Since my childhood, what fascinated me. are innumerable stories.
So, Via This platform, I would love to tell innumerable stories.
Here you can read Books and Movie Reviews, Poems, and some little stories written by me. Get ready to dive into my simple life.
The P.T. period, as we call it, was no less than a festival for the fourth graders like us. The best thing about that period was freedom. One could do anything he or she wanted to do. Indoor games as well as outdoor games were allowed. Some students rush towards the basement to play carrom board or chess. Others were busy running behind a poor little football and kicking it harshly.
But I wasn't interested in either of those things. I remember that brief period when I enjoyed climbing above that hanging swing where students used to hang to increase their heights or to behave like a monkey The upper portion of that swing was covered under the heavenly shade of a Gulmohar tree. I used to lie under its shade, over the swing, and imagine things until the bell rang, sometimes even after that.
In one of my textbooks, this chapter was called 'Type of Houses'. There were pucca houses and kacha houses, and then there was my favorite - Tree House. I was totally mesmerized looking at the picture of a tree house. I imagined a lot about the lives of people residing in those houses, which led me to create a world in my head. That swing became my tree house where I sit and imagine. I enjoyed that space as it was hidden from the world. It's an adventure in itself when no one can see you and you can see everyone.
That was the time when adventures in my head commenced.
I imagined a world widespread in the woods where beautiful houses were built in the trunks of humungous trees. I started naming the people as if I knew them personally. I was introduced to this lovely family. The 'man of the house' was called Uncle Tom who collected the wood and sold them in the bazaar three miles from their home. Okay! wait. To collect wood, he sometimes had to cut the trees down and I find it a bit cruel. No! Uncle Tom was not a woodcutter. He used to collect fresh fruits and berries and sell them to various fruit sellers in the bazaar.
His wife, Aunt Martha is a short-height, flabby woman, who is a wonderful homemaker. She enjoys cooking. Pancakes, cheesecakes, and apple pie are some of her signature delicacies. She takes care of their lovely children Marie and John. They both were roughly my age. Marie was a year older than John. Every morning they walk to the town to an English school. Marie is great at saving some coins from her pocket money. She treats her brother with an ice cream almost every week. She buys it from a vendor who sells ice cream on a bicycle.
John on the other hand was a sturdy guy who spent his money on buying tennis balls and comic books. He knows well the generous nature of his sister so he never cares to save for an ice cream.
In the woods, there were five or six families that lived knitted together. The Jacobs live on the banyan and The Aroras live on the banana tree. The Mehtas live on the neem tree, just next to the pond. But Uncle Tom and his family live on my favorite tree - The Gulmohar.
They have a few lovely pets too. Tuk-Tuk, the squirrel who lives under Marie's bed. Mimi, the pigeon, with his whole family has made a nest near Aunt Martha's room's window pane. And Tommie, a lovely, brown-furred pomeranian.
Every evening the children of all the houses play different games in the woods. They fly kites and run behind each other.
The elders sit around the bonfire on cold nights. They talk about everything under the sun while snacking on hot and crispy peanuts. They tell different stories. They also share dreams they see in their deep slumber and everyone tries to decode them. Lighting up the fire and being in the crowds help them stay safe and protected from the wild animals. I learned that from one of the episodes of The Jungle Book one fine Sunday morning.
The world I was creating in my head under the Gulmohar came to a halt when the gardener of our school trimmed the lovely tree and the swing exposed it to the world. I felt as if the roof over my head flew away in a strong windstorm.
All those memories showered in when I saw a little sapling of Gulmohar in one nursery. The nursery boy was quite sure that even in a small pot I'd be seeing red beautiful flowers pretty soon.
I brought it home.
Flowers or no flowers, It still reminds me of my friends John and Marie. I believe that they both are there in all flesh and bones and must be over thirty years of age. I'm quite sure that I'll find them one day. And I'll recognize them at first sight...
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.
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.
Have you ever been on a short train journey, like From Delhi to Agra? My Grandparents used to live in Agra so the taste of those journeys is still fresh on my tongue. I remember my mother holding one of my hand in Taj express or InterCity express., while I was holding my comic book from my other hand. I remember those small boys and girls whom I have met on those journeys. Those potato cutlets we used to share. Those Sharing of our respective experiences with each other. But one thing was common in those journeys - A goodbye, without any hope to meet again. That feeling had a warmth and emptiness that can't be described in words. I always wished that journey would never have ended.
