A Story of All, disclaimer: any resemblance to living or dead is pure coincidence

“Alla Hu Akbar Allahhhhhhhhhhhh” announced the mikes fitted on the pillars of the village mosque. “Its 5:30 AM” whispered Juman Miyan and left his bed, took the lotta (a steel utensil filled with water) kept under the bed and left for field. It has been the routine for Juman Miyan for last 50 years. He would wake up early and go directly towards his fields. Once he is complete with field’s inspection and has attended to nature’s call, he would reach the bridge over the river that flows by the village. The bridge is situated in the north-east corner of the village and acts like a gateway for the village. Many respected elders of the village would have reached the bridge by the time Juman arrives. Babu Kamaldev Singh would share national news that he had heard in 6:00AM bulletin on his radio. He would be chewing a long daatun (villager’s brush) in between his teeth. Others would sit surrounding him from all side. Govind Mahato would pass some comments on every news and would be continuously staring at the bank of river where many children would be playing and doing their morning chores, occasionally scolding someone who has gone deep into the river. It was a daily routine for the entire village’s elders.

“Election dates have been announced. It would be held next quarter in four phases” informed Babu Kamaldev Singh and chewed his daatun for a longer duration. It gave some time to Govind Mahato to pitch in with his comments, “kya karna?..These elections do no good to us but the politicians. Our life has always been the same” and shouted at a boy who had swam up to middle of the river.

“Naah….this time we will make sure that promises made by the politicians are fulfilled after the election” added jumman Miyaan

“ Ohhh Jumman…nothing will happen. We have repeatedly been promised roads and electricity but I think we would not be able to see good roads and electricity in our life time” said visibly sad Kamaldev Singh and other elders nodded in unison.
“Don’t lose hope Kamaldev babu. Last time MLA saab fulfilled his promise and opened a primary school in our village” said confident Jumman Miyaan.

“School with no teacher….It has two teachers who never bother to visit” added Govind Mahato.

“ acha bhailog…I am leaving. I need to go to fields” informed Kamaldev Singh and took out the daatun from his mouth and went towards the river for bath.
“Hmmm..even we would leave” echoed all the elders and meeting was off.

Jumaan Miyaan returned home after completing all his remaining morning chores along the bank of river and shouted for meal. His daughter Razia came out with water and plate full of meal. He ate and left for fields with his pair of oxen. Villagers generally have three meals a day- one before going to field, in the field and the last before going to bed. Their meals are quite heavy and their hard work justifies it.
“Hoorhhhhh………hothhhhh” Juman Miyan kept shouting and maneuvered his oxen through the labyrinth of village’s narrow passage like an expert, occasionally sharing pleasantries with others, lazily sited on the front of their house. Village was like a big family where one knew all and Juman Miyan never felt alienated even when he was following Islam in a Hindu majority village.

“ Kaaki!! I am not going to leave you this time, you will have to prepare the delicious for me this dussara” informed Juman to the mother of Babu Kamaldev Singh, who was 80 years old, on his way.

“Naah…….I will not prepare anything this time. I am too old now. I have brought daughters-in-law who are good cook. I hope they will prepare delicious food for you” said kaaki and inquired” If you are going to your fields…bring some fresh chana for me”
“ offcourse kaaki but you have more chana planatation than me. I am a small farmer compared to you son babu kamaldev singh” said Juman and laughed heartily.
“No...No…your chana are the tastiest” countered Kaaki and Juman noded and maneuvered his oxen towards his field.

Kaaki would always ask Juman to bring chana from his fields, though she had more chana plantation than him and he would always bring a bunch of fresh chana plants for Kaaki every evening. This gesture was an emotional act as Juman’s mother and Kaaki were very good friends and Kaaki looked after Juman like a mother when Juman’s mother died. It was a mother son relation, not by the birth but heart.
Juman had been living in this village since childhood. His father was posted in the local post office and though he originally belonged to Bengal, it has become his home since then. He was the only son of his father and fathered only daughter Razia before his wife died while giving birth to their second child. Memories of his wife and commitment towards his daughter Razia never allowed him to marry again. His income from his small land holding was enough for the survival of two member family. He would save some money every year for Razia’s marriage. That was the sole aim of Juman Miyan.

