CHANDU BABU KE JOOTE

chandu babu's shoes
(चन्दू बाबू के जूते)

He had held the newspaper-wrapped packet close to his chest all the way to Hazratgunj during that half an hour ride in the green auto-rikshaw. It was quite hot that late april evening.

Weaving impatiently  through the jaywalkers in Hazratgunj, he arrived out of breath at the air-conditioned shoe-store and proceeded to the cash counter. The sales manager was attending to a lady and he waited.

The manager turned to him with a clinical smile after handing over the cash receipt to the lady.

"These are the shoes I bought only three months back", he complained in his typical nasal tone as he unwrapped the packet, "and look here! The left shoe upper is already losing shape."

The manager closely inspected the soles and the uppers and frowned. These shoes had been very roughly used without much polishing and the soles were wearing out fast.

" Yes there is a slight stretching in the upper leather here", the manager observed.  "It happens on account of the way one walks and with constant heavy use. The shoe is strong. No problem!".

Chandu babu was not prepared for this kind of a "no problem" response. The problem was certainly there and this fool was taking it lightly ! He had expected that his shoes would be promptly replaced with brand new shoes. When he suggested a replacement the manager raised his eyebrows, gave a mocking smile and told him that it was absolutely out of the question.

"There is no such provision", he emphatically said, " After all, it is heavily used pair with no warranty period at all". And then he ignored him completely and turned to attend to another customer who had, meanwhile, materialised at the counter.

Chandu Babu was a weather-beaten secretariat bird who had been  waging wars on files for donkeys years. "Usko file par aisaa mara... (I gave the bloke such a hiding on a file) ki vo zindagi bhar yaad rakkhega ( that he will not forget it for the rest of his life"  this he used to say and he firmly believed that " the pen is mightier than the sword". Here he saw an opening of another paper-war coming and was fully prepared for it.The next day he opened a brand new file marked "Replacement of shoes" on the cover and shot out a long letter in Queen's english (marking it IMMEDIATE) to the Head Office of the shoe company in Calcutta. He highlighted the irresponsible attitude of shop manager in Hazratgunj and asked for a quick replacement of shoes in order to  "save the reputation of your famous company".

The reply was prompt and business like.

"We regret that as a matter of policy a replacement for a used pair of shoes is not done by the company in the normal course of business. However, If you still so wish, you may send the shoes to us for our inspection entirely at your own cost and risk.If the problem is related to any manufacturing defect, the shoes can be replaced"

He was happily sipping tea on return from office when I visited him that evening.

" Good news !" he exclaimed and showed me the letter. That day he gave me two big pieces of sweets in addition to tea.

"If they simply return your old shoes, that will be a waste of substantial money on a two-way parcel. I don't think they are not going to replace these shoes", I said . His facial expression changed and showed that he did not relish my remarks. He  looked at the two chunks of sweets in my plate and seemed to regret having given them to me. I hurriedly ate them to pre-empt any move to deprive me of the sweets!

The next day I was at the main post office for buying postage stamps when I spotted him coming out of a crowded counter. He had already parcelled the shoes and was excitedly waving the post-office receipt at me.

"I will phone you when the new shoes arrive. I am now getting late" , he shouted as he rushed to his office.

The phone call came after two weeks.

"Come to my place in the evening. I will open the new shoes' parcel only in your presence. I am bringing kaju-mithai (cashew-sweets) and hot samosas for you."

These milk-based sweets were my weakness!

The unopened big packet  of cashew sweets was lying on the central glass-topped table as I settled in an easy chair in his drawing room in the evening. I was only a few moments away from gala feast !

"Relax before you eat these sweets and hot samosas. Tea is getting ready. I will now bring the parcel and wear the new shoes" he said as he dashed inside.

He returned with the shoe-parcel.

Then he proceeded to carefully untie lot of tapes around the parcel. It took some  time.My eyes were rivetted on the shoe parcel. Finally he removed the last wrap with a dramatic flourish and a shout of "here it is".

