ALAM E ARWAH - DELHI KARAVAN CHRONICLES

चल बुल्लेया चल ओथे चलिए 

जित्थे होवन सारे अन्ने।

ना कोई साडी जात पछाने,

ना कोई सानू मन्ने।

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I could imagine my soft landing on the earth. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Some other time...

Some other place...

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

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

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

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

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

'Alam E Arwah'

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

चल बुल्लेया चल ओथे चलिए 

जित्थे होवन सारे अन्ने।

ना कोई साडी जात पछाने,

ना कोई सानू मन्ने।

Love, Laughter, and Peace 

HRN

The Sleeping Technique

 

I have a lot of experience of running behind trains. I don't know how, but every time some urgency occurs ranging from moderate to high just before my trip. I believe that I'm a little less organized compared to the individuals my age. But this trip is different. On this trip, I was not willing to come. 

My son is six months old and has started reacting to all the little mischiefs I do when I'm with him. With a heavier heart, welled-up eyes, and slow steps I entered the railway station. The train was motionlessly gazing at me from the opposite platform. I was aware of the relationship between the night trains and me. I climbed the stairs as quick as I could. But the train started moving slowly as it was trying to tease me. 

Luckily, the bogie that I had to board was just crossing the staircase, and in no time I boarded it. The train forgave me this time.

The bogie was almost vacant. Some odd seats were occupied with motionless humans, covering their bodies with uniform blankets. I was looking for my side lower seat. There was no one in the whole compound except this lady who was sitting facing towards the other side. I kept my luggage under the berth and lay down. 

When all the animated stuff came to a halt and I closed my eyes to catch my sleep, I felt my heart heavy again. I was thinking what my son must be doing. I was missing the fragrance of his body, the curls of his hair. I was missing his small hands and his toothless smile. I miss putting him to bed, and watching his facial expressions when he gets into deep slumber. 

When it comes to putting him to sleep, I'm an expert. My strategy is darn too simple. I put him near my torso, cradle him at a uniform pace, and repeat the name of Lord Rama in more of a hissing voice.

Ram...

Ram...

Ram...

And in no time he enters into his dreamland, making faces of all kinds. 

I opened my eyes to set an alarm on my cellular phone. I even have a record of missing my destined stations too. As soon as I closed my eyes again, I heard a familiar voice. I thought for a while that I was hallucinating or something. I heard my son crying as he usually does when he wants to sleep but can't. When the voice became more clear and loud, I got up to see what was happening. I switched on the lights of the cabin. The lady who was lying on the other side was carrying her toddler on her lap and shaking it rigorously.

She apologized for that as she thought she must have disturbed my sleep. I just smiled and lay down again. Her baby was roaring like a hungry cub. I covered my head with the blanket and switched off the lights in case she wanted to feed the baby. 

The baby was crying at the top of his voice. I felt something fishy by then. I switched on the lights again and asked her whether she had checked the baby's temperature or not. She put her finger on the baby's neck to manually check the temperature. I was not aware of any such technique for measuring temperature, but she acknowledged that her baby was doing fine.

I asked her if  I could help. She was hesitant at first. She was really not expecting that. But looking at her baby's condition, she handed me her toddler. 

I stood up and roamed around a bit here and there. The baby was still crying, clenching my kurta in his little fists I started caressing the back of his head softly. That was the first time when he looked at me. Our eyes met for the first time. I smiled at him. He stopped crying for a few seconds, observing an unfamiliar face. He started crying again but at a much slower pace, as if he was complaining about something to me.

I sat on my berth and put his face to my abdomen, just below my heart. He stopped crying again. He was again observing my face. He lifted his left hand and started playing with my beard. I started cradling him when I noticed his eyes getting heavier. 

And finally, I started humming the name of Lord Rama.

Ram...

Ram...

Ram...

I told his mother to make her bed. I lay him down carefully and switched off the lights.

Her Mother started patting his back to make him feel safe and protected.

'Thank you' I heard her voice before I came back to my seat.

