Chowk, Chhajja and Chhat

Chapter 1              (revised)

My name is Banbhatt. But call me B. I was born in  the year Gandhi was shot dead by Nathu Ram Godse in 1948,in the walled city of Chandni Chowk and brought up in a Hindu ritualistic family. My oldest memories are of my illiterate grandmother counting beads on her rosary and chanting  Ram Ram, mother performing a hearth (hawan) reciting Gayatri mantra from Satyarth Prakash, the holy book of Arya Samaj composed by the seer Swami Dayanand, father rubbing sandalwood to make a paste for shivling and the grandfather holding the string of a swing containing a little idol of child Krishna. I also attended the monthly recital of Satyanarayan story whose main lady characters Leelavati and Kalavati remained etched for the rest of his life. I was not a part of any of these but looked on first with curiosity, later acceptance. No cynicism occured in his mindset against it. I accepted it as a fact in front of me. They never asked to be a part of them. I don't know why.

Being the eldest grandson I was a pampered kid. I accompanied him to buy vegetables every morning. He took the entire family to Garh Mukteshwar, the nearest where the Ganges used to pass. Every year, a fair was held there along with a week-long recitation of Srimad Bhagwat katha. It was the story of Krishna beyond the great war of Mahabharat. I also accompanied him to buy the greenery to decorate a makeshift temple on every Janmashtmi, Lord Krishna's birthday.Janmashtmi. I accepted all these rituals without any questionI. I was a poor student right from his school days. Like Tagore classroom teaching never fascinated me. On the contrary, my strong point was reaching out to people. I had developed an intimate relationship with a dozen of boys in the neighbourhood. I was pretty popular among his government school classmates as well. Even the best student Vinod Mehra was also a close friend. He lived nearby.

 Around that time, a four years senior college student Shiv Kumar came in spotted me. He introduced me to the RSS (Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh), the Hindu cultural wing of the then Jan Sangh ( now the BJP party). They had a uniform ( called ganvesh) of white shirt and a khaki short. Every evening I would join a group of young boys in the adjoining park to do some exercises, traditional Indian games like kho-kho and kabaddi, attend a discourse on the glorious past of Hindu India with heroes like Maharana Pratap and Shivaji. I felt nice that i was a part of a disciplined routine.

It was the parent organisation of Hindu revivalism. I accepted it  without really belonging to it. I enjoyed the feeling of being different from his friend. But my interest didn't sustain after I joined Hans Raj College. Shiv exposed to a different world of English films, coffee house and debates. He used to say that our relationship was like that of Ramkrishan Pramhans and Vivekanand. I walked out of the RSS fold  as quietly I had joined it. I came in contact of Arun Jaitley ( Union Finance Minister) who later told me in an interview that he was never a part of the RSS but belonged to the ABVP. There was no trace any great feeling of pride in me for  Hindu Rashtra, Maharana Pratap and Shivaji. They were historical characters who played their part against the Moughals. And I didn't understand the significance of Hindu nation. It was a political battle for land and power. I was catholic and secular at a subconscious level.

Shiv was treating me  like his understudy. Besides these outdoor exposures, he also started sensitizing me about my body, in particular the private parts. He advised me to refrain from masturbation. But I didn't take him seriously indulged in self-gratification after reading hardcore porn books like Mastram. . He never tried to have a physical relation with me but he would touch his private parts and show them his own. His understudy didn't have the courage to resist. All this lasted till school came to an end.

Meanwhile, back home, I developed the daily habit of browsing through his Hindi daily Navbharat Times. Along with this I also got hooked up to All India Radio supplemented with a dose of All India Radio Hindi and Urdunes bulletins. Urdu, because my father used to tune it in. But provided me a rich Urdu leccicon.

The common link was cricket which used to broadcast commentaries in English. I would compare the content of commentary with Hindi sports news. Soon my English vocabulary got widened. captain, innings, follow on, umpire, toss, field, test match, umpire, test match entered my lingua franca. I didn't realise that my spoken English was getting better. I befriended classmates Keshav Varma and Anil Kapoor--two public school dropouts  I found them interesting because they spoke fluent English.Another friend Anil Girdhar was as idiotic as his overweight body. But he was chubby and friendly. Once we showed each other in bed. It was fun.

My  grandfather was an edible oil commission agent of a Bombay-based mill . It was owned by Ahmed Oomerbhoy. It never struck me that I started writing  business letters and draft telegrams every morning in English to various  mill owners.  It was a torture for my age but later I realised my father was training me in a subtle way. He even sent me to income tax office to present his account books for assessment. He correctly presumed that I would use my English to impress the officers. And I did.

