ALAM E ARWAH - DELHI KARAVAN CHRONICLES

चल बुल्लेया चल ओथे चलिए 

जित्थे होवन सारे अन्ने।

ना कोई साडी जात पछाने,

ना कोई सानू मन्ने।

Baba Bulle Shah says let's go to a place where everyone is blind. A land where no one could recognize us with our cast and creed, and no one appreciates us based on who and what we are.

Every walk I have attended with Asif Sahab has an intrinsic value in my life. It is difficult to describe that in words, but you might see a reflection somewhere in between my writeups. Every walk satisfies my appetite in one way or the other. Some quench my thirst for listening to endless stories. Some enrich my awareness of the people, places, and things which existed in some other era. And then there are some which satisfy my wild curiosity.

The last walk I attended was a cocktail of all of those.

We were sitting on the large rocks of the long-lost Aravalli, just behind the tomb of Azim Khan. The gigantic Qutub Minar was in the view. The Sun was about to bid adieu for the day when Asif Sahab began.

'There was a time when we all were formless and shapeless. It was when there was no religion, no caste, no creeds.

It was then we were in "Alam E Arwah", that we were as one soul. We know each other long before entering into this world.'

His words were enough to kick-start my never-ending imagination. I couldn't control my mind at that moment, nor I can control my hand right now.

And then the Almighty took one big bowl of clay and started shaping each of us with his bare hands. Writing the roles one has to play in this physical world. And then we all fall softly one by one on the face of the earth, just as a feather kissing softly the ground. 

'And this world - which you and I call physical is 'Alam E Dunya'.

A crucial thing happens between the journey from Alam E Arwah to Alam E Dunya. Somewhere in between that journey, we lose our memory. We can't recall what all happened there. We can't recognize the souls with whom we were together. All those memories wash away like the blackboard before the next class begins.

I could imagine my soft landing on the earth. 

Yes, I was there once. I must have been conscious at first when I was shaped into this body. I must have been alone for the first time. I must have been overwhelmed when I commenced my journey to Alam E Dunya. 

And then on one alien turn, I must have seen a tunnel of light. By passing through it slowly, all the memories must have vanished.

And then I must have touched the face of the Earth. I must have seen some strange faces looking at me smiling and sobbing. But little did I know that I was trapped under certain labels and identities. I was recognized by a name. A caste was attached to it. A religion must be attached to it. A certain financial status was attached to it. I was identified by the color of my face - my ethnicity must have been important to many.

I was taught quite well to hate people who fall under different labels, recognized by different identities. I was trained to believe that the path I'm following is superior to the others. 

When you zoom out on this scenario a little bit, you start seeing that we all are differentiated with barbed wires from the people whose paths are totally different. I was taught to have a super Ill feeling towards them and they must have thought likewise.

All this drama of labels, identities, and recognition goes on and on when something magical happens.

A day comes when someone enters your life and you suddenly travel before the time when the tunnel of light comes into the journey. At his or her first glance you feel that you know that person quite well. You feel that you can trust him with all that you have. Conversation or no conversation, you still feel that there is something between that person and you that can't be described in this so-called physical world 

That is the person who was once your companion soul in Alam E Arwah.

And sometimes an incident happens and you start seeing some pattern in it. Some conversation, some colors, or some scenarios. Slowly you start recognizing that pattern and you understand that the exact thing has happened at some other time, some other place.

Yes, we term it as DejaVu today. But terms, theories, and equations have majorly no answers to so many 'stupid' questions that come across our minds.

Some other time...

Some other place...

'Is Jannat (heaven) a time or a place?' Asif Sahab asks us. 

After mixed answers, he started explaining about a place called 'Alam E Barzakh'. That is where we all will go when we leave our mortal body and our role ends in Alam E Dunya. 

It is difficult for me to describe that but about one thing I'm quite sure about. A light tunnel will again be there on the route to Alam E Barzakh. When I pass through that tunnel, it will be more like a feeling of waking up from a deep and dreamy slumber.

You know the words which I was listening to were more like deadly bullets shot towards me.  They were hitting me with an enormous force that the damage it had caused was visible to me. I could see a bloody puncture near my heart. The blood that was oozing out of it was dark, almost black.

When nothing was left to ooze out of that wound, the light started entering into it.

'Alam E Arwah'

I think Baba Bulle Shah must have mentioned Alam E Arwah when he said these lines -

चल बुल्लेया चल ओथे चलिए 

जित्थे होवन सारे अन्ने।

ना कोई साडी जात पछाने,

ना कोई सानू मन्ने।

Love, Laughter, and Peace 

HRN

A Mother's Sacrifice - Story That Grew Up With Me...

