One Rickety Tea Stall On a Rainy Day

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Just a little request. Please make sure you don't have a kind of stress on your temple, or your tongue clings to the top of your mouth. Just relax them so that you can enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing this. And yes, don't forget to take a bellyful breath before you start. I promise I won't disturb you again. Happy reading :-) 

It just started raining and I ran to this rickety tea stall, with an age-old tin roof. If we talk about metro cities, little tea stalls like those are on the verge of becoming extinct. The month of March brought lots of uninvited rainfall this year. I was in no mood to get drenched, so I grabbed a plastic stool, neatly placed near one broken plastic table. Its leg was broken. A plastic rope was clumsily used to temporarily fix that. 

I was not planning to have tea at that moment. I completely blame the weather. So I ordered one tea. The tea seller's daughter, who must have been ten-year-old, smiled and gladly nodded her head.

The shop couldn't accommodate more than five people at once. Most people come here to grab a packet of potato chips or pan masala, whose lengthy strings are tied on a rope near the wooden cot on which the girl was sitting. They don't come inside. They are too occupied to sit patiently and enjoy a cup of hot and milky tea.

The little girl hummed a song while shaking a saddle in that big tea urn. The tea was filled up to its brim. She turned the gas on low flame again, as she served me tea in a paper cup. I smiled at her. I smiled probably for the first time in the whole day. She smiled back and handed me a giant cookie, selected with the utmost care from her big, transparent martabaan (jar).

The tea was hotter than I had imagined. I kept it on the table for a while and started looking outside the tea stall.

The rain was thunderous. But its droplets were heavy and merciful - refreshing the face of the Earth. The tremendous speed with which it was falling, was creating multiple ripples in the puddle near the tea stall.

I was thinking nothing for a while, just watching those ripples. There were no thoughts disturbing me - of the present and the future. 

I closed my eyes for a while. The only sound I could hear was the droplets falling on the tin roof. It was soothing - relaxing my tied-up mental knots.

I opened my eyes and saw this little brown pup running and trying to find some dry hiding space until it stopped pouring. I clapped my hands to grab his attention. I just wished to say that Hey little one! There's this tea stall where hardly anyone comes. He might have understood that. He quickly came, smelled my shoes, and curled up near them. I offered him half of my cookie. He gladly ate it. I asked for a few more cookies. I had company now.

I held the paper cup in my palms and took the first sip. It was perfect for me - just the way I enjoy it - Less sugar. Less milk. Patiently boiled. 

I was enjoying my tea when another little girl entered the tea stall. She was clenching a little plastic rucksack against her chest. She was a bit drenched. Her hair looked more decorated with white pearls rather than droplets of water.  She greeted the other little girl and her Father with a gentle smile and a nod. She opened her rucksack carefully and took out bundles of envelopes, made with newspaper - each bundle neatly bound with thin jute rope. She or one of her family members might have made them with old newspapers with their bare hands. 

The tea seller chose two bundles of different sizes - One for those giant cookies and the other for those salty snacks displayed in different martabaans. He handed over a couple of ten rupee notes, which she quickly wrapped up in a little plastic, making sure it doesn't drench. 

"Would you like to have some tea?" I asked her. She smiled, sheepishly nodded and gladly accepted. I ordered two more cups of tea. I was ready for round two. She cupped hot tea in her palms and said nothing.

A rickety tea stall in a big city is nothing but a parallel world in itself. You enter there and everything just slows down. If you sit there for a while you'll feel a sense of calmness, a peace for which you were looking. Life is so fast-paced. There are competition, fear, and insecurities about so many things out there. If you don't take time out for yourself, you will become a mechanical man or woman. So for the sake of your and your loved one's sanity, please take out some time for yourself.  Meditate, write your thoughts, or visit a little tea stall. 

I personally recommend visiting a little tea stall  - who knows you might not find one in a couple of years. 

God Forbid!

Love, Laughter, and Peace

Himanshu R. Nagpal

Clumsy Handwriting And Other Sins...