There was nothing "here". It was an absolute anticlimax ! His dirty old pair of shoes were on display before us, all the worse in condition because of lot of mishandling ! And there was a short curt note with it stating "No manufacturing defect at all. shoes herewith returned to the sender."

There was an uneasy silence for a long time. Then he quietly got up and went inside, carrying the big packet of cashew sweets with him.

I waited for some time and was getting up to go when his wife entered the drawing room .

"He was very tired and has gone to sleep" she announced.

I came out. I could do nothing for him after this fiasco.

When I next went to him after a month he was wearing brand new shoes of a Kanpur based company. He told me that he had now boycotted that Calcutta shoe company for ever and thrown out those shoes.

Then he pointed to the  mini lawn outside his window. There I saw his two cats using his abandoned old shoes as cushions as they stared at me defiantly !! ( see the photographs)

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(Note: This story is NOT a work of fiction. However, the script has, as usual, been redesigned to protect privacy issues of people connected.)

ALMORA'S DOCTOR THAPA

Deep in the Himalayas, in Uttarakhand in India, there is a picture-postcard town named Almora. It has a settlement on both sides of the ridge of a mildly curving five thousand feet high hill which runs in a somewhat east- west direction.There are villages here and there in the misty valleys down below.

Once upon a time, in one of these villages down there,lived a poor lanky boy. He was then in his early teens. This was a good hundred years ago, in the British colonial period. Even in the town of Almora, then, medical facilities were limited even though the town was very 'modern' for that period because of the long years of dedication of one great British officer named Sir Henry Ramsay (1816-1893) Outside the town no medical facilities exsisted.

And so it came to pass that when the boy's old mother fell seriously ill, there was no way she could be helped. He saw his only hope, high up in the sprawling town far above the village. He set out to climb the narrow long meandering track and arrived in the town in the misty morning. There were many doctors in the town but none was willing to come with him to the village for he had little money to pay for their services.

" And so my mother died for lack of medical attention as I stood there watching helplessly. And it was then that I resolved to become a doctor so that I could render free service to those who had no means to pay."he concluded as he refused to accept more than a token fee from my father for rendering a first rate personalised medical service to a sick member of our family.

This narrative dates backs to the misty past, in my childhood, when we were in Almora for a brief respite from the raging summer of the dusty planes below.
.
This messiah of the poor was then a very well known and respected man. He was Dr.Thapa M.B.B.S. who dedicated his whole life to the service of the poor as he had resolved in his childhood. He was blessed with a long life and long years of service to the people of Almora. And yet today he is a totally forgotten man, swallowed in the whirlpool of time !!

( These photographs of Almora were taken 150 years back)

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LOOKING BACK

LOOKING BACK

He punched the man standing before him.The punch landed square on the nose! I shuddered.

In my childhood I had read a nursery rhyme which highlighted the qualities of a boy ! Here it is :

" What are boys made of ? Snips & snails & puppy dogs tails ! And what are the girls made of ? Sugar & spice & all things nice ! "

while I was thus recalling the poem he hit the man a second time reaffirming the veracity of the poet's assessment of a boy. And the man started bleeding from the nose. There was no 'sugar and spice' in this situation !

And then he proceeded to beat up the defenceless man so thoroughly that the man collapsed on the floor. Nobody came to the aid of the victim though the place was full of people. I was a mute witness of this act of violence. I just stood there.

The unfortunate recepient of all these blows was not an enemy. He was not even a bad person. And yet people who witnessed this act of violence cheered him and there was heavy clapping as the victim collapsed on the ground.

I was watching a boxing bout !! He was the champion boxer. He raised his hand-in-red-gloves in a victory salute. And smiled.

That was my first encounter with the man named A.N.U. (as I would prefer to call him here). That was in the university days, way back in time. I had just joined as an under graduate and he had been there for many years, punching noses, dancing in the boxing rink.

