Not just another day

Living in the rural hinterlands of the country could seem dull to many, especially if they’ve lived in urbanized places. No matter how lacklustre such places might seem each of them has a concealed beauty, to observe which, one needs to keep preconceived notions aside and fathom the inexplicable richness of the place. Be it the vistas of sylvan charm, the sights of people toiling hard with a smile on their faces or the simplicity with which people lead their lives, it’s all emotionally rewarding.

Our college being located in the remotest of areas is totally disconnected from urban life, so much so that even finding a small restaurant nearby is rather dubious. In such a scenario, where our temptation to eat delectable food overpowers our concern for hygiene, we scrounge up dhaabas in and around our campus.

When I joined the college, I found it irking that the place was so isolated from the city, in spite of it being supposedly located in ‘Kolkata’ (which it’s miles away from!). My friends often asked me to come along to the local tiny eateries that they had been commonly going to. For long I was adamant. The thought itself of eating in such dhaabas made me feel queasy. I decided to stick to the bland dishes of the canteen. After abiding by my resolution for about a semester my taste buds decided to concede defeat and deaden. I couldn’t let that happen! I surrendered too. I decided to be a little less stringent towards my taste buds and try eating in one of those dhaabas, though the sceptic in me constantly shouted “No!” One evening my friends said they’d be going out to eat and as customary they asked me if I would be coming along, expecting the same old answer. To their surprise I gave a nod.

It was a pleasant spring evening. We boarded the half-empty bus that would drop us somewhere five kilometres away from the college and then we would have to walk about a kilometre to reach the dhaaba. I hurried to grab a window seat. The blue coloured threadbare seats of the bus were slightly dusty and the conductor kept yelling, for some reason, at irregular intervals of time. The sun was peeking into the horizon, conferring the soft spring twilight. After about a kilometre the roads seemed to lead into the woods and it was a different sight altogether. The bus wobbled on the narrow pebbled path. After a while the farms across the not so well laid asphalt were visible in the faint light of dusk. I was lost in the sheer beauty and was also wondering why I had failed to perceive this for so long.

We got down where the bus was supposed to drop us and walked for a while. I reckon it started getting cloudy. As we continued walking through a dimly lit lane the faint insistent honks of vehicles grew louder. We reached what seemed to be the only settlement around. Crossing the relatively busy road, we reached the tiny eating place, the dhaaba. A well-built, dark man in the corner, supposedly the cook, was tossing and flattening the chapatti roll in the air showcasing his expertise in the field of cooking. We decided to sit on the grubby plastic chairs kept outside, as the tiny hall inside seemed to have a claustrophobic setting. I ordered what the others did, giving the sceptic in me some rest. I waited and looked around.

The cook passionately started making what we had ordered. A few women in sarees chuckled talking to each other as they passed by. The air was infused with a mixture of aromas, of incense sticks burning somewhere around and the strong smell of the food being cooked. Adjacent to the dhaaba was a small shop where the shopkeeper was seemingly waiting for customers. Just opposite was a sweet shop, where an old man was seen stirring milk in a huge container placed over a clay hearth, lit by firewood. Local buses and trucks passed by. In about fifteen minutes our order was ready. It was as if my taste buds came to life, instantly gratified by the first bite! It was by far the most delicious meal that I’d had during my stay there. We relished the scrumptious food.

Contented by the meal, we roamed around a bit. Then we started walking at a leisurely pace, towards the place where we’d find the bus that would take us back to the campus. On reaching the place we found no bus there. We waited for about thirty minutes. There was no sign of any vehicle around. It was dark and suddenly there was a crash of thunder that broke the silence. Without any transport the only choice was to walk all the way back to the campus! Disappointed, we started walking with leaden steps.

After a while, we saw something moving away from us. It was a cycle cart, with a frail man riding it. The cycle carts (not even the cycle rickshaws), are one of the most prevalent modes of local transportation here, even now. We ran towards it as fast as we could and yelled “Stop!” at the top of our voices. After all, it was the only thing that could save us from doing all the walking. It stopped. The frail, hollow-cheeked man looked stunned. He was wearing a loose, ragged shirt. His wrinkled face was drenched with sweat, even in the pleasant weather. He was perhaps returning home after a day’s hard work. One of us asked him if he could drop us to the hostel. He wiped off the sweat on his face, looked up at us and smiled. He asked us to sit.

We made ourselves comfortable on the wooden plank of the cart. We passed through a few old buildings, probably the only concrete buildings nearby, as the frail man laboriously rode the cart. The ride seemed beautiful. There was nothing like it I had ever travelled on. After a while it was dark as we entered the woods. At times the moon was just visible through the dark clouds and the gaps of the trees. We could almost smell the petrichor. The other light was that of the fireflies, visible at different instants. It was truly enchanting. I felt deeply connected to nature. After a while a white streak of lightning gave us a glimpse of the paddy fields. And then after sometime, there was light coming from a small array of little houses. The man looked exhausted as he continued to ride along the uneven path. Seeing him put in so much of effort we felt pity and also guilty at the same time. We asked him to stop and said that our hostel wasn’t far and that we would walk now. His reply will remain etched in my memory. He said in his language, “This is my work, it’s my worship. I won’t leave you mid-way.” He insisted that he’d drop us to our campus and continued to ride. Reaching the gate we asked him to stop. One of us asked him how much we had to pay him. He said we could pay him as we liked. We gave him the money not sure if it was sufficient for the amount of effort he had put in. He took the money with moist eyes and had a broad smile on his face, a smile that reflected his contentment and a sense of achievement. He joined his hands and thanked us. He turned around with his cycle cart and after a while disappeared in the dark. We walked towards our hostel as a light drizzle of rain fell, gradually picking up speed. 

