Jungle Jalebi: A Jalebi from The Jungle

Anecdotes from The Past - IV

To our surprise, our quest for that elusive Jungle Jalebi—which Raju and I had been pursuing a little too obsessively—ended in our friend's backyard garden on a hot summer day when the sun meant serious business.

When we first heard about the existence of a fruit called Jungle Jalebi (Pithecellobium dulce, also known as monkey pods or Madras thorn), it immediately piqued our interest. The name of the fruit sounded so intriguing and original that we decided to venture to the outermost reaches of Trishul Park suburbia to find it. However, it was not easy to find one. Nowhere in Trishul Park or the Sub Area beyond where we suspected there could be something could we locate the tree. That was until one day, a friend who occasionally played cricket with us showed it to us in his garden near the jhula. We found that the tree was medium-sized and bore what we already pictured, spirally or jalebi-like fruit, hidden behind the wildly growing backyard of his dormitory. Raju and I exhaled with relief when we spotted a wild-growing Jungle Jalebi tree. (Whoa! After searching far and wide and failing to find it, we may finally officially proclaim that we have located it, eaten it, and tasted it.)

Eventually, Raju and I plucked one each, unsure if we could pop it in our mouths just like that, but prodded on by our friend saying, "Go ahead. Give it a shot. Eat," we ate the edible part as shown by him and his spry little sis Neelam (who earlier had enlivened the open garden space with her arty markings made using a slender tree twig on the sand and smiled heavenly), of what looked like the pink, and greenish-white sweet and sour seed pods plucked one by one from the spiral jalebis, and seemed to have liked the savour. It tasted mildly sweet and tangy, bearably musky and acrid—all rolled into one mouthful of an exotic fruit that had previously kept us spending much of our waking hours thinking about how to fetch them and eat if we could until the day we got the chance to try it in somebody's backyard garden right in our beloved Trishul Park premises.

Gratified or something close to it, not sure, we found ourselves merely nodding sagely in unison as we munched on the raw seed pods in a spiral string, a queer fruit that we don't take every day, not even occasionally, not even rarely, if so ever because nobody sells them, not available in the market or anywhere. (Jungle Jalebi grows secretly in somebody's backyard garden, possibly only in the cantonment area.) Shooting funny looks at each other, which we both can't interpret but wondering, "Is this good?" or probably wondering if we have to hurry back home and void our bowels! Thankfully, it didn't come to that. We thanked him for showing us the elusive hard-to-find fruit pods and letting us lug a handful of them (filled into our pant pockets) from his wildly growing garden yard. As we left, Neelam waved us off with a cheerful "See you, bye!"

**

As Raju and I were walking home, the gorgeous melody of "Jab hum jawaan honge, jaane kahaan honge, lekin jahaan honge wahan fariyaad karenge, tujhe yaad karenge" could be heard from across the main road. It was from the only audio stall in our lonely Alwal town. We would periodically stop by it to listen to music and get a peek at the latest Hindi movie soundtrack cassettes. Whether we were playing outdoors or flying kites, the ballads from the stall were never far from our minds, inspiring some of the fondest memories of listening to film songs during our childhood. As soon as we recognized the tune from the movie we'd once seen at the open-air theatre, we couldn't help but sing along. (Realizing we had a new song in our kitty to use anytime the Antakshari game came up with the girls, we sang harder, as we walked along, than necessary to ensure we got the tunes right.) Those were the good old days!

**

That was the last time we saw Neelam and her brother, our mutual acquaintance—who had happily encouraged us to eat the crazy Jungle Jalebi pods growing in their back garden—in 1983 or 1984.

Had Raju spoken about the tiny little butterflies fluttering in his stomach, he would have said something like this: 

We were all children growing up... Neelam was six or seven years old, but she had a breathtakingly beautiful face that seemed almost forbidden at such a young age, a subtle hint of graceful femininity. Her doll-like face, sharp eyes with arched black eyebrows, and milky fair complexion seemed to shimmer in the sunlight, leaving an indelible impression on you. That day, she (and her brother) were standing in their back garden, smiling sweetly in the early morning light, and Bappin and I couldn't help but think of her as an English rose (or a magnificent ‘desi gulab’) we'd never seen before. If this isn't love, then what is? And yet, if someone were to write a story about her, it would have a happy ending.

Neelam's handsome older brother, whom everyone called "Chauhan," was an excellent cricket all-rounder, and cricket was a compelling game that all the youngsters of Trishul Park found time to indulge in. Everyone engaged in cricket like there was no tomorrow. Pace bowling was Chauhan's chosen specialty, and he bowled similarly to one of our favourite sporting icons, Kapil Dev. In our little ways, we tried emulating the fearsome fast bowling attack of the legendary 1980s West Indies team that we watched on television—Michael Holding, Malcolm Marshall, Courtney Walsh, Curtly Ambrose, Andy Roberts, and so on. Raju and I played on Chauhan's and other teams during the school breaks in October and December. We would conduct matches on a bet between 50 and 150 rupees, which was, in those days, a significant sum of prizemoney to win.

Raju and I never sought Jungle Jalebi again after that first (and the last time). We forgot about it. It was good while it lasted, but we got a move on. As time rolled from month to month and year to year, we became more interested in flying kites or rolling cycle tyres with a stick or playing cricket or I-Spy ("eyes-spies"/Hide and seek) with children of all sizes from nearby dormitories; even girls would join us to play I-Spy, as we would join them to play Langdi tang (tag and hopscotch) hopping on only one leg, or Tikkar billa or Ludo. Homework could wait! At times, we played cricket with a real bat* and something that looked like a bat at other times. We watched movies at the open-air cinema Manoranjan every Saturday or pursued the pleasures of viewing Doordarshan programs on our neighbours’ TVs or going to the TV room at the jhula to watch them.

*(I once received a cricket bat as a gift. Unfortunately, during one of the matches, some idiot stole it from the ground and took it home, and despite my repeated requests, the people who took it never bothered to return it. I lost that bat forever.)

Rajesh, Rinku, Swamidas, Kancha, Tinda, Raju, me, and other school-going students would congregate in one of Trishul Park's numerous open spaces and engage in intense cricket sessions until 4 or 5 pm. Our squad would purchase red Cork balls lined with double or triple seams to play all those delightful cricket matches with the sensational seniors. Rajesh and Kancha were the only people who did not reside in Trishul Park and would travel a considerable distance to join us for the cricket friendlies.

**

Jungle Jalebi became a wonderful folklore in the friendship circle of our childhood days in the early 1980s, and its memory lingers even today.

(To be continued…)

By Arindam Moulick

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

Raju and I: Our Adventures in Childhood

Anecdotes from The Past - II

The 1980s were uniquely glorious times. Rajveer M. — affectionately known by his charming mama’s boy nickname Raju — my childhood friend and I were leisurely nature explorers in Trishul Park and the Sub Area in what was then a largely desolate cantonment region.

Raju and I would explore the expansive Sub Area, the great green grandeur of the defence area, like little musketeers (without the muskets) on a chief mission to see Army bases, roadways, grounds, Army barracks, bungalows, flora, and even fauna, if any. The Sub Area lay well beyond our residential campus. As we walked on the road, the familiar roadside, ancient-looking direction markers, or milestones glowing yellow in the sun would first come into our view: practical roadside sentinels engraved by the side of the roads alongside decades-old, luxuriantly big-leafed Tamarind, Banyan, Gulmohar, and majestic Neem trees nestling in the vast elegant sweep of surrounding nature. Apart from our much-loved residence in Trishul Park, the Sub Area was a nice place to take leisurely walks in the morning.

Tree creepers hugged the moss-covered trees like a verdant spread of a Kashmiri shawl — rambunctious bushes and lush bougainvillea vines glowed with a spectacular show of pink colour that’s nothing short of dazzling to the eye; thicket-forming flowering shrubs and shoulder-length grass growing by the side of the lonely, less trodden paths; picture postcard-like well-paved roads lined with perfectly manicured hedgerows and lawns of luscious grass laden quite heavy with pretty dew drops, and the vast expanses of green golf courses beyond against a serene blue sky veiled with the early morning haze. The whole Sub Area looked straight out of a classic fairy tale.

**

Flower names like daisies, Rhododendrons, Petunias, Rajnigandha, Sunflowers, and Bougainvillea began to pique our curiosity. Many of these grew freely in Trishul Park and the distant Sub Area. We even devised witty jokes about how hilarious it would be to have them for human beings that were the names of florets, like Petunia Patel, Rhododendron Singh, Bougainvillea Chatterjee, Sunflower Choudhury, Hydrangea Sharma, Lavender Naidu, Marigold Sen, Hibiscus Rao, Calendula Das and so forth. When Rose, Lily, Daisy, and even Tulip were already creatively used for human benefit, why be biased against Rhododendron, Bougainvillea, Petunia, Daffodils, Chrysanthemums, and other adorable flower names?

