Tilak Raj Sharma, an
ex-footballer from Punjab had migrated to England in early sixties. Obviously, he went
through, whatever a strong willed sturdy migrant experiences in an opportune foreign
land. I never asked much, as he was a fiercely private person, yet occasionally
prone to bouts of bragging, telling bits and pieces of his story.
Sharmaji
adored his well-built sons and perky daughters. The younger son, a
budding kick boxer could kick a steep six feet high with a powerful muted cry
of Jai Hanuman and would send an imaginary opponent repent his misdeeds
forever. By mid-eighties, when he was my host in London, a sizable rent from
hard earned properties made his life comfortable at fifty plus. But it was not
an easy life either, dealing with ever changing shady tenants from various
continents. They didn’t mind him paying what he asked, without being
too inquisitive.
Further
he loved to devote his considerable time and resources to help Indian friends
in midst of any serious crisis.
While
the boys had freedom to attend late night parties with fast changing
girlfriends, the grown up daughters were a constant source of grave worries. He
repeatedly asked me to find good matches for them in India fast. I lamely
assured him to do just that, when back in India. But the girls secretly disapproved
of his weird plan to get them married to unknown boys from India. Behind his
back, girls requested me, to ignore his mad demand.
“Papa
is so impossibly weird and he will never allow us to mix with boys... we want to
be like any other girls and experience life, don’t want to get married so
early, there is so much to see and experience. He controls us so closely… and
look...brothers Ronny and Mony have all the freedom they are allowed night outs
with girlfriends and we have nothing.... he is still stuck in some lousy Punjabi
village.. I am friendly with few boys. Can’t help it, it’s so natural... and not a
big deal here.”
The
rebellious Richa poured her worries when Sharmaji went away, early one morning.
“Don’t
you dare, try to compete with your brothers. We are Indian and have different culture
than these corrupt Gora...” Mrs. Sharma sternly reminded Richa.
“Oh
yea....very very different indeed...do we have tails, and Goras don't ... I know we are a bunch of horrible hypocrites......what
about the many secret affairs of so called honorable Indian couples? Don’t you know who is sleeping around with whom.”
“None
of your business, you have no shame Richa, and we parents know what is good for
you, isn’t it Bhaisaab?”
A
troubled Mrs. Sharma feebly tried to defend her draconian husband and looked at
me for support. I had to a give a small nod but preferred to be silent;
devouring tasty butter soaked spiced paranthas.
“He
has no right to insult my friends. Patrick only come to see me when I was ill
and you know how he was insulted. It’s awful and I hate it, my friends think we
are weird.”
“He
is your father and has every right how many times I have told you not to let
any boys visit home. Pratibha knows this and obeys papa, why can’t you be like
her?”
Mrs.
Sharma tried to reason and seemed quite peeved at her younger daughter
discussing her boyfriends in my presence.
“You
mean discreet? I am honest and don’t hide and you know she is friendly with few
boys too, I know when she lost her virginity and to whom, it’s so natural, but
she is a real sissy and terribly afraid of papa.”
“Shut
up Richa, that’s enough. How dare you called me dishonest.” An angry Pratibha
tried to stop her rebellious sister.
“I
didn’t say anything like that sis…”
“No,
you did, horrible bitch…”
The
verbal dual fast deteriorated to the extent of the combative girls using
forbidden four letter words. A helplessly ashamed Mrs. Sharma was in tears.
“Shut
up both of you if your father comes to know about such shameful things he will
kill you. I wish you girls were never born.... but it his own fault to
let you both live…”
“And
what is exactly meant by...your wish..that we were never born…haan…tell us mama..” Richa was in
tears.
“Just
shut up... know what I meant and you are living and.... hell bent on making me
feels so much of shame.....go... leave me alone now…”
Richa
pushed the chair back violently and rushed upstairs. Pratibha was immobile
hiding her face, weeping silently.
I
had already lost the appetite and was feeling uncomfortable and uneasy by
sudden disclosures of family secrets.
“Bhai
sahab, please don’t tell anyone... these are the hidden torments we suffer here....
foolish girls. I am so sorry.....know they will go away with one of English boys....
they have no feelings for their father.... who loves them in his own way. He won’t
be able to bear.....”
I
nodded and silently slipped out to avoid further embarrassments.
Oblivious
of the simmering discontent and secret affairs of his dear daughters, Sharmaji along
with few equally motivated souls, indulged in impossible and dangerous tasks to save the
brittle honor of bewildered and helpless Indian parents shocked by elopement of
their teenage daughters with those devious Firangs of various nationalities and
colors.
