The Big Fat Joke Book Read online

  KHUSHWANT SINGH’S

  Big Fat joke book

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  In association with

  VISION BOOKS

  Contents

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright Page

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  KHUSHWANT SINGH’S BIG FAT JOKE BOOK

  Khushwant Singh was born in 1915 in Hadali, Punjab. He was educated at Government College, Lahore and at King’s College and the Inner Temple in London. He practiced at the Lahore High Court for several years before joining the Indian Ministry of External Affairs in 1947. He began a distinguished career as a journalist with All India Radio in 1951. Since then he has been founder-editor of Yojna (1951-1953), editor of the Illustrated Weekly of India (1979-1980), chief editor of New Delhi (1979-1980), and editor of the Hindustan Times (1980-1983). Today he is India’s best-known columnist and journalist.

  Khushwant Singh has also had an extremely successful career as a writer. Among the works he has published are a classic two-volume history of the Sikhs, several novels (the best known of which, are Delhi, Train to Pakistan and The Company of Women), and a number of translated works and non-fiction books on Delhi, nature and current affairs.

  Khushwant Singh was Member of Parliament from 1980-1986. Among other honours he was awarded the Padma Bhushan in 1974 by the President of India (he returned the decoration in 1984 in protest against the Union Government’s siege of the Golden Temple, Amritsar).

  An American delegation on a visit to India were being shown round the capital. In the evening they were taken to the Secretariat for a panoramic view of Vijay Chowk and Rajpath. Came the closing hour and thousands upon thousands of clerks poured out of their offices. The place was crammed with bicycles and pedestrians.

  ‘Who are all these people?’ asked the leader of the American delegation.

  ‘They are the common people of India; the real rulers of the country,’ proudly replied the minister accompanying the visitors.

  A few minutes later came a fleet of flag-bearing limousines escorted by pilots on motorcycles followed by jeeps full of armed policemen. ‘And who are these?’ asked the American.

  ‘These are us,’ replied the minister with the same pride, ‘the servants of the people.’

  God and Satan got into an argument over the repairs of the wall dividing heaven and hell. God insisted that all the damage was caused by people in hell and so Satan should pay for its repair. Satan was adamant that they should share the cost. When they failed to resolve their dispute, Satan said: ‘Let’s appoint an arbitrator and let our lawyers argue the case before him.’

  ‘I don’t mind having an arbitrator,’ replied God, ‘but you will have an advantage over me. I have no lawyers in heaven; they are all on your side.’

  Two men met in heaven. ‘What did you die of?’ asked the one.

  ‘I died of extreme cold. And what about you?’

  ‘I came home from work and thought I heard my wife talking to a stranger. On entering the house, I searched every nook and corner but could not find anyone anywhere. I felt so guilty of my suspicion that my heart failed.’

  Hearing this, the other one said, ‘Had you cared to open the fridge, neither of us would have died.’

  A Hindu family living in a village near the Indo-Pak border which was often visited by Khalistani terrorists, decided to migrate to another Indian state. Their Sikh neighbours came to bid them a tearful farewell. One of them noticed that the head of the Hindu family put the picture of Sant Jarnail Singh Bhindranwale into his trunk. ‘Why are you taking Bhindranwale’s picture with you?’ he asked. The Hindu replied with tears in his eyes, ‘Whenever I miss my vatan (birthplace) I will look at it and feel how lucky I am to have got away.’

  A vice-chancellor died and was received at the gates of paradise for questioning before his fate could be decided. ‘What were you doing when you were on earth?’ asked Dharamraj.

  ‘I was vice-chancellor of a university.’

  ‘I see. You’ve suffered the pangs of hell on earth and deserve a break in paradise.’

  The next arrival was put through the same questioning. ‘I was vice-chancellor of a university for three successive terms,’ he replied.

  ‘Put him in hell,’ ordered Dharamraj. ‘He’s got into the habit.’