I was glad that my magic formula worked.  

The next morning I woke up before the alarm rang. I saw the baby giggling in her Mother's arms. She playfully told him to wish me good morning, to which he giggled some more. 

I went to freshen up. My station was about to arrive. 

When I came back from the restroom, her son was crying again. He was looking worn out with all that playing and giggling. I sat on my seat quietly and started putting my stuff in my backpack.

When I turned around again I saw the lady cradling him on her lap.

Ram...

Ram...

Ram...

 

Voila! 

He went into deep slumber even quicker than the night before. He was sleeping calmly when the train lowered its pace. I got up looking at the baby. He looked very similar to my own son. I kept looking at him till the train halted.

'What's his name?' I asked her.

'Irfan... Muhammad Irfan'. She smiled as she replied.

The Angry Lemon Plant

Picture Source

 I have spent so many years following what others are doing. From academics to my personal life, I have blindly borrowed so many things from others. Yes, I have always cared for other's opinions. Yes, I have listened to other's judgments. I have done that all - just like so many people out there. 

And one day, out of nowhere I picked up a pen and scribbled the traits and habits I have acquired from others in a little notebook. And I wrote eighteen pages (front and back). 

Okay! A little less than eighteen pages - but they were enough to enlighten me and show me the way. I need to peel off my societal layers without thinking of the result. 

Then a phase comes when you start to give importance to your inner voice. You start looking at your own needs, requirements, and of course, wishes.

One such wish was to have a little garden of my own. When it comes to gardening and the stuff related to it, I was just too amateur. In fact, I had a bad experience with all the plants I had received as gifts on my birthdays. But the rule is to take care of your wishes. 

So I went to this cute little nursery which is quite near to my office. I bought Rose, lipstick aglaonema, and a little lemon plant. With a good experience with them, I gained some confidence and started getting more and more plants. Now I have a gulmohar, Mint, Neem, Aloe vera, and many other delicate as well as sturdy plants in my little gallery. 

Almost every morning, I sit among them and look at the minuteness and beauty of each of my plants. I have started feeling that each plant has a unique nature. Some seem to be loving and warm. Some are angry and irritated. A few of them are darn too aggressive and even turn violent sometimes. 

Just like my lemon plant.

While watering them, I got a bruise from one of the sharpest thorns of my lemon plant. My wrist even started bleeding a little. I looked at it and felt as if it was looking directly into my eyes, still in attack mode. 

I choose to ignore it.

But the other day a similar thing happened. I understood the fact that something needed to be done immediately.

I lifted the pot and placed it on the other side of the gallery, away from the rest of the plants. I grabbed my chair and started sipping my 'Bitterest - Black - Coffee'. 

On my left, there are lush green plants, loaded with flowers and green leaves. And on my right, there is this little lemon plant, looking directly at my face.

Suddenly I heard a group of kids giggling, shouting, and hooting - to tease someone. I looked to my right and saw a tweeny version of mine standing there - struggling to keep his hands up. And on my left, I recognized each and every face. I recognized each and every voice. I recognized each and every taunt. They still ring in my ears. I must be eleven or twelve, with tired arms, I was trying to hold my glasses, which were falling down my cheek.

My fault? I was discussing the episode of 'Shahid Bhagat Singh', which was telecasted the night before on DD National with the guy sitting next to me. The teacher caught me chattering with a little more animation than required in that particular conversation. 

She didn't miss the opportunity to comment on my exam scores and physicality - before 'throwing' me out of the class. When she left the class for some work, some students repeated what the teacher said, adding a little more creativity.

I immediately got up and placed the lemon plant among the other plants. I changed its place, but I couldn't bear the sight of the lemon plant alone, gazing at me. It was haunting my psyche.

The whole day I was thinking about that sight. I was overwhelmed and irritated that day, secretly suffering in my imagination. I concluded the day with the thought that I should receive a national award for overthinking from the Government of India.