Off to the Realm of the Mountains

‘Good morning Dr Edwin. See what I’ve got for you’, said Sam as he opened the door to enter the faintly lit, drab room, ‘it’s your favourite burger from Curley’s’. The room had beige walls adorned with masterpieces. Thick curtains almost completely shielded the room from the light of the outside world. Dr Edwin Williamson stood in one corner wearing a casual off white shirt, a black pant that barely reached his ankles, held up by suspenders and leather shoes. His grey hair was uncombed, his beard almost reached his chest and his glasses were perched rather precariously on his nose. He was busy cleaning a dusty easel. Over the dusty easel, was a dusty cloth covering a canvas. As Dr Williamson slowly removed the piece of cloth, the dim light revealed a painting so beautiful that perhaps the adjective ‘beautiful’ would simply seem too little even to the best of artists. It was as if the artist had relocated the scenery forever onto the canvas and into his artistic universe. Dr Williamson stood gazing the painting with teary eyes, unaware that Sam had entered.

Sam rushed towards the window and drew the curtains open. The drab room was suddenly flooded with morning light. Dr Williamson felt a sense of discomfort due to the sudden glare and shut his eyes. ‘Who is it?’, he shouted.

    ‘It’s me, doctor!’, replied Sam as he ran towards Dr Williamson.

     ‘Sam…When did you come? ’, he said hardly able to open his eyes. ‘Why did you open the curtains?’.

    ‘Let there be light!’, said Sam smiling, in a saintly tone .

     ‘Oh… This is what I once read out to Kevin, from the third verse of the Book of Genesis and since then he often kept using it casually. One morning he bumped into my room and opened all the curtains, just like you did, Sam. ’, said Dr Williamson as he looked towards Sam in adoration, his glasses still on his nose.

    ‘Yeah. I know…’, said Sam as he looked down to the floor.

    ‘For a moment I felt it’s him, but…’, said Dr Williamson, starting to sob as he sat down on the chair. Sam tried hard not to be weak, but tears rolled down his face too. Sam placed his hand on Dr Edwin’s shoulder and said, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…’.

    ‘Sam, do you remember this painting of Kevin? ’, said Dr Edwin wiping his tears off and pointing towards the painting kept on the easel.

    ‘How can I forget this? Kevin repeatedly told me that he had never seen a place so serene. A day before we were leaving for Boston he rushed out of the house and observed every detail of the place; the mighty  mountains, the clear gushing river waters, the trees  and the beautiful sky and etched it to his memory. Before we left he said just one thing, “This is paradise Sam. Paradise indeed! I can live here forever.” After we returned he was so enthusiastic about putting it down to his canvas that he didn’t sleep for two nights and finished off the painting. Even a photograph couldn’t have captured it better. That trip… It was the best time of my life!’, said Sam slightly smiling, looking at the painting. ‘Kevin repeatedly told me, that he wanted to live there forever, away from the hustle of Boston, amidst the mountains. He wanted to open an art academy there. He often said he would take you along too. I always found myself chucking to this statement of his, unaware that he really meant it.’, said Sam as Dr Williamson kept looking at the painting.

    ‘Done with your packing, aren’t you?’, said Sam trying to divert Dr Williamson’s attention.

    ‘Um… yes… Oh I mean …No! There is …one whole week remaining.  Why so early?’, said Dr Williamson trying hard to come out of the thought in which he was lost.

    ‘We don’t want to miss anything, do we?’, said Sam.

    ‘I will start packing today’, said Dr Williamson, hardly bothered to actually start packing.

    ‘Umm… I don’t know how to put this but…okay… So there’s another thing I wanted to tell you Dr. Edwin; everybody here I know of, wants you to get back to your clinic. They want the good old Dr Edwin back. At least for the people who need you, you must get out of this and move ahead. You are known to be the most trusted doctor around and… well, the most patient with his patients! You are perhaps the most renowned physician of Boston and what do you call it? The best Pulma…poolmo…’, said Sam looking at Dr Williamson, with a tinge of hope that Dr Edwin would agree.

    ‘It’s called “Pulmonologist” ’, said Dr Williamson, in an expressionless tone.

    ‘Yeah! That’s what I meant’, said Sam laughing.

    ‘No Sam… I’m sorry but that’s never going to happen. What am I a doctor for when I wasn’t here when my son needed me the most? This guilt will always continue to haunt me. I’ve earned a lot in my life but what for? It’s all a waste. Kevin would never forgive me’, said Dr Williamson in a shaky voice.

    ‘Why do you think so?  It wasn’t your fault. I know you were not here in Boston at that time, but you never knew what was going to happen. And stop blaming yourself. I could well assume it was my fault, but the truth is, we need to move on’, said Sam sounding firm.

    ‘Sam... My decision is irrevocable. Don’t waste your time over this’, said Dr Williamson turning away from Sam and pretending to look at the paintings on the wall. Sam left the room without a further word.

      

    In the evening Sam arrived home toting a canvas case and a carry bag. ‘Hi Mom!’, said Sam as he placed the items on the sideboard, and fell flat on the couch.

    ‘How was your day Sam?’, enquired his Mom who was sitting on the other settee, going through a seemingly important file. 

    ‘Nothing new about today. I went to Dr Edwin’s place and then stopped by the Jim Slate Stationer to get a few canvases and a new pack of colours’, said Sam looking exhausted.
    ‘That’s good, son. You’ll be taking them along, won’t you?’ said his Mom as she closed the file and looked towards Sam. 

    ‘Of course Mom’, said Sam casually. 

    ‘What have you been painting lately?’, she asked.

    ‘Well, I’ve been experimenting on some unique techniques of portrait making, as in getting the hyper realistic effect, to perfection. It's difficult to get Kevin's style. Anyway, Prof. McCarthy would’ve been proud seeing it, I’m sure’, said Sam as he stretched his arms and yawned and his Mom smilingly nodded her head in agreement. 

    'How’s Dr Williamson now?’, she asked.  

    ‘Oh…That incident has left him distraught and deeply upset. After all he’s lost his only son! And you know he doesn’t have anybody else’, said Sam sounding regretful. ‘It’s difficult for him to recover. I hope this trip would prove helpful ’.

     There were just two weeks left for Sam’s eighteenth birthday. Sam, who had always been excited about his birthday till the previous year, didn’t even seem to think about it now.

