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

 

Rust - i - fication - The Subtle Art of Becoming a Part of Mr Bond's Evergreen Fables

My reading journey began when I got promoted to the first standard. Thank God, mobile phones and computers were not common then, so the major source of entertainment for kids like me was either television or Books. I said kids like me because I wasn't interested in sports. I was that lazy couch potato, who likes his packet of chips with a book in his hands or TV right in front of him. So, I had no interest in doing sums or drawing triangles. I just wanted to read my English or Hindi Literature textbooks. Another thing that boosted my imagination was those cheap printed comic books, which one can easily find on railway stations and bus stands.

I was introduced to Ruskin Bond that year when a girl who was older than me told me his famous story called A face in the dark. I was scared like hell. Electricity cuts were quite common those days. And we all kids in the colony used to sit on Parked two-wheelers and tell stories to each other. And that was the most suitable occasion to tell that story.

The next day, in school I told that story to the girl who used to sit next to me. The teacher made me sit next to her because I used to talk a lot. And obviously, she was the most sincere student in the class. I told that story to her when the teacher told everyone to keep their heads down and keep quiet.

So with all that whispers, which actually added charm to my narration, I told her that story. 

The next day, she complained to the teacher and requested her to change her seat.

Reading is still an integral part of any life. Every day I spend at least half an hour reading whatever books I have. And Ruskin Bond's literature is permanent in my little library (and in my life) for the last many years. There's one benefit we over-imaginative people enjoy. We take no time in becoming part of a story. We went to the zone where the story is set quite easily.

In the year 2021, I revisited Mussoorie, intending to become a part of Mr Bond's stories and relive the moments I have always imagined.

The very first day, it was around 8 in the morning, I deboarded the ancient Mussoorie express at Dehradun. 

The first thing which came to my mind is Mr Bond's first book 'The Room On The Roof'. I was imagining long roads with trees on both of their sides. I was imagining the clock tower in the dilaram bazaar, whose chaat shops are more famous than anything. 

As I came out of the station, I heard someone beating drums in a little distance. And I could guess a bunch of teenagers, with coloured faces, dancing and celebrating the festival of Holi. I smiled and sat in the cab. 

Mussoorie, here I come.

....................................................................................................................................................

It took me a little more than an hour to reach up in the hills. My cab driver, who was gentle enough to guide me towards my hotel, dropped me at the taxi stand near Picture palace on the mall. No matter how well he guided me to my hotel, I still lost my way and reached near Kurli police station. There were few people on the mall road and almost all the shops were closed. Looking at the police station, I quickly become part of the story called "Who killed Maharani". 

I Started imaging Inspector Keemat Laal sitting in front of me, with a glass filled with English wine, as he started telling me the most interesting case in his career.

My imagination came to a halt when this old gentleman asked me whether I'm looking for a hotel.

Finally, I reached my hotel and took a quick shower. I was just so excited. I just looked at the hills on my right side, where Landour is. I was just so happy being so close to Mr Bond. Everything around me was his stories in all flesh and bones. I took out this book called "Landour Days" and started reading it. 

To be continued...

HRN

Enable GingerCannot connect to Ginger Check your internet connection
or reload the browserDisable in this text fieldRephraseRephrase current sentenceEdit in Ginger×