From Nuisance to Lullaby: A Gully Cricket Story

Gully cricket, is an informal version of the sport cricket that is played in non-traditional venues such as streets, alleys, parks, and backyards.  It is typically played with fewer players and simpler rules than formal cricket. The equipment is also often improvised, with a tennis ball or rolled-up paper serving as the ball and a broom or wooden stick used as the bat. The pitch is usually marked out with stones or chalk, and the boundaries are determined by the available space.Despite its simplicity, gully cricket can be a very exciting and competitive game. It is a great way for children to learn the basics of cricket and develop their skills. It also provides a valuable opportunity for socializing and building community spirit.

The old house had its charm: a courtyard, a veranda, and a corridor. The corridor, with its endless straight-drive potential and need for just one fielder, was our afternoon cricket haven. Judge Uncle's living room, tucked neatly in the corridor's "short cover," would erupt in commotion every time the tennis ball kissed their wall or window.

Today, playgrounds, verandas, and corridors are luxuries reserved for the lucky few. This made my house's front yard the prime target for the neighbourhood’s afternoon cricket matches. Now, my living room window stood a mere 3 meters away from the swinging bat, right in the heart of the "action." Add to that my

afternoon relaxation time, and you have a recipe for potential annoyance. The chirping chatter about cricket and schoolyard adventures followed them like loyal companions. The game usually ended when their "birth right" - sibling squabbles - took centre stage.

Initially, when the ball landed on my window once or twice, I threatened to knock their teeth out. A chilling silence followed, deafening my afternoon naps. It dawned on me: the silence wasn't due to fear, but a lost ball. That evening, I found myself at the market, buying them a new one.

Now, the symphony of "out!" shouts, bat thuds, and their animated discussions lull me to sleep like the sweetest lullaby. A little window's worth of glass pales in comparison to the magic and vibrancy of gully cricket. It's a reminder that sometimes, the greatest joy comes from unexpected sources, even if it arrives with a few dents and scrapes.

 

The Echoes of Laughter: Embracing Life's Antidote

 The words "Laughter is the best medicine" in Reader's Digest leapt off the page, echoing my own lived experience. From childhood, laughter formed the bedrock of our family's emotional landscape. Tears were invariably met with a sibling's playful jab, turning sobs into shared guffaws. This playful therapy transcended the home, healing scraped knees and bruised egos on the playground with a well-timed quip.

As we matured, laughter remained our go-to remedy, offering a temporary refuge from deeper anxieties. Even the sting of lost love was soothed by a Chaplin-esque bounce back, reminding us of life's resilience.

Imagine the scenario: you slip on a busy street, bracing for judgment. Instead, amused smiles crinkle the faces around you. Embarrassment melts into shared laughter, propelling you forward, lighter and more connected.

One specific film scene lingers in my mind. A cancer patient undergoing surgery erupts into laughter, triggered by a nurse's lighthearted touch. Though his passing is tragic, it's a death imbued with an unexpected serenity, free from the shackles of pain. This raises a captivating question: have you witnessed the enigmatic smile adorning the faces of the departed, a silent testament to their release from earthly burdens?

The Ways of the Greats: India and Singapore : A Comparison

Singapore and India are vastly different countries with unique histories, demographics, and political systems. Direct comparisons are often complex and require nuanced understanding of both contexts.

While Singapore enjoys stability, economic growth, and efficient governance, its smaller size and relatively homogenous population create distinct advantages compared to India's immense size and diversity.

In contemporary Singapore, the People’s Action Party (PAP) has maintained a remarkable and enduring political dominance since its inception in 1954. Founded by Lee Kuan Yew and his comrades, the PAP has governed the nation continuously since 1959 when Singapore was granted self-government by the British. Full independence followed in 1965, marked by a painful separation from Malaysia after a brief merger. The PAP’s unparalleled longevity has evoked both fascination and incomprehension from external observers. Here are some key points about Singaporean politics and the PAP:

Political Dominance: The PAP has been the sole ruling party in Singapore since 1959, shaping policies and governance consistently. Its uninterrupted rule is matched by few other political parties globally.

