Bollywood and the Super Dangerous Species

 The winter had just begun and every student in the classroom was rubbing hands to get some comfort. The teacher closed her attendance register and started explaining about Indus valley civilization. The lecture was no doubt boring, but most of the students were engrossed in it, seeing the colourful pictures of the seals found in that era. Everyone was looking directly into the teacher's eyes, attentively. 

But there is this guy, sitting quietly on the third bench in the last row, looking directly into the eyes of the teacher, but his mind was wandering like a pigeon.

In some other world, at some other time, he was saving the students of his class from a terrorist attack.

The teacher was explaining about the excavations and the recent developments related to the topic, and he was firing his AK-56 towards the leader of the terrorist group, targeting his right foot.

Things were going well - until the teacher started asking questions related to the chapter. But it was quite comfortable for him to accomplish the mission while raising both his hands and facing towards the wall.

This was a little story picked up from my life when I was still a kid. 

The children who were born at the climax of the 20th century can be termed as super dangerous species. Black and White televisions were bidding goodbye and colour televisions, of course with a handful of channels and a cable connection, were ready to greet us. Movie theatres were no longer an inaccessible luxury. The Actors were becoming heroes, and heroes were becoming superstars.

Those superstars with their classy movies were creating a long-lasting impact on the youth. Out of a sudden, innumerable youngsters were visible roaming around wearing t-shirts written "Gap" on them. Colleges were considered something "Cool" where you can dance and sing, and can do everything possible on the planet - Of course, except studying. Society, as a whole, was evolving in the direction majorly guided by the movies running in the theatres those days.

But there was nothing wrong with that evolution if one could restrict the impact one can have after watching those movies. I was a super imaginative kid. I failed miserably most of the time in differentiating facts from fiction. I had a core belief that no matter what the situation is, a Hindi movie song can surely fit into that situation. Like, if you are feeling a bit down, a song will always be there to let you dim the lights and help you curse the cruel world. 

If you are planning to propose a girl, be it a train compartment or a public park - there will be a song for you - specifically designed and altered just for you. You can sing that song and shake your legs on it. And a dozen more people will join you, dancing behind you, and dancing exactly like you. And the girl will, of course, accept your proposal... But wait, this is not how it happens.

You Both will look into each other's eyes... from a distance of a couple of miles. You both will smile at each other and will start running in slow motion towards each other. After a couple of minutes... maybe hours. When you both are less than a meter apart, both of you will stop. With glittery eyes, you'll look at each other... and then you will embrace each other. The Sun was waiting for you to embrace each other so that it can peacefully set in the background.

Perfect.

Bollywood, the way we recognize the Hindi film industry, has undoubtedly influenced the mass population of our nation. And I'm literally ashamed to say that most of the content they deliver has influenced us in a bad way. The frequency of that influence might vary from person to person, but it has created a kind of havoc in our mind, which has the tendency to hamper our daily lives.

A time came in my life, I think it was the year 2006. Every night I used to go to the bed early so that I could devote more time imagining things and creating a parallel world in my head. And of course, I was the hero of that world (I think I've mentioned it before). 

There I was saving the girl from the goons. There I was fighting a dozen people all alone. I was even cutting my wrist to impress a girl there.

But there is no harm in imagining things, until you do I in the real world, right? 

Wrong.

Imagination is one of the most powerful things accessible to humans. It is a starting point of every good and bad thing happening around us. It doesn't differentiate between construction and destruction. And I was moving towards destruction.

There is a wall between imagination and reality, and one can make that wall thinner by letting the imagination wander wildly. My wall had become a fence.

The more I was distancing myself from reality, the more I was realising that I was special. 

I'm a blessing in disguise for humanity.

I'm the lucky one.

Everything is possible for me.

Hard work is not for me, I'm smarter than everyone.

Heroes don't do the hard work.

And all those things made me lazy, distracted and lost. My dear reader friend, You might categorize all these things under some psychological disorder. I don't know, but it took me years and years to even recognize that there is actually some problem. These problems are not visible like some physical ailment. You might find people like me decent, and generous at first. They are excellent to talk with until you say something which is considered false and doesn't match their imaginative personality. Then things can turn really dangerous. They might respond to you in a violent or a rude kind of way. Or they might not respond to you and eventually, will stop talking to you.  You may call them egoistic, but they always feel that they were correct on their part. They are never on the darker side and seek sympathy in most situations.