Like a big, fat book, one's life is divided into various chapters. Things might look slow, clumsy, and hard on day to day basis. But if you sit down one day, clear the specks of dust from your mental lens, and look back - You can divide your days into various periods - more like an episodal web series.

Some of you might divide them into school days or college days, Initial employment days, or the typical ' Working in this organization sucks' days. Maybe Infatuation days and major crush days. Dating days and Break-up days. Some of you might be too busy to sit like me doing nothing but thinking about the past. So, you might have divided it into typical good days and bad days.

Nothing wrong with that.

And then there are some rare species (ahem! Guess who belongs to that species?) who have all the time to go as narrow as possible - Categorising each and everything which they could think of. And then categorizing them into other categories. For them each and every detail is important. They like their chapters short and readable - No matter how thick the book will be

No point for guessing, I'm one of them (If by chance, you missed my brackets hint).

To explain a bit about the brain of this rare species - For you, it might be 'just' school days. For them, it is:-

- The way I cried when my parents forcefully sent me to school.

- The last guy entered before the main gut closed.

- The one who slept in history class.

- No more stupid pencils - get me the pen.

and the list of chapters can go on and on.

In everyone's life, there comes a phase when one can literally throw away those 'wildly' chewed-from-the-back pencils and replace them with sleek and elegant pens. That's actually a remarkable change as now you can fill your notebooks all black and blue (ahem! literally again). 

Remember - questions in black ink and answers in blue.

That's actually a superpower. All of a sudden, you feel that whatever you are going to write will not be much transitory now - It will be carrying some amount of permanency with it.

This phase also carries an opportunity with it - an opportunity to forge a personality where you can 'Choose' to write neatly. An opportunity to commit fewer mistakes. An opportunity to behave like a person who has a 'way' with pens.

You know what, these all are quite foolish opportunities. It's like a fish not only climbing a tree but also singing an opera from above.

I had clumsy handwriting. No one taught me to write clumsy - I was born with that talent. My brain always worked hard to guide my hand to fit as many words as possible in as less space. And to cope with dictating speed of the teacher, I never felt any issue with skipping a few words. I believed in writing the first letter of the word and making an impression afterward. And after class, I used to sit with a group of friends to guess what actually was my intent to write there. Can you imagine a group of historians, looking interestingly at the Harrapan script, trying to write a new book on the Aryan Invasion Theory?

I was born in an era (I consciously used the word era) where people used to think that one's handwriting is so damn directly proportional to one's intelligence. And My dear Father was most concerned with the neatness of my handwriting 'oblique' level of my intelligence. So he enrolled me in this handwriting improvement class. Point to be noted - I was in the tenth standard when he took this revolutionary step. And the average age of the students who were taking that course was eleven (ahem! If you count me in).

They started with the clarity and formation of the alphabet - trying to modify my outstanding handwriting into a predefined 'greeting card' style. It was fun actually making the letter "A" like two wooden ladders balanced against each other and fancy ribbon tied between them. And the letter "B"  was like that standard sketch I used to make, in which two hills with a waterfall kind of thing were there in between. You just have to see that sketch in portrait mode. 

I finally gained that superpower of showcasing my classy handwriting - and that too with a lightning speed of forty minutes...

a quarter of a page of an exercise notebook.

Don't forget that they assured me that with regular practice, I'll be able to cope. But after trying and trying, I understood that every power requires a certain amount of compromises. I have to choose between beauty and the beast (oops! speed). I chose the beast. And in a couple of weeks, I was back with my scribble and scratches. 

But my Father was not ready to spare me so easily.

He made me repeat that whole program in the twelfth standard. 

Imagine a five-foot-nine guy, weighing hundred and forty pounds (you can't ignore my sixteen-inch arms, can you ?), surrounded by a few irritating ten-year-old kids, fighting to grab the first desk. And yes, I learned cursive writing there. 

And the teacher had to deal with the class in a different way.

- I'll make you sit with a girl

- Finger on your lips

- write ' I will not talk in the class' in your diary a hundred times.