**

Wearing little white sneakers, we would walk or jog to the Krishna Mandir in the east or to the pristine green pastures of the well-maintained Army golf course that lay wholly beyond towards the north of the Sub Area, as they were our chosen hang-out spots in the summer vacations. Krishna Mandir was a perennial favourite for a darshan of the presiding deities Krishna and Radha in a standing avatar in the inner sanctum. Before entering, we would wash our hands properly and pour water over our feet after removing our shoes and stepping inside. Raju and I would be beaming with childlike delight as we waited attentively for the ample prasad that the temple pujari would surely hand out to regular guests like us. The pujari (priest) would place suji halwa or yogurt mixed with sugar, tulsi leaves, and ghee in our cupped hands before offering a camphor aarti to the graceful marble-sculpted deities upright in the loving posture as the statue of Lord Krishna played the bansuri flute to His beloved Radha. Afterwards, we would visit all the temple shrines on the premises and sit at ease on the sunlit manicured lawns for a while. Simple, as though unalloyed pleasures make your life worthwhile.

Whether we come to the Sub Area to jog or walk around in the cool shadows, we must first visit the gorgeous temple. Every summer and winter, we would get up around five in the morning and explore these places of wonder. The first necessary stop would be the Krishna Mandir, followed by going to the golf courses via the RSI Club and the Polo Ground, which was as picturesque as a glossy picture on a postcard: an open field of cropped grass — but not accessible to the public — used by the Army officials for playing the equestrian sport of Polo, Parachute Jump, and other military training. Golfers don't usually get up this early in the dewy morning to play golf, so we didn’t have to watch out for flying balls!

**

Golfing was fortunately not our kind of sport; we would turn our noses up at such a fancifully lame game. Forget playing golf: we could scarcely bear watching it, whether live or on TV or anywhere. Even if, as decent kids, somebody wanted us to play golf, we would look the other way and get the hell out of there, for it was just as unappealing as a dumb thing that tests your patience the most.

Golfing was (is) a dull game that only grown-ups seemed to enjoy, and school-going kids would rather play cricket and football or watch, with sheer wonder, the energetic tennis matches on TV would not, for God's gracious sake, prefer golfing around for no logical reason. While the cardigan-wearing golfers and their caddies teed off, gently stroking the bouncy white balls into the landscaped ground, we would lounge under a tree and watch the goings-on pitifully. Every so often, we would wander upon the open grasslands after a light round of jogging around the vast area of Sub Area and relax while breathing in the minty fresh morning air sitting under a neem or tamarind tree.

**

After our morning jog, we would return home to breakfast. I'd expect scrambled eggs with hot chapatis, whereas Raju preferred rajma or aloo dum with freshly baked super soft chapatis and tea. I'd then tune on the Vividh Bharati radio and smile as I listened to vintage Hindi ghazals and film songs while leafing through our academic books and having tea.

On Sunday mornings, we'd look forward to watching Ramayan or Mahabharat on TV. Often, I would join Raju, Mintu, Choti, and Meena at their house, eagerly waiting for the show to begin on his Uptron TV. 

The afternoons were a perfect time to indulge in some cricket with friends Rajesh, Murari, and Ganeshilal., while in the evenings, we loved singing and playing Antakshari with the girls, which was a different kind of thrill altogether: It would put our untrained vocal cords and our unabashed bathroom singing aptitude to the test. Even though a few of us often missed the right notes, we always had a great time belting out one melody after another.

(To be continued…)

By Arindam Moulick

Memories Eternal

Anecdotes from The Past - I

Alwal, a once beautiful suburban town nearly seven miles from the city, has seen many changes in recent decades. Unfortunately, as a long-time resident of this area, I do not find any of these so-called 'significant transformations' this once peaceful haven of lush greenery, empty spaces, and charming homes has undergone pleasant. This lonely town now bears the scars of relentless urbanization and modernization.

Nonetheless, I have some personal anecdotes from the past and present (amidst all the changes) of my old beloved neighbourhood where I grew up, came of age, and had the best time of my life. I remember my dear friend Rajveer, alias Raju, and all the other buddies who made this neighbourhood feel like an abode of blissful happiness and part of all the unforgettable moments of my life. Despite all the inevitable changes, their memories will live on forever.

During the early eighties, the familiar hymnal chant of the venkatesa suprabhātam coming on the radio and the delightful aroma of wood smoke rising from the angheeti* that not only we but many dormitories in Trishul Park enclave used to have it, especially those who lived on the ground floor they would lug the bucket-like stove out in the open area, regardless of the gas connection already installed, would gently wake us up every morning as we gazed at the green suburban splendour surrounding our historic cantonment homestead. We had a perfectly ordinary life.

A town called Alwal:
The pleasure of living in the cantonment

The pleasure of living with friends and their families — many of whom received postings from all over the country at Trishul Park — was a distinctive experience that perhaps only people with a defence background can understand that aspect of life where you meet different people from different cultural backgrounds, every three or four years and when they have to make a move due to their posting orders you have to bid them a quiet goodbye. (Of course, that led to our having a large social circle. But unfortunately, everyone had moved away, having lost contact all those decades earlier.)

Nestled in the suburban cantonment zone, also known as the "military area," our campus, Trishul Park, was about seven miles away from the twin cities. In the 1980s, there was very little or no traffic, only a gentle bustle of human activity in the urban area (city) a few kilometres south of Alwal; none too many in the suburban side, which was within commuting distance of the city centre, were too loud or noisy compared to the vast number of purposeful people, the incessant traffic logjams, and ubiquitous housing colonies that have come to exist over the last three decades or so.

Back in the olden days, of course, we had a great childhood. We experienced an idyllic time — peaceful, filled with all the simple pleasures that made our lives lovely and memorable. It was a time of calm, carefree living, free from all the endless chaos and stress of today's almost always politically charged antagonizing times we all are living in.

Looking back, I believe it was a blessing we grew up in the cantonment, in the suburbs, where the tranquil surroundings created an atmosphere that captured our hearts with its soulful serenity, which is hopelessly missing in these strange times of new truths and realities. That may be true, but every one of those heady years is still a beautiful gem I fondly cherish, a very private asset we hold dear and adore, safely stowed away in our hearts and forever etched in our minds.

Those days were truly magical. All the memories seem dreamlike today, perfectly crafted with sincere emotions and intense passion to last for the rest of our lives, till eternity. Even after all this time, I can still recollect every little detail of those incredible days of our childhood: the taste of biscuits and fruits, smells of mud, rain, homespun sweaters, cricket bats, colourful candies, stickers, walking to school, studies, mothballed clothes, chapatis, Hindi film songs, the light of days and evening twilights — it's as if my life depended on remembering those memories, and it always will, for all time. Memories are forever.

Our Trishul Park

Our long-time residence in Trishul Park was a lovely place like no other. It’s been many decades since I left it; now, I lived away longer than I ever lived there.

Very little of my early childhood environment is left: trees have grown into a small jungle shrouding the once-beautiful park-like neighbourhood into a geologically rough-textured backdrop, and the dorms or residential blocks have turned quaint unappealingly, being barely visible from the main road I sometimes ride through. When I gaze on the other side, I find our childhood abode and all the vacant lots are no longer visible. That sound of summer and exams is long gone.

Of whatever little is visual, I could see the old pathways we trod upon once upon a time have given way to black-tarred roads. There’s no trace of the old sentinels we once knew, like the banyan and neem trees that once shadowed the main road; the beautiful vacant landscapes around the residential blocks have disappeared completely, and the Army sentries have now taken guard of the park around the clock. No one is allowed inside (due to security issues), and no one is allowed to go outside (because the traffic on the main road is perilously unsafe​). Everything of that past generation has inevitably fallen victim to the relentless passage of time, as though it were vanishing beyond precious memory.

That old beloved era has gone into history, leaving only those who experienced it to recall it.

Everybody has a soft spot for their childhood years, and I'm no different when I reflect on my past. Ours was a generation of deep longing, love, and innocence. My old buddies moved out a long time ago — when the time came, I wondered why I hadn't followed in the footsteps of my old friends who had moved out a long time before. Poonam, beloved Poonam, moved to Aligarh, Raju went to Baroda, and Ruby, I think, relocated to Bareilly. Sushila and Suguna have moved to their hometown. Memories of the 1970s and 1980s are eroding.

