THE FLOATING DIARY (Short Story Journal – 12): MIRZA SAHIB AND HIS POETRY

“Literature is Life!” … I have always believed in this statement. Ever since my schooldays, my love for reading poetry has become stronger with the passage of time. Today I would note down about a little effort that I had promised to undertake for “Mirza Sahib”. It is an effort that would make me a bit happier, perhaps. There are so many unsung talents hidden among the multitudes of this country. This is a humble endeavor on my part to try and do something special for even one of them.

Three years ago, I went on an office sponsored trip to Kolkata. I was on a stringent-timeline two-week assignment for my employer, but I was happy because I always wanted to see the “City of Joy” that is famously referred to as the “Cultural Capital of India”! I admit, the city didn’t disappoint me. I was enthralled by the enigmatic mixture of cultural diversity and the abundance of greenery that surrounded Kolkata. In the month of February, the climate of the city was extremely enjoyable and I especially loved my after-office, evening strolls around the famous “Victoria Memorial Hall”.

During my visit, I stayed in my company’s guesthouse located in the Bhawanipur area, which was at a walkable distance from the gardens at the “Victoria Memorial”. The lush green stretches of open fields, popularly called “Maidaan”, were situated close by and I often went there for grasping some cool breeze after sunset and sat on the concrete benches that girdled the area.   

It is here in “Maidaan”, on one such evening, when I met “Mirza Sahib”! While I sat quietly on a lonely bench under a tree, I saw an oddly dressed old man standing on a small platform and performing something animatedly, while a small crowd gathered around him. I felt a bit inquisitive and went up to the crowd, as the conversation was not audible from where I was sitting. The last faint rays of the setting sun were silently receding and the envelope of darkness was being confronted by the dull glow of the gaslights lit by the vendors and hawkers. As the initial confusion cleared, I focused on the man standing upon the makeshift podium. He was reciting poetry, to be more specific, he was reciting “Shayari”, and I loved whatever he was orating and the manner he was enacting the entire performance.

The entire episode lasted for about thirty minutes and then everybody dispersed after offering meagre alms for the show they just witnessed. I felt pained on thinking that a talented man of this age has to literally beg to earn money in exchange for his brilliance! I left some contribution from my end and went away hurriedly.

Even though I went away, the thought about the old man didn’t vanish from my mind and I returned back the next day, at the same time, to see him again. This routine continued for the next four days and I got more and more engrossed in the talent of the old man. Finally, on the fifth day, I approached him and asked him his name.

“Sahib, I am Salim Mirza.” Replied the old man while I sat beside him after his performance got over and the spectators went away. “I am now seventy-two years old. However, my poetry has the richness of over a hundred years! My forefathers were poets in the court of Emperor Wajid Ali Shah and moved here along with him. I still live in Metiabruz, a mirror city of Lucknow that he created here in Bengal.”

I sat speechless and listened while Mirza Sahib continued, “The legacy faded away many years ago but I have clanged onto it. This Shayari of my bloodline is like oxygen to me and I continue to keep it alive… till my last breath. I don’t know how many more years I will live, but I regret that with my death, this great legacy would also die a silent death!”

There were tears in his eyes and I felt a remorse. The unsung hero, Mirza Sahib, is so very correct. Within a few seconds I made up my mind to do something about it. I asked him, “Mirza Sahib, if you permit, I would like to record your poetry on tape. I don’t know whether I would be able to do anything much, but I will definitely try to spread it across to as many people as possible. This would be my humble effort to keep your talent and heritage alive!”

Mirza Sahib agreed and the next day I purchased a portable voice recorder and over the following few days I recorded his beautiful Shayari. Soon, my day of departure arrived and I bid farewell to Mirza Sahib. I gave him some money as a token of respect and promised him that I shall come back soon. However, I didn’t keep my promise and as I returned back to Mumbai, I got lost in my daily routine and Mirza Sahib went missing from my mind.