A couple of weeks passed and I completely forgot about that day. Like every morning I was watering the plants and plucking dry leaves. I glanced at the lemon plant. When I looked at it closely, I was astonished at the sight. I saw two little lemons hanging joyfully from a low branch of the lemon plant.

 What a sight it was. 

That's the role of genuine companionship, love, and sympathy in one's life. One opens up all the locked and bolted gates of his or her heart. One feels safe and warm in your company - Just like my little lemon plant, which is not so little anymore.

And the national award of overthinking - Here I come.

Love, Laughter, and Peace

HRN

The Gulmohar Tree House

 The P.T. period, as we call it, was no less than a festival for the fourth graders like us. The best thing about that period was freedom. One could do anything he or she wanted to do. Indoor games as well as outdoor games were allowed. Some students rush towards the basement to play carrom board or chess. Others were busy running behind a poor little football and kicking it harshly. 

But I wasn't interested in either of those things. I remember that brief period when I enjoyed climbing above that hanging swing where students used to hang to increase their heights or to behave like a monkey The upper portion of that swing was covered under the heavenly shade of a Gulmohar tree. I used to lie under its shade, over the swing, and imagine things until the bell rang, sometimes even after that.

In one of my textbooks, this chapter was called 'Type of Houses'. There were pucca houses and kacha houses, and then there was my favorite - Tree House. I was totally mesmerized looking at the picture of a tree house. I imagined a lot about the lives of people residing in those houses, which led me to create a world in my head. That swing became my tree house where I sit and imagine. I enjoyed that space as it was hidden from the world. It's an adventure in itself when no one can see you and you can see everyone. 

Picture Source

That was the time when adventures in my head commenced.

I imagined a world widespread in the woods where beautiful houses were built in the trunks of humungous trees. I started naming the people as if I knew them personally. I was introduced to this lovely family. The 'man of the house' was called Uncle Tom who collected the wood and sold them in the bazaar three miles from their home. Okay! wait. To collect wood, he sometimes had to cut the trees down and I find it a bit cruel. No! Uncle Tom was not a woodcutter. He used to collect fresh fruits and berries and sell them to various fruit sellers in the bazaar.

His wife, Aunt Martha is a short-height, flabby woman, who is a wonderful homemaker. She enjoys cooking. Pancakes, cheesecakes, and apple pie are some of her signature delicacies. She takes care of their lovely children Marie and John. They both were roughly my age. Marie was a year older than John. Every morning they walk to the town to an English school. Marie is great at saving some coins from her pocket money. She treats her brother with an ice cream almost every week. She buys it from a vendor who sells ice cream on a bicycle.

John on the other hand was a sturdy guy who spent his money on buying tennis balls and comic books. He knows well the generous nature of his sister so he never cares to save for an ice cream.

In the woods, there were five or six families that lived knitted together. The Jacobs live on the banyan and The Aroras live on the banana tree. The Mehtas live on the neem tree, just next to the pond. But Uncle Tom and his family live on my favorite tree - The Gulmohar.

They have a few lovely pets too. Tuk-Tuk, the squirrel who lives under Marie's bed. Mimi, the pigeon, with his whole family has made a nest near Aunt Martha's room's window pane. And Tommie, a lovely, brown-furred pomeranian.

Every evening the children of all the houses play different games in the woods. They fly kites and run behind each other. 

The elders sit around the bonfire on cold nights. They talk about everything under the sun while snacking on hot and crispy peanuts. They tell different stories. They also share dreams they see in their deep slumber and everyone tries to decode them. Lighting up the fire and being in the crowds help them stay safe and protected from the wild animals. I learned that from one of the episodes of The Jungle Book one fine Sunday morning.

The world I was creating in my head under the Gulmohar came to a halt when the gardener of our school trimmed the lovely tree and the swing exposed it to the world. I felt as if the roof over my head flew away in a strong windstorm.

All those memories showered in when I saw a little sapling of Gulmohar in one nursery. The nursery boy was quite sure that even in a small pot I'd be seeing red beautiful flowers pretty soon. 

I brought it home.