  Yahya Khan, trying to persuade a yokel to volunteer for the Pakistani Air Force, took him inside the aircraft and explained: ‘You press this yellow button and the engine will start. Then you press the red one and the plane will take off. It is all very simple.’

  ‘But how do I bring the plane down?’ asked the yokel, puzzled.

  ‘You don’t have to bother about that,’ explained Yahya Khan. ‘Leave that to the Indian Air Force.’

  Vietnamese girls were the GIs’ top favourites during the American military presence in the Vietnam war. ‘They can be poor in history, but really great on dates,’ Leo Shaw assures us in his book entitled Confucius Say. Don’t be misled by their being bow-legged: ‘Just because their legs are like ice-tongs, does not mean they are frigid.’ Their being poorly endowed in the way of busts became the GIs’ favourite joke. ‘As one falsie said to another, let’s pack up and leave her flat.’

  Next to getting venereal disease it was having a pregnant girl on his hands that was the GI’s nightmare. The pill was not known and abortions risky. Hence the description of an optimist in Vietnam was one who rubbed vanishing cream on his girlfriend’s tummy hoping the bulge would disappear. The sanest advice this American Confucius could give the randy GI was, ‘Women over forty best; they don’t yell, don’t tell, don’t swell and are grateful as hell.’

  ‘They say Pakistanis are prospecting for oil in Sindh and Punjab. Is that true?’ ‘Yes. But not to get petrol to run motor cars. Only grease for the palms of politicians and ministers.’

  A gentleman travelled all the way from Islamabad to Karachi to have an aching tooth taken out. The Karachi dentist said, ‘Surely you have dentists in Islamabad! You did not have to come all this way to have your teeth attended to.’

  ‘We have no choice. In Islamabad we are not allowed to open our mouths,’ replied the man with the aching tooth.

  An American tourist to India hired a Sardarji guide to take him around Delhi and Agra. When taken to Agra Fort, he admired the architecture and asked how many years it took to build. The Sardarji replied, ‘Twenty years.’ The American remarked, ‘You Indians are a lazy lot. In America, this could have been built in five years.’ At the Taj the American again admired its beauty and asked how many years it had taken to build. The Sardarji reduced the period considerably and replied, ‘Only ten years, sir.’ The American retorted: ‘Didn’t I say you Indians are slow workers! In America, we can construct such buildings in two-and-a-half years.’ It was the same story everywhere. The American admired the architecture but criticized the construction period. The Sardarji finally got irritated. When the taxi was nearing Qutab Minar, the American asked: ‘What is that tower?’ Came the reply, ‘Sir, I’ll have to go and find out. When I was passing this way last evening, there was nothing there.’

  Meetha Mal Goel who has a halwa business in our locality went to consult advocate Hoshiar Mal on a legal problem. ‘Vakeel sahib, a dog ran into my shop and before I could shoo it away he took a mouthful of halwa from the big plate. I had to throw the rest away. The halwa was worth at least Rs 50. Please tell me if I can recover my money from the owner of the dog.’

  ‘Most certainly you can,’ assured the vakeel sahib. ‘The master of the dog is responsible for what his dog does.’

  ‘That is very good,’ said Meetha Mal Goel. ‘Please let me have fifty rupees since it was your d
og that ate my halwa.’

  The broilers and eggs of a poultry breeder were the best in the market. A man complimented him and asked: ‘What do you feed your birds to get such excellent products?’

  ‘The very best food: almonds, pistachios and pure ghee mixed in the chicken feed,’ answered the proud breeder.

  ‘How interesting!’ replied the other. ‘I am from the income tax department. I’d like to know where you got all the money to buy such an expensive diet.’

  Thereafter the breeder was on guard. When the next visitor complimented him on his produce and asked, ‘What do you give your birds to eat?’ He replied, ‘Nothing, nothing at all. I starve them.’

  ‘That calls for action,’ replied the visitor. ‘I am from the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. I charge you with the offence of starving chickens.’

  When a third visitor came and made similar inquiries, the breeder was more cautious in his reply. ‘I give them fifty paise each everyday and let them buy what they like to eat,’ he said.

