The Adventures of Duggal Sahab

The Mr. Duggal or ‘Duggal Sahab’ of the ‘Kshatriya’ colony is the oldest person alive in the neighborhood. He used to work in the local post office in his youth. The children of the neighboring SDM colony were fascinated by his stories. He would tell them all sorts of extravagant stories about a headless ghost, scary pirates, lazy soldier, and a one-eyed dog. The children would come to sit on his porch every evening and on Sundays to listen to his stories. They believed them to be true. Duggal Sahab has a natural flair for telling stories and creating a scene. Children would be so engrossed in his stories that sometimes they would lose track of time and would only go home when their mothers would come searching for them. Duggal Sahab was a magician of words, a master story-teller, a craftsman of tales but more than that he was ‘Moody’. Nobody, in the three colonies, knew the reason for his behavior but they all knew that he was moody. Duggal Sahab would be religious one day; the other day he would be a communist and yet another day he would be a nationalist. His moods and ideology changed with the moon, was the guess of an infamous astrologer of the town. Once, Duggal Sahab became a literary critic and I am quite sure that if Premchand, RK Narayan, or Rabindranath had been alive and heard Duggal Sahab criticizing their works they would, surely, have chosen a different line of work. 

It was evening and the sun was setting down. Duggal Sahab was sitting on a chair on his porch. A band of enthusiastic children came and sat on the stairs near him. As usual, the children expected to hear some interesting stories from their favorite story-teller. 

‘Tell us the story about the one-eyed dog.’ said Mangal Sr. in excitement.

‘No. Don’t tell us Ghost stories. They scare me.’ said little Aditi in fear. ‘Tell me a jungle story.’

‘ I know a story from The Jungle Book.’ shouted Shubham in excitement. ‘ I know its author too. It’s by Ruyard Kilping.’

‘Ruyard Kilping?’ frowned Duggal Sahab. ‘You mean Rudyard Kipling. You mean that fraud- Rudyard Kipling.’ Duggal Sahab's face was red in anger.

‘But I like Mowgli and Bagheera.’ said Myna timidly. She was small but she could sense that Duggal Sahab would not like what she has to say.

‘I like Sher Khan. The mighty Sher Khan.’ announced Mangal and he roared towards little Aditi and scared her. He then laughed at his mischief.

‘Duggal Uncle.’ cried little Aditi in complaint.

‘ If you don’t sit down right now, I will beat the Sher Khan out of you.’ said Duggal Sahab angrily. ‘ I don’t understand these kids and their liking for Mowgli. Rudyard Kipling is a fraud; I am telling you he is.’

‘ Why?’ asked Mangal authoritatively. He wanted to know why Duggal Sahab was so critical of The Jungle Book. It was, after all, his favorite book.

Why? you ask me. Everything is wrong in that Godforsaken book. You tell me, what tiger’s name is Sher Khan? And he named a panther- Bagheera. Baagh is a tiger; Sher means lion. Even kids know that. He must have been high when he was naming his characters. He was firangi, you see, and that’s why he did this. All firangis are fools.’ blasted Duggal Sahab in almost one breath. He paused for a while to catch his breath.

‘But our teacher told us that he was born in India.’ said Myna innocently. She wanted to make sense of what Mr. Duggal was saying but she couldn’t. 

Absolutely nonsense.’ cried Duggal Sahab. ‘For me, he is a firangi.’ he added. Duggal Sahab had a peculiar habit of twisting facts to his advantage. When he would run out of words or arguments he would simply announce For me…it is what I am saying and then there would be no point left in the debate further. You can give a thousand arguments but they wouldn’t really matter because for Duggal Sahab the truth is only what he believes in. Nobody dared raise his voice against Duggal Sahab because of his old age. The other person would simply sigh in despair and leave and Duggal Sahab would announce himself ‘The Winner’.  Myna wasn’t looking for a debate but Duggal Sahab felt that he was being questioned and he used his famous ‘For me’ argument.

‘Okay.’ said Myna. She didn’t want to offend Duggal Sahab.

Duggal Sahab continued, ‘ Rudyard Kipling must have been a communal man because this book is the most communal book I’ve ever come across. A firangi and a communal. God save the kids. The Government should ban this book immediately. I mean, can somebody explain to me why the villain is Sher Khan and not Sher Sharma or Sher Singh or even a Sher D’Souza. And why is a tiger, A Sher? This is an insult to the whole animal kingdom. Imagine how must have people felt reading this book in pre-Independence times. I think this man was the brains behind the infamous ‘Divide and Rule’ policy of the British. Nobody really thinks as to why this is one of the most famous books in the world and why so many movies are made about it, continuously, again and again. I know the reason. Because firangi people don’t want peace in India and that’s why they have popularized this book. This is all a conspiracy.’ Duggal Sahab adjusted his glasses on the nose and wrinkled his forehead. This was his gesture to indicate that he was going to tell something profound.

