There’s this very old joke, which I’d assume is Punjabi, ’cause that’s darjee’s version to me when I was knee-high.
Our language reflects our infectious joie de vivre and does full justice to jokes. Even the daily Punjabi is liberally splattered with superlatives and our cuss words are the choicest. However, for us, the pun is at its most hilarious when it features at least one bumbling Punju.
Anyway, to be in the spirit of this anecdote we’ll step back in time to when there was most everything, but not as sleek nor as sophisticated and definitely not as overly ‘smart’ as those of today.
Well, there was this bus driver, probably a Sardarji, recklessly and haphazardly steering a busload of villagers up the winding, narrow trail on one of the very many mountains and hills in our good ’ol Bharat. Then, at one of the many hairpin curves, the jalopy careened over and plunged into the deep khai below.
Almost instantly, the dude finds himself, rather his spirit, standing before Yamraj, whose verdict was quick and a little shocking; even for his doots, who’d been ordered to escort the errant Serd to heaven!
Next in line was a priest, who’d died at the pulpit. Within a blink, Yamraj ordered him cast into the netherworlds!
To the priest, this was unacceptable, and he vehemently protested the discrimination: paradise to a driver responsible for the death of many and hell, to him, who’d spent a lifetime nudging his congregation towards God, the Almighty?
Yamraj retorted, saying, “Your sermons put the congregation to sleep, while this driver, with his rash driving, forced his passengers to face their mortality, after which they spent all their remaining breaths in one-pointed remembrance of the Creator. Thus, I deem him worthy of paradise.”
The moral of the story? No clue!
Just that this ‘joke’ was almost too real during our recent 10-hour road trip from Bangalore in Karnataka, through Kerala and then, the last three hours snaking uphill on the thin strip to Coonoor, a lush tea-estate in the rolling, Nilgiri Range in Tamil Nadu.
The view along the drive was breathtaking, as was the four-night stay in the middle of the plantation, high up amongst the clouds.
Coonoor is a favorite, add-on repose for hubby dear and me during our trips to Bangalore. Nevertheless, during those trips, we’d been entrusting the lives of two oldies to the driver of the hired SUV, believing that he’s accustomed to navigating the path hugging the rugged mountain on one side, and deep gorges on the other.
But in all honesty, as with everything in this country, there’s mysterious work at play. There seems to be a telepathy between the drivers plying up and down that hair-raising road who navigate it with relaxed ease; their one foot on the accelerator to keep the needed ascending speed, yet rarely needing to brake, and instinctively, almost on auto, swerve and veer clear of the oncoming cars, lorries, trucks, public buses, and a host of other vehicles.
The drivers even manage to respond to hubby dear’s insatiable habit of chit-chatting; much to my chagrin.
However, on this trip we had precious cargo riding with us on the Tempo (a van ‘of sorts’); my son’s family of four. Believe me, Waheguru never seemed closer nor dearer than on those three-hour nerve-wracking, heart-stopping, uphill and downhill jaunts.
The trip was the first ever for my 8- and 13-year-old grandkids to Incredible India; a cauldron of multiple cultures, religions, languages, cuisines and deities.
It well justified its reputation of leaving an indelible mark on the psyche. It’s a country pulsating in a unique rhythm; one that defies all applicable logic because, somehow, inexplicably, despite the visible pandemonium, things work out.
A million adjectives wouldn’t suffice to describe this ancient land of saints and sages; a mystical place that gave the world the number zero, ayurveda, astronomy, yoga, and much more; a land that still clings to what was, and yet, galloped ahead and reached the dark side of the moon.