Garden of Uncle Ghosh

After a prolonged absence, Aunt Ghosh graced our house today, adorned in a white saree that added an air of serenity and divinity to her presence. Since the passing of Uncle Ghosh, she had mostly confined herself within the walls of her home. On this particular day, she informed my mother of Babu's anniversary, expressing her intention to conduct a small "puja" and "havan" and invited us to join. As she bid farewell, she handed my mother a paper bag filled with guavas, remarking, "After Babu left us, children have altogether stopped coming to play on the guava trees."

Aunt Ghosh carried several such bags, presumably meant for the children in the neighbourhood. The Ghosh family's home stood third to the left of ours. Their son visited only once or twice a year, being employed elsewhere. Uncle Ghosh, despite being over 70 years old, was eagerly awaited by my father and his colleagues in the evenings, owing to his expertise in playing Bridge. Though being of the age of grandfather, we affectionately referred to him as uncle. His passion for gardening drew people from distant places to witness the array of high-quality roses in his home, the fragrance of which enveloped the entire locality.

Yet, the true allure for the neighbourhood children lay in the four guava trees that adorned the Ghosh garden, bearing fruit throughout the year. These trees, laden with tempting fruits, became a focal point for the children, especially during the summer holidays.

Summer vacations, spanning around 45 days, were our golden opportunity for unbridled play. While adults sought siestas in the scorching afternoons, we gathered at a vacant house, engaging in a plethora of indoor and outdoor games. And when hunger struck, the guava trees beckoned, albeit with a caveat – the fear of Uncle Ghosh.

Uncle Ghosh, tall and heavily built with an ebony complexion, possessed eyes that could strike terror even in dreams. Encountering him unexpectedly, especially in the darkness of night, would send shivers down anyone's spine. Adding to the intimidation was his background as a retired headmaster, whose mere gaze could leave children petrified. His booming voice, audible even at a distant roundabout when summoning his servant, demanded absolute certainty of his absence before attempting any guava-picking expedition.

Late afternoon became the prime time for our covert operations. The rusty hinges of the Iron Gate posed a minor challenge, emitting warning screeches if not oiled regularly. Scaling the 5-foot-tall boundary wall, while quieter, was not without its perils – miscalculations often resulted in bruised thighs and elbows.

Our group typically comprised five or more children, a mix of boys, girls, and a couple of pre-schooler whistle-blowers. The girls, observing from their windows, eagerly awaited inclusion in our adventures, particularly drawn to the allure of unripe guavas. Stealthily, we traversed walls, climbed trees, filled our pockets, fashioned makeshift bags from shirt and frock sleeves, and comfortably perched on branches to enjoy our clandestine feast. However, the potential for mistakes, such as gossiping, quarrelling, or slipping from the branches, always loomed, triggering the awakening of Uncle Ghosh.

Ghosh's initial response was a thunderous shout before he lumbered out of bed, affording us a crucial window to vanish with our guava loot. Yet, there was an incident involving five-year-old Rohit, who, frozen in place during one escapade, miraculously escaped Ghosh's notice. A watch boy recently promoted to guava plunderer, Rohit remained perched on a treetop until the coast was clear.

On another occasion, our luck ran thin. Unbeknownst to us, Uncle Ghosh returned home, and the screeching gate announced his presence. Holding our breath, we clung to the branches as he scanned the surroundings. His gaze must have caught us, and we anxiously watched as he scrutinized the area before heading toward the entrance. To our surprise, he never complained about our guava exploits, even during prolonged sessions at the bridge table with our parents.

In hindsight, we marvelled at the mystery surrounding Uncle Ghosh's silence. Perhaps he knew us by name and gait, eagerly anticipating our guava adventures. It wasn't merely about the thrill of stealing guavas; perhaps, deep down, we sensed his soul, with its fiery red eyes, standing guard over the garden. Aunt Ghosh, as we stood at the gate, revealed a different perspective, assuring me that Uncle Ghosh took immense pleasure in our antics, knowing each of us intimately. As she embraced me, smiling with moistened eyes, she left us with a poignant thought: "For whom do you think he planted those four guava trees?"

Uncle Ghosh's act of planting and nurturing the guava trees for the enjoyment of neighbourhood children, despite his stern exterior, teaches us about the potential unseen impact of generosity. His silent tolerance of the children's guava-picking adventures, even after his passing, suggests that acts of kindness and generosity may leave a lasting and positive influence on others, sometimes beyond our immediate awareness. It emphasizes the idea that even small gestures of goodwill can create a ripple effect, influencing people in ways we may not fully comprehend. After all, Uncle Ghosh was the head of masters.

Lessons of Formative Years

Naren had recently relocated to the town with his mother to pursue his studies at a government high school. To his amazement, the little upcoming town boasted a galaxy of technological advancements that he had only encountered in books and newspapers.

A significant improvement in his daily commute came in the form of local buses, making his journey to and from school a breeze compared to the challenges he

faced attending a village school. The village school was situated five miles away on the outskirts of the town, and Naren used to traverse the distance on foot. Occasionally, if luck was on his side and time permitted, a bullock cart or a rare lift on a tractor would aid his commute. However, regardless of the mode of transportation, the dusty road took its toll, requiring Naren to freshen up with a bath upon returning back to home.

In the town, the efficiency of local buses stood out as they adhered to schedules, swiftly covering distances within minutes. Successfully navigating his school examinations, Naren was now poised to enter college, a prospect that excited him. Recalling his first day, Naren meticulously prepared, ironing his new shirt and pants, polishing his shoes, and getting a sharp haircut. His college was situated at a distance of ten kilometres from home, prompting an early start to catch the bus.

As he boarded the crowded bus filled with school, college, and office-goers, Naren found himself among tall individuals. He had difficulty in breathing. The congenial conductor, sensing Naren's first-day jitters, reassured him with a smile and an encouraging remark. While caressing his shirt back, the conductor said that the shirt was made of very fine cloth. But as soon as he pulled the collar it ripped with a crackling sound. Seeing his tearful face, someone laughingly told that this conductor scares everyone by making a tearing sound from his mouth.

