No Offence Meant!
Two terrorists were driving their Maruti to the spot where they intended to place their bomb. The one in the driver’s seat looked very worried. ‘Natha, what happens if the bomb we have on the back seat blows up before we get to the site?’
‘Not to worry,’ replied Natha, ‘I have a spare one in my attache case.’
When tenders were floated for the Channel Tunnel to connect England and France, many international building companies vied with one another to get the contract. The stakes were very high; the job of digging beneath the sea required great engineering skill and building expertise. Tenders were opened by the board of directors of the Anglo-French Corporation which had taken on the project. British builders’ estimates were over 200 million dollars each; French and German builders’ were marginally lower. There was one from India: Singh & Singh Builders whose estimate was only five million dollars. The board was for ignoring the Indian tender but out of curiosity invited Singh & Singh over to discuss the plans.
Banta Singh and Santa Singh of Singh & Singh Builders appeared before the board. The chairman asked them, ‘Have you any experience of undertaking this kind of work?’
‘Indeed we have,’ replied the two Singhs. ‘We bored a lot of tube wells in the Punjab and Haryana. We can bore holes anywhere.’
‘This is not as simple. How will you connect the tunnel from the English side to the French?’
‘Simple,’ replied Santa Singh, ‘Banta Singh will dig from the French end and I from the English.’
The chairman was flabbergasted. ‘You don’t realize that it will need a lot of accurate calculation to get the two tunnels to meet at the same point under the channel. Other companies’ estimates are over 200 million dollars each and you think you can do the same job for five million dollars. How will that be possible?’
‘What is bothering you?’ demanded Singh & Singh. ‘If our two tunnels don’t meet, instead of one we will give you two tunnels.’
Contributed by Prem Khanna, Noida
Santa Singh and Banta Singh were always boasting of their parents’ achievement to each other.
Santa Singh : ‘Have you heard of the Suez Canal?’
Banta Singh : ‘Yes, I have.’
Santa Singh : ‘Well, my father dug it.’
Banta Singh : ‘That’s nothing. Have you heard of the Dead Sea?’
Santa Singh : ‘Yes, I have.’
Banta Singh : ‘Well, my father killed it.’
This I picked up in the Central Hall of Parliament. Apparently President Zail Singh was operated on in the same Texan hospital as his predecessor Sanjiva Reddy. When taken to the operating theatre, the chief surgeon asked our Rashtrapati, ‘Are you ready?’
‘No I am not Reddy,’ replied Gyaniji, ‘I am Zail Singh.’
A patriotic Sardarji saw the Indian tricolour flutter ing in the breeze. He stood at attention and saluted. ‘Why did you salute that flag?’ asked a passer-by. ‘It has saffron for the Hindus, green for the Muslims and white for all the others. Nothing for the Sikhs.’
Prompt came the Sardarji’s reply: ‘And what do you think the danda on which the flag flutters represents? Only the Sikhs.’
A Hindu, a Muslim and a Sikh were discussing the marvellous achievements of their own brands of surgery. Said the Hindu, ‘I know of a vaidji who joined a severed arm with the use of Ayurvedic glue. You can’t even tell where the arm had been cut.’ Not to be outdone, the Muslim spoke: ‘A hakeem sahib has evolved a new kind of adhesive ointment. He used it on a fellow who had his head cut off. You can’t tell where the neck was severed.’ It was the Sardarji’s turn to extol the latest developments in Sikh surgery. ‘We have gone much further,’ said the Sardarji thumping his chest proudly. There was this chacha of mine who was cut into two round his navel. Our Sikh surgeon immediately slaughtered a goat and joined its rear half to Chacha’s upper half. So now we have our Chacha as well as two litres of milk every day.’
Actor–wrestler Dara Singh, taking a stroll along Juhu beach, was set upon by a dozen urchins who after beating him black and blue took away his purse which, fortunately for him, contained very little money. Dara who had floored the world’s best wrestlers put up no resistance. When he arrived home with two black eyes, puffed cheeks and a torn shirt, his Sardarni asked him in great alarm what had happened. Dara Singh told her all. ‘And why didn’t you hit back? Surely you could have knocked the hell out of these skinny fellows!’