Efficient Governance: Singapore is often described as running like an extremely efficient corporation. The city-state’s success is attributed in part to the PAP’s ability to deliver effective policies and maintain stability.

Authoritarian Perception: Some Western observers view Singapore as authoritarian due to measures like the ban on chewing gum and caning. However, it’s essential to recognize that Singapore’s political system allows for some political pluralism within the framework constructed by the PAP.

Lee Kuan Yew’s Vision: Lee Kuan Yew, Singapore’s modern founding father, played a pivotal role in shaping the PAP’s trajectory. His insights, sought by world leaders, emphasized the need for an unvarnished account of the party’s history. Lee wanted to ensure that younger generations understood Singapore’s journey and appreciated the party’s contributions.

In summary, Singapore’s peaceful politics, anchored by the PAP, have facilitated stability, economic growth, and efficient governance. While debates continue about the balance between political pluralism and dominance, the PAP’s legacy remains a defining aspect of Singapore’s contemporary landscape.

Narendra Modi, India’s Prime Minister, engaged in a series of extensive discussions with Singaporean leadership starting from 2014. These interactions were significant for several reasons:

Bilateral Cooperation: The talks aimed to strengthen bilateral ties between India and Singapore. Both nations explored avenues for collaboration in areas such as trade, investment, technology, and defence.

Economic Synergy: Modi and Singaporean leaders likely discussed economic models, investment strategies, and policies. Singapore’s success as a global financial hub and India’s aspirations for economic growth provided common ground for sharing insights.

Urban Planning and Smart Cities: Given Singapore’s expertise in urban planning, discussions may have revolved around creating smart cities in India. Singapore’s efficient infrastructure and sustainable development practices could inspire India’s urban transformation.

Digital Governance: Singapore’s e-governance systems and digital infrastructure could have influenced India’s Digital India initiative. Modi might have sought lessons on implementing technology-driven governance.

Security and Defence: Singapore and India share security concerns in the Indo-Pacific region. Discussions likely covered maritime security, counterterrorism, and defence cooperation.

Cultural Exchange: Modi’s interactions with Singaporean leaders could have included cultural exchange, promoting tourism, and celebrating shared heritage.

These dialogues fostered mutual understanding and paved the way for collaborative efforts. Both nations continue to learn from each other’s experiences, adapting policies to their unique contexts.

India has indeed drawn inspiration from Singapore in various aspects. Let’s explore some of these parallels:

Economic Development: Both Singapore and India have prioritized economic growth. Singapore’s transformation from a small trading port to a global financial hub is often cited as a model. Similarly, India aims to boost its economy through reforms, infrastructure development, and foreign investment.

Smart Cities and Urban Planning: Singapore’s efficient urban planning, clean streets, and well-designed public spaces have influenced India’s Smart Cities Mission. Indian cities are striving to replicate Singapore’s success in terms of cleanliness, green spaces, and efficient transportation.

Digital Transformation: Singapore’s digital infrastructure and e-governance systems have inspired India’s push toward digitization. Initiatives like Digital India and Aadhaar draw lessons from Singapore’s tech-savvy approach.

Education and Skilling: Singapore’s focus on education, vocational training, and skill development has resonated with India. The Skill India program aims to enhance employability and bridge the skills gap.

Law and Order: Singapore’s strict laws and efficient law enforcement have influenced India’s approach to maintaining order. Measures like the Clean India campaign and traffic regulations draw inspiration from Singapore’s discipline.

Foreign Relations: Both nations engage in pragmatic diplomacy, balancing global powers. Singapore’s strategic location and India’s growing influence in the Indo-Pacific region have led to closer ties.

It’s essential to recognize that each country has its unique context, challenges, and cultural nuances. While India learns from Singapore, it also adapts policies to suit its diverse population and democratic framework. As India continues its journey, it will blend global best practices with its own rich heritage. However, attributing these successes solely to the Prime Minister's discussions with Singaporean leadership is an oversimplification. Numerous factors and initiatives contribute to national progress.

