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Re: PT?+3: Death in Ghaziabad - 1

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Followups directed to: soc.culture.indian, alt.fan.jai-maharaj, misc.writing

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On Wed, 5 Apr 2017 18:24:40 -0700 (PDT),
in soc.culture.indian, in article
<6738e8d0-c971-461f-8dae-57750f591c2b@googlegroups.com>,
Arindam Banerjee <banerjee...@gmail.com> posted:
> 
> > On Friday, January 8, 1999 at 7:00:00 PM UTC+11,
> > Viewpoint wrote: 
> > Arindam Banerjee wrote: 
> > 
> > > Picaresque tales of an Indian publicsectorman - ?+3 
> > > 
> > > Death in Ghaziabad  - 1 
> > > 
> > > 
> > > 
> > > (may be continued) 
> > 
> > Well, that was an half-hour of absorbing reading. Began
> > reading casually, but by the time I was past the third
> > paragraph, I had to slow down my pace, sinking in each
> > sentence slowly, going over the already-read matter again
> > and again if need be .. 
> > 
> > You'll be shot dead if you don't continue. 
> > 
> > You've been a public sector man. You wondered what you
> > were doing in life. You have a love-hate relationship
> > with Bollywood films, but an ear for Hindi film music.
> > Rekha in Utsav gave you sleepless nights. You write
> > exceedingly well. You love the good life. You like your
> > profession and the challenges it brings with it. Are you
> > a Virgo by any chance? :) And why 'Death in Ghaziabad'?
> > Any title with the words 'Die' or 'Death' in it strikes
> > me as indicative of a gloomy piece of literature, which
> > yours is not.
> 
> Death in Ghaziabad c. 1978-81 AD  (MA: sex, violence,
> truth) 
> 
> Death could come to you easily in Ghaziabad.  I first saw
> Death when the bus came to a sudden jolt.  With  sudden
> rush the occupants of the left side came to the right.  I
> had a clear view from my window.  It was of a young man
> in pajamas lying curiously still on the road.  He had
> evidently been hit and left for dead. A small crowd had
> gathered.  Some stones had been put around the corpse -it
> was not that of a dog, after all.  Our driver was
> pragmatic.  He did not stop.  I do not know who did the
> needful, and how.  Something was surely done with the
> body, for it was not there when I returned to the site an
> hour later.  What was striking about  this incident was
> that it made not even the slightest change in the local
> surroundings.  Things went on as if the accident had
> never happened.   
> 
> No ambulances would ever rush with screeching sirens in
> Ghaziabad, for there were not any.  There was no sign of
> any authority, not any that one could see.  The traffic
> policeman would stand helplessly at the crossing in front
> of the "Ghantaghar", or clock tower building.  There were
> traffic lights at the crossing, and they even worked at
> times.  But they could never regulate the traffic.  There
> was a police outpost, on the road to the station.  The
> policemen had no cars or telephones or guns, and it is
> doubtful  if they even had paper available.  They had
> only sticks and  bicycles.   
> 
> Anarchy, then, was the normal state in Ghaziabad.  My
> neighbours relished the telling of ghastly stories, and
> they apparently believed what they said and heard.
> Probably they were all highly exaggerated.  Once the shop
> near the room I lived in was robbed.  The little boy who
> worked there came running to me in fear.  From what could
> be made out, there had been extensive murder and mayhem.
> I went to investigate.  The miscreants had by that time
> decamped.  No one had been hurt, but some money was
> taken. That was the only time the shop was robbed, in my
> three years of stay in Modeltown, Ghaziabad.  It was the
> only noteworthy shop of its kind in the entire area. 
> 
> Western ways did show themselves in Ghaziabad, most
> noticeably in the District Court near my lodging. Lawyers
> in black coats thronged like flies, over the ramshackle
> wooden furniture inside and outside the tents around the
> decaying Court buildings.  They did not inspire respect
> upon first sight.  Later on, I would come to know how
> thorough and professional they were at their work.  As I
> now see it, they form the only chance of establishing
> order among the surrounding chaos. 
> 
> What was I doing in Ghaziabad?  That was a question which
> puzzled my friend, colleague and mentor Shordar Bigaru
> Singh.  What was one of my kind doing in Ghaziabad?  I
> should be studying in the United States, with the
> intention of bringing back technical knowledge to India,
> as indeed a few did. 