Years have passed and among those years, my life has been in turmoil while the thoughts and the promises to Mirza Sahib vanished from my mind. However, today, after three years, I again found the tape recorder and spent the entire evening listening to the beautiful poetry of Mirza Sahib. Tears rolled down from my eyes after I finished listening and I sat wondering about the old man.

I don’t know whether he was speaking the truth about his legacy or his association with the Great Wajid Ali Shah. But something was very pure in him… it was his lovely Shayari. I note down today in my journal that I shall treasure the recorded poetry of Mirza Sahib and at least once, I would try to get it broadcasted over radio so that the country can listen to the lyrical genius. I know it would be a tough job, but I shall make it happen, I promise myself!

After that I shall visit Kolkata, find out Mirza Sahib and tell him, “I am sorry Mirza Sahib that I forgot about you. However, I have done my little part to keep my promise finally.”

I don’t know whether Mirza Sahib is still alive or not, but I trust the almighty that my words would surely reach him, wherever he is.

THE FLOATING DIARY (Short Story Journal – 11): NEIGHBOR, NEIGHBOR!

Let me make a quote… A person’s world becomes special when one is blessed with a GOOD NEIGHBOR! Indeed, my personal experience says, a good neighbor makes life so much easy. This is the reason why my journal would remain incomplete if I do not write about this special being… My Neighbor! Even though my above words might sound a bit satirical, what I am about to write is absolutely true and represents a subtle comedy that destiny often plays on fellow mortals. Thus, I note down this unique mention about this subject today, so that when my memory vanishes, I would have a reason to laugh out loud and feel good about life again!

A few months ago, the empty apartment opposite to that of mine, got a new occupant. Mr. Surrinder Chhabra, a single unmarried man in his mid-fifties moved into the two-bedroom apartment along with a bunch of vintage furniture and a huge collection of books. Being an inherent lover of storybooks, I became naturally attracted to this otherwise elderly gentleman. Two days after his arrival, I knocked on his door and opened a conversation, to break the ice! Mr. Surrinder Chhabra appeared to be a sober man, but somewhat reclusive by nature. However, he was courteous enough to invite me inside his apartment. I spoke about various things and in return learned that Mr. Chhabra got recently transferred from Dehradun! This was again another startling information as the name “Dehradun” brought fresh memories from my childhood. That evening, we spoke for about fifteen minutes and I retired after inviting Mr. Surrinder Chhabra to my place the next day.

Over the next few days, Mr. Chhabra and I became quite well acquainted with each other. I asked my newspaper boy, Arun, to deliver his daily quota of newspaper as well. In return to my courteous friendliness, Mr. Chhabra offered me to lend books from his huge collection. He felt pained when he heard about my impending amnesia and encouraged me with his reassuring words. A sweet bond of neighborly friendship developed and I felt happy to get him as the man next door who is always happy to help.

Two weeks passed without any interruption and time moved on in its normal pace. Then, the thing happened! I knew Mr. Chhabra was not home for a few days as his door remained locked throughout day and night. I felt a bit awkward that the man went away without letting me know where he was going. Then again, I pondered that it was too much of an expectation from my end, from somebody whom I had only known for a couple of weeks only.

One morning, Arun knocked heavily on my door, while delivering the newspaper. It was about six-twenty by the clock and I was startled by the manner of the knocking. It was Arun’s usual habit to knock lightly on the door, after delivering the newspaper. But this was something else. The knock was more like a distress call and I hurriedly opened the gate. As I unlocked the door, the boy rushed inside, almost pushing me aside, and closed the door behind him with a bang! There was a clear expression of shock in his face and he was sweating profusely! I was confused and asked him the reason for his anxiety.

Arun replied in a tone of complete shock, “Sir, Mr. Chhabra is a g-g-g-ghost! I think something supernatural is happening ever since his return!”

