Have you ever thought about why some stories or books feel so special? Why is it so that your favourite book is not your friend’s favourite book and vice versa? Honestly, I’m not the right person to give you correct answers to these questions. These types of question arise in my mind too. And I’m still seeking a genuine answer.
Last night, I was flipping the pages of this freshly received copy of the collection of short stories written by Mr Ruskin Bond (I received an exclusively autographed copy by Mr Bond from Cambridge Book Depot, Mussoorie. And if you are thinking that I’m boasting about my exclusive copy, you are right my dear reader friend.). I came across a story called ‘The Coral Tree’. This story is set in the time when Mr Bond was about to leave our country to start working in England. The story goes somewhat like this.
He might have locked the doors of the house he used to live in and laying in the verandah, waiting with his suitcases around, for the dawn. It was raining and he was lying on his cot. When he opened his eyes, he saw this little girl looking at him. After a formal introduction (not so formal actually), the girl asked Mr Bond to pluck some flowers for her from the corral tree. He did the same. The little girl talked about her best friend, who is a cook. And she also called Mr Bond her second-best friend. She also expressed her interest in exploring the world and being on her own. He also talked about his decision to move to England, with the motive of being on his own.
Soon, Mr Bond heard the bells of the tonga and asked the girl to help him in lifting the suitcases. They bid each other a goodbye, with a promise to meet again.
Now, those who read Mr Bond’s work can understand this. There are two types of readers of his work. The first ones are those who like his work, enjoy the simplicity of his work and enjoy that warmth, that cosiness. The second ones are dangerous people (like me, of course) who try to reach to those unnamed feelings behind those stories.
Let me try to explain those unnamed feelings I’m talking about.
For a moment, let’s try to be in Mr Bond’s shoes, lying on the cot in the verandah, waiting for the dawn.
The very next morning you have to leave your own country for the sake of your career. There are no certain chances whether you’ll be able to come back or not. You have to leave behind all those friends, who were closer to you more than anything in your life. You are leaving behind all those memories – your childhood, your adolescence, your adulthood – everything. And the cherry on the cake is the girl who is standing in front of you and calling you her second-best friend. Those short moments of togetherness, which creates a long term impression in your memory, that feeling of that ‘unnamed feeling’.
On the other hand, you are excited to make your career in another nation. You are excited to be on your own and creating your world.
You know it’s important to travel, but it’s difficult to leave all those people, all that environment behind.
That cocktail of that pain, that sense of longing and that excitement of the future is the unnamed feeling I’m talking about.
Do you remember those strangers who become our friends in long railways journey? When mobile phones weren’t common at that time, but we still used to promise each other that we’ll remain in touch. Those faces, which blew away like smoke from your memory, but still fresh as the fragrance of early summer mangoes in a corner of your heart. Those people never grow old in their memory. They are as constant as the ranges of the snow-peaked Himalayan range.
I remember those railway companions. Not exactly their faces, but as a memory which is never going to fade. I remember the uncle who offered me breakfast on a long journey from Delhi to Bangalore (now Bengaluru). I remember that boy who offered me a seat on a journey from Delhi to Agra and that career guidance he offered me.
They are still living with me, as I’m flowing through this river called life. And they’ll always remain with me as they were more than a decade back. They’ll always remain the same till my last breath… or maybe even after that.
And I hereby apologise that I failed miserably in explaining that unnamed feeling.
For that, you have to knock the door of ivy cottage and ask the man himself.
As I’m the lone fox, who is still learning to dance…
HRN