Today, Trishul Park inevitably had embraced a lonely and decadent look, with overgrown trees naturally taking over the grassy expanses where Raju and I used to hang out to play cricket in the sultry afternoons and gentle evenings. None of the beloved slopes and inclines, empty spaces, and grounds are as they once were; the surroundings of the entire park have changed beyond recognition. Year after year, I remember, we would also linger around the jhula park and sit snugly in the TV room with other kiddies to watch Doordarshan tele serials like Yeh Jo Hai Zindagi, Khandan, Nukkad, Darpan, Star Trek, Different Strokes, Hum Log, Buniyaad, Chitrahaar, Saturday night movie, Rajini, Paying Guest, Lifeline and many more. I vividly remember watching the 1982 Asian Games held in New Delhi on Doordarshan. Those were wonderful days.

Today, all those forgotten memories are flooding back.

(To be continued...)

By Arindam Moulick

Angheeti* - is a traditional bucket-like brazier used for cooking using charcoal or wood.

Stray Thoughts

A gyaan session* is ahead, so, therefore, light lelo!* ;-)

Live in the present moment.

Everyone experiences hardships, obstacles, or crises at some point or another that can upset their sense of well-being and personal happiness, so much so that they lose their sense of direction. Therefore, it is best to enjoy your earth-born life in whatever way you can, free of too many regrets that could cause you to dwell on them and waste away the short time and space granted to you in this big bad and indifferent world of AI-powered gaslighting, techno-feudalistic fiefdoms, ‘Cloud’-exploitative, inflationary, fast-warming tragicomic planet of ours.

God’s law proclaims that life is precious, so love it while you have it in this brief history of cosmic time passing by. So go on ahead: allow yourself to embrace the moment. Live in the present and—more importantly—engage with life, and your destiny will take care of itself. Have a better wardrobe and keep calm. Read real books (not those dumb Kindles!), listen to music, talk to people, walk in the woods, travel solo or with a friend or two (remember, two is company, three is chaos), chop onions to cry for a change, date your celeb crush (in your head), take a dip in a pond, or go on a virtual ego trip: google yourself—learn to be happy and chipper with whatever you have, no matter how little or insignificant it might appear to others, for you it makes a great deal of difference and it should. Have hopes and expectations that even though not all of them may get fulfilled, the thought is not to fulfil them all, yet to fulfil may be at least one because it takes an entire lifetime to implement just one great wish. Not everyone can be a millionaire or a spiritual master like Sadhguru, but one can earn enough while being cool about it; be one with nature. Mother nature solves everything.

Little things lift your spirits, and if you care to know what they are, they often evoke a sense of foolhardy joy enough to make you go forward in life. We all stand a chance in life, but we should keep looking forward to experiencing it and moving forward without unuttered, unhealed emotional baggage. In a world full of lies, truths are a rarity, so believe in your memories and be nostalgically inclined. Longing for the past will inform your present. Thus, strike a balance.

Understanding change

One inevitable, unavoidable, and usually overwhelming constant in life is change. I resisted change in the only manner I knew how — I let it change and take its course. In a world that has already undergone tremendous shifts beyond recognition, being resistant to change is futile and emotionally taxing. Therefore, reminiscing my childhood memories, my time in school and college, my old friends, and my lost loves have helped me get through some of the most trying times in my professional life. Be that as it may, I never let go of my antipathy for change, for change is still an old villain to me, and I love looking back with deep gratitude and joy on my formative years in the 1980s and 1990s. So, change had to come around sooner or later, and it happened after the year 2000, although I'd prefer to think that I never changed—I just learned to live with it, feeling the loss, loneliness, and longing of all those years.

It can be hard to adjust to the current situation (of political and humanitarian catastrophes that affect half of the world), especially for people who are 'pessimistic optimists' (like myself) and overly analytical (which I'm not) - as I'm not beholden to fashionable change: change for the sake of change. Again and again, we may struggle to reconcile our constant need for stability and security with the ever-changing nature of our lives in a world that appears to be annihilating humanity; I often wonder how humanity still survives in a world that is becoming more and more apocalyptic. Ah well.

*

At the same time, it is also hard to downplay the significance or effects of change in the twenty-first century. We live in an age of fanatic capitalism, unrestrained consumerism, and even unchecked egotism, and change is bound to happen the way it happened, especially in the last twenty-five years or so. It’s a world of ever-accelerating technological advances, global economic shifts, and political upheavals that often combine to form one big roaring mess that, I am sure, no sane individual could sort. Social Media—with its capacity for making instant connections or breaching personal space, depending on how you look at it—are like your hair standing up your back, carrying the danger of creating virtual echo chambers and encouraging crude forms of communitarian sentiment that have nothing to do with established morals. While one is not against any networking 24/7 metaverse fantasy platform, it does come with time and age, but these have had enormous consequences on our lives for the past two decades.

Although using social media daily has become routine, it was never supposed to be a natural way to work, play, or socialize. But we are now beginning to grasp its societal ramifications, which is why the usage of that social media juggernaut, Facebook, is fast declining. Whoever remembers Orkut? Another application named Google Plus tried to rival Facebook, but it didn’t last long in the global yik yak race. Facebook is also heading fast towards the graveyard of such failed social apps. MySpace is long dead. RIP, ye all, don’t ever come back!

*

Change can be scary and, therefore, disconcerting for some people, who still cannot forget the traditional way of life of the decades past. But it also brings up new possibilities and fresh meanings we, if not all of us, can relate to and find new definitions that could be useful to accommodate. Instead of fighting change that really can't stop, we can use our natural-born analytical skills and the plain lust for life to look for potential benefits of change while keeping a realistic eye on its likely pitfalls. Bla bla bla. We can likewise focus on building resilience and finding creative ways to navigate our lives in this rapidly changing world; it can do a world of good to us. (Conversely, it is up to us what we believe is creative or life-sustaining and what is not as we sort the wheat from the chaff to be on the better side of history).

Finally, change is a natural aspect of life that we cannot shun as if it isn't there at all. Preferring the status quo is perilous. We may only sometimes like it, but knowing how to use it to our advantage is the key to being aware of it. It can be an opportunity to expand and grow, learn new skills, and broaden our horizons, helping us to find our purpose and become more conscious of our place in our interdependent, interconnected AI-powered, apps-controlled freaking world. So, it may not feel like you're a frolicking fool while being oblivious to change, but change may bring the possibility for growth and transformation (without warming up the planet further) that you can welcome. If you have a stomach ache or a headache, or something isn't quite right with you, think about change; you'll know!

The future of our species, ha ha ha, Homo sapiens, which translates to "wise men" in Latin, is uncertain. In the face of such a bleak reality, how do we keep an open mind, a loving heart, and an optimistic outlook (all rolled into one) to make the most of life's inevitable changes? There are many possible answers to this issue, but none and I'm not over-thinking this, will be satisfactory to soothe our hearts and minds and put our concerns to rest; let's not delude ourselves with unnecessary optimism about the current situation of humanity in the Middle East or the Far East.

In life, nobody can be unconcerned and look happy, and it's unrealistic to expect constant happiness in the face of global turmoil. Life has changed irrevocably, and it's hard to find the beauty in it now.

Even though it might feel like a storm in a teacup to deal with the dizzying changes occurring today, it is more sensible to acknowledge that in the not-too-distant future, the imaginable outcomes will hopefully outweigh the downsides. That's where we should stop, I suppose. Let's leave it at that.

By Arindam Moulick

Appendix:
*'Gyaan session' = ‘knowledge session’ or ‘inputs sessions’
*'Light lelo' (or 'lite lelo') = Hyderabadi slang for ‘take it easy’ or ‘chill bro’

Reminiscing: A Journey to Remember

Twenty-two years ago in 2001, in Sept./Oct., Satish, Armstrong, and I went on a tour to the western part of India. Alas, it was the only trip we had ever taken.

Arriving by train early in the morning is the best time of day to reach a historic place. However, evening time is also a good time. We reached Aurangabad and checked into a nearby budget hotel, just a short walk from the train station.

The air was chilly and even, believe it or not, a little bit misty, not due to any pollution but because it was a seasonal occurrence at that time of year. It was tranquil and calm as Satish, Armstrong and I walked behind one enthusiastic messenger who would be at the train station bringing in potential guests for the hotel he is jobbing for. Early in the morning, there was scarcely any traffic on the road. In 2001, Aurangabad city traffic wasn't as chaotic as it might have become today; the scourge of traffic now affects practically every part of our deep and vast country.