‘Sure!’ replied the Sardar. ‘But my fee for flooring champions is Rs 25,000. I don’t fight for free.’
Contributed by Wazir Chand Didi, Chandigarh
Banta Singh happened to be in a queue at a railway station ticket counter with a man ahead of him.
‘Ek Punjab Mail dena (Give me one for the Punjab Mail),’ demanded the man in front. He was given a ticket.
Then came the turn of Banta Singh, ‘Ikk Punjab female dena.’
‘What do you mean by Punjab female?’ asked the clerk.
‘It is for my wife,’ replied Banta Singh.
Contributed by J.P. Singh Kaka, New Delhi
Two Sardarjis, both students of IIT, Kanpur, were talking about the American astronauts. One said to the other, ‘What’s the big deal about going to the moon—anybody can go to the moon. We are Sikhs—we’ll go direct to the sun.’
‘But if we get within thirteen million miles of the sun, we’ll melt.’
The first answered, ‘So what, we’ll go at night.’
Contributed by Judson K. Cornelius, Hyderabad
Banta Singh : ‘Er, is that Air India office? Can you tell me how long it takes to fly from Delhi to Bombay?’
Booking clerk : ‘Just a minute, sir . . .’
Banta : ‘Okay. Thanks a lot.’ And he hangs up.
Contributed by Kamal Sharma, Mukerian
A Sardarji and a Bengali were travelling in the same railway compartment. It was very hot and the Bengali was having trouble undoing the steel strap of his wrist-watch. The Sardar went across and with one mighty jerk undid the buckle. ‘You Bengalis should eat gehoon (wheat). It makes you strong.’
The Bengali did not appreciate the advice. A few minutes later he grasped the alarm-chain and pretended to be unable to pull it. Once again the Sardarji leapt to his assistance and pulled down the chain with a triumphant yell: ‘There! You Bengalis should eat . . .’
The train came to a halt. The conductor accompanied by a couple of policemen asked the Sardarji to explain why he had pulled the chain, and on his failure to do so, fined him fifty rupees.
After they had left, the Bengali gently advised the Sardarji, ‘You Punjabis should eat rice. It is better for the brain.’
An elderly Punjabi admitted to the intensive care department of a hospital made a request that he should be allowed to take lessons in Urdu. The doctor in charge was very puzzled and asked him the reason why. ‘Urdu is the language of angels,’ replied the Punjabi. ‘If I die I want to be able to converse with all the houris I will meet in paradise.’
‘How can you be sure you will go to heaven?’ asked the doctor. ‘You may go down to hell, then what good will Urdu, which you call the language of angels, be to you?’
‘That will be no problem. I am fluent in Punjabi.’
Gorkhas are famous for the discipline they observe in the army and the respect with which they treat their officers. Once there was a fire in a highrise building occupied by the army. No sooner had they heard the alarm, a batch of Gorkha jawans ran out with a heavy net to rescue those who jumped down from the upper storeys. Some clerks came down and were saved. Then their commanding officer leapt from the top floor. The soldiers saw him hurtling down. They dropped the net, sprang to attention and saluted. The colonel was not as lucky as the clerks.
Contributed by M.L. Batra, Karnal
A Haryana Jat, who had been irritated by his failure to answer any of the riddles put to him by a clever Bania, said angrily: ‘All right, now you answer this riddle: What is hun
g on a wall, is red, drips and speaks?’
After a while the Bania admitted he did not know the answer.
‘It is a picture!’ said the Jat triumphantly.
‘A picture? It can be hung on a wall but it is not always red,’ protested the Bania.
‘Then paint it red.’
‘A picture doesn’t drip; it’s dry,’ protested the Bania again.
‘Put fresh paint on it and it will drip.’
‘But whoever heard of a picture that talks!’
‘That’s right!’ replied the Jat, ‘I added that to make sure a cunning Bania like you would not get the answer.’
A wealthy Maheshwari, the richest of the Marwari community, was complaining about his wife’s spendthrift habits to a friend. ‘One day she asked me for ten rupees, the next day she asked me for twenty and this morning she wanted twenty-five. She is the limit.’
‘She certainly is,’ agreed the friend. ‘What did she do with all that money?’
