Hindustan Times Article 4

Hindustan Times Article 3

Hindustan Times Article 2

Hindustan Times Article 1

The Sky is limitless but fearful

On the occasion of World Yoga Day we camped in the open. It was around 6 am. Light cool breeze, chirping of the birds and mellow rays of the sun transcended me to a new world. While perfoming the Bhujangasana, I raised my head up. The white cotton like clouds sailing effortlessly yet mysteriously in the perfect vast azure sky. Some of them were clubbed together and going somewhere.But where? As far my eyes could see it was blue and white polka dots making their way to another horizon probably. The morning sun looked happy and carefree, just like a babbling child who just woke up in his mother's lap. But the space above looked infinite, the dancing clouds in the morning light wind didnt give me much solace. Suddenly, fear gripped me. What ever the saying goes, after death I would never like to go up there. How can I go somewhere which looks so far off,  enigmatic, and its enormity so imposing. Somehow the immenseness of the blue firmament indisposed me. Its captivating yet fearful. You may want to travel the untrodden path, explore the unknown , scale the heights with newfound vigour and curiosity after you leave the shell, but I would love to hold on to the earth. Touch every leaf, feel the wind, whisper to the grass, play with weeds and flowers alike, float in the river and ride the formidable milky waves. I will dance in the rain and gyrate witnessing the rainbows, sleep beneath the blanket of twinkling stars till the morning dew wakes me up, caress every bird, snuggle with every animal and insect, take a mud bath and be with my own beings here - in any form.

Lemme knew her purpose

Is it by constantly, repeatedly searching for our purpose in life we fail to understand it? Last year we bought two gunea pigs for my son's birthday and he named them Lemme and Cookie. Within a year Lemme gave birth to eleven offsprings. She was the most vocal, energetic specially when it came to munching the vegetables and adored the red juicy tomatoes.She had an unsatiable appetite. While other youthful cavies would run helter skelter and look for a far off dimlit corner and huddled, Lemme would jovially leap and then raising her front legs tightened the grip and nip away the largest piece of cucumber from me. Every two and half months there would be addition and Lemme ould lovingly nurture her furry babies. She always looked content, even in the cage. Two days ago she died after giving birth to a litter. And she looked content then too. Her demise saddened me and her look baffled me. Is this persistent striving, proving, struggling, voraciously trying to find who we are, franctic in depth search within to find peace...in this frequent search, much like the ruffled waters we are unable to fathom who we are. Contentment has become the Neverland.In life and death Lemme knew the purpose, yes, a tiny guinea pig understood her reason to be here, didn't spend days to realize or chase it, but why can't we who claim to be higher beings are never gratified. Who is more closer to the Almighty? For me, its Lemme.

The Black Trunk

Roshun Bhai. I guess the name was a distortion from Roshan. I heard he was of the same age as my (dida)maternal grandmother but he looked the same for years.

 Anyways Roshun Bhai, the tall lanky fellow who ran errands and also ran the house in absence of eldrers was an enigma to us. Us - my rambunctious cousins who would gather in Sukhia Street house during summer breaks mostly to find out more about Roshun Bhai's mysterious loft. Extended family from my dida's side lived in Sukhia street. Roshun Bhai always had the aura of seriousness around him and the way he gathered his immaculate dhoti as he climbed down from the loft early in the morning keeping a sharp eye on us, it catapulted our inquisitivness about his high abode manyfolds. The moment we tiptoed the iron staicase, the omnipresent Roshun Bhai would just yelp, "AAyyyyyiiiii..." We would literally tumble on each other and scoot for a hiding place. 

 But attimes we got lucky. When Roshun Bhai went to fetch something from the market we would surreptitiously access his room - the mighty and mysterious loft. It was fun to see everyone from twelve feet high, quickly we would play the typical "chor pulish" paper - game, giggled and endeavoured to find out any treasure. The cotton mattress was neatly folded in a bed roll, couple of shirts placed on the steel box and a nondescript black trunk with big lock placed in the right corner. After lot of deliberation and discussion, we came to the conclusion that the treasure was inside the trunk.The big lock was the deterrant and he must have stashed the key in a secret place. Overcame by curiosity and a compelling desire to know the unknown we tried to unravel the truth for years which remained hidden in the abyss of the trunk but without any success. 

 Roshun Bhai's ubiquitous presence and his ability to get to us when we were upto 'something' still baffles me. With furrowed brows, squinted but with an unmissable twinkle in the eyes he would look at us straight and deep- further confounding us whether to stand there and brave him or run. We ofcouse always went with the second option. 

 

Once in a year he would go to his village, few kilometres away from Barouni in Bihar. And without Roshun Bhai, elders were seen running from pillar to post with flurry of activties with a bit of confusion. He became a big and important part of the family. But whenever he went he would carry his heavy duty trunk much to our displeasure. But kids dont have much to say in such matters! 

 It was during mid nintees, I was a teenager then. Summer vacation mostly meant meeting friends and spending afternoons at each others' place. Spending the vacation in Sukhia Street became less frequent.

 My mother spoke about Roshun Bhai leaving for his village and that his eldest son had come to take him. He was getting old and his sons wanted him to be with them now. I felt a twinge of pain. Its not easy to let go someone who has become part of your childhood. 

 We paid a visit to Sukhia Street the following weekend. By that time Roshun Bhai had left. My cousins were unhappy too, but the older one pointed to the black trunk on the loft. The sudden spark in our eyes and grin on our face could be seen from miles. We rushed up the iron staircase. But the lock was intact. We were disheartened as our treasure hunt met a dead end. Just then one of my uncle came up. Quirkly nodded his head and lifted his brows and hummed a tune only known to him and all the while adjusting his huge black thick rimmed specks with his left hand. Bappa da, as he was fondly called by all, was always amusing. His monotonous hum broke into a big smile as he took out a key from the left pocket of his shirt.  He held the key almost in front of my nose as if he was granting us key to freedom - from Central Jail! Without blinking twice and thinking even once I grabbed the key , fumbled with the lock for a moment and then opened the coveted trunk. My younger cousin swtched on the light for a better view.

 Gripped with new found happiness we started rummaging things. Things such as two light woollen shawls and a muffler with holes of different sizes probably weathered by time or eaten up by rodents. A not so white shirt, a lungi, an old red and white gamchha, a tattered diary where he noted some calculations and wrote down certain things in hindi. A black torch without battery. And in the far left corner of the trunk there was a very small iron box. I opened it with care and hope only to find a rusted open razor, couple of topaz blades, one broken piece of fitkari (alum), a small mirror and a pale green coloured plastic bowl. Now Bappa da broke into a laughter. I frowned and my cousins looked away from him with utter disgust. Could it be that Roshun Bhai was gone and so was the treasure?

 'Listen' said Bappa da  as he squat down. He pointed at the key and said " Roshun Bhai always kept the key with me fearing that you all might tamper with his things and misplace them. He took it from me when he required," he added in a baritone voice. "But there is nothing important here," I added. My despondent tone was quite obvious to all, especially Bappa da. " "That diary was imporatnt. He maintained the house expenditure there." He sounded firm. 

 I sat there for a while. Dispassionately I touched the diary once but left it there.

 Many years have passed. Roshun Bhai also died long ago. I have family of my own. I keep a track of monthly expectidures and note them down in a tiny handbook and keep it in a safe place too. Now I understand the treasure in the black trunk. It was filled with trust, love, responsibility, duty and dedication. Roshun Bhai left it behind when he no longer had to take care of the family he was living with for over fifty years.