The kids were awestruck at the seriousness displayed by Duggal Sahab. Obviously, they didn’t understand a word of what he said but they all heard him attentively because they must have thought it was something important. Little Aditi wondered what’s is a firangi and a communal. Mangal knew the meaning of firangi but he was having a hard time remembering the word communal.  Myna didn’t even bother to think about these words. She was thinking about how bad this Rudyard Kipling is what injustice he did with the poor Sher Khan. 

Duggal Sahab said’ Men like Rudyard Kipling are the reason for India’s communal problem. The Jungle Book should be banned and the name of Rudyard Kipling should perish from the memories of the people.’ Duggal Sahab felt like a philosopher. His status had elevated from being a literary critic to a philosopher in his head. And why wouldn’t it, after all, he successfully explained what scholars from generations had struggled to explain. He even provided a solution to the problem. It was obvious that Duggal Sahab wouldn’t face any opposition from these little kids. On the other hand, the children were convinced that Rudyard Kipling must have been a really bad person. 

‘ I would crush his head if I find him.’ said Mangal angrily.

‘ He is dead.’ said Myna in a sad tone. She had every reason to be sad as his hero was, after all, a villain the whole time. She felt cheated.

‘ Good, otherwise I would have killed him myself.’ announced Mangal as he pumped his fist in the air. 

Some other children were quiet the whole time. They, too, were pumped now. One of them suggested that they should hurl slogans against the wicked man. The idea became popular instantly. All of them stood and started shouting,’ Rudyard Kipling murdabad’ (Damnation to Rudyard Kipling)  with Mangal leading the procession. Liitle Aditi was just behind Mangal and Myna was the third in this human train. Other children were behind them.  They all headed towards home shouting the slogan. Mangal thought that the lone slogan is not that effective so he combined it with Duggal Uncle zindabad. Now the slogan was ‘ Duggal Uncle zindabad, Rudyard Kipling murdabad’( Long live Duggal Uncle, Go down Rudyard Kipling). The sun was was almost set and the birds had returned to their nests. The silence of the night was being pierced by the slogans of these little children. Some came out of their house, others peeked out of their windows to see this grand procession.Some of them became nostalgic about their own childhood seeing them. The people of the colony were happy to see their children having such a good time. The children were elated in their own sense. The silent night suddenly burst into activity. The slogans died down eventually. The children returned to their homes. 

Two college students were observing the whole scene from the street. 

‘Who is Duggal Uncle, Is he someone important?’ one asked the other.

The other replied,’ Nah, not important. He is just the oldest person alive in the neighborhood.’

The Girl at the Station

 

I was at Varanasi railway station waiting for my train. I had been there for the last half hour and the busy scenes of the railway station were now boring me. I remembered that my first long-distance trip where my parents allowed me to travel alone was to Varanasi only. I was 17 years old then. I am 25 now and a lot has changed in the city and me since the last time I was here. If you’d ever been to a train station and observed around you’ll notice that there’s a pattern to all the things that happen there. The arrival of a train would charge up the whole atmosphere and people would rush towards the train. The vendors would suddenly come alive and there would be chaos everywhere. As soon as the train left the vendors would return to their stalls and the chaos would descend into calmness. Also, you’d notice that there would always be two or three persons standing near the bookstall gazing through the books but would never buy them. Honestly, I have never seen anyone buying books from a station book-stall.

I was sitting on the bench of platform no.9 waiting for my train. I had a book titled ‘A collection of short stories’ in my hand and I was planning on reading it when suddenly I heard a voice.

‘Ae bhaiya, Ae book wale bhaiya’. I looked in the direction of the voice and saw a little girl standing on the stairs of the overbridge. She must have been 9 or 10 years old. She was dressed sharply; her hair was tied in pigtails with a blue ribbon. Her eyes were big and bright. A lady was standing on her left side, probably her mother. She was holding an infant in her arms and struggling to hold her bags at the same time. The little girl must have noticed the plight of her mother and asked for help.

‘Would you please help us with the bags?’, she asked with confidence. Her mother probably wanted not to ask for help but before she could say anything I stood up and took one of the bags and helped her down.