‘Main kya jaanoon (How should I know),’ replied the wealthy man. ‘I never gave her any.’
A Muslim couple arrived in paradise and approached Allah for permission to have another nikah performed. Allah asked them to wait for some time. After waiting for some years, they again approached the Almighty with their request. Allah took them to His office and showed them a pile of thousands of pending applications asking for permission for a repeat marriage. ‘You see I can do nothing till some mullah is allowed to enter paradise; there hasn’t been one for many decades.’
Contributed by Prof. Gurcharan Singh, Patiala
Sindhis are known both for their sharp practices as well as for their clannishness: they drive hard bargains but also help fellow-Sindhis find employment. The following story was told to me by a Sindhi businessman on a visit to Hong Kong. He wanted to have a silk suit made and went to a Sindhi tailor’s shop at the airport which advertised suits made to measure in a couple of hours. The visiting businessman selected the material and asked how much it cost. The tailor replied: ‘Sir, seeing you are a fellow Sindhi I will offer you a special price. A suit of this material costs 200 Hong Kong dollars as you can see clearly marked on the label. I charge everyone else $ 200 but not a fellow Sindhi. I won’t ask for $ 199, not even $ 180. For you it will be $ 170, not a cent more.’
‘Why should you lose money on me just because I happen to be a fellow-Sindhi,’ replied the visitor. ‘So what should I offer for this suit? Seventy dollars? That I would to a non-Sindhi brother. I offer you ninety dollars and not a cent less.’
‘Okay. That’s a deal,’ replied the tailor.
Hindlish
From the number of letters I receive, it would appear that linguistic bloomers are a very popular form of humour. Most of us who are Anglicized wogs switch from our native languages to English, interspersing each with words from the other. Even the uneducated make free use of English words. I heard a qawwali singer complain that because of her inattentive audience, ‘Mood kharab ho gaya.’ A labourer reprimanded the foreman: ‘Mere kaam mein interfere mat karo.’ And I hear the word ‘bore’ in almost all Indian languages.
Then there is the mauling of foreign words. A lady reluctant to give up a seat she had occupied proclaimed: ‘I am not nicling from here.’ Mr Pandu Chintamani of Bombay sends a report conveyed by the guard of a train in which the lights were on the blink. It read ‘Bijlee is bajanging . . . if any haraj maraj ho gaya, guard is not jumevar.’ I don’t believe it. However, here is one of my favourites:
A minister for housing (name not disclosed for fear of causing ‘hatred, ridicule or contempt’) was presiding over a committee considering plans for building urinals. The plans were examined and passed. The honourable minister made the concluding address: ‘Gentlemen, now that we have sanctioned plans for the construction of urinals, it is only appropriate that we should take up the scheme for raising arsenals.’
This is an anecdote about a student looking for a textbook prescribed for his English examination. He could not recollect the title of the book. ‘I can tell you what the name of the book is in Hindi: Maimney ki dum say hilti naashpaatee.’ The erudite bookstore owner was able to locate the required book: Lamb’s Tales from Shakespeare.
Contributed by Shanti, Delhi
A young lady went to a hospital and told the receptionist that she wished to see an upturn. ‘You mean an intern, don’t you dear?’ asked the kindly nurse. ‘Well, whatever you call it, I want a contamination,’ replied the girl. ‘You mean examination,’ corrected the nurse. ‘Maybe so,’ allowed the girl. ‘I want to go to the fraternity ward.’ ‘Maternity ward,’ said the nurse with a slight smile. ‘Look,’ insisted the girl, ‘I don’t know much about big words, but I do know that I haven’t demonstrated for two months, and I think I’m stagnant.’
Brown sahibs have lots of fun spotting grammar and spelling bloomers on hoardings, ads and brochures put out by their countrymen whose command over English is not as good as theirs. An American friend, Leonard J. Baldgya of the US embassy, has sent a short compilation of items picked up by American students in different parts of Europe. They make as good reading as our Hindlish.
In a Bucharest hotel lobby: The lift is being fixed for the next day. During that time we regret that you will be unbearable.
