THE PG’S OF BAUJI’S KOTHI

This short episode is a true life story; well almost, otherwise it wouldn’t be saucy enough. It dates back to the early seventies; the time of my life when I had moved from being a small tot to a double digit! Summer was perpetually; the best part of that life. It was the time of the year, my sister and I went on our religiously regular annual fifty day vacation to Chandigarh to meet my maternal grandparents that were affectionately called Bauji and Beji. The kind and pious person that Beji was, she certainly merited that kind of affection; the same couldn’t be said of Bauji though. The kind of respect that he commanded was not really that; in a sense it was something born out of trepidation. He was certainly better off being called Hitler. The name didn’t match his physique though since he was well built, almost six foot tall and had a sonorous voice that electrified the atmosphere whenever he flexed his vocal chords.

To me, though; he came across as a soft spot and the feeling was mutual!

Bauji’s Kothi (house) was a massive structure that stood like a majestic peninsula surrounded by lush green lawns on all three sides. It was a truly a floral model that grew grapes, leeches, mangoes, guavas and a host of vegetables that varied with Bauji’s seasonal tastes. A portable sprinkler-system and Maali (gardener) were the permanent fixtures that helped the lawn stay the way Bauji liked to see it; prim and proper! The Kothi was bordered on all sides by open verandahs that housed several Dhaba type Manjis (coir cots). The occupancy rate of these Manjis during summer nights was a hundred percent because they successfully served to create the air-conditioned effect. Now, let’s move from the inanimate to a more animate variety! The old folks apart, the inmates of the house were my three uncles and my mother’s younger sister. Their common thread was that they were all unmarried. Though, they dwelt together in the open air air-conditioner, come winter and each one of them wanted their independence and refused to share their room with anyone else. Yet Bauji’s Kothi like its owner was large enough to accommodate everybody’s wishes.

A typical feature of the Kothi, was that there wasn’t any concept of an attached bathroom. All the verandahs had a Gusalkhaana(bathroom) and though each member of the house couldn’t have one for himself; the different times that the family chose to use them ensured that they didn’t have to queue up outside them. These Gusalkhanaas had high roofs like the rest of the house and their ledges served as free accommodation to the several kabootars (pigeons) that lived in it.

Their numbers multiplied every year that told me that they nested while they rested!

I still vividly remember Bauji’s penchant and flair for humor; he had a unique style. He took a great personal pride and pleasure in placing a scale atop my head after having me stand with my back upright against the wall. He would then proceed to jot down the level with a pencil and write my age against it. Though my annual graph showed a slow and steady growth, the incremental addition failed to impress Bauji and he’d yell, ‘Kamla; tere bête ko bhooka rakhti hai kyaa?; zaraa isse makkai kee roti, sarson kaa saag, kheer tho khilao.’ He’d go on and on until I suffered from indigestion and finally, he’d have no other choice but to relent.

As years passed by, two of my uncles got married and also secured jobs outside Chandigarh and thus moved out of the Kothi. That left only uncle Bitoopa and Rummy mausi to give Bauji and Beji company. The Kothi had therefore grown much smaller and lonelier. To make things a bit livelier, Bauji started letting it out. The garages went first, followed by two rooms at the Kothis anterior. After that, even the solitary room upon the first floor was given away; all the inmates were contracted as paying guests and all of them belonged to D A V collage from the neighborhood.

I hit my favorite haunt Chandigarh on a mid summer’s night again. After letting Bauji monopolize me for a couple of days, I latched on to my favorite uncle Bitoopa because he too indulged in boyish activities like, “khaana peena; pikchar shikchar”. Gradually, he began introducing me to all the PG’s and the one thing that stood out amongst them all was the individually unique names by which they were called or called each other. One was called Glider, because he took gliding classes at the ‘Gliding School of Chandigarh’. Another, Habshi! Guess why? Habshi is the Indian colloquial for Blacks and Mr. Nagar was charcoal competition. His was the only room in the Kothi that was completely bereft of mosquitoes; I later learnt that no mosquito in its right frame of mind would dare go near him. His blood was so poisonous! I couldn’t believe Bitoopaa since he was always joking and so to beat my curiosity; I did a sneak preview into his room one morning. The foul stench that emanated from his room smelt worse than a gutter and I had to get that out of my system. I couldn’t obviously puke and so, I tale tattled to Bauji instead.

