ना उम्मीदी कुफ्र है?

महाभारत के एक प्रसंग में विदुर ने धृतराष्ट्र से कहा था, “आशा बलवति राजन्” अर्थात आशा बलवान होती है, और मनुष्य को सदा आशा का आलंबन लेना चाहिये। नैराश्य के क्षणों में यह ज्ञान निश्चित रूप से सहायक सिद्ध होता है, क्योंकि मूलतः हम सब आशा के प्राणी है, हर सांस को छोड़ते ही हैं इस आशा के साथ कि शरीर अगली सांस लेने में भी सक्षम होगा. . .

हर महापुरुष के जीवन से हमें यही सीख मिलती है कि परिस्थितियां चाहे जैसी भी हों, आशावान रहना चाहिए, और क्यों न रहें हम आशावादी? वस्तुतः आशा ही तो हमारे जीवन का आश्रय बनती है उन पलों में जब आँखों के आगे अँधेरा छा जाता है। हम यह मानना चाहते हैं कि यह क्षण अच्छा न था लेकिन अगला अवश्य सुखद होगा, आज का दिन अशुभ रहा, लेकिन कल का प्रभात अपने साथ आनंद लाएगा. . .

आने वाला समय एक द्यूत क्रीड़ा है, एक जुआ जिसका पलड़ा किसी भी दिशा में झुक सकता है, परंतु हम यही मानना चाहते हैं कि वो हमारे पक्ष में झुकेगा। लेकिन दुर्भाग्यवश, जीवन की इस द्यूत क्रीड़ा में हमारे पास शकुनि वाले पासे नहीं है।
बच्चन की एक कविता की कुछ पंक्तियां यूँ हैं,
इस पार प्रिये मधु है तुम हो,
उस पार न जाने क्या होगा?

कर्मकांड और पूजा पाठ भी तो हम इसीलिए करते हैं क्योंकि हम एक अच्छे कल की इच्छा रखते हैं? मैंने ज्योतिष पढ़ा है, कुण्डलियाँ भी बांचता हूँ, और बड़े ही वैज्ञानिक दृष्टिकोण से देखूं तो यही जान पड़ता है कि ज्योतिष का भी आधार आशा में ही है। निरंतर, सतत प्रयास जिससे मनुष्य अपने वर्तमान और भविष्य को सुधार सके. . .

लेकिन क्या आशा एक भ्रामक कल्पना मात्र है? क्या हमें सत्य से विमुख कर देती है? मेरे विचार में हाँ भी और ना भी। आशावान होने और अति आत्मविश्वासी होने के बीच अंतर बहुत थोड़ा है, आशावादी व्यक्ति सकारात्मक रहते हुए भी स्वयं से सदैव सत्य बोलता है। जो व्यक्ति स्वयं से झूठ बोले, वही अति आत्मविश्वास का रोगी है।

क्योंकि सबसे बड़ा तप यदि कोई है तो वो सत्य की उपासना है। और सत्य न कड़वा होता है, न मीठा। सत्य, सत्य होता है, उसका स्वाद जो हमें अनुभव होता है वो हमारी प्रतिक्रिया है, सत्य हमारी कई आशाओं को डुबो देता है, कई सपनों के गले प्रतिदिन घोंटता है।

पाश ने हमें बताया कि सबसे खतरनाक होता है हमारे सपनों का मर जाना। लेकिन मेरे विचार में उससे भी अधिक खतरनाक होता है मरे हुए सपनों को मुखाग्नि न देना, उनको बनाए रखना इस आशा में कि वो मृत सपने संजीवनी का पान कर पुनः जाग्रत होंगे। ऐसे सपने, ऐसी इच्छाएं जो हमें केवल दुःख दें, जलते हुए मकान के भांति त्याग देने योग्य हैं। और ऐसे व्यक्ति जिनसे हमें केवल पीड़ा और अपेक्षा मिले, हमारे प्रेम के पात्र नहीं हो सकते। ऐसे व्यक्तियों के सन्दर्भ में भी सपने देखना खतरनाक है।

