla Lord Indra, the god of rain, believes in coming straight to the point. There you are, one moment, enjoying the bracing air and the sun out of a deep blue sky. A white little scrap of cloud, oh so innocently, gives a picturesque effect behind that clump of deodars. The next moment the sun and sky are replaced by murky grey. It starts soaking you immediately, without fooling around with the preliminary electrical and sound effects. Now the patient reader will appreciate my advice regarding that sweater and umbrella. If you don’t have the umbrella, perhaps it is best not have the sweater either. A sodden sweater is one of life’s tribulations. Even if it does not rain, the sweater-umbrella combine may help you while shopping — you might be mistaken for a local.

Now a word about what not to wear. When the tourist goes to the Ridge, he see a whole lot of photographers. A few of them offer to shoot you in “genuine pahari dress”. Quite a few times have I seen the tourists getting themselves snapped in pattoos provided by the photographers. This is not a bad thing if you are a lady, but when you are a man, it can get a bit embarrassing. But I should not be unduly harsh on the photographers. It can get quite boring, photographing tourists in the same hackneyed poses all the time. Photographers are entitled to their fun, and gentlemen can proudly display their snaps at the Lions and Rotaries in Bhaunagar, Howrah and Aurangabad without anyone the wiser that they are wearing a pahari woman’s dress.

If you are going to Shimla in your own car, my advice is — don’t! It is better to park it at some relative’s place in Chandigarh and take a bus — the service is excellent night or day. If you do not have such a relative at Chandigarh, then, on reaching Shimla, smile ingratiatingly at the nearest policeman and ask, “Please, havildar saheb (even if he is only a constable) to which place do you usually tow away impounded vehicles?” He should readily tell you, because he has to keep providing this information to mystified tourists looking for their cars. Or you could try to find a parking place in the Lift or Holiday Home car parks. Or you could buy a lottery ticket. Or you could look for a four-leafed clover. Or teach a cat to bathe. Who knows? You might even succeed.

Please do not get me wrong. Shimla is a nice place to holiday in, especially in the off-season, when it is cheaper. (I hope this last line will save me from the lynching I know the Shimla hoteliers, taxiwallahs, pony-wallahs. guides, photographers etc. may be preparing for me).

Monkeys of Shimla

This article first appeared in the now sadly defunct monthly Himachal Guardian issue of November 1992. The descriptions may now sound a little dated because of the decades that have passed. The author is grateful to Dr. Subhash Sharma (prof. of Fisheries, HP Agricultural University, Palampur but having a literary bent) for giving his kind permission to re-print this article in this blog. A few corrections and annotations have been added here and there, and a few more pictures added. The original line drawing is in black and white. The new ones have a dash of colour.

If you are looking for a scientific dissertation on Macaca mulatta then please go elsewhere. This blog isn’t the right place; this is just a kind of advisory for the unwary traveller to Shimla.

THE MONKEYS OF SHIMLA 

Editor’s note from the original Himachal Guardian. As you can see, the Editor is a poor judge of character. There is one special class of Homo sapiens who simply defy description. Try as you may, your pen and vocabulary fails you. Sudarshan Sharma, the writer-cartoonist belongs to this exclusive class. All that can be safely said about him is that he is the one with a penchant for the prodigious, the extraordinary and the unorthodox. And he has special love for machines. When persuaded to send his brief biographical sketch he wrote: In school had a report-card bearing the remark in bright red ink: “Can do better if he wastes less.time drawing cartoons.” The Shimla Monkeys’ notoriety and menace is all too well-kuown, as every Shimla resident/visitor would readily vouch. Sudarshan K. Sharina captures the scenario in the narrative that follows, embellished with a cartoon.

Someone, not conversant with Shimla, might well ask: Why ‘Monkeys of Shimla’? Why not just title it ‘Monkeys’ and be done with it? The answer, of course, is that the monkeys of Shimla have a character all their own, as, indeed, the Delhiwallah behaves differently from a Madrasi.

The monkey for which Shimla is infamous is the Rhesus monkey (Macaca mulatta), with his light-brown fur, pink face and a not overlong tail. As for the red bottom, well, Khushwant Singh once wrote a learned editorial on it in the Illustrated Weekly of India though it is not known just how many monkeys bought the Weekly for it. The much stronger and looser-limbed Langur (Semnopithecus entellus) is also found hereabouts. but he is a quieter sort and does not hanker after fame. The residents of Shimla (Homo sapiens, I mean) are grateful for this. Their Rhesus brethren, meanwhile, strut about Shimla with a cockiness worthy of an army of occupation. They raid food, rip laundry, shred newspaper on the doorstep, tease dogs and snatch paper bags from little children, besides other acts of brigandage.