The local bus became Naren's lifeline over the next five years. Sometimes, after a tiring day, he'd doze off, and the conductor would wake him just in time. The driver's honk served as a friendly reminder whenever there was a delay in leaving the house.

In a heart-warming incident on this bus, Naren received the most pleasant compliment of his life from his mother. Hungry on the way home, he decided to buy a bun and avoid disturbing his tired, sleeping mother. To his surprise, she was waiting at the door upon his return. She had observed him giving up his seat for an elderly woman during the bus journey. His mother was also travelling on the same bus. Touched by his kindness, she hugged him warmly and shared the incident, expressing her pride.

Inspired by this, Naren made it a habit to offer his seat to elderly or handicapped individuals. Now, at the age of over 65, whenever he witnesses someone struggling to stand in a crowded bus, he feels a sense of discomfort sitting comfortably, a testament to the values instilled during his formative years.

'The Child is the Father of the Man”

The proverb "The Child is the father of the Man" resonates deeply, hinting at the enduring influence of our early years on who we become. Our childhood, like a sculptor's chisel, shapes our personalities, carving a foundation for our physical and mental well-being and the relationships we forge as adults. The seeds of habits, values, and attitudes sown in those tender years take root and blossom into the complex individuals we become.

Several interpretations dance around this profound metaphor. One, akin to Rabindranath Tagore's sentiment in "The Postmaster," highlights the tenacity of childhood wonder and innocence. Even as we age, a spark of joy, curiosity, and openness to the world lingers within us, a testament to the enduring influence of those formative years.

Another interpretation focuses on the child as a vessel of untapped potential. The man they become represents the realization or unfulfilled promise of that potential. A child's dreams, like delicate seedlings, require the right soil of opportunity, choice, and circumstance to flourish into adult accomplishments. Consider the boy ridiculed as “Uncle Podger” for his clumsy attempts at repair, eventually blooming into a skilled engineer - a testament to perseverance and the transformative power of childhood experiences.

"The Child is the father of the Man" also whispers of the cyclical nature of life. Parents, bearing the echoes of their own childhoods, become architects of the next generation. Our parenting style, shaped by our own experiences, becomes a bridge connecting past, present, and future. It's a beautiful dance of passing on legacies, where lessons like "Every crisis gives rise to opportunities" or "when going gets tough, the tough get going" become heirlooms, fostering resilience and adaptability in future generations.

Reflecting on my own journey, I recognize the echoes of my childhood wisdom guiding my parenting. My father's constant reminder to see challenges as opportunities instilled in me a spirit of resilience that I now strive to nurture in my own children. This intergenerational transmission of wisdom underscores the lasting impact of our childhood selves on the fabric of our families and communities.

"The Child is the father of the Man" is not just a proverb; it's a poignant reminder of the profound link between our past and present. It whispers of the child's enduring presence within the adult, urging us to embrace the joy, wonder, and resilience that shaped us. As Wordsworth suggests in "My Heart Leaps Up," we must preserve the connection to our inner child, forever finding echoes of that youthful spirit in the vibrant hues of a rainbow or the simple joys of life. Ultimately, this proverb is a call to embrace the richness of our childhoods, for they are the fertile ground from which our adult selves blossom.

Once Upon a Gandhi

We rented a house in Patna. We didn't know about Sheetal Babu, who lived in the outhouse. In the evening, he returned from work, gathered his things, and came to say goodbye to my father.

Sheetal Babu was an old man, about 70. He still worked as a subeditor for a local newspaper. In the 1950s, people were kind and considerate. There was enough for everyone. My father asked him to stay in the outhouse and guide the young children.

Sheetal Babu, short with white hair under a Gandhi cap, raised his hands and blessed us. His eyes grew wet. People called him Gandhiji with respect. 
We children learned many things from him. We'd wake up early, bathe, say prayers, and study for two hours before school. We tried our best to follow.

Gandhiji was a freedom fighter. His pension and newspaper salary were enough. He made all his clothes, even bedsheets; from khadi yarn he spun himself in his free time.

One day, after school, we saw a cute boy of our age peeking from the outhouse window. It was Gandhiji's grandson, Kameshwar. He'd lost his mother a month ago. His father, a busy head constable in Calcutta, couldn't look after him.

In the early morning, Kameshwar would take bath, worship, and meditate. I was

impressed by his recitation of the Gayathri Mantra. His braekfst used to be Sattu (baked and powdered gram) or Chuda (flattened and baked rice) with jaggery. We'd find Kameshwar studying when we woke up. After school, he'd return to his room and eat leftover breakfast. Sometimes, hunger showed on his face. Then, my mother would insist him to eat with us.

Gandhiji was kind in return. After work, he'd cook Roti and dal (lentils) on a wood fire and invite us to share. The smoky, delicious smell still lingers.

 Gandhiji would teach him under a kerosene lamp. He refused electricity even after we offered it. Thanks to him, we received Patna's newspaper every day. He'd read it and leave it on the counter for us.

Gandhiji's Gandhian values showed in his actions. Once, a judge in the neighbourhood got angry at an eight-year-old sweeper's boy for plucking a rose from his garden. The judge beat the boy, who swore. The more he swore, the more he was beaten. No one dared to stop it. Finally, Gandhiji intervened. "Sir," he said, "the boy lacks Sanskara, but you have in abundance."

On the day I got my class results, I celebrated with my friend and came home late. I saw Kameshwar standing on a stool on the veranda. He was being punished for getting 97% in math instead of 100% and coming second in class. I had scored only 45%.

That winter break, Gandhiji went to his village home and never returned. We heard news of his passing a few days later. Kameshwar went back to his father in Calcutta.
............….
Years passed, I became a professional auditor of industrial safety and environment. I had to visit factories all over the state to conduct audit. In the process, I went to a big factory of repute to carry out safety and environment management audit.