  Indian VIPs on the hit list have been sent an elaborate set of do’s and don’ts to elude terrorists on their trail. Of these the most important instructions are not to follow a regular routine but vary their timings and change their habits often as possible, e.g. don’t go for your morning or evening walk at the same time to the same park, don’t go to the same hotel or restaurant every day etc. To these precautions, a wit who knows the habits of Indian politicians added: ‘Don’t sleep in the same bed with the same person every night.’

  A fourth son was born in the home of a minister’s family. The father invited his Sardarji friend to join in the celebrations and choose a name for the newborn child. ‘What names have you given to the three elder boys?’ asked the Sardarji.

  ‘One is Rahmat Elahi (by God’s kindness), the second Barkat Elahi (by God’s grace) and the third Mahbub Elahi (beloved of God),’ replied the proud father.

  The Sardarji pondered over the names for a while and replied, ‘I suggest you name your fourth son, Bas Kar Elahi (God, that is enough).’

  A couple hired a new chauffeur. The memsahib asked him to take her out for shopping and was very shaken by the experience. Back home, she pleaded with her husband, ‘Please dear, you must sack this new chauffeur at once. He is so rash he nearly killed me three times this morning.’

  ‘Darling, don’t be so hasty,’ replied the husband, ‘give him another chance.’

  A grey-bearded Sardarji was asked how his family was doing. ‘Nothing to complain,’ he replied, stroking his long beard. ‘Akaal Purukh (God) has been very good to us, I have three sons. The eldest is a lawyer, the second is a doctor, the third a lecturer in a college.’

  ‘That’s very good. And Sardar sahib, you must be enjoying your days of retirement.’

  ‘No retirement-shitirement for me,’ protested the grey-beard. ‘I ply my taxi. How else could I manage to support my sons and their families?’

  This happened when I met Dev Anand. His chauffeur had gone off to get a bite. We sat in the lobby of the Oberoi Sheraton awaiting his return. Groups of people collected at a respectable distance to gaze at their idol. All I could hear was a hum of ‘Dev Anand’s. Then someone asked somewhat loudly: ‘Who is the Sardar with him?’

  And someone replied: ‘Don’t know. Must be one of his chamchas.’

  A Haryanavi peasant was walking down the road carrying a heavy sack of grain on his head. A kind Sardar farmer drawing his bullock cart offered him a lift. The Haryanavi gratefully accepted the offer and sat down in the cart but kept the sack on his head.

  ‘Chaudhury, why don’t you put down the sack in the gadda?’

  ‘Sardarji,’ replied the Haryanavi, ‘your cart is already heavily loaded. I don’t want to put more burden on your poor bullock.’

  A rich lady had four children, all of whom turned out to be very bright. She was always boasting of their records at school and was sure that when they grew up they would bring credit to India. I asked her somewhat sarcastically if she had ever heard of the family planning slogan Hum do hamaarey do. ‘Yes,’ she replied somewhat haughtily, ‘that is for the aira ghaira-hoi polloi—not for people like us who have highly intelligent children and can afford to give them the best education,’

  ‘In that case why don’t you have five more and give India another nau ratans–nine gems?’

  She ignored my sarcasm and replied: ‘I have just read a book on population statistics. It says that every fifth child born in the world is a Chinese.’

  In the gossip room of both Houses of Parliament, besides reputations of politicians being torn up, some good anecdotes are manufactured. This one is about Babu Jagjivan Ram’s reactions to the new cabinet ministers appointed by Rajiv Gandhi.

  Question: ‘Babuji, do you think new ministers like K.R. Narayanan and Natwar Singh, who have spent most of their years in foreign countries or in aircooled offices in the secretariat, know enough about the countryside to be effective?’

  Answer: ‘No, I think they should spend some time in India’s villages to get to know villagers’ problems.’

  Question: ‘In that case, don’t you think Mr Rajiv Gandhi should also spend some time acquainting himself with villagers’ problems?’