The hotel was in a bylane. The double room allotted to us was decent. It contained no expensive essentials (as it was a budget hotel for tourists like us preferring to stay only for 1 or 2 days max): except for the TV, which we never switched on during our 2-day stay there, three decent beds (one of them on an extra-person charge) covered with nice clean white sheets and pillows; a wooden wardrobe and a dresser; and small narrow bathroom (not designed for tall (like me) or heavy-set people (like Satish particularly!) with a sink minus the usual countertop around it and an Intercom. Armstrong didn't mind much about the small bathroom or the smallish room we had been given. Eager to enjoy the day ahead, he declared groggily, "Guys, we're on a budget, remember? Now let's get on with it already!" The restroom's modest size inconvenienced Satish and me, but we didn't really groan or complain about it!) And the best part was that there were no hidden charges when the bill came! So therefore, "Jo hukum mera akaa!" Fair enough for three bachelor souls who had embarked upon a friendcation of a lifetime, starting from Aurangabad as the first stop in our travel itinerary.

First, on our travel itinerary: we walked into the MTDC Aurangabad hotel, which was also nearby from where we were staying, and stepped inside its on-property restaurant to grab a quick breakfast of sliced bread toast with butter and surprisingly freshly prepared hashbrowns made of Tapioca (or Sago, Sabudana) and tea, which was pleasant to sip and served in sparkling white tea cups and saucers.

Thereafter, we booked an MTDC bus to visit the Aurangabad caves, the Daulatabad Fort, and other tourist getaways outside the city limits. We explored some famous sites such as the Bibi ka Maqbara mausoleum, which amazingly resembled the Taj Mahal, a miniature replica of the original tomb at Agra, Panchakki, the Tomb of Aurangzeb, and the magnificently mesmerising rock-cut Buddhist cave complexes of Ajanta-Ellora, which are only an hour and a half drive from the historic city.

We enjoyed ourselves while touring Aurangabad; clicked several pictures. The following day, we travelled to the beautiful town of Nashik on an MTDC intercity bus. The bus ride through the Aurangabad countryside was herky-jerky but not unpleasant, allowing us to catch up on life for a bit. From there, we transited through the beautiful countryside to Trimbakeshwar, a temple town with an ancient shrine dedicated to Lord Shiva, the origin of the river Godavari, the location of one of the twelve Jyotirlingas in India.

After visiting the sacred bathing ghat called Ramkund, where Lord Ram, Sita, and Lakshmana bathed in the holy waters of the river Godavari alongside it during their 14-year exile (Aranya Kanda), we headed towards Panchavati, where they stayed. Nearby, we visited Sita Gupha (meaning Sita’s cave) through a narrow staircase leading up to it. It is believed that Sita was abducted from here by an enraged Lord Raavan bent on taking revenge for his sister Surpanaka when Lakshman cut off her nose. Due to time constraints, we had to forego visiting other places nearby. Afterwards, we took an auto-rickshaw to the Pandavleni Caves (also known as Nasik Caves), situated atop a sizable mountain.

When we arrived at the caves, we decided to eat lunch before ascending a steep flight of stairs that led to the Pandavleni Caves. We munched on bread and bananas we had purchased in Nashik city while seated at the base of the massive Pandav Leni mountain. While we had lunch, we spotted the Dadasaheb Phalke Memorial situated just close by — at the foot of this picturesque hill, with its dome and landscape garden visible from where we sat eating lunch. However, time was of the essence, so we skipped the visit to the Memorial but chose to trek up the mountain instead. Meanwhile, as we explored the ancient Pandev Leni Caves, we took numerous pictures there: one with all three of us posing next to a rock face with the setting sun shining behind our heads, giving the appearance of a golden halo stand out. The experience of being there high up on the mountain was nothing short of spectacular; it was truly unforgettable. Afterwards, we made a return trip under the silver moon to downtown Nashik’s Central Bus Station, where we boarded a state transport bus for the final leg of our tour, which took us to the temple town of Shirdi.

Spending two days and a moonlit night in a modest hotel in the middle of the sparkling, bustling local bazaar/market adjoining the temple compound of Shirdi Sai Baba was a magical experience. Thanks to the excellent spot of our hotel room, we soaked in the sights and sounds of the market area below, right next to the main temple from our first-floor balcony where we all three stood captivated with breathless wonder and delight — a breath-taking view, so wonderful to behold in the gentle evening breeze.

It was a yatra — not a religious pilgrimage of the sort pilgrims go on, but rather a short tour or a pleasure trip of the sort friends embark upon — we were eagerly anticipating when we boarded an express train at Secunderabad Railway Station to travel to Aurangabad, then to Nashik, to Trimbakeshwar, and finally to Shirdi. An amazing journey!

~~~

Tall guys usually take the top bunk to get some sleep or something nearly as possible, so I opted for the upper perch. Armstrong climbed onto the middle berth and quickly glanced upwards to look at me in the act of untangling my limbs, err ... stretching my legs down the entire length of the sleeping berth I chose. He chuckled delightedly. I could tell he was trying to have some fun moments while he looked at Satish and me resting our bodies on the bunks, so I giggled along. Satish was grinning away so much while laying his heavy self on the lower bunk that watching him made us giggle even more. It was a giggling match we indulged in, oblivious to other delighted passengers in the compartment.

Soon after, I asked Armstrong, who was in the middle berth, to check on Satish: how he was doing down below on his lower bunk. At that moment, we both turned our heads downwards to see our friend Satish positioning the entire circumference of his mighty girth on the lower berth in what seemed to be an extremely comical manner we were not so accustomed to seeing. It was such fun, and appreciably he played along. We heaved a sigh of relief when we saw Satish satiated (and satisfied) with the homemade meal we'd all finished eating a while ago and preparing to sleep now for the night on the train. As we prepared to sleep in our bunks, I thought to myself: if Satish is feeling fine, everything is fine, and we needn't worry about anything, all is good. This wonderful four-day, four-night tour was one of the most important events that significantly shaped our personal lives in the years to come.

~~~

The tour, which we went on about 22 years ago, is something we'll never forget. It was a nostalgic trip of a lifetime: an incredible journey to remember for the rest of our lives. Though 22 years is a long time and memories fade, I recall being so moved by it that I wrote about it in one of my blog posts titled 'A Journey to Remember, a Short Story,' with a heavy heart that felt even heavier on our return trip home so many years ago. Unfortunately, another journey like that never happened again. Armstrong had us promise to return, but we couldn't.

By Arindam Moulick

Dedication:
To Armstrong and Satish, two of my best friends since the unforgettable 1990s. What lovely days they were.

Memories, Take Me Back in Time - final part

Alwal Tales, A Trip Down Memory Lane - part 10 of 10

Our lives changed as the years of the new millennium progressed. To adjust to the new ways, as they say: ‘embrace change,’ and make the most of what the first decade had to offer, we had to learn, unlearn, and relearn.

But even then, our collective experience of the beautiful, formative 1990s decade was never far from our minds. We lived to tell the proverbial tale as we gradually geared up to the power of saying a louder 'No,' to our 'cool' impulses without feeling guilty or much worse about what we felt as largely unromantic, unconcerned shrugging off newness of the highly politically charged millennium years that came meant really.

We were somewhat naive, if that's the right word to mean, in thinking that the 1990s, which we adored so much and still do, would continue into the 2000s — and therefore, the coming decade would be much like the previous one, without so much change that we cannot take into our stride. What were we thinking? We were mistaken to believe that. Naivety has its price, I guess. The two decades could not have been more dissimilar; the differences were though astronomical in proportion to what we were comfortably used to but not entirely, I concede, out of place for us to keep that in mind and move on ahead. Maybe that is why it's said, never be comfortable with anything in your life. Things change, and they always will. (The point is: The present is no good, and the future is dire. Only with our memories of the past can you be at ease; all other aspects of life will ultimately let you down in one way or another.) If not, I am still as naive as I always have been.

And the past ended in the year 2000.

After that, it's a world-imposed human conundrum.

However, as the years passed, we all experienced the effects of the "change," but we were also able to capitalize on the changes and use them to our advantage. That saved us. We were able to adapt while seeking out new opportunities as we began to take advantage of the millennial years. Yet, the profound changes that the 2000s and after brought about in our lives were something we could never have predicted or imagined. Despite being unexpected and formidably challenging, the "change" or "shift" for each of us was necessary to move forward and prevail in the subsequent years.

‘sarakti jaaye hain, rukh se naqaab,
    aahista aahista
       nikaltaa aa rahaa hai aaftab
         ahistaa ahistaa’*

Because we understood that we had a chance of a legacy to uphold, even if it was ordinarily unique, but a treasured heritage in every aspect—one that has been immortalised for the last thirty priceless years and still going strong. Yet it came at a price—after 2005, our sweet old 1990s days started to fade away and wane out of the reckoning, post the millennial outbreak of the 2000s.