                                                           ***********

    It was about eight years ago that Samarth Chauhan (a name that was scarcely ever used) aka Sam and his parents shifted to Boston from India. His parents had been working in Delhi before they shifted to Boston. Sam hated living in Delhi, so he never did live there. Before shifting to Boston, Sam had been living with his grandparents in his native, in the beautiful hill-station of Dalhousie, in Himachal. As a kid, he never liked going to Delhi, even for a week, leaving his grandparents and of course the mountains and the pine laid landscape around his house, which he loved the most. Back then, Sam could never have imagined leaving the dreamy valleys, the snow-capped mountains and the beautiful river near his house. The tiny Sam would often hold his grandpa’s finger and set out on a walk with him on the hilly roads with pines on each side. His uncle would take him to Khajjiar on weekends and each time Sam’s fascination for the place only grew. He would go out at four every evening with a bunch of friends and cousins and they would play all sorts of self-invented games, run along the pleasing green meadows and in the evening Sam would have the delectable food that his grandma made with so much of love, especially for him and his cousins. Life was incredible for him. When Sam was ten, Sam’s dad was offered a lucrative job in Boston. Sam’s parents were determined to take him along too, but he was reluctant to leave his place. It was a tough task for Sam’s parents to convince him to move to Boston along with them, so they sought help from Sam’s grandparents, convincing whom was not a very tough task. Though Sam’s grandparents never wanted Samarth to leave Dalhousie and their son and daughter-in-law to leave India, they also never wanted to hinder their progress. After they were convinced, they tried convincing Sam. It was a tough task to change his mind, but after a lot of effort Sam did agree to move to Boston. So, off they went to a land, little known to Sam.

     Initially the ten year old Sam found Boston very weird. He always wanted to run away to Dalhousie, to his grandparents, his friends and his cousins, but he never could. He missed the soothing realm of the Himalayas the most. Eventually, Sam accepted the fact that he wasn’t going to go back and got used to staying alone at home most of the time, as his parents were too occupied with their work at office or with social gatherings to spend time with him. It was during such free times that his acquaintance with art developed. As a few months passed, the staggeringly beautiful world of colours totally engrossed him. The Museum of Fine Arts, Boston organized a Summer Art Programme for school kids, every summer. It was in his first summer programme that Sam met the similarly aged, Kevin Williamson; both eleven at that time. It was Kevin who had spotted a lonely Sam in the corner most desk, painting something.  Kevin had taken the initiative to utter the first word to Sam. There hadn’t been anything common between the two, except for two things; one, coincidentally their birthdays had been the same, reason enough for two kids to become good friends on the first go and two, they shared a similar interest in art. Sam always talked about Khajjiar and Dalhousie to Kevin and Kevin never failed to be intrigued by the vivid description of the valleys that Sam had been giving him. Kevin too had a lot of things to talk about. They never ran out of things to talk of, there never was that awkward moment of silence between them. They became good friends within a span of one month. Sam joined the same school as Kevin, The East Boston School. Sam discovered a great companion in Kevin and likewise did Kevin. Eventually they became the best of companions.

    Kevin’s dad, Dr Edwin Williamson was a renowned physician in Boston. Seeing Kevin’s inclination towards art, on Kevin’s twelfth  birthday (which also happened to be Sam’s twelfth birthday),  Dr. Williamson introduced both Kevin and Sam to his good friend, Prof. Chris McCarthy, Emeritus professor of Fine Arts at the Massachusetts college of Art and Design.  Prof. McCarthy post his retirement had been teaching a few students at his own residence in St Alphonsus Street, to keep himself engaged. He didn’t have a family. Prof. McCarthy was a very cheerful and amicable person. Both Kevin and Sam loved going to his place every evening after school. It was Prof. McCarthy who chiselled their skills to make them fine artists . A life devoid of art became inconceivable for both.  Kevin was a slightly better artist, but Sam was no less. By the age of fifteen they were making paintings so mesmerising that no professional artist could say they had a flaw. They gained a lot of appreciation for their paintings that they displayed in various exhibitions all across Boston. They perhaps needed no further training, but they did not want to leave Prof McCarthy. All they needed was more experience. Prof McCarthy was the hero of the two young lads. They continued going to Prof McCarthy’s place with the same enthusiasm. Prof McCarthy had perhaps never gotten such wonderful students and always took immense pride in them.

                                                           ***********

    As the moonlight glimmered on the little lawn of the house, Sam stood by the window in deep thought. It was a strange feeling, a feeling that Sam himself couldn’t comprehend. At times he was feverishly excited and at times a faint queasiness was taking over him. He was to visit his native home, Dalhousie, back in Himachal in a week’s time, along with Dr Williamson.  Sam languidly moved to his cupboard, opened it and stood there looking at the photos pasted; photos of Kevin and him. On one side were the photos of their vacation to Dalhousie and Khajjiar. Sam gently ran his fingers over the photos and said, ‘I miss you, bro. I really do!’. He closed the cupboard and briskly moved to his bed. As Sam lay on his bed and closed his eyes, a series of events flashed back in his mind. 

                                                          ***********

    A year ago, one evening after the Math lecture Kevin told Sam, ‘Sam, I’m bored. I need a break from the monotony of life! Why not go on a tour this summer, on our seventeenth birthday?  Not to a usual place, it must be offbeat. We’ll go all by ourselves. It’ll be amazing Sam!’.

    ‘Are you kidding me, Kevin?’, said Sam laughing.

    ‘No! Why do you think I am? Think of some place.’ said Kevin, his eyes clearly reflecting his passionate urge to take a much needed break from his mundane daily life.

    ‘Umm… Okay. Let me think’, said Sam. After a minute’s contemplation he exclaimed, ‘Dalhousie!! And we could stay in Khajjiar too. That would just be perfect. You’ll love it, I bet.’

    ‘Are you sure?’, asked Kevin, sounding doubtful .

    ‘Trust me Kevin’, said Sam smiling, his voice reflecting his fondness for the place. Sam had already told Kevin so much about the place by then that Kevin agreed.

     ‘Done! I really need to know what’s so great about the place that you always keep talking about it.’