As soon as, I entered the factory premises, I heard a big commotion near the time keeping booth. A man was shouting with abuses. The general manger pacified the man in good time. He was in drunken state. This was quite prohibited inside a factory premises. My first instruction was to remove the person from inside the premises. When he was being escorted by security personnel, I had a good glimpse of the man. He was hangered man around my age.

He was none other than Kameshwar employed as a time-keeper on a daily basis. The sharpness of his good looks was shining even in her matted hair, unkempt clothes, teeth coloured with betel leaves. He did not recognize me. Later, I went to HRD and looked at his records. He was reinstated on insistence of the worker union. Kameshwar was able to study only till 10th class. Life in Calcutta hadn't been good to him.. Nothing could be done to bring improvement in him except to embarrass him by revealing my identity.

​

Say Not The Struggle Is In Vain

Dev Narayan's calloused hands trembled as he gathered his meagre belongings: a chipped enamel mug, a tattered blanket, and a photograph, edges worn frayed, of a woman with eyes that mirrored the vast sky and a boy with a grin as bright as the sun on harvested rice. They were all he had left, remnants of a life spent battling hardship with the love for his son as his shield.

His heart, once a field vibrant with hope, lay fallow. He had sacrificed everything - his wife to illness, his home to debt, his present for his son's future. Every penny squeezed from the earth, every bead of sweat shed under the unforgiving sun, was sent to fuel the boy's dreams.

And now, even that was lost. The last money order sent to his son had returned as addressee was not found. A very, cold and mocking despair reverberated the emptiness in Deo Narayan's chest. Superannuation had snatched his temporary haven, leaving him adrift in a sea of uncertainty.

He shuffled toward the gate, resignation heavy in his step. As he opened it, the sun glinted off a starched uniform and polished buttons. A young man, face hidden by the shade of a hat, stepped out of a jeep. In the spontaneous salute, Dev Narayan caught a glimpse of eyes, brown, deep, familiar. And then, in the way the man held his head, the tilt of his chin, recognition struck him like a bolt of lightning.

"Sahib..." Deo Narayan croaked, the word rasping against his parched throat. He weak eyes squinted, trying to pierce the veil of disbelief.

The man's hat tilted up, revealing a face hardened by time, yet etched with the boyish grin he carried in his heart. "Baba?" he whispered, the single word a dam

breaking, unleashing a torrent of emotions.

Years of struggle, sacrifice, and unspoken love condensed into that moment. Dev Narayan stumbled, the photograph slipping from his grip. His son caught it, a mirror image of himself holding the same picture years ago. Time folded, past and present merging in the salty sting of tears and the warmth of a long-awaited embrace.

In that one act of recognition, Dev Narayan's barren field bloomed anew. The years of toil, the sacrifices, the loneliness, all found their meaning in the arms of his son, a magistrate now, but forever the boy with the sunlit grin. They walked back into the guest house, not as master and servant, but as father and son, their journey, though arduous, finally drawing them home, to each other.

The sunset that day painted the sky with hues of hope, mirroring the newfound warmth in Dev Narayan's heart. The future, still uncertain, held a promise he hadn't dared to dream for - a future lived alongside his son, proof that even the driest ground, watered with love, can bloom again.

Flight of a Pomeranian

In a charming farmhouse nestled beside a gurgling river, three siblings – Roshni, Kusum, and Rohit – revelled in days filled with laughter, sunshine, and adventures among the vast fields and fruit-laden trees surrounding their home. Amidst this idyllic setting, a furry soulmate named Kittu, a Pomeranian pup with eyes as shiny as black beads and a spirit as vibrant as summer, had found his way into their hearts.

Kittu's arrival brought a joyful chaos to their lives, from chasing fluffy balls in the garden to stealing cuddles on the sun-drenched veranda. Even school seemed less enchanting compared to the afternoon frolics with their playful pup.

However, the separation during school hours became a painful gap for both the children and Kittu. While the children found playmates in school, Kittu befriended a myna bird in the garden. The myna, named Naina, and Kittu formed a unique friendship, playing and communicating with each other. The myna's sweet songs became a comforting melody in Kittu's world.

Cricket also cast its spell on Kittu, turning him into a permanent fielder in the third man and fine leg areas. His love for the game made him an integral part of the children's matches, and he enthusiastically retrieved balls lost in the bushes.

One fateful rainy season, the river swelled, threatening their paradise. Floodwaters swept their veranda, confining the children indoors. In an impulsive moment of play, the ball rolled off the veranda into the churning torrent. Without hesitation, Kittu plunged after it, disappearing into the swirling currents, leaving the children in shock.

The days that followed were marked by unbearable sadness, the children's laughter replaced by choked sobs. They clung to hope, whispering Kittu's name at sunrise and sunset, praying for his miraculous return.

Meanwhile, hundreds of miles downstream, Kittu found himself washed ashore among a flock of majestic swans. His bravery impressed the swans, who welcomed him into their fold, sharing meals and keeping him safe. One day, Naina's melodious call reached Kittu, informing him of his family's grief. Determined to return, Kittu embarked on an incredible journey with the swans, guided by Naina, back to his beloved home.

The swans, wise and resourceful, devised a daring plan. They placed the small Pomeranian Kittu in a buoyant bag. The strongest of the swan held the bag by its beak. The swan flew in their stylish spear formation with the hefty swan holding the bag spearheading it through the air. Suspended above the earth, they soared towards his farmhouse, guided by Naina's chirpy navigation.

Picture a breath-taking sky painted in hues of orange and pink as the setting sun casts a warm glow on the landscape below. In this serene scene, a majestic

formation of swans takes flight, their graceful wings cutting through the air. Among them, a small, buoyant bag dangles from the neck of the strongest swan, carrying the adventurous Pomeranian, Kittu. The swans align in a precise spear formation, with the lead swan skilfully guiding the group towards a distant farmhouse. Naina, the myna bird, flits alongside, providing cheerful navigation cues. The entire ensemble, suspended above the earth, creates a heart-warming and fantastical image, symbolizing the bond between the swans and Kittu on their extraordinary journey home.