An Elephant Story of Gratitude and Mutual Aid

In a world where the ever-expanding human population encroaches upon the natural habitats of elephants, the consequences are twofold. Not only do human dwellings encroach into protected forest areas, but developmental projects like roads, railways, and mining compound the loss of elephant habitats. Isolated elephant populations find themselves unable to traverse ancient migratory routes, leading to a lack of interaction with other herds. This habitat loss forces elephants to seek alternative food sources, often impacting rural farming areas adjacent to the forests.Elephants are not to be blamed.

On a tranquil afternoon, the serene rumble of an elephant herd was abruptly shattered by a distressed trumpeting. A playful baby elephant had stumbled into a deep ditch, its cries echoing with panic. Despite the immense strength of the parents, they were unable to reach their stranded offspring. Frustration mounted, and their calls for help resonated far beyond the forest, capturing the attention of village children playing nearby.

Fearlessly led by a courageous boy named Ravi, the children hastened towards the distressed sounds. Witnessing the plight of the baby elephant, they acted swiftly, using their knowledge of the forest to fashion a sturdy rope from the long prop roots of banayan tree. Ravi, small and nimble, volunteered to descend into the ditch. With courage, he secured the rope around the baby elephant, and the children, working in unison, pulled the young pachyderm to safety.

Word of the children's bravery spread rapidly, reaching the grateful hearts of the elephant herd. The memory of this act of kindness forged a special bond between the elephants and the village children. The rescued baby elephant, named Raju, grew into a playful member of the herd, often reciprocating the gratitude by offering rides to his young saviours on his broad back.

But the story didn't conclude there. Touched by the elephants' gratitude, the villagers decided to express their appreciation in a tangible way. Collaboratively, they volunteered a large portion of their farming land and planted fields of elephant grass, banana trees, and fast-growing varieties like mango, jamun, karanj, and elm, ensuring a steady food source for the herd. In return, the isolated group of elephants ceased raiding crops, opting instead to peacefully partake in the offerings provided by the villagers.

This mutual respect blossomed into a beautiful partnership. The elephants, with their immense strength, assisted the villagers in transporting heavy loads and clearing fallen trees during storms. They even offered rides to school-going children, aiding them in crossing flooded rivulets.

This heart-warming tale teaches us about the potent impact of compassion and empathy. It underscores the presence of unexpected heroes in times of need and serves as a reminder that acts of kindness, regardless of their scale, can create ripple effects, fostering harmony and establishing a world where humans and animals coexist in respect and mutual aid.

Beggars Can Be Choosers Too

Begging, an unconventional way of life, establishes its presence with an unwavering grip on temples, railway stations, bus stands, and other bustling hubs of human activity. In these domains, a distinct breed of beggars emerges, often characterized by intelligence and professionalism, strategically targeting running trains and thriving amidst the urban hustle. The management of begging in metropolitan areas and on trains typically falls under the control of formidable muscle mafias, extending their influence even to the subways of New York.

Reflecting on my college days, a unique encounter with the world of beggars unfolded during the extended stoppage of my college bus near the renowned Kali temple in the city. This pause offered passengers ample time to visit the temple for prayers, a ritual I too observed during examination days. Positioned at the temple's entrance were beggars seeking alms, and among them, one individual captured the devout attention of worshippers.

This man, aged around 60, bore the effects of polio, rendering his legs impaired. Moving with difficulty, he relied on his chappal-strapped hands to propel himself forward. Despite his physical challenges, he exuded a generous spirit. Whenever students like me expressed inability to offer alms, he responded with a smile, blessing us for success in our examinations. On one early morning return from a tour, I witnessed him arriving by rickshaw to his usual spot near the temple gate.