In a Belgrade hotel elevator: To move the cabin, push button for wishing floor. If the cabin should enter more persons, each one should press a number of wishing floor. Driving is then going alphabetically by national order.
In a hotel in Athens: Visitors are expected to complain at the office between the hours of 9 and 11 a.m. daily.
In a Japanese hotel: You are invited to take advantage of the chamber-maid.
In the lobby of a Moscow hotel across from a Russian Orthodox monastery: You are welcome to visit the cemetery where famous Russian composers, artists and writers are buried daily except Thursday.
In an Austrian hotel catering to skiers: Not to perambulate the corridors in the hours of repose in the boots of ascension.
On the menu of Polish hotel: Salad a firm’s own make; limpid red beet soup with cheesy dumplings in the form of a finger; roasted duck let loose; beef rashers beaten up in the country people’s fashion.
In a Bangkok dry cleaner’s shop: Drop your trousers here for best results.
Outside a Paris dress shop: Dresses for street-walking.
Outside a Hong Kong dress shop: Ladies have fits upstairs.
In an advertisement by a Hong Kong dentist: Teeth extracted by the latest Methodists.
In a Czechoslovakian tourist agency: Take one of our horse-driven city tours—we guarantee no miscarriages.
Detour sign in Kyushi, Japan: Stop—Drive Sideways.
In a Swiss mountain inn: Special today—no ice cream.
In a Bangkok temple: It is forbidden to enter a woman, even a foreigner, if dressed as a man.
In a Tokyo bar: Special cocktail for the ladies with nuts.
In a Copenhagen airline office: We take your bags and send them in all directions.
In a Rome laundry: Ladies, leave your clothes here and spend the afternoon having a good time.
A translated sentence from a Russian chess book: A lot of water has been passed under the bridge since this variation has been played.
In a Rhodes tailor shop: Order your summers suit. Because is big rush we will execute customers in strict rotation.
In an East African newspaper: A new swimming pool is rapidly taking shape since the contractors have thrown in the bulk of their workers.
Advertisement for donkey rides in Thailand: Would you like to ride on your own ass?
In the window of a Swedish furrier: Fur coats made for ladies from their own skin.
Two signs from a Majorcan shop entrance: English well talking. Here speeching American.
From a brochure of a car rental firm in Tokyo: When passenger of foot heave in sight, tootle the horn. Trumpet him melodiously at first, but if he still obstacles your passage then tootle him wit
h vigour.
Paki-Bashing
A joke that recently did the rounds of Delhi’s diplomatic cocktail circuit, though slightly over the line of propriety, deserves to be told because it illustrates the kind of feelings that obtain between Indians and Pakistanis. The President of the Soviet Union was celebrating his silver jubilee. As head of state he desired that all countries accredited to it should present him with the best of their products. First came the American ambassador with a brand new Cadillac. The President graciously accepted the gift. It was followed by the British ambassador presenting the latest model of a Rolls-Royce. The President was delighted and desired that his thanks be conveyed to Queen Elizabeth II. The next was the ambassador of Israel. He had brought a new variety of elongated lemon developed in his country. The President was furious and ordered the lemon to be put up the Israeli’s posterior. Then came the Indian ambassador. He presented a luscious Alphonso mango. The President was not amused and ordered the fruit to be stuffed up the Indian’s behind. Having been subjected to this painful insult the Israeli and the Indian ambassadors met in the lobby of Kremlin Palace. The Israeli looked woebegone. The Indian was wreathed in smiles.
The Israeli asked the Indian, ‘How can you manage to look so happy after what has been done to you?’
The Indian ambassador replied, ‘You’ve no idea what is in store for the ambassador of Pakistan. He has brought the largest watermelon developed in his country.’
No sooner was General Zia buried than a whole lot of anti-Zia jokes which were whispered around began to be told openly. ‘How did they recognize General Zia’s body from the debris of the air crash?’ Answer: ‘It was the only one firmly clutching the chair it was seated on.’
The other one is more macabre in its black humour. Since all victims of the crash were mutilated beyond recognition, the workers putting bodies in coffins did the best they could, giving each a head, torso, arms and legs, without bothering what belonged to whom. The bodies were solemnly interred in different graves.
Not a Nice Man to Know Page 52