The spectacular sight of the swans flying with Kittu amazed onlookers. With Naina leading the way, they gently lowered Kittu into the garden. With a joyous bark, he raced towards the house, tears welling up in his eyes as he was reunited with his ecstatic family.

Kittu's return made headlines, earning him the moniker "The Flying Pup." Life resumed its joyous rhythm, enriched by the extraordinary bond between a family and their loyal, adventurous Pomeranian.

Five years later, Kittu assumed the role of a furry umpire in their backyard cricket matches, donning a black hat and green glasses with comical dignity. The river continued to flow by, a silent witness to their extraordinary friendship and the courage of a tiny pup. The story, not merely a testament to a dog's bravery, celebrated the unwavering spirit of childhood, the magic of unlikely friendships, and the unyielding power of love in the face of adversity. It served as a reminder that even in despair, hope could take flight, carried on the wings of a Pomeranian named Kittu.

The days of Tiffin

The magic of a tiffin box wasn't just about satiating hunger; it was a window into family love, childhood friendships, and even social dynamics. For me, its contents evolved with time, painting a vivid picture of my school journey in 1950s .

The mood of tiffin keeps changing with time. Not only time, environment and ambience also have a special contribution in this. This tiffin is most meaningful and friendly among the middle class. For the poor, it hangs tied in a towel on their shoulders. When they feel very hungry, they eat it anytime, anywhere with relish without any discomfort. Tiffin of the upper class is either handled by servants or a lot of it is available in the school canteen.

During summer days, when school was in the morning, grandmother used to take charge of the tiffin. She used to add sugar to the Chana(gram) sattu taken from the pot hanging on the shelf of the store room, knead it with sugar and water, make laddus and hand it over. By the time we reached the outer gate, laddus were eaten. With the arrival of rainy season, the tiffin menu used to change. Bread smeared with ghee, sprinkled with sugar, wrapped was handed over for tiffin.

On other days, school was from nine o'clock to four o'clock. Mother used to give parotha and vegetables in tiffin box regularly. If vegetables were not available then jaggery/sugar and pickles were the alternative. We liked both the combinations. Sometimes mother would also hide surprise items – like barfi, murabba, bundiya etc. which would be revealed only after opening the tiffin. Such a surprise item was often present in everyone's tiffin.

In the school, a veranda was designated for eating tiffin. We used to sit there with friends. First of all it was to be seen who had a surprise in their tiffin. It was kept

aside for sharing at the end. Some students were more prosperous than our group. There was a fear that someone might share. They used to hide their tiffin.  From the emanating smell it was easy to know on which day whose tiffin contained egg, fish or mutton or whether it was normal like ours. Happiness comes only when shared with friends. Due to these reasons, there developed a depth in friendship which remained till date. By God’s grace we three friends are still there.

There were stalls and carts outside the school. There was a crowd of mostly rich children there. We also used to enjoy this once or twice a month. Several varieties of snacks could be bought for a couple of paisa like Chhole, Dahi Bade, Aloo Tikki, Jalebi, Pantua, etc. Once when we were enjoying aloo chaat, we saw two classmates sitting on the culvert a short distance away and secretly eating Roti (flat bread or chapatti) with onion and chili.

We got admission in a government school in seventh class. The most interesting thing was its tiffin management. The school band started playing minutes before the tiffin bell rang. Synchronising with the beats of the band, stout confectioner, carrying a big tin box on their head, would come out from the canteen 300 meters away. When the bell rang and the band stopped, the confectioner and the class monitor used to place a plate of refreshments each on the students' desks. Menus were fixed for each day of the week. Sweets like Barfi, Jalebi, Bundiya, Pua, Balushahi etc. for two days. Nimki, gathiai, kachori or mathri for two days. For the remaining two days, perhaps on Tuesday and Saturday, fruits like banana, apple, pear or guava. The quantity used to sufficing to satisfy the hunger. We did not like Nimki and Gathia that much. But there was no dearth of admirers. We used to walk on the roof of the school. The sky was full of eagles and crows. They somehow smelled or had inkling of nimki days. We used to toss the snacks as high as possible. The birds seldom missed. They even dived down to catch falling snacks. Some boys dared to show snacks for attracting birds. In the process, a few used to get scratches in hands.

Not all students played this game, especially the senior students. Once I looked down from the roof. Every day these senior students used to go to school backyard with some portion of tiffin in their hands. An old man with a very bent back and a long beard waited with a bowl with two children. Everyone used to put some part of their tiffin in his bowl. We also started doing the same.

That old man was a school peon 15 years ago. After retirement, he somehow managed to survive with a pension of Rupees four only. After the untimely death of their son and daughter-in-law, both the grandsons started living with their aging grandfather. The increasing inflation has bent the back of the old man. Once on a holiday, while returning from cricket practice, my elder brother and his classmates saw those children picking and eating from the garbage. At that very moment they took a decision. They started delivering packets of rice and pulses from their homes every week. This process continued even after we left school.

My tiffin's journey wasn't just about food; it was a tapestry woven with love, friendship, and social awareness. It taught me the joy of sharing, the comfort of simple meals, and the importance of reaching out to those less fortunate. Even today, the memory of grandma's laddus and rooftop eagle shows lingers, reminding me of the lessons hidden within a humble tiffin box.

Echoes of Surajvan: A Tale of Two Lions

Surajvan, a jewel nestled between emerald mountains and a life-giving river, pulsed with the rhythm of nature. The highway, carved through the mountain's flank, connected two bustling towns, yet Surajvan remained untouched, a symphony of rustling leaves and chattering creatures. In summer, cool river whispers danced with the mountain breeze, weaving through wild blossoms and painting the valley with organic fragrance. Rains transformed the land into a tapestry of cascading waterfalls, enriching the river's embrace. Autumn painted the hillsides with fiery hues of red, orange, and gold, crisp air nipping at exposed skin. Winter, though harsh for some, was a playground for snow-loving souls. Spring, a rebirth, unfurled emerald leaves and painted the valleys with a riot of wildflowers.