Flowers or no flowers, It still reminds me of my friends John and Marie. I believe that they both are there in all flesh and bones and must be over thirty years of age. I'm quite sure that I'll find them one day. And I'll recognize them at first sight...

Love, Laughter, and Peace

HRN

The Big Day

I woke up around eight in the morning. I couldn't sleep the night before quite well. It will happen. It's about to happen. I'm a man with no such big dreams. I have always enjoyed my circle of acquaintances small. But certain unfulfilled dreams make you feel uncomfortable. I was in fifth or maybe sixth standard when Mr Bond visited my school and I couldn't meet him. The reason was simple -  we were told in advance that we had to bring money to buy books by Mr Bond and stand in a queue to get our books signed. I have this habit of forgetting things from childhood. So, I had no option but to sit in class and see my classmates getting their names written in Mr Bond's precious handwriting with his autograph beneath. 

My computer teacher, may God bless her, I don't know how she gave me the duty of keeping the corrected notebooks in the computer lab. We used to fight like animals to visit the computer lab as it was the Himalayas for us in a barren desert. It was the only room accessible to students which was air-conditioned. 

With mixed feelings, I lifted those thirty-odd notebooks and slowly marched to the lab. And that happened which was planned by the Almighty. I saw Mr Bond looking at the sketches made by the students, pinned on the display board. 

Ahh! My heart skipped a beat. The creator of The Woman on platform no 8, the writer of the thief story was right in front of me. He was the man who wrote 'The Face in the Dark'. 

I watched him till he went towards the exit.

I wrote this account in a write-up a few years back, if you wish to read it, you can read it here.

And then that happened which was bound to happen.

Twenty years passed and a part of me stopped there. Instead of notebooks, I was lifting my son in my arms. And then a car stopped and Mr Bond was right in front of me. I was mesmerized by his personality. I remember Mr Bond was wearing sports shoes when he came to my school. And now he was wearing black loafers kind of shoes. I don't know why but that thing remained with me. I have always admired his simplicity. No matter whether you are a creator of five hundred short stories or many novellas, you must stay grounded and approachable. I love him for this and one thousand other reasons. 

You must be thinking that I'm lying but I'm going to write this with utmost honesty. I started imagining too many characters of Mr Bond's stories, as they were right in front of my eyes. I saw little Biniya with a little blue umbrella in her hands. I saw Sita and Krishan looking for Sita's grandparents. I saw a police inspector with a glass of scotch in front of him, telling me the story of a girl and the Maharani. 

Man! I could hear the train's whistle and a boy waving his hand and saying goodbye to his Mother. I saw Uncle Ken dancing and jumping right in front of Cambridge Book Depot. And at a little distance, the cops were taking away Masterji. His hands were tied. He smiled at me. I felt that the currency notes in my shirt's pocket were drenched, as someone took them last night, roamed in the town, and kept them back. 

And then I heard drums with clumsy beats. I saw some boys drenched and colored in yellow and red.

Yes, It was happening. 

My wife entered the store as she handed a flower to Mr Bond and wished him happy birthday. I touched his feet clumsily as I was holding my son in my arms. And I wished him a happy birthday. Most of my actions were choreographed in my head for so many years. My son was constantly looking at Mr Bond.

'Halo' Mr Bond said to my son. 

Yes! Mr Bond said hello to MY SON...

We clicked photographs then.

My wife understood quite well how important this moment was for me. She requested some more photographs from Mayank Sir, and all of them obliged.

When we were leaving, My wife joined her hands and wished him a happy birthday once again. He folded his hands too and thanked us. That was the moment when my eyes got a little moist. 

I waited all my life for this moment. And I can't thank my stars, The Almighty, The Cambridge Book Depot, Mr Bond's fans, each and everyone enough for the moment. This isn't a wish of a thirty-ish-year-old man, but a wish of an eleven-year-old kid who is still standing right in front of the computer lab with notebooks in his hands, watching his favorite author. 

The child can now throw away the notebooks and run wild in the ground of his school, screaming with happiness and excitement. Dancing and jumping all over the ground.

