Chithi na koi sandes

Jab ghar se koi bhi khut aaya hai

Kaagaz ko maine bheega bheega paya hai

The school bell went off at 1:30 pm, much to the delight of the virtual inmates caged inside. It was the last day of school before summer vacations arrived, back in 1991. I exchanged addresses with pals, and we promised to write each other letters during vacations. With a bouncy touch in my stride I rode back home. And in keeping with customs, I put my hand inside a big cavity in my home’s façade. Letters. I felt them on my hand, measured their thickness, and sheer number.

My joy knew no boundaries every time I got hold of letters belonging to me or my mother, occasionally my sister too, and with great sense of pride and ownership I carried them around the house. I had had enough letter-writing sessions with Ma and quite understood the value of a letter. Letters that used to come from far and not so far places carried in them compulsive assumptions, love, tears, nostalgia, remembrance, invoking much of the same inside the reader.

Telephone was still an uncommon commodity in the 90s which meant distances were greater than they actually were and everyone resorted to letter-ing.

Chores assigned to me during summer vacations in my early schooling life included writing letters to cousins and frequent visits to the vicinity post-office. I enjoyed buying stamps and posting letters in the red post-box, it was a substantial responsibility on young shoulders which swelled my chest, too, as a kid.

One of my fonder memories from letter-ing is writing a letter, as a 9-yr-old, to a cousin about Rajiv Gandhi’s death and the permanent loss to the nation. The letter brought tears in my mother’s eyes.

Till the end of the 90s letter-ing was a way of life for most and many popular Hindi songs captured the value of a letter in varied ways. Chithi aayee hai was one such creation. A song, so beautiful in words, for the émigré population, yet it rarely failed to send tears rolling down the eyes, even, of an ordinary Indian.

I always felt, still do, the profundity of emotions in letters is best explained by the craving for letters by soldiers in the army and their families.

As goes the once-famous song, ‘Sandese aate hain, humein tadhpate hain’

The summer vacations of ’91 were remarkable for towards the end my room was a plethora of letters, some of which I still possess. I continued letter-ing for many years till the email and mobile-phone revolution changed everything. As a teenager I had always wanted to grow-up and write letters to my mother from a different shore but that was not to be.

Today, I, am in touch with the farthest of relatives, have regained touch with old friends over the internet, but I feel robbed of a treasure considering the produce of emotions that could have been.

Like radio regained its flavor after a lull of many years I so wish that letters too do.

An unfailing affair III

An astute figure was sitting some distance from me. With muted footsteps I closed on him. Draped in a saffron dhoti; a white thread ran across his body. The austere look on his face deterred me from waking him out of meditation. That moment was beautiful and divine. A deep desire ran inside me to capture that moment so it could serve as a mnemonic to the setting on the banks of Gangaji. My camera was ready. But clicking without permission would be blasphemy. I sat close to him, observing his motionless body. Waiting!

Everything about this man seemed so immaculate. His erect body, studied breathing, braided tress, elegant beard which looked like an expanded V, and the constant slight movements of the lips. One moment he looked like a King sitting on his throne and the other an ordinary courtier. Calm on his face, that was easily traceable, posed many a questions to me. Most of which were unanswerable!

An hour had passed and Gangaji was now peaceful and radiant. There was hardly anyone near us, the temple lights were dimming and the tintinnabulation seemed distant and dying. ‘It is a little late for you to be here’, he said, while I was surveying the surroundings. I looked straight into his eyes. The austerity was now complete. ‘Is it time for you to go home?’, I inquired. ‘I am already home, Gangaji’s course is my home’.

After much hesitation I sought permission to photograph him meditating alongside Gangaji.

A small smile appeared on his face.

‘Why would you want to do that?’

‘It’s perhaps the most pristine moment I’ve ever experienced’, I replied almost apologetically.

His lips expanded to form a wide smile. ‘Why don’t you take your own photograph?’

That question baffled me. He continued, ‘jaisee drishti, vaisee srishti’ or, as is our vision, the world becomes that.

‘There is goodness in you, reason why you see goodness in me’

‘It’s a simple world out there but we choose to make it complex!’