Surajvan, a haven for flora and fauna, echoed with the songs of countless birds. Elephants trumpeted, bears lumbered, monkeys chattered, and wolves howled in the symphony of the wild. A single lion family reigned over this verdant kingdom. But today, excitement crackled in the air. The lioness queen had given birth to two magnificent cubs, their names whispered on the wind: Sheru, named for his fearless spirit, and Leo, a ball of playful fluff. Inseparable, their days were filled with playful hunts, boisterous games, and the lullaby of their mother's purrs. Yet, a shadow lurked, unseen but ominous.

One fateful evening, while playing hide-and-seek, the thrill of adventure lured Leo towards the forbidden road. A screech of tires, a blur of metal, and Leo vanished, leaving only echo and despair. The heart of Surajvan ached for its missing prince. Days bled into weeks, the lioness mourning at the roadside, and Sheru, once playful, hardening with grief and rage.

Meanwhile, Leo found himself in a cold, metallic cave – a car garage. Hunger gnawed at him, fear chilled his bones, and the harsh crack of a whip became his

new lullaby. He was traded to a bustling circus, a world of glitter and terror. Forced through gruelling training, Leo learned to jump through rings, walk tightropes, and face his greatest fear – fire. His performances through a pair of ring of fires met with thunderous applause demanding the act to be repeated again.

Years passed, moulding Leo into a handsome yet haunted performer. Every roar was a plea for his lost home. Then, one fateful day, a raging flood swept through the land, and the circus animals escaped. Guided by the scent of his homeland, Leo found himself at the edge of Surajvan.

Sheru, now king, ruled with the darkness of his grief. His reign was a storm of fear and violence, a reflection of the fire burning within him. But fate, it seemed, had other plans. The flood carried Sheru too, depositing him near the circus grounds. Mistaking Sheru for Leo, the ringmaster shot him with a tranquilizer. When Sheru awoke, he was caged, surrounded by unfamiliar creatures. Hunger gnawed at him, but rage ignited in his eyes.

The ringmaster entered the cage, expecting his tamed Leo. Seeing the fire in Sheru's eyes, he made a fatal mistake. He tried electrified whip to calm down. Sheru's rage erupted, his claws finding their target. He escaped, disappearing into the wilderness.

Two lions, scarred by their ordeals, walked towards Surajvan, drawn by an invisible thread of love and brotherhood. Their reunion was a symphony of tears, purrs, and joyful roars. The forest resonated with their renewed bond, healing the wounds of separation. Together, they vowed to restore Surajvan to its former glory, a haven for all creatures.

Sheru, tempered by his suffering, learned to rule with empathy. Leo, empowered by his resilience, taught the animals to overcome fear and face challenges with courage.

The effect of their togetherness was evident soon when a fire erupted from the summer heat. Sheru led a disciplined exodus towards the river while Leo showed the means and ways to remain safe while negotiating a fire hazard.

Their reign was marked by peace, prosperity, and the joyful echo of two brothers reunited. Their story became a legend, a testament to the enduring power of love, resilience, and the magic of a forest whispering with a thousand tales.

A Village Ram Lila

Immediately after India's independence, my childhood village was a picture of rural simplicity. Sparsely populated, it dotted with hamlets of humble huts and a few brick-laid houses. Bullock carts were the primary mode of transport, while a single horse-drawn "Tonga" ferried passengers to the distant railway station, ten miles north.

Most vacations were spent immersed in the village's charm. Summer's highlight was weddings, bringing children from far and wide for a joyful reunion. We'd while away the afternoons under the cool shade of mango orchards, weaving tales of adventure through vibrant outdoor games and gorging on the orchard's bounty.

Durga Puja, the second-longest vacation, stretched for 40-45 blissful days, a vibrant tapestry of festivals. It pulsed with the anticipation of Durga Puja itself, the tender bond of Bhai Dooj, the radiant beauty of Deepawali, and the sun-kissed reverence of Chhath Puja.

During Durga Puja, open-air cinemas, circuses, fairs, and folk theatre painted the village with exuberant colours. While other villages offered glimpses of these delights, folk theatre was our village's unique treasure. Skilled artists and an enthusiastic audience formed the bedrock of this tradition.

The theatrical season typically began with the chilling drama of "Sultana Daku." This captivating tale served not only to thrill and awe but also to impart a profound lesson. As the play concluded with the dacoit's hanging, a final twist unravelled: his last wish to meet his mother. The reunion proved tragic as the son, filled with remorse, bit his mother's nose – a symbolic act demonstrating how her misplaced pride in his stolen pen had fuelled his descent into banditry.

By the time Navratri arrived, the main theatre group, seasoned and ready, would embark on their magnum opus – the "Ram Lila." This traditional folk theatre brought the Ramayana epic to life, each episode unfolding against the backdrop of open grounds. Villagers, transformed into actors, breathed life into the legendary characters, captivating audiences with their poignant and powerful storytelling.

“Ram Lila" is a traditional form of folk theatre in India that depicts the life of Lord Ram, a central figure in the Hindu epic Ramayana. The term "Ram Lila" literally translates to "Rama's play." In a Ram Lila performance, the story of the Ramayana is enacted through a series of episodes, often performed during the festival of Navaratri, which culminates in the celebration of Dussehra. The performances usually take place in open grounds, and the actors, often local villagers, portray various characters from the epic.

My age was now ready to understand the nuances of the great epic. As the night fell, my grandmother took me along with her to watch the first show on the first day of Navratri. We were given the first row of seats.

With the thumping of Nagada, bells and conch, the red curtain was raised. The first scene was literally lifted from the photo of coronation of Sri Rama which was also being worshipped in our puja room. Sir Rama and Sita were sitting on a throne. Hanuman and Bharat were sitting on knees on the floor facing each other.