आशा शर्करा के समान है। त्वरित सुख तो प्रदान करती है पर उसका निरंतर, निरंकुश पान मधुमेह जैसे भयावह रोग को जन्म देता है। सत्य एक कटु औषधि है, जिसका अंतिम परिणाम आयुष्य ही है।
हाँ, पर आवश्यकता पड़ने पर, कभी- कभी अल्प मात्रा में आशा का उपयोग भी किया जा सकता है, लेकिन वो आशा सच से विरोध न करती हो बस, इतना ध्यान रहे।

तो हम इसी निष्कर्ष की ओर पहुंचे कि जीवन एक संघर्ष है, बिना सहायता के काट पाना कुछ कठिन है। आशा एक सहारा हो सकती है, लेकिन उसे बैसाखी न बनाएं अन्यथा कदाचित हम पुनः अपने पैरों पर खड़े न हो पाएं। सत्य अपने स्थान पर प्रतापी होकर स्थित है। हम उसे मध्यान्ह का सूर्य मानकर उससे द्वेष कर सकते हैं या पूर्णिमा के चंद्रमा के समान उसे स्वीकार, चुनाव हमें करना है।

सत्य आशा का नाश भी करेगा, और कहीं कहीं निराशा को भी जन्म देगा, परंतु नैराश्य में अपना अलग सुख भी तो है. . . कहा भी गया है “त्यागाछांतिनिरन्तरम्“- अर्थात सबकुछ त्याग देने में निरंतर शांति का अनुभव है, और यदि भविष्य में हम असफल हुए, तो पीड़ा कम ही होगी. . .

खुसरो ने कहा था- सखी पिया को जो मैं न देखूं, तो कैसे काटूं अँधेरी रतियां?
पर इसका क्या विश्वास कि सखी पिया हमें दर्शन देगी ही? सत्य तो यही है कि हर दिन की तरह आज भी अटरिया को तकते तकते हम थक के सो जाएंगे।

हाँ, पर एक चेतावनी- निराशा का सागर बहुत आकर्षक और गहरा है, यत गत्वा न् निवर्तन्ते– वहां एक बार प्रवेश करने के उपरांत केवल एक ही दिशा में डूबते चले जाना है. . . और इसी नैराश्य में हम कई बार अपनी वास्तविक ऊर्जा, शक्ति और बल से विस्मृत हो जाते हैं जैसे रामायण में हनुमान। हनुमान के पास तो जामवंत थे जिन्होंने समय आने पर आंजनेय को उनकी शक्तियों का भान करा दिया, लेकिन शायद हमारे जीवन में ऐसा कोई न हो। हमें स्वयं ही अपना जामवंत बनना पड़े!

यह लेख मेरी अच्छी दोस्त, सुरभि करवा को समर्पित है। कल उन्होंने ट्विटर पर नाउम्मीदी पर कुछ लिखा था। “आशा” करता हूँ उन्हें यह लेख अच्छा लगेगा, लेकिन “सत्य” तो यह है कि शायद पसंद न आए!

पढ़ने के लिए धन्यवाद!

और हाँ, दीपवाली की अनेकों बधाई!

लेख पसंद आया हो तो औरों के साथ साझा करें, टिप्पणियों का स्वागत है!

Scissors

I am miserable at crafts and origami. But I have always loved both. In any case, aren’t the most of us miserable in front of the things/people we love? Blessed are the ones who aren’t! I am sure they sleep peacefully at night. I am sorry. I digress.

Let me return to crafts amd origami. So, is there anything more beautiful than systematically folding and cutting a piece of paper and voila! Something new is created. It always fills me with childlike joy to this day.

Just today, I conjured up a rose from a piece of paper, sprinkled it with with rose attar and gifted it to the my mum! It looked like a real rose, smelled like a real rose, will one day also decompose like one.

But I wasn’t yet done for the day. So after a long, long day of study, I secured my scissors and began chopping the papers to create more flowers. Crafts require discipline. No fan can be used or else the tiny paper sheets shall go for stroll. Droplets of sweat rolled down my forehead and fell on my glasses.

Arrghhh!

Glasses wiped, work continues.

Fatigue. Loss of concentration. Heavy eyelids. Working with a pair of scissors. You do know which way the story is going. Don’t you?

I cut my finger and blood oozed. I fail to understand but I felt something very strange. I could not recall the last time I cut myself trying to make flowers!

