The Woman on Platform no. 8

Being imaginative can be a curse as well as a boon. To justify the statement let me share a little anecdote. I was in the seventh standard when I was first introduced to the world of Ruskin Bond. And the first story which came across me was 'The woman on platform no. 8'. It was included as a chapter in our English literature textbook. I have always been a daydreamer kind of kid. A person needs to be really compelling, interesting, or both to grab my attention. 

But that story hit me so strongly as if I was there in that story, experiencing each and every activity myself. I could see those stray dogs around me, feasting upon broken biscuits. I could see a leaner and meek version of myself sitting on his luggage. I could listen to the announcements on the platform. I could see various tea sellers, screaming at the top of their voices. I could see this boy with his irritating mother next to me. And, I can see that generous lady in a white saree who claimed to be Arun's mother in front of his friend and his mother. 

I have always imagined Counsellor Ma'am as the woman on platform no. 8.

That level of generosity, empathy, and care - only that fictional character can reach near that level if I dare to describe Counsellor Ma'ams' persona. From the day I read that story till the moment I'm writing this, every time I think about that story, her generous face comes right in front of me.

Whenever I meet my friends from school, we always talk about her and how she influenced our respective lives. And one of my friends, who is also my constant companion (and my wife), we frequently discuss various fables and anecdotes related to Counsellor Ma'am. The conversation sometimes gets really emotional and intense. 

My wife had lots of emotional ups and downs when we were in school. Unlike me, she was good in her studies, highly disciplined, and hardworking. But then came a phase when things were not going the way she wanted. And the worst part is, she couldn't express what was going on with her to anyone around because of various reasons. I'm not sure whether it was a social science class or English when a senior came to convey the message that Counsellor Ma'am called her after that class. 

When she went to her room, she made her comfortable and said something which she never going to forget. In her healing voice, she said "Someone who cares for you told me that you are disturbed these days. What's troubling you, child?"

I'm envious of my wife that she can express what's going on inside her head. She can convert her feelings into words if someone genuinely listens to her.

Years passed and an academically crucial year entered our lives. Our twelfth standard pre-boards were revolving around heads when one gloomy morning I received a text from Geetika that her Father was no more. He died fighting a malignant tumor which was troubling him for many years. 

The months after that were dark and frightening. It was impossible to lighten up her mood. It was an emotionally draining period for both of us.  And then Counsellor Ma'am came to the rescue. My wife talked to her after pre-boards, and she coped quite well after those sessions. 

One thought always occurred in my mind but I never dared to ask her. How emotionally tiring it must be for her to listen to the problems of each and every student who visits her room. I couldn't ask her even in the later years when I used to share my stories, articles, and those lovely Hazrat Rumi quotes with her on WhatsApp.

The only answer I could think of is that she was consciously chosen by the Almighty. Foreign authors write about light workers and spiritual healers. For me, all those terms come under a big umbrella, and I call her Counsellor Ma'am. 

Coming back to the story...

Arun boarded the train with his friend and his friend bid her mother goodbye. The train took them away from the platform where that generous lady was standing. She was lost from his sight when the train gained pace. All the hustle-bustle of the platform terminated and the rhythmic sound of the train's engine was only one could hear. But before that, Arun said something to that lady that still soothes me when I feel a little disturbed.

Goodbye... Goodbye, Mother...

Last year, a few hours before the year was about to end, I got the shattering news that Counsellor Ma'am left her mortal body.

At that moment I experienced Kalka Mail gaining pace and platform no. 8 of Ambala station is becoming more and more distant. Everything was getting petite before getting disappeared into darkness. 

Goodbye, Mother... it still rings in my ears.

Being imaginative is a curse or a boon... I really don't know.

Peace

HRN

Hazrat's Sandals - Delhi Karavan Chronicles

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I heard somewhere that there are three thumb rules to good storytelling... unfortunately, no one knows them.

I'm an anti-format person since childhood. Be it a coloring book or my monthly budget, I've always missed the boundaries. There is no harm in coloring an elephant's eyes little grey, in case you miss that little boundary of its oval-shaped eyes.

I may not know the thumb rules of storytelling, but I can tell you the kind of stories I enjoy. 

Firstly, they should be long enough to be in that zone for a while.

They should carry expressions.

And yes, they should not carry a particular format - A storyteller should not stick to the beginning, middle, or end, or anything hard and fast. He or she must feel free to tell a story, a story within a story, or a story within a story within a story... or maybe crossovers. Ahh! I'm listening to all of that.

Asif Sahab told this story to us on many walks - Sometimes individually - Sometimes as a story within a story (or within within, you got that)

And this story is too close to my heart.