And that Thirty-ish-year-old man can just open the flap of his laptop and write whatever his soul allows to write about the big day.

Thanks for reading my dear reader friends.

Love, Laughter, and Peace

HRN

एक खिलौना ही तो हैं...

यह बात है गदर की। चारों ओर हाहाकार मचा हुआ था। हर तरफ़ खौफ़ और कत्लेआम का मंज़र था। एक शख़्स अपनी पत्नी को अपने मुल्क वापस लाने की खातिर ना जाने कितने खतरे मोल लिए सरहद पार पहुंच गया था। ना के पहुंचा, ढेरो लोगों को चित्त भी किया। और तो और, तक़सीम के बाद उस नए बसे मुल्क का हैण्ड पम्प तक उखाड़ फेंका। जहां पूरा मंज़र खौफ़जदा था, वहां तारा सिंह की इस दिलेरी पर पूरा सिनेमा हॉल सीटियों और तालियो से गूंज उठा था। 

सिनेमा का जादू ही कुछ इस कदर है। जब कोई गीत आता तो लोगो के पैर थिरखने लगते। विरह के दृश्य में दर्शकों की आंखे अश्क़ों से भर जाती। उन नम आंखों से वो सकीना और तारा सिंह की जुदाई का दर्दनाक मंज़र भी देखते। 

बहरहाल, उन सैंकड़ों की तादात में हमारा नन्हा सा नमन भी बैठा था, जिसकी उत्साह की आज मानो कोई सीमा ना थी। हैण्ड पम्प उखड़ा तो दर्द उसकी नाज़ुक कलाइयों में महसूस हुआ। गीत के दौरान मानो उसकी हथेलियों ने ट्रक का चक्का थाम लिया। 

आज उत्साह का कारण बस फिल्म ही न थी। आज इस नन्हे से नमन का सातवां जन्मदिन भी था।  उस के पिता वादे के अनुसार द
फ़्तर से आधी छुट्टी ले कर नमन और उसकी मां को फिल्म दिखाने ले गए थे। जैसे ही फिल्म छूटी, वो दौड़ता हुआ पिता के स्कूटर पर सवार होगया। वह गदर देखने के बाद सनी देओल जो हो गया था। अब अच्छा थोड़ी लगता है की उस स्थिति में मम्मी उसे उठा कर पिताजी और अपने बीच में बिठाए ? 

पिताजी को अपने वादे का अगला पढ़ाव याद था। वह स्कूटर दौड़ाते हुए पहुंचे भगीरथ पैलेस। उस चका चौंध को देखते ही नमन की तो मानो आंखे फटी की फटी रह गई। गलियों से गुजरते हुए वो पहुंचे एक ऐसी जादुई गली में, जहां खिलोनों की कई दुकानें थी। उन कांच के बने दरवाजों के पीछे तरह तरह के खिलोने नमन को अपनी ओर आकर्षित कर रहे थे। 

कहीं बोलने वाला खरगोश था, जो अपनी बड़ी बड़ी आंखों से उस पारदर्शी दरवाज़े से नमन की ओर देखता। कहीं अनगिनत रंगो से सजी गेंद, जो फेंकने पर प्रकाशमय हो जाती थी, नमन को आकर्षित करती। 