Unable to believe his words, I asked Arun to explain further. He continued, “Sir, every morning, at dawn break, I deliver newspapers to the apartments in this building. Mr. Chhabra never picks up his newspaper, but keeps his door semi-locked so that I can drop it inside his apartment. I had been doing this ever since he moved in. Through his semi-locked door, every morning, I can see him sitting beside the window in his rocking armchair and looking outside. The last few days, after his return were no exceptions to this. However, while going down in the elevator, one day, I saw something! I saw someone walking up the stairs! In the dim morning sunlight, I saw Mr. Chhabra walking up the stairs like a stone apparition! He stared blankly at me with large red eyes. The first day I thought it was a mistake of my vision, but the same thing happened for the last three days! I am so scared sir!”

I didn’t have words after hearing this discourse. A chill ran down my spine too. However, I gathered courage, held Arun’s hands tightly and went outside. I knocked on the door of Mr. Chhabra’s apartment while Arun stood behind me like a ghost himself. The door opened and Mr. Chhabra came out and stood in front of us with large red eyes and a blank face. His voice asked in a heavy baritone, “WHAT DO YOU WANT? WHO ARE YOU?”

I must admit that at that very moment, I felt scared too on hearing the voice but controlled myself. I didn’t know what to say. I was speechless! Before anything else happened, somebody else emerged from within the apartment and stood in front of us. To my utter surprise, it was another Mr. Chhabra!

Arun shrieked, “GHOST! GHOST!” while I held his hands firmly. Just then, the second Mr. Chhabra broke into a fit of laughter while the rest of us stood helplessly.

As the air cleared, I understood what was happening while the second Mr. Chhabra spoke, “No Arun! There is no ghost! This is my twin brother, Paramveer Chhabra! I went to visit him in Surat and had brought him here to stay with me for a few days!! I am terribly sorry, if the identical looks have caused any confusion and anxiety to anybody!”

Both Arun and I understood whatever had happened and I too broke into a fit of laughter. The person whom Arun had seen as an apparition was actually the twin brother of Mr. Chhabra who went for morning walks every day, but didn’t recognize the newspaper boy. Arun made a weird face after understanding his foolishness and quickly went away after apologizing, while Mr. Chhabra introduced me with his twin brother.

****

Mr. Paramveer Chhabra has gone back to Surat and our lives have also moved into the normal routine. However, it is important for me to note down this funny incident here today so that even if my amnesia erases the memory of this “Comedy of Errors”, I shall not fall a victim to this mirror image of my beloved neighbor’s sibling… again!

It is so very true; a person’s world becomes special when one is blessed with a GOOD NEIGHBOR! Indeed, a good neighbor makes life so much easy. I feel lucky that I have Mr. Chhabra as my prized neighbor.

THE FLOATING DIARY (Short Story Journal – 10): HASNUHANA

Dreams are important. They shape the human soul within us. It is important to keep them alive, even though they might be someone else’s dream! Before my amnesia wipes off my memory, I want to capture one such dream in my journal, so that I can dream it again! Yes, I might sound a bit weird, but I have a dream that my father dreamt many years ago, and I want to fulfil it.

Today, while fiddling through the unused drawers of my wardrobe, I found something really precious. It is my father’s prized camera! It is a vintage “Yashika” motor-wind film camera! Baba bought this camera when I was thirteen years old and has been his favorite companion for many years. In all our holidays, in all our excursions, this camera had always been an inevitable part of the journey. I must say that I have inherited two of my biggest hobbies from my Baba. One is gardening and the second is traveling. Ever since we moved to Mumbai, Baba had taken me to different interesting places during our vacations. Every year we backpacked and traveled to various unconventional places. During these trips, Baba would enthusiastically show me things and teach me lessons, that have become an integral part of my character. The love for trekking steep rocky terrains, the joy of bathing in a forest fountain, the urge to see the sunrise amid sand-dunes, everything has percolated into my soul through the eyes of my father. Baba had a passion for photography. Even though he was an amateur, I always thought that the photographs he clicked were extremely good. He could maneuver his favorite “Yashika” like a pro and I grew up watching him with eyes full of appreciation. Every child should idolize somebody, and for me it was my Baba.