‘Do you want to sit down?’, I asked the lady.

She replied with a simple nod and I took her bag to the bench where I was sitting. The family settled down on the bench soon. I wanted to ask the lady where she was going but she looked tired. She was sitting on the bench with her head bend back and her eyes closed. She was relaxing. Her child was peacefully sleeping in her arms so I decided not to disturb them. I opened my book and engaged myself in reading.

A little time passed and I noticed that the little girl was bending down trying to see the cover of the book. Maybe she was trying to read the title of the book. Her eyes looked curious and she looked serious.

‘Do you know how to read?’ I asked.

‘Yes, I know. I know how to write a letter too. I learned it in my English class.’, she said with pride. The mother opened her eyes hearing her daughter’s voice. But then closed them soon too. I could understand that the girl was talkative and her mother knew that. It must have been a normal situation for her so she wasn’t worried and went back to relax.

‘Oh! You can write a letter. That’s good.’ I said praising her. She was wearing a frock and I could notice her ankles. The skin around her ankles looked dehydrated and cracked. She caught me staring at her ankles.

‘I have Ghungroo which I occasionally wear in my ankles when I dance.’, she said and lift her ankles to show me where she wears her anklet bells as if I didn’t know what she meant. She was excited to tell me all this and she wasn’t a bit ashamed to show me her dehydrated skin.

With immense curiosity, I said,’ You dance too! Where did you learn to dance?’

She replied instantly, ‘Veena ma’am teaches me. She says I dance very well and one day I would perform all over the world. In America, Japan, Britain, Italy….Umm...All over the world.’

‘You would, surely.’, I said. Her mother was listening to us. She opened her eyes. I looked at her and she smiled.

She said with a faint smile and sadness in her voice,’ This little girl talks so much. She loves dancing so I send her to a local teacher in our neighborhood. There she learned all these videshi names. I am not sure I would be able to afford her dancing anymore but for now, we are making our ends meet.’ And she moved her hand over her head in a loving gesture.

I am not sure whether the girl listened to us or not. She was busy with her thoughts. She was playing with her pigtails when she suddenly asked,’ Do u know how to dance?’

‘I don’t. I am bad at dancing.’, I said. ‘ Would you teach me?’

She thought hard and said,’ I can teach you but you’d have to put on ghungroo first.’

‘Dhatt…’, I said. ‘ Boys don’t put on ghungroo.’

‘ Then I won’t teach you.’ she said and moved his head away from me. She was, maybe, hurt with my refusal. I sensed her anger and said,’ okay! Would you teach me if I give you two chocolates?’

‘Ab hum nhi sikhayenge’, she replied angrily. She was furious.

 ‘Okay, Okay! I would put on ghungroo. Would you teach me now?’ I asked apologetically. For a moment I forgot that I am an adult talking to a kid. It almost felt like I was a kid too.

She again thought hard and said,’ Umm. All right. I will teach you.’ She paused for a while and then again said,’ Maybe we’ll both perform in America, Japan, Britain, Italy. But you have to dance well, just like me otherwise I won’t take you with me. Then you’ll cry but I still won’t take you.’ She was extremely serious when she spoke these words.

There was an authority in his voice. She spoke with command. ‘All right.’ That was all I could manage in my answer. I thought about how this little girl is so much passionate about her dream. Who knows, maybe she would have to drop out of her classes soon but she was unfazed. Maybe she didn’t even know about this, maybe she did. I don’t know. I wondered how she would react when she would have to stop dancing. Her whole world would come crashing down on her feet and unlike adults, she wouldn’t have any philosophical consolation to offer to herself. The world is cruel in this way. How it takes our innocence? I thought.

I lovingly said to her,’ If I couldn’t dance properly and don’t come with you to faraway places, would you remember me?’

She didn’t understand my emotions. How could she? She was just a kid. She didn’t reply. She didn’t know what to reply.

‘Would you write me a letter?’ I asked. ‘You know how to write’.

‘Sure’, she said.

‘ But you don’t know my address?’ I said mockingly.

She smiled and said,’ I will ask the postman.’

‘Postman, What postman?’ I enquired.

‘ A postman comes to our house to give us letters. He says he knows all the addresses in the world.’, she said innocently.

‘Oh! And what if he’s telling a lie?’

‘Why would he?’ she said.

This was such an innocent question. She thinks that the postman has no motive in telling her a lie. Why would anyone lie to anyone? What’s the need? I had no answer to this question. I just sat there silently.

‘You are a little Devi. Do you know what’s a Devi?’ I said after some time.