    Then off they went for a trip that Sam would treasure for a lifetime. After reaching Dalhousie, Kevin was amazed at the first sight of the place. The next day Sam asked his uncle to take them to Khajjiar. On reaching Khajjiar, Kevin was awe-struck. He had never seen a place so enchanting, so pristine. The deodar trees, the lush green meadows, the dense pine trees encircling it and the panorama of the Dauladhar Mountains were all so mesmerising that Kevin fell in love with the place instantly. The ambience was so soothing that Kevin never felt like going back to hubbub of city life. He loved the simple life in Khajjiar. Sam too was elated to be back to his place, though only for a month. Sam took Kevin to each place he knew of. Sam’s grandfather, in spite of being older and slightly weaker than before, took them for a walk around their house. In their stay at Dalhousie they went river rafting, trekking in the Sach Pass and did loads of other exciting things. Three of Sam’s cousins, who lived in Dalhousie accompanied them. They also went off to Manali for a week.  ‘Paradise’, was the word Kevin kept repeating, through out. He felt so closely connected to nature. One month passed in the blink of an eye and it was time for Sam and Kevin to leave for Boston. Kevin had never felt so emotionally attached to a place before. ‘I could spend all my life here, Sam’, he said as they boarded the bus to leave. It was a splendid vacation; beautifully spent.
                                                             
                                                           ***********

    One year and everything had changed for Sam. This summer was entirely different; life had taken a nasty turn. As Sam lay on his bed, unable to sleep, a flurry of flashbacks disturbed his mind. He turned around in discomfort and said to himself, ‘No Sam! Just sleep. Sleep!  ’. He did not want to think beyond this, about what had happened in the winter the next year after their trip, but sometimes you have no control over your thoughts and your mind just lets memories flow in, even if they are bad ones. Sam started brooding over something he never wanted to give space to, in his memory. He did not want to think of the dreadful night, but his mind returned incessantly to it.

                                                           ***********
 It was mid-January, about three months ago, the peak of winter in Boston and temperatures were as low as minus eight degree celcius. All the streets were covered with layers of snow. Sam had not met Kevin for the past one week as he had been away to New York. Dr Edwin Williamson was away for the past twelve days as he had gone to London for an important work. As soon as Sam returned to Boston he tried calling Kevin a number of times, but Kevin did not receive any of his calls. In the evening when Sam sat down to switch on his TV, the news flashed in, that a "potentially historic" blizzard that could dump about 25 to 30 inches of snow on a large part of the US Northeast, was underway. It had begun to show its effects. Road travel was made a criminal offence. More than 6000 flights were cancelled. A state of emergency was declared in Boston and around. Soon the power went off. It had already been snowing before, but it began to snow very heavily and fierce, cold winds blew. Sam tried calling Kevin again but he still did not pick up the call. Soon the mobile network disappeared too. Sam was concerned. He rushed to Tremont Street, to Kevin’s house, a walking distance from where Sam lived, in Francis Street, well aware that it was very risky to step out. Sam found it terribly hard to walk in the thick layer of snow. The cold, piercing winds made it even worse. As he reached Kevin’s house, the intensity of winds and the snow fall only grew and trees began to fall. Sam was scared; it was probably the worst blizzard he had ever seen. He knocked hard, but nobody opened the door. He then saw that the door was not locked and rushed in. It was dark. Using the flashlight Sam went upstairs to Kevin’s room, it was darker. Sam flashed the light and saw Kevin lying in one corner, covered with three thick blankets. He hastened towards Kevin. Kevin was shivering beneath the layers of blankets.

    ‘Kevin… What happened?’, said Sam looking worried, as the sound of loud winds made his voice unclear.

    ‘S…Sam…T…T…Take care of Dha…Dha…… Dad…Th…Tha..Take himm… to the... mou..mountains...’, whispered Kevin in a voice that was hardly heard and continued to shudder.      
    ‘What are you saying Kevin? Goodness! Your body’s heated up like a furnace. What happened and why did you not tell anyone that you are unwell? Kevin...’, said Sam as he touched Kevin’s hand. Kevin did not say a word and simply closed his eyes; his skin had become clammy and pale, his lips had turned blue, he looked fatigued. He probably wasn’t listening to anything that Sam had been asking him. Sam’s apprehension grew with every passing second, and the winds only grew fiercer. All roads were blocked, trees continued to fall, there was no power and his phone had no network. There was no way to tell all of this to Dr Edwin Williamson, who was in London. Sam rubbed Kevin’s hands and kept telling him, ‘You’ll be fine! Absolutely fine…’

    Kevin was breathing with difficulty and Sam began to panic. Getting to the hospital was downright impossible. He wished Dr Edwin was there. He sat beside Kevin all the while and kept rubbing his hand. After half an hour Kevin stopped shivering and began to grow unconscious. Sam was trembling with fear.

    ‘Kev…Kevinn…’, said Sam as his voice quavered, clearly reflecting his apprehension. Kevin did not respond. The winds did not show any mercy, neither did the snow.  Kevin was then breathing heavily.

    There at the Heathrow Airport in London, Dr Williamson learnt that all flights to the North US were cancelled, including the ones to Boston, due to a devastating blizzard causing the airports to shut down and paralysing travel. 

    After three hours, the severe snowstorm did show some mercy. It seemed almost impossible to even step out. Everything around was covered in white, the streets were covered in almost thirty inches of snow.  ‘Impossible to reach the hospital…’, said Sam to himself as he couldn’t stop crying. In the adjacent building lived an old nurse. It was difficult to even reach there. Sam grabbed the snow shovel and began clearing the snow to reach the house next door. It was a gruelling task, but Sam didn't bother to think of anything else. He reached the building and knocked hard on nurse's door. He begged her to come along, tears still rolling down his cheeks. Sensing Sam’s deep concern she agreed. 

    As they reached Kevin’s home and the nurse examined Kevin, she exclaimed ‘He’s critical! I think, it’s a case of severe pneumonia! He’s totally running out of oxygen. There’s nothing we can do now. We need to call a doctor or rush him to a hospital immediately, else we'll lose him. But it's impossible to even move out now.’. 