I had many encountered with those boys and girls again in my dreams. But at the end of the day, it was just a dream.
When this book was ending I had a similar feeling. It felt like a friend of mine, whose lines of destiny intersected my lines of destiny for a while, then diverting on a different, way all of a sudden.
This book is a collection of various encounters of Rusty. It begins in Dehra, where his grandparents used to live. As his Grandfather was retired from the Forest department, he was very attached to his Animals. One of them is Toto, a mischievous monkey, who almost killed himself while trying to have a bath in boiling water in a kettle. The other one is Timothy, a smart cub of Tiger. And then there is Tutu, a monkey again, Popeye the parrot, Chips a squirrel, and many others.
The book takes a jump and describes the ultimate bond between Rusty and Trees.
And then comes the famous Rusty's escape from Java, which is undoubtedly the most amazing, action-packed story I've ever read.
The book shifts the Room of many colours to the last Tonga ride, halting a bit to the funny yet fantastic stories of Uncle Ken.
And then, we have an encounter with The Ghost in the garden. Now, this is my personal favourite. This story has an element of horror, with Mr Bond's epic style, which is soothing as the story ends.
The last three stories are more of Mr Bond's personal experiences (that's what I believe).
And when the book was coming to an end, I honestly never wanted to it end. Just like that journey, when I had to leave my friend forever whom I had met a couple of hours back.
If you haven't read the book, you are missing something beautiful. If you have read the book, do share your experiences with me. You can write it on hrntales@gmail.com
Mr Bond's stories are like a pond of cold water, one feels fresh and rejuvenated after taking a dip in it.
That's all from my side. Till then keep reading and keep loving.
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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.
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
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I remember the days when I was in school and I used to hate those ridiculous Parent-Teacher meetings. It was a day when the teacher humiliates the student in front of their parents and the parents humiliate the student in front of their teacher. It's like that age-old ping pong game, a collective activity to make sure that mischievous activities of students like me come to a halt. The only thing I love about those horrible meetings was the Scholastic book fair in our school corridor. Those little storybooks with attractive pictures was a treat to look at. I said 'to look 'at' because I haven't purchased many of them. My Mom used to say that we'll buy one of those after the meeting. And I couldn't ask her to buy me one after the meeting, of course, due to obvious reasons.
But quite recently I came across this little book written by Mr Bond called The Railway Gang.
This is a story of a little dog called Chottu, roaming with his gang on the platforms of a Railway station. Now he is named Chottu because he was too small in size. If you have some stray dogs in your locality, you might find people who call themselves dog lovers, calling them with names like Blackey or Brownie, Sheroo or Pinkey, or any other names like these. These names are purely based on their attributes which helps them to get recognised or sometimes they even listen by the names when you call them repeatedly.
Now Chottu has a full-fledged gang of half a dozen fogs namely Raja, Rani, Rishi, and few others. All day they roam around the platform, gathering staled chappatis and half-eaten fruits to fill up their belly.
Now the problem is a newly appointed, highly motivated, Stationmaster who chases away the beggars and the dogs from the platform. Now the beggars had to compete with the beggars who sit near the bus stand. But it was much difficult for dogs to adjust with the Dogs near the bus stand.
But when the station master is nowhere to be seen, the railway gang come back to the platforms in search of food.
The only human friend they have now is Kumar, who is a guard in Doon-Delhi express. He feeds Chottu with food he brought in his Tiffin and has a soft corner for Chottu.
One day, while hanging around with school students on the platform, he gets along with one of them on the train. The train starts moving. The ticket checker left him on the Haridwar station, which was quite alien for him. He roams around alone in the city to find some familiarity, but he couldn't. He desperately wants to get back to the platform he can call his home.
Will he able to reach back to the platform where he can unite again with his gang? You have to read the book to discover that.
What I like about the book
Everything - Literally everything. It was a short, simple, and interesting read. Being an ardent reader of Mr Bond's books, I was frequently travelling to the world he has created down the years. Like I was seeing that world again where Arun used to feed biscuits to a stray dog on platform number eight of Ambala Station. His words actually become a gateway to travel into his world.
The other thing I like about the book is the pictures on every page. They are very well detailed, and one should go slow and spend some time looking at each picture. I bet you won't regret it.
So this is a perfect gift for your kids this summer if you want to indulge them in reading. And it's a perfect gift for everyone who doesn't like things too complicated.