Boxing was his passion in those days. Nothing else mattered, not even studies. He was a man of guts and action. There was a hostel in the university precisely for such men -H&H Hostel, and he lived there. And I believe his days in H&H were his most cherished ones.

He was not my type. He was a man of physical action. I shunned violence even in sports, even in thoughts.And yet what bonded me to him was his disarming frankness and indulgent smile. He was an open book and he remained so all his life , through his struggles.

He was a man with dreams and wished to live his dreams, to live his life king size. He did not achieve material success so necessary in life to live such dreams. He had got a teacher's job in a school and it was then, years after the university days that we met for the second time.

He had now left his boxing days behind. He had become a food junkie.He liked good food and lots of it, and would not mind travelling a good distance if there was a hearty meal at the end of the journey ! 'The best sweets are at Natthu's shop', somebody would say. He would be there in double- quick time! ' The best 'Chaat' are in X in civil lines' and one would see him gobbling those next day ! Even earlier, in the university days, I had occasionally seen him at Jagati's restaurant on university road but that was for a different reason.You cannot blame a person wasting money on an occasional visit to a restaurent for a dinner if you have yourself suffered the hostel food.

He was an active man and kept himself trim through middle age. His school hours were early in the morning and he preferred to cover, part of the distance, on foot. So he got down from the bus two stops before the school's stop and jogged rest of the distance to his school much to the amusement of students and the teaching staff !

"Is there anything wromg in this ?", he asked me one day.

" It is a bit unusual thing to do. But if you are comfortable with it, it is okay. "

Later in life I came across him a third and final time in another town where I had settled down . He was now ageing fast and it was taking toll of his body. But he continued to maintain his jest for life - and for his desire for good things. He would still pick up the best shoes at S C Sharma's in connaught place - of course in sales at a heavy discount ; he would get the more expensive sunglasses at BonTon's in a bargain and decent jackets in 'sales' at Raymonds. He was, as it were, living his dream vicariously , on a shoe string budget.

And then I lost touch with him during his final years. Neither he nor myself were, in those days, internet savvy. we completely lost touch with each other.

I still remember him and I do miss him. I miss his infectious enthusiasm for small thing he wished to possess. It reminded me of a child who becomes happy when he manages to get his favourite toy . He lived life to the hilt in his own way. And he never harmed anyone - except, in a way, in those university days boxing matches .

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THE WIZARD OF SARAI KALE KHAN

I was in a place called Sarai kale khan. It was sort of a village within the city and was behind the Nizammuddin railway station in New Delhi.

I crossed the railway line at the level crossing. The main road here goes straight but there was a turning to the right and this road ended some hundred metres ahead. I took this narrower road.

At the end of this road there was a two storey pink-colour house on the left hand side. Across the road and facing the house, there was a large covered hall, open on all sides. Beyond the road's abrupt  end there was a private farm of herbs.

The hall was now very crowded. People were waiting there for the Ayurvedic doctor.

The doctor, clad in a nice white pyjama kurta, now leisurely crossed the road and entered this hall. This was Dr. Brahaspati Dev Triguna (1920-2013), a tall and graceful man with the built of an international athlete. He settled down to see his first patient. Each patient had a token number.

He placed the first three fingers of his right hand on the pulse of the patient before him and observed the beats on all the three fingers. The patient, as usual, started to tell him his problems but he stopped him.

" l am here to tell you the problems." he said as he kept feeling the pulse and noting down the result. He, then, explained to the patient what the problem was.

" Now you can tell me if you want to add anything to what I have told you."

There was nothing to add.

When my own turn came he examined my (nadi) pulse and gave me a precise diagnosis of my health problems without asking me a single question. And then he wrote out the prescription and, handing it over to me, turned to the next patient.