I remember once I was writing an essay in my recalled superpower when I forgot to put a couple of dots above the Seducing 'I' and the gentle 'J'.

'Himanshu, next time if you forget this I'll give you a tight slap. I didn't know how to react, so obviously... I couldn't control my laughter. 

To my amazement, she started laughing too.

That was my last day in that kiddy class. 

Now here I'm where people believe in typing and chatting. But I still do most of my writing on paper with a fountain pen or a pilot pen majorly. People do rely on e-mails, but I still send letters to a couple of my acquaintances.

And my handwriting is much tidy and clear.

I learned a very important lesson as I grew up. Handwriting is a medium to express your soul. It is much clear when your thoughts flow like a fresh stream of water.

I recently read an article in a magazine that you can't actually improve your handwriting. No matter how hard you try, you can't hide what's imbibed in you for a long time. Also, your handwriting is very much dependent on your mental state and speed. Most of the time, your hand fails to cope with your mental speed.  Result - everyone says - 'Can you read yourself what you have written?'.

I tried to explain this to my Father. He just smiled. 

I don't know whether my mental speed is reduced or my hand is now capable to tame the monster in my head, but my handwriting is improved. At least I believe this.

Do you want to see it? send me your address and wait for a letter exclusively for you. Let me pray to the Gods of wit and humor to bestow his blessings on my head so that I can write something interesting for you with my bare hands. 

Love, Laughter, and Peace

Himanshu R Nagpal

PS:- Handwriting is not related to one's level of intellect. Okay, Bye! 

PSS:- I'm looking for a suitable name for that 'species'. Suggestions are more than welcome. (I have a name in my mind let's call them/me Homo - Clumsiarian, what do you suggest?).

The Art Of Racing In The Rain - by Garth Stein - Not a Book Review

 Bliss.

 I've come across this word many times. Be it in ted talk or various spiritual videos, they talk a lot about bliss. And it's a cool word to use in your day to day life. 

The closest encounter I had with this feeling is when tears are rolling from your eyes and you are still smiling.

And when this book was coming to an end, I could feel my eyes moist and a little smile on my face.

Bliss.

I read about this book called 'The Art of Racing in the Rain' by Garth Stein in another Book called 'i came upon a lighthouse' which I have read a couple of weeks back. 

The book is narrated by a Dog whose name is Enzo. He expresses whatever he sees, whatever he feels, with such a perfection that he'll make you his friend from the very first page of the book. His master, Denny, who is a gifted Car Racer/Grand Tourer (GT) takes care of Enzo with utmost dedication. His life is filled with ups and downs. A beautiful and loving wife, Eve who is not doing well. A little girl Zoë who loves Enzo as much as his Dad.

Eve is diagnosed with something which is taking her life slowly. She is hospitalised once and after that, She decides to be at her parent's house for better care. She is slowly losing her health. In her last months, she develops a loving relationship with Enzo.

After she dies, her parents demand custody of their granddaughter and put false allegations on Denny to get the custody.

The book is filled with lots and lots of ups and downs, and what remained constant and unchanged was Enzo and his love for his family.

The story is simple. Just pick up a newspaper and you see innumerable columns filled with lots of these kinds of articles and clippings. Just pick up those novels with tragic endings, and you'll see many stories like this. But what makes it special is the narrative of a dog. The world looks so different from his eyes. His compassion, his generosity is contagious. His way of dealing with things is so loving. He uses his heart more than his mind. And That's what makes a Dog, A DOG.

A human, when pops out on the planet and gains a certain amount of maturity, tries to unlearn the over usage of his mind and tries to operate from one's heart. And it takes a lot of years for Humans to accomplish that. And most of us even fail in accomplishing that.

But Dogs know that art from the moment they take their first breath on this planet. That's why they come here for such a short period.

This book is for those who love animals and care for them. This book is for those who love that thrill of care race and like knowing the minute things of a car race. This book is for those who love long walks when it drizzles. This book is for... Everyone.