“Once Razia gets married, I can die peacefully” Juman had repeated this sentence many a times to fellow villagers and all would agree. In a patriarchic society like India girl child is always looked upon as a disadvantage and their marriage is one burden that bothers her father from day one.

Razia would play with other children when Juman worked in field. She would be in babu kamaldev singh’s home for the whole day, playing with babu kamaldev singh’s children. Juman would take her back while returning in the evening. Her best friend was Mehir, son of babu kamaldev singh. They would roam aimlessly around the village with other children, occasionally stealing mangoes from other’s orchid. Mehir would always keep the best mangoes for Razia and carry her on his arms when she got tired.
Days passed and Razia blossomed into a beautiful girl and Mehir joined Armed forces. They would meet occasionally whenever Mehir was on leave. Mehir would tell fascinating stories of armed forces. They were inseparable and shared all their secrets. Mehir would tell how he managed to escaped from his camp to watch movies and Razia would share her secret about her visit to Mela without Jumman’s knowledge.
That had been a tough day in field. The left boundary that separated jumman’s fields from others gave away and the all the standing water for rice plantation from neighbour’s field entered jumman’s field which he had not even been ploughed completely. He tied the pair of oxen in the mango tree planted at the corner of the field and started blocking the cracks in the banking. It took quite a long time and by the time he reached village it was dark. Jumman directly went to home but Raiza don’t reply even after repeated shouting. He tied oxen to naad( a big conical shaped earthen material made object in which cattle eat) and put some hay with water in it. Razia didn’t come back by then.

“She must be at babu Kamaldev singh’s home. Mehir has come back and she is always with him. They are still children” thought Jumman.

He washed himself and ate some morning roties that were kept near the chullaha. “Ohhh..this girl has not even prepared food today. Its limit now. I will scold her ….every time gossiping with one or the other…how long will it go” thundered Jumman and left for babu kamaldev singh’s home with bunch of chanas that he had brought for kaki.

There was something different today. It was dark and none of the homes had put laltern (light) on the terrace. It was all very silent and he found none on the road. All dark….no shouthing…..even the dogs were missing from road…..”I hope everything is alright. Has someone passed away that the village seemed to be engulfed in sorrow” thought Jumman and his hearth skipped a bit with this thought. Tense and fearful …he started taking big steps and was worried about Razia. “Where is she? Can’t she be at home...Why does she keep on roaming all over the village…..but what can she do? How can one leave all day in a lonely home?” kept thinking Jumman...he was full of worry and reached kamaldev singh’s home.
It was full dark and its doors were closed. This was the first time he found kamaldev singh’s house so deserted. “Kamaldev babu…….kamaldev babu” shouted Jumman but got no reply. “Razia….Razia”..again no reply. Jumman got worried and started patting on the door.

“Jumman…Jumman…don’t make sound and come here. Have anyone seen you coming here?” asked kaaki slowly from the side window’s small crack.

“No..No kaaki but where have all gone? I found no one on road...It’s all deserted. What has happened? Why are you inside? Where is razia?” inquired worried Jumman and wipped off sweats from his forehead and offered the bunch of chana that he has brought for her.

“wh…Jum….Jumman” said kaki and started crying inconsolably. Jumman was standing puzzled and blank.

“What happened kaki…don’t worry….let me know everything “assured Jumman.

“It’s all over Jumman. Sab khatam ho gaya……all have become devils” said kaki and signaled Jumman to stand behind the pillar so that none could see him.

“Elections were announced yesterday and today’s afternoon news bulletin announced that Jairam Pandit, leader of opposition party was killed while campaigning. This lead to rumor that it was done on the behest of other religion’s fanatics. This news spread like a wildfire and local police office was burnt and local tailor, bakery and madarsaas run by people of other religious faith were burnt and owners murdered. This lead to brawls all over between two community and Govind Mahato who was returning from his fields unaware of the development, was murdered” informed kaki and again started crying.

“Thanks kaki….You saved Razia. Please keep her with you. I will take her back when the things are back to normal” said relieved Jumman.

