The Good, the Bad and the Ridiculous Read Free Page A

taxi driver for help. My advance tip came in handy—he acquiesced. Together, we got Begum Para on her feet and pushed her into the seat. I slammed the door shut and bid her a hurried farewell, swearing to forever steer clear of divas given to drink.
    That was my last encounter with Begum Para. But when I heard of her passing in 2008, I was deeply saddened, remembering only the pleasure of those shared Sunday breakfasts long ago in Bombay.

BHAGAT PURAN SINGH
(1904–1992)
    Sometime in 1980, I happened to be addressing a convocation of the Khalsa College in Amritsar. I noticed an old man with a scraggy long beard, an untidy white turban wrapped around his head, dressed in khadi kurta-pyjama, engrossed in taking notes on what I was saying. I could not take my eyes off him. He disappeared as soon as the convocation was over. Later, I asked the principal of the college, who was sharing the dais with me, about the old man in the front row. ‘You don’t know him?’ he asked in surprise. ‘That was Bhagat Singh of the Pingalwara.’
    ‘What was he writing while the speeches were going on?’ I asked.
    ‘He always does that,’ replied the principal. ‘If he hears anything worthwhile, he puts it in his newspaper published in Punjabi and English. In the Pingalwara, he has his own printing press.’
    Bhagat Puran Singh had become a household name long before I saw him. On a subsequent visit to Amritsar, I noticed small, black tin boxes, with the word Pingalwara written in white on them, in different parts of the city. These had a slit on top, through which people could put in money. I learnt that Bhagat Puran Singh was to be seen on the steps of the Golden Temple as well, holding out the hem of his kurta for people to drop alms for his home for destitutes. It had also become a practice in many families to send money to the Pingalwara when there was a wedding in the house or in memory of a deceased family member. Neither the Punjab government nor the municipality gave him any financial assistance; it was only the people who gave him just enough to feed, clothe and render medical assistance to over 800 sick men, women and children abandoned by their families.
    I was intrigued and determined to meet him. From Delhi I wrote to him seeking an appointment to visit the Pingalwara and talk to him. I got a reply in Gurmukhi, written in his own hand, asking me to come as soon as I could. Three days later, I was back in Amritsar. I took a taxi from the railway station and arrived at the Pingalwara.
    The first thing Bhagatji asked me was: ‘How did you come here?’
    ‘By train from Delhi, then by cab from the station,’ I replied, somewhat bewildered by the question. Maybe he thought I had flown in.
    ‘You should have come by tonga or on a bicycle,’ he said quite firmly.
    ‘Where would I find a bicycle on hire at the railways station? And a tonga would have taken more than an hour to get here,’ I protested.
    Bhagatji gave me a dressing down: ‘Do you know how much poisonous gas a motor car emits and fouls the air?’ He then proceeded to give me a long lecture on global warming and what it would do to human and animal life, forests and vegetation. He thrust some sheets of his newsletter in my hand, commanding me: ‘Read this, and this, and this.’
    Clearly, he was somewhat of a crackpot. I love crackpots.
    I went round the Pingalwara. It did not answer the requirements of modern hygiene. People were lying on charpoys with flies buzzing around. Lavatory stench, mixed with the smell of phenyl and food being cooked, pervaded the air. Volunteers scurried around, doing the best they could. It was evident that there was shortage of everything—food, clothes, medicines, staff. How much could one man do to help 800 people?
    I made a nominal donation, gathered all the printed material Bhagatji gave me and retuned to Delhi.
    Back home, I wrote in my columns about Bhagatji’s dedicated service and the odds he was facing. I wrote to the