She was quick to answer,’ I know what’s a Devi. I become Devi once a year when my mom fasts. Then I get many eatables and rupees. I wish I could be Devi the whole  year.’

I wished too that people treat girls like Devi the whole year but I know it’s not possible. This little woman doesn’t need to know that for now.

Suddenly, a loud horn from the train caught our attention. People begin to move towards the train.

‘Chalo beta, it’s time.’, said the lady to the girl. They started to get ready to board. I offered to help them with their luggage. The girl held my hand so that she doesn’t get lost in the rush. The train arrived and they boarded. The girl let go off my hand and went inside the compartment. I felt a gush of emotions through my body. I sat down on the bench again. The girl sat near the window of the compartment. She was just in front of me. I could see her. She looked at me and smiled. I smiled back.

Suddenly I thought of something and pulled a paper from my bag. I immediately write down my address on the paper. At the bottom of the paper, I wrote my credentials ‘BOOK WALE BHAIYA’.  The train started moving. I ran down towards her and gave her the paper.

‘ Would you write me from America, Japan, Britain or Italy?’, I shouted.

She smiled at me and nodded.

I sat down at my bench thinking that maybe in some alternate universe some version of mine would have been courageous enough to stop her from going. I imagined that maybe in my future when the memory of this event would be long gone, I would receive some random letter from America, Japan, Britain or Italy. I would be so happy if it happens. I thought about the time when I was like that little girl; The 17-year-old me, full of energy and passion, ready to conquer the world. Now, I am sitting at the same place but with a lot of philosophical thoughts. Oh, Human! Why do u have to grow? Why do u have to be wise? I felt cheated. I traded my diamonds with iron. Growing up felt like a bad trade.

The rush around me settled. The voices of the vendors died down. I was immersed deep in my thoughts and I was, again, alone at the Varanasi railway station waiting for my train.

The Apple on the Hill

"Yogi needs to chill", said Bodhi to Jogi. Jogi replied, “Hmm, It’s time that we three 

should go on a trip. Its apple season and I’ve heard that apple hill is great this time of the year and if we go there, we could have some tasty apples too”. It was fixed. Yogi, Jogi and Bodhi went to the apple hill. There was a magnificent apple tree just at the bottom of the hill. Bright red apples were shining on its branches. The sunlight actually made them shine and the whole spectacle was too good to go unnoticed. “What a magnificent tree”, said Yogi.  "I bet the apples are sweet too."

“Sweetest I’ve ever tasted”, exclaimed Bodhi. "I once came here before and I was fortunate enough to taste one of the apples and I can bet on my life that these are the sweetest apples in whole of the city."

"Then you’ll die kid", came a voice. They turned towards that voice. There was an old man with long flowing white beard wearing bright robes standing there. He said,”When I was young I used to climb at the top of the hill. There are total 7 apple trees on this hill and I can swear upon my beard that the apple on the hill is the sweetest. At the very top you’ll find the sweetest apple”.

Bodhi and Jogi were not impressed. “This man is probably drunk if not mad. Look at the hill. It’s seems to be in the sky. Who will go there?” said Bodhi casually.

Yogi was quick to answer, "I will”.  He said, "I can tell by his beard that he is not fooling us. I need to taste that apple too.” Bodhi and Jogi weren’t interested in going so Yogi went alone.

He tasted the apple from the tree at the bottom and it was sweet. Yogi hadn’t had an apple this sweet and he couldn’t even imagine that any apple could be even sweeter than this. But he was confident that the apple on the hill is the sweetest. He had full trust on the old man. He started climbing the hill and tasted the apples from other trees but they weren’t as sweet as the apple he tasted before. The climb was exhausting. Yogi felt like giving up but the thought of the sweet apple made him keep going on. Finally he was there. He was at the top of the hill and he could see the tree in front of his eyes. It wasn’t magnificent like the tree at the bottom. In fact, it wasn’t even close to being good. The tree had a very few leaves and it seemed like it was dying. It had pale yellow apples hanging from its branches. “One shouldn’t judge a book by its cover”, he said to himself and proceeded to eat the apple. He ate the apple and immediately spat it out. It was nasty. It was a sour apple. He couldn’t believe what just happened. He tasted many more apples but each one seemed to be even more sour than the previous one. He was devastated. He hurled abuses at the old man. He sweared that he would set the old man's beard on fire once he reaches down. He started his climb down. On his way down he started eating apples from other 5 trees and he felt better. Each one tasted sweeter than the other. His mood was a little bit mended. He came down and finally tasted the apple from the bottom tree again. “Ah! This is the sweetest apple I’ve ever tasted”, he said in delight. The old man was sitting just beside him with Jogi and Bodhi. He angrily approached him and said, "You made me fool. The apple on the top of the hill is the worst. Prepare to die”. "Whoa! Hold on.",  said the old man. He asked,”Did you get the sweetest apple”? 