Lakshman and Shatrughan were standing by the each side of the throne. A pundit was performing aarti. There was managal gaan from behind the screen. It was the famous “Sri Ramchandra kripalu…” After the aarti, audience were asked to come on the stage to take aarti. Everybody put some coins on the thali and bowed. Most of the villagers were prostrating. My grandmother sent me to do "pranaaming" and put a coin on the thali. I had a good glimpse of Sri Ram. He was of my age but very handsome.

Next day, I went alone to watch “Ram Lila" a little earlier. I went backstage to see how they dressed up and do makeup. I saw the boy who was enacting the role of Ram. He was really very handsome with sharp features and big eyes. The boy seeing me of his age , smiled and encouraged me to talk. His voice was also very sweet like a small girl. His name was Baiju Goswami. The “Ram Lila" ended on the day of Vijay Dashmi; the tenth day of Navratri. I presented him with a pen before parting. He gave me a book of Hanuman Chalisa.

The years flew by like leaves on a winter wind. My visits to the village became as rare as fireflies in daylight, swallowed by the demands of adulthood and the seductive whispers of city life. Fifteen years passed in a blur of deadlines and traffic jams, leaving me a stranger to the slow, sun-drenched rhythm of my childhood home.

But fate, it seems, has a penchant for weaving unexpected threads. When my son, a miniature replica of myself with boundless curiosity in his eyes, was ready for his sacred thread ceremony, the path led me back to the village, and its beating heart – the Ram Lila.

The village, once a tapestry of woven bamboo walls and terracotta roofs, had succumbed to the city's siren song. Wide concrete streets now sliced through emerald rice fields, like scars on a canvas. Boxy apartment blocks, garish in their borrowed modernity, loomed over stooped mud houses, like children playing dress-up in their parents' clothes. Even the chirping sparrows seemed startled by the cacophony of motorbikes weaving through the lanes, replacing the rhythmic clanging of the blacksmith's hammer.

My son chanted Sanskrit verses with a sweetness that echoed the boy who once played Ram, memories flooded back, vivid and bittersweet. I, too, had walked this stage, bathed in the warm glow of firelight and the collective gasp of the audience. Yet, somewhere along the way, adulthood had draped a veil of cynicism over my eyes, rendering the rural drama childish, its magic faded.

Driven by a sliver of hope, I found myself drawn to the Ram Lila camp, its canvas tent a beacon in the fading dusk. The path narrowed, choked with debris and the acrid sting of stale alcohol. A group huddled in a tea shop, the stench of illicit brew clinging to the air. A staggering drunk erupted from the liquor shop, obscenities tumbling from his lips as he careened into a passer-by. My world, once painted in sepia tones of nostalgia, took on a harsh, discordant edge.

Disheartened, I found myself within the makeshift green room, a jumble of costumes and paint pots. My eyes landed on an old man, his wizened face etched with time, a sandalwood tilak on his brow. "Can you point me towards Ram?" I croaked my voice thick with unspoken fears.

He led me to a mirror where a boy, barely ten, sat applying kohl. He turned the spark of recognition in his eyes quickly dampened by a world-weary gaze. This Rama was a wisp of a boy, his voice raspy from cigarettes, his movements lacking the grace of the celestial prince I remembered. My heart sank the echo of Baiju's ethereal presence a stark contrast to this frail shadow. I was dazed no less than the “Kabuli Wala” of Tagore when Rahman after completing his long jail term met Mini readying herself for marriage.

Dejected, I turned to leave when the old man's voice rasped, "Baiju now becomes Ravana."

My gaze followed his outstretched hand to the street, where the fallen drunken man stumbled into view, his laughter harsh and grating,” Everybody laughs at a fallen man, nobody cares to lift him.” In that moment, I understood. The magic of Ram Lila wasn't confined to the stage, nor was it limited to childhood reminiscence. It was a constant dance between light and shadow, good and evil, a battle fought not just on the makeshift platform but within the hearts of men.

As the first notes of the Ramayana echoed through the dusty night, I realized that the magic of my childhood hadn't faded. It had simply moved on, its tapestry woven with new threads, darker tones blending with the light, reminding me that the dance of existence continued, even under the fading glow of firelight. The Ram Lila would go on, a testament to the human spirit's eternal struggle, a story as old as time, forever retold through the laughter and tears of generations.

inspired by a childhood course book story written by Late Radhakrishna

Kalu : The Loyal Companion

I first met Kalu when he was a month-old pup. He had the strains of cocker spaniel and German shepherd, and his entire body was black except for his toes and mouth. After watching me for a while, Kalu got up and sat near my feet. My younger sister said, “Kalu does not sit with anyone, how he is lovingly sitting with brother." I noticed that Kalu had all the qualities of becoming a trained dog. The house had several pet dogs, and I felt that Kalu would be neglected. Despite my repeated requests, my sister did not give Kalu to me to raise. After that, whenever I came, Kalu would run to me. I also started bringing biscuits for him. The way he took biscuits from my hand very slowly and carefully showed his character.

By the time he was one year old, Kalu became famous not only in the locality but far and wide. No one could enter the gate without an escort. If someone came by mistake, they had to tolerate his anger. Postmen, vegetable vendors, plumbers, and milkmen were very cautious. The milkman, by compulsion, developed a friendship with Kalu by feeding him milk. For this, he had kept a bowl inside the gate. He would pour some milk in the bowl through the bars of the gate before daring to enter. Kalu was kept chained most of the time, which made him more ferocious.

Three years later, I took voluntary retirement and moved into my own 3-room unit in the backyard of our parental precinct. On the very first night, I woke up suddenly to a knocking sound. I saw Kalu sitting on the sill outside the closed glass window. Dark night, black Kalu – what a terrifying silhouette it made. He

was scratching the glass window to attract attention. This happened for two-three days. Finally, I opened the window and took Kalu inside. He lay down comfortably under my bed. I already had a dog named Kittu, who did not object to Kalu’s presence.