So take a bellyful of breath, hold it to the count of five, and release it.

Shall we begin?

It was a foggy winter morning when a middle-aged man came to the khanqah of Hazrat Nizamuddin Aulia. Just like many other fariyadi and devotees, he was expecting something from Hazrat. The khanqah was filled with too many people that day. He was worried as the days were approaching and a lot of arrangements need to be made. His only daughter is about to get married. And like every responsible father, he had to take care of everything. His family was going through a major financial crisis at that time. He heard a lot about Hazrat and that he never send anyone empty-handed. 

He waited calmly in the queue, trying hard to control his shivering, partly from the spine-chilling weather, and partly from worries on his head.

When he entered the room, Hazrat smiled at him. The man offered him his respectful salam and sat near him. Hazrat's aura was such that he couldn't utter a word. He kept staring at his feet for a while. He had faith that Hazrat will understand his situation without him saying anything.

As other people were waiting outside, he stood up and went out of the room. He planned to stay at the khanqah that night, expecting that Hazrat may call him and offer some help for his daughter's marriage.

The night passed. Without any such luck, he decided to leave for his village early so that he could reach there before dusk. He went to Hazrat to ask for his permission. Hazrat gave his blessings, looking directly into his eyes as if he is reading something. The man tried to look somewhere else but couldn't. When he turned to leave Hazrat told him to stop.

"There is pair of sandals kept right next to the door. Keep them with yourself. May the Almighty be with you."

The man obeyed, though doubted his decision of coming to the Khanqah in the first place. 

Heavy rainfall greeted him in the afternoon and he couldn't cross even the city when the Sun started to set. He decided to spend the night in a Sarai (motel kind of structure).

He changed his clothes, made his bed, and kept Hazrat's sandals near his head. 

It was around midnight when he felt someone's presence near his head. It was too dark. He woke up with a thud. A man in his mid-forties was squatting near his head and weeping. He was wearing an embroidered angarakha, just like someone from the royal family wears.

'What happened sir, have I committed some horrifying mistake?' He asked.

'From where have you got these sandals, my dear friend?' The man who was weeping countered his question.

'I got this from Khanqah of Mehboob -E - Ilahi, Hazrat Nizamuddin Aulia. He gifted this to me himself.

'

'Can you give me these? I'm ready to pay any amount you want.' He stood up in a hurry and took out two moderate size cloth bags filled with gold coins. He handed over both bags to him, spilling a few coins on the ground. 

The man was numb. He felt like he is still in his deep slumber. That coins were enough even if he had to make arrangements for the marriage of ten more daughters. He watched that man keeping his head on the sandals, wiping them with his sleeves, keeping them on his head, and marching out of the Sarai.

He was still in a state of shock when he heard two young men talking.

"Wasn't he Amir Khusrow, The court poet in the darbar of the Sultan?"

"Call him Tooti -e-Hind Amir Khusrow."

The next morning when Hazrat woke up, he felt like a celebrated baarat, a musical procession heading towards his Khanqah. He saw that Khusrow is walking towards the Khanqah with Hazrat's sandals on his head. Hundreds of people were following him, singing praises of the Almighty. Some were dancing in all trance, some were weeping, and some were just filled with joy.

Khusrow bowed slowly towards Hazrat, one by one he slipped both his sandals on his holy feet and stood back up.

'Oh Turk, how much gold coins you bartered for my sandals?' Hazrat used to call Khusrow Turk lovingly.

'I just gave what all I had. If he asked for my life, I would have gladly given that too' He said with moist eyes, still looking at Hazrat's feet.

'Ahh! you got them at an extremely cheap price.'

Whenever this story ends, I try to notice other people's smiles. It's like a universal way of responding to that story - Reason? I'm not sure but the story might give the listeners a sense of bliss and contentment.

See, I just catch you smiling too. What a lovely smile you have.

Love, Laughter, and Peace

HRN

ps - I tried to recite this story a couple of months back. Though It's nothing like Asif Sahab tells us this story. He is just mind-blowing. If you still wish to listen you can click here. Thank You.

Trust - The first lesson of Sufism - Delhi Karavan Chronicles

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While taking walks with Asif Sahab, my favorite part is when everyone just sits down and allows themselves to engross completely in the story he is telling. It's fun watching grown-ups cupping their chins, their facial expressions almost dancing to the tunes of stories.

I have written too much about the last walk I attended. Trust me, my expressions are just the tip of a massive iceberg - It's so minute compared to what I actually feel.

The scenario is still the same. We all are sitting around Asif Sahab when he told us this story.

Wait. Don't forget to take a bellyful of breath, Sit back, and relax.

Shall we begin?