पिताजी का हाथ थामे जब वो एक दुकान में गए तो नमन का उत्साह फिर अपने चरम सीमा पर पहुंचा। तरह तरह के खिलोने करीने से डब्बे में बंद चारो ओर लगे थे। नमन जब भी किसी खिलौने की ओर देखता, तुरंत उसकी नज़र मां की आंखों की तरफ जाती। मां उसे आंखों ही आंखों में समझा देती के कौन सा खिलौना उन के जेब में रखे पैसों के मुताबिक खरीदा जा सकता है और कौन सा नही। हॉट व्हील्स की गाड़ी के लिए नमन अभी छोटा था (ऐसा मां ने कहा) और डाक्टर सेट के लिए अब वो बड़ा होगया था (ऐसा भी मां ने कहा)। और कुछ ही मिनटों की तफ़्तीश के बाद उसे कुछ ऐसा दिखा जिसे देखते ही वो मोहित हो गया। उसे ऐसा महसूस हुआ मानो सब थम गया हो। हौले से अपनी तर्ज़नी से इशारा कर के अपनी मां को बताया की उसे क्या चाहिए। इस बार तो उसने मां की आंखों की तरफ भी तवज्ज़ो ना दी। वो खिलौना एक नवजात शिशु की सूरत का था। उसकी मंद मुस्कान, बड़ी आंखे, और नए खिलते हुए बालों ने नमन को मोहित कर लिया था। नीले रंग के लिबास में वो अपनी पलकें हल्के से झपकता है, मानो कोई जीता जागता शिशु हो। 

ऐसा प्रतीत हुआ जैसे शाम से ही नमन उसे ढूंढ रहा हो। 

अब स्कूटर पर, मां और पिताजी के बीच में बैठा नमन इस नवजात शिशु के खिलौने को अपने सीने से लगाए बैठा था। स्पीड ब्रेकर, गड्ढों, और कई ऐसी छोटी आपदाओं से उस शिशु को बचाना, नमन अपनी जिम्मेदारी समझने लगा। 

तड़के ही उस शिशु खिलौने को गोद मैं उठा लेता और धीरे से उठाता। स्कूल जाता तो आंखे कुछ नम हो जाती। जब छुट्टी होने में कम समय शेष रह जाता तो उसकी खुशी फुले ना समाती। घर पहुंचते ही स्कूल में जो कुछ हुआ उसे विस्तार से नन्हे शिशु को बताया जाता। बिना स्कूल की वर्दी बदले उस के पास सो जाता। और इसी तरह लगभग एक हफ्ता बीत गया। और नमन का रिश्ता उस खिलौने से और गहरा होता गया।

उस रात पिताजी घर देर से आए। पिताजी ज़्यादा बात नही करते थे, पर उस रात उनको चुप्पी मानो चुभ रही थी। खाना खाते हुए उन्होंने बताया के तीन दिन बाद संध्या बुआ और विवेक फूफा जी झांसी से दिल्ली आ रहे है। वह दो दिन उन के घर रुकेंगे और उस के बाद हवाई जहाज से श्रीनगर जाएंगे। 

नमन यह सुनकर बहुत प्रसन्न हुआ। वह जानता था कर बुआ और फूफा जी के साथ उनका नन्हा सा बेटा प्रशांत भी आएगा। अब तो वो साल भर का हो गया होगा। नमन की मुलाकात उनसे बस एक बार झांसी में हुई थी। वह पहली बार नमन के घर आ रहा था।

दूसरी ओर मां और पिताजी कुछ परेशान थे। महीना खत्म होने को था और तनख़्वाह अपने पंख पसारे कहां उड़ चुकी थी, उसका अंदाज़ा लगाना नामुमकिन था।

अब पहली बार भांजा घर आए और खाली हाथ जाए वो पिताजी को गवारा नहीं था। 

जल्दी से पलंग के पल्ले खोलें गए और अगला घंटा इसी में व्यतीत हुआ के क्या हल निकाला जाए।मिनी मौसी ने जो साड़ी मां को दी थी वो बुआ को दे दी जाए या पंकज मामा वाला पेंट सूट फूफा को दे दिया जाए। सब सामान को बाहर निकाला गया और अलमारी में रख दिया गया। 

परंतु प्रशांत को क्या दिया जाए? ५०१ रूपए शगुन के तौर पर देने का फैंसला किया गया और साथ में कोई खिलौना।

अंदर नमन उस शिशु को सारा व्याख्यान बता रहा था। पिताजी ने मां को अंदर भेजा ताकि वह नमन को समझा सके।

मां ने प्यार से नमन के बालो में हाथ फेरा। नमन को कोई अंदाज़ा ना था के मां के मन में क्या है।