It is the contention of many people that the Shimla monkey would not be what he is, were it not for the Jakhoo temple. Fittingly, this temple is on the commanding heights of the town. Dedicated to Hanuman. it is of, for, and by the monkeys. Human beings here are ‘B’ class citizens. A Hanuman temple has been at Jakhoo long before the British founded the town. In the old days there used to be a sadhu who was a permanent fixture at the temple, immortalised by Kipling and others as the ‘Fakir of Jakko’. This worthy was on first name terms with his simian friends. His was an exceptional case; the ordinary people are a subdued lot, tamely parting with roasted gram or peanuts, and at times even submitting to the indignity of a search through the pockets for eatables.

If anyone were to fear a scenario reminiscent of the Hollywood movie The Planet of the Apes one need not worry as to who rules Shimla. The Municipal Corporation rules the municipality from the Town Hall, the Himachal government rules from the scores of offices all over Shimla and the Central government of India does its bit from New Delhi. With so much government breathing down its back, one would have thought that the monkey would, at least, pay a little heed to civilized norms. Unfortunately, he is an undisciplined character Almost two hundred years of government have only made him more anarchical than ever. Well knit bands commanded by a gang leader roam their territories in the town, loping across the Mall, clambering the walls, jumping from roof to roof, roof to tree and from tree to parked vehicle.

Electricity came to Shimla at the turn of the 20^th Century and the monkeys adapted. Simian fatalities from electric shock are surprisingly low. Came television in the Seventies and the monkeys adapted again: they climbed every available TV antenna and wrecked the fragile aluminium contraptions. The TV owners wearily responded by wrappng barbed wire around the antenna masts. Barbed wire gives a sense of security and, at times, ghost images on the screen. For the monkeys, barbed wire is just another obstacle to be crossed and the electronic-ware shops report no drop in antenna sales. The food value of aluminium TV antennae, as anyone at the Indian Council for Agricultural Research will tell you, is nil. The undue interest in the TV antenna is just another way or showing who is boss. Like the monkey who hangs about the Telegraph Office specializes in snatching mufflers and dupattas and then wrapping the booty around his head.

The next thing we know, a monkey might stand for election. This is not to say that a Legislative Assembly packed with monkeys on both the Treasury and Opposition benches will make a noticeable difference in the quality of government. As everyone knows, real power belongs to the babus and it is still rather difficult to envisage a monkey as yet qualified for even a Class IV post, sifarish or not. The proposal needs to be seriously debated, though. The hordes and hordes of government babus in Shimla, for sheer cussedness, are probably more destructive, and create much greater mess than all the monkeys between Shoghi and Mashobra. Then it may even become feasible to export babus for mcdical research (the Government of India has banned the export of monkeys for medical research; the ban is still in place as far as I know).