Once upon a time, there was a soldier who came to the small room where Hazrat Nizammudin Aulia was sitting against the wall. His right leg was folded, his thigh pressing his belly softly. He was staring at something with his eyes half closed. The soldier greeted him with his humble Salam and sat right in front of him. It was a hot afternoon. The scorching heat was making everything too uncomfortable. But Hazrat was smiling at him.

"Nizam Saheb, I have a humble request. You have never sent me back without listening to my fariyads, my requests. I'm not capable enough to offer you anything. With your blessings, my wife has conceived. I really don't know how to bid my thanks to you." He took out a little piece of cloth bundle from his pocket. The soft sound of the jingling of coins made the silent room animated for a second.

"Please accept these on my behalf. This is just a little gift that I would like to present every month."

Hazrat was just smiling, staring at something on his right. He closed his eyes for a while, humming an inaudible prayer. When he opened his eyes back, there was no one in the room, just a little bundle of shiny cloth kept near Hazrat's foot.

The much-awaited shower turned the whole environment melodious. It was a great opportunity for each Sufi to come out of their chamber and remember the Almighty together. The whole evening was lit with the 'Sama'. It was known to everyone that Hazrat enters into a trance state listening to all the poetic offerings other Sufis have to offer in the holy kingdom of the Almighty. He generally raises his right hand towards the sky, shivering at a phenomenal pace - Denoting a strong connection between him and the Almighty, as if he is holding his hand.

But that evening it was just not happening. Everyone was just waiting for it. And Hazrat was so upset with this. When your beloved denies holding your hand as he used to, that feeling is synonymous with death.

He closed his eyes and a vague image of that shiny bundle of cloth flashed right in front of his eyes. He called that soldier and returned him that bundle.

I was confused, unable to understand the correlation between the two events. How connection with the Almighty and that shiny bundle of coins connected, which will be coming right at his feet every month.

Asif Sahab then came to the rescue of my confusion.

A Sufi should not be dependent on any kind of regular source of income, in any form. It's actually a symbol of distrust toward the Almighty. The one who has sent you on this planet is capable enough to take care of you in every sense. He will take care of all the arrangements which are required for your well-being. You just need to trust him. 

And here I'm, spending so many sleepless nights, thinking about how will I manage in such a cruel world Blah! Blah! Blah!

How much do I need to accumulate for shady days Blah! Blah! Blah!

Trust - from now on I consider this as the first lesson of Sufism... and life as well.

The above story came to me like a bullet, hitting me so hard that I felt like some serious physical destruction. But I'm relieved and happy about that destruction.

With prayers and hope that you also face this kind of destruction.

Love, Laughter, and Peace

HRN

Hazrat Nizamuddin Aulia - Delhi Karavan Chronicles

Picture Source - Praveen Sir's Facebook Profile

 

You know what, almost all my childhood stories started with 'Once there was a King'. And I always imagined Sultans and Badshahs - with a ghoul on his back or one with a magic carpet. But on the last walk I attended with Delhi Karavan, I understood a different meaning of true Kingship.

When I started attending walks with Delhi Karavan, my imagination started becoming more vivid. Slowly I could see different characters right in front of my eyes. I started sensing my imagination adding different colors to the characters - weaving garments with the magical threads as Asif Sahab provides more and more details.

Of all the walks I have attended, the last one was different. Though it's brutal to compare one walk with the other, the last one was closest to my heart. 

It was one dark summer evening that lightened my soul.

I'll keep all the details of the walk reserved for some other article, for now just imagine a group of about twenty-five people sitting in the courtyard of Khanquah of Hazrat Nizamuddin Aulia, With Asif Sahab sitting almost in the center. A candle is lit in front of him.

 Khanquah is a place where Sufis commence their holy practices of unification with the Almighty. They stay there and spend years and years with the sole motive of making a connection with the Almighty. And Hazrat was the Sun among the stars when we talk about Sufism in Hazrat-e-Dilli.

The place where I was sitting has watched centuries after centuries, the establishment and destruction of various Sultanates. But Asif Sahab made me imagine everything with stories containing high intrinsic values. I cross my heart and say that I could imagine Hazrat right in front of my eyes. Though no writer is capable enough to describe his personality in mere words. Some might also consider it as blasphemy. On the other side, I felt him so close to me that his details are so vivid in my mind that I couldn't stop myself from writing them.

I would request you to take a bellyful of breath before reading ahead. 

I imagine a dark evening. If you look at this place from a decent distance, you will see multiple oil lamps lit, flickering as the evening is a little windy. There are dozens of small chambers. In each chamber, a Sufi is sitting doing different holy practices. Some are reciting different names of the Almighty. Some are looking at the sky without blinking their eyes. Some are whispering something, inaudible to human ears, loud enough to reach the kingdom of the Almighty.