"बेटा आपको पता है ना शनिवार को प्रशांत आने वाला है। आप जानते हो ना प्रशांत आपका कौन है ?" मां बोली।

"प्रशांत तो मेरा भाई है।" नमन ने उत्साहपूर्वक उत्तर दिया।

"तो आप अपने भाई को क्या देने वाले हो? वह पहली बार घर आ रहा है ना ?" मां ने गंभीरता से पूछा।

"मैं उस के लिए कागज़ के फूलों का गुलदस्ता बनाऊंगा। मेरे बस्ते में रंगीन कागज़ों का एक पैकेट पढ़ा है। मैं कल सुबह ही बनाना शुरू करूंगा मां।" नमन ने कहा।

"बेटा प्रशांत अभी छोटा है, वह गुलदस्ते का क्या करेगा? जब वो अगली दफ़ा आएगा तो और बड़ा हो गया होगा, तब आप उसे गुलदस्ता देना।" मां ने अब नमन की आंखों में देखा। "क्या हम प्रशांत को ये नन्हा सा खिलौना दे दें ? पापा अगली बार जब बाज़ार जाएंगे तो आपको नया ला देंगे ?" 

बस मां के ये बोलना था की नमन ने उस खिलौने को और कस कर पकड़ लिया और अपने सीने से लगा लिया। उसकी आंखें हौले से नम हुई और फिर अश्कों की नदिया फूट पड़ी। 

नमन को ऐसे सुबकते देख पिताजी भी अंदर आ गए। अपने कुर्ते की बाहें ठीक कर कर वह कोने में चुप चाप खड़े हो गए। नमन ने उन्हें देखते ही आंसू पौंछे और खिलौने को अपने पीछे छुपा लिया।

"नमन एक खिलौना ही तो है? तुम क्यों इतना भावुक हो रहे हो? हम तुम्हें नया दिला देंगे बेटा।" मां की आवाज अब कुछ ऊंची हो गई थी।

नमन के लिए मां को उस खिलौने  की एहमियत समझाना मुश्किल था। वह उन्हें नहीं समझा सकता था की दूसरा खिलौना उस नन्हे शिशु की जगह नही ले सकता था। वह शिशु अब नमन का घनिष्ठ मित्र था। उसकी रक्षा करना अब नमन का कर्तव्य था। उस की हर जरूरत का ख्याल रखने को नमन अपनी सर्वोत्तम जिम्मेदारी समझता था। 

"तुम रहने दो बेटा। हम खाली हाथ प्रशांत को भेज देंगे। कोई बात नही, बुआ और फूफा जी को पता लग जाने दो के हम नमन को कुछ नही दिलाते। ना ही हम प्रशांत के लिए कुछ खरीद सकते है। हमारी निंदा होती है तो हो जाने देना।" ऐसा कहते हुए मां आग बबूला होते हुए कमरे से बाहर चली गई।

बहुत देर तक नमन सिर को झुकाए और उस खिलौने को अपने पीछे छुपाए वहीं खड़ा रहा। उसकी आंखे अभी नम थी। कुछ देर में बिना कुछ कहे पिताजी भी बाहर चले गए। 

नमन उस खिलौने को हाथ में थामे अपने बिस्तर पर लेट गया। तकिए पर सिर दबाए वो काफी देर सुबकता रहा, रोता रहा। और कब उसकी आंख लग गई उसे पता ही नही चला।

सपने में उसे कई सारे खिलौने दिखे जो हुबहू उसके खिलौने जैसे थे। वो कतार  में खड़े कई खिलौनों की तरफ देखता रहा। पर उन में से कोई भी उसका खिलौना नही था। तभी उसने देखा कि उसका खिलौना अलग से खड़ा है। उस खिलौने की आंखें नम हैं। 