Kaki could not stop crying and said,” I’m sorry Jumman. Mujhe maaf kar de mere bête……….Razia came running to me in the afternoon and I kept her inside the house. Mehir and Kamaldev returned after an hour and were volatile and had death on their head. They just had been informed about Govin mahato’s killing and at once they saw Razia, he attacked her. I could not do anything Jumman. Mehir kicked out Razia once he had his revenge. Razia, shocked and betrayed, jumped into the well.”

Jumman felt vacuumed and blank. He had no remorse, no hatred and had no fear. He stepped back and walked away.

“Jumman…don’t go my child…they are searching for you. They have gone towards your field. …jumman..jumman” cried kaki.

Jumman was walking but didn’t know where to go. He was not weeping….the tears had dried down. Razia in no more…..Mehir ..Mehir did that to Razia who was like his younger sister. They were best friends. Allahh….is this you world? Images of past, of Razia playing with mehir, Kamaldev singh cajoling Razia…..were passing though his conscience. Jumman kept on walking aimlessly...praying to meet one mob which could free him of all his pain and trouble. He reached home and freed his pair of oxen. They gave Jumman a surprised look and continued eating from the naad. Jumman walked ahead and had no sense of his where about. He reached bridge and could hear the jingles of water flowing beneath.

The reflection of stars in river seemed as the stars are flowing on earth. One of those stars resembled Razia and tears started flowing. He cried inconsolably. He cried for Razia, for all who lost their life to satisfy the greed of politicians, he cried for himself, he cried for Mehir, for kaki, for Babu Kamaldev Singh and for humanity.

Two days later, an unidentified body was found on the bank of river in the nearby village. Police asked babu kamaldev singh to come for identification. Babu kamaldev singh identified the body and said, “It’s of Jumman Miyan, a co-resident of my village.”

Simultaneously, “Alla Hu Akbar Allahhhhhhhhhhhh” announced the mikes fitted on the pillars of the village mosque.

The Journey

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.

Ek Subah Ek Gadhe Saath- A Poem

आज मेरी एक गधे से मुलाक़ात हुई,
आ खरा हुआ सामने, जाने ऐसी क्या बात हुई?
मैंने उसको निहारा, करीब जा के उससे बोला- " भाई गधे!,
क्यों रोका मेरा रास्ता? क्या मेरे से कोई घात हुई?"
गधे ने पहले मुझको घुरा, फिर धीरे से मुझ से बोला-" हे मनुष्य!,
जब काट डाले जंगल, छीन लिए मेरे घर तब तो विकाश की बात हुई|
अब मैं किधर जाऊ? कहाँ से जंगल उगाऊं?"
गधे की बातों मी था दम, मुझे लगा मेरे आकरें ही हैं कम|
कुछ देर यूं ही खरा रहा, खामोश सा बना रहा|
रुक कुछ पल मैं बोला-" गधे!, मनुष्य को क्यों दोष लगाता है?
यह तो भगवान् का वरदान है जो जनसंख्या बढ़ता जाता है"
गधे ने भी कमर कासी, हामी भर मुझे से बोला- "बढ़ते जनसंख्या पे
रोक क्यों नही लगाते हो? क्यों दिनभर टीवी पे गला फार कंडोम कंडोम चिलाते हो?"
गधे ने हुंकार भरी, आंखों मी आँखें डाल मुझ पे धिकार भारी|
मैं भी कैसे जाता हार? दिल दिमाग की दौड़ लगा गधे को नीचे दिखाने की चाल चली|
मैं बोला-तू मुझे क्या सिखाता है, ख़ुद तो गधा कहलाता है| हस्ते हैं सब तुझ पे
और तू बोझ डाले चुप चाप चलता जाता है|"
जान अपनी जीत मैं अपने ऊपर इतराया|
देख मेरी ओर गधा भी मुस्कुराया और बोला- माना हँसते हैं सब मुझ पे,
पर तू क्यों इतराता है, ख़ुद के काम को दूसरो को दे सताता है|
काट डाले जंगल, जानवरों को गुलाम बनायाऔर नस्ट कर दिया पृथ्वी को|
ख़ुद तो मरेगा ही, क्यों हमे भी मारने पे तुला है?"
गधा लड़ने को था उतारू, फिर मैंने बगले झांकी
देख आती इन्फोस्य्स की बस को, गधे के बगल से रास्ता निकाली|
गधा देखता रहा जाते मुझको और फिर बरी सी हुंकार मारी|
उस घटना से आह़त 'मुकुल' ने भी बस मे कविता की कुछ पंगतिया लिख डाली|