The rickety staircase was leading us above the structure. A wooden structure was erected there. There is a small room on the backside of the structure.

 Hazrat is sitting in the leftmost corner of the room.

A small earthen lamp was lit right in front of him. One could sense the heavenly fragrance of multiple incense sticks, but it is difficult to locate even one.

Hazrat has a lean frame as he is not much dependent on food. A Sufi doesn't crave food. Hunger can't make him its slave.

He has a pair of pretty long arms. If you see him standing, you can notice his hands reaching the level of his knees. His eyes are sinking deep into their sockets, making his cheekbones look higher. His jawline is sharp. His hair is long and matted. His beard is bushy, long, and unkempt. His lips are turning white, dry as the desert. He is wearing an oversized white kurta, which definitely has seen whiter days.

He remains silent most of the time. He is sitting with his back placed softly against the wall. His head is up, staring up toward the sky - as if he is having a silent conversation with the Almighty. Now his head has turned down as he is asking for mercy from the maker. Sometimes there is complete silence in the room, one could hear his own breath. Sometimes there are sounds of giggles and chattering. 

But  Hazrat is indifferent to any such noise. He remains in a meditative state most of the time.

All through the course of the day people visit him with their Fariyads, their requests. He smiles gently at everyone. He listens to everyone. Speaks only when it is more than necessary. He bestows his blessings, requesting the Almighty to give Fariyadi whatever he desires. He is 'Mehboob-e-Ilahi', the beloved of the Almighty.

I was busy imagining all that when something crossed by my sight. I was sitting behind Asif Sahab, facing the Khanqah. There was a shadow or something dark which crossed between us. I'm not sure whether it was something tangible or I was just imagining. I have mentioned before that  I have a quite vivid imagination, which turns wild sometimes. But I don't mind whirling upon stories I'm listening to. And my imagination makes it effortless for me.

As the walk ended, I didn't feel like talking to anyone. I just wanted to keep that feeling clenched tight in my fists, making sure it doesn't slip. Only then I can place them close to my heart.

It was more of a trance state - Intoxicated with... I don't know what. But with all that intoxication I turn socially awkward. I really can't help it. I just turn a little more silent. But it's worth it.

I'll take your leave with a little message. If you like what's written above, don't forget to give a big thumbs-up to Delhi Karvan and Asif Sahab. It would be even more lovely if you could come and attend any of their walks.

If you are offended by anything while reading this, I deeply apologize, as I'm solely responsible for it.

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...

Little Joys of Life

 

Every one of us carries a part within us that demands attention at various phases of life. Too many theories and studies are accredited to the field. And hereby, I accept that I have not studied any of them.

But I'm conscious enough to understand that there is a part of me that demands attention and healing at one point or the other. The side which demands to do something which I always wanted to do. The side which demands a certain amount of solitude.

So here I'm, sitting at my desk near the window on a windy night. My reading lamp is on and is giving a romantic glow to my so-called literary endeavors.

Reading and writing grew up with me. Though not more than a dozen people read my essays and articles. Neither I'm a voracious reader having books of difficult-to-pronounce Russian and French authors.

I enjoy simple things. Be it the books in my mini-library or little write-ups that are accumulating in my journal, I try to keep them simple.

I'm too afraid of mental conditioning - choosing one side over the other, without knowing the truth behind it. Neither I'm eager to influence my reader-friends. 

Sometimes I think that we are too busy accumulating more and more knowledge and awareness that it becomes difficult for us to see things as they are - right in front of us. 

So tonight, on special demand of that 'Part' of me, I switched on my reading lamp and started writing my thoughts. I found some white sheets, which actually turned yellow. The time took a toll on their appearances too. But I like them more than the fresher ones. I find them mature - capable of handling my mischiefs and the tantrums I throw while writing. I find them pretty experienced as they stick together through thick and thin.

And the pen I'm holding, oh! there is a story behind it.

When the lockdown was implied and I was sick of reading what I had, I requested Cambridge Book Depot, Musoories to send me some  Ruskin Bond's books. They were generous enough to make every book duly autographed by the author himself.

And when the books arrived, I was mesmerized by Mr. Bond's handwriting. It was a thick violet ink, with a smooth texture. I requested Mr. Arora, the owner of the bookstore to kindly enquire which pen Mr. Bond uses. He texted me the name of the pen that very night. 

In a couple of days, I was holding that pen in my hands. I felt like a superhero as I held that pen. It's a different story though. 