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Have you ever thought about why some stories or books feel so special? Why is it so that your favourite book is not your friend’s favourite book and vice versa? Honestly, I’m not the right person to give you correct answers to these questions. These types of question arise in my mind too. And I’m still seeking a genuine answer.
Last night, I was flipping the pages of this freshly received copy of the collection of short stories written by Mr Ruskin Bond (I received an exclusively autographed copy by Mr Bond from Cambridge Book Depot, Mussoorie. And if you are thinking that I’m boasting about my exclusive copy, you are right my dear reader friend.). I came across a story called ‘The Coral Tree’. This story is set in the time when Mr Bond was about to leave our country to start working in England. The story goes somewhat like this.
He might have locked the doors of the house he used to live in and laying in the verandah, waiting with his suitcases around, for the dawn. It was raining and he was lying on his cot. When he opened his eyes, he saw this little girl looking at him. After a formal introduction (not so formal actually), the girl asked Mr Bond to pluck some flowers for her from the corral tree. He did the same. The little girl talked about her best friend, who is a cook. And she also called Mr Bond her second-best friend. She also expressed her interest in exploring the world and being on her own. He also talked about his decision to move to England, with the motive of being on his own.
Soon, Mr Bond heard the bells of the tonga and asked the girl to help him in lifting the suitcases. They bid each other a goodbye, with a promise to meet again.
Now, those who read Mr Bond’s work can understand this. There are two types of readers of his work. The first ones are those who like his work, enjoy the simplicity of his work and enjoy that warmth, that cosiness. The second ones are dangerous people (like me, of course) who try to reach to those unnamed feelings behind those stories.
Let me try to explain those unnamed feelings I’m talking about.
For a moment, let’s try to be in Mr Bond’s shoes, lying on the cot in the verandah, waiting for the dawn.
The very next morning you have to leave your own country for the sake of your career. There are no certain chances whether you’ll be able to come back or not. You have to leave behind all those friends, who were closer to you more than anything in your life. You are leaving behind all those memories – your childhood, your adolescence, your adulthood – everything. And the cherry on the cake is the girl who is standing in front of you and calling you her second-best friend. Those short moments of togetherness, which creates a long term impression in your memory, that feeling of that ‘unnamed feeling’.
On the other hand, you are excited to make your career in another nation. You are excited to be on your own and creating your world.
You know it’s important to travel, but it’s difficult to leave all those people, all that environment behind.
That cocktail of that pain, that sense of longing and that excitement of the future is the unnamed feeling I’m talking about.
Do you remember those strangers who become our friends in long railways journey? When mobile phones weren’t common at that time, but we still used to promise each other that we’ll remain in touch. Those faces, which blew away like smoke from your memory, but still fresh as the fragrance of early summer mangoes in a corner of your heart. Those people never grow old in their memory. They are as constant as the ranges of the snow-peaked Himalayan range.
I remember those railway companions. Not exactly their faces, but as a memory which is never going to fade. I remember the uncle who offered me breakfast on a long journey from Delhi to Bangalore (now Bengaluru). I remember that boy who offered me a seat on a journey from Delhi to Agra and that career guidance he offered me.
They are still living with me, as I’m flowing through this river called life. And they’ll always remain with me as they were more than a decade back. They’ll always remain the same till my last breath… or maybe even after that.
And I hereby apologise that I failed miserably in explaining that unnamed feeling.
For that, you have to knock the door of ivy cottage and ask the man himself.
As I’m the lone fox, who is still learning to dance…
HRN
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The power cuts were more common than cellular network problems in those days, even in the heart of the capital city of India – New Delhi. I was eight or nine years old, and the only hobby I had (still have) is observing people and imagining things. I used to imagine a different world, filled with mountains and lakes whenever I watched the sky. I had this habit of cooking up strange stories and imagining them as they are real. I never wrote or spoke about my self cooked fables to anyone. I feel like keeping them to myself.
But he was different.
Though we had many similarities and we share hell lot of things, like our name. His name was Atul Sharma, and my name is Atul Khanna. I used to call him Atul bhaiya as he was six years elder to me, and he used to call Khanna sahib, no matter how younger I was to him. Apart from having the same name, we both love to cook stories and to imagine things. But the significant difference between us was, he knew how to make use of his stories. He was an ardent reader like me, but he wanted to be an actor.
