Some weeks ago I had written about the builders of New Delhi, naming five of them as the best known. I had complained that not one road or by-lane had been named after any of them. Unknown to me, Prime Minister Manmohan Singh wrote to Delhi’s Chief Minister Sheila Dikshit that Windsor Place be named after my father Sobha Singh. This was reported by the media.
It was followed by a storm of protest describing my father as a stooge of the British. I made no protest. But when some papers linked his name with the death sentence passed by the courts, I felt deeply hurt because there is not an iota of truth in the insinuation.
The death sentence on Shahid Bhagat Singh and his companion was passed for the murders of Inspector Saunders and head constable Channan Singh. They had killed the two policemen for having assaulted Lala Lajpat Rai when he was arrested in Lahore. Then they wanted to do something which would give worldwide publicity to India’s freedom movement. They chose to fire shots in the Parliament and then surrender to the police. And so they did. They took their seats in the Visitors’ gallery. So did my father. The debate going on was very boring; so he started reading a newspaper he had brought with him.
His attention was distracted by firing of pistols and explosion of bombs. Others in the visitors’ gallery fled leaving my father and the two revolutionaries. They did not put up any resistance when the police arrested them. My father’s ‘crime’ was to identify the two in court. He told the truth and nothing but the truth. Is telling the truth a crime?
However, media men linked his name to the hanging of the two martyrs. He had nothing whatsoever to do with the martyrdom of the two men. It is a malicious falsehood fabricated to malign a man who is not here to defend him.
For the past five years I have been getting Poets International, edited by Mohammed Fakhruddin from Bangalore. I made it a point to read it and used its pieces in my columns also. It has a variety of poetry by Haiku, Tanka and Zen. In one of his poems by Rajmani Kumar it has a simple rhyme verse.
I enjoyed it and wanted my readers to share my joy. It is entitled ‘Husbands’ Husbands are an unpredictable lot
Ever craving for what can’t be got
When things are cold, they like it hot
Always wanting what is not.
God help them !
Then heart’s desire, now they have won with their pretty souse, poised ever
ready to come
Life becomes on long, long stretch of fun
With all play and not an ounce of work done.
God bless them !
Love as Target
Rohan’s wife had gone to her mother’s place. While she was away, Rohan was using her enlarged photo as a dart board. His aim, however, was lousy and his darts rarely hit their target. One day, his wife rang him up.,
Wife : How are you pulling on in my absence ?
Rohan : I can truly and truthfully say that I am missing you a lot.
(courtesy Rajeshwari Singh, New Delhi)
Santa’s wife was in poor health. So he took her to a doctor for advice. He examined her thoroughly. “It’s bad news”, he told Santa. “She has got cancer and will not last for more than six months.”
Santa took the doctor’s verdict with a smile. “Somehow when I have spent 25 years plus with her, I can spend six months more.”
(contributed by Bubble Charanjit Singh, Delhi)
PS: I hope my readers will forgive me for not answering their letters. My hands have started shaking and I cannot write. It is a part of the ageingprocess. I am 97.
The views expressed by the author personal