How many injuries that we suffer are ever worth it? How often do we hurt ourselves doing something we love? Rarely.

Life, where it stands for us right now, hardly gives us the opportunity to do the things we love, let alone sustain injuries in that process. Few weeks ago, I met with a minor accident while travelling, just got away with a minor scratch. Came home cranky and irritated.

Years ago, in school, when I used to play Cricket and Hockey, a bruised knee or an elbow was like a medal which I flaunted. In class seventh, I broke my right wrist while playing cricket. Came home smiling, with an immobile right hand. Fracture it was. Flaunted the plaster, got all my friends to sign on it. Even today, sometimes, when the right wrist aches after a long writing session, I can still remember that day. “A brilliant effort in the deep, saved atleast two runs” – any commentator who saw me field that day would have said.

I may have cut my finger today. But the flowers turned out to be beautiful.

I look forward to more of such injuries in the process of gardening, cooking, running, playing, etc. Well, the list is long.

Bless me Lord! Grant me this!

Thank you for reading.

Feel free to comment.

All the pictures in this article belong to me.

Corpses.

Bas ki chūn sham’ ma-rā ‘umr bi-hijrān guzarad :
ātash az sar guzarad, ashk zi dāmān guzarad. . .

Enough! my life flickers away, a solitary candle,
Flames from its head, waxy tears flow down its skirts. . .

How many times do we live?

How many times do we die?

How many times do we love?

Serious questions. If one were to rely on the Hindu/Buddhist/Jain philosophy, the answer would be innumerable. We have taken birth innumerable times, we have experienced death infinite times and we have loved countless times. Our desires, so strong, carried on from our past lives, continue to shape our future.

Have you seen corpses? Motionless, lifeless, being cremated, slowly, turning into ashes, real people, bones and flesh, vanishing from existence? Macabre scenes indeed!

My home isn’t very far from the funeral house, Often during my evening strolls, I pass by the crematorium. All these years, I have grown around this place, watching corpses, all sizes. Being taken to be turned into dust.

I have always been told by my elders that visting the crematorium makes one a monk, imbibes the ideas of renunciation in the young mind and instills the notions of detachment.

That is something I have always disagreed with. Everytime I look at corpses, at the burning funeral pyres, all I can think of is an end of a story. And the incomplete parts of the story and the regrets that the dead carry along.

Looking at corpses attaches me strongly to the world, and I wish to love more deeply. I get the enlightenment that we stay here, on this planet for a very, very small span of time. So therefore at all times, we must only seek love, and happiness, Regrets have no place in life. Neither does ego.

You, my reader, will turn to dust one day, and so will I. At the end of it all, we will be reduced to a story. Sadly enough, the story of our life is not something we control entirely, certain aspects of our life shall always be in the hands of fate and perhaps in the hands of a certain person. But whatever little it is, that we can do, we must, to make our life beautiful.

So,

Love unconditionally.

Keep Giving.

NEVER Demand.

Accept.

Let Go.

Thank you for your time!

नया क्या है?

2018 ने विदाई ले ली। 2019 का आगमन हो गया। रात 12 बजते ही लोगों में निशाचरी वृत्ति जागृत हो गयी, 1 घंटे तक पटाखे दगाये गए, प्रदूषित हवा को और प्रदूषित किया गया, वृद्धों और बीमारों की नींद हराम कर, स्वयं आनंद से झमे।

हर एक दिन इसी तरह बीत जाता है, हर एक का आगमन और अंत इसी प्रकार होता है, तो फिर एक विशेष दिवस के बीत जाने पर उन्मत्त होने का कारण आज तक मैं समझ पाने में असमर्थ हूँ। हमने कल मानव सभ्यता के लिए कौन सा ऐसा कार्य कर दिया जिसका उत्सव इतनी भव्यता से मनाया गया?

