It had not changed at all. It remained the same old red brick building with a big clock at the top and both sides flowing as far as I could see. The big bazaar of people….with as many going in and as many coming out. All in a hurry, giving no thought to others and in the process running over other’s leg or colliding with other’s luggage. It was like a race, with no time to show pleasantries or express sorrow. Standing in the sea of people were some black coat wearing people trying to find their prized catch, some more were in maroon robes running around to find the person with the bulkiest luggage and many more were having goods either on their head or hanging sidewise making all sort of noises. Randomly scattered were some stray dogs, cats and numerous rats which could not have found a better place than this in the whole city. I took a closer look at the building and though it had got extended, it was equipped with better facilities and looked better and clean. But it was the mannerism of people and aroma of surrounding that had not changed at all. It was the same old “HOWRAH” railway station, even after 5 years-the last time I saw it.
I took my suitcase and was about enter the building, when a person in maroon robes came forward. “Babuji, I am Santhosh.10 Rupees only” said he and took my suitcase over his head. I wanted to snatch it back but a look at his pale face and endearing eyes didn’t allow me to do that. We reached Platform No. 1 and I paid him “10 Rupees” as demanded and although he was having the suitcase over his head, it was I who felt relieved.
It was 3:30 PM and Coal India express arrived on time. I checked S-1 and entered the compartment towards seat no. 9.
“Chai..Chai” announced one and other followed with “ice cream...ice cream”, “Newspaper….taajo khaboor...Magazines”, “locks...Locks”, and “cold drinks…Water bottle” etc. Passing through the narrow labyrinth of seats, I found seat no. 9 and to my surprise, it was already occupied.
I said, “Hello Sir…It’s my seat”.
He was an old man wearing a spectacle with thick glasses. He looked straight into my eyes...maybe trying to destroy my eye sight by conversing his glance through his lenses. “Man, I have not captured your seat….I am not travelling. Can’t you allow an old man to sit on your seat for a while? How mean of you? Today people have no respect for elders. I am here to see off my son Debu who is at seat no.10. I will get off when the train is about to start. Meanwhile, will you mind sitting on the adjacent seat?” thundered the old man.
“Sir Chai?” asked one of the vendors. “Naa baba..chaie naa” protested the angry old man. I took this opportunity to move away from him and got seated to the adjacent seat, waiting for the train to start.
Pooooooonnnnn….siren went out. All started to leave the compartment and to my surprise it got empty. We were left with around 20 people and the same compartment was full to its capacity, just some minutes ago. “Nothing has changed.” I thought.
The train started running to its full throttle after some time. I arranged my suitcase, got into tracks and opened my writing pad that had novel “Maadhyam” by Mehir in its side pocket.
“Hi….I am debojit….I am extremely sorry for my father’s rude behavior” said Debu, extending his hand of friendship.
“Ohhh….no Problem. Old men do get irritated. It was too crowded as well as noisy at that moment” I explained.
“Are you reading ‘Madhyam’ by Mehir” asked Debu, without giving me a chance to introduce myself.
“No…no...Actually I have already read it. It came out as it was kept along with my writing pad” I replied and kept the novel back in the suitcase.
“I have read all his novels…5 so far….Madhyam being his first. In that case...You are junior to me….you need to catch up with the rest to come closer to me….ha ha ha ha” said the proud Debu.
I looked in his eyes and asked whether he was an ardent fan of Mehir. He replied in affirmative and started explaining, “My association with Mehir started when my father presented me his first novel on my 10th birthday. I grew up with his novels. Every 2-3 years…he would publish another novel and I would be the first to get hold of it. I and my father would compete with each other to complete it first.” It was followed with an extended laughing session.
“Even Mehir would be unaware that he had such ardent fans. He may be writing and leaving the rest for others to judge. I think he is a person who gets inspired by some individuals and situations and writes down the same with fictitious names and backgrounds” I added but debu didn’t like this explanation and his face said all.
He protested, “So do all. Writing is all about inspiration and experiences. Even fictions are a work of imagination with a tinge of author’s personal experiences”
I could only agree with him and decided to keep mum.
He continued, “ Mehir has not published any novel for the last few years. ‘Mausam’ was his last. I heard some rumors that he had left writing. He left his home and got settled in a faraway place, away from his past”.
I could see pain in Debu’s eye. Why does a person get attached to other? Debu never meet Mehir but he is as much disturbed and pained for Mehir’s personal life as Mehir himself.
“I have heard that there was a girl in Mehir’s life and she died of cancer. Mehir left everything after her death. If ever I meet Mehir, I would ask him that how could he leave writing? Though it was his personal work, it added fun, inspiration and values to our lives. I grew up reading his novels. I always tried to emulate the characters of his novels. My family would spend hours discussing his work. How can he take such a rash decision of not writing again? Everyone loses someone close during lifetime but does it mean we stop everything and keep mourning? ”, added Debu.
Debu’s reasoning made me blank. I had no words to say and didn’t want to disturb him anymore. I looked outside the window and the train was still running to its full throttle. I calculated that the train would take another 30 minutes to reach Jamshedpur. I could see rice plantation as far as I could. It was the cultivation time. Much of Jharkhand has been industrialized; though there still remains a major chunk of land that is used for cultivation. The sight of farmers working in an open field with the scorching sun running over, gave me strength to reply to debu. I looked back at him and said,” Debu! Don’t be so sad. It’s all an individual’s decision. There are many better writers. You should start reading their works also.”
“But how can a man leave his flourishing career at such a juncture where he was firmly placed for greater heights…..for the aim that he has worked all though his life?” reasoned firm Debu.
“You already have answered that in our conversation. You yourself said that writing was a work of inspiration and experiences. Mehir would have lost his inspiration with the loss of the lady in his life. Attachment is something that surpasses all the boundaries. You can get attached to anybody. These things are beyond any logic...the same as you got attached with Mehir’s novel. Some are strong enough to withstand any losses in their life…for some like Mehir, it is tough to face the non-existence of someone who was his life. They feel their life is meaningless without them and hence like to get lost where there is nothing to remind of them again.” I countered Debu and saw that the train has reached Jamshedpur.
I took my suitcase and was about to leave when Debu intervened, “It was very nice meeting you. I got answers; for them I was searching for years. I think this conversation will end my quest about Mehir and I would pray to God that may Mehir find other inspiration to write again….his writing inspires us”
I left the compartment and was about to leave but Debu shook my hand and said, “I didn’t get a chance to know about you. May I know your name?” with smile on his face.
I didn’t want to answer his question but a glance at his face didn’t allow me to leave. I answered slowly, “ Mehir…..I am Mehir”. I took my suitcase and got lost in the crowd. I could imagine Debu standing at the compartment gate looking at me, stunned. I had no strength to look back. Today, I had found another inspiration to write again. Today onwards I will write for persons like Debu. I am sure even Mehek would be happy with my decision.