I like writing the initial draft of whatever I write with my hand. I enjoy the romantic encounter between the pen and the paper, spilling the ink in an anonymous fashion.  I feel that a write-up directly entered into a computer or any electronic device is a body without a soul.

A few books are lying on my not-so-clean desk. One of them is coincidentally written by Mr. Bond. It's an anthology with various essays written on hills.

The other book which is lying on my desk is called 'Meditations' written by Marcus Aurelius, a former Roman ruler, who wrote this with the intention of keeping his thoughts to himself only. Luckily (or rather unluckily, if you look at this from the author's point of view) it was published and became an integral part of Stoic literature.

An exercise notebook is lying around which has no more space to write in. I still like to fit some of my thoughts in it. 

And there is a little portrait of Swami Vivekananda, gifted by my Father when I was in college. It has a permanent place on my desk - The other things keep changing with time.

The reading lamp flickers as I move my chair forward and backward. I take this as an indication to remain calm and focused. 

Being in that not-so-perfect environment, reading and writing not-so-perfect things are what 'That' part of me demands.

These little joys of life keep me sane.

Love, Laughter, and Peace

Himanshu R. Nagpal

 

Another Big White Canvas - Everyday Philosophy 3

source:- https://www.pexels.com/photo/white-board-on-wall-near-plant-6373663/

 

Can you imagine a brand new shiny white canvas?

You receive that neatly packed into a thin layer of bubble wrap, with a corrugated layer all around it. When you open it cautiously with your bare hands, you find it spotless. Not even a single speck of dust is visible on its shiny surface.

The canvas - a rectangular white surface where you can portray whatever you imagine. You can make the moist and deep eyes of a beautiful woman. You can make big mountains and an ever-flowing waterfall. Or you might spill some colors on the canvas, according to your personal feelings, and display it as modern art (No offense though). That's completely your personal choice, isn't it? After all, it belongs to you, my dear reader friend.

You have all the liberty to do whatever you want to do with it - No questions asked (Also when it comes to your creativity, no questions should be answered .)

Now imagine, you are voluntarily keeping your shiny white canvas on display right in the middle of the street.

People are coming and going, watching your shiny white canvas with utter awe.  

And then this man of culture comes and writes 'LIFE SUCKS' with his bold marker pen and leaves in a hurry. Now everybody is watching that thing written on your big white, not so shiny any more canvas right in the middle of the street.

After a while, this elderly lady crosses the street to cut the last word written over there and replace it with the word 'Beautiful'.

So an edited 'Life is beautiful'  remained there when this young guy came and wrote the name and phone number of a girl, who might have rejected her proposal, in his petite and clumsy handwriting in the rightmost corner of the canvas.

In a while, some graffiti artists come and write some catchy slogans, with the intention to showcase the reality of our cruel society. They spray-painted the background, making sure nothing is visible which was written before.

Another gentleman thought that those slogans are specifically hurting the sentiments of a 'particular' section of society. So he spilled some grease to hide those slogans.

When you return after an hour or so to pick up your canvas back, you see that it went through big trauma because of some Societal Exposure. Your shiny white canvas is now turned into some big mess.

And, just to boost your frustration levels, this lady walks right in front of you, spills some of her leftover Latte on your canvas, and throws the paper cup in the bin.

You are standing right in the middle of the street, trying to figure out some ways to clean it up - so that you can get some space to portray what's actually imbibed in you. 

That shiny white canvas is just a metaphor I used to describe our Monkey mind (oops! I used another metaphor) With all those different elements present in society, your mind is conditioned in such a way that it is next to impossible to 'Undo it'. It is conditioned in such a way that it's a monstrous task to create some space to express what's actually imbibed in you.

So many beliefs

So many philosophies

So many opinions

So much filth

With all that how can you even think of even understanding what's actually there that you truly need to express?

It happens so often that we portray something beautiful and it turns out to be a copy of some other 'trending' portrait, which people have made us believe that it's beautiful.

Please take a moment and think that how you actually felt when you see your canvas filled with so much unrequited filth?

Disgusting, right?

Let me ask you one simple question, my dear reader friend.

Why you kept your canvas right in the middle of the street?

Love, Laughter, and Peace

Himanshu R. Nagpal

PS- If you enjoy reading this, you can read another of my Everyday Philosophy here.

One Rickety Tea Stall On a Rainy Day

Image Source - Quora

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God Forbid!

Love, Laughter, and Peace

Himanshu R. Nagpal

A Little Shade of White on a Big Black Canvas - Everyday Philosophy - 2

 Rohit is a little boy who works in a tea shop near my office. If you have heard the term Street Smart, He is Street Smart Personified. He doesn't know how to type, so he uses the voice input function on my cellphone to search for videos on YouTube. He barely went to school. His only education is visiting various offices and factories in the area, meeting people, calculating bills, and seeing things happening around him. 