The day their favourite meal was prepared, their happiness and good manners were worth watching. They started giving exactly the same reactions as children do at home when their favourite food is being prepared. They played among themselves in some empty corner of the house and kept quiet when some known visitors came. As the time for dinner approached, their restlessness was visible. After being served, they ate the food from their bowl only, without fighting.

Kalu was ruthless with outsiders but very friendly with family and staff members living inside the precinct. He never forgot the timing and the sound of the milkman and his bowl of milk. Whenever I was moving inside the courtyard, he would escort me. He would recognize the sound of my vehicle from a distance of 500 meters.

He had learned two very useful commands. The first was “Go home”. Wherever he was, whatever he was doing, he would silently come to his place inside the house. How many times did Kalu have to leave a winning innings and return? The second

command was “Stay”. Whether he was playing, fighting, or trying to pick up a piece of bone, as soon as I said something, he would calm down and start looking at me. He wouldn’t touch the bowl of milk if the command of “Stay” was given.

Once, a big fish bone got stuck in his neck. In great pain, he came to me with his mouth open. I looked inside his mouth and saw that the fish bone was visible but very much inside the neck. With the flash of lightning, I made two finger scissors and removed the thorn stuck in his neck. More than I could praise myself, Kalu started jumping up and down and tried to kiss my mouth.

At the onset of winter, a Kashmiri shawl vendor came to sell clothes. I bought a shawl, and the vendor extended his hand to shake hands with me after the deal. Kalu’s teeth reached his hand first. Perhaps Kalu felt that the unknown Kashmiri had moved towards me with some wrong intention.

On the contrary, once my 3-year-old granddaughter was playfully jumping on my bed. She finally jumped off the bed. Tired of the sound of jumping, Kalu came out from under the bed at that moment. My granddaughter’s foot landed on Kalu’s body, and she screamed very loudly. Kalu was badly hurt, but he moved to a safe place without making any sound and started caressing his injury.

Kalu would have been a very good hunter. Rats and house lizards could not escape from him. He would patiently wait for hours at a hideout to watch the movement of rats. He would proudly bring the killed prey and place it near my feet. He used to hunt house lizards very cleverly. He would bark and make the lizard move to the open door. With the blink of an eye, he would push the door hard and make the lizard fall. Our house became rat and lizard free very soon.

He was always ready to play. If he wanted to play ball, he would hold any object in his mouth and bring it near my feet. After that, I would take him to the terrace and play ball for 10-15 minutes. After giving him a bath, if I forgot to tie the collar around his neck, he would bring it and keep it near my foot as if it was his ID.

One day, I was changing the old castor wheels of my computer table. When I extended my hand to put the last roller, it was nowhere to be seen on the floor. I called out to Kalu, whose rattling noise was coming from the other room. He came running. I pointed to the roller already fixed to the table and asked him enquiringly. Kalu immediately about-turned, verbally danced to another room, and came out with the roller in his mouth, placing it near my feet.

After my glaucoma operation, I returned home with a bandaged eye. As soon as I got down from the car, Kalu started escorting me. He sat very close to the bed. My brothers and sisters came to see me. As soon as anyone came too close to me, Kalu would start growling. As long as I had a bandaged eye, Kalu would keep an eye on me and stay next to my bed at night. After this, whenever I returned after staying in the hospital for a few days, Kalu would take care of me in the same way. He would escort me to the toilets, dining table, sitting chair, and the bed.

I went to Australia to be with my daughter for six months. During those days, Kalu stayed with my sister. He could not tolerate neglect at all. Whenever something like this happened, he would quietly go to a nearby park and sit alone, and would come back after much persuasion. It is said that he had reached a state of withdrawal. He had even stopped barking, let alone biting. In my absence, everyone had to take special care of him.

He was already 10 years old. At last, the day came near when he had to go to the next world. In his last days, he preferred to stay outside the house. Whenever I used to sit outside, he would come and sit near me. We buried him under the Ashoka tree near the gate.

PS: Researchers at Michigan State University have discovered that dogs often take on the same personality traits as their owner. 

  

My Foster Mother

A Pilgrim’s Odyssey

Indian temples and places of pilgrims gain importance and reverence in order of their location; more tough is the path- more valued is their worship and more possibility of reaping rewards from such pilgrimage. Temples and places of pilgrimage in the tough terrain of the North have equally god number of worshippers.

My friend Ashok, when he became a senior citizen, opted for the life of a pilgrim. It seemed that the Gods were also with him. He always found the way to pilgrimage paved for him. While going to Puri, his next berth traveller in the train was from Ram Krishna Mission. The later arranged for his stay at Puri for free. When he went to Trivandrum, his taxi driver was from his village. He took him to his home and to all places of worship without asking for any payment. At Hardwar, he stayed at a lodge operated by a person who was his class mate in school.

In his journey to Amarnath Caves which was at an attitude of around 4000 meter and 150 KM from Srinagar, he had no such assistance and had to be of his own. It was a nightmare when terrorists attacked and all the pilgrims fled away helter and skeltor. Terrorists fired point blank on the crowd. Casualties were high.

After dark, Ashok moved out from his hideout. He saw an array of tents pitched on a far off terrain. As the night progressed, temperature stared falling rapidly. He had one blanket with him. He was very tired and shivering with cold when he reached first tent. He slipped into the tent. There were several people already sleeping inside the tent. He did not bother for food though he was very hungry and slept a good sleep.

Dawn arrived, painting the snow with a pale rose. Voices jolted him awake. Soldiers, their faces grim, huddled above, their conversation slicing through the thin canvas. "How the hell are there thirteen bodies when we brought in only twelve?" one exclaimed.

Ashok's heart lurched. He looked around, counting the sleeping figures. Twelve, he confirmed, a tremor running through him. A gasp escaped his lips, drawing the soldiers' attention. Their eyes widened as they saw him, the thirteenth man, and the one who defied the count. A ripple of awe ran through them.

He continued his journey, forever marked by the chilling night in the Amarnath tents, carrying the memory of his near-death experience and the whispers of the soldiers' awe as his most precious souvenir.