'I don’t like to preach but I encourage people to see the beauty within and outside and then paint them on one canvas. Your beauty becomes my beauty and mine your’s. Together we make this srishti beautiful.'

Words, all of which still amaze me for their simplicity and depth.

In the course of my talk with Baba, a name that I still associate him with, I discovered that he was from Nepal and had made Rishikesh his home many years ago. He had a tale of his own which he chose to leave behind.

‘Gangaji gravitated me!’ he said smiling cherubically.

He told me about his trip to the source of Gangaji. Temples that spoke of Gangaji’s history, the union of Bhagirathi and Alaknanda, the piety of saints who lived in the most trying conditions near the Gaumukh glacier were all vivid in his mind and descriptive in words.

‘Ganga maiyya has taught me so much, I couldn’t ask for anymore, emotions, love, anger, fury, calm, discontentment, ecstasy she handles all with such panache and manages to enchant every one and spread an air of goodness around.’

We sat there for a long time celebrating our respective affairs with Gangaji. It seemed like a never ending night, which was not to be. Baba soon bade farewell, without a promise to meet again. He left me with a few words to live by, ‘every day I shall seek life and never end the search for the unknown’

Gangaji, was now bracing up for another sunrise, meandering, hitting the ghats with renewed fervor.

I quietly moved on. Seeking life…..

An unfailing affair - II

‘A room with a view’, described the guy on the other side of the desk. Behind him was placed a big Lord Ganesh idol garlanded with fresh flowers. Any attempts at negotiating the room tariff were met with a disinterested look. Soon I parked myself in the ‘room with a view’. Gangaji took a curvaceous bend right in front of my room. She ran amok. Lying down in my room, quite a distance, from where She streamed, I could hear Her talk.

As evening took control I found myself at the Parmarth Ashram, on the banks of Gangaji. Swarms of people sat on the stairway. It was a splendid evening with dark yet to prevail completely. Gangaji, embellished with Diyas perched on big leaves, was now glowing with all Her splendor. Chants of mantras were now wet in the air. I made way to the bottom of the stairway and rolled up my trousers to submerge in the river. It was icy cold. While I sat there in absolute awe of the panorama in front of my eyes I couldn’t think of a more riveting moment in my life.

I moved along the banks of the river for sometime to find solitude and observe Gangaji more intently. Depositing my self rather comfortably on a rock, I swung my eyes across the landscape to register Her mood and urgency, yet again. The expanse that Gangaji occupied at this place was much more than what She managed elsewhere. Perhaps, because of which the fury in Her movement was absent but the pace remained. She streamed with sheer elegance; a smooth demeanor on the surface deceived the current underneath.

With my chin firmly placed on my knees and legs encompassed in my bosom, I was now calm, motionless and pensive. Soon the town would go to sleep but Gangaji will not stop till She reaches Her destination thousands of miles away. Through those thousands of miles She wears various forms, appearances, moods but is revered in the same manner.

We are a lucky people, I think to myself, for we have been bestowed with wonders by a dozen. And what is life without wonders? At this thought I craved to converse with someone, to exchange views, to know more.

I looked around.

To be continued……

An unfailing affair - I

Early morning. A first in a long time. Mother’s words reverberated in my ears, ‘Betaji, do you remember what the Sun looks like in the morning?’ Well, I had almost forgotten. Yellow. Circular. In the face. And, how it replenished early-risers with energy. Quickly brushing away diversionary thoughts that promised to bring back childhood nightmares, I focused on ways of reaching Delhi bus stand. A favor from an unsuspecting, over-friendly neighbor got me to the border of Delhi.

As if the squeals made by birds were not enough, there were unruly, hoarse sounds emanating from the makeshift bus stand. ‘India Gate, Lal Qila, ISBT’, one of them promised, all at once. Pretending this to be my first ride, on one of Delhi’s deadliest machines, I innocently sought confirmation about ISBT. Once on the bus I found my way to a safe corner to catch up on lost sleep. But the driver had other plans. For the next one hour the driver chose to treat his passengers to a fresh-out-of-the-studio Punjabi song. ‘Mitaraan di chatri ton ud gayee’ The song played some 15 times. I got off the bus mincing harsh words against the driver. But the impact was profound I was now humming the communicable tune.