One day he came to my office. He wasn't in that cheerful mood, which was indeed his greatest quality. I asked him the reason behind it when a tear rolled down his cheek. He said that his employer slapped him as he forgot to add cardamom to a customer's tea, who especially demands it. I was angry at the owner of the shop. As a person, I have always condemned that kind of behavior. Anything that questions one's self-respect should not be allowed to enter one's life.

"Don't you feel like giving him back? You are strong enough." I asked him.

"No Bhaiya, he is a poor man himself. He'll definitely lose customers if I commit these kinds of mistakes frequently. And if I slap him back, what difference will remain between him and me? I'll improve myself instead of hitting him."

Those were the words of that thirteen-year-old boy.

I have read countless books on philosophy, spirituality, and religion. But none of them hit my psyche so hard. That boy, who barely went to school, taught me a great thing that I need to think about, absorb properly, and follow religiously.

Every day I see or listen to things that break my heart and shatter my soul.

The pandemic, which became life-threatening a couple of years back, brought forward the reality of many people around us. I have seen people with humble backgrounds selling their souls for some cash. People were hoarding things that were considered darn necessary at that time. They didn't even think that doing these things will lead to someone's death.

When I see all these things or when I listen to all these things, I come to a simple conclusion- This world is a big canvas, which turned black in color because of our ill-doings. It used to be shiny white once upon a time. With time, after passing various shades of grey, we have turned its color into black.

But if you observe that big black canvas for a little while, you'll notice some little specks of white in one corner or the other. Though it is as small as your strand of hair, the good thing is - It's there. No one notices that little Whiteness. So today, let's put some light on what's white.

You just put your head up from whatever you are doing, and you'll see hatred all around, without even looking for it. You have to look for love, but hatred will come looking for you. This hatred spreads in the form of a chain - link by link.  So the people who are not acting as a link in the formation of that chain are that little speck of white on that big black canvas.

Let me try to clarify this.

Ragging is something we listen about in our day-to-day life. People who go through that kind of trauma, think that when they will be promoted to the next year, they will be on the other side and will find some unique and creative way to conduct ragging on their juniors.

But then comes one or two who have a different mindset.

They think that whatever happened to them should be stopped there and then. They act as link breakers. Instead of holding personal grudges, they break that negative link which forms a disastrous chain

Or those mothers-in-law who were tortured and ill-treated by their in-laws in their younger days. She, instead of treating their daughters-in-law the same way, takes a stand for them in various situations - acting as their strong support system.

People with this link-breaker mentality are the minute specks of white on a big black canvas. And this little piece is written with the hope that soon these little white specks turn most of the canvas white.

Love, Laughter, and Peace

Himanshu R Nagpal

ps- If you like reading this, please click here to read the first article in my series of Everyday Philosophy.

Clumsy Handwriting And Other Sins...

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

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

Nothing wrong with that.

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

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

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

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

- The last guy entered before the main gut closed.

- The one who slept in history class.

- No more stupid pencils - get me the pen.

and the list of chapters can go on and on.

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

Remember - questions in black ink and answers in blue.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

a quarter of a page of an exercise notebook.

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

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

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

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

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

- I'll make you sit with a girl

- Finger on your lips

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

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

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

To my amazement, she started laughing too.

That was my last day in that kiddy class. 

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

And my handwriting is much tidy and clear.

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

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

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

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

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

Love, Laughter, and Peace

Himanshu R Nagpal

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

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

The Floating Orange Leaf

 

Whenever I visit a place that is a bit spared from the cruelty of mankind, my first expression towards that place is a silent prayer. The Almighty has touched each and everything with his or her bare hands while creating it. But with all those nuisances in the world, those hand impressions have become invisible or untraceable. And then there are certain places where you can find those impressions if you genuinely try to find them. I sat on the banks of the Kosi river in Jim Corbet. There was no human in sight. I could see as well as hear the smooth flow of water. It was majestic to see the view with my eyes wide open as well as to hear the various sounds with my eyes closed. A lot of thoughts were entering my mind, but to my amazement, they were settling themselves without much of a problem. It was indeed a blissful state. I was just gazing at the water flowing. looking at the leaves of different shapes, sizes, and colours flowing freely, floating freely. My thoughts were stuck on an orange leaf, which greeted me near my feet, which were soaked in water. After a gentle greeting, it went away with the flow of the river. I tried hard to track its movement. I couldn't find it after a while. 

That is how every one of us is floating in the fresh stream of life. No matter how hard we try to stay holding some rock or make our permanent residence on the bank, the flow pushes us gently. It is good to trust the flow and leave ourselves freely...