> 
> I was dying in Ghaziabad.  Much later would I know
> exactly how and what about me was dying there.   
> 
> How was I dying?  It is difficult to explain.  I had no
> physical disease.  My job as an antenna development
> engineer, which often entailed continuous 15 hour
> schedules and long field trips, was difficult and
> demanding.  But I liked my work, even though I knew it
> would lead me nowhere.   
> 
> I was in Ghaziabad because I wanted to understand certain
> things, such as exactly why we Indians were so, so, poor
> and others elsewhere were so rich.  Books and articles
> from learned people taught me nothing.  I intuited that
> analyses from foreign writers were wrong or shallow.
> Indian writers of the kind one read in the English
> language merely parroted them.  My own childhood and
> youth had been far too golden.  I always had the best of
> everything, and so, knew nothing at all.  I had to find
> out the answers for myself, and for that, I had to live
> by myself among Indians of the kind not paid by the
> public.  I knew I could never be contented otherwise. 
> 
> Ghaziabad was killing me slowly.  With every passing day,
> I knew I was becoming less and less of the person I was
> when I graduated.  I was losing my academic skills and my
> chances of a career abroad or even in a lucrative private
> sector job in India.  I should have at least been doing
> an MBA!  From being the apple of everyone's eye I had
> become a complete non-entity.   
> 
> And what was I gaining?  As far as I could see, nothing.
> I would walk alone on the dusty roads of Ghaziabad,
> seeking answers, but answers - they eluded me.  The local
> people would look upon me with indifference, as if to say
> they had seen many such as I before.  Only money talked
> in Ghaziabad. And yet, only if you could show it off by
> living in huge high-walled houses, and possessed cars and
> servants.  Anyone who thinks that Indians care about
> spirituality and intellect should live in Ghaziabad.
> There was no Hindu temple that I could find, nor a single
> book-shop that sold anything other than textbooks.  There
> were, on the other hand, plenty of furniture shops and
> "Angrezi" liquor shops.   
> 
> Death would come more quickly if I frequented the liquor
> shops.  But I did not care for drink, unless it was
> lassi, the kind you got in just that one shop in that
> narrow street.   When the overpowering heat seemed to dry
> your very blood, that was just what was needed to live,
> and continue your questioning.   
> 
> Death could come even more quickly if you dared to change
> the established state of affairs. Once, boredom and
> curiosity took me to view a late night movie show.  I saw
> a strange sight.  Outside the window for the cheapest
> seats, there was a queue of people cowering like so many
> dumb animals, each with both hands upon the shoulders of
> the man before him.  Maintaining order was a person in a
> three-piece suit, marching up and down with a whip in his
> hand.  I wanted to do something, but I did not know what
> to do.  I had been warned by a well-wisher never to
> interfere in local matters.  "If you wish to survive
> here, just mind your own business.  When you have to deal
> with these people, put on your best behaviour, be very
> polite.  Unused to such, they will be taken aback and
> that'll be your best chance of getting what you want."  I
> once forgot this advice, and spoke my mind to a furniture
> shop-owner in Panchkuin Road, Delhi.  The man assaulted
> me! 
> 
> Yes, I was dying.  Ghaziabad was killing me in every way.
> My ambitions and dreams were fading in the distance.  All
> that could be seen, all that could be sensed, were
> callousness, selfishness and greed.  The fruit sellers
> would sneer if  you asked for just one kilo - you would
> not dare ask for half!  "Do kilo lay jao, ji!".  The
> local shopkeeper, I saw, would swipe a slice or two of a
> loaf of sliced bread if he sold in halves.  The merchants
> delighted in shaming you into buying more expensive
> stuff.  If you had no money you were nothing.  Your
> talents did not matter.  Nor did your health, youth or
> appearance.  What did matter was clothes, for they showed
> how much money you could spend.  Tailoring shops abounded
> in Ghaziabad. 
> 
> What did people do in Ghaziabad?  There were no public
> libraries, no gymnasiums, no clubs.  No one seemed to
> have hobbies of any kind.  There were no animated
> roadside discussions, as I had seen and taken part in
> Ranchi and Calcutta.  There were no signs of romance
> whatsoever - I never saw any boy with any girl; for that
> matter, hardly ever any married man alone in public with
> his wife.  While there were plenty of liquor shops, there
> was just one ramshackle "public house" selling country
> liquor next to the fishmongers' area.  People did not
> play anything, nor did they seem to take any exercise.