Summer Daze and a Slingshot's Sting

Naren was nine years old then. During summer vacation, he often went to the mango orchard with his friends. They played different types of games. It also included targeting green mangoes with stones. Even after trying hard he could drop 1-2 raw mangoes. One day 2-3 tribal boys came to that garden. Before the children could understand anything, they aimed the slingshot at a crow sitting on a branch. The stunned crow upturned but still held the branch. The second shot hit the crow. The crow fell down from the tree with a thud. They put the injured crow in a half-filled bag and started walking for the next kill. Everything happened in the blink of an eye. Naren saw the charisma of slingshot for the first time.

Naren also became interested in making a slingshot. Who knows how many times he made slingshots, aimed at tree fruits and birds but never got success? He was so young that it was probably not within his power to make a slingshot properly and take powerful aim.

Naren did not lose courage. Assisted by his friends, a special branch of guava tree was searched for. After some hard work, such a branch was found. It was broken, cut and shaped into a star shaped slingshot. An old bicycle rubber tube was obtained from a bicycle puncture maker. Two ribbons of 10 inches each were cut from it. From the cobbler's shop,a piece of leather was acquired. A hole was made on both sides of a 3-inch wide leather belt to catch the bullet. Entire afternoon

passed but neither the lace was tied properly on the sticks of the slingshot or on the holes of the leather lace. Finally he had to seek help from his uncle. He skilfully prepared a very strong slingshot. Small clay tablets were also dried in the sun.

The next day, Naren also went to hunt raw green mangoes, armed with a slingshot. Friends kept getting success. Naren was a complete failure. Defeated and dejected, he returned home and lay down on the wooden bench in the courtyard. Just then a

group of sparrows came into the courtyard to pick grains. He silently fired a bullet from the slingshot while lying down. The bullet hit a bird's leg. The bird started screaming and circling at the same place. Naren felt as if he had committed a heinous crime.

In that moment, the thrill of the hunt morphed into the searing agony of regret. His heart heavy with remorse, Naren rushed to the wounded bird.  He saw or rather felt pain and fear in the little eyes of the sparrow. Somehow, the bird let him pick her up .He caressed her. He cradled it gently, offering water and tending to its injury. His younger sister, drawn by the commotion, also nursed and applied turmeric paste on both the legs. She added a final touch - a pink tilak on the bird's forehead. With a renewed burst of energy, the bird finally spread its wings, the pink dot a stark reminder of its ordeal.

Naren's slingshot met its fate at the bottom of a well that day. His weapon of conquest was replaced by a simple earthen bowl, brimmed with water and scattered grains. The orchard, once echoing with the sounds of stone-throwing, now resonated with the gentle chirping of birds drawn to Naren's newfound empathy.  Sometimes sparrow with little pink bindi also came with her flocks for morning snacks. Those few days used to become a big day for Naren.

The pink tilak became a silent symbol of Naren's metamorphosis, marking the transition from the pursuit of victory to the embrace of compassion. The boy who once sought conquest had learned the poignant cost of triumph, finding fulfilment in the quiet dance of empathy and understanding.

It’s A Mad, Mad, Mad World

The year was 1961, and I, a wide-eyed thirteen-year-old, had just landed in Ranchi, India, for college. The town, nestled amidst verdant hills, was known not just for its scenic beauty but also for its imposing mental hospital, rumoured to house over a hundred souls grappling with unseen demons. Curiosity gnawed at me, and one balmy afternoon, I convinced my friends to embark on a bicycle expedition to the gates of this enigmatic place.

As we pedalled down the dusty road, the hospital's silhouette loomed larger, a stark contrast to the vibrant green of the surrounding hills. A heavy metal gate barred entry, beyond which a long, winding pathway led to a monolithic building. But it wasn't the imposing structure that held our attention; it was the people.

Figures dotted the path, some tending to the lush garden, others lost in their own worlds, their eyes painted with a thousand unspoken stories. One man, his face etched with the wisdom of forty years, caught my eye. He wore a worn cap and

stood with one leg perched on a rock, gazing at the sky with a contemplative air. His pose, I realized with a jolt, mirrored the ancient sculpture of a "Thinker" by the great sculpture Rodin I had admired in my history book.

Drawn by an invisible thread, we edged closer to the gate, our whispered questions hanging heavy in the air. Suddenly, a hand, large and calloused, came out from between the bars and clasped mine. I looked up to meet the gaze of a man, his eyes crinkled with a smile that defied the confines of this place. His other hand held a half full bucket of water. He looked to be watering plants and shrubs.

I froze, my heart hammering against my ribs. The grip, unexpectedly gentle, belonged to a man in his fifties, his eyes crinkling with amusement.

"What are you doing inside?" he smiled and whispered his voice a gentle breeze through the leaves. "Come and see outside. It is great."

My heart hammered against my ribs. The man's grip was surprisingly strong, a silent invitation to a world beyond the iron bars. Just as fear threatened to consume me, a khaki-clad figure materialized, his stern voice cutting through the tension. The man released my hand, his smile fading into a wistful sigh.

I scrambled back to my bicycle, my friends' concerned voices washing over me like a tidal wave. The laughter that followed stung a reminder of my audacity, my naivety. The echoes of laughter from my friends were piercing the crisp air. Shame and relief warred within me, yet, even then, a seed of doubt had been sown. Yet, as I rode away, the man's words echoed in my mind, a cryptic message nestled within his smile.

Years passed, and the memory of that encounter lingered. Now, at sixty-three, I see the world differently. The man's "outside" wasn't just a physical space; it was a state of mind, a freedom from the shackles of societal expectations, a oneness with the world that eluded us in our pursuit of "one world, one society, one religion."

Perhaps, within the confines of that asylum, the man had found his own utopia, a world where the whispers of the garden were more comforting than the clamor of the outside. And maybe, just maybe, his invitation was a reminder that true freedom lies not in conformity, but in embracing the unique symphony of our own hearts.