Just like that orange little leave that came to greet me...

PS:- I tried to capture some of my thoughts in a video - Here's that raw, unscripted video, If you wish to see it.

A Councellor's Case

 I remember that hot July day and it was the last period. I noticed that blood had started oozing through my nostrils. Like any other day, I just remembered that I forgot to bring a handkerchief. I was more embarrassed than panicked. I tried to tear a couple of papers from my notebook to stop the flow. She noticed what I was trying to do in that hustle and bustle. She took me to the water cooler and poured water on my head. The blood was all around. She gave me her kerchief to cover my nose. It took a bloody fifteen minutes to stop that flow.

And meanwhile, she told me to put my head up and breathe through my mouth. She was just so worried. Every time I close my eyes that worried face appears in front of me. I was just mesmerized by her generosity and empathy toward me. In that situation, I started doubting myself that whether I deserve all this? I mean I had a history of blood flowing freely through my nose every fortnight. Other teachers had always told me to go to the medical room or to wash my face. But she was different. I just felt indebted to her. I said a simple thank you to her. I'm bad at expressing what's going on in my head. Yes, my eyes were moist. I was not habitual of someone caring so much about my well-being.

That was our Counsellor Ma'am - The most generous person I have ever seen in my life.

I won't lie, I wasn't a very good student. Even flunked once. So, I was always called by Counsellor Ma'm to help me out with my studies and other difficulties I'm facing in school.

Once a week she used to come to our classroom and used teach us some little chapters from our thin moral science book. And sometimes she used to give us certain advice and value points in general. One thing she said in our class which I can't forget till my last moment. She said that ' a gentleman never touches any woman except his wife. No matter how many good female friends you have around you, you should not touch her under any circumstances.' Her words, they still ring in my ears.

Years and years passed and everything settled down. Things happened which happen in everyone's life. I started working and all that stuff. I got news from someone that she had left her job. And that year I joined my school's Alumni Association. From there I got her number as we have to invite her to a school event. Though someone had invited her before me. But she was so very happy to have a word with me. I again felt like a school student.

I remember inviting her to my marriage and she duly came. She was just so happy.

It was December 2020. She called me around ten at night. A three-month-old stray dog was injured. A car had crushed both his front limbs. She called me to ask what can be done. I told her to take her to a vet nearby as they are open even after midnight. 

The next morning when I called her to ask about the well-being of the dog, she said that his chances of survival are not much. They had admitted him to this government hospital as they had no other alternative. Even they advised to take him home and take care of him. She was so darn worried about him. And you know what, that whole incident of my nostrils oozing out blood came right in front of my eyes. I just went to the hospital that very evening and brought that lovely dog at my home. 

He was in a lot of pain. I took him to the vet every alternative day. And the very next evening Counselor Ma'am came to our home to see him. That little pup started waging his tail lovingly looking at her. And she literally broke in front of him. I never saw her like this. My wife, My Mother both tried to console her. I was making her believe that he will survive.

He was also improving. But after a week, he left his body very calmly.

I called her that morning to share the news of his demise. She was calm on phone. But when she came home, she couldn't control her tears.

We all went to bid our last goodbye to that little soul. 

While coming back home I thought that most of us don't even care about a person's survival if he or she is not related to us in some way. But this lady is so touched by a stray dog's demise.

How can someone be so generous, so caring?

We were regularly in touch on WhatsApp - sharing all the positive happening around the world. But she stopped replying after February 2022. I got to know that she is not using gadgets much. And I totally can relate to this.

And today, I got the news that she had left her mortal body this very morning.

And I lose my senses when I think that I will not be able to see her ever again - the face that carried so much empathy for others. A lady who cared so much about this boy, who was trying to handle that awkward situation and trying to cover his face.

'I have to call you and Geetika for lunch one day' she said once. And I'm sorry to say but she made a false promise. That day will never be going to come....

I was lucky that I was not good in studies and was regularly called by Councellor Ma'm 

for her advice and help. Not many students were that lucky.

And I know she is making heaven a better place to live in...

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. :)

Revisiting a Childhood Story - Delhi Karavan Chronicles

 

The year must be 2002 and I was coming back from Agra. My Mother and my brother, both had enough of my useless talks. They indirectly told me to shut up. I was looking out of the window of the Intercity express, counting those desolated stations, where hardly any train stops.

My Father was waving at us. I saw him first, before everyone. My brother denies this, but trust me I saw him before. He lifted the bag I was holding in my hands. He was always on time, no matter how late our train gets. He had a magic number he used to punch in our landline telephone  And a lady used to give information to him about the timings of our train - with a standard postscript - Asuvidha ke Liye Khed hai. She is the same lady who announces the timings of the train at railway stations too. I recognize her voice by heart - Taddam... Kripaya dhyan dijiye ...  