So Here I'm sharing the link to the book. Do let me know your views about it.

Thanks for reading.

Shall I tell you a secret? in Mongolia, they say that when a dog dies, he or she reincarnates as a human. What? You don't believe me? Read it yourself in the book

Love

HRN

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The Art of Keeping A Journal

I have no issue in accepting that I was an extremely talkative kid. I used to gel up with everyone around me so easily. I had a lot of topics to talk about and I never heard the term boredom in the first ten years of my presence on this planet. As I grew up, my group started becoming shorter. I only had a handful of friends when I was in college.

And after that, I was on my own - sharing all the grief, all the love with myself alone. 

It's not like I was starving for a company or someone to roam around on regular basis. I was somehow happy being with myself.

When people grow up and start exploring society on their own, I have seen People becoming anti-religious or anti-corruption. But I became anti-bullshit. I couldn't take with people trying to condition my mind or putting negative (or positive) things in my mind. I wanted to (and still want to) see the world to gain first-hand experiences. 

But when you are alone, a lot of emotions creates turmoil inside you. You have an urge to share your thoughts with someone to feel a bit lighter. And it's a good thing to share what's troubling you. But we humans have a secret chip imbibed inside us, which always expects something in return for every ear or every favour. 

And I was done with all the exchange of advice. 

I have no problem in accepting that I went into this phase of extreme anger and sadness for a couple of months. I had a major problem in finding words in explaining what was running in my mind. I had this urge to share my thoughts and my confessions about the things which I shouldn't have been done. But I had nothing to give in return for that. And I had this constant terror in my mind that people will judge me. 

So when someone gave me a freebie on the new year and no points for guessing, it was a beautiful, hardbound journal.

In my initial days of writing a journal, I had no clue that what should I write about. Just like a secondary school student, I used to begin with 'Dear Diary'. And I couldn't complete a page in a single sitting in the first few months. I still had that lump in my throat of expressing myself but I couldn't. It became a daily duty for me to write it. I religiously did my duty but I couldn't avail any help from that.

One day, out of nowhere, I got this idea of leaving all the formats, all the decorum aside and start writing what was troubling me.

It was 1.30 AM when I switched on my reading lamp and wrote this sentence in my journal:-

Whatever I write here no one will be ever going to read it.

Trust me, I felt immense freedom as I wrote that sentence. All that fear of being judged went away. I started writing about a childhood incident that had an impact on me. I started writing about the dreams which used to trouble me more often. I started writing about my desires, my goals and whatnot. I wrote more than eight pages in that single sitting. When I switched off my reading lamp, it felt like I'm coming out of some therapist's office. I felt a lot lighter and much happier. I slept like a baby that night.

And from then, it became a ritual. I carry my journal with me anywhere it is humanly possible to take it with me. And I always take out some time from my schedule to pen down my thoughts almost every day. 

My family and I noticed many changes in me. I'm getting that glow back on my face which I had as an adolescent. I gel up with people and discuss things that are common between us. Of course, I'm still a proud Anti Bullshit guy, but I have become more liberal. I have acquired the subtle art of hearing without listening. 

And above that all, I learned a lot about myself. By writing in my journal, I took out time in understanding my reactions to various triggers. I discovered that there is a lot of knowledge that resides inside yourself, which is needed to be tapped. And you can tap it when you slow down and invest some time in being with yourself. It's sheer magic. 

There are innumerable benefits of writing a journal, some of them are listed down below

1) It makes you feel emotionally lighter. 

2) It makes you acquire self-knowledge

3) It helps you in developing a tangible thought process 

4) It helps you in building and maintaining a good relationship with the people around you.

There are many more benefits of writing your experiences and thoughts in a journal. 

Before ending this article, I want to convey a message to all my dear readers. If you ever feel that you are unable to deal with the situations by yourself, you should talk about that with your family or friends. And if needed, do visit a therapist or a psychiatrist. It is darn necessary to take care of one's mental health. And there is no issue in seeing a doctor. Trust me it helps.

