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.

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