I got up, crossed the road to the double storey building and presented the prescription to the compounder who was in charge of the pharmacy there. Herbs were being mixed here. Several persons were grinding the mixtures for various prescriptions. Most of the medicines were being prepared on the spot by hand. It was an awesome task preparing the prescriptions of over two hundred patients. . . .

Now a word about Nadi Vigyan - the ancient science of medical diagnosis by an analysis of the pulse. A part of the science of Ayurveda this is a gift to the modern world from ancient Indian civilization which vanished, though not totally like the civilization of MAYA of mexico.

In the modern medical practice a doctor checks your pulse normally to see the pulse beat per minute. He does not diagnose the nature of ailment by feeling the pulse.

Now how do you feel the pulse when you have a fever? You place your fingers on your wrist, under the thumb and check the pulse beat. In nadi diagnosis you do something somewhat similar but in a very detailed and precise manner. What you do is that you place the first three fingers (leaving out little finger) in such a way that the index finger is closest to the base of the thumb.

Now,when you feel the pulse. The pulse beats will be felt on the fingertips of these three fingers. The nadi vaidya checks the strength (and weakness) of the beats and the manner in which blood is coursing through the nadi on each of these fingers. It is a profound study and it is not easy to master. The very elementary principle of ayurveda is that VAT (the AIR element)is diagnosed from the index finger, PITTA (the HEAT element) is diagnosed from middle finger and SHLESHMA (loosely speaking you can call this cough element) from the ring finger. This is of course a very rough explanation.

According to the science of ayurveda (the science of life), our health and illness stems from the permutation and combination of the forces of the three basic elements in the body - vayu ,pitta and shleshma.

Dr. Triguna had taken the science of nadi-diagnosis to an astounding level, difficult for a vaidya in the present times to reach. According to the famous Dr. Deepak Chopra of USA , Dr.Triguna was by far the best nadi vaidya in the world. Like all great people he seemed to possess a divine gift (in India we call it SIDDHI) for pulse reading. He was a devout worshipper of God Shiva and there was a shivalaya (small private temple of hindu God Shiva) adjascent to the hall where he saw his patients. On occasions when I reached his clinic much before the opening time (I used to come by train from a nearby town), I found him seated in the shivalaya, deep in meditation.

Dr. Triguna had been given manywawards in his lifetime including the Padma Vibhushan, the second highest civilian award by Government of India. He was also the personal physician to the President of India. He held many assignments in the ayurvedic institutions in India and abroad.

Here is a link to Dr. triguna talking to the media in the USA.

http://www.zoominfo.com/p/Brihaspati-Triguna/34617228

THE KING AND THE BOY

Deafening sound of a gun-shot fired closeby !! I was on the roof in the morning sun, reading a magazine for small kids like me. Our bungalow was close to the market.

My mother asked me to get inside atonce. A second gunshot boomed as I was racing down the stairs.

In a while katwaru, our cook, came rushing from the market place with wide eyes and a bag loaded with vegetables.

" The pagal rajah has shot dead the young constable. Police has now surrounded the hotel" he announced.

Pagal (mad) Rajah !! Oh my God !! I had had my close encounter with this Pagal Rajah only the previous evening when I was in the market with my little sister for black-and-white peppermint drops.

As we were paying money to our friendly old shopkeeper, this guy strode in. He was a tall, hefty character with a weatherbeaten face and a cocky gait. He looked like Hollywood's gun totting John Wayne.

He immetiately got interested in us.

"well young man," he addressed me in a barritone voice (and I liked his calling me, a half pant clad kid, a young man!), " can you tell me who wrote these lines : 'for men may come and men may go but I shall go on for ever".

Good heavens ! Only the other day our teacher was reading this poem of Tennyson to us ! I told him the name of the poet and also the title of the poem - 'The Brook'.

He looked stunned. "Absolutely correct. I can't believe this !" he exclaimed "well well , young man, you certainly deserve a prize for this".

And he ordered the shop keeper to weigh a pound of  the best peppermint drops for me.