 

I love listening to stories. No academic degree or professional course can teach you as much as a good story if you ask me. At this phase of life, when I look toward my long-gone past, I remember so many good stories told to me at various stages, and at various unimaginable places. I remember so many of them by heart. But I hardly remember any lecture with that amount of lucidity I attended in college.

Being an imaginative kid, who was considered lost by many around me, I always valued stories. It was and still is a desirable dish for my imaginative mind. Do you know that so many people are researching time travel and the presence of different dimensions? Little do they know that the only way to travel in time and explore different dimensions is possible by telling and listening to good stories.

Do you want to try it?

So sit back and relax. And take a bellyful of breath.

Let me take you to my classroom. In a shady corner on the top floor, just next to the staircase, there's my classroom. It's the last period of the day. It was much hotter than the other days of July month. The least we could do is to relax for a bit after a tiring day.

It was a counseling period. I really looked forward to that period as one can gossip with his or her friends and can stay away from textbooks and notes for a while. It took me years to understand that it was not the vacant time of the day but the stories Counselor Ma'am (may God bless her divine soul) used to tell us that made me look forward to that class.

She entered our classroom and we all stood up to sing our lullaby style Good Afternoon Ma'am. She smiled and told us to settle down. One could tell her with her facial expressions that whether she is in the mood to tell a story or she wants us to carry on with whatever we feel like, of course by maintaining the decorum of the class. That day her expressions displayed the former option. She was clenching her kerchief in her left hand. She stood comfortably against her desk and started the story -

Once there was a saint who used to travel from one place to another, singing devotional songs, and answering innocent questions asked by people around him. He was known for throwing light on unanswered questions which appear in his disciples' minds. 

On the banks of the Godavari River, there was a village. The saint thought of staying in that village under a gigantic banyan tree, before continuing his journey to other places. 

The villagers were delighted and honored by the presence of the saint. They brought fruits, milk, clean water, and various fragrances for him. They sat all around him, listening to devotional songs, praising the greatness of the Almighty. 

After the kirtan session, people asked for solutions to their domestic as well as spiritual problems. When everyone was contented with his simple solutions, everyone stood up to leave. But then one villager raised a question. 

'Oh wise one, I'm a hardworking man. I travel to distant lands to earn money so that I can give all the amenities to my children. I compromise my personal pleasures so that my children can lead a good life. But Your Holiness, if you pick up any religious text, they all sing praises of the divinity and the compromises of the Mother. Can you please put some light on why Mother is expressed as more compromising to the Father in all those texts?

The saint smiled and calmly appreciate the importance of the question raised. He told the villager to come back again the next morning after taking a bath. Then he will answer his question.

When the villager arrived the next morning, the saint was sitting calmly under the tree. 

He told the villager not to sit and raise his arms where he was standing. Then he tied a big rock through a jute rope around the villager's belly. He was not at all expecting something like this. He doubted the wisdom of the saint and thought that he wants to play some kind of prank with him. 

He only understood the seriousness of the business once the saint recited some Vedic chants.

The saint told the villager to go back to his home and come back tomorrow. "And don't even think of untying the rope or getting rid of the rock in any way.  It will bring you bad luck not only for this birth but for the next three births too" the saint said when he turned back.

The villager said nothing. He struggled to reach his home, dragging the stone with force as well as with utmost care. 

The next day when the villager returned he saw the saint in a deep meditative saint. The villager was panting heavily, drenched in sweat. He sat near the tree where the saint was sitting. When the saint opened his eyes, the village was just too eager to ask for the answer to his question. But the saint stopped him and told him to come back again the next morning.

With a heavy heart and a heavier belly, he went back to his home.

The next morning again the villager came back, slowly dragging his stone. He sat next to the saint this time. He tried to look for his answer, but the saint stopped him again and told him to come back again the next morning. 

Being said that the villager was all fierce and uncontrollable. He stood up and started abusing and screaming at the saint.

" Do hell with your answer, you old, grey-hair langoor. Just set me free with this rope and your stupid rock".

The saint smiled and untied the rope, relieving him after so many hours. 

"My brother, you couldn't bear the weight of this rock for mere forty-eight hours. And your Mother didn't complain, rather celebrated your weight around her belly for so many months. She spent so many sleepless nights because you were growing slowly in her belly. The greatness of a Mother and the compromises she made can't be described in mere words my friend. No scripture is capable enough to describe the greatness of a Mother." The saint replied. 

The villager was awestruck with the answer. He fell immediately at the steps of the saint, asking for forgiveness.

When the counselor ma'am ended the story, I can't forget what she said next. 

'To all the boys who are here in the class, one day you will become amazing Fathers. But a Mother's compromises really can't be described in words.'

And the story stayed with me since that day. Unfortunately, Counselor Ma'am left this world on the last day of the year 2022. When I heard that news, more than feeling sad or angry, I felt cheated.

