The Big Day

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.

Thanks for reading my dear reader friends.

Love, Laughter, and Peace

HRN

Mr Bond and those 'Unnamed Feelings'

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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