Luckily, some good influences helped me in recognizing what's wrong with me. It took me a couple of years to detoxify all the load I was carrying in my head. It took time, yes, but it was worth doing it.

It breaks my heart when I see that things are much more dangerous for kids these days. Those influences are not bound to Bollywood movies now. It has branched further. Now already influenced people are trying to influence other people also through various mediums. With more technological upgrades, things are becoming worse.

I wish I could conclude this on a happier note. The least I could say is - I see light at the end of this dark tunnel.

Love, Laughter, And Peace

Himanshu

The Silent Patient by Alex Michaelides - Not a Book Review

 

I bought this book on someone's recommendation. Though I saw the book in various bookstores and its online presence was also excellent. But everything with a good online presence isn't actually good. So, I picked up this book from a local bookstore and started reading it. Before you read further, let me warn you that this post might have some spoilers, and yes, I'll not be writing much about the story. 

The Silent Patient, which is written by Alex Michaelides, is a thriller, which has its own pace. At some point you find things moving at lightning speed. At some places, you'll be wishing to skip a paragraph or two. It can be categorized under the psychological thriller head... Maybe not. Human Psychology and thrillers have an age-old relationship. It gives the writer a space to explore the areas which are less explored. It also makes the story less predictable and gives the reader a long-lasting experience/hangover. 

If I talk about the writing of the book, the author has left no stone unturned. He took all the liberty to move forwards and backwards with a smoothness, which is highly commendable. The format of the story demands watching the same thing with two pairs of eyes. It was a challenge, But Michaelides do it with ease which is worth appreciating. On one hand, he uses the narrator to tell the story, and on the other hand, he uses the protagonist/ the silent patient/Alicia to tell the story in the journal entry format.

The other thing I wish to discuss is the role of the narrator. As a reader, we don't give much attention to the narrator. In most cases, the narrator is shown in a neutral light or on the positive side of the equation. But, you can't expect this from this book. Here, the narrator can guide you or misguide you as the situation arises.

The characters are very well used. Every character demands attention. I personally saw each one of them with a sight of suspicion on various occasions. And that's what makes you more active and involved as you read. Of course, the suspense remained till the last page of the book. 

The last thing which adds charm to the writing is the description. I believe that description in writing acts like sugar in a cup of tea - You add more or you add less, in both cases, it will spoil the tea. And the sugar/description was almost perfect in the book. It gives the reader perfect light to march ahead on the bumpy road. And the light is not that bright to make you blind. I hope you got what I want to say? If not, write to me at hrntales@gmail.com. We'll discuss more about this book and a lot more things.

So, the book was original, gripping, and perfect in every sense.

Here's the link if you wish to buy the book.

Love, Laughter, and Peace

HRN

The Ageless Ghost

Does that ever happen to you that you see the same person again and again in different places and on different occasions?

Do you see similar faces, whom you don't know directly, but you see them here and there? You see those different faces here and there, near your office or in your college. But you ignore them until those faces become names and those names become relations. 

This story is about one of those faces.

I was still in school when someone pushed me from my school bus. I was quite habitual by then to get bullied at various circumstances, where they find me vulnerable enough to perform their mischievous activities. Being locked in the restrooms or being slapped from behind was quite regular. And yes, being pushed from the school bus when I was about to de-board was something new.

 I couldn't see the face of the kid who pushed me, but he must be very strong as I fell at quite a distance from that age-old, yellow coloured monstrous bus. When I understood what actually happened to me, I saw a white colour Omni van skidding towards me, trying hard to save my life. My limbs, I couldn't move them. They felt heavy. I was numb and everything went into darkness after that.

When I opened my eyes, I saw a group of people around me. They were chattering indistinctively. Someone was asking about my well-being. Some were offering me water. Some were asking me about my residence. But there was this one guy who was staring at me from a couple of shoulders behind. That was the first time I was consciously seeing that face. Hair, neatly combed. Wearing an off-white bush shirt. His eyes were quite sunken in its sockets. But that was not the first time I was actually seeing. I had seen him before. Where? I actually don't know. 