My father had become quite insecure and nervous after ups and down of his father in the speculation business. It was a genius stroke of a man who couldn't write his name even in Hindi or English.My father could smell that I had picked up the basic English skills. I was given the job of writing business letters and telegrams in English every day. It was a thankless job that made him miserable but he didn't realise that he was being trained in the worldly ways in a subtle manner. I didn't have the option to refuse. It never struck to me that I was dealing with a Muslim mill owner.The Bombay mill owners  would periodically come to Delhi and stayed at Ashok, the flagship five-star hotel of Indian government. I was assigned to buy sohan halwa from Ghantewala Halwai of Chandni Chowk and Kanwarji namkeen and deliver to Ashok Hotel. I never realised that one day this very five-star hotel will launch my career.

I was just not interested in classroom teaching.  I would bunk classes and rush to the paan shop to listen  cricket score on radio. Later, when I read that Tagore was also a school dropout and instead became a great poet, I felt proud . And indeed, I did start my career as a sports reporter. More a little later. As expected,  I got a poor third division in my higher secondary result. Just 46.7 per cent marks. There were no takers for me in Delhi University. I was sent to Ambala City where my aunt lived and her son was a chemistry lab demonstrator in DAV College. He got me admitted in B.Sc.

But his grandfather was worldly wise. He discovered that one of his business associates Shyam Sundar was a close relative of Hans Raj College principal Shanti Narayan. I became a student of Delhi University.but committed the second mistake of his life. He took admission in B.Sc ( General) course. He had no interest in science but the peer pressure was very strong. His RSS and sexual comrade-in-arm was neck deep immersed in mathematics. He also supported the idea of B.Sc.

If I had studies humanities, my life would have been simpler. But the destiny had chosen a different route. I came in contact with a Gurukul Kangri, Hardwar product  Shailendra Mehta who could speak fluent Sanskrit because of his training. He was also an attractive man. His complexion was extremely fair bordering on reddish contours. I fell head over heels for him. Soon we became partners in the Hindi debating team of my college and won 58 inter-college debating prizes in next six years. Yes six years, because I failed thrice in the B.,Sc General course. Once every year. To make the matter worse, after some hard work by the RSS trainer, got good marks in his second attempt in first year and he was graduated to B.Sc Maths honours. The second cardinal mistake committed by him in his academics.

It all happened because I didn't get career guidance as per my aptitude. I am surprised why an intelligent person like Shiv couldn't understand my aptitude and  advice me as per his inclination and strengths. his indulgence in Maths was total and he took it as a mission. All his brothers were also equally academic and did very well in life. However, I reconciled myself by thinking that even an engineering or a medical student takes six years to be a graduate. I had become a philologist in six years. All set to take on the world which was waiting for him with open arms.

Then a girl came in my life. The first girl who remained committed through rain, hail, storm and filled my life from a beautiful and meaningful relationship. She was doing Hindi Hons from IP College.  She had come to my college to invite our team for a debate. Girls from IP college were looking for me. I was amused. Soon they found me. " We are from IP college and have come to invite your college for inter-college debate. One of them took out  an invitation card and a letter addressed to the principal. The topic was " Kewal Hindi hi Bharat ki rashtriya bhasha ho sakti hai" (Only Hindi can be India's national language). I took the invitation and thanked them profusely for the invite but added that I don't agree with the topic. I will speak against it. They smiled at my improptu posture. I couldn't fathom that this chance meeting will lead to a roaring affair for next five years.

Three days later, I along with my senior team-mate Shailendra Mehta was at IP College in Civil Lines, the posh locality established by and for the British officers during pre-independence days. It was one of the high profile colleges and it was my first visit. She was in the reception team to welcome the participants. Our team had been winning almost every other debate. It had given us an air of confidence. It was write large on our faces. My turn came and I spoke without any notes against the imposition of Hindi language on the non-Hindi speakers spread over the majority of Indian population. I said, Hindi is understood in the whole country but India is too diverse to have a national language. It will be unfair to force the chaste Hindi, say on South Indian kids.

I realised that I was making an extra effort to impress somebody. Not only arguments but my voice was also forceful. I even went up to the extent of saying that there is no language called national Hindi. Like English, Hindi also changes its hues and shades after every ten kilometers in India. It branches of into so many dialects like Maithili, Braj, Avadhi, Haryanvi, even Punjabi. There was no Hindi before Independence. Since 1857 we had been using Hindustani which was a mix of khariboli, Urdu, Persian and Arabic. We had inherited it from the Moughal rulers for more than 1000 years along with a culture and civilisation. But the then Indian government in 1950 imposed Sanskratised Hindi on India. I threw one question at the audience: How many of you understand by the expression Bharitiya Rashtriya Vimanpattan Pradhikaran. No one raised his hand. Then I shot a supplementary. How many of you have heard Indian national Airport Authority of India. Almost every girl raised her hand. See, you don't understand the national Hindi imposed by Indian government and need English translation. to make sense. Many of them clapped even, though protocol wise, it is not advisable to clap a speaker during his or her arguments. I could see a broad smile on the face of my hostess.

