Trishul Park: Our Home Forever

Anecdotes from The Past - III

Discovering your passion is one of life's greatest joys.

When my dear friend Raju and I were in upper primary school, slightly more grown up, we discovered our lifelong passions. Thank heavens golfing wasn't one of them; it didn't interest us the slightest bit. Unlike golf, we found books and comics fascinating and spent countless afternoons reading aloud from the books we came across. Mintu and Choti would sit on the floor mat and lean against a wall to read comic books, mimicking Raju.

Around the time, in the mid-1980s, when I stumbled upon an old novel titled "The Guide" by R.K. Narayan, which deepened my love for reading, Raju grew more and more fond of comic books, and the Hindi subject was the particular dominion he was a Maharaja in. He found that he enjoyed completing his schoolwork during twilight hours (after sunset), as he believed his academic concentration was at its optimum peak at that specific time. Soon, his specialty of studying during twilight hours up until 9 pm every day became well-known among all our chums of the No. 6 Trishul Park. Rising early in the morning was an absolute imperative for him. We were fortunate we found our passions at a young age, and Raju and I were grateful that we found ours rather serendipitously.

Studying at twilight was one of his things, which he did every day diligently. He also enjoyed getting up early in the morning at five and going for a long walk in the Sub Area; he was habitually the first to come by the front door and encourage me to come out for a round of jogging. When I’d stumble out of my home, still groggy, rubbing my sleepy eyes and wearing a pair of white jordans (“PT shoe”) that had seen better days, he’d laugh and say, “Come on, let’s go!".

We strolled to the eastern periphery of the Trishul Park campus, as we did every day. We scale a steep incline of a crumbling boundary wall that demarcates our campus from the Sub Area and cross an old bridge over the railroad tracks leading to the next railway station—C. Barracks station that is visible if you stand on the overbridge and look south. Our destination was the desolate Sub Area, where we planned to visit the Krishna Mandir, jog for an hour or so, take a look at the smooth lawns of the golf course, and pluck the best tamarind pods straight from the protected Army area's Tamarindus indica trees before heading home.

***

Raju was an exceptional friend—people like him are rare and hard to find. The world has become an indifferent place. It has changed so much in the last four decades that it pains my heart. Raju, Meena, Mintu, Rajesh, Poonam, Ruby, Sushila, Murari, Anita, and others have gone on. Interestingly, one of the central protagonists in R K Narayan's novel, The Guide, which I read in the mid-1980s, was also named 'Raju.' So, believe me, if you're lucky enough to have a friend like Raju, hold onto them tightly!

(Seldom are people found like Raju in the present world. Although making lifelong friends is not impossible, it might be challenging to get along with some people in the world as it is today. I would even go so far as to say that if you are fortunate enough to find a buddy like Raju, be rest assured you have hit the jackpot. In the charming bygone era, finding a bosom friend or two was probably easy; however, in the world of rapid global change today, where people travel overseas, have become blatantly economically ambitious in their career-seeking goals and aspirations and always on the lookout for growing ‘global footprints,’ or access smartphones like lifeless figures—no longer remember what an ‘offline’ life is, it is wiser to speak as little as possible about true friendship, which is one of life's greatest treasures no one can ever sacrifice for any other thing. Regrettably, many people in my ever-shrinking social circle do not appreciate enduring relationships and heartfelt connections. Nothing as old-fashioned as friendship is valued anymore!

Beware! Take caution! You could get threateningly hollered at—or become a target of some foolish person's viral meme-fests—for having such a personal viewpoint. I know… I know.) 

***

So, one leisurely afternoon, I settled down to read my first book by R. K. Narayan. As I finished reading the first quarter of it in a single sitting, which amounted to nearly 50 pages, not bad for a first experience, I remember thinking, 'Oh, how poignant this is.' Back in the mid-'80s, it was my first novel-reading experience, and I finished it within the week of starting it. The sense of pride I felt was nothing short of exhilarating. Oh, how I cherish that old feeling of having to finish reading a book cover to cover for the first time in my life.