His eyes met mine for a couple of seconds. He was seeing my face without any noticeable expression. And, in a blink of an eye, I had lost him. I couldn't see him anywhere.

He literally disappeared - not like some djinn or some hill station ghost. One can easily disappear in the crowd, especially in a place like Delhi.

Where have I seen that face before? Was I imagining or I really saw that face?

I ward off the dust from my school bag from my palms, hung my water bottle back around my neck, and went straight away to my home. 

When I reached home, my Dada Ji (Grandfather) was preparing lunch. My father had a transferable job and my Mother used to accompany him from one city to the other. Dada Ji was my family as well as closest acquaintance.

My Dada Ji always encourages me to read more and more books. He was a retired librarian from Delhi University. He had this huge collection of books and magazines, of course, to read and to make sure he didn't miss his job even after retirement. So I was presented with various books to read and mould up my thought process from time to time. 

Unlike other voracious readers, I never expressed myself through writing. Instead of that, I started sketching at a very young age.

I went to my little room to change my school uniform. But before that, I took out my sketchbook and drew that face in it. It was not that accurate, but yes, it was giving me more of an idea of his facial features. Though, whenever I was closing my eyes, I could see his face quite accurately. 

I didn't say anything to my Dada Ji - Not about that little accident and not about that face with sunken eyes. 

..............................................................................................................................................................

Years passed and I enrolled myself in a fine arts course while pursuing my graduation in history. It was a hazy morning and I got up around eight. I got ready at a lightning speed as I was running late for my morning class. I didn't wipe my motorbike clean and rode at a speed which we can easily categorise under 'fast'. I just reached the other side of the road when I realised that I had left my paintbrush set on my desk. I cursed myself and took a 'U' turn when a black colour SUV car hit the rear mudguard of my bike. Though the car was not at a very high speed it was enough to make my motorbike imbalanced. I was again numb and everything went black.

I realised out of the blue that my numbness is nothing but a kind of surrender. It's a position when a person accepts his fate without retaliating much. 

When I opened my eyes, I saw a little ray of light. It took me some time to realize that I was under that car and the rear wheel of that giant vehicle is at a good eight inches distance from my neck. I moved a bit and slowly came out. I saw two people were holding the collar of the car's driver. They were asking whether I was fine or not. I asked them to leave that guy. The driver came to me and asked that whether I wish to go to the hospital. I denied it and told him to go. Some blood was oozing from my right elbow and forehead. My right ankle was paining and I was facing difficulty in walking. A few people were staring at me with that usual sorry feeling. And then, I saw him again.

Hair was neatly combed. He was wearing a semi-printed, olive green bush-shirt. His height was a little shorter than mine. Lean frame. Eyes Sunken. I started walking towards him but my ankle was not allowing me to do that.  He was staring at me directly. Expressionless again. 

He disappeared again in no time. I tried to look for him but he was nowhere. 

This time, I was more afraid than curious. Somehow I reached home without changing much of my Bike's gear. I tried to walk normally but Dada Ji noticed my limping. He didn't ask many questions until he saw my kerchief all red with blood. I explained everything as we both walked towards my room, without telling him about that mysterious person. Though I wanted to tell him about that face with sunken eyes, something stopped me. His face with crisscrossed wrinkles was looking worried for me when he was cleaning the wound from my forehead. 

When he went outside, I took out my sketchbook from my bag and started drawing that face. This time I took care of all the details I could remember. I made those sunken eyes. I made that clean-shaven face with bushy brows and neatly combed hair. I used different colour graphic pens to exaggerate its features and tried to make it as accurate as I could. 

I closed the sketchbook as well as my eyes. I took few deep breaths. And something got stuck in my mind. I opened my eyes and started walking towards my old cupboard with some pain in my ankle.  I opened it and took out some loose sheets as well as my old sketchbooks. I found the sketch I had made around nine years back in a dismantled file, whose cover was missing. I walked to my bed and compared those two sketches.

I skipped a beat when I realised that the face hasn't aged even a single day. He was in his early twenties when I saw him for the first time. He still looks the same. And that was humanly impossible. I had that creepy feeling which is hard to express.

'Am I imagining this guy or he actually exists?'

'Is he a ghost?'