Do or Don't - A Short Story

“Naani, Today I will go inside that Khandahar (Old House)” said Mehir.
“Which Khandahar?” asked Naani.
Mehir replied, “The one that lies behind our school. I have heard many stories about it from my friends. I will check whether they are right or not”
“Buddu(Fool)!! Don’t ever try to enter that Khandahar. Bhoots (Ghosts) reside there. They will kill you and make delicious food out of your parts.” Informed worried Naani, Mehir’s Maternal Grandmother.

These sentences were enough to frighten Mehir and he vowed never to go to that Khandahar. Naani felt worried about Mehir’s adventurous nature. She was looking after Mehir as his parents lived in a village and he was sent to his maternal family, living in the city, for studies. But every day Mehir would do something that would frighten Naani about his safety. Even today she knew that there was no ghost in the Khandhar but felt it safe to frighten him as the old khandhar might be filled with snakes and insects. She thought it safe to keep him away.

Mehir would always pass through the Khandahar while on his way to school…looking closely at it. He would see the mosses all around it. Trees had grown over its walls. The open space infront of it was full of grasses and many small plants. The house was in complete mess. “Why do the bhoots like to live in such a dirty place?” wondered Mehir.

He could not keep his eyes away from the Khandahar whenever he passed through it. He would try to imagine its interior. He would concentrate hard to hear voices from inside. He was attracted towards the mysterious Khandahar but the fear of bhoots would not allow him inside. It was always “DO or DON’T”. He would choose later. It became a daily routine.

The interest in Khandahar kept on increasing day by day. Not a day passed without some new stories being heard about it. Time washed away the fears that were instilled in him by Naani and one fine day Mehir decide that it was enough now, he would go inside the Khandhar today.
He asked his friends that he needed to collect some copies form teacher’s room and would not join them when the school closed. He left alone after some time. The road was empty. He walked fast as he wanted to go inside the Khandahar before somebody could sense his plan. When he reached the Khandahar, a wave of shrill passed through his veins. He controlled his fear and zoomed inside it. By the time he got back to his senses, he was inside it. It was dark. He recaptured his composer and started walking in the darkness. He heard different noises. He kept on moving slowly and suddenly saw red light coming out of one of the rooms. Loud noises were coming from inside. He wanted to run away. He could remember all the words of advice from his Naani. He was sweating. His hands were shaking. He could not walk an inch.

“It will be safe if I look inside the room by hiding myself” thought Mehir. He moved ahead slowly. The noises got louder. He hides himself behind the doors and when he was assured that nobody could see him, he peeps inside the room. The noises were getting irresistible. Finally, when he managed to get a clear view, he was stunned by what he saw. “Ohhh...my God!! Naani was right.” A large flame was burning at the centre of the room. Big monsters were sitted around it and small children were being fried in the fire. Fear gripped his soul. He decided to run away.

Thuddd….Mehir felt something on his shoulder. He looked up…It was a monster looking at him happily. He asked,”who are you?” Mehir fainted.

When he got onto his senses, he was lying on a dirty floor. His hands and legs were tied. A monster was sharpening his kataar(Sickle) in front of him. He sensed his end. He was fully soaked in water due to excessive sweating. He applied all his strength but could not free himself. He started crying. He wanted to run. Mehir promised...”God… Help me! I would never come back here again.” The monster was coming nearer…his eyes were red…Mehir saw his death floating there. As Monster raised his kattar, Mehir closed his eyes.

Dhammm……..Mehir opened his eyes and saw fan running over the roof. He touched his body. He was alive. He was sweating viciously. “Ohhh..it was a bad dream” assured Mehir. He recollected himself and had water from the fridge. He felt better. He moved out of bedroom to balcony. The cool breeze calmed him down. He felt relaxed.