     Sam sank into a chair in a corner and began to sob hard. ‘I don’t know what to do!’, he said covering his face. Sam had never in his life felt so helpless, before.  Kevin’s pulse rate began to fall rapidly as he struggled to breathe. The nurse tried whatever she could, but in vain. After twenty minutes of futile effort, she let out a long sigh of despair and said, ‘We were very late. Your friend has departed, my boy, to the heavenly abode…’

                                                         ***********

     On his bed Sam turned around again and tried hard to sleep, not letting his memories take over him any further. Sam tried hard to forget the nightmarish thoughts of that black night, but it kept disturbing him. He had a sleepless night.

    A plodding week passed and it was time for Sam and Dr Williamson to leave for their trip. Sam knew this was the last ray of hope to get back Dr Edwin to his normal self.  After all, Kevin had given him a responsibility and this was the best way Sam could think of, to alleviate his own guilty conscience. Off they went from Boston to New Delhi. As they reached Delhi, Dr Williamson didn’t seem to be pleased at the first sight of the place and wondered what was so great about the place. He was least bothered to give any opinion. After a few hours of rest at New Delhi, they took an overnight bus to Dalhousie. As they arrived at Dalhousie, Sam’s cousins were there waiting for them. Dr Williamson could not help being fascinated by the place, but said nothing.

    After a short drive they finally arrived at Sam’s home. Dr Williamson was awe-struck by the enchanting beauty of the place surrounded by majestic mountains. Dr Williamson felt he was familiar to the place; it was exactly what Kevin had painted on his canvas, the one that had been kept on the dusty easel! Sam’s grandparents waited outside the house anxiously to welcome their beloved grandson home. Dr Williamson received a warm welcome too. He was beginning to smile for the first time, unknowingly.

    Sam noticed a short, young boy, with shiny eyes and a bright face, wearing an old, partially torn and partially patched shirt, constantly looking at him; nearly twelve years old. He was the servant’s son. Sam smiled at him, he smiled back. Five days passed by and Dr Williamson did not speak much. He sat in the balcony all day long, lost in the beauty of the mountains and the river. In the evening Sam took out his canvas and placed it on an easel, in the courtyard and thought of painting something. He was then called over by his grandma to eat, he left the canvas there. Dr Williamson was beginning to love the place and could easily associate to whatever Kevin had told him. The next day, was Sam’s eighteenth birthday, also Kevin’s. The previous year too, Sam had been in Dalhousie for his birthday, but everything had been different then and it would never be the same again. Sam’s grandparents wished him, gave him a warm hug and loads of blessings. Sam was reluctant to celebrate his birthday, but he felt it was imperative to take Dr Williamson to the place Kevin admired the most. It was also a way for Sam to reminisce and perhaps relive the moments he had spent with his best friend, in Khajjiar. Sam managed to convince Dr Williamson to come along to Khajjiar. After the 25 kilometre drive they reached the place. As they approached the place Dr Williamson’s expression was beginning to change. On reaching Khajjiar Dr Williamson had just one thing to say, like Kevin, ‘Paradise’. It was spontaneous. They spent a nice day in Khajjiar, both of them badly missing the person they loved the most, Kevin. ‘Prof McCarthy would have loved to be here, wouldn’t he?', said Sam looking at Dr Williamson. ‘Yeah. I don’t know where Chris has gone. He never told me anything before leaving Boston. He would have been more than happy to see this place, indeed.’, said Dr Williamson thinking about his good old friend.

    After a relatively better morning Sam and Dr Williamson returned to Dalhousie. Sam noticed something unusual. The canvas that he had brought to the courtyard the previous day was covered with an old piece of cloth. He thought one of their servants would have covered it. Sam moved towards the canvas and as he was about to remove the piece of cloth, he suddenly heard the maid of his house crying. 

     She came running towards Sam, ‘Samarth Baba, please help Raju, my son. He’s been shivering all day long and coughing unusually’, she said in the local language. 

     It was the boy whom Sam had seen on the first day of his arrival, the one with the shiny eyes. Sam was tensed, as memories of that dark night flashed back, yet again. He was scared. Sam rushed towards the servant room and saw the boy shivering. ‘No! I won’t let it happen again’, said Sam. He immediately rushed towards Dr Williamson and told him to help the boy. 

     Dr Williamson did not agree, initially. ‘Do you want somebody else to lose their Kevin! Please help the poor boy! Nobody here in Dalhousie is a better person than you, to handle this’, said Sam finding it hard to find the right words to convince Dr Williamson. Hearing this Dr Williamson immediately got up and rushed towards the servant room. He was also bound by the almost forgotten oath. He examined the boy and said, ‘It’s a lung infection. We need to treat him immediately!’, said Dr Williamson, in a tone that resembled the good old Dr Williamson. 

    ‘What do we do, then?’, asked Sam worried, but also surprised to see Dr Williamson back to his normal self.

    'We need to take him to the hospital now to examine him further’, said Dr Williamson as he continued to examine the boy. Sam’s uncle drove them to the Dalhousie Military Hospital. The doctors had a word with Dr Williamson. They examined the boy and sought Dr William’s expertise. Dr Williamson guided them, being an expert pulmonologist. After half an hour Dr Williamson came out. For the first time in these months, there was a satisfied look on his face. ‘The boy is out of danger. They need to take care of him though’. Sam smiled seeing the good old Dr Williamson return.

    It was nine at night, when Sam and Dr Williamson returned to Sam’s house. They sat in the courtyard facing the easel on which the canvas was kept. 

    ‘Tell me what I should paint Dr Edwin?’, said Sam as he looked at the canvas that was still covered with the old piece of cloth. ‘Whatever you like, son. May be the mountains, the scenery… ’, said Dr Williamson, his tone clearly reflecting his contentment after long. Sam smiled and moved towards the easel. As he slowly removed the old piece of cloth, on the canvas could be seen a painting. 