'Is he trying to kill me or trying to harm me?'

'Is he an alien?'

'Do I have a past life connection with him?'

After applying all permutations and combinations my mind became extremely tired. I slept for a while. When I woke up, my body was burning with a high fever.

.........................................................................................................................................................

I didn't see him for a while. I secured a job in a news agency as a core designer. The designation was great to show off, but all I had to do was creating basic cartoon sketches for various political leaders and famous personalities, which are further converted into animated videos, using VFX and other stuff. The job was tedious yet challenging. And most importantly, the salary was good enough.

One night, while coming home from the office, I got a bit late. Electricity cuts were not very common in those days in the cities. But a sudden spark on an electricity pole made that happen.

It was completely dark in our residential complex. I switched on the flashlight of my cellular phone to reach safely at home. I really don't know that from where that partially covered, dry sewer came into my way and my left leg got stuck into it. Now, my left leg was into the sewer up to the knee and my right leg was still steady on the ground. My phone was still in my right hand. I placed the hand near that sewer and tried to enlarge the opening of the sewer with my bare hands. 

It took me a minute or two to come out of that unattended sewer. I was quite fine and unhurt. I tried to cover the sewer as much as I could with my hands. I was shaking the flashlight to see the maximum area. I was not in a mood to stuck again in any sewer or potholes. 

While quickly placing the flashlight up and down, I again see that face.

I couldn't notice his clothes or his neatly combed hair this time. Still, I'm quite sure that he was looking not even a day older since I last saw him. I was literally shivering now. When I again placed my flashlight in that direction, he was nowhere to be seen. All I could see was mist and early winter fog. 

I sprinted towards my home without thinking much about uncovered sewers or potholes. I saw Dada Ji at the main gate. He noticed my shortness of breath and asked me about what happened. I took the emergency light from his hand and asked him to come with me. 

We both went into my room. He comfortably sat on the chair and I was busy making the sketch in my file. It took me around fifteen minutes to complete the sketch with a well-sharpened pencil. I took out the other two sketches from my old cupboard and placed all three in front of my Grandfather. 

For the next five minutes, I narrated the whole story. I described the whole incident when I got pushed from the bus and how I saw him that day. I describe that motorbike accident to him. And then, I told him about that incident. I told him that he still looks the same every time I see him. I also told him that I have a strong belief that he wants to kill me or harm me.

When I said this, Dada Ji picked up the sketch which I made after the bike crash, watched it closely, and pressed it against his chest. I was not able to grasp what was happening. The next moment I heard his wrinkled face all wet with the continuous flowing of tears. His shoulders were moving up and down in a rhythm when he was crying.

"What happened Dada Ji?" I asked him, keeping my hand on his back.

He said nothing for a while. He was just looking at the sketch and crying silently. I could smell something eerie. I offered him a glass of water. He was drinking it very slowly, keeping his sight fixed on the sketch.

"He is my elder brother." He said in the softest voice possible. "He died from the cholera epidemic before partition when we were still in Lahore.".

I was shocked. My lips were trembling. I felt a kind of weakness in my knees. I sat near Dada Ji's chair. I held his leg and kept my head on his lap. The silence was soothing. 

Dada Ji started caressing my head when he said " And Bhai Sahab (My Brother) was not trying to harm you, on the contrary, he was trying to protect you from those accidents. He was protecting the whole family when he was alive. He is still doing the same. He is not some ageless ghost, he is your guardian angel, my child. He protects you from the present as well as future dangers.

'Guardian Angel' these words still ring in my mind.

 Does that ever happen to you that you see the same person again and again in different places and on different occasions?

Don't Ignore that face - He or she can be your Guardian Angel.

Private Delhi by Ashwin Sanghi and James Patterson - Not a Book Review

The City of Delhi was quite freezing when I reached the Indian Habitat Center with a sling bag filled with a couple of books, a pen, and a notebook. I was almost an hour early for the session and for the very first time I saw this gentleman, a little shorter than me, walking with a bunch of kids around him, asking for autographs or photographs. I won't lie to you. I was numb for a moment. My mind couldn't differentiate between reality and my imagination. 

I met Mr. Ashwin Sanghi after his talk at Times Literature Fest back in 2016. I will share that experience in a coming post of mine. For this post, let's talk about his second installment of the Private series, co-authored by James Patterson. It's called Private Delhi.