It was while I was showing reluctance to accept a gift from a total stranger that I saw stark fear in the eyes of the shopkeeper.

"Don't refuse this.Take it and leave the shop atonce", he whìspered handing over the packet.

Rushing back home I saw my father in the verandah, relaxing in an armchair, sourrounded by the blue aromatic smoke of a  hand-rolled cigarette. I narrated the incident.

"My God ! He is that 'pagal'(mad) rajah" said my father, "give this packet to some poor boy. And avoid going to that shop for a few days".

And now that Rajah had shot down and killed a cop !

A barrage of shots now suddenly erupted while katwaru was emptying his vegetable bag. It continued for a while and then it was suddenly all quiet. And soon traffic resumed on the road beyond our spacious front lawns. Katwaru now went out again and came back shortly with the story.

It came to pass that the rajah came back from his estate near the Nepal border the previous evening and had taken lodge in his usual hotel overlooking the road crossing. He was accustomed to the traffic constable saluting him in the morning when he sat in the balcony. This morning he saw a new cop right under him at the crossing. The cop looked
young, confident and tough. And the cop did not know the erratic and eccentric Rajah.

This cop did not salute the Rajah. The Rajah felt insulted and after a while ordered the cop to salute him. The cop looked up and then ignored him. This was unacceptable to the rajah.The rajah then went inside and came back with a double barrel gun. He raised it and fired a shot close to the cop's boots. And as the cop looked up, surprised, the Rajah commanded " Now salute !".

The cop shouted back that he would get the madcap handcuffed. The next moment a gun shot boomed and the cop was dead. The Rajah had shot the cop in the head.

When the police force arrived to arrest him, the Rajah started firing indiscrimately at them and seriously injured a cop. He was then shot dead. . . !!

I revisited the city of my childhood recently after donkeys years . Our sprawling bunglow has now been replaced by a huge shopping complex. The area around the main crossing has also been cleared, including the old hotel, to make room for wide roads. But to my delight our childhood old peppermint shop was still there !

When I entered the shop, the old shopkeeper's son (now himself an old man) was handing over a few cadbury's chocolates to two tiny tots, a little boy and his sister !! It was just like my ciildhood days!

I smiled back as the boy and the girl looked at me with a fleeting smile.

I did not ask them any question on Tennyson !!

            *********

(the photographs are for illustrative purpose only)

CHITTORGARH

CHITTORGARH

It was a huge super-deluxe tourist bus. It managed to negotiate the narrow entrance point, at the foothill, on the road that took you up through sharp hairpin bends to the top. The driver was a well built young man who was perfect in managing the roads. An ordinary driver could not have taken such a huge bus through those sharp hairpin bends.

When the bus arrived 'up above' at the chittogarh fort grounds we heaved a sigh of relief and had a birds eye view of Chittor town below and the chittor railway station. ( Buses were not allowed to go up on my subsequent visit two years later. Auto rikshaws had then been introduced to ferry the tourists up and down for a reasonable payment. A wise step ! ).

I had seen so many forts earlier - the red fort of Delhi and the Allahabad fort for example. These are noted for their grandeur-in-stone. These forts are essentially massive strong fotified areas into which army and people retreated when under attack by a much more powerful enemy batallion, in order to protect themselves while reassessing their strategy.

Chittorgarh was a different cup of tea altogether. It is not just a massive fortified structure, it is a small township atop a hillock and the hillock itself has been fortified. In a way, thus, it entitles itself to be one of the largest forts in the world. It is a vast flat land up there. There are roads, trees, vast water catchment areas and grass lands. There are temples , magnificent buildings and ofcourse the famous VIJAY STAMBH, a breathtaking tower that takes you up through a winding staircase for a good view of the whole area around and the lands yonder! Vijay stambh was, as the name suggests, constructed to commemorate a victory.