एक वर्ष बहुत लंबा समय होता है, हम इस समय में बहुत कुछ पाते हैं और बहुत कुछ खो देते हैं, इसीलिए जीवन का आंकलन कभी वर्षों में किया ही नहीं जा सकता। जीवन तो एक एक क्षण में वास करता है। इसका एक एक पल नया है, और हर नए क्षण में हम अपने जीवन को अधिक सुखद बना सकते हैं।

बिना दार्शनिक हुए, मुद्दे पर आता हूँ। हमारा आनंद हम में ही वास करता है। हमें खुशी अपनी सफलता में ढूंढनी चाहिए। हमारे जीवन के जो दिन हमें सुख से भर दें, वो दिन हमारे लिए उत्सव हैं, वही मेरे लिए दिवाली, होली और नया साल है। महज़ समाज जहाँ निरुद्देश्य उत्सव मनाये वहां सम्मिलित होना मेरे लिए संभव नहीं। जैसे कि मधुशाला में बच्चन जी ने कहा है, “दिन को होली, रात दिवाली, रोज़ मनाती मधुशाला”

इसीलिए, 2019 केवल एक गणना है, उससे अधिक कुछ नहीं। individualistic बनिए, अपने आप को अपने जीवन का केंद्र बनाइये, ना कि किसी काल्पनिक दिन को।

तो इस पल की हार्दिक शुभकामनाएं। इस दिन की ढेर सारी बधाइयाँ।

आप अपना अभीष्ट प्रतिदिन प्राप्त करें, ऐसी मेरी अभिलाषा है।

पढ़ने के लिए शुक्रिया!

टिपण्णी ज़रूर करिएगा!

Chittagong. Lucknow. Lahore.

I was travelling in an autorickshaw. The traffic was stranded. I was stranded. My destination was close so I decided to walk. It was the older part of the city where antiquity still survives though with a little difficulty now owing to the commercial cult ever growing. As I ambled ahead observing the world around, I arrived at the gate of an old hospital and stopped.

It was the Ramakrishna Mission Hospital. A charitable institution from the time of the British Raj which served the old, poor and infirm. Clamped on the big metallic gate of the hospital was a “something” which set me thinking. Something which was poignant enough to fill one with joy, melancholy and a host of mixed emotions. It carried enough potential to send a chill down the spine of every history lover!

A cartographer’s handiwork, an image of a land mass from above. It was a map. But be not mistaken. It was definitely not just any other map. It was a map of undivided India. You no longer get to see such these days. Its an extinct species. I forgot the bustling traffic around, could no longer hear the perpetual chattering of the people and the incessant honking.

Like a shameless leacherous lover, I stared at the map. For twenty three years I had lived in this country and had absorbed three different maps into my psyche- Those of India, Pakistan and Bangladesh. But I had never imagined the three entities in one political map.

My Idea of India- the mental image of its map, would limit its territory at Rajasthan on the west. On the east, an aberration, a hollow, a stetch of nothingness existed between western part of Bengal and the eastern part of Assam.
But this map was contrary to that image. It perturbed the mind, it was revolting. Beyond belief. I had not thought of India as such. And I was ashamed.

The territories beyond Amritsar and the stretch of nothingness between Bengal and India’s northeast had been given a life in this map. It was no longer amputated. They fit in perfectly too. It appeared as if someone had found eventually found the lost parts of a jigsaw puzzle and put them together. It now looked complete.

Maps play a funny game with the psychology of the citizen. Maps tell us what is “ours” and what is “theirs“. Just as a person finally begins to believe the lie he keeps hearing all the time, similarly the national map too indoctrinates the viewer to define political limits. But when I stood there, outside that hospital- while people moved beside me, some brushed by my side, some gently nudging me to make way– all my preconceptions of us and them came crashing down.

I was looking at a piece of history and I was immersed in it. I wondered how nice would it be if I could just walk into Dhaka, just like that. No bunch of papers, No embassy hopping, NO FEAR. Just walk into Dhaka and visit the Dhakeshwari Temple.

Or how nice would it be to have nothing at Wagah just the endless fertile fields of Punjab and an unfetterred national highway between Amritsar and Lahore.
Why couldnt the map stay this way itself?

Why did it have to change?

Why cant a person from Peshawar visit the Taj Mahal without hassles?

Why cant I visit the Mazaar of Mian Mir without getting my currency converted?

It was painful to be there for too long. That thing was so beautiful, I knew she would never be mine. I decided to continue walking.

But no matter how far I get, that image stays etched in my mind. And it will stay that way. Forever.

