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
No comments:
Post a Comment