Story

I received the book in December 2016, but I got the chance to read it in the current lockdown only. 

The book begins with a gruesome murder, committed by this mysterious man, wearing all black. And soon after that, a dozen rotting bodies found in the basement of a shattered house, which is said to be government property. The case didn't get much attention from police or media, but the chief minister of Delhi, Mr. Jaswal hired Private, the well-known investigating agency, whose Indian operations are headed by Santosh Wagh.

The basic motto of Jaswal's interest, in that case, involved dirty politics. He wanted to know the involvement of the lieutenant governor of Delhi, Mr. Ravi Chopra. 

But the case is messier than it seems. With the involvement of various big players, this case is a big challenge for Santosh and his team. Will he able to crack it?

Review

I have noticed that many a time a story deviates if it is written from different characters' points of view. This world has a different definition for each one of us. And to write the same story from different characters' points of view is a task in itself. And Ashwin Sanghi and Mr. Patterson did a commendable job. Every characters' background, detail, and the aim is very well written. Each chapter starts with a different characters' vision and ends on a thrilling note. One gets so much involved in that chapter that one expects a continuation in the next chapter. But the next chapter is somewhat different from the previous one. And the beauty of writing this book in such a way is, it keeps the reader so much involved and on his toes. The thrill element, style, details make this an amazing cocktail, which can be termed as fast-paced fiction - a page-turner. 

Being an ardent reader of Sanghi's work, I picked up this book. And I have no issue in accepting that it's difficult to mark a border between his work and Patterson's work. 

What I liked about the book

I have a special space for fast-paced thrillers in my heart. When I say fast-paced, it should include appropriate detailing, research, and storyline. All these parameters are taken care of while writing the book. 

A lot of intellectuals can give you a hell lot of pointers on how a mystery/thriller should be written. I believe in only one thing - if I can crack the mystery before the author discloses it, it's not a very pleasing thriller.

You won't believe me but I sat with a pencil in my hand to write the details of the characters to crack who is the murderer. After chewing my pencil for two days, I have no problem accepting that I failed miserably.

What I dislike about the Book

If I don't compare this with the books I liked or disliked, I find this book perfect in itself. If you are a reader who reads books for leisure or peace of mind, this book is not for you.

So here's my take on this book. If you wish to buy this book, you can click HERE and grab your copy.

Thank you

HRN

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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Rust - i - fication - The Subtle Art of Becoming a Part of Mr Bond's Evergreen Fables

My reading journey began when I got promoted to the first standard. Thank God, mobile phones and computers were not common then, so the major source of entertainment for kids like me was either television or Books. I said kids like me because I wasn't interested in sports. I was that lazy couch potato, who likes his packet of chips with a book in his hands or TV right in front of him. So, I had no interest in doing sums or drawing triangles. I just wanted to read my English or Hindi Literature textbooks. Another thing that boosted my imagination was those cheap printed comic books, which one can easily find on railway stations and bus stands.

I was introduced to Ruskin Bond that year when a girl who was older than me told me his famous story called A face in the dark. I was scared like hell. Electricity cuts were quite common those days. And we all kids in the colony used to sit on Parked two-wheelers and tell stories to each other. And that was the most suitable occasion to tell that story.

The next day, in school I told that story to the girl who used to sit next to me. The teacher made me sit next to her because I used to talk a lot. And obviously, she was the most sincere student in the class. I told that story to her when the teacher told everyone to keep their heads down and keep quiet.

So with all that whispers, which actually added charm to my narration, I told her that story. 

The next day, she complained to the teacher and requested her to change her seat.

Reading is still an integral part of any life. Every day I spend at least half an hour reading whatever books I have. And Ruskin Bond's literature is permanent in my little library (and in my life) for the last many years. There's one benefit we over-imaginative people enjoy. We take no time in becoming part of a story. We went to the zone where the story is set quite easily.

In the year 2021, I revisited Mussoorie, intending to become a part of Mr Bond's stories and relive the moments I have always imagined.

The very first day, it was around 8 in the morning, I deboarded the ancient Mussoorie express at Dehradun. 