I sat comfortably in the backseat of our red color Maruti 800. We had our dinner at Bangla sweets in Bangla Market. I was a quick eater. And Obese too. So I had my meal and came outside to have some fresh air - and also, I was not in the mood to share my ice cream with my brother. 

When I came outside I saw this old man, wearing age-old spectacles, selling worn-out books, calendars, and magazines. He was sitting comfortably on the footpath with a trunk behind him and a pile of books on his right. 

And then, I found this book peeping at me quietly.

It was a thick paperback with a beautiful image of one elderly couple and a few kids printed on its cover page. How joyfully they were smiling at me. I can't forget that image till the last day of my life.

The book was called Dada-Dadi ki Kahaniyan.

While coming back home, I tried to read the contents of the book in the beams of streetlights and headlights of the other vehicles, passing in a rhythmic pattern.

Wish I could find the same red cover

After a while, we become good friends - or rather, more companions than friends.

But that companionship ended on a bit sad note.

I was in a small city in Maharashtra, where my cousin and I got into this argument, which escalated so much that he tore my book which was lying on my bedside.

I don't remember how many punches and kicks I showered on him. My vision was all blurred with uncontrollable tears flowing down my cheeks. And with that blurred vision, I saw that torn cover of the book, lying in a terrible condition on the bed. 

I miss that book and those 101 stories in it. Every story had warmth, wit, love, and some long-lasting lessons. One such story which I read during a train journey stayed with me. It goes somewhat like this -

Once upon a time...

There was a merchant who used to travel from his village to a city to buy clay toys, which had a humongous demand in his village. One evening, he was roaming in the bazaar of that city, handpicking each toy himself, and negotiating as much as he could.

The market was filled with peddlers and vendors, selling various products. There were snake charmers and bangle sellers. Food stalls filled with roasted peanuts, Sherbet, and Kebabs.

The kebabs were the local delicacy - soaked overnight in a mixture of turmeric, curd, and some selected spices - served smoking hot - dissolving in no time in your mouth.

But that day a lot of people were gathered in front of that stall - Not to buy kebabs.

When the merchant got a bit closer, he saw that the kebab seller was holding the tattered shirt of an old beggar who was sitting on the floor, begging for mercy. His begging bowl was lying upside down by his side and about a dozen coins were all scattered around him. 

When the merchant asked the kebab seller what the matter was, he explained "This rascal was having his chappatis with the fragrance of my kebabs. I noticed him enjoying both his stale pieces of bread like a dirty pest, I saw everything right from my stall. When I asked him to pay, he refused. That's how these dirty beasts are, they want everything for free.

The merchant looked blankly at the face of the kebab seller, which was all red with anger. He thought for a while, and then bent to collect all the scattered coins lying near the beggar. The beggar was watching everything, helplessly, and hopelessly. The Kebab seller was watching everything with an expectation of a gentle reward for the fragrance of his delicious kebabs.

The merchant held all the coins between his cupped palms and brought them near the right ear of the kebab seller, letting him hear the jingle of the coins. The Kebab seller smiled at him and extended his palm to collect the coins. But the merchant refused with a witty smile.

He said, pointing toward the beggar "He enjoyed the fragrance of your kebabs, and you enjoyed the jingle of his coins. All dues cleared." and handed all the coins to the beggar.

The story stayed with me, unexposed somewhere in the dark corner of my mind - afraid to come out.

Till the day it saw a bright ray of light...

Last week Asif Sahab told the same story in the context of some other story. But it brought out all my childhood right in front of my eyes. 

And after that, I didn't listen to the stories as a grown-up. All my so-called maturity vanished into thin air. I became an eight-year-old obese, quick-eater kid, who loves listening to stories with an open mouth and chin cupped between his palms. I could see that red cover of the book which I really miss, smiling at me.

I wrote a couple of traits of a storyteller in one of my earlier write-ups, but all those traits came out after a bit of brainstorming. Now let me tell you an element that my heart deeply wants to share with you all.

A true storyteller will always try to nurture the child in you - No matter how ignored and unattended it is. He or she will always give you the freedom to listen to the stories with an open mouth, chin cupped in palms, and with that little twinkle in your eyes.

And I find that trait in Asif Sahab.

Please ignore me plucking neem leaves at the back. I love chewing them.

So, my dear reader friend, never let your childhood die - Never, Never, Never...

Never

And what's a better way to nurture it than to listen to the stories?

Love, Laughter, and Peace

Himanshu R Nagpal

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