All The Best with your journal writing journey. Do share your experiences of writing a journal with me on hrntales@gmail.com.

See you again

Love, Laughter, and Peace

HRN

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The One Who Stole My Heart...

The One Who Stole My heart

My home, like many other houses, has two gates. One is at the front, and the other opens towards the little street at my home's backside. Around two months back, I saw Bachi (a beautiful female dog, with big wolf eyes) lying under a staircase with five little pups around her. I was excited when I saw all of them. They were just so small, even smaller than a tennis ball. Their eyelids were stuck together, and their eyes were forcefully closed. In about ten days, they started opening their eyes. They used to follow me whenever I used to whistle at them.

All five were so damn beautiful and active, but out of all, one little Pup stole my heart. I had a doubt that he was visually impaired. He could trace my voice and follow me, but I think he couldn't see me correctly. He always used to be around his siblings, as he was unable to manage alone. Apart from that, he was weakest among all. He used to scream whenever he was alone, as he couldn't find his way back to his little shelter near the staircase.

Once I found him at the end of the street, screaming and banging his head here and there, trying hard to find his way back. I whistled at him, and he started following that irritating voice and successfully found his way back.

After a week or so, I realized that he was able to see a little. I discovered this by placing him at a four-feet height on a small cemented platform, to feed him chapatti and milk with a bit more attention. Soon, his legs started shivering, and he started looking downwards. I was happy when I discovered that. I patted him, and I lifted him in my arms. I told him to trust me and kept him back at that little platform. He started eating without being afraid of height.

One Sunday morning, I woke up a bit late, and that too because of someone screaming outside my home. I saw him walking in my backyard. I asked my Mom what is he doing in the backyard. She said with an alarming voice that some dogs attacked the Pup. They dragged him while holding the little one in between their jaws. I ran towards him and saw him panting. He looked at me and waged his tail. I picked him up immediately and saw a big hole in his abdomen. I could see some internal bleeding and a yellowish noodle kind of thing coming out of that hole. I rushed to the Veterinary clinic near my home. They told me to run to the hospital as the little one needs stitches before any dressing.

I rushed to the hospital, but there was no staff available. They all went for lunch. One kind doctor gave him pain-killers, which helped him to bear the pain for a while. The doctor who had to perform the operation came after one hour. They gave him anaesthesia quickly and took him to the operation theatre.

They bring him back in an unconscious condition. The internal bleeding was so much, but the doctor said that the recovery chances are more than fifty per cent. I brought him back home, and he slept the whole afternoon. He woke up around six in the evening and started crying. I patted him, and he went back to sleep. After two more hours and another episode of screaming, he slept again.

After Nine, I got up from my desk and started preparing the bed for him. I guided my wife to mind her step as the little one is sleeping near our bed. I went to that basket in which he was lying.  I picked him up, but something looked fishy. I tried to shake him up, but he wasn't breathing. I panicked a bit and start giving CPR. I called my Mom to confirm whether there any chances, but she denied. The little Pup, who stole my heart, had left his mortal body.

Honestly speaking, I have seen innumerable dogs bidding me goodbye and leaving their mortal body. I was able to cope up. But this time, I couldn't. I was normal at first. I was consoling my wife as she was crying a lot. After bidding him goodbye, we went to bed. I slept for a while, but specific memories of the time I spent with him disturbed me. I was remembering him revolving round and round to find his way back to the shelter. When I was feeding him on that four-foot platform and telling him to trust me, everything was coming like a picture in front of my eyes.

That was it. I couldn't control myself and cry like a maniac.

I don't cry easily. But that night, I was not in my control.

No matter how much one reads about detachment and not getting attached to someone, It gives one a hard time to practice the concept. No matter how much you try to learn about the body and the soul concept, sometimes you fail miserably when applying that concept. Human emotions are hazardous. They have the tendency to make a person look crazy.

The next morning I was lost somewhere when I dropped my wife at her office on my scooter. I checked my phone after dropping her when two white feathers fell on my shoulder. I looked above but found nothing. I don't know what happened to me, but I kept those feathers with me in my fanny pack.