Armstrong's departure for Delhi took a heavy toll on our friendship, as did Sunil's death. Satish and I are the only ones still here, going about our daily lives without the spiritual support of our close friends — bereft of the familiar freedom we once cherished so much and are still very nostalgic for our old way of life. Things will change — a reason enough for me not to hate but dislike it, almost intensely.

I’m not dreaming it up, barely. Nor am I implying I am getting bogged down by my own compulsions. No. Twenty-three years into the 21st century has never been a revelation of ... anything at all. Ironically, the logic of experiencing life has become a mechanical need; there is nothing more to it than being monotonous enough to continue living life this way, mechanically, that is. What does life currently have to offer? Simply being healthy could be sufficient. With the sense of ambition fading, all the thrilling rush of "great expectations" of me has likewise stopped coming.

Putting it slightly differently . . .

[We thought the 2000s: the new millennium years, would be not so different or dissimilar to the 1990s, to which we had been so accustomed.

Friendship-wise, the 1990s were a decade of comparatively more secure (and leisurely prosperity!), with the economy doing about alright - no fancy world's best monetary funds-certified figures to boot - and our joyous and peaceful haven being a much safer and generally happier place. Whatever it was, it was our small corner of the world: our backyard, our little patch. It was our comfort zone. In contrast, the 2000s and the later years saw a significant change in how we lived as terrorism rose to a new level, the economy struggled, downturns, recessions, slumps, and markets crashed—unpleasant words we became unwantedly accustomed to hearing—occurred. As technology advanced, our lives became intertwined with all kinds of technology doodah, and whatnot.

At the beginning of the decade, our lives were altering in ways that would have been unthinkable, unimaginable even; and we had to change or adapt quickly to keep up. The impending changes that came had a tremendous impact on us and our friendship. Our jobs were changing. Our homes were changing. As our social lives changed, so did our relationship as friends. It was tough to get used to a world that was dramatically different and weird compared to how it had been in the 1990s.

But as time went on, we all adapted to the new developments. We needed to. You cannot ignore it, claiming that: Oh! I'm not the right person for it, so I'll let go. And yet, as we embraced technological advancements and discovered ways to use them to improve our lives by being politically informed or being more professionally inclined: to name just two things, we saw ways to make our lives simpler, more convenient, and more enjoyable—but at the expense of undermining our earlier 1990s sensibilities as to the understanding of what life should be or how it should be as long as change happens, and it will.

And although the changes of the 2000s were—let's say—largely circumstantial but understandably authoritative, they brought about a new era of professional advancement and opportunities that would shape our future in the new millennial world. Sadly, with the trade-off of apps-led digital newness and all that digital garbage that came in the wake of globalization that we see today, that profoundly wonderful 'old world charm' is lost forever.

Anyway, I continue to blame "change" and the 21st century's perpetual inevitability of it. Hehe he he, funny! "Change" is an adamant ferocity: an inexorable savagery that has the necessary cosmic authorization to usurp the old way of life, ensuring its writ we all abide. It's an aberration of time or time anomaly that we must live with whether we like it or not. Time passes, and changes happen. When the new millennium arrived and swapped the old for the new, everything we held dear gradually changed permanently. But the truth is, I still loathe the "change" we see these days, and I know the feeling may be fiercely mutual. So be it.]

****

‘rim jhim gire sawan, 

   sulagh sulagh jaye mann
     bheege aaj iss mausam mein,
        lagi kaisi ye agan
           rim-jhim gire sawan’***

In the end, Armstrong, Sunil, Satish, and I have all embraced the ‘change’ of the 2000s and were able to take advantage of the opportunities it brought. But that came at a price. All four of us went in different directions to pursue our professional goals. As a likely result, we all became different sorts of people who "changed" to a certain degree that is, I think, not quite in accord with how we had grown up together in the earlier decade, in the 1990s. Unforgettable memories still tumble down on me. We all changed as individuals as we grew older, matured, and shouldered new responsibilities that came with the new way of life we began to experience. And perhaps we are all the better for it having done so, having come this far ahead in life.

In the later years, in the last 18 years, all but one of us could no longer remain together, but we continued our lifelong friendship, keeping it alive in our hearts. Armstrong's move to Delhi (and then to Noida) in 2005 and Sunil's demise a few years later marked the end of a chapter in our idyllic life in this lonesome town called Alwal—which was once known for its plush greenery, the gentle tune of the north-westerly winds, traffic-free roads lined with large, gracious peepul and banyan trees that canopied them, clean air, clear blue skies above, and some of the most scenic expansive spaces in all of Secunderabad. In the final analysis, I still get the feeling that I really do dislike change after all. This strange feeling will, I'm sure, never pass. Let it not. I can live with that. Perhaps Satish shares my sentiments as I do on how our lives have changed over the years. But don't get me wrong: I'm as happy as can be. Given my untreated change aversion, I'm tickled pink.

As circumstances change, so do things. Changes occurred in our homes, on the highways, inside the streets, and in the gullies . . . everywhere. People changed, love changed, friends changed, and the entire Alwal town—the joy land of our friendship—changed. Is it any wonder? Although the changes that the 2000s and later years brought about were though difficult to skirt, but they ultimately had, I should say, a favourable impact on our lives. Or has it?

‘zindagi ki yehi reet hai
   haar ke baad hi jeet hai
     thode aansoon hai, thodi hasi
        aaj gham hai toh kal hai khushi’**

This is the way of life.

(The end.)

By Arindam Moulick

Dedicated to my beloved friends, Armstrong, Satish, and late Sunil.

*‘Sarakti jaye hai...’ — a 1982 Hindi song sung by Kishore Kumar and Lata Mangeshkar
**’Zindagi ki yehi reet hai...' — a 1987 Hindi song sung by Kishore Kumar

***'Rim jhim gire sawan...'— a 1977 Hindi song sung by Kishore Kumar

Disliking Change - part 9

Alwal Tales, A Trip Down Memory Lane - part 9 of 10

Change as we perceive it in these uncertain times has been—I'll be the first to admit—a source of continual resentment. If not in the lives of my friends, then at least in mine, it had been somewhat of a recurring uneasiness as I dreaded being accused of sappy sentimentalism like living in the past, waxing nostalgic, or going through past experiences — having the fulfilled habit of old-fashioned soul-searching retro attitude when talking about past days. I’ve never been able to come out of my innately powerful sense of the past.

Hating change is not an option, but disliking it, maybe, is. It's invariably turned into a paranoid delusion I am reluctant to engage in with this universally experienced problem. However, you must change and move on with the times or remain behind like a buttock! Times are constantly changing.

Our old world does not exist anymore; it's become different; it's changed beyond recognition. If you do not appreciate falling behind in the race to do something the world readily values and enjoys gossiping about, you have little choice but to graciously accept it as a practical way of life. There is no reason to lag behind, it seems.

We live in a constant flux of change — a data-specific, machine-learning AI era of the futuristic digitally-defined unrealistic utopianistic counterculture, embodied by the emergence of a military-industrial, communally exploitative cyberculture world, which I may not enjoy partaking in much, but 100 other people do, goes my tiresomely constant refrain.

Fun fact: Human life is similar to a Limca-type zing thing! It's full of zingy changes, and change will occur whether or not you have chosen to accept it. It's all around us, making it impossible to ward off its rapacious scrawls and doodles. Its inevitability weaved into the very fabric of life itself. So, Limca Limca . . .!

****

Talking about "change" makes me feel like a frolicking fool. But I'm going to say what I'm going to say anyway. If the blindsiding "change"—that which is all-pervasive, blinding, never-ending, unavoidable, irrevocable, inevitable, and irreversible—we typically experience in this day and age is difficult enough to adjust to or come to terms with, so be it. Especially the case for those of us who pride ourselves on being called 'pessimistic optimists,' dabbling without a rhyme or reason, or a purpose or a point would be in complete contrast to the less optimistic types from the other side of the so-called economic spectrum to deal with the 21st century age of fanatical capitalism writhing with the ugliest forms of consumerism and materialism, and, of course, the vicious kind of selfishness and egoism that clouds the power of ethical thinking.

(Just saying: Is this a storm in a teacup, or something more serious? No matter the answer, it’s clear that we need to strive for more sustainable ways of living and working. Consider, for instance, climate change and its impact on our daily lives.

If change doesn't occur or develop gradually, it's difficult to bear it. It's tough to deal with when it comes at you fast, with significant consequences, and usually without warning. In all honesty, it's a topic with broad significance if you're interested. Given that, I am not!)