The first thing which came to my mind is Mr Bond's first book 'The Room On The Roof'. I was imagining long roads with trees on both of their sides. I was imagining the clock tower in the dilaram bazaar, whose chaat shops are more famous than anything. 

As I came out of the station, I heard someone beating drums in a little distance. And I could guess a bunch of teenagers, with coloured faces, dancing and celebrating the festival of Holi. I smiled and sat in the cab. 

Mussoorie, here I come.

....................................................................................................................................................

It took me a little more than an hour to reach up in the hills. My cab driver, who was gentle enough to guide me towards my hotel, dropped me at the taxi stand near Picture palace on the mall. No matter how well he guided me to my hotel, I still lost my way and reached near Kurli police station. There were few people on the mall road and almost all the shops were closed. Looking at the police station, I quickly become part of the story called "Who killed Maharani". 

I Started imaging Inspector Keemat Laal sitting in front of me, with a glass filled with English wine, as he started telling me the most interesting case in his career.

My imagination came to a halt when this old gentleman asked me whether I'm looking for a hotel.

Finally, I reached my hotel and took a quick shower. I was just so excited. I just looked at the hills on my right side, where Landour is. I was just so happy being so close to Mr Bond. Everything around me was his stories in all flesh and bones. I took out this book called "Landour Days" and started reading it. 

To be continued...

HRN

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The Railway Gang by Ruskin Bond - Not a Book Review

I remember the days when I was in school and I used to hate those ridiculous Parent-Teacher meetings. It was a day when the teacher humiliates the student in front of their parents and the parents humiliate the student in front of their teacher. It's like that age-old ping pong game, a collective activity to make sure that mischievous activities of students like me come to a halt. The only thing I love about those horrible meetings was the Scholastic book fair in our school corridor. Those little storybooks with attractive pictures was a treat to look at. I said 'to look 'at' because I haven't purchased many of them. My Mom used to say that we'll buy one of those after the meeting. And I couldn't ask her to buy me one after the meeting, of course, due to obvious reasons.

But quite recently I came across this little book written by Mr Bond called The Railway Gang.

This is a story of a little dog called Chottu, roaming with his gang on the platforms of a Railway station. Now he is named Chottu because he was too small in size. If you have some stray dogs in your locality, you might find people who call themselves dog lovers, calling them with names like Blackey or Brownie, Sheroo or Pinkey, or any other names like these. These names are purely based on their attributes which helps them to get recognised or sometimes they even listen by the names when you call them repeatedly.

Now Chottu has a full-fledged gang of half a dozen fogs namely Raja, Rani, Rishi, and few others. All day they roam around the platform, gathering staled chappatis and half-eaten fruits to fill up their belly. 

Now the problem is a newly appointed, highly motivated, Stationmaster who chases away the beggars and the dogs from the platform. Now the beggars had to compete with the beggars who sit near the bus stand. But it was much difficult for dogs to adjust with the Dogs near the bus stand. 

But when the station master is nowhere to be seen, the railway gang come back to the platforms in search of food.

The only human friend they have now is Kumar, who is a guard in Doon-Delhi express. He feeds Chottu with food he brought in his Tiffin and has a soft corner for Chottu.

One day, while hanging around with school students on the platform, he gets along with one of them on the train. The train starts moving. The ticket checker left him on the Haridwar station, which was quite alien for him. He roams around alone in the city to find some familiarity, but he couldn't. He desperately wants to get back to the platform he can call his home.

Will he able to reach back to the platform where he can unite again with his gang? You have to read the book to discover that.

What I like about the book

Everything - Literally everything. It was a short, simple, and interesting read. Being an ardent reader of Mr Bond's books, I was frequently travelling to the world he has created down the years. Like I was seeing that world again where Arun used to feed biscuits to a stray dog on platform number eight of Ambala Station. His words actually become a gateway to travel into his world.

The other thing I like about the book is the pictures on every page. They are very well detailed, and one should go slow and spend some time looking at each picture. I bet you won't regret it.

So this is a perfect gift for your kids this summer if you want to indulge them in reading. And it's a perfect gift for everyone who doesn't like things too complicated. 

So that's it for this post

I'll see you again.

Love, Laughter, and Peace

HRN

PS:- You can click HERE to buy the book. :-)

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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

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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