Bauji’ durbar was activated and a sheepish Habshi hung his head low and waited for Hitler’s sentence.

‘Oye Habshi, ai mera ghar hai; koi majaan di than nahin. This is my house; it is not cattle shed.’

‘Cleanliness is next to Godliness’ is a lesson Habshi learnt that he would never forget for the rest of his life. He bought himself several pairs of socks, learnt to bathe and wash his clothes on a daily basis and soaps, powders, perfumes and agarbattis became a permanent feature in his shopping list.

And then there were the best two guys; the sorts who I instantaneously liked at first sight. Their names were Dalda and Peter. Though all these guys were Punjabis, their names belied their mother tongue. Nobody told me why Dalda was called what he was, but I could imagine. He was thick and cylindrical and had a square set of jaws. Also, he had a very oily face, a double chin and extra fat on his chubby cheeks that began to melt at the slightest hint of exercise. Every evening, he wore his tracks and sports shoes and went for a short walk that ended at the nearest Dhaba called Doaba where he massacred at least half a dozen pakoras and samosas; invariably washing them down with a jumbo sized steel glass of meethi lassi or rose milk. Dalda was one hell of a foodie and so I too often tagged along with him for obvious reasons. The day, he missed out on company; he wouldn’t walk but ride it out on his mini Rajdoot-GTS bike.

Truly speaking, he reminded me of a circus hoarding that I’d once seen, ‘Elephant on wheels.’

Peter was Harvinder Singh’s nickname. He was third year into collage, but was yet to clear even his first semester. His juniors were now his seniors and his circumstances gave me a pet name, “repeater”.

Repeater was too derogatory a name to call someone on a daily basis; so his friends thrashed out a compromise with him. It was then that his friend’s proudly christened him Peter.

The list didn’t end here. Their class-mates were Pappu, Happy, Baby, Lovely and Guddu. The only other inmates of the kothi that haven’t been introduced yet were the two brothers that occupied the top floor. These sardars were called Nikka and Vadda, meaning small and big. When I was introduced to Nikka, I was shell shocked! He was not less than six and a half feet tall, was thick as an ox and weighed a neat one hundred and fifty kilos. If this was Nikka, I waited with baited breath for Vadda. What a letdown? Vadda turned out to be a smart, sleek six feet tall guy weighing less than half his younger brother.

‘What’s in a name?’ I mused.

The universal law says that; with every month, there is a new beginning of a new day on an annual calendar. Bauji’s law was a bit different. Unless the 1st of the month was a Sunday, he’d commence his rounds for rent collection and rant, rave and shout until it was heard loud and clear across the length and breadth of his mansion. For him; it was party time! No party for these poor PG’s though! Apart from his stereophonic rumblings, his soti (walking stick) made that sickening and repetitive tick tock that send their heart beats aflutter.

‘Bin maut, mare jaayenge yaar, we’ll die without dying,’ was their clarion call and to avoid contact with Hitler; almost all of these guys simply vamoosed until they were ready with the bread to face Bauji. The gates had a king sized Aligarh padlock that secured the Kothi from unwanted intrusions, but the PG’s dared to break Bauji’s law almost every other night; during this period that is and climbed over the gates every midnight. Try as he might, Bauji failed to stay awake beyond ten in the night; by then he’d finished his three Patialas of Peter Scotch and feasted on a bouquet of culinary delights. He was an early riser, but before he could get out and stroll onto the lawns, the scoundrels invariably beat him to it. Once in a way, some PG or the other ended up at the wrong end of his stick and Bauji chose to hurl the choicest of expletives at them, ‘you bloody noun-sense!!!’ They either laughed it off or let whatever they’d heard from one ear out from the other. This one sided animosity lasted only until Bauji received his due and after that, these guys would raid the kitchen once again and swoop down on their favorite Beji’s halwa and pinnees.