The Nightmare Team

We hear a lot about dream Teams, especially when a new government takes office. If there can be Dream Teams, can there also be Nightmare Teams?
During a snooze lately, I had this nasty dream about a semi-literate Italian of questionable integrity ruling India as the Empress. She believed in chucking freebies to the public lest they get mad. Her private fears were that she might end up as another Empress of foreign import - Marie Antionette, an Austrian export  to France. Unfounded fears, of course, but she had to take certain precautions. Just in case.
She had a stuffed dummy placed on the Prime Minister's chair
The Empress's son, a man approaching middle-age but with no convincing qualifications, would make cameo appearances in a patronising, noblesse oblige kind of manner to try and connect with us masses. We, the dumb masses, were supposed to go ga-ga over his sharing our scraps of food and sanctifying our hovels with his benign presence. But nothing else to improve our lot. Except a promise of more freebies. Promises, promises.
As her chief trouble-shooter, the Empress had a slick Harvard-educated lawyer (Slick Lawyer #I) whose chief talent lay in inventing ever new kinds of taxes, and as a hobby he delighted in framing pictures of Hindu leaders. He ran a private detective agency known as the CBI: Chidambram's Bureau of Incrimination. Slick Lawyer #I aka Trouble-Shooter had a son who seemed to grow prosperous in direct proportion to his father's rise in status.
As her legal adviser she appointed another slick lawyer (Slick Lawyer #II) whose forte seemed to be an ill-timed sense of sarcasm, mockery and well-honed talent for jeering. She relied on this lawyer to seek out loopholes, and also to make conciliatory gestures to opponents. Too bad that his conciliatory statements invariably ended up riling the other party.
As her personal spokesman she fielded a Court Jester who was probably an understudy of Slick Lawyer II.. The more ridiculous he sounded, the more encouraged he became to say just what his Empress wanted to hear. To wit, that a bunch of doddering geriatrics, the RSS, was responsible for each and every ill. He too knew he was purveying hogwash, but what the heck, a Court Jester can't win elections. But he can be appointed a governor of some luckless state. So he tended to keep singing in season and out.
She rewarded incompetence. Economy failed? You're the President now. A monumental black-out? The Home Ministry for you. And so on.
Then there was the small problem of the President's Palace. A huge ornate building of British times. Show the British colonialists just what we think of them: put the wort kind of specimen inside it.
That's about a cameo (ah, that word again) of the Nightmare Team since the details of my nightmare would give you the creeps.
Oh, oh. It's not a nightmare! I'm awake and this Nightmare Team's still there! Please somebody, sing me to sleep...

We Need Corrupt Officials

Team Anna has the wrong end of the stick

The country (at least the netizens and newspaper readers)  are currently pinning much on Team Anna and the Janlokpal. The Janlokpal, armed with drastic powers, is supposed to make corruption vanish from the country. Corrupt officials and politicians twirling away at the chakkis is jails, grinding grain like they used to grind us.... oh happy thought...

Too bad it wont happen, any more than they make prisoners grind chakkis in prisons. Not that it should happen. A corruption-free India will become a hell on earth for man and beast - in the present set-up anyway.

How? Imagine if you wanted to buy a car. Present rules say you have to attach a copy of the Driving License, if you want to get the car registered. So you decide to settle that matter of the Driving License first.. Thanks to Team Anna, let's imagine there are strictly honest and dutiful officials behind the window.  "How do we know you live here? Where's your ration card?"

Ah, so you have to get the vital card. The officials at the Food & Civil Supplies are honest too. "Why do you need a Ration Card?" "To get a driving license, Sir".  "That means you're going to buy a car?" "Yes your Highness - er - Sir." "Do you know that Ration Cards can only be issued to poor people? And you can afford a car! Get lost!"

There are other ways to prove that you are indeed you, but the procedures are involved and Byzantine. Still interested in honest officials when a couple of papers with Gandhiji's toothless smile will do the trick?

And what if you got sufficiently crazy to attempt to set up an industry - you know, generate employment, contribute to the national growth, give China a run for its money. You have the patch of land, a brain full of ideas. Some money worth investing. So go ahead ... no, wait.

Get an NOC from the Electricity Board. "Sure, we'll give the NOC, but rules say you'll have to pay for and install your own transformer; and rules also say that transformer becomes the Board's property. But, hey! where's your NOC from the Town and Country Planning department?" So off you toodle to the Dept. of T & C.

"Sure, we're here to give you our NOC! That's our job! But where's your NOC from the District Environmental Engineer?"

The District Environment Engineer wants to see the NOC from the Revenue Department. The Revenue Department wants to see the NOC from the Forest Department, that your proposed factory doesn't abut Sanctuary land. Then you start looking around for a revolver to blow your brains out. But you need an Arms License first...

This is only a sample. Multiply with numbers of departments in existence and square by the numbers of officials who are your bhagya vidhatas. That's the amount of Red Tape of the reddest hue that the benighted aam aadmi has to untangle on a daily basis. Are you still sure you want honest officials manning all those posts?

Team Anna, I'm sorry to say, has the wrong end of the stick. What he should have been agitating for are simpler procedures, less red tape. Then corruption will wither on the vine and disappear. The Lokpal can sit content in his office, playing Solitaire.

What’s Wrong with our Courts

Yeah, what’s wrong. This is not asked as a question. This is a statement. I’ve been knocking around in the courts as a litigant more than my due share and have noticed some interesting things.

