The Big Day

I woke up around eight in the morning. I couldn't sleep the night before quite well. It will happen. It's about to happen. I'm a man with no such big dreams. I have always enjoyed my circle of acquaintances small. But certain unfulfilled dreams make you feel uncomfortable. I was in fifth or maybe sixth standard when Mr Bond visited my school and I couldn't meet him. The reason was simple -  we were told in advance that we had to bring money to buy books by Mr Bond and stand in a queue to get our books signed. I have this habit of forgetting things from childhood. So, I had no option but to sit in class and see my classmates getting their names written in Mr Bond's precious handwriting with his autograph beneath. 

My computer teacher, may God bless her, I don't know how she gave me the duty of keeping the corrected notebooks in the computer lab. We used to fight like animals to visit the computer lab as it was the Himalayas for us in a barren desert. It was the only room accessible to students which was air-conditioned. 

With mixed feelings, I lifted those thirty-odd notebooks and slowly marched to the lab. And that happened which was planned by the Almighty. I saw Mr Bond looking at the sketches made by the students, pinned on the display board. 

Ahh! My heart skipped a beat. The creator of The Woman on platform no 8, the writer of the thief story was right in front of me. He was the man who wrote 'The Face in the Dark'. 

I watched him till he went towards the exit.

I wrote this account in a write-up a few years back, if you wish to read it, you can read it here.

And then that happened which was bound to happen.

Twenty years passed and a part of me stopped there. Instead of notebooks, I was lifting my son in my arms. And then a car stopped and Mr Bond was right in front of me. I was mesmerized by his personality. I remember Mr Bond was wearing sports shoes when he came to my school. And now he was wearing black loafers kind of shoes. I don't know why but that thing remained with me. I have always admired his simplicity. No matter whether you are a creator of five hundred short stories or many novellas, you must stay grounded and approachable. I love him for this and one thousand other reasons. 

You must be thinking that I'm lying but I'm going to write this with utmost honesty. I started imagining too many characters of Mr Bond's stories, as they were right in front of my eyes. I saw little Biniya with a little blue umbrella in her hands. I saw Sita and Krishan looking for Sita's grandparents. I saw a police inspector with a glass of scotch in front of him, telling me the story of a girl and the Maharani. 

Man! I could hear the train's whistle and a boy waving his hand and saying goodbye to his Mother. I saw Uncle Ken dancing and jumping right in front of Cambridge Book Depot. And at a little distance, the cops were taking away Masterji. His hands were tied. He smiled at me. I felt that the currency notes in my shirt's pocket were drenched, as someone took them last night, roamed in the town, and kept them back. 

And then I heard drums with clumsy beats. I saw some boys drenched and colored in yellow and red.

Yes, It was happening. 

My wife entered the store as she handed a flower to Mr Bond and wished him happy birthday. I touched his feet clumsily as I was holding my son in my arms. And I wished him a happy birthday. Most of my actions were choreographed in my head for so many years. My son was constantly looking at Mr Bond.

'Halo' Mr Bond said to my son. 

Yes! Mr Bond said hello to MY SON...

We clicked photographs then.

My wife understood quite well how important this moment was for me. She requested some more photographs from Mayank Sir, and all of them obliged.

When we were leaving, My wife joined her hands and wished him a happy birthday once again. He folded his hands too and thanked us. That was the moment when my eyes got a little moist. 

I waited all my life for this moment. And I can't thank my stars, The Almighty, The Cambridge Book Depot, Mr Bond's fans, each and everyone enough for the moment. This isn't a wish of a thirty-ish-year-old man, but a wish of an eleven-year-old kid who is still standing right in front of the computer lab with notebooks in his hands, watching his favorite author. 

The child can now throw away the notebooks and run wild in the ground of his school, screaming with happiness and excitement. Dancing and jumping all over the ground.

And that Thirty-ish-year-old man can just open the flap of his laptop and write whatever his soul allows to write about the big day.

Thanks for reading my dear reader friends.

Love, Laughter, and Peace

HRN

Little Joys of Life

 

Every one of us carries a part within us that demands attention at various phases of life. Too many theories and studies are accredited to the field. And hereby, I accept that I have not studied any of them.

But I'm conscious enough to understand that there is a part of me that demands attention and healing at one point or the other. The side which demands to do something which I always wanted to do. The side which demands a certain amount of solitude.

So here I'm, sitting at my desk near the window on a windy night. My reading lamp is on and is giving a romantic glow to my so-called literary endeavors.

Reading and writing grew up with me. Though not more than a dozen people read my essays and articles. Neither I'm a voracious reader having books of difficult-to-pronounce Russian and French authors.

I enjoy simple things. Be it the books in my mini-library or little write-ups that are accumulating in my journal, I try to keep them simple.

I'm too afraid of mental conditioning - choosing one side over the other, without knowing the truth behind it. Neither I'm eager to influence my reader-friends. 

Sometimes I think that we are too busy accumulating more and more knowledge and awareness that it becomes difficult for us to see things as they are - right in front of us. 

So tonight, on special demand of that 'Part' of me, I switched on my reading lamp and started writing my thoughts. I found some white sheets, which actually turned yellow. The time took a toll on their appearances too. But I like them more than the fresher ones. I find them mature - capable of handling my mischiefs and the tantrums I throw while writing. I find them pretty experienced as they stick together through thick and thin.

And the pen I'm holding, oh! there is a story behind it.

When the lockdown was implied and I was sick of reading what I had, I requested Cambridge Book Depot, Musoories to send me some  Ruskin Bond's books. They were generous enough to make every book duly autographed by the author himself.

And when the books arrived, I was mesmerized by Mr. Bond's handwriting. It was a thick violet ink, with a smooth texture. I requested Mr. Arora, the owner of the bookstore to kindly enquire which pen Mr. Bond uses. He texted me the name of the pen that very night. 

In a couple of days, I was holding that pen in my hands. I felt like a superhero as I held that pen. It's a different story though. 

I like writing the initial draft of whatever I write with my hand. I enjoy the romantic encounter between the pen and the paper, spilling the ink in an anonymous fashion.  I feel that a write-up directly entered into a computer or any electronic device is a body without a soul.

A few books are lying on my not-so-clean desk. One of them is coincidentally written by Mr. Bond. It's an anthology with various essays written on hills.

The other book which is lying on my desk is called 'Meditations' written by Marcus Aurelius, a former Roman ruler, who wrote this with the intention of keeping his thoughts to himself only. Luckily (or rather unluckily, if you look at this from the author's point of view) it was published and became an integral part of Stoic literature.

An exercise notebook is lying around which has no more space to write in. I still like to fit some of my thoughts in it. 

And there is a little portrait of Swami Vivekananda, gifted by my Father when I was in college. It has a permanent place on my desk - The other things keep changing with time.

The reading lamp flickers as I move my chair forward and backward. I take this as an indication to remain calm and focused. 

Being in that not-so-perfect environment, reading and writing not-so-perfect things are what 'That' part of me demands.

These little joys of life keep me sane.

Love, Laughter, and Peace

Himanshu R. Nagpal