While having another power cut, all my friends and some neighbors were gathered in the park of society. My friends invited me to that gossip session, but I was a bit late. When I reached there with a torch in my hand, I saw around twenty boys and girls from our society gathered around Atul bhaiya. He was bending a bit leftwards, with his right hand on his waist and a little twig between his teeth. He was delivering one of the famous dialogues of Mr Amitabh Bachchan in is own way.
"Aaj mere paas bangla hai, gaadhi hai, bank balance hai, tumhare paas kya hai khanna sahib, hain?" And everyone just clapped and looked at me.
I was just mesmerized by the way he delivered that dialogue. It was just amazing. His style, his way of delivering that dialogue was just out of this world. It looked like I was watching a professional actor acting in a play.
After coming out of the world of my thoughts, I replied – "Mere paas Maa hai." And everyone laughed.
That guy deserved to be an actor, a storyteller. Unlike me, he knew how to showcase his creativity.
As time flew, we both lost contact. Atul Bhaiya completed his diploma in mass communication but unable to find a job in that sector. He joined a BPO like many others, after shutting down his dreams in a secret room.
At that time I was in college, pursuing my degree in commerce, and still figuring out what to do in my life.
So finally, like Atul bhaiya and many others, I also joined the swarm and started working in a BPO. I can't forget that late-night shifts and early morning cabs.
One day, around eleven in the night, I de-boarded the office shuttle near Atul Bhaiya's house. I was hell tired. I had a rough day. My manager scolded me and called me dumb in front of the whole team. Though it was a daily activity, it used to hurt me equally, both emotionally and mentally.
I saw Atul bhaiya standing in his balcony. I saw him and tried to smile. He waved at me and asked me how I was. I smiled and waved him back without saying anything. Honestly, I couldn't. I saw his eyes tired. Maybe he saw the same tiredness in my eyes.
After six months or so, we had to sell that house for various reasons, and we shifted to the other corner of the city. I had lost my job soon after that (again for multiple reasons) and started working as a freelancer. I translate books, monthly and annual magazines from English to Hindi and vice-versa.
Yesterday, I had to submit a physical copy of the Hindi translation of a self-published book by a self-acclaimed, best-selling author. His office was around a mile away from my old house, where I had spent my whole childhood. After submitting the copy and getting a cheque of thirty-two hundred bucks, I started my scooter and decided to visit my old society. I covered my mouth and nose with a mask because of this silly pandemic all around, and also, I didn't want my old neighbors to be able to recognize me.
I parked the scooter in front of the old departmental store. I bought a cigarette from there. The owner tried hard to recognize me but failed. I came outside and lit the cigarette after removing the mask. I was standing under the peepul tree near Atul bhaiya's house. My old house was visible from there.
"How are you, Khanna Sahib?" I recognized that voice. All the dialogues from the era of the 70's and 80's Hindi films were ringing in my head but in Atul bhaiya's voice. Those power cuts and long-lasting chit chat sessions, every memory of my childhood, was in front of my eyes.
I crushed the cigarette butt from my right shoe and turned around. Atul Bhaiya was standing in the balcony, wearing a white t-shirt, smiling at me. His hair was a bit less than shoulder length. His Bicep muscle was bulging out of his t-shirt when he waved at me. He was not looking a day older than when I saw him four years back.
"How are you, Atul Bhaiya?" I replied with a shivery voice.
He didn't reply. He just stood there, looking at me lovingly and smiling his heart out.
"Arey Atul, How are you, buddy?" I heard the voice from the other side of the street. It was Prakhar Raheja, my old friend from society. I waved at him, and he called me to the other side.
I turned back to see Atul Bhaiya, but he was not there.
I crossed the street, absentmindedly. Prakhar hugged me and invited me to his house. I politely denied, so we decided to sit on two random parked bikes and have a thoughtful conversation. He asked about my parents, my wife, and why I didn't invite him to my marriage.
The conversation shifted to some childhood incidents and those power cuts and long-lasting gossip sessions with friends.
And then we talked about Atul Bhaiya and his golden Bachchan's Dialogues.
"Man, He was just amazing in his craft," I said.
"Yes, brother, and more than that, he was the gem of a person. I miss those days. And I miss him." He replied.
"Yeah, man, I just saw him standing in the balcony like half an hour back. He still looks the same, Muscular, Happy, and ever-smiling." I said.
Suddenly I saw Prakhar's facial expressions changed all of a sudden. It looked like His eyes were about to come out of their sockets. I smelled something fishy there.