I felt cheated because no one I've ever come across is so humble, so caring, so giving. 

I felt cheated because our younger generation can never listen to those stories, which had the capability to change one's life.

I felt cheated because I will not be able to see that face ever again in whatever days of mortality are still left with me.

I have dealt with physical pains quite gracefully in my life. But emotional pains, I really doubt my capabilities in handling them.

I wanted to share this story with every one of you on the occasion of Mother's Day.

It's hard to send wishes to the divine land where Counselor Ma'am has got a golden desk to stand against and tell wonderful stories. But I'm taught with utmost care to at least try.

Happy Mother's Day Sangeeta Ma'am...

Tamasha and the Silsila of storytelling

"You know what, there is an abandoned church near my home" I whispered to my friend when our teacher told us to keep our heads down as she was having a headache.

My friend started paying attention to me. With his left ear attached to that wooden desk, he was looking directly into my eyes. 

"One day, I went near that church on my bicycle to collect lemon tree leaves for our science homework. I climbed the little boundary of the church to pluck some leaves when I heard the vibrating 'Tong' of some big bell from inside." He was darn curious.

(I started tapping my fingers on the desk to add sound effects of my footsteps toward the window of the church.)

"When I wiped the window of that abandoned church, I saw a group of people with white hair as cotton. a few of them even had big white beards. I was trying to understand what was happening when the whole group looked started looking at me."

My friend's eyes were now moving to and fro, grasping each word I was saying.

"Suddenly, a man with sunken shoulders and bloodshot eyes started gliding towards me, as if he was flying in the air. I took no time to understand that he has no feet."

"I ran for my life when I stumbled upon something and fall."

I tapped on the desk, a bit loud this time - Loud enough to spike a bit more pain in our Teacher's head... and throw me out of the class.

While going back home that day, my friend came running towards me. 

"Where do you live? I'll come to your home on my bicycle today, will you take me to that church?" I can't forget his puppy face.

"Not today brother. My cousin is coming from Bombay today. We will be visiting Appu Ghar in the evening.

I never had a cousin who ever lived in Bombay. Just like there was no abandoned church near my home.

I love telling and listening to stories since my childhood. I have always believed and made others believe that there is a lamp, on which if you rub gently, a genie comes out and asks for three wishes. I remember showing my cricket bat to one of my friends with a 'Brittania' logo on it. I made him believe that it was Virendra Sehvag's bat and the genie got that for me.

And on one occasion I told my Tuition teacher that I have the power to foretell people's past by looking at their palms. She gave me her hand and I told her that there was one stranger who came into her room when she was a newborn baby. And that stranger will again visit her life, and she needs to beware of him. She smiled and told me to concentrate on my fourth standard final exams.

I'm not a storyteller - But yes, I told stories to people on the occasions when people least expect them. Be it some incomplete homework excuse or some serious job interview, I had a compelling story for each occasion.

But then this phase came into my life when I had to forge a personality as per the rules set by someone else. I had to bring some 'so-called' necessary changes in my life. Like reading motivational and self-help books. Smile, no matter how phony it looks. Focus on doing firm handshakes. Shave daily. Nodding your head even if you disagree with something. Wear a card around your neck. Talk about work and management on tea and lunch breaks. Smile, and smile some more. 

Learn new English words each day and try to use them on daily basis. Run to catch that to-and-fro shuttle to the metro station. Run for some adequate space to stand in the metro. Smile at your co-passengers. Come back home and send smiling emoticons to the person you are talking to on WhatsApp.

Sleep.

Get up the next morning.

Repeat all that again.

I could not manage to maintain that personality for more than seven months.

One fine day, I met a friend of mine accidentally in the metro. We decided to have dinner together. While sitting in a little 'Dhaba' kind of structure, we started discussing theories about the possibility of life after death.

That night, I told a story to him about this boy who died and came back to life after an hour or so. And, during that commercial break between death and life, he saw paradise.

When the story ended, I noticed him looking directly into my eyes. I tried to look somewhere else. I feel uncomfortable when people look directly into my eyes - as if they will discover something that I don't want them to discover.

You should watch Tamasha

His words still ring in my ears.

And that night something magical happened. I watched the movie and I cried. Something had changed - I don't know what, but something surely changed. 

The next morning was as fresh as dew drops on the leaves in the garden. I woke up as an excited kid who loves telling and listening to stories. A kid who still reads stories from the Panchtantra and Arabian Nights.A kid who fell in love with the ghost stories of Ruskin Bond. A kid who loves writing short and simple stories, which are most of the time away from reality. 

And yes, I'm still trying to gain that confidence back to whisper stories of abandoned churches to my friend. One day I will be able to do that again.