It wasn't surprising that our team the first prize and I got second prize as a speaker. She was the first to come and congratulate me. I smiled and nodded. We exchanged telephone numbers while having tea after the debate. I presumed it was all over. But it was not over. A few days later, my fingers couldn't resist the temptation of dialing her number. I said hello and she could recognise my voice, as if she was expecting this call. After exchanging pleasantries, we decided to meet for a coffee at Carlton at Kashmiri Gate market. Not far from  here college. She was accompanied by her friend Shalu and I took along my teammate Mehta. It was the beginning of a quadrangular relationship. We had half a dozen such coffee sessions at Carlton, Khyber, Volga, and even at Oberoi's Maiden.

After some meetings, I decided to make it a personal affair as the group sessions were unproductive and misleading. There were attempts to pull each other's leg to score a point. But I didn't have the courage to call her alone. What would she think? and suppose, if she says, no. She was the daughter of a union minister's PA. Her elder sister was a Hindi lecturer at Miranda House in Hindi and her brother was an army officer. And she had a house of her own in West Punjabi Bagh. I couldn't tell her that I was living in one room stuffy home in Kamla Nagar and my father was an edible oil agent. I was the first boy of my entire extended family why had taken admission in a college. But she asked no questions and I told no lies.

One day, I made a foolish mistake of suggesting that let's be brother and sister. It was my fear that if I suggested a friendship she might refuse. She accepted my suggestion. This imposed sibling relationship lasted only for a few weeks and one day, I took her to Mehta's room in Hansraj College hostel and sealed her lips by those of mine. It defined our relationship. I used to request Mehta to spare his room and we used to have a rocking time. She resisted no move of mine. In fact she participated with full fervour and involvement.

We used to call each other five-six times a day and had long drawn conversations talking about how her room looked like, what she was doing, what did she eat. I also started writing her long letters in my complicated English which she obviously found utterly boring. But she didn't comment. She replied but briefly. After her college, she would come to Arts Faculty in DU north campus and I would accompany her to Mall Road bus stop from where she would take her DTC bus for Punjabi Bagh. I used to drop her on my cycle by making her sit on the front road connected to the handle. It was great fun.

It affected my studies badly. I had already failed once in first year and was not attending classes regularly. Though in my repeat examination, I had scored well courtesy my friend, philosopher and guide Shiv Kumar and without my realising what I was getting into, I was graduated to B.Sc, Maths honours from B.Sc General. It was a double fault, as per tennis rules. Science and Maths were Latin and Greek for me. It made no difference to her that I was failing every alternate year and she was going ahead smoothly. She never looked at my minus points. She was visibly impressed by overall persona. Barring my studies, I came out as an intelligent young man.

In order to impress, I went through the great classic Kamayani by Jaishankar Prasad and tried it to explian her. She was clean bowled. We stated comin closer. One day, we decided to change the character of our relationship from sibling to man-woman relationship. And it filled our days with kuchi kuis.

I was hooked on to cricket commentaries, Navbharat Times, Urdu News and critical analysis, radio plays, ABVP (Akhil Bhartiya Vidyarthi Parishad), student wing of the then Jan Sangh. I was made its joint secretary along with Ashok Tondon, who later became Atal Behari Vajpayee's press advisor and Purnima Kaushik who got elected to Delhi Metropolitan Assembly. I even floated Indo-Foreign Students Bureau to bring students of Indian origin who had come to DU from Mauritius and Fiji to get connected to Indian families on occasions like Holi and Diwali. It gave me a profile and became friends to future leaders like Arun Jaitley. I even went to invite and bring Vajpayee to my college for a function. I used to address the college student gathering in the auditorium.

I left RSS behind me but not ABVP which became my route to a public face. It also got me a break in journalism through RSS-oriented news agency Hindusthan Samahar headed by Baleshwar Aggarwal. He once invited young students with fire in their belly and courage to take risk for his agency. I heard this discussion and landed in his office to cut my first tooth in Hindi journalism.

ABVP gave me a room on the first floor of 80 A Kamla Nagar, near my home at 49A to run ABVP office. I got a face, profile and identity. Added along with debating success story, I got a Jeckyl and Hyde personality. I never attended any classes. I even forgot about my Maths paper timing and went to college to take in the afternoon. I was told it was in the morning. I approached the principal Shanti Naraain, the author of half a dozen books on Maths. He allowed me take the same paper in the afternoon but with a group that he knew its outcome.  failed second time in B.Sc. My father game a tight slap. He declared me a gone case. Though by that time, I had started appearing in the radio discussions on All India Radio courtesy a noble soul Rajendra Kumar Maheshwari. He was proud of me as a debater but disliked me for failing in his subject. It was a catch 22 situation for a principal.  He barred me from appearing in the examination. He was doubly crossed because he had admitted me in his college at the recommendation of his brother Shyam Sundar who was an Ambala-based  business associate of my grandfather Lala Suraj Bhan. Since I got just 46.7 percent marks in higher secondary examination, I couldn't get admission in DU. Hence I my cousin Mahendra Paul organised my admission in his DAV college where he was a chemistry demonstrater. My grandfather used his contact to get me transferred to Hansraj.