     Sam was dumbfounded at the sight that met his eyes. He simply could not believe his eyes. Everything seemed to be still and his heart began to throb hard. As Dr Williamson looked up, he was taken aback, too. 

    ‘Sam….’, said Dr Williamson looking confounded. He stood up, went near the painting and touched it just to be sure that what he was seeing was not an illusion. ‘You were with me the entire day Sam. When did you make this?’, said Dr Williamson as he kept looking at the painting in adoration. 

   ‘I did not!’, said Sam not taking his eyes off the painting, not even blinking. 

   ‘Goodness… I just don’t believe this’, said Dr Williamson. It was a beautiful portrait of KEVIN, smiling! The painting seemed so real that it was as if Kevin would speak out any moment. It was as if Kevin himself painted it; simply perfect. ‘This is the best birthday present for me. I feel like Kevin is indeed here today, smiling at me. But how…’

    Both Sam and Dr Williamson could not sleep that night. A flurry of thoughts and possibilities rushed through Sam’s mind. ‘I don’t understand. How’s this possible?’, said Sam to himself. ‘Is Kevin there somewhere near us?  Ah! Don’t be stupid Sam! Then who could it be? Such a fine piece of art and even more surprising the portrait of Kevin!’, said Sam as he kept talking to himself.

    The next morning the thought did not leave both Sam and Dr Williamson. They went to the hospital to see the servant’s son. On their way Sam saw an old man, looking very familiar. ‘Prof McCarthy!', exclaimed Sam. 

    ‘What? Chris, here! Don’t be silly Sam! Come on...’, said Dr Williamson as he continued to walk.

    ‘I’m sure it’s him!’, said Sam as he ran towards the old man. ‘Good gracious! I don’t believe it. Prof McCarthy! Where have you been? You left Boston without a word!’, said Sam as this was the second consecutive surprise for him since the last night. 

    ‘Sam… How have you been, my son?’, said Prof McCarthy as his blue eyes looked into Sam’s with deep affection. ‘I’m sorry. I left Boston without informing you. I was devastated after Kevin was gone. He was more than a son to me. You and he were my only family. I was shattered at the news. I didn't want to live there anymore. Kevin had talked so much about this place that I decided to come here and…’, said Prof McCarthy before he was interrupted by Dr Williamson. ‘Chris! It’s indeed you! What are you doing here? And you did not bother to inform any of us’. 

     ‘Edwin! I know it was wrong of me to leave without a word. Your son and his paintings had talked so much about this place that I was dragged to this place… and moreover it seemed impossible for me to live anymore in Boston’. 

    ‘What have you been doing here Chris?’, asked Dr Williamson. ‘Well lately I’ve been training a few immensely talented young kids. There are wonderful artists in here. There’s a poor kid, who doesn’t speak and I prefer to call him ‘Li’l champ’. He is a gem, much like our Kevin. Unfortunately ‘Li’l champ’ is unwell and I came to the hospital to find out if he’s fine’, said Prof McCarthy. 

    ‘Come along then. We are going to the hospital too’, said Dr Williamson smiling, pleasantly surprised to meet Prof McCarthy. They went in to the hospital, Dr Williamson and Prof McCarthy simultaneously asked the receptionist in a similar accent, ‘Raju?’. They looked at each other. 

    ‘Is it Raju whom you’ve come to see, Prof McCarthy?’, asked Sam. ‘Ah yes!’, Prof McCarthy replied. 

    ‘Is he the student you were talking about?’, asked Sam. ‘Yeah’, replied Prof McCarthy. They were all happy to see that the boy was recovering well. Dr Williamson had a small chat with the doctors. Sam asked Prof McCarthy to come along to his house. He readily agreed.

     On reaching their house, Sam was reminded of the painting. ‘Prof McCarthy, I have something to show you. Come along. I was shocked to see it last night’, said Sam and took Prof McCarthy to the courtyard. 

    ‘Ahh… Kevin… Amazing! This is... more like Kevin's own style. Have you painted this, my boy?’, said Prof McCarthy as he kept looking at the painting with teary eyes. 

    ‘No! I haven’t. I have had a sleepless night thinking about it’, said Sam looking at the professor who kept smiling looking at the portrait.

    ‘Thank you Samarth Baba. You saved my son’, came the maid's voice from behind. ‘Raju was unwell the day before your birthday and I told him not to go to the courtyard as it was getting colder. He did not listen. He saw that white coloured board and rushed towards it. He started painting something over it. Later when I came back to call him to sleep I saw he had made this. I was scared that you would scold him so I covered it with a cloth. Excuse him for the mistake.’

   Sam was shocked to learn that the boy with the shiny-eyes had done this, but was unable to understand two things; one, the painting was done in the typical Kevin style and two, how had the boy made such a perfect potrait of Kevin?. ‘It’s marvellous. You should be proud’, said Sam smilingly to the maid.

    He said this to Prof McCarthy. ‘I told you he’s a gem, the Li’l champ’, said Prof McCarthy with a wide smile that reflected his pride for the ‘Li’l champ’. As Dr Williamson learned of it he couldn’t help but admire the boy and his masterpiece.

    ‘How did he make Kevin’s portrait? Has he ever seen Kevin?’, enquired Dr Williamson. No one knew the answer. 

    'The Li'l champ cannot speak. So we can never find out.', said Prof McCarthy. They could only guess. Perhaps he had seen Kevin the previous year. Perhaps he had seen Kevin’s photograph with Prof McCarthy. It was all 'perhaps'. They weren’t certain, but the perfection of the portrait and the manner in which it was done, was not letting them believe in any of the possibilities they had been discussing. It was a mystery that remained solved only on the basis of assumptions, none of them seeming very valid. 

    As a couple of days passed by, the love for the shiny-eyed boy grew, in the eyes of both Dr Williamson and Sam. 

    ‘Sam, you were correct. As a doctor it’s my duty to serve the needful’, started Dr Williamson as he, Prof McCarthy and Sam sat in the courtyard loving the pleasant weather.
    ‘Thank you for making me realise that. I should move ahead, if not for myself, for the many Kevins who need me. The little boy has won my heart. It’s difficult for me to go back to Boston, for I will not have peace of mind there. Memories would keep haunting me. I wish to stay here and be of use to anybody who needs me. I need your help to get me the practising license. You may go back after that.’