Birds of Paradise, an impressive collection of English nature poems (together with the school texts Grandfather's Private Zoo and abridged tales from the well-known books Uncle Tom's Cabin and Huckleberry Finn) that I borrowed from the top shelf of my father's mini-library, which ideally contained dozens of fascinating Bengali and English books, remain the one rare book—apart from The Guide—that, if not changed, but significantly influenced my life's reading expeditions in many ways. I'm indebted to that mystical experience and the fond memories it evokes.

Even to this day, my heart still aches from a profound yearning for those younger years, spending most of my days reminiscing about our years when we lived in our lovely Trishul Park cantonment home, which has been and will always be the centre of my universe, profoundly memorable. Everything I knew and held dear was there. Even though I know those times will never come again because they are now just memories, I often wonder if I'll ever experience anything like it again. Yeah, I've accepted the reality that they are gone forever. Those days, alas, will never return. I miss Trishul Park with every pore of my skin.

***

Later, I bought a children's collection of affordable imported Russian storybooks from our school's annual book fair—books about Russian space science, with one of them delving into the history of Sputnik, Russian wildlife, literature, and culture. And that was that. While my friend Raju preferred reading comics over novels, which wasn't his, at the time, strong suit, I felt I could easily tackle, without much ado, full-length books and comics alike head-on, probably demonstrating the earliest beginnings of bibliomania. Whenever I went to see Raju at his dormer, I would find him engrossed in comics—Chacha Chaudhary, Amar Chitra Katha, Batman, Tinkle, Champak, Shikari Shambu, including Mandrake, Phantom, Archies, and Indrajal comics. He didn't leave anything unread. These comics: the entire fortune, lying around on the drawing room floor of his first-floor house like one big kaleidoscopic Persian carpet, inviting me to dive into their colorful pages and explore new worlds.

Raju and his siblings Mintu and sister Sunita were also avid participants in the daily obsessive reading sessions of one comic book after another. Whenever I visited their place, I would join them in their passion by picking up a few from their ample collection of comics scattered on the drawing-room floor. They took great pride in their collection of comic books and enjoyed reading them immensely, and it's no surprise why.

***

During one summer vacation, while visiting my hometown of Kolkata (which was then known as Calcutta), I flicked an old yet well-preserved copy of Writing in America from my maternal uncle’s neglected book collection. Among the many softback volumes were a series of Tell Me Whys and hardback tomes of Cambridge English and Bengali dictionaries that seemed to have never been opened or read, or maybe they were for I was not particularly aware of. Seeing as I had plenty of gratis time and some more languorous spells to while away, why not dive into the delightful books at hand and lug around the house English dictionaries in the hot and humid afternoons that had everyone, minus me, in its grip of a siesta-laden euphoria or something. Even if I was not planning on reading them all, in addition to listening to that beloved Bengali opiate Rabindra Sangeet while taking in the familiar sights and sounds of my wonderful suburban native place that comes with a fish-filled pond and a largish Eden garden full of jackfruit, Gulmohar, coconut, mango, banana, lemon, Jamrul, and bel trees, I still had a mission to fulfil—all on my own accord. Quite the exclusive deal, I'd say, for my summer vacations to go per my plan year after year.

To read books, in those days, one ideally had to earnestly beg, borrow liberally, or indeed remove without much thought a few titles off the shelves to pass the time somewhat productively. I vividly recall reading one of the notable books of the day, Writing in America, in one sitting (or two) and never regretted taking it out from my maternal uncle's library without proper permission or required authorization. He never found that I took a few books out of his almirah. (But I believe he knows who raided his collection when he went to the university to study all those years ago.) (Some things, I suppose, are just so simple to take for granted. Besides, no one will ever know if the deed has already been done and got on with. But if the book stays with you long after you have finished reading it, then you know it's all well worth it). And I am happy to report I went unpunished for finding a book I wanted to read, so there.

To this day, the books The Guide (a full-length novel), Writing in America (an anthology of American non-fiction writings), Birds of Paradise (an anthology of poems), Grandfather’s Private Zoo (a collection of short stories), and Ancient History of India (scholarly writings about India’s history) have pride of place being part of my private collection.

(To be continued…)

By Arindam Moulick