> Girls did not play music, nor sing, nor paint.  The boys
> - especially the well-dressed ones - seemed not to know
> what to do.  They aimlessly roamed around in small groups
> on motorcycles and scooters, showing off the latest
> fashions favored by film heroes.   
> 
> Waves of apathy rolled on all sides.  Everything seemed
> so pointless, so meaningless.  Life dragged on in slow
> reluctant ways.  If people moved, they moved slowly.  It
> seemed enough to live on for yet another day.  Nothing
> would change.  Attitudes were firmly fixed.  Or so I
> thought, as the following Arjuna's song from Tagore's
> Chitrangada would play in my head with increasing
> frequency - 
> 
> Disquiet profound haunts me today, o how my body burns!
> Cruel arrows pierce my heart, I am drenched with pain.
> Mirages dance before my eyes, fires blaze in my breast.
> This garland of welcome is threaded with the thread of
> Death. 
> 
> Known horizons fade away before the shadow lands of
> dreams That vanish as vanish the coloured palasa leaves
> of autumn. This journey is without purpose; I am given to
> losing my way. In this new, strange land it is my turn
> now, to die! 
> 
> My parents came for a visit.  And suddenly things
> changed.  Within a few days they managed to make friends
> with all the people around us.  My father with the men,
> and my mother with the women.  The Great Gango  (of whose
> lordliness I wrote about some years ago) quite instantly
> became like someone I had known my whole life.  Chachaji
> started looking genuinely more avuncular, and less like
> an avaricious landlord, as my father and he exchanged
> notes.  Other younger men around, following his lead,
> became more considerate.  The elderly lady next door said
> unpleasant things about her daughter-in-law, who had
> "captured" her doted son.  She had had to dissimulate to
> her relatives in Punjab, to hear them say,  "Tu yea kali
> larki laanay itinee dure gayi thee!"  (Did you have to go
> so far to get this black girl?)  The daughter-in-law did
> not endear herself to my mother, for she praised her
> husband in extravagant terms: "He is almost as tall, and
> more handsome than your son."  Chachiji however remained
> aloof, as became any self-respecting landlady with
> respect to mere tenants.   
> 
> Everything started to appear in a different light.  All
> of a sudden everyone around seemed to take an interest in
> me.  "Why did your son not ever talk to us?" was the
> question heard from all sides.  "Why is he so aloof, so
> reserved?"  It appeared that they too wanted answers
> about myself, as eagerly as I did about them.  My parents
> apologized; I was an only child, and so shy and never
> very talkative.  I became an object of sympathy.   
> 
> I learnt to talk to my fellow men, instead of trying to
> divine their ways by mere observation.  This approach
> made me see things in an entirely different light.  For
> the first time in my life, I could sense the mighty
> struggles involved in mere survival, and beyond that, the
> necessity for one-upmanship, to show that one has indeed
> made it, and put others in their place.  Everyone wanted
> to live, and live with head held high, showing off as
> much as possible.  You needed to buy things.  Good
> clothes for a start, then the refrigerator, the TV, the
> scooter...  For all that, you needed money and more money.
> And money depended upon muscle - who you knew, and - it
> was widely proclaimed - how unscrupulous you could be.
> Nobody thought that it was possible to lead richer lives
> by concentrating on making each other happy.  Quality of
> service was an unknown concept.   
> 
> This materialism was forcefully emphasized through urgent
> innuendoes by the fairer sex.  It acted against the more
> pervasive inertia of the males, who were quite content to
> laze and curse in a fatalistic manner.  Inertia was
> pitched against the desire for a better life.  Yet there
> was a deep underlying sentiment against the fate that
> made things so.  Why did things  have to be this way?
> What will happen in the future?  What do we really want?
> Such were the questions that seemed to naturally arise
> after every meeting.  The answers were never there - a
> great deal of discontent would ultimately focus upon some
> trivial issue.  Every day just passed into another.   
> 
> And I started to enjoy myself, as I realized that I was
> not the only one with unanswered questions.  I learnt to
> cook, and my family today is grateful for that.  I often
> ate out in "dhabas" and restaurants such as the Pahalwan
> which boasted the custom of none less than the great Dara
> Singh.   I drank glasses of lassi, ate Dasseri mangoes
> and most importantly watched Hindi movies.  They were the
> sole recreation and culture of the people of Ghaziabad.
> Seeing the latest movie on the first night of release was
> the most socially in-thing to do! 