It has altered my consciousness. Hitherto whenever I thought of India, only a single image came to my mind. Now two images of India find place in my mind. One is a broken image and the other is too lovely to be true. Both images cause hurt.
But such maps of our undivided country should remain. People on both frontiers should see them everyday and ask their souls if it was worth the fight. (No! It was not!)

P.S.- I have not the time, energy and interest to entertain historical debates on partition. What is done, is done. Well done Communalism. Damn you!

Pack and Unpack.

Packing up is simple.

Gather all the books, separate the academic ones from the others, make a list and put them all in a box.

Take the clothes now, segregate the dirty laundry, box them up. Pack up the shoes, throw away the pair of those broken sandals, leave behind the newspapers and other papers to dance to the tunes of the wind in the empty room.

Pull down the curtains on your hostel life. Those curtains are heavier now. Filled up with some dust but mostly memories. There! look at the mattress devoid of the bed sheet, see the table deprieved of the books and stationery, look at those bare walls after you’ve brought down those posters and photographs.

The scheme is easy, work in a mechanical fashion. Do not be sentimental, do not stare at the things while you pack. Try not to think of all the episodes associated with all those items. Do not think of your friends and associates. Most importantly, try not to cry. You may experience a lump in your throat-ignore it- you may feel your eyes get welled up- subdue the feeling- big drops of water may trickle down your cheeks-wipe them- but just don’t cry! Stay Strong.

And then, everything is packed up. Everything is boxed up. All five years. One long journey, few small boxes.

After all, its all dust. Its just bricks and concrete. But stay there for sometime, fill it up with people, with friendly conversations, with personal items and voila! you have a home.

Pack up one chapter of life and unpack another. That is how it always works.

World Book Day- 2017

For me, the love for books came first, reading itself came later. Ever since a kid, I loved buying books- lots and lots of them. I did not read much those days but that never stopped me from buying new books everytime my father took me to a book fair or when we were at the railway station. The mere idea of possessing a huge stack of books was so fascinating. What started as a desire to accumulate, ultimately turned into an affair with fiction. Yes, I prefer fiction over non fiction. Not because I regard non fiction as boring. I love reading non fiction too but we all have favourites. Fiction is a cruel deceit, it removes the reader from the realities of life and places them in a world of lies. I like being led into the world- it is a better world anyday. Fiction has always been my drug and shall continue to be so.

Today on the ocassion of world book day, I would like to mention five of my favourite books that I read in the past one year. The list is in no specific order. I love all my books. 

1. Snow by Orhan Pamuk- Pamuk’s stories carry the essential ingredients of love, nostalgia, intermingling of cultures. So when a journalist arrives in the town of Kars to investigate certain strange happenings, he no longer remains a mere observer and finds himself between circumstances beyond the power of his control. Pamuk’s writing is so captivating, it does not let the reader lose interest for even a moment. It is fast, gripping and catchy.

2. The Enigma of Arrival by V.S. Naipaul– Naipaul has the most keen sense of observation. A sense observation so acute it hardly seems human. The enigma of arrival does not have a central story, what it contains are reflections and thoughts. For over two decades,Naipaul lived in a small cottage in Wiltshire, England. His life and times in that cottage have been summed up in this work. The Enigma of Arrival is one such work which is so beautiful it should be read atleast five times and everytime it will appear powerful and poignant. The Enigma of Arrival is however not for beginners. If you are new to the world of contemporary literature, avoid reading this work. This one, unlike the other books on the list, is like wine, you have to develop a taste for it. 

3. सूरज का सातवाँ घोड़ा (Suraj Ka Satwan Ghoda) (Hindi) by Dharam Veer Bharati– This one is a novella less than a 100 pages but dons several hats. A societal critique, a romantic work, a personal story and many others. The story is set in Allahabad, where Manek Mulla tells his young friends stories of his past, of the women he has loved and lost. Intriguing and interesting this novella was written way back in 1952 but remains strikingly relevant even today. 

4. Gora By Rabindranath Tagore– I regret to report that my knowledge of Bangla is very limited. Hence I read the Hindi translation of this evergreen classic by Agyeya, one of the stalwarts of Hindi Literature. The translation was a scholarly one which preserved the essence of the novel. Also this very translation had won the Sahitya Akademi. I prefer reading Hindi translations of original Bangla writings because Hindi is more closely, culturally associated to Bangla than English. So, Gora is the longest novel by Tagore which beautifully captures the essence of Indian Society, Culture and Religion. Tagore, like an arist, mixes up the issues of feminism, discrimination, romance, freedom struggle, caste and humanity on his literary canvas.