And at Chittorgarh there is the LEGEND of the valiant Rajputs, of Rani Padmini ; of the 'Jauhar' (self immolation) of hundreds of women when Allauddin Khilji broke through the resistance of the valiant rajputs to get what he had come for - the stunningly beautiful Rani Padmini, the Queen of Chittorgarh.

In the company of a good guide you can 'live through' a period now buried deep in history. The guide takes you to the room where Allauddin khilji saw Rani Padmini's reflection in a huge mirror while she stood in the adjascent room. The guide takes you to the ground where, in the year 1303 CE the rajput women consigned themselves to fire, to save their honour, in the ceremony called Jauhar. The very ground on which I stood was the theatre of one of the bloodiest pages of Indian history and the thought sent a shiver down my spine. It was a very spiritual moment for me. I felt that I was myself actually witnessing those events unfolding before me - events of centuries far back in time, the war cries, the battles, the jauhars, the mystic singing of Meera bai the sufi saint, and the courage of queen Karnawati the grandmother of the great Maharana Pratap. There is a legend of Karnavati sending a Rakhi (the sacred thread that a girl ties on the wrist of her brother during the hindu festival of Raksha bandhan) to moghul emperor Humayun when chittorgarh was under seige by Bahadur shah, asking for help. Humayun abandoned an ongoing military campaign to ride to her rescue, thus her name became irrevocably linked to the festival of Raksha Bandhan .

I will be remiss in these reminiscences if do not mention the great son of Rajputana, Maharana Pratap (1540-1597) who dedicated his entire life fighting the greatest of the moghul emperor, Akbar. While he could not recapture Chittorgarh , he recaptured vast areas of Rajputana. His last epic battle against Akbar at Haldighati (june 1576) has been immortalised by the hindi poet Shyam Narain Pandey in his epic poem HALDIGHATI.

The journey back into TIME being over now , our bus left the fort on its long journey back to Delhi. As the bus travelled downwards I had the strange feeling of stepping out of the pages of history into the material world of the day. Somewhere inside me was the feeling that a long time back, in another life, I belonged to this place, Chittorgarh, which will always be remembered for the valour of the Rajputs men and women.

Legends never die. As Tennyson puts it, "men may come and men may go but I shall go on for ever".

Chittorgarh will always be there . . . far into the future , in timelessness!!

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THE SYMPHONY OF TRAINS

THE SYMPHONY OF TRAINS

I have always had a great fascination for trains. I have always had a great fascination for uncrowded big railway stations platforms of small towns.. I have always had a great fascination for those earlier-era station masters of small stations on our way who stood at attention, dressed in a black uniform, and kept waving a green flag as the whole train, including the window where I sat, swept past them leaving the station behind until it disappeared at the horizon !

As a child I often used to walk down with my little sister to the railway station of our town. It had a very long, wide and glistening platform no.1 and this platform had the town's best books-and-magazines stall.

We loved children's books and magazines. Tripathi jee, the Always-Smiling-Ticket-Collector at the main entrance gate knew every school-going child (who visited the AH Wheelers' railway book stall) of the town. So we never ever purchased a platform ticket and always returned his smile! And an interesting thing about my childhood was that, as we entered the main platform, we were overwhelmed by the 'blissful aroma' of fresh books and magazines that came wafting from the book-stall two hundred yards away! A child has an awesome smelling power. Of my earliest days, I remember being aware of the presence of my mother or father in the room with my eyes shut !

A train journey from Delhi to the south in a first class lower berth has always been fascinating to me. If you want to know about the moghul Emperor Babar, you can easily know about him by reading the history text-books. But to know him inside-out you have got to read TUZUK-E-BABARI ! Train travel, First class lower berth, from Delhi to the south was always as fascinating an experience to me as reading TUZUK -E-BABARI. In one you know the real Babar, in another the real India.

From the window of the moving train the constantly changing scenerio has been ever so fascinating! And no one in those days missed a glass of the delicious ITARSI STATION milk, the purest tastiest milk of good old days (not any more though!).