When I was fifteen years old, my father brought home a “Hasnuhana” plant and asked me to nurture it. He said, “Pravin, if you take good care of this plant, soon it would present you with beautiful night blossoms whose fragrance would make every day of your life special!”

I obeyed his orders and took good care of the plant. It grew well, and soon reached a decent size at a corner of our garden. I felt happy to see the content in Baba’s eyes, however I was yet to receive the present from the plant. Buds arrived in the branches and my heart sprang with happiness and I waited eagerly for them to bloom. Then, one morning, as the dawn broke, I opened my eyes amid an ethereal fragrance that filled my entire room, which was just beside the garden. I rushed outside and saw the beautiful white blossoms that had bloomed overnight and had filled the air with their sweet fragrance! Baba stood beside me and patted on my shoulder. I felt happy and hugged him.

About three years ago, my father planned a vacation for us. He had already retired from his job and had transformed himself into an intrepid traveler, along with my mother, his constant companion! This time, the plan was to visit Lachung Valley, in Sikkim, where Baba’s best friend Haroun uncle lived. I took leave from office and the three of us embarked upon our journey. Sikkim didn’t disappoint us. The beautiful mountains, the snowcapped peaks and the exotic flora and fauna of the hills overwhelmed our minds and souls. Here too, Baba carried his favorite “Yashika”! The entire experience of our tour through the natural beauties of North Sikkim still remains fresh in my mind!

In Lachung Valley, we stayed at the private bungalow of Haroun uncle, in the outskirts of the township. From the small garden in the front of the single-storied bungalow, we could see the beautiful snowy peaks of the huge mountains! The view was enthralling and the air was fresh. It was a perfect place to rejuvenate one’s body.

One morning, Baba took out a packet and went to the garden. I followed him and saw him planting something. Baba looked at me and said, “Pravin, I am doing an experiment. In this alpine soil and climate, I am introducing a Hasnuhana plant! I believe, this one would survive here, in the wild and when we come back after a few years, we would see the beautiful white blossoms blooming here!”

Both Haroun uncle and I had our doubts about the success f this endeavor but Baba said, “After four years I shall come here and with my camera I would click a photograph of a fully grown Hasnuhana plant in full bloom! Haroun, promise me that you would take good care of this fledgling and help me realize this dream!”

Haroun uncle nodded in agreement and so did his young gardener, Umang Singh. I could see an excitement in the eyes of Umang that gave me the confidence that he would keep his words, whatever happens. Soon, the vacation came to an end and we returned back to Mumbai. Over the next few months, Haroun uncle often telephoned us and provided enthusiastic information about how the Hasnuhana was growing up! Baba was indeed correct! The Hasnuhana did survive in the alpine soil of Sikkim. As time moved on, the frequency of the phone calls reduced further and topic faded away from our minds. However, Baba didn’t forget his dream and often told me about his plans to visit Lachung valley and click the picture of his favorite Hasnuhana.

Two years ago I lost Baba and Maa in the fateful accident and the same year Haroun uncle also passed away! My world has also been in the middle of a whirlwind as the wretched amnesia attacked me. Yet, today as I sit here with my Baba’s favorite “Yashika” in front of me, I want to make a promise to myself in writing. In the next two years, it would be four years since we visited Lachung valley and it would time to keep my Baba’s words!

I would have to go to Lachung valley, and visit Haroun uncle’s bungalow, which now belongs to his nephew. I know, Umang the young gardener would be waiting for me. I saw that promise in his eyes that day. I would click a picture of the Hasnuhana in full bloom. My Baba’s dream would be complete when I would print this picture and keep it beside the photograph of Baba. That day would be one of the most special days of my life!

Indeed, dreams are important. They keep us alive. Even though Baba is no more, his dream is alive in me. I must dream this dream and make it come true. The blooming Hasnuhana in the alpine soil of Sikkim, with the ecstatic fragrance of its blossoms awaits my arrival, for Baba and his favorite “Yashika”!