    ‘Are you sure about your decision, Dr Edwin?’, asked Sam calmly.

    ‘Oh yes… Very much’, said Dr Williamson confidently. 

    ‘Okay then. We’ll have to complete a few formalities. I choose to be here too. There's something I've been thinking about for quite sometime. Now that Prof McCarthy's here too, it seems possible. It was Kevin's dream to start an art-academy. And now, it's my dream too, for many like the shiny-eyed boy. We’ll call it “The Kevin Academy of Fine Arts”...  ’.Prof McCarthy smiled and nodded his head. The realm of the majestic mountains had given them all much more than what they had expected; a new perspective, a new beginning.  

    A pleasant evening passed by as Sam, Dr Williamson and Prof McCarthy chatted for long, over a cup of coffee, in the courtyard, in the corner of which the beautiful portrait of Kevin seemed to smile at them. The sun slowly disappeared behind the picturesque mountains with the promise of a wonderful morning.
                         
                                                        **************************

The Charismatic Big Cat- The Tiger

Tigers are among the most recognisable and popular of the world's charismatic megafauna. Watch this video, voiced by me, on the big cat. It is sure to give you a perfect idea on the life of this beautiful, yet fierce creature.  

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LbUSTLlYAKM

The Spectrum of Languages

I have always been baffled by the unique melange of languages and dialects that India is home to.

Seated in the departure lobby of the Kempegowda International Airport outside Bengaluru, I was skimming through a magazine, not really reading anything in particular. My mind was actually lost, thinking about how my new college would be. All I knew was that it was somewhere in an unknown land, very far from Bengaluru...

Soon, a woman with long, thick, plaited hair and dressed in a yellow cotton sari came and sat next to me. I looked at her and smiled. She smiled back and asked me a question. The language was unrecognisable and I had that blank look on my face as I couldn’t understand a word of what she had said. (I could make out the words ‘Kolkata’ and ‘flight’ in a while.) I looked right, then left and then looked at her again. It was pretty weird. I had absolutely no acquaintance with that language. I just nodded my head. And thus began my encounter with yet another language, Bengali this time!

During the two hours and 25 minutes-long flight, all I could hear (or rather concentrate on) was the same unfamiliar language. Initially, Bengali seemed like a foreign language, but I eventually realised it was a bit similar to Hindi. By the time I arrived in Kolkata, the strangeness of the language had started fading.

Reaching the college (which was a tough task in itself), I headed towards where everybody seemed to be going. On reaching the building where the registration of new students was taking place, I heard two security guards speaking in the same, now-familiar language. I was startled, yet again. This time not because of the unfamiliarity with the language, but because of the high speed at which words were being uttered. They asked me something, and this time the cluelessness in my expression was so clear that they could easily comprehend that I had no idea of what they had asked.

I simply went in and stood in the queue for the registration process. Surprisingly, the first language that I could hear was Marathi. Somebody was speaking on the phone, “Ho…mi itha pochle... ho, ho…mi khalle”. There was a bit of nostalgia given my past connection with that language. I completed an important phase of my schooling from Pune. In Pune, every day we met an old man, who we called Rokhade Maama. He was nearly 80 years old, and extremely sociable and zestful. His attitude towards life was awe-inspiring. He had a larger-than-life spirit. He often would ask me, “Aapan marathi seekhlath?”(Did you learn Marathi). And I invariably shook my head, to say no! (By the time we left Pune I could fairly understand Marathi).

In the queue, I then heard somebody standing in front of me speaking in Kannada over the phone, “Neevu yenu maduthidheera?” Hearing this I unknowingly chuckled, as it reminded me of Savitri, in Bengaluru.

As far as my experience in Bengaluru was concerned, it was incredible. My mother tongue is Hindi. We had shifted to Bangalore when my father had joined an institution there. Our society had people from different places. One of the most vivid memories that I have of Bangalore is of our ‘endeavour’ to communicate with Savitri, our helper... A very nice, generous woman who knew no language but Kannada! On the first day our driver, Ramesh, introduced her to my mom.

Well, I must say, Ramesh is an ideal Indian (in terms of language), who knows fairly well at least three different languages. I guess he knows at least five languages, which are Kannada, Hindi, English, Tamil, Telugu.

It was when my mom and I started talking to Savitri that we realised she couldn’t understand a word of what we were saying! Neither Hindi nor English. She said, “Hindi gotthilla am’ma…”, and something else in Kannada. We did not know Kannada. So we couldn’t understand a word of what she had said either. There was mutual silence, a moment of quietude and then a burst of laughter.

Well, then what… My mom used the sign language to talk to her. And then she started following things a bit. It was then I realised that indeed actions speak louder than words.

Over time Savitri did start picking up Hindi, and so did we start picking up Kannada. Frankly, all I could learn in Kannada was, “Kannada gotthilla” (I don’t know Kannada). This is probably the one line that every non-Kannada speaking person who goes to Bengaluru learns first!

“Room nombor B-203”, said a woman on the desk, looking blankly inscrutable, after my registration was complete. I went with the suitcase to the hostel. The bustle of students in the hostel corridor made the place sound quite lively and cheerful. An amalgam of languages and dialects that could be heard all around, brought a smile to my face.

I entered the room that was allotted to me. There was nobody there. The room had pale yellow walls and three black-coloured metal cots. The atmosphere was sombre. I kept my suitcase on one of the cots and sat down. I could hear a faint, sweet laughter that grew louder. Two girls, who it turned out were my new roommates, stood in front of the door, both speaking to each other in a language that I had heard before! “Ithu njangalde puthiya muri aano?” It was Malayalam. Well, I had lived in Kerala for six years, when my father was posted there, before we shifted to Pune. Hearing their conversation, I reminisced about my school days in Kerala, about how hard my friends had tried to teach me Malayalam (they weren’t quite successful though). I looked at my new roommates and smiled. They smiled back, looking quite cheerful.