I made it in time for the bus to Rishikesh. My tryst with Gangaji was now imminent. This wasn’t the first though, I had learned from a family album of an earlier visit to Rishikesh and Haridwar. But in many ways it was the first. The magic that the word ‘Ganga’ had come to create was insurmountable. It almost rushed a gust of fresh air, even in Delhi pollution, in me. The enormity of life and the smallness of our being, often, dawned on me, at the thought of the river. Rapt.

On the way to Rishikesh is the holy city of Haridwar. Just before the bus entered Haridwar Gangaji started making momentary appearances, enthralling passengers. Looking around I saw people bowing their heads in reverence, in that one moment the greatness of the river, trickling down the Himalayas, was reinforced on me.

The distance between Haridwar and Rishikesh is all of 16 kms, travel time does not suggest that though. Once inside the city, and heading for Tehri Garhwal, I found Gangaji flowing in all Her splendor, enjoying an expanse that befits Her eminence. Just then the aroma of the place, as I had perceived, struck me. ‘I have arrived!’

To be continued....

Hope....

The light of the lamp stood firm and bright, amidst a storm and lightening night. And there in a cot lay a lady, with a shade of melancholy. Her eyes wore a moist look. Sitting in her rickety chair, she gazed nervously at the door.

Long years ago, the Mahatma had done the unthinkable, calling off the nation-wide freedom movement. ‘We are not ready for freedom, yet’, he exclaimed.

‘I fear not the thought of treading the gallows for it will only take me closer to martyrdom’, Ajit spoke in a huff and ran out of the house after hearing about the Mahatma’s withdrawal. His nonchalant talk of martyrdom often left his widow mother thinking if he knew what it really meant to be a martyr. And what a martyr meant for a mother.

Everyday he left for his usual chores – party meetings, addressing school and college students, recruiting youth for his party’s army to fight the British – all of which made his party a tuft of ‘Inquelabis’. He often spoke of a manzar, ‘where blue skies filled with dotted clouds would smile on the earth below. Men, work with pride. Women a mirthful treasure at home. And, kids, the reflection of a charming nation.’ Dream. Most certainly for him.

On a cold, foggy day, Ajit was caught by surprise. He was hiding in a lone decrepit house on the border of Amritsar when troops of the British army lay siege to the house. After a few hours of skirmishing, Ajit ran out of ammunition. Troops were now high on his heels.

In Ajit were bestowed the hopes of many, the dreams of many. He was the savior of his tribe. One who was soon forgotten and his memories buried in the wounded soil. The country eventually did realize freedom, not without erstwhile streets becoming rivulets of blood. Blood that bore no identity. A bit had been achieved but much more lost.

His mother was now a pale existence of her former self. 17 years had passed since she had heard of Ajit. As many years had passed since she had smiled. Her mind would constantly construct pictures of her young son, fighting the British, walking through streets full of people who with pride claimed to know him, and, dressed in white kurta and dhoti. She was old now. Her memory was beginning to deceive her. She could not remember how he smiled, what clothes looked best on him.

How the Inquelabis bled for their motherland but forgot about their mothers, this irony never escaped her. ‘At the stroke of the midnight hour, when the world sleeps, India will awake to life and freedom…’ announced the just anointed Prime Minister. Words that hit her over. To her freedom meant nothing, she had lost everything. All that was left was a red thread that Ajit wore around his wrist as a mark of his grit. A few pieces of paper, scribed on them were Urdu poems. A half-torn, half-worn-out picture of a scrawny boy who looked little like Ajit.

She now lived on hope. A hope to see her son. A hope to let her tears stream down. A hope to meet death. A hope.

“Tu na rona ke tu hai Bhagat Singh kee maa

Mar ke bhi laal tera marega nahin

Doli chadh ke toh laate hain dulhan sabhi

Has ke har koi faansi chadhega nahin”