Things have completely changed now. We have lost a way of life, acquired another. Gone are the days when time moved very leisurely, when one had time for a long chat with the neighbour at the wicket gate outside, when children played together outside in the fresh air.

Satellite T.V. and internet has drastically changed the society. It has changed the way we interact socially. We have no time for others now. I see young friends sitting around a restaurant table with each one busy with their Cell Phones ! Today 'games' are not played in the open but on the laptop. Today 'ginger bread' is not a bread nor is ' ice cream sandwich' a food item ! The younger generation do not talk to each other except on cell phones! I can feel Orwell smiling in the grave ! He only mis-timed the title of his famous "1984 " by a few decades.

Times may have changed but trains still keep moving along the railway line which is half a mile from where I live. In the stillness of the night when the city sleeps I still clearly hear TATAK . TAKK . .TATAK. . .TAKK . TATAK . .TAKK. . as trains roll along the railway track..'. It is a symphony to my ears! I know that it will never ever change- " For men may come and men may go but I shall go on for ever "

(the photographs,courtesy wikipedia,are for illustrative purpope only)

                **********

THE SYMPHONY OF TRAINS

THE SYMPHONY OF TRAINS

I have always had a great fascination for trains. I have always had a great fascination for uncrowded big railway stations platforms of small towns.. I have always had a great fascination for those earlier-era station masters of small stations on our way who stood at attention, dressed in a black uniform, and kept waving a green flag as the whole train, including the window where I sat, swept past them leaving the station behind until it disappeared at the horizon !

As a child I often used to walk down with my little sister to the railway station of our town. It had a very long, wide and glistening platform no.1 and this platform had the town's best books-and-magazines stall.

We loved children's books and magazines. Tripathi jee, the Always-Smiling-Ticket-Collector at the main entrance gate knew every school-going child (who visited the AH Wheelers' railway book stall) of the town. So we never ever purchased a platform ticket and always returned his smile! And an interesting thing about my childhood was that, as we entered the main platform, we were overwhelmed by the 'blissful aroma' of fresh books and magazines that came wafting from the book-stall two hundred yards away! A child has an awesome smelling power. Of my earliest days, I remember being aware of the presence of my mother or father in the room with my eyes shut !

A train journey from Delhi to the south in a first class lower berth has always been fascinating to me. If you want to know about the moghul Emperor Babar, you can easily know about him by reading the history text-books. But to know him inside-out you have got to read TUZUK-E-BABARI ! Train travel, First class lower berth, from Delhi to the south was always as fascinating an experience to me as reading TUZUK -E-BABARI. In one you know the real Babar, in another the real India.

From the window of the moving train the constantly changing scenerio has been ever so fascinating! And no one in those days missed a glass of the delicious ITARSI STATION milk, the purest tastiest milk of good old days (not any more though!).

Things have completely changed now. We have lost a way of life, acquired another. Gone are the days when time moved very leisurely, when one had time for a long chat with the neighbour at the wicket gate outside, when children played together outside in the fresh air.

Satellite T.V. and internet has drastically changed the society. It has changed the way we interact socially. We have no time for others now. I see young friends sitting around a restaurant table with each one busy with their Cell Phones ! Today 'games' are not played in the open but on the laptop. Today 'ginger bread' is not a bread nor is ' ice cream sandwich' a food item ! The younger generation do not talk to each other except on cell phones! I can feel Orwell smiling in the grave ! He only mis-timed the title of his famous "1984 " by a few decades.

Times may have changed but trains still keep moving along the railway line which is half a mile from where I live. In the stillness of the night when the city sleeps I still clearly hear TATAK . TAKK . .TATAK. . .TAKK . TATAK . .TAKK. . as trains roll along the railway track..'. It is a symphony to my ears! I know that it will never ever change- " For men may come and men may go but I shall go on for ever "

(the photographs,courtesy wikipedia,are for illustrative purpope only)

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