Now it is almost two years since I joined this college, which is on the outskirts of Kolkata. I haven’t managed to learn Bengali; maybe I never tried to. But I am undoubtedly fascinated by the sweetness of this language. 

There are many languages I've been hearing people speak, but each time I hear a new language, initially my mind boggles in the futile effort to penetrate the abstruse complexity of the language. 

Living in different parts of the country has given me an insight into how different cultures have blended beautifully with one another. Another advantage is that I can more or less understand a number of Indian languages, though I haven’t really tried to speak any of those, fearing I might mess up the intricate pronunciation.

Also, all of us in our family love excursions. So we’ve literally witnessed the rich spectrum of languages all across. What I could fathom is that each language is beautiful, not only because it represents an amazing multicultural society but also because it is free from any kind of artificiality. 

Greatest story of our generation

CONTRAST...

                                       

Sitting in her opulent air conditioned car, Isha chortled as she watched her favourite comedy show on her iPad. She then glanced at the exorbitant diamond ring that her husband had gifted her the previous day, she smiled. After a while she kept the tab aside, instructed her chauffeur to put on the FM and adjust the AC, as it was getting too cold inside. She was on her way back to her palatial apartment, after having spent two long hours in a posh, overpriced salon, in the heart of the city. She held a hand mirror and looked at the reflection of her fair face and was caught up in self-admiration. Barely did she realize that it was money that gave her beauty and with it, false pride.

As the car drew up at the signal, a fairly young, gaunt woman knocked the glass of the window, trying to sell a few long pens. Her face was blacked by the soot and smoke around, her uncombed hair dropping down to her face. She had draped a grubby, frayed saree.  Rani, was her name. Tied to her with a seemingly old cloth, was a child, hardly a few months old. Rani was bent, burdened…

Initially Isha paid no heed, until again this woman knocked the window and began pleading her, in a vernacular language, to buy at least one of those weird looking, long pens. On Rani’s right was another child of hers, in tattered clothes, cadaverous and undernourished.  He played with one of those pens, trying to draw something on his muddy hand. He had a winsome smile on his sooty face. Rani admonished him and snatched the long pen from his tiny hands. The poor boy began to snivel, looking sad and stunned.

Isha, drew down her window, looked at the small boy and for a moment, sympathized with their predicament. She asked Rani to give her two pens. Rani’s face lit up and she immediately handed over two of those long pens to Isha. She asked Rani how much did it cost. Rani said it was twelve rupees. Giving her ten Isha said, “That should be enough!”.  Rani became disillusioned, and begged Isha for two more rupees. Her request was simply spurned by Isha. Isha, casually replied that she had no change and that ten was more than enough for those tawdry pens.

The traffic light turned green and the driver swiftly drove away the car, with other cars. Over the glass windows of gliding cars, could be seen the reflection of Rani’s disconsolate, dusty face, lost in cogitation.

It was not just Rani, but many men and women, who all day long hovered around the traffic signal, in a desperate effort to sell toys, umbrellas and sundries. All of them were slum dwellers. Behind the selling of such products, was a syndicate. People like Rani, had to report every evening to a head, who collected all the money from them, giving them a very meagre share.

Isha, on her way home instructed the driver to stop at the High Street Phoenix Mall, a five minute drive from the preceding signal, as she ‘felt’ like shopping.

Rani, waited for the red signal and as soon as the automobiles halted, she rushed towards them, for selling her pens. She went from one car to another, yearning for somebody to buy her pens. A very few people did buy a few pens, because of its fancy design but most people in their cars were glued to their smartphones and did not even take the trouble of looking out of their windows. Rani was exasperated by the evening. She felt extremely hungry. Downcast, she left with the day’s earnings to their local head, who collected the money, giving her just modicum of the money, merely fourteen rupees. Rani’s husband was missing from the past one week. Nobody knew where he went.

Isha, after three hours of shopping and spending a hefty twenty thousand, had a sense of gratification. Her driver drove her, to her prodigious house. Taking the lift to the fourth floor, she walked in high heels towards the aesthetically designed door of her house. As she rang the doorbell, one of her five servants opened the door for her. Another servant offered her a glass of water. The house looked picture-perfect. She sat on her comfy couch. On one side of the designer walls was a colossal painting worth five lakh rupees that she had bought the previous week from an art exhibition. The interior designing of her house was done by renowned architects from London. Isha’s husband had just left, a few hours ago for a business meeting in New York. Both her children were in a high class boarding school, in Shimla.

Rani, with fourteen rupees in hand, went with her children to a small shop. She could buy only a small packet of milk powder and two slices of bread. The milk powder costed her ten and each slice of bread, two rupees. Now, that was the value of the two rupees, Isha had refused to pay!  Not having had anything since morning, both her children were screeching. Rani’s old slippers broke midway and she headed barefoot towards her home, located in the most impoverished area of the city- the slums. The overcrowded housing conditions were sordid. It was getting colder. Rani’s home was made of a few bamboo sticks, bricks and tarpaulin. As she entered, there was darkness all around. Darkness was usual now…

Isha’s servants served her an appetizing Italian dinner, as per her orders. She then had a delectable dessert. Her servants completed all the work and left.

Rani mixed the milk powder with a bit of water and fed her young one. She then gave the two slices of bread to her elder son, who was still sobbing due to hunger. He had the two slices hastily, leaving nothing for Rani to have. Rani just gulped in a tumbler of water. On the floor laid an old bedsheet, without a mattress. She sung a lullaby for her children and patted them. They soon fell asleep. She covered them with old jute sacks to protect them from cold. Tears rolled down her dispirited face. Her life had become a dessert…

As Isha lay on her soft and warm bed, she reminisced about the day’s happenings. She felt a sense of pity over the predicament of people like Rani. After a while, she fell asleep…

As Rani lay on the hard, cold ground, she too reminisced about the day’s happenings and her missing husband. She closed her eyes. She just hoped that the next day’s sunrise would bring with it, that light which would annihilate all the darkness in her life…  
                                                                        
                                                                         - Pranjal