  Answer: ‘No, he does not need to do so. He is well-acquainted with them. He knows the Asiad Village.’

  When Sir Bertrand Glancy was governor of the Punjab and nearing retirement, Sir Stafford Cripps, who was staying with him at Government House, tried to pull his leg about the very different standard of living he would soon have to get used to in England. Cripps comment was, ‘Well, Glancy, you’ll have to black your own boots when you get home.’ Sir Bertrand, without a flicker of a smile, replied, Oh no! I’m going to Kenya where I can boot my own blacks.’

  It is said that a team of researchers studying the sexual habits of city-dwellers interviewed a cross-section of Mumbai’s business community. Among the questions posed to them, one was: What do you do immediately after you have had sex? The answers were most revealing. Ten per cent replied that they simply went to sleep. Another 10 per cent replied that they washed themselves and took some nourishment—a glass of fruit juice, aerated water or a sandwich. The remaining 80 per cent, after much cajoling, replied: ‘Then we go home.’

  A swankily dressed and opinionated young man got into a noisy, crowded bus. With a very superior air he remarked to the conductor: ‘You seem to have collected all the animals from the zoo in your bus.’ A passenger retorted: ‘Sir, not all of them were in the bus till you got on. A donkey was missing.’

  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 now the Sardarji’s turn to extol the latest developments in Sikh surgery. ‘We have gone much further,’ he said thumping his chest proudly. ‘There was this chacha of mine who was cut into two around his navel. Our Sikh surgeon immediately slaughtered a goat and joined its rear half to my chacha’s upper half. So we have our chacha as well as two litres of milk every day.’

  During one of my periodic bouts with the Times (London) crossword puzzles, my eye fell on a St Valentine message printed alongside. There were six full columns with almost a hundred professings of love in each column. I was disappointed to find what little progress lovers had made in expressing their affection. More than 500 messages said no more than the three words, ‘I love you’, or repeated the old doggerel: ‘Roses are red, violets are blue, Dizzie darling, I love you.’ A fair proportion could not even do that and exhausted themselves in a series of Xs, presumably expressing desire for labial contact. There were many which were totally inane, to wit: ‘Hee hee tee hee hee turn tee, did I say I love y
ou?’ And: ‘Heffalumpus for breakfast, Heffalumpus for tea, Heffalumpus for ever, when this week you marry me.’ Lots use private language: ‘Baby bear loves horrid hedgepig.’

  Indian emigrants have also found entry in England’s love letters. One addressed to Shrimati reads: ‘You sweet gulab jamun of my most delectable dreams! If you don’t know what to do, lie back and think of your Indian juice.’

  Two very drunk Punjabis were returning home on a bicycle from the theka. On the way the man on the carrier fell off; the other cycled on. When he got home he found his companion missing. He cycled back towards the theka to find his friend sitting calmly in the middle of the road. The cyclist dismounted and asked gently: ‘You OK?’ ‘I am fine,’ replied the other, ‘it is a comfortable carrier seat; keep pedalling unless you are tired.’

  This one comes from the Delhi University campus and is based on the two meanings of the Hindi word maang which can mean both demand and the parting in the hair. Students of a girls’college took out a procession to protest against living conditions in their hostel. They divided themselves in two groups. One shouted hamaaree maangey, the second lot replied pooree karo. So they went round the campus asking for their demands to be met.

  The procession wound its way past a boys’ college. The cheerleaders shouted: Hamaaree maangey. Before the second batch of girls could reply, the boys shouted back sindhoor sey bharo–(fill them with vermilion powder).

  ‘Papa, what is the name of the Indian woman who reached the top of Everest?’ asked a boy. ‘I have to prepare for my General Knowledge paper.’

  His father scratched his head and replied: ‘I am sorry, her name escapes me.’

  ‘What was the name of the other Indian astronaut who did not go up with Rakesh Sharma?’ the boy asked again.

  The father again looked blank and replied: ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Then tell me the names of the Indians who have won the Nobel Prize.’