"Atul, wait a minute." He gestured me to sit on the bike.
"Atul Bhaiya committed suicide two years back. The reason is still mysterious and unclear. And I believe that you know this very well."
I saw darkness took me over as I fainted. But the last thing I saw before closing my eyes was Atul bhaiya smiling at me.
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I opened a new chapter of my English literature book, not because I wanted to, but because I had no other option as our English teacher said that each student had to read one paragraph of the story before she starts explaining it. Now, I used to get very conscious of speaking or reading in front of the whole class, I couldn’t understand why each student needed to read a paragraph, It should be voluntary, isn’t it? So, I calculated that I was the eighth student who had to read, in the first row. So, I had to read the eighth paragraph. I marked that with a pen and tried to concentrate as the first student started reading.
The heading on the page was “The Woman on Platform 8”. Now, I forgot to mention that I’m a day-dreamer since my childhood. I travel to a distant land in my imagination when someone starts speaking or teaching. Today, People address this with much Psychological jargon like Attention Deficit Disorder or something like that. But, let’s call this day-dreaming for now. At that time, I started focussing on the story because of three major reasons – First, I didn’t want to make any kind of mistake while reading. Second, In case if I started reading the wrong paragraph, the whole class will laugh at me, which will indeed puncture my not so inflated confidence. Third, I find the Title of the story so damn Interesting.
Too much of my surprise, I didn’t face any kind of problem while concentrating on the story. So many times it happens that a story starts with a good beginning but after a couple of minutes I lost somewhere in another world. But, with this story, something magical happened. With the first paragraph, I could imagine platform 8 of Ambala station. With the second paragraph, I was there in the story, I could feel the tangibility of the trains, I could listen to the noises of the vendors and I could see the little stray dogs roaming near the bin, trying to find something to eat. In the third paragraph, I was the Protagonist, sitting on the suitcase and feeding broken biscuits to the stray dogs. I was so involved in the story that I stood mechanically when my turn came to read a paragraph.
“I was going to refuse, out of shyness…” I started reading bending towards my desk. I was so darn conscious because the only voice I could hear in the class was mine. I was sweating a bit. I was trying to concentrate on the pronunciation of the words to not to sound like an alien among sophisticated humans.
“Louder Himanshu” Our teacher shouted which shook my tiny little confidence again. I tried to read louder, but I don’t think it made any difference in the outcome of the pitch of my voice. I completed the paragraph without many errors and sat down with a thump with a little smile and a boosted confidence. I immediately traveled again in the pages of the little book in front of me and I again became the protagonist of the story – Arun, who met a lady on Platform 8 of Ambala station.
The woman on Platform 8 is a story of a twelve-year-old boy waiting for his train, late at night as he had to travel back to his boarding school. He was all alone and was observing carefully what was happening around him – Be it Coolies, or vendors, or train, he was observing everything. He was bored to the core and was feeling very lonely. Suddenly, A middle-aged lady, wearing a white saree came to him and asked him some questions. He started feeling comfortable with her and She took him to have some samosas and jalebis. He ate as much as he could and she was feeling happy watching him eat, just like a mother feels satisfied when she watches her child having his or her favorite dish. The serenity on her face and the simplicity in her character made him feel a motherly affection towards her. Not only this, but she also introduced herself as Arun’s Mother to a friend of him and his mother who came to bid goodbye to his son. Arun felt very touched and kissed her goodbye and also addressed her as his Mother. He waved his hand watched her till she was lost in the crowd as the train took him away.
The Story is written By Mr. Ruskin Bond and that was the first time I read that name. But since then, he got a very reverent position in the list of my Favourite Authors. I read that story not once, not twice but even after completing my 7th Standard (With a hell lot of difficulties and prayers).
After a couple of months, there was news all around That Mr. Bond is coming to our school and one can get a copy of his book signed, provided he bought that book from the school’s bookstall. And then, my business of Daydreaming begun. It was just so realistic and here it goes:-
“I went with a copy of Angry River written by him and he shook my hand before putting his right hand in his shirt’s pocket to find his roller pen. I tried to touch his feet but he stopped me in between and patted my back. He was a little, chubby guy and so fair. His voice was very soothing. I told him that I love his books and his story, The woman on platform 8 is my favorite. He smiled but I threw another question at him. Did I ask him whether he actually knows Arun or is he his friend? He looked at me and shook my hand again and said: “My little friend, I’m Arun.”