5. The Last Mughal by William Dalrymple– If you love History, Dalrymple is your man! Pounce on his writings. Dalrymple writes history with a completely different perception, rather than being a observer of past events, Dalrymple gives you a very personal account of the events. This book describes the fall of the Mughal Empire in Delhi and unlike many books written on the topic, this is the first one which relies on the Indian accounts too and not just the British. Throughout reading this brilliant book, I felt I was in Delhi, sometimes with the mutineers, sometime with Zafar and sometime with the ordinary residents of the city.

So these were my five favourite books I read last year. What were your favourite books that you read last year? Tell me in the comments, Feel free to like, comment and share. 

Thank you for your time. 

Things coming to pass

As an infant, I had long hair and wore earrings. I was often mistaken for a girl. And I despised it. I despised my feminine voice and longed to possess a heavier tone. I always wanted to be an adult when I was a kid. But I was small and thought it would take forever for me to achieve puberty. But that day did indeed come. Testosterone spiked.My voice cracked. Hair sprouted on my hitherto tender cheeks and voila! 

In 2012, I joined the law school. I was due to graduate in 2017. When I joined the Law School, there was a President who had just occupied the Rashtrapati Bhavan and Uttar Pradesh had chosen its youngest Chief Minister. It would take a long long time before 2017 shall arrive-I told myself- 9 semesters later, 2017 stares me right in the face. 

All the things that we love, we do not love them enough till we either lose them or are on the verge of it. The fear of loss increases our love for something manifold. So I missed my childhood only after I became an adolescent. 

I am in my final year at the law school. With just one semester to go, my sense of attachment with my alma mater is strengthened with each passing hour. But one semester is all I can hold on to it. 

I spent the first year cribbing over the fact that despite my good rank in CLAT I failed to secure the law school I aimed for. But later the feeling faded away and all I felt for my college was affection. When my ninth semester was over and I packed my bags for vacations, I realised how much this departure pained me. 

Life is full of changes- both desirable and undesirable. We all know that there are many things which we wish to keep tucked away in the back of our minds and focus on the present. Leaving the college is one such thing. But no matter where we may try to bury those things, what is meant to arrive at the right time, will indeed arrive, things destined to occur shall inevitably come to pass. There is no remedy for it. 

Time has let me down. I am deeply disappointed in it. Why does it have to travel faster in moments of emotional upheavel? 2016 shouldn’t have ended this fast. 

I hadnt hoped 5 years, five long years would fleet in such haste.

I hadn’t hoped departure shall come so, so soon.

My Bond with Doon and Mussorie or How I met Ruskin Bond.

I met the legendary author Ruskin Bond on a cool Saturday evening, the 27th of June 2015 at the Cambridge Book Store, Mall Road, Mussorie. There couldnt have been a better setting to meet the writer. The hills, the cool mist and the dense giant trees on the smooth mountain slopes around, everything made one feel like a character of a story written by Mr. Bond himself. He sat there, in the book store, like a gentle giant surrounded by books and book lovers. 

In the summers of 2015, I got a text from a friend of mine who told me that my internship application at ONGC (Oil and Natural Gas Corporation) had been aaccepted. A little more follow up and there it was. A four week internship at ONGC Dehradun, confirmed.

So it was a summer internship at ONGC that beckoned me to Dehradun. My batch mate, Harsh Pathak and I, both rented a room together and pursued our internship. The office of ONGC was indeed a beautiful one situated on a smooth hillock, just adjacent to the coveted Doon School. 

I am no botanist but there is certainly something about the trees that grow in the Doon valley, they look so much prettier and so full of virility when compared with the trees that grow down in the plains of North India.

YES. This is the road that led to the office of ONGC. The walk was like the one could only read about in novels and feel but never describe. It was basically like literature. Too beautiful to be real. Whenever I walked on that path I felt like sitting under a tree write some poetry or maybe read the Enigma of Arrival by VS Naipaul. 