1.         Cases drag on for years, even decades. (Oh sure, we all know that). But why? Because…

2.         There are far too many cases. Way too many. And that’s because…

3.         Bad laws is one. Pigheaded officialdom is another. Some corrupt judges may be yet another. But there’s another very important one: You can lie and furnish false evidence in the courts with impunity. In other words, you can commit perjury till the cows come home, or till either you or your opponent in the case dies of old age. 99.99 percent chances are you will be unharmed.

Perjury

Perjury is when you lie in court, of course under oath. Even producing a fake piece of physical evidence (like a forged agreement) and swearing it’s real is perjury. You get caught committing perjury and get booked, right? Wrong.

If you get caught lying in court, it is the judge who has to file the complaint: this guy lied in my court. This means that the judge now becomes like any other plaintiff. He will also have to mount the witness stand in a court and give his statement. Then he will be cross-examined by the defendant’s lawyer.

No judge wants to undergo that. Finis. So no case is filed for perjury.

Thousands of cases are heard every working day in courts across the country.  It is a safe bet that in almost every single case at least one of the parties is lying. In too many cases one of the parties has built up his case on the basis of forged documents, planted evidence, false affidavits or witnesses-for-hire. He may lose the case eventually. But that’s a long time in the future. Thousands upon thousands of liars every day; no prosecution for perjury.

So why not go to the nearest courthouse and file a case – any case – on that guy whose face you don’t like, or that old woman who’s the owner of that prime piece of land…

Here are some examples (NONE of them relate to me, by the way).

Example 1: I’ve seen a forged will produced in a court which was so crudely done that even a one-eyed bat could see it was made up by patching together different pieces of paper with cheap, discoloured cello-tape. One piece had the old man’s signature, the other had the will typed on it. This case dragged on and on for years. Eventually one of the parties got a retired forensic scientist (at considerable expense) to show how and where the forging was done. When last heard, the case is still in the court, and the affected party has gone off to the UK in disgust. In the end the forger will merely lose his case and right to the property (which he is already occupying anyway). Will he suffer for lying and forging? Fat chance.

Example 2: A guy was recently acquitted by the Supreme Court in a murder case after being booked ten years ago. The case was held to be totally fraudulent. He’s free now, but after being arrested, “interrogated”, sent off on judicial remand (and life can be pretty tough in judicial remand; the older prisoners “welcome” the newcomer with a physical beating for starters). Then struggling to get bail. Then trying to raise resources to fight the legal fight which would drag on for ten years through the Sessions, High and Supreme Courts. Murder case lawyers don’t come cheap. This guy would certainly like to proceed against the people who lied against him and framed him. Can he? The answer is pretty obvious now. Meanwhile, those folks sleep easy, smug in the knowledge that they’ve taken away the best years of their enemy’s life, and ruined him financially to boot.

The Solution

Easy. Take away the provision for the judge to be the complaining party in a case of perjury. Let the victim be the complainant, the judge’s judgment sufficing as evidence that so and so has been lying or has given a fake document, instead of having the judge go on the stand to say so. If anyone aggrieved by a judge’s judgment can go in appeal in the normal course, so too can the litigant or witness do so, if the judge has called him a liar. What is the need for the judge to himself be a witness?

Once perjury has been proved, let the punishment be hefty enough. A heavy fine in ordinary cases, and imprisonment if the victim faced loss of life or liberty.

With this mechanism in place, there may be a slight surge in litigation in the beginning, when aggrieved victims finally take on their tormentors. Once the punishments start getting meted out, people will think twice before using the courts to settle scores or blackmail someone.

Now ask a lawyer to pick holes in the above.

The Bullock Cart - A Cautionary Tale

The Bullock Cart and the Indian Economy – A Cautionary Tale

Once upon a time there was a bullock cart full of passengers. The passengers had paid the cart driver's firm to get them to their destination, but the slow pace was taking ages. They would nag the driver off and on and even threaten to replace him. The old driver Nehru died and after a short interval his daughter Indira replaced him.

"I'll make you go faster," she said and whipped the bullocks severely.

Also, to lighten the load, she didn't allow the passengers to eat properly. There was a short spurt of speed but the cart inevitably slowed down even more, and the passengers were now even more unhappy.

By a tragic accident this driver died suddenly and her son Rajiv took over the cart. He took steps to make his passengers happy: he painted the cart in bright colours. Other vehicles on the road were all the time overtaking this bullock cart, which was still creaking along at a slow pace. The passengers could see the bright chromium rear bumpers of the American, European, Japanese, Korean and Singaporean cars racing ahead in the distance.