Bauji and his PG’s were at an intermittent blow hot –blow cold relationship and this to me was the Kothi’s biggest source of entertainment.

One fine day; rather night, it so happened that Bauji didn’t return home until as late as ten pm. This was rather strange, since he seldom stayed outdoors beyond five in the evening. Bauji was a ‘Khara Sauda’ consultant and brokered deals in fruits, vegetables, and other such commodities.

‘A deal, a day!’ was his business motto.’

Beji was almost delirious. Since, Bitoopa also was out of town, she hurriedly sent for two of her favorite PG’s, Dalda and Peter.

‘Oh, tussi fikar naa karo Beji, old man the lantern noo assi chethi lai aawange ghar.’ They assured Beji that her beloved would soon be home. Sensing that it would be a long night ahead, Beji went into the kitchen and made some hot tea for them, while these two got busy networking. What followed was pure marvel and whosoever thought that these guys were a set of good for nothing bumpkins were in for a total surprise.

Vadda and Habshi weren’t indoors but without them, this was a mission impossible! Therefore Dalda and Peter contacted not less than a dozen friends that ensured that these two heroes were picked up during the interval from one of the only five cinema halls the city boasted of.

Peter was the general secretary of the DAV collage union and managed to mobilize scores of youngsters that started combing the streets of Chandigarh. ‘Galli, galli, chappa, chappa chaan maro; comb the entire city!’ he thundered. Within moments, a manhunt had been launched in order to track Bauji down and it was called Operation Hitler!

Habshi belonged to a family of Cops while Dalda turned out to be a big minister’s nephew. Vadda was distantly related to the Chief Minister himself and ensured that the Director General of Police spoke to a handful of Commissioners to ensure the safety of a very close family friend. Despite best efforts, the status quo remained even past midnight and an extremely worried Beji’s condition further deteriorated. A doctor popped in at this odd hour out of nowhere and attended to Beji while scores of volunteers brought in unsuccessful reports about Bauji’s whereabouts. The police patrolled outside the Kothi simply because they’d been ordered to!

The PG’s had galvanized the entire state machinery in Hitler’s search.

The police control room however was extremely active and giving a regular feedback to Habshi who sat next to the phone; he never even moved an inch since the time he came in. At around one o’ clock in the night, he again attended a call expecting the latest update but it wasn’t a call he’d expected.

A telephone operator called to inform that it was a three minute ordinary call from Kurukshetra and not for any particular person!

Habshi, therefore didn’t know who to expect but the voice that followed the operator’s was a most pleasant surprise. Hitler was calling! Even while Bauji began his explanation about his whereabouts, Habshi was yelling aloud; so the entire house could hear him.

‘O, Bauji mil gaye oye; theek thaak ne. Bauji is fine.’

What exactly had happened was that Bauji had struck a deal during the day; an offer he couldn’t possibly refuse and so he had to go along with his client to Kurukshetra. He didn’t have the time to call earlier lest he miss the last bus and much as he tried, the lines from that place to Chandigarh just wouldn’t go through; that is until then.

The entire gang of PG’s broke into a bhangra, ‘Oye bothal shothal kholo oye; let’s celebrate!’ Dalda and Peter hugged and begged a crying Beji to go to sleep. So did the tired PG’s. Bauji returned the following afternoon to a tumultuous reception. None of his paying guests spoke aloud; they simply didn’t have the guts to do so, but when Bauji saw that their smiles stretch from one end of their faces to the other, he instantly understood how much they actually loved him.

‘Oye, Khote de putron; aithe aao; you idiots come here.’

He hugged each one of them and opened a crate of Peter Scotch that night. Beji was back in the kitchen and the celebrations ran long into the night.

The PG’s of Bauji’s kothi truly loved their Bauji not for what he was but as he was.