There
was a time when I got up around 5 in the morning and sat down to research on
the writings of Ruskin Bond and Khushwant Singh. I think I read — the night train at Deoli and other stories by
Ruskin Bond and selected writings of
Khushwant Singh on women, sex and
love — more than ten times. Every time I went through the pages of these
books, my eyes welled up with tears. Honestly, it was not the stories who made
me cry, but it was their old writing style and a skill to put humor in the
stories, which I failed to find in modern writers.
I too tried to write something creative, but plotting a story for
novel is always been a failure at my part. So I prefer to write short stories
about people I have known. I also write self-help articles as it is all about
knowledge and a little about character, incidents and plotting. A weakness, I
know. Another weakness, my stories are often like an old sad song— sometimes
great, sometimes disastrous and quiet boring.
Anyway, nowadays, I wake up around 9
in the morning, rebuking and scolding my roommate in my bold desi accent for snorting whole night. A
little dizzy, I would hobble to a tea shop outside my house and drink couple of
tea cups, followed by kachori and samosa.
People generally fail to notice anything good about me, but they always
praise me for not smoking cigarette. I feel proud that belching clouds of smoke
is not my cup of tea.
As I sat down on a wooden bench,
dipping biscuit in the cup of tea, I saw a woman, standing wayside the road,
waiting patiently for someone. Soon a little boy draped in school uniform
arrived behind her and held palu of
her saaree. She turned around and
grinned. No sooner the boy passed a lovely-smile; she took him in her lap and gratefully
kissed him. After a minute or so, a shuddering auto-rickshaw laden by school
children halted. The little boy climbed down from the woman’s lap and climbed
up in the auto. As the children bade by to her, pain of separation and sadness
passed across her face. Soon she disappeared in her house and a kiss day with a sad song begun.
I ate two chapatties with egg curry
in lunch cooked by my roommate, Rajish. Rajish was a scholar and recluse. He
knew nothing other than sleeping, eating and studying. That might be a reason
for me to take room with him. I like people who do not poke their nose in
others’ life.
He came and sat down beside me, slurping a bowl full of curry. He passed a curvy smile at me,
followed by few more slurping sound— the sound resembled like a couple passionately
kissing each other.
All of sudden, the bowl fell over him and the whole curry smeared
his clothes. He grumbled under his breath and then threw his lunch
emphatically, cursing his fortune. The food strewed on the floor, mucking up
the walls. Soon he cleaned everything and took his books to study, sadness
remained stuck his face.
It was the time during the nightfall I took a long stroll to get
some fresh air. I do it quiet often. I found nature better than my books. No
doubt, books help me to live a good life but I have to accept nature gives me a
good life. It was just after moving to my new room, I became an ardent lover of
nature. The austere and obscure hills of Chennai were enough to enlighten my
love for nature. Beauty of Bougainvillea trees is the other reason for my
fondness towards nature.
As I passed by the lake, near my University, I noticed a young
couple sitting in the dark, snuggling and kissing each other. The boy laid his
hand in her waist and pulled her towards him, and then a long-slow kiss
followed. Instead of lust kiss, it was a love kiss. She pushed his hand mildly and
unlocked her lips to peck his ears, nose and neck. His hands rhythmically
smoothened and caressed her contours of her body. She held his hands and
independent herself from his arms in a lovely way. No sooner he tried again to
kiss her, they observed me standing there. Embarrassed, they maintained a gap
between themselves. Their faces, all of sudden, consumed with fear.
I wanted to reach them, to reassure them, everything is fine. No
need to feel embarrassment. It was their moment, and never going to come back;
live it. Full of fear, they stood up and left the place hurriedly. I felt sorry
for them and made my way to back to my house.
I was disappointed with myself. It was better if I would have left
the place, instead of gazing them. I had never wanted this to happen. As soon
as I reached my house, sonorous sound of namaz
from a masjid, at a distance, could be heard. I climbed up to my room, took out
my mouth organ, and climbed the rooftop. I had never missed hearing last namaz from past one year. Prayers have
always made me more positive and hopeful.
Often, I used to sit on the boundary of roof and play mouth organ, coping
up with the hymns from masjid. After that I would settle myself on a chair and
meditate on the trees, singing Urdu poetry in the cool evening breeze. A large
tree with its small branches lured me more than any other tree surrounding my
house.
The moon girt with myriads of stars shimmer above me. I felt the
wind, trees, my God, gently, fervently kissing
and loving me. I felt goose pimples arising over my body with a few sensations
in my hands and legs. I do not know when I slept off in the lap of beautiful
earth.
A little drizzling failed to wake me up. You can never predict the
rainfall in South India. Sometimes it comes with a loud thunder and sometimes,
it pours like a thief tiptoeing in the house. As the heavy rain tore my sleep
with a loud rumble, I got up and till I climbed down my roof, I was entirely
drenched and saddened.
Disheartened, I recalled an old-fashioned verse from a book of Ruskin
Bond:
The pure, the bright, the beautiful,
That stirred our hearts in youth,
The impulse to a wordless prayer,
The dreams of love and truth;
The longings after something lost,
The spirit’s yearning cry,
The striving after better hopes…
Those things can never die.