The bullock cart still trundled along at a slow speed.

There was some pushing and shoving and some of the passengers tried to drive but the bullocks were exhausted and the wheels were worn. The cart zigged and zagged and some passengers even threw up. But progress was still painfully slow.

A driver, PV, belonging to the old carting company, took over. He realized that things couldn't carry on like this. He told his mechanic Manmohan to take some steps. Manmohan took out the old wooden wheels and put in alloy wheels. He also put ball bearings in the wheels. There was a noticeable improvement but – it was still a bullock cart. If you looked hard enough you could still see the sun winking on the chrome on the rear bumpers of the cars racing ahead.

The passengers were pretty fed up by now and tried a new team. The new team leader Atal kept his eyes closed most of the time, but did put some competent guys in charge: Jaswant, Yashwant and Shourie. These guys simply got rid of the bullock cart and loaded the passengers on to a motor car instead. They gave the wheel to a private driver and told him to do whatever he liked, as long as he got cracking. The driver smartly snapped the car into gear and zoomed off. The drivers of the vehicles ahead peeked into their rear-view mirrors and remarked, "These Indians are going to give us competition".

But the passengers missed the old team out of nostalgia and brought them back, kicking out the previous lot. It was so comforting to have the Old Firm back.

The team leader of the Old Firm was now Sonia, but she didn't have a valid driver's license. So she told the old mechanic Manmohan to sit at the wheel and pretend to drive, while she gave the instructions. The private driver was shown who was boss and told to be the cleaner of the vehicle or get off. The new team started fiddling with the controls. The speed slowed down a bit but nobody noticed; the car was running along on its old momentum.

The Atal firm too had a change in leadership. First LK, the new leader, chucked out the trio of Jaswant, Yashwant and Shourie. Then he offered himself for the post of driver.

"I know all about handling bullocks and carts. I also know all about temples," he said.

The passengers were not interested and let the Sonia firm handle the car. The speed was now noticeably slow. And then the passengers discovered that this lot had been slyly fiddling the fuel and maintenance bills. They were indignant.

A whole gaggle of would-be drivers now joined in the fun: pushing this lever, pulling that knob and flicking every which switch. The car started making protesting noises. PC hauled on a lever marked Handbrake and hoped the car would go faster. It didn't. Rahul punched a button marked Horn and thought the car's speed would pick up. There was some noise but the speed kept getting slower.

"Try and look at the rocks and trees on the roadside, and see how fast we are going, as compared to them", suggested Kapil, in a mocking tone, to the discontented passengers.

Then Kapil saw a small lever inside a glass case marked Do Not Break Glass. Do Not Touch Lever. Emergency Only..

Kapil smashed the glass and pulled the lever. And the bonnet flew open and the engine popped out and crashed to the earth, lying in ruins on its side in the dirt.

"Not to worry!" said Sonia to her mechanic cheerfully, "We've still got the bullocks, right? Go get them and hitch 'em up to this car!"

Punjabi Grammar Made Easy

Punjabi Grammar Made Easy

3 degrees of "Where have they gone?" (Faithful acct of personal experience).

Punjab Roadways bus Manali-Chandigarh, early morn in winter, only 9 passengers, stops at Aut.

Conductor: "Bus punj-dus mint rukni a; chaah paani peelo., p'shaab-p'shoob jaana a jaa aao". Group of 5 Bengali tourists go out, nobody notices they pick a dhaba 50 mtr down the road and order full-fledged meal.

Time for dep. Over half the passengers i.e. group of Bongs, are missing.

Conductor: (pheet pheeet) "Chandigarh-chandigarh-chandigarh! Bus jaan waali 'a!"

Bongs still missing.

Conductor (First degree of "Where have they gone?"): "O kithhe chall gaye?"

Seeti: "pheet-pheeeet!" Bus horn: "Pwaaaaa". Leyland engine: "Rumble rumble rumble".

Bongs still missing.

Conductor (Second degree of "Where have they gone?"): "O kithhe badd gaye!"

Seeti: "Pheet-pheeeeeeeeet!". Horn: "Pwaaaa-waaaaa-waaaa!". Leyland engine: "Rumble rumble roar!"

Bongs still missing.

Conductor (Third degree of "Where have they gone?"): "O kithhe marr gaye!"