I played that so many times in my mind that it became so realistic, just like it actually happened.
Mr. Bond with our Principal Ma’am
And the day arrived when he was finally coming to our school. It was a winter morning and I reached school just before the bell rang. Everything seemed to be so beautiful and fresh. I kept my bag on the bench and came to the corridor. Two of my classmates were standing there and I heard their conversation about Mr. Bond.
“Hey, are you going to the A.V. Room today to get your book signed?”
“Ohh yeah, I got money and I will buy two of his books. I really wish that he could sign both of them.”
I felt that someone threw a grenade towards me with its pin off. At that moment I realized that I forgot to bring money to buy books. I never cursed myself so much in my life. It was a kind of Panic attack and I was numb for a moment. When I attained my consciousness back, I calculated that I had three options in front of me – Beg, Borrow or Steal.
I couldn’t beg because once a tuition Teacher of mine said when I did all the subtraction sums wrong “Ek to tu itna Hatta-Katta hai, Tujhe to koi Bheek bhi nahi dega. Karega kya tu life mein?” I immediately dropped that idea.
I couldn’t borrow because I never learned how to take favor without hurting my own ego. I was and I’m, very bad at expressing myself.
I couldn’t steal because I have seen that people beat Thieves, provided they get caught. And I had no prior experience in that, Neither in stealing nor in getting beaten up.
Finally, I discovered another option.
“I’ll see Mr. Bond some other time.” I tried to soothe my injured, little heart with an ineffective balm of three words – “Some Other Time”.
He came around eleven in the morning and half of my classmates went to him to get their books signed. And I was sitting on the last bench, copying my maths activity because I had to face the reality after Mr. Bond will go, that one gets punished if he doesn’t complete his maths activity. Honestly, I felt like crying. I just wanted to see him so badly. But you know what, I couldn’t cry, because I was thirteen at that time. And thirteen-year-old is a big boy and they say that “Big boys Don’t Cry.”
The freshness I was talking about, flew away. That day I realized that it was all in my head. The Excitement brings that freshness and The boredom scares it away.
“Himanshu, please go and keep these notebooks in the computer laboratory.” My class teacher said. And May God Bless her!
While returning after keeping two dozens of notebooks in the lab, I saw this man with an innocent face while passing through the corridor. He was looking at the Craft board outside Vice-Principal’s office. He was wearing a light blue sweater and sports shoes. His lips, they were somewhat like mine – Big and swelled up. He was discussing something with our Principal. His hands were at his back and were observing everything so calmly, as he was trying to imagine a story inside his head. I never saw his picture before but I saw some of his cartoons, which were usually printed on the cover of his books.
“Did he saw me? here on the first floor?” I wasn’t sure.
Slowly, he went towards the basement and I was watching him go. I was still gazing at the place he was standing a minute before. I finally saw him and I wanted to say this to the whole world. But, I chose to stay quiet. That was my memory and I waited long to share it with the world. I can’t forget that day till my last breath on this “Not so green anymore” Planet.
What was so special about that story?
I really don’t know. But even today when I read that story it touches my soul. I still feel those long-lost emotions I felt when I read that story for the very first time. And then I realize that, though I’m about to turn twenty-eight, a part of me is still twelve-year-old. That part of me hasn’t grown yet. That part of me is still sitting on his suitcase at the Ambala station, waiting for his train, all alone. He is still gazing at the place where Mr. Bond was standing in his blue sweater and sports shoes. And eating Samosas and Jalebis up to his heart’s content.
Most Importantly, that guy had experience being alone for a while, not physically maybe, but yes emotionally. He understands and cherishes those relationships which were made for some time, maybe on a train journey, when one knows that he will never see the other person – Really, Never. Those faces become blurred in the memory but that warmth, it never fades.
But The truth is, at the end of the day, He is all alone – Physically and Emotionally. But that doesn’t mean that he is sad. He is just like that Lone fox dancing in the Bright Moonlight.
So let’s end this by taking some liberty by molding Mr. Bond’s poem in my words –
Somewhere in a distant land, Another Lone fox is Dancing, In the bright moonlight.
Slowly, Learning to express Himself, Thinking without what’s wrong and What’s right.
With a paper on his desk and Pen in his hand, He began to write.
And He will keep on dancing Till the dawn, Because, The night was his by right.