नमन डर कर उठ गया। उसका खिलौना उस के साथ ही था।

शनिवार आया तो संध्या बुआ आई। और फूफाजी और प्रशांत को अपने संग लाई। उस दिन से मां ने नमन से बस जरूरत की बात करनी शुरू कर दी थी। नमन को इस बात का एहसास था की मां नाराज़ है, परंतु उसे नन्ही सी जान की कुर्बानी देना मंज़ूर नहीं था। क्या ख़ता थी इस नन्ही सी जान की ? उसे तो खबर भी ना थी कि  उसे नमन की ममता भरे हाथों से छीनकर किसी और को सौंपने का षडयंत्र रचा जा रहा है। 

नमन बुआ के आने के पश्चात अधिक समय घर के आंगन में लगे झूले में ही बिताता। शनिवार को तो दिन ढलने तक वह बाहर ही रहा। रविवार दोपहर को आसमान की तरफ देखते उसकी आंखे नम होने लगी। उसकी दिल की धड़कन मानो धीमे होने का नाम ही ना लेना चाहती हो। वो दौड़ कर मां के पास गया और उनका हाथ पकड़ कर अंदर के कमरे में ले गया।

"क्या है?" मां ने गुस्से मैं पूछा। 

इतने में अपनी चप्पल उतार कर नमन पलंग पर चढ़ गया। उसने ममता भरे हाथों से और भीगी हुई आंखों से उस खिलौने को उठा कर हिफाजत के साथ मां को सौंप दिया। 

अब मां की आंखें भी नम थी। परंतु उन्होंने मेज़ पर रखे उस खिलौने के डब्बे को उठाया और उस खिलौने को डब्बे में डालने लगी। नमन ने उन्हें तुरंत रोक लिया। उस खिलौने को दोबारा अपने हाथ में लिया, उस के सिर को चूमा और मां को सौंप कर, बिना पीछे मुड़े वह बाहर की और चला गया। उसका कलेजा जज़्बातों से भरा था या एक भार उस के सीने से उतर गया था, यह कह पाना मुश्किल है।

गर्मियों की छुट्टियां आई तो दो तीन दिन झांसी में बिताने की बात चली। बात किसी निष्कर्ष पर पहुंच पाती, उससे पहले ही पिता जी ने जाने की टिकट भी निकल वाली। सुना था प्रशांत अब पलंग और मेज़ को पकड़ कर चलने लगा था। अपनी आंखों से ये नज़ारा मां और पिताजी देखना चाहते थे।

झांसी पहुंचते हुए शाम हो चुकी थी। ट्रेन लेट होने के कारण लगभग चाचा चौधरी की दो कॉमिक्स नमन निपटा चुका था। स्टेशन पर पहुंचते ही उसकी आंखें फूफा जी अथवा बुआ को खोजने लगी। फूफा जी अकेले ही अपनी नई गाड़ी में उन्हे लेने आए थे।

बुआ के घर पहुंचते ही वे प्रशांत के साथ खेलने लगा। उसे अपनी उंगली थमा कर धीरे धीरे उसे सैर कराता और गिरने से उसे बचाता। 

चलते चलते वह अंदर के कमरे में पहुंच गए। वे कमरा प्रशांत के अनगिनत खिलौने से भरा था। सैंकड़ों खिलौने एक पहाड़ी के आकार में वहां पढ़े थे। वहां पहुंचते ही नमन का चेहरा पसीने से भीग गया। उसकी आंखे लाल होने लगी। एक घबराहट ने उसे चारों तरफ से घेर लिया। उसकी आंखें कुछ ढूंढ रही थी। वो उसे मिल भी गया। 

उस नन्हे शिशु का सिर धड़ से अलग था। शीश तो था पर धड़ ढूंढ पाना मुश्किल था। थोड़ी तफ़्तीश के बाद एक हाथ मिला। उस नीले लिबास को देखते ही वह पहचान गया। वह हाथ उसने अपनी जेब में डाल लिया। कुछ लम्हे वो उस शिशु के सिर को निहारता रहा।

उन चंद घड़ियों में नमन की उम्र मानो कई वर्ष बढ़ गई थी।

"एक खिलौना ही तो है" वह खुद से बोला और प्रशांत को उस कमरे से बाहर ले गया।

हिमांशु

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.