This pretty lady also stood on the way. Everytime I looked at this tree, it aroused within me the greatest feelings of love, poetry and melancholy. I always wanted to sit around this tree and maybe, maybe just talk to her about how I wanted my life to be and how it turned out eventually.

Offcourse I digress. So on that Saturday morning, we made a decision out of the blue- We shall go to Mussorie right away. Let me not lie. I had some idea in my mind that Mr. Bond often met his fans on weekends . 

I despised standing on the bus stand at Mussorie. We were told that the next bus for Mussorie would only arrive an hour later. This was disappointing. Also, the size of the buses that went uphill was quite small and the number of passengers who were waiting for the bus too high. Nevertheless, we managed to get a seat. 

Harsh sat by the window and I by the aisle. 30 mins later I patted on Harsh’s shoulder. 

“I want to puke, let me come by the window”

He obeyed. 

Thanks to the hilly roads and those sharp turns, I puked my guts out. I leaned by the window all exhausted. Ten minutes later, Harsh looked at me, we exchanged places. This time, he puked. 

So by the time we reached Mussorie, we had been thoroughly fatigued and tired. We immediately went to a chemist, bought some medicines that curb the nausea, ate and then ambled towards the Mall Road. 

At the Cambridge Book Store, I saw plenty of posters of Ruskin Bond. I was tempted and I asked the proprietor. “Come at 5 in the evening. You’ll find him here. This is where he spends his weekends.” I was delighted. I had never ever thought of meeting Mr. Bond. My watch told me that there was still a few hours to five. So a walk around Mussorie was what we decided to do. 

Mussorie is a mixed bag. Parts of it are still undisturbed since the British departed. You see the mansions, few occupied, most converted into Hotels and Lodges while a couple abandoned. Without going into the merits of the Raj, I think we Indians should thank the British for one thing atleast- establishing such pretty hill stations. Be it Mussorie, Simla, Dalhousie, Wellington, etc. all of these hill stations were founded by the British to escape the heat of the plains. This is where you shall see the last vestiges of the Raj. This is what comes closest to the picturesque Downs of Salisbury. 

On our walk we came across an antique shop which looked promising. Upon examining a dozen items, I ended buying myself a pocket watch. Now then, isn’t she marvellous? I bought this one for $11.5.

When finally it was 5, we made our way towards the Mall Road. Outside the Cambridge Book Store, there was commotion. Poor Mr. Bond was huddled with fans. It was at this moment that the shopkeeper intervened and asked people to be patient and meet Mr. Bond one by one. “Mr. Bond isn’t going anywhere” he thundered. 
After some waiting, when I finally reached before him I was numb. What I felt cannot be put into words. He was smiling. I was fidgeting. I was shaking. Everything was beyond belief. I often see dreams wherein I meet the people I so dearly admire. But this was real. 

“Big Fan sir. Im a big, big fan” 

He smiled. 

“Your writings have always inspired me. I am an amateur writer myself.”

“Interesting. What do you write about” 

“As of now, I simply try my hand at fiction. About loss, grief and love” 

This was when I extended a book (A handful of Nuts) authored by Mr. Bond I had carried from home for an autograph. And what he wrote on the book made my day. Made my life indeed. 

“What’s your name?”

“Shashank”

“Spell it”

“S-H-A-S-H-A-N-K” 

“GOOD LUCK WITH YOUR WRITING, SHASHANK”  Thats what Rusty wrote on that book. And signed.

“My all time favourite is Time Stops at Shamli. I really, really loved that work.”

“Im glad people still like it. I wrote that almost fifty years ago”

“Its a classic now, sir!” 

That’s when we bowed and made our way out. 

So for the past fifty years. Fifty years Ruskin Bond had been residing here in the hills of Mussorie and writing… writing and writing more. That’s some life to lead. Only the blessed few get such a life. 

All the waiting, all the nausea and all the pain was worth it. I had met the man who had made my boyhood fuller and happier. My only regret is that I forgot to ask him about “The Night Train at Deoli”. I was curious to know whether it was actually autobiographical or not. 

How would you feel to meet your childhood hero? One who through his writings talked to you more than any other friend. I started reading Bond while on the cusp of achieving puberty. 

Who instilled the ideas of love, infatuation, romance and loss in my young, innocent mind?