So, my reader friend, everyone is born with some imbibed interest. But we let that interest or passion step down from the stage of our lives, and let other boring characters perform. Just like 'Prasar Bharati' appears out of a sudden on DD National, and that too between the final fight of 'Shaktiman and Tamraj Kilvish'. How will you react when something like this actually happens?

Don't do that, Please. I'm not saying you to leave your job and follow your passion. But don't let that passion die. Trust me, you will lead an ecstatic life - without even following what these new-age Gurus say. 

Another way of being happy is... to call me and I will tell you a good story... Umm... maybe of Ebenezer Scrooge and the Ghosts of the Past, Present, and the future. :-)

Thank you for reading this.

Chalo ab mai chala Hiran ke Shikar par...

Love, Laughter, And Peace

Himanshu R Nagpal

ps:- I'm writing more about the movie. So, stay tuned if you enjoyed reading this. :)

Dissection of Storytelling - A walk with Asif Sahab

This is an entry from my journal I wrote after one of my initial walks with Asif Sahab. After filling a dozen of pages in my journal, I tried to analyze certain value points, which may benefit a storyteller. I can update the entry and add many more points,.but it will make things complicated and you will scroll down. So, I will stick to the basics and I will try to give some rest to your thumbs (those little creatures, genuinely expecting some mercy from you). But, I will not spare you with my bracket commentary. I love doing that. (You can imagine me showcasing my devil smile).

Let's get started.

27/10/2021- 23.15 hours - Wednesday - New Delhi

Storytelling

What I learned in my last walk with Asif Sahab, comprises certain elements of storytelling.

The first and most crucial element is Gestures (to make your listener/ audience imagine). When Asif Sahab said " Abhi hum Babar ko Kabul mai rakhte hai" he used his left hand, rotated his wrist, and gestured to take a pause from a story and jumped to the other story, which probably running parallelly somewhere else. And then he started explaining about Ibrahim Lodhi, his uncle Daulat Khan Lodhi. Now, these gestures help the audience to bifurcate one story from another. Without these gestures, your words will fall flat and your story will disappear in thin air.

As a listener, it was easier for me to imagine that time and era - All the happenings and mishappenings - I could see everything happening in front of me.

(Imagine, Babur, coming with his troop, family, and kin - all the way from Uzbekistan to India. And just with rotation of a wrist, Babur froze in Kabul - not physically though - and, Ibrahim Lodhi was preparing his army of over one lakh men. That's the power of appropriate gestures in storytelling. It strongly induces imagination in the listener's mind.)

The other element is the Language of the storyteller. The words he or she uses adds beauty to the story. There should be an intrinsic value to every word he or she uses. The words should not be everyday words that we use casually. They must tickle the listener's mind so that he or she demands more such words. And yes, It must induce some visual imagination into the listener's mind. The Hindustani language contains innumerable such words which can help you imagine. If I talk about Asif Sahab, Tassavur is my favorite. And using Beharhal often helps my mind to stick to the core of the story, after wandering in different directions. By the way, Tassavur itself means to imagine. (Don't disturb my dear friend google for this).

The last one is an element with which I personally share a bitter-sweet relationship. Bitter, because sometimes it wants to become the main lead instead of providing assistance. Sweet - good storytelling itself makes it sweet. I'm talking about the third and last element I discovered - Facts.

You are roaming in a monument that carries a historical value, and you are telling stories related to a particular period. The facts will undoubtedly add charm to your storytelling - But (ahem!) emotions should always overlap the facts - and the facts should gladly allow emotions to come forward. When facts come forward, the soul of your story is lost. 

(The first battle of Panipat happened back in 1526 AD - The soul is lost. 

Babur, who came from the lineage of Taimur Lang, was all set with canons, trained soldiers, and yes, charming tactics. The ground of Panipat was all red with blood, as the Babur's army of twenty thousand men defeated over one lakh men of the Lodhi army. The price was not only the decapitated head of Ibrahim Lodhi - Dilli was now in Babur's hands. - I hope it finds the soul again?)

(That's what a twenty-eight-year-old me discovered about storytelling. The twenty-nine-year-old me has discovered a few more things. I will discuss that some other time. 

For me, imagination is the key. You can't imagine blank facts. You need a base of gestures, pitch, voice modulation, and whatnot. Just like you can't imagine my devil smile - because you don't have a base. Either you haven't seen me physically, or you might have not given much attention to me. Even if you know me personally... I don't smile devilishly.

Oh Please! )

#Statutarywarning - Storytelling can't be concluded in an article, a single book, or a documentary. It's a stream of cool and refreshing water - flowing and will keep on flowing till eternity... and maybe beyond.

Gratitude, Love, and lots of Happiness Asif Sahab and Delhi Karavan. A lot has been left to listen, observe, and feel. So let's keep on flowing :-)

Love, Laughter, and Peace

Himanshu R Nagpal

Picture credits

Praveen Sir

Aaliya