As life unfolded, post-graduation led me to a different town, and a few years later, a nostalgic visit to my old habitat prompted a return to the temple. However, the beggar who had once left an indelible impression was conspicuously absent. Inquiring with a nearby shopkeeper, I discovered the beggar's demise. To my surprise, further conversations unveiled an astonishing revelation – he had departed this world as a millionaire. The once-lame beggar now owned 20 rickshaws, operated in the city. His assets included three significant buildings in both the city and its suburbs, securing a comfortable future for his well-placed children.

My new residence was not immune to the presence of beggars, and among them, a towering, robust figure stood out. Cloaked in minimal attire with a bag slung over his shoulders; this black beggar made early-morning visits to our home. His voice, resonating in his native dialect, echoed through the air, imploring, "O Malik maai, Bhikha milok nee (O master! O mother! Give me alms)." This ritual unfolded with a two-minute interval, punctuated by his persistent calls. If his initial plea went unanswered, it transformed into a commanding request by the third call. After that, he would start muttering and move to the next residence. The shrillness of his voice ensured that someone among us would rise from bed, attempting to pacify him before the inevitable third call.

The frequency of his visits lacked a set pattern, occurring sporadically – at times daily, sometimes weekly, and occasionally after a month. His chosen recipients were selective, and once he secured what he sought, he would conclude his visit and retreat to his designated spot. Observing his behaviour, it became evident that he was not of the hoarding type, merely seeking what he needed before moving on. Few months later, he faded into oblivion.

When my children moved to the most sought-out education hub in Pune, I had to frequent Pune to meet them occasionally. I had to change my train at Rourkela station. While going, the changeover took two hours at night. While returning, it sometimes extended to three hours in the early morning because the detached bogies waited for being attached to the incoming master train.

I will never forget two things about those days' journey. There was a beggar. He was a tall, black, not-so-handsome young man walking with a crutch to balance his lame leg. He also wore dark glasses; perhaps he had some ailment in the eyes. He was not blind. He wore a long, smelly Kabuli kurta (shirt), enough to cover his entire body. His only good leg was visible. This beggar entered the bogie as soon as the train stopped. He started yelling in full volume some godly bhajans. The voice was so hoarse and unmusical that passengers had to yield from their deep slumber and gave him some alms. He moved ahead with the same jarring voice.

Synchronizing with the beggar’s departure, the tea vendor made his entry. A well-dressed, lean and thin young man had a strange vocabulary to promote his tea. He used to yell, ”Kharaab chai, Kharaab Chai (Bad tea, bad tea)!” His tea used to be very good; hot, little sugar, and sprinkled with cardamom. Passengers already aroused by the beggar songs eagerly bought tea from the vendor.

I had to frequent this return train journey 5 to 6 times in a span of 3 years. I became accustomed to these two regular visitors. Early morning did not allow probing further about them. One thing became clear. They were doing their business in tandem.

On one such journey, when the train stopped for two hours for marshalling of bogies in early morning I felt an urge to smoke a cigarette. I got down from my bogie and moved towards a park laid down between the platforms. The park had two or three benches sprawled amongst full-grown bushes and trees. I settled down on the nearest bench available and lit my cigarettes. I began surveying the Park. The ambience was heart-warming. At a distance, a young man in his shorts was doing yoga. I was impressed. His Surya-namaskaar” was worth watchable. The man finished his yoga. After a while, he walked passed me like a man in a hurry looking straight ahead. But to my dismay, he was on crutches. He had only one good leg. He was wearing the same long Kabuli kurta. I was dumbfounded. Later, in the train, he was doing his business as usual. This joker must have some good reason for wearing such masks. I left the matter open for my future journey.

In the grand tapestry of life, where destinies are woven by circumstance and choice, these beggars, with their resilience and unexpected trajectories, challengethe notion that one's station in life is predetermined. Technology has transformed begging, offering new avenue of opportunities. They can now reach out to potential donors through social media, messaging apps, and online platforms. Online crowdfunding platforms allow beggars to share their stories and seek financial assistance directly from a global audience. Beggars can now accept digital payments via mobile wallets, making transactions more convenient for donors. Fortunes may change, and beggars can indeed be choosers too.

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.