Ruskin Bond. 

Who ruined and corrupted me? 

Mr. Bond. 

But then, I wanted to get ruined and corrupted. 

Thank you Ruskin. I will always love you. ❤
*Thank you for reading my blog* 

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On Acting and Opportunities.

Let me declare this from the rooftops- of the very few talents that nature has bestowed upon me, acting is one. I have always, always loved to act. The idea of theatre, the idea of living a different life altogether, the sheer joy of being someone other than yourself is inexplicable.

Ever since a child, I used to spend my time imitating relatives, teachers and my friends. Unfortunately and Fortunately, since I spent the major part of my school life changing schools, I was never a really successful actor in school. By the time I was settled in one place, it was time to shift. The other major problem which I perceived to heavily exist in schools was favouritism. I was never any teacher’s favorite so no good roles for me! Probably because I talked too much! 

It has only been here in college that I have been able to fully express my theatrical talents all thanks to the amateur theatre society of my college-Naqaab (which loosely translates as the The Masque) Since its inception in 2013, our theatre group has staged atleast 6 times. And everytime it has been a more enriching experience for me. 

On the 17th of August, my college completed 10 years of its inception. On this great ocassion, we the theatre society performed a play called “Haveli ki Deewar” (The wall of the Mansion) 

The play was set in early 20th century Bengal. It was a story of a Zamindar family. (In British India, Zamindars used to be landowners who held almost all landholdings and in order to allow the poor to work on them, charged exhorbitant taxes. This system was called zamindari.) 

So the story went like this-  A progressive zamindar in 1951 tells his daughter an old anecdote of an elderly zamindar whose who did not have a grandson and remained worried about the fate of his zamindari.Despite having married thrice, his son had failed to deliver a progeny. Slowly and slowly the zamindar becomes convinced that his son is impotent and that he must get his daughter in law impregnated through other means. 

My close friend Utkarsh Singh played the progressive zamindar with Chandni Singh as his curious daughter. While I played the elderly zamindar, my good friend Soumya Tiwari played my mother. Anushree Moitra played my wife and the very talented Sonakshi Banerjee portryed the role of my daughter in law. Chandan Maheshwari played my son. There were three servants in the play and all had crucial roles. Aman Shukla, Vinay Sheel and Sheetal Singh Tomar carried out their roles with great finesse. All in all, it was a multiple starrer play and all thanks to the amazing Director, Harsh Pathak assisted by Abhilasha Singh and Anshita Mani the play was a success. My friend Bhavesh Yadav compiled great music for the play and Akanksha gave us the look that we needed to carry throughout. 

The brilliant cast of the play. I am in the centre on a rocking chair.The person in blue, right behind me is Chandan Maheshwari, the woman on his right with the baby is Sonakshi Banerjee and on her right is Utkarsh Singh. The actor in white on extreme right is Soumya Tiwari and on her right is Anushree Moitra. The two men sitting at my feet are Vinay Sheel and Aman Shukla. The girl in orange is Sheetal Singh Tomar and the one with a huge smile and blue dress is Chandni.

This is a candid backtage shot of me and my daughter in law. In our final rehersal, we had messed up an entire scene. This image was taken right before our performance. Oh the terror on our faces! Thankfully, nothing went wrong in the play. We got a standing ovation. 😀

Perhaps the best part of a performance is always the preparation. I loved the entire journey of this play with the most talented team. We joked, laughed and chatted away most of the time but never allowed the level of our performance to go down. We were backed by the most hardworking back stage crew led by Himanshu Chaudhary and Vishal Sharma. 

This is the entite team which was the driving force behind the performance.

I am in my final year now. I do not know if I shall ever get a chance to act again in life or not. Here in India, amateur theatre outside academic institutions is almost nil and especially when it comes to theatre which caters to the needs of the working, well. That’s non existent.

I had once read somewhere that no matter how talented you may be, your talent is futile unless the society you are born into is ready to accept and hone your skills. Here I am in India, born with the talent of acting. The chances of me being able to turn amateur acting into professional one is virtually impossible because theatre as a profession in this country is locked from the inside, there is no entry unless you have resources. No wonder theatre in India is dying. 

Anyway. I should get back to my law books.