Standing in the balcony of his flat, Mehir’s memory went into the afternoon in college last Friday. Memories of that Afternoon in college filled his senses …the lunch followed by those routine chats with friends and then, on his way back … fight with Mehek… when all those smaller frustrations, those bits n pieces of anger which somehow had got stagnated inside found a way to erupt … taking such a strong force which threw the instant caution of the mind and the deepest love of the heart in to the wind

“Who was wrong?” he thought. Quite possibly no one.

Many a time one’s expectation outweighs other’s act and hence it gets complicated. He was aware that he might be talking to Mehek for the last time. He knew that Mehek would not meet him again, pained by his behavior. He had expected Mehek to go wild at him but she was as cool as ever. She heard him silently and moved away slowly.

But everything we do, does come back at us… just the form in which they come remain a mystery – and here it came, with all its cruel claws at him – the effects of those bits n pieces of stupidity trying to take away all that genuine feel and all that abundant care weighing on his heart, away from him. It was the same Mehir who fought with Mehek well aware of the outcome and then suddenly in midnight he was feeling bad, that too after a week.

“Why is it so?” he wondered. Maybe that dream had a message for him.

He never met Mehek after that incident. He had anticipated the outcome of the fight but then again he did it. It was again “DO or DON’T”. This time he had chosen the former. Naani had warned him never to go to that Khandahar but he went and found himself in danger. He could now decrypt the dream. He fought with Mehek well aware of the outcome and again he is in mesh today. He felt choked. An urge to call Mehek and say “Sorry” came but….he knew that she would never receive the call.” It’s all over” whispered Mehir. He looked into the sky. It was a beautiful moon in a cool night. A lonely night. He could remember Mehek going away. Will she look back again? That might never happen. Mehir closed his eyes and took a deep breath. His eyes were moist. He wished it was also a dream.

THE SPHERICAL WORLD:WHATEVER THAT SEEMS TO BE MOVING AWAY, IS ACTUALLY COMING BACK TO THE ORIGIN.

It was nothing unusual for that day. It was not a festival, no one was getting married and I didn’t come first in the class. But our house had a festive look. The scent of newly painted walls was present all over the place. It was neat and clean everywhere. The bed wore new bed sheet, window curtains were clean and the room was dust free. The dampness of the soil made it cool all around. The whole family waited anxiously in the open varanda of our ancestral home. We were waiting for my grandfather who was coming home after a long time from his work place, kolkata.

This was a routine affair for most of the families in our village. This was the day when we would anxiously wait for the head of the family to return to our ancestral home after every six months or so. It was a common norm in those days that the earning member would be living in the city and the other members of the family would remain in village itself.
Situation changed with generation and when my father moved to the city, he brought us along with him. We would visit village during vacations and festivals.
The life of village was totally contrasting to the city life. The silence of the village, the loving neighborhood, the nights spent on daadi’s lap, days spent in fields and summer in mango orchards……………list goes on. There was no electricity, no TV, no pizzas and no cinema hall. But those were the best days of my life. Daadi’s stories were more enjoyable than the TV serials, Ramlal’s samosas were tastier than pizzas, the starry nights on rooftops were cooler than ACs, and the hand pump water was warmer than the geysers. That pure and serene beauty of a typical Indian village mixed with the innocence of childhood makes those days quite irresistible today.

I have been living in cities for some decades now,. With the time, the life of cities has changed a lot. It has become quite costly. The population has increased quite considerably. Indian cities have become the most populated cities in the world. In addition to that increased living standards of people here have led the land prices to skyrocket. The two room flats that were affordable for middle class families are out of range for a well paid citizen today .The loan facilities provide a helping hand but the high interest rates make sure that we remain in their clutches for quite some time.

If this shooting of real estate prices continues, I foresee a future where we would be forced to move our family back to our ancestral homes in villages and live single in cities to save money and sustain family. I can imagine my next generation waiting for me as anxiously as, I used to do for my grandfather.
I pause and think for a while:
Are we moving away from our past or getting closer to it? Is History repeating itself?
I must say this is a spherical world: Whatever that seems to be moving away, is actually coming back to the origin.