****

Well, talking sensibly: I don't resist change. Resisting it is a ridiculous way to live, even futile in the materialistic, self-centred one-way track of life we have come to believe the best way to live and mass produce and pass on the genetic information to the next generation. Because of this, I, like everyone else, try to constantly adjust to its never-ending digital detox (often atrocious!) that, like it or not, periodically supplant the tried-and-tested traditional ways, compelling me to cultivate strategies for carrying out my responsibilities of living as well as I can in a world that has become more dangerous, unjust, a very toxic world. (Yeah, blame the whole thing on the world before acting pious!) Everything is "subject to change," which means that change is inevitable and will happen regardless of your actions, so it does not matter whether or not you fall in line with it. If you are 'living,' you are already under its control: you are subject to change. Rather than criticising the outside world, making the most of the changes that come our way is the key to having a clear conscience. By our good fortune, we embraced change in whatever way was possible.

Nevertheless, even as we daydream of other lonely planets in the universe, our planet Earth, our only home, is being destroyed and pillaged. It is just the same old miserable human intention to take control of everything, to plunder our limited resources and move on to other planets nearby: akin to extra-terrestrial aliens that they show in flick after flick. So, rather than naively embracing change in these truth-challenged times the world is going through, I'd prefer to let bygones be bygones and go extinct. If we need to change, change human behaviour and our ways of living and working. And preserve the Earth. All we've ever needed to do was exactly that. Do I sound preachy? Maybe I do. But the truth, however improbable, remains the truth.

Are we living in the "metaverse" or "multiverse," as it has come to be known? How did we come to believe in such follies, unnatural absurdities, that defy nature? In an era of rapidly evolving technologies, would humans be reduced to fending off coming obsolescence? God, oh God! I shudder to think of what the future holds for us.

(To be continued...)

By Arindam Moulick

For my beloved friends, Armstrong, Satish, and Sunil, who passed away a few years ago

A Forgotten Love Story - part 8

Alwal Tales, A Trip Down Memory Lane - part 8 of 10

The girl from the local drugstore was put out of our minds and forgotten. After all, it was just a short-lived romance. But despite how briefly it lasted, it was a sweet, fleeting, heart-to-heart connection that Sunil was to remember his love for her for the rest of his life. It was a courtship that undoubtedly shaped the two of them and will—as it happened—live on in Sunil's memory everlastingly, but we're not so sure about her.

As our lives changed, coming to terms with the new realities of the post-2000 world, none of us spoke of Sunil's love story anymore: it had been all but forgotten for the past twenty-six years, disappearing into the mists of time and distance, with our lives unexpectedly changing around the beginning of the new century as the radical new started taking the place of the old.

Like many twenty-year-olds, we were still trying to plan our careers and other things coming our way, and by the time we realized something was amiss with Sunil, he seemed to have gone on, not having (or deferring) to engage with the kind of inner struggle he had been going through. Even though his love story fizzled out, we worried about him. A further factor that may have contributed to his treating this as something very personal and a challenge to overcome was the constant absence of the object of his adoration. That piece of bad luck of the special someone not being present, we believed, was reason enough to put aside his one-sided, unreciprocated, and jinxed "love" whatsoever for the girl from the medical supply store whom he had been unsuccessfully trying to woo.

Years have passed, Sunil, and to some extent, all of us friends, have come to learn better that love is our true nature and that there is no such thing as real success or failure. If that doesn't ring true, then I'm not sure it's reasonable enough for (hopeless) romantics of the world who failed in their one-sided enchanted relationships to learn from such patronizing sermons.

Unlucky in Love

Sunil fell head over heels in love with a ‘suitable girl’ who—to put it bluntly—never really had the hots for him. Sad that he never got a chance to express his love to her: to a, hypothetically, 'patthar ke sanam' — a stone heart. Or a heart of stone. Guess she was not so suitable after all.

Sunil's college years were a period of exploration and growth. Post those years, Sunil went on to earn himself a great spot in his life. With a degree in Science, he developed a keen interest in the pharmaceutical industry, which soon translated into a career at Micro Labs, one of the growing pharmaceutical companies that produced "Dolo" paracetamol tablets — which gained, though much later in the 2020s, prominence as the COVID-19 pandemic's widely used magic pill for curing infectious fever and pain. At Micro Labs, Sunil worked as a Medical Rep, pushing the company's main product into the market, and that's how Sunil came in contact with the girl at one of the pharmacies. He was a man of integrity and character whose life was guided by a strong moral compass as he made a good impression on those around him. Though he spoke with a great deal of attention and nuance, he was known to be a sarcastic genius whose comments often put a new spin on conversations, as also he was known for his quick wit and sense of humour in his brief but contented life.

A sweet-natured guy, he read books voraciously, listened to great music, socialized with family and friends, among whom we were in the same age bracket, of course, and frequently travelled to Bangalore and other distant cities and villages like Nanded in the neighbouring state, wherever his job took him. A post he would keep for over a decade. He lived a charmed life, to be sure. Yet the only thing that fell through in his life was his transitory, romantic love for the shop girl who had little to no clue of how Sunil felt about her. Poor thing, that's just how it was.

‘tell me, how am I supposed to live without you?
     now that I've been loving you so long’
                                - song sung by Michael Bolton

But—all cards on the table—the hardest bit to accept about this little-known, low-key love story about two medically-related souls: One had a shop of medicines to sell, and the other was a medical representative who checked in from time to time to see if his company-supplied prescription drugs (especially Dolo tablets) were selling well in her store, was the fast culminating outcome of his love affair with the girl — which is no sure future for them together. As it was, his lady love (who wasn’t even a friend in the true sense) hardly gave any importance to the fact that it was plain enough for anybody to see that our very decent, handsome, and holding a good job, love-smitten friend, was prospectively interested—captivated even, almost to the brink of, if you ask me, catatonic despondency—in being her friend and would like to make good with the first and only significant but largely non-reciprocating sweetheart of his life. There were days when he looked longingly from his house, across the road and diagonally opposite, at the store where she sat with her mum in tow, hoping his feelings be acknowledged sooner than later if she could glance in the direction of Sunil's house, unable to tear himself away from his just one chance at, for all practical purposes, professing true love for her. But it was never to be; nothing of that sort happened. Had she only expressed interest in Sunil back then, one would have thought that history might have taken a somewhat different turn; probably, it would have been best if it had; who knew what fate had in store for them both had they come together for the sake of each other? Unfortunately, that's all too often the reality we face: we become painfully aware of the heartache and suffering these untoward situations can cause — only after they have occurred in our lives. We can only imagine that Sunil was painfully aware of his unenviable position and the difficulties he faced while in love, just as so many people instinctively had done before him. When it comes to love—whether it's true or just flirting-infatuation—no amount of rationality or logical reasoning seems to work in your head when the power of your heart begins to rule you through and through. Appreciatively, however, his languid determination to make her feel the same way he did was quite laudable, but sadly it did not work out the way he thought it would. All the time, she, the only daughter of the pharmacy store, remained, as luck would have it, unconcerned and sternly cold to Sunil’s constant leap of faith to gain her affection, his first love: the one that was never to be his. Despite his best efforts, his first love (and last) was left unfulfilled.

Sunil, however, deserved praise for being able to move on while being fully aware that first loves never are forgotten, as most of our colony's considerable modern-day Devdases (and Devdasis?) would have us believe, and infallibly, the emotional setback that love can cause you may not make the pain go away ever. And, as it happened, it broke his heart into a million pieces he couldn't avert from it going thwarted. The girl he liked left without saying a word or casting a backward glance, ending their relationship and leaving Alwal forever and ever. In all these years, no one else had brought her up, nor did Sunil himself feel like uttering anything that suggested despair; the last time Sunil spoke of her was in 1999 or 2000, perhaps just for old times' sake, as he never really have forgotten her. Nobody is ever able to forget their first love. Sunil must have thought: All he has now is the memory of her, which he wouldn't let go. In Sunil's mind, however, she was already too far gone into oblivion, never seen or heard from since. But we understood that his matter-of-heart person, which ultimately could only give him—as we say colloquially among our friends—a "big hand," continued to beat for her long after she had vanished from sight, leaving Sunil thinking of her night and day while gazing vacantly out of his compound wall towards the shut shop across the road where his flame once burned so brightly.

With the medical shop sold off due to less revenue churn and no repeat business, thanks to lesser and lesser customer patronage, there was nothing left for the family to stay on, and how much can they live in hopes thinking that things will look up for their business to flourish into the future and success too?

Sometimes things do not get ahead in life, and no matter how much harder you work into professing your love for your fancy little crush you hope one day will pay off, do not work out the way you think it would. That simply means that you fell in love with a girl, and she never felt the need to return your feelings. Following that, it's just a matter of surviving the breakup of your one-sided relationship while still yearning for your special someone who is no longer available, leaving you to deal with agony, loss, and guilt.

