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

 

Fate of the paper...

 Dear readers, the following lines you are about to read are a one-sided conversation between the pieces of paper I write on, and me. You might find it funny or awkward that why in the world a sane person will talk to some pieces of paper? But trust me, It's better to talk to a piece of paper, instead of roaming with people in search of true companionship, and coming back home, spending all your energy and time. So, let's not waste time and read all I have to say to the pages bound hard in my notebook.

My Dear Piece of Paper

Don't curse yourself that you are just a piece of paper - Blank and turning yellow with time. We all are getting old and our appearances are not like what they used to be. Last Sunday, I counted eight grey hair on my beard. But never mind, that's how life is, and we must appreciate the time we are passing on this planet. We should be celebrating this time, isn't it? We should never curse our fate for what we don't have or what we can't change.

I totally understand the fact that you would never be a piece of paper that will be preserved generation after generation. I'm not denying the fact that nothing precious will ever be written on you. I'm not ignoring the fact that one day you will be shattered or destroyed or burned to lit up fire on a cold day. But that's how life is - we actually don't know how our respective ends will be. But that doesn't mean that we should get depressed about thinking about how will we leave this planet.

No! No! No!

What should we think about is what I call "The At least Theory"

We should be thinking about that at least we are not this or not that. Like, in your case, at least you are not that piece of paper on which greasy samosas or moong daal ladoos with that leaky mint chutney are served. At least no one will ever be going to throw you in a bin or on a roadside pile of garbage - in a buzzing company of mosquitoes and flies. 

At least you are not the annual report card of a student who is brutally flunked in school. At least he is not hiding you from his parents in a dark corner of a flush tank. Just imagine, how stinky and moist it can be. Or worse, what if his Father finds you? Imagine he is holding you tightly between his fingers and throwing it harshly on the face of that poor child. It kills you from inside when a drama of this kind is created, and the reason is you. 

At least you are not hanging on a typewriter of a middle-aged solicitor, who is punching the typewriter's keys harshly to imprint some boring stuff on you. I find this process of continuous sound of tuk-tuk damn too painful. 

So, my friend, you should feel lucky that at least you are working as a medium for a crackhead to express himself. Whatever he is writing, just don't care about it. You just enjoy the romance, the sensuality, the softness with which the nib of a fountain pen glides on you. In an era where people mould the truth, writing dusty things, sharing it in the air, and saving it in the clouds - At least someone is writing on you - opening his heart out, and sharing his soul.

So don't curse on your fate, my friend, as you have no idea how lucky you are.