> 
> I had a low opinion of run-of-the-mill Hindi films,
> formed by seeing bad plots, doll actresses and fool
> actors.  Only the music and songs were superlative, as
> they were accepted as a part of one's life with joy.  The
> first few Hindi movies I watched with disgust.  Really,
> was here nothing better for me to do in my life?  Must I
> be condemned for ever to watch such stupidity in the
> company of my good friends the paanwaalas and truck
> drivers? 
> 
> And then I saw Rekha. 
> 
> That was in the movie "Muqaddar ka Sikandar", in the
> company of Pal-da and the Great Gango who
> characteristically took us late to the cinema hall.  I
> was stunned, elated.   
> 
> The next morning I tried to communicate my thoughts and
> feelings to Sardar Bigaru Singh, holding court with his
> jolly friends. I had mentally labeled them as the
> behn***d group, as that expression, uttered in various
> interesting ways , was   an integral part of every
> sentence from their mouths.   He sister-referenced me
> affectionately, and then advanced his reason for my
> excitement: 
> 
> "O behn***d, she is a sexy woman." 
> 
> His companions looked at me peculiarly, as if to ask
> which planet I had come from.  I left the company of
> those simplistic clods, not bothering to hide my disgust.
> 
> 
> The sexiness of Rekha was by no means lost upon me, but
> that was not the only reason for my exhilaration.  At
> last I had seen an Indian whose performance was far
> superior to any Westerner.  Even Sophia Loren did not
> come close.  I had, thanks to the Indian-English writers
> and journalists, who exalt everything Western and deride
> everything Indian, been brought up to have the lowest
> possible opinion of India and Indians.  Those scoundrels,
> willing to do anything for a little crust of attention
> from foreign columnists, and over-ready to serve the
> interests of their Indian-hating masters, always took
> great care to give as little positive publicity as
> possible to genuine Indians and their efforts.  To really
> cripple them, they would put our best people grudgingly
> below second or third rate Westerners.   
> 
> Rekha shattered such bonds.  She liberated me.   She
> showed that one did not have to grow up to be a second-
> rate, disdained or patronized, pseudo-Western,
> perennially whining loser.   
> 
> A great desire for self-improvement came upon me.  I did
> not wish to live in a fog any longer.  I wanted to know
> what I was doing, at least in my professional work, to
> begin with.  There had to be some better methods than
> those tinkering ones of my mentor Sardar Bigaru Singh.
> Effective and in fact indispensable though they often
> were, they were of no use in the development of
> complicated systems such as phased array radar antennas. 
> 
> 
> To understand anything, one must know everything.  I
> embarked upon a solitary voyage of discovery.  My
> engineering books and notes arrived at last, and I
> studied them diligently.  I made many trips to Nai Sarak
> in Delhi, to buy university-level course books on all
> subjects that interested me.  I took them with me on my
> daily trips from Ghaziabad to Sohna, reading as I jerked
> along in the crowded four wheel drive.  I read them while
> not clambering up and down the huge Scientific Atlanta
> antenna positioner, connecting this, or adjusting that.
> While returning, it was usually dark, so there was
> nothing else to do except think of Rekha, and wonder if I
> could make it for the late night show. 
> 
> Thus things went on.  Gradually, as a result of my hard
> work and the grace of my dear Mother Kali, the mists
> cleared.  I made bold and drastic changes in the
> established designs, with strikingly positive results.
> From first principles, I made analytical models based
> upon the specifications, then run computer simulations to
> find the best parameter values and also the tolerances.
> Project after project made it from my drawing board to
> the prototype and production shops.  I worked in the hot
> sun on the roof, tuning the heavy corrugated horn
> antennas the Bigaru way, month after month.  I chased
> after parts in the prototype shop, learning all the
> nitty-gritty details.  I dealt with the military clients,
> and attended field trials where jet planes thundered at
> treetop height in the plains near Ambala.  What an
> experience!  How wonderful it is to ultimately see all
> the hard work bear fruit - produce the perfect radiation
> patterns with first the computer design and then the
> prototype antennas in our 5 Km long test site, finally
> going on to pass the stringent inspection tests with
> flying colours!  Such joy was my only reward.   
