(File Photo Caption: Former Editor-in-Chief of The Tribune , Late Prem Bhatia with Dr Gurnam Singh Tir )
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The evening that changed the entire course of my life
Ours was an open house. Country cousins, friends and associates were just welcome to make it their home, if they needed to stay on in Chandigarh for a while. Apart from father's room, no other area of the house was marked as private territory. Brought up among a kaleidoscope of influences, I learnt to appreciate poetry, knew fairly well what was meant to be known about the political scenario, was exposed to the travails of peasantry, familiar with the struggles in cities and what not. The impressionable child in me soaked up all the information, effortlessly. Quite a mish-mash, if you ask, as one struck a balance between the Queen's English at school and the rustic Malwai Punjabi at home. To add to my over-programmed brain, was a new entrant. A revolutionary poet, (yes the Naxalite movement had churned out a few)had come to complete his doctorate under the tutelage of father's dear friend in the Panjab University. He was to be our new 'family member'.
(File Photo Caption: Bubbu Tir with her father Gurnam Singh Tir )
Talk of Punjabi benevolence! Highly opinionated and extremely narcissist if I may say, he just spread his wings in my domain. Coining his own names for my parents, he seemed to take over the entire place. How I detested his presence in the house! Totally oblivious to my discomfort, he bulldozed his way into any conversation I had with father and silenced me off completely. Much to my dismay, I found my country cousins enslave themselves to his demands. God knows how he modified his Urdu for their benefit, they would hear out his recitation in rapt attention the whole day! The same ones, who needed me to translate a simple English term into Punjabi for them to comprehend.
One evening as Dad and I went for our post dinner walk, the 'poet' just mushroomed from nowhere and sabotaged it completely. A car stopped near dad and a suave well attired gentleman alighted to meet dad. His elegant wife too followed. I gathered he was an army General. Dad introduced the 'poet' to the couple, as I looked on with tear stung eyes. It was as if I didn't exist! Never in my thirteen years of existence had I felt so walked over. That evening as we got back, I picked up a pen and scribbled out my first attempt. It appeared fairly readable to me, so sent it to the most eminent paper of those days. Little did I know, it was destiny at play. That evening had changed the entire course of my life. The editor-in - chief was kind enough to approve of my effort. He got it subbed and carried it as the poem of the week. My name,as it existed in school certificate had been done away with. Recognising the address on the envelope, Mr Prem Bhatia gave me my pen name that is my identity to date. Honour your legacy responsibly, said Mr Bhatia . Nothing could parallel the pride with which I carried the paper with my poem to father and petulantly asked him, would you introduce me to people now?
The 'poet' had propelled me along the path I walk on today, unknowingly. Years later, he passed away. Much water had flown under the bridge by now. I stood in my shoes, comfortably. As the news of his demise spread, a couple of radio n tv channels asked me to pay a tribute to him as he had had the longest association with my family. I feebly smiled, spoke about the man who penned beautifully, lived to write in turbulent times and in his own way added to my growth.
The karmic debt had been taken care of.
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Bubbu Tir, Writer , Poet and Columnist
Bubbutir@yahoo.com
Phone No. : +91-9814433133
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