Sunil, as a medical representative and her adorer, had finally stopped making rounds at the only medical shop, her shop, by the roadway because she—for whom he had committed the mistake of professing so much love, albeit never could he express his love in person—wasn’t there for him any longer. Love had only been in the air for a few months before her shop closed permanently, and he never saw her again. She had left. Forever. To even catch a glimpse of her was not possible, far less talk to her. After selling off the store, the word was that the family migrated to another town or went off to their village, nobody knew, never to be seen or heard from again. Their leaving shattered Sunil, and he never talked about her again, keeping everything inside him deep within — as though he were dangling by hopes trashed and plummeting into the unknown. Less than 20 years later, Sunil passed away.

‘hello, is it me you're looking for?
    'cause I wonder where you are and I wonder what you do
        are you somewhere feeling lonely or is someone loving you?’
                                            - song sung by Lionel Richie

Our friend Sunil will always be in our memories. His memory will live on, and the bright joy of friendship he brought us all those years ago, in the 1990s, will forever be a part of our close friendship. His memory will endure in all of us who especially look back and cherish the lifestyle and the moments the great decade of the 1990s brought into the lives of our four friends. Never mind, his innocent enthusiasm, his incredible love for the girl so unlucky, who was never heard from nor seen again at Alwal, Sunil—we are sure about this—had gotten over it over the years. He needed to move past his failed or short-lived romance with the one he ever loved. We believe he could set all his thoughts about her free before moving on with his life, with all the natural willingness he had to forge the best path forward for himself and his family. It hurt him. It hurt like hell when she went away without a word, without so much a backward glance, as it were. But Sunil had freed his love from any predicament she might have had.

Love is beautiful, and for some people, the experience of it is sufficient reason to move on from someone they once held in the deepest part of their hearts. He realized this was his time to forgive and forget. After that, time just goes by . . .

****

Now the old has given way to the new, and in this computerized, digital dull age, the new is giving way to pandemically (my emphasis) progressive!

For all four of us, our way of life, as we once knew it in the 1990s, was never to be the same again; it was changing forever as if it were changing before our eyes in a painfully short time. Everything changed - it even changed the place where we lived almost all our lives. It changed our homes, cities, people, friendships, the weather, the environment, and everything. The change we see today is reprehensible, every single atom of it.

Isn't it all confusing, so bewildering? That everything is even more hopeless than they seem, if not pointless? Inconsequential? Life may not come back, not even once, for anyone. Even if it's not what we desire from this life, we can't always get what we want. You can't figure out what you really want, but you should always do what you want to do to make it right. That is how this miserable world works, forever caught in the crosshairs of everything.

(To be continued…)

By Arindam Moulick

Thinking of my beloved friends: Armstrong, Satish, and Sunil.

Click on the links below to read the other essays written in the series:
‘Remembering: Going to The Dhabas with Friends - part 1’
‘An Abundance of Tasty Memories - part 2’
‘Memories of the Distant Past - part 3’
‘Sweet Days of Youth, a memoir - part 4’
‘As Time Goes By, a memoir - part 5’
‘The Last Days of Friendship - part 6’
‘The Tide of Change - part 7’

The Tide of Change - part 7

Alwal Tales, A Trip Down Memory Lane - part 7 of 10

Armstrong, Sunil, Satish, and I all submitted to a mostly circumstantial, newly-sprung 'change' as the 1990s gave way to the dread and distraction of the 2000s, one by one, unpredictably: its solid, monopolising, indifferent hold on our way of life wouldn't let go, and it seemed it refused to let us be, or so we felt.

As the explosion of this thing called 'change' entered our lives, we experienced a palpable sense of dread, distraction, and uncertainty about what the future would bring. Not that we weren't prepared or lacked the tools necessary to meet the challenges of the future, whatever it entailed. We had professional degrees, the right convictions, and just enough in our common sense tank to find our place awash in the sun. But we found it difficult to acknowledge the flood of 'change' (and time) that we suddenly began observing everywhere and strained immensely to embrace that which was coming.

We didn't want 'change,' and the reason solely was: we didn't want it so soon in our lives as, I think, we were naturally inclined to be overly cautious about anything that makes you feel 'the dread of the unfamiliar' or 'to make or become different' or 'alter' or 'transitions' or 'change.' Like a barbarian, the 'change' stood at the gate demanding we enter. Didn't it?

In the end, change found us.

By degrees, everything changed as a result. Although we knew that the direction of our lives was changing for the better, we still believed that the decade to come would be largely reminiscent of the 1990s, which we loved so much. But we were mistaken, though. We had no choice but to comply and accept the changes coming our way. Change found us. No matter how much we wanted to cling to the life we were used to, the beloved decade we grew so fond of had changed. The 1990s were, unfortunately, very different from what the 2000s were beginning to show.

For this unwanted changeover, a new decade—of a new millennial century, no less—had to begin. The 1990s, which we had great nostalgia for, was a magnificent decade that never ceased to exist and never left us ever, even though we underwent significant change and went along with the times that came. Now we can see how horrible the world has gotten by looking at the 2000s and later years.

Today, all we have left are the memories of our continuing friendship, which we will treasure forever, no matter where we go to work or perform our tasks, live our new lives, or fulfil our responsibilities as parents or family men. We acknowledge that reality and the impossibility of returning to the past. After all, who can go back in time? No one. Except when we recall our memories in a dream, we catch a fleeting glimpse of our past life; that's all. Time cannot go back in time; it only knows how to advance itself forward without as much as giving a second thought to its action. We've, I reckon, changed with the times, albeit with a lot of agonising wavering on our part; it was inevitable that we'd somehow adapt to the forward momentum of the times in which we were living or the onward rush of a seemingly fanciful tomorrow that is coming.

(Humankind's irrational fantasies are driving us into an apocalyptic landscape of artificially-induced, tech-laden destiny that we'd never get accustomed to while the spectre of global warming obliterates everything we cherish on this adored planet. Little wonder that in the far, far future, this universe will end with a whimper.)

While I'm not sure I've changed in the sense that the world sees, Armstrong and Satish have managed to move with the times. And that's a good thing: I reckon being practical about the future is the way forward. Everything changes with time or with time everything changes, and it has always been the case for eons. Fortunately, these days, we talk to each other from time to time and try to recall our old days irretrievably lost in the times past. That is how things stand between us while we live with the dramatic transformation of the world around us: change, whatever the word connotes. The change will happen, no matter what we say about it or do; change will maraud.

And so the days of celebrating our friendship at the dhabas are over. After 2000/1, the dhabas ceased to be in our scheme of things. We never went back to a dhaba on the Medchal highway. Those days are long gone, fading into the twilight evenings of our past when everything was brighter, greener, and more beautiful. But, as I cling to the memories of the distant past, I pretend they haven't gone away, at least not from my heart.

In my mind, I keep replaying the early years of our friendship, hearing the familiar voices of my close friends, and picturing the tableaus of the scenes of our growing up years back in the 1990s. I am grateful that I still have all my memories; I haven't stopped thinking about them. I reminisce as a storyteller would.

(To be continued…)

By Arindam Moulick

Dedicated to my beloved friends: Armstrong, Satish, and Sunil.

Click on the links below to read the other essays written in the series:
‘Remembering: Going to The Dhabas with Friends - part 1’
‘An Abundance of Tasty Memories - part 2’
‘Memories of the Distant Past - part 3’
‘Sweet Days of Youth, a memoir - part 4’
‘As Time Goes By, a memoir - part 5’
‘The Last Days of Friendship - part 6’

The Last Days of Friendship - part 6

Alwal Tales, A Trip Down Memory Lane - part 6 of 10

I recall very well the year: 1990, when I first met Sunil in the classroom of the college where we both took the undergraduate program of Science and Armstrong Commerce; Satish had gone to another institution that offered a Commerce curriculum.

An anecdotal narrative…

Sunil and I just so happened to be seated next to each other in the classroom, and when we introduced ourselves, we were surprised that we had never met, even though we lived in the same part of the town and took the same bus to college. By a happy coincidence, Armstrong had also enrolled in the same college and frequently ran into us in the long corridors or during recess on the college grounds. After the first year, Sunil, beset by a Gordian Knot of problems, would rarely go to college with Armstrong and me on the same bus.

In the late 1990s, Sunil was already working as a medical representative for a pharmaceutical company that manufactured the Dolo brand of paracetamol pills. Flush with cash, Sunil and I shopped together throughout the years of '98 and '99 for new "dresses," meaning ready-made garments (mostly cloth material cut from rolls of fabric/thaan as we preferred bespoke tailoring) and new boots. Riding on my new Splendor, we went to a brand-new Vimal showroom in Liberty Plaza, owned by a former colleague who also seemed to be a friend good at entrepreneurial pursuits. We eagerly took his friend's word for it, and sure enough, the quality of what was on display to choose from was excellent, so we each purchased two shirt pieces and matching pants lengths. Our fashion sense was pure desi style!!