> 
> There were rare times when I enjoyed elite society. After
> our radar trials passed successfully, we were invited for
> cocktails in the Air Force Mess in Ambala. What a
> magnificent place!  Polished wooden floors, huge graceful
> rooms with long heavy curtains, elegant furniture of the
> like I had never seen before, a bar with muted lighting
> and such stately atmosphere!  Khansamahs in starched
> white uniforms and gold braid glided about like stately
> goldfish, bearing crystal glasses containing gin and
> whisky along with many interesting edible tidbits.   It
> was an environment for James Bonds, and indeed there they
> were all right.  I mean the pilots who had flown the
> sorties, who were the most remarkable people I ever met. 
> They did not seem to belong to this world, those men who
> dated Mrityu, the gentle but deaf and blind goddess of
> death, every sunrise.  Their courage, frankness, physical
> excellence and detachment made the rest of us feel pretty
> inadequate.   Their charming ladies fluttered around in
> colourful organdies. The total effect was intoxicating.
> After the shabbiness of my living quarters it was indeed
> heaven.  I felt glad to think that my work would help to
> bring back these heroes safely back from enemy territory,
> instead of getting shot down by our own people.   
> 
> My greatest recognition came unexpectedly.   I was
> outside the house of an insurance agent, who was  also a
> junior staff member of my company.  I did not like the
> man very much.  He had the pretentious upstart quality,
> so common among those of Ghaziabad, who had newly learnt
> to differentiate themselves from the rest by bastard
> mannerisms.  He was inviting me to have tea in his home,
> and  I was trying to excuse myself.  All of a sudden, his
> mask slipped off and he humbly said that it would be an
> honour for him if a man like myself would partake of his
> hospitality.   I immediately accepted, and did not forget
> to show my regard for his aged mother in our traditional
> manner. 
> 
> I was developing into an Indian!  I delighted in gossip.
> I had started to enjoy Hindi films.  I could even do
> fairly well in the radio quizzes!  Hindi film songs
> soothed my soul.  They were the expression of the sad and
> battered soul of the masses, the only living legacy of a
> great past now found pure and unscathed only in its music
> and ancient literature.  I even followed the latest
> fashion, and once wore a tailored bi-colour zipped jacket
> to my work!  "Ustaad, kiska pocket maarooN? (Boss, whose
> pocket's to be picked?) " queried Sardar Bigaru Singh. 
> 
> Hindi film plots were never unpredictable.  It is
> ironical that a drama of such intensity and character as
> I never found on the screen would become, for a while, a
> part of my life. 
> 
> ***** 
> 
> In this period of my anguish and searching, an incident
> occurred under the roof of our common dwelling that is
> well worth recording.  It was a death, the first I
> experienced at close hand.  Even now a coldness comes
> upon me as I think about it.  First I shall give some
> details of the place, and the people.   
> 
> The house was partitioned among three brothers, who had
> inherited it from their late father, a goods' clerk in
> the railways.  Let us not ask how he managed to build
> such a big house with a clerk's wages.  Maybe he had an
> inheritance, or maybe the Goddess Lakshmi had placed a
> bag of gold under his mattress.  In any case I was
> grateful for his enterprise - it was not easy to get
> rooms for rent in that part of Ghaziabad which boasted no
> less than three cinema halls within walking distance.  I
> was further lucky in that they allowed me to cook non-
> vegetarian food in the house. 
> 
> The son of the eldest was my landlord.  He was known to
> be too fond of drink, and so, by popular agreement, a bad
> lot.  As a matter of fact, he was an amiable chap, very
> polite.  I did not see much of him.  He lived with his
> parents in Delhi.  All he wanted was that my rent should
> reach him regularly.  When I once delayed, his cousin
> came to remind me, with two people of ruffianly aspect. 
> 
> The second son - Chachaji to all - was what one may call
> a pillar of the local community.  He knew all the local
> news.  He was fond of gardening, and outward show. Jovial
> and cordial though he was, there was something about him
> which made one suspect he was not entirely trustworthy.
> Perhaps this feeling came because he was of the opposing
> landlord class.  He had a reputation for being too
> clever, holding down one job in Delhi and, it was said,
> many small "dhandas". He lived with his wife -Chachiji -
> and his two young sons who ran the shop.  The sons were
> very "good".  That is, they heard everything you said,
> agreed with everything you said, and said that whatever
> you wanted would be done.  But they would never do
> anything for you.  Just give you the polite run-around.
> They were expert in making money through the sly, small,
> means typical of their class.  Chachiji was very
> reserved.  She and her married daughter were plump,
> large-eyed and fair.  They amply met the bovine standards
> of beauty in upper-caste North India. 
