Rusty- The boy from The Hills - A little Note

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. 

and yes you can grab your copy from HERE.    

HRN

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Anamika...

 I used to love train journeys. Be it a short or a long-distance journey, I always prefer trains over airways, provided I have no urgency. Never I have thought that I'll be able to travel the length and breadth of the nation so frequently. I worked as a relationship manager of one of the leading construction companies in the capital city of India. The company was young, so its employees. We had a team of highly energetic people who always prioritize their work over anything else in the world. 

But I was a bit different. 

I loved my job not because of the team or the company, but because of my profile. I had the freedom to approach clients on behalf of my organization and fetch the deals. It involved lots and lots of traveling. So every fortnight, I had to travel to different cities of the various states of the country.

Did I tell you that I love train journeys?

Until that day...

It was mid of march and I was traveling from Delhi to Amritsar. It was an evening train I caught from Hazrat Nizamuddin Railway station. I didn't get a reservation. So I had a word with the Ticket checker who allotted me a seat in the second AC coach. 

The coach was almost vacant until Panipat. There, around six or seven people boarded the train. I was reading the recently purchased copy of The Alchemist when she entered my compartment.

'Berth number 3' she pointed towards the seat I was sitting on. 

I quickly stood up and sat on the seat opposite her. I was happy that I got beautiful company for the rest of the journey. I smiled at her but her stoned face was unturned and unreceptive. And with all the things I have learned in my life, the best one is Minding my own business.

We spend an hour or so in utmost silence when this gentleman came to ask whether we'll have vegetarian food or non-vegetarian. We both opted for Vegetarian and after twenty minutes, we both received shiny containers of Rice and gravy, served in an age-old red tray. 

She sat numb for some time. I don't know why but that silence between us was disturbing me. I didn't feel like opening the packaged food and start eating alone.

'Shall we start?' I asked her out of courtesy.

It looked like she came out of some distant thinking. She didn't reply but started opening her container in a hurry. I didn't mind that, at least I could have my dinner in peace.

She was gulping her food very quickly, without chewing. I was finding all that quite awkward. Her face was tensed and sweaty, provided March's nights are not that hot. She was wearing an embroidered black suit with a white dupatta and looked like someone who comes from a very decent background. 

Suddenly something got stuck down her throat and she started coughing. I quickly gave her my water bottle and she quickly gulped some water. It gave her some relief. She gave my bottle back, without saying thank you, of course. She kept her leftover aside and went to the washroom. 

After a couple of minutes, she came back and sat cross-legged on her seat. She was looking directly into my eyes without any particular emotion. That was scary and disturbing. I was wondering to change my seat, but again, I find it a bit rude. 

I tried again to start a conversation.

'So where are you heading to, Ma'am?'

After a disturbing silence, she said 

'I have no idea where I'm heading to'.

End of conversation. There was nothing left to say anymore. 

As time passed, I was feeling a little sleepy. So I stretched my legs on my seat and I don't know when I went into a deep slumber. I opened my eyes once or twice in between. I saw her writing something on a ruled notebook. But whenever I used to look at her, she used to stop writing and looked at me again with that stone face. Every time I chose to close my eyes again. After an hour or so, I woke up and saw her still writing. I wore my shoes, took my Jacket and went to Washroom. I had this urge to smoke after dinner. Though It is not allowed to lit a cigarette on the train, I went near the washbasin, open the coach's door, and lit the cigarette. I was completely lost in my world when someone tapped lightly on my shoulder. My cabin mate was standing there.

'do you mind if I take a puff?'

I took out another cigarette but she quickly snatched the lit cigarette from my hand, closed her eyes, and started taking slow puffs.

'I was in college when I smoked last.' she more or less talked to herself.

I stood silently, looking at her face.

'What's your name?' I asked.

'I have no name.' she said.

After an awkward silence, she said 'Anamika, the one who has no name.'

'Avinash' I said 'The one who can't be destroyed.'

'So you are the unfortunate one.' she smiled the first time since I saw her. 'You have to destroy yourself to end all the pain, all the troubles, all the miseries'

I smiled, looking at her moist eyes. I could sense pain. 

'What's your story?' I asked.

'Oh it's a tragic one.' she smiled again

'I'm not sleepy at all' I looked directly at her.

'Umm it has a very happy beginning, a disturbing middle, but a beautiful end.' she said.

I folded my arms and started listening to her story.

'I met him in my college and I knew that he is the one. We started dating and got married after a couple of years.' she said looking into the void outside the coach's gate.

'First few months were good but he tortured me mentally after that. He blackmailed me and told me to bring Money from my Dad or he'll do all that which can't be expressed in words. Neither I can tell you, nor you can listen to that. My Father, who was already a Cancer patient, died a month back as he couldn't afford good treatment. He was handing most of his pension money to my husband. That's my friend is the disturbing middle of the story.' she smiled. I could see a cold sweat rolling down her face.

I wanted to comfort her. I want her to vomit out whatever was disturbing her. I was making sure not to sympathize with her, not to judge her, but listen to her. That's what, according to me, is the best way to comfort anyone.

After a long silence, she came towards the washbasin and started washing her face. I came a little backward, balancing myself so that I don't fall on her. 

She asked for another cigarette. I gave her the second last cigarette I had. She kept her between her lips. I lit the cigarette for her.

'And what's the beautiful end to the story? ' I asked her, hoping to see some light at the end of the tunnel. 

She smiled and gave me a piece of paper she was holding in her left hand.

'You'll see it yourself Avinash, the beautiful ending to my story.' she said.

I unfolded the paper and saw a line neatly written on it.

I gave full blame for my death to my husband Aakash, who tortured me, physically, mentally, and emotionally. 

-Anamika

I wasn't expecting that. When I looked at her, she was standing near the gate. I ran a step forward and tried to hold her arm. But she took a step backward, looking directly into my eyes. Her eyes were moist again. 

And that face still haunts me. 

Everything happened in a fraction of a second. But for me, it became a lifelong haunting.

I shouted at the highest pitch of my voice. I sat near the washbasin, keeping hands on my ears, and cried like a little kid.

That might be the beautiful end of her story but a tragic end to the happiness of my life.

I hate train journeys, did I tell you that before?

HRN

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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