I asked my friend, who is a tarot card reader that what could this be. She replied that that's a message from angels. Now, I have a reasonable belief in Archangels, and I have literally felt their presence around me many times. I researched about this feather message on the internet when I found this video.

I pasted the feathers in my journal

That lady in the video said something that I couldn't control my tears. She said that it's a message from someone who has left this mortal world that he or she has reached safely in heaven, and now you should stop grieving.

Love, it's a crazy thing. Whether it is one-sided or both ways, it has beauty. But when someone loves you back with the same passion, trust me, that feeling cannot be described in mere words. That love can cross all the mortal boundaries. It's beyond the body, beyond the mind, beyond everything.

I lost him, but I'm happy that he is safe and became my guardian angel.

To conclude this, I just want to say that being emotionally vulnerable doesn't make someone weak. Weakness appears when someone stops doing something because of the fear of heartbreak and that grief. But you can mark my words, I will not stop falling in love, again and again with those little kiddos, who expects nothing but love.

Love, Laughter, and Peace

Himanshu R Nagpal

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"One Arranged Murder" by Chetan Bhagat - Not a Book Review

 In life, one of the most challenging tasks is judging something without being judgemental about it. Let me elucidate.  While Judging something, you have to be neutral in every aspect. You have to keep aside all your past experiences, earlier records, and people’s opinions regarding that particular thing. On the other hand,  when you are judgemental about something, you bring the past performances and other people’s view into the equation. Don’t worry, this theory is created by me. It helps me to bifurcate between judging something or being judgemental about something. I hope that will help you too, as you read this article further.

Chetan Bhagat, who started his career with the books like One night @ the call center, Five point someone, and Three mistakes of my life, was a trendsetter and converted many non-readers into readers. He brought a different revolution in the field of literature. He became the apple of the eye of millions of readers, specifically in India. But with time, and after lots of success, Bhagat started losing his charm when we talk about his books. Most of his books began adapting to Hindi movies. So, I personally felt like he started writing more for the movies’ scripts than readers. His Books like Half-Girlfriend and One Indian girl was somewhat looked like more of a Bollywood script than a book.

And then, his views upon feminism and gender equality were widely criticised across the nation. However, his books were a huge success and always remain at the top of the charts.

I read his recent book – One Arranged Murder.

If we talk about its story, Two friends, Saurabh and Keshav, are not much in talking terms after an episode of misunderstanding.  Saurabh, who is about to get married in a couple of months, is going to her fiancé, Prerna, at his home as she fasted for him on the occasion of Karva Chauth.  He was climbing the stairs to meet her at the terrace but was welcomed with something alarming. He saw a people gathering around a dead body on the ground. Was that an accident or a murder? The story revolves around that. Sourabh and Keshav, apart from working in a corporate, also run a detective agency called Z Detectives. So no points for guessing; they help the police to solve the case.

Honestly speaking, without flaunting my intellect, I could guess the criminal on the 80th page of this book, which has about three hundred-odd pages. That was more of a work of my emotional instinct than my critical analysis. But with each page proceeding, I started doubting myself, and that’s what I consider the success of this book. New theories came in eventually, and that’s the essence of the book.

It has that Chetan Bhagat factor as it mixes up all the variants like his earlier books. It has that tragedy, that romance, and that masala, his x-factor in the books like two states and three mistakes of my life.

On the other hand, I found some parts of the book quite impractical and hard to believe. The characters were behaving quite differently and beyond the boundaries of their portrayal. At some point, I also felt that this book is also written for a movie or a web-series. But that’s again one’s personal opinion, not a fact.

Do I like the book? Oh yes. It’s undoubtedly a page-turner, and I believe that its entertainment quotient is relatively high.

Will you like the book? That will depend on what you are looking for in the book.

Here’s the link to the book, in case you are looking forward to reading it.

I’ll see you soon.

Love, Laughter, and Peace

Himanshu R Nagpal

A Power Cut in Delhi

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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