> 
> The third son is not important.  He was completely
> dominated by his wife, a large, uncouth, bossy woman.  I
> heard her boast how she threw out her tenants, using
> goondas.  Their belongings had been thrown out into the
> street.  They had not agreed to pay more rent.  How could
> that be tolerated?  Next door's were tenants who had been
> paying fifteen rupees a month for the last forty years!  
> 
> 
> My quarters, now.  I had two rooms, and a kitchen.  They
> were enough to contain my worldly possessions: a steel
> trunk for my clothes, books, a hold-all with a thin
> mattress, a kerosene stove and some cooking utensils.
> There was a door from the kitchen to an enclosed verandah
> which opened through another door to a largish cemented
> courtyard.  There were two rooms beyond the verandah on
> the other side of the courtyard.  There were high walls
> (one exterior, the other interior, partitioning us from
> Chachaji) on the other two parallel  sides of the
> courtyard. 
> 
> Two great friends lived in those two rooms.  Their
> friendship was known far and wide.  They were both young,
> in their late twenties, I would say. 
> 
> One of them was really handsome.  In a god-like way.  His
> eyes were far-seeing, visionary.  He walked as if always
> in a dream.  He was a supporter of the politician Hemvati
> Nandan Bahuguna.  Possibly he had a political career in
> front of him, as he was a lawyer, and had been involved
> in student-level politics.  He once talked to me
> admiringly about the bravery of Cubans: such a small
> country, yet so defiant of the Americans!  He was the
> only man in Ghaziabad for whom I had genuine regard.
> Unfortunately he had a throat problem - he had to gargle
> for hours. 
> 
> The other was quite the opposite.  He was completely
> nondescript.  You could not find him on a crowded railway
> platform.  He was a truck driver, hoping to buy a new
> truck for himself.  He had an ingratiating manner, as if
> to compensate for his limitations.  Jyoti-da had given
> him the name "DaNt-kala".  He had been living in my
> quarters before, so knew all the parties quite well.  I
> think he had been kicked out when in a drunken binge he
> and his associates had voiced far too much appreciation
> of Chachaji's daughter.   
> 
> "Oi DaNt-kala,(O one who shows his teeth out of
> foolishness)" he would say, with a most charming smile. 
> 
> The man was not very bright.   He thought that Jyoti-da
> was being friendly.  Unsure, wanting to reciprocate, but
> not quite understanding what was required from him, he
> would stand and grin, exposing his teeth. 
> 
> "Aaro kalao, (Show more)" Jyoti-da would add, with a
> bigger smile.  DaNt-kala would then do just that, to
> Jyoti-da's immense satisfaction, that he would manifest
> later to his cronies such as myself. 
> 
> I shall now describe some other people around who milled
> about when the tragedy happened. 
> 
> Rajju, the small boy.  Given proper education, he would
> have become something, for he was quite bright.  He had
> no relatives, and simple hung around the place, doing all
> the odd jobs in the shop and the house.   What I remember
> most about him was his shirt.  It was made up of many
> different pieces of fabric, cast-offs from the tailoring
> shops, carefully stitched together.  With that shirt he
> had managed to climb to the lowest rung of the social
> ladder in Ghaziabad.  He was not so old to be as sly as
> his young masters, so, quite often, I found him useful.  
> 
> 
> Guriya was the daughter-in-law I had written earlier. She
> was Chachaji's tenant.  As a mere tenant 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> (may be continued) 
> 
> ****** 
> 
> All I know is - it was not my fate to lie cold and stiff
> beside the banks of the Hindon.  My death, so far as the
> dusty roads of Ghaziabad were concerned, was to be
> altogether more pleasant.  Within several months, I would
> marry the most beautiful and brilliant girl in Calcutta.
> And I would never, just for myself, from this world ask
> anything more. 

[ (may be continued)

Please do continue.

Jai Maharaj, Jyotishi
Om Shanti

http://bit.do/jaimaharaj

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Re: PT?+3: Death in Ghaziabad - 1 alt.fan.jai-maharaj@googlegroups.com (Dr. Jai Maharaj) - 2017-04-06 04:22 +0000
  Re: PT?+3: Death in Ghaziabad - 1 alt.fan.jai-maharaj@googlegroups.com (Dr. Jai Maharaj) - 2017-04-06 22:27 +0000

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