So, on my year-old motorcycle, we rode across the tank bund and turned left into the western part of the city, which was quite a distance from where we lived in the suburbs to the north. There wasn't much traffic on the roads at the time, so biking was a pleasant experience, especially since it was usually always windy on the Tank Bund road, bounding the heart-shaped lake. Satish couldn't be with us on this trip. (He was, of course, the most obsessive-compulsive shopper among us and always shopped till he dropped or until he was broke or bankrupt!) Friends forever... Shop together. He was a great lover of suiting and shirting, which he bought as unstitched pieces of spun fabric at the well-known cloth cum textile merchant: Silk Centre in Abids. Or cotton, polycotton, and even the affordable spun polyester, but rarely linen because it pinches your pocket too much: cut from big rolled-up thaans. We had similar choices for branded and non-branded clothing material: Raymond, Mayur, Siyaram's, Vimal, and Arvind Mills.

Although I usually preferred in-store shopping at stores like Anand/Subash/Radia, Armstrong loved the range of fabric material shown on the first level of a shop named Rocha, located on the inside lane of the road named after Mahatma Gandhi, MG Road, known famously as General Bazaar. Curiously, stores like these have nametagged 'Bazaar' in their names. Besides, there was always a dependable Cheap Jack, where Satish and I frequently purchased plaid or check shirting, particularly the 'cotton' variety that came with fascinating design patterns. He and I both were passionate about checks shirts, and Cheap Jack offered a wide selection. In the late '90s, it was common knowledge that if Cheap Jack didn't have the latest checks shirting material with them, you could forego buying it altogether because you wouldn't get it anywhere else.

****

As I write this account with a heavy heart and the knowledge that our years have been lost forever in the sands of time past, it pains me to say that all those happy days have disappeared and gone, year by year, layer by layer, ebbing into the furthest reaches of memory. There's nothing at all now of the old times. Everything has changed. Nothing is left. The most beautiful days of our lives are behind us. It's all over. Today, the daily grind of taking care of the family, fulfilling obligations, doing chores, and just getting on with life as usual. And I mourn. I mourn for Sunil and the friendship we had had.

More than two decades of Summer, Monsoon, Winter, and Spring have passed since Armstrong, Satish, Sunil, and I shopped together at the MG Road, roamed around Trishul Park, whiled away our summer evenings sitting side by side on the rocks, and telling stories and cracking jokes. Going to the Exhibition was something we looked forward to every year. Especially seeing 'English movies' at the Sangeet theatre was a source of shared friendly outing we enjoyed so much and have so many memories of seeing those Hollywood films there. Home Alone, Twins, Forrest Gump, The Silence of the Lambs, Sleeping With the Enemy, Kindergarten Cop, Back to the Future, Days of Thunder, The Abyss, Pretty Woman - and the list goes on and on, an endless list of movies we saw at the iconic Sangeet. And then our days of strolling, on the other side of the town, with plastic bags in hand through the lanes and bylanes, the alleyways, and side streets looking for new merchandise and when feeling famished gobbling up pani puris on the roadside was pure salvation. Oh! We were only able to gulp down ten golgappas at once!!

After he'd had his share, Armstrong would jest with us, "Bas? Ho gaya?!"

Sunil and I would respond, laughing, "Wah! Khud ki toh hawa tight hai!" while Satish gorged himself without a ceasefire!!

Then Armstrong would reply back, “Aouum aoum… Aur nahi toh kya... oum oum...?!!”

Gone are the good old days when a cup of irani chai and an egg puff at Paradise was a given. Or go to Universal Bakery and get a burger or hot dogs (garam kutte!) without worrying about calories or being fashionably health-conscious. Shopping was a lot of fun. A mountainous chocolate sponge slice of black forest pastry makes it oh-so-worth-it! Those days will never return.

****

Although Sunil enjoyed shopping, he liked to do it frugally. Unlike Armstrong, Satish, and I, Sunil preferred to buy fabric materials in subtle, understated, mauve, mellow, or soft colours like cream and salad green, beige and blue, etc. Dark or deep colours were different from his taste. Tell that to Satish, and you might get odd looks from him! The only deep check fabrics with larger plaid squares Sunil ever bought were small or micro checks that might be slightly darker in tone and colour but not more. And the rest, as they say, is history.

As we passed Tank Bund that day, we decided to set aside some time to indulge our junk food cravings. Parking was a snap: it was a breeze compared to other watering holes, as there was quite a large parking area in front of the bakery. Traffic was hardly a bother until the early 2000s, unlike today's maddening vehicular rush that goes straight for the jugular vein of our existence and 24/7 traffic logjam at any given location in the city.

(It's heartbreaking to see bumper-to-bumper traffic congestion throughout this overpopulated, overcrowded, and congested city, emitting hazardous auto exhausts and unprecedented pollution concentration levels in the air. And road dust, smoke, and fumes are blowing at gale force. It's no longer much fun to be around.)

We post haste grabbed a chicken burger and a thums up at the well-known Universal Bakery, nestled just off the delightfully humming MG Road. Parklane, Paradise Circle, and MG Road - this triangle of shopping centres has everything from street shopping to upscale boutiques and is our favourite shopping destination in the city. They offered the best burgers in the whole of Hyderabad city. We had a fantastic day out.

‘chupke se, chupke se raat ki chadar tale
       chand ki bhi aahat na ho, baadal ke peeche chale’
                                                                 - a song by Gulzar

Sunil, poor guy, seemed to live in the seventh heaven for a brief period because he was so fixated on romancing a girl from the neighbourhood drugstore! He tried to flirt with the pharmacy girl, but ironically she never paid attention! Sunil never ceased being anxious about his non-existent 'affair' with the girl who showed no interest in him. He'd often say to us, "There's something about her" or “Aré main shaadi kar letu re!” even though he knew full well that his relationship with her was a mistake, was vastly different from the one he had in mind.

Interestingly, Sunil didn't approach her except on a few occasions when he crossed the street to her pharmacy to buy medicine. When an opportunity arose, he'd speak with her mother, who was almost always present at the shop with his 'love interest.' Although it's natural for any new lover like babu Sunil to ask the girl out (for a cup of tea... er... coffee!) or draw her into a conversation, he couldn't do either because he didn't have many options. Soon after, the girl's family sold their pharmacy to a young pharmacist who seemed eager to take advantage of the chance to make it into a successful medical business before permanently leaving town. Sure enough, when Sunil learned that they had left town, he became sick (and he gnawed off his nails to the nub in feverish delirium!) with the emotional memories of the girl who was never his, not once, not now, not ever. From what I could infer from his late infatuation, I think he could never forget her because he truly did love her, albeit one-sidedly it was. Nevertheless, a happily ever after for the two love birds was never in the cards. Sunil had to move on and get over her now that she was far gone into history before death took him away.

I remember Armstrong saying coolly to Sunil: "Sab thik ho jaye ga!" "Chalo, create your own closure and keep faith in yourself.”

Sunil mumbled something, to which Armstrong said, "Aré bhai saab... there are other pebbles on the beach. Hai ki nei?"

Satish and I wisecracked: "Sunil, woh nahin toh koi aur sahi. Chal ek ‘Dolo’ le le! Sab thik ho jata! Chal ab jaane de reh. Bol party kab dera?!!"

Giving dirty looks, Sunil moaned: "Aré meri woh chali gayi aur tum logon ko party chaiyye??"

We all laughed and said: “Aur nahi toh kya?!”

****

Sunil is survived by his wife and two children, who continue to live in a three-storey house he lovingly and ambitiously built. He demolished the old house that his father had built decades before to build a bigger and better one in its place. Sunil's married older sister, who always had so much affection and love for her brother, is the sole surviving member of the family. Some days whenever he wanted to go to his sister's house at Anandnagar, he'd ask me to accompany him, so after we finished attending our classes, we'd both go by catching a bus to Khairatabad's five-point crossing to reach his sister's place.

The short, lean, intelligent man with sharp black eyes, our buddy from our college days, has passed away.

May God grant peace to his soul.

(To be continued…)

By Arindam Moulick

Dedication: For Armstrong, Satish, and Sunil, three of my beloved friends from the unforgettable 1990s.

Other essays written in the series are:
‘Remembering: Going to The Dhabas with Friends - part 1’
‘An Abundance of Tasty Memories - part 2’
‘Memories of the Distant Past - part 3’
‘Sweet Days of Youth, a memoir - part 4’
‘As Time Goes By, a memoir - part 5’