He
kept one well-oiled Lathi in each of his four cars to confront any miscreants
in his not so honorable neighborhood and elsewhere. His limp came handy in
explaining presence of the weapon to any curious policeman, as it also doubled
as his walking stick.
“This
is my late grandfather’s hundred year old walking stick and through it I feel
him nearby, any problems about that, officer?”
The
suspicious policeman would nod, force an understanding smile, wave and turn
away.
“You
see this is the way to deal with these foolish Englishmen. Give them emotional
and historical garbage and they turn soft but not all, some are really mean
bastards too happy to trouble us endlessly.”
His
popularity and respect cut across among the regionally and linguistically
divided Indians of the city. He sometimes did give me exclusive permission of
witnessing some of his not so legal activities. That made me roam through
markets, pubs and take nap in his parked car for hours, while he was busy
helping Indians in difficult situations. He and his gang of young Indian boys
would keep an eye and thrash any miscreants during community Diwali and Holi
celebrations.
A
south Indian doctor couple was in tears explaining how much they trusted their
daughter, pursuing doctorate in anthropology and how they were deceived by her.
She went missing with her African boyfriend and had not even bothered to inform
them. May be it was their misfortune to have a daughter in this permissive land
of butter and honey and to experience the horrible trauma she had just
subjected her unsuspecting loving parents.
Sharmaji
was furious and severely reprimanded them for allowing an unholy friendship to
grow with an African and now bothering him with their misery
The
couple repeatedly appealed with folded hands, touched his feet and begged for
the help, as the police would not interfere in the matters concerning two
consenting adults.
Sharmaji
asked me to be on my own as he went about discharging his responsibility with
zeal of a true savior of Indian honor. After few days the girl was back with
her parents after the adventurous African was suitably thrashed to repent his
folly of seducing a demure Indian girl. A proud Sharmaji later told me how he
had used his well-oiled Lathi to overpower the well-built suitor. His son was
helpful in delivering a hard kick to the unsuspecting African and the girl was
freed without much trouble.
For
Sharmaji and his gang, dealing with the demure African with an expired visa was
a cake walk. He happily described the events in great details enabling me to
visualize few important scenes. The African, a scholarly loner not having any
links with gangs of his tribe was petrified by threats of him being linked with
dreaded drug trafficking.
The
gusty tall girl threatened Sharmaji with dire consequences as she would report
the matter to the police.
“You,
fucking dog asshole. How dare you?”
An
angry Sharmaji sprang up and gave her few hard slaps.
“This
is shameful, a girl abusing elders, I will kill my daughters if they utter such
filthy worlds.”
Sharmaji
was livid with anger as the couple begged him to forgive the stupid girl.
“Don’t
forget to keep an eye on and marry her off fast. You have only one day, better
you hurry up and take next flight to India.”
“I
hate you guys, how could you allow this brute?”
The
girl stopped speaking as Sharmaji raised his bony hand again to hit her. He
brazenly brushed off girl’s threats and asked the parents to keep her locked in
a room without a phone and arrange to marry her off fast before she would bring
more dishonor to them. The relieved couple thanked him for his help.
I
secretly despised what he did to that girl and many others before her, but
could not even dare to stop or discourage him at all. Any such foolish attempts
of mine would have surely invited his deep anger laced with volley of choicest
Panjabi gaalis. I also dreaded as a consequence, the sure termination of his
much needed comfortable hospitality in a foreign land. The small window he
provided to view life of some of the Indian Diasporas was also of great value.
So I willfully resigned myself to being a silent privileged witness.
When
I asked wasn’t it dangerous to use strong arm tactics in this law abiding
country, his answer was typically Indian: Jiski Lathi Uski Bhains.
He
practiced this universal truth and his good connections within the police saw
him through these small problems.
The
girl was somehow cajoled, persuaded to get over her infatuation, drugged and
transported to madras to be married off to a New York based green card.
Later
she divorced the green card and joined her lover in Canada. They lived together
for few years and gradually parted away.
True
to her independent spirits Richa, dated and married her Shri Lankan classmate.
Sharmaji was deeply hurt but gradually manage to forgive her. Pratibha didn’t
mind an arranged marriage with a bright Panjabi doctor, produced by her loving
father.
Last
I heard of Sharmaji, he was in some real deep trouble with the British police.
Email: cyberdynamix@gmail.com
******************************************
Madhav Singh asserts his moral
right as writer of this fictional story.
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