“Yes, I did. It’s the one from this tree” answered Yogi. "How can u be so sure?",  countered the old man. Yogi replied, "It’s because I’ve tasted every apple from this hill and this tree has the sweetest apple than the others.”

“So, you are saying that after tasting apple from every other tree you arrived on this conclusion?” asked the old man. "Yes.", said Yogi.

“Hmm, so why do u want to kill me? I was the one who sent you up the hill to taste those apples and now because of that you know conclusively that this tree has the sweetest apple.” said the old man.

Yogi thought for a while and said, "You could have just told me this.” 

”Then you would have had the knowledge of it but you wouldn’t have known it. My experience can’t be yours. It’s important that you experience things yourself because then only you can truly know things. What’s important is not just to taste the sweetest apple but to taste the sourest one too. Then only your experience of eating the sweetest apple is full. You see, you and Bodhi both have tasted the sweetest apple but your experience of eating the sweetest apple is superior. Don’t stop at any point. Know everything until there is nothing to be known and then only you’ll be able to know the importance of the apple on the hill.” said the old man and walked off to a nearby cottage.

“This old man is probably drunk if not mad. You were right, Bodhi. He made a fool out of me twice. I will kill him if I see him the next time.” cried Yogi.

Jogi looked at Bodhi and smiled.

"Yogi needs to chill",  they said to each other.

Every Night

Every night I think; every day I see,

The world seems to know myself, more than me.

Why do I do what I do?

What needs to be done to set me free?

The paths of love seemed easy at first,

The time unveiled it was a failed spree.

Misspoken words penetrates layers of the soul,

Why people speak rubbish in the name of reality?

You uncovered everything; still a veil remained,

Would u lift it in future, what’s the guarantee?

A fuss was made to shoo of the birds,

Why one must worry? They will find a new tree.

A wise man said there’s intoxication in vanity,

Then think me not as sober, I am drunken u see.

Who can claim to know its depths?

 A human heart is but a bottomless sea.

Break Me

For years and years i tried;

Waited for a moment to make me truly alive.

Mine wasn't the choice that brought me to the brink,

In the sea of love; i now must dive.

The air of this world suffocates me to death ,

Deep inside this ocean I ,now , would thrive.

Futile are the medicines and the herbs of this world,

The condition of my heart, only her lips would revive.

Ask me not the magnificence of her charms,

Her beauty and grace my verses would describe.

O my lover, hold me in your arms and,

Break me down into the elements five.

O Seer

Tell me, o seer, where do lovers meet?

Where do they sing, dance, joy and greet?

 

The place where even the tears are sweet?

And where you take a step, but, without feet?

Where life hasn't been reduced to a staged plot?

Where thoughtlessness is more important than thought?

Where one wishes to be no one's master?

And where everyone's your servant and that's no disaster.

Where heart is superior to mind?

And where the ultimate value is - to be kind.

Where you find yourself within you

Where love resides, i want to live too....

The Paperboat Song

Wander, if you may,

But don't wander too far away,

In this world of strange people

Who's gonna hear me say, "

Oh, I'm a paper boat stuck in a storm,

I'm a paper boat losing my form,

The rain washed me up on your porch

Pick me up and take me home.

Until now i have survived the fight,

I should rest now, I've earned the right

Like the sunset takes mama bird home

My journey, too, would head home tonight. 

I hear the ringing bells at the church

And to Almighty God i pray

When the rain washed me up on your porch

Did you hear me say,"

Oh, I'm a paper boat stuck in a storm

I'm a paper boat losing my form

I'm a paper boat waiting for you

To pick me up and take me home.

Uninvited Guest

The fishes would be out of water,

The birds ,on the ground, would take rest,

And nothing would seem to matter,

Whatever - worst or best.

The tough circumstances would no longer remain,

And the showers of peace would finally rain ,

One journey would conclude itself,

A new journey would , thereafter, begin.

The soul would surrender to Almighty lord,

And your body will drop all its load,

When it'd be your time to depart,

They both would tread two different road.

And you'd be silent, You'd be numb,

When you'd lay for your final rest,

But dont you wonder when it'll come, 

Coz Death's an uninvited guest.