Entry Id 1147: Fire’s Sermon by Mohit Sharma
“Shyama!”
This word, this name is placed in my memory with an audio file. Voice of my neighbor Mr. Sumit Talwar calling his wife loud and…Sounding…harsh. Though, Shyama was often heard laughing and seen standing on a balcony smiling. Few neighbors residing close were amazed by such contrasting voices. One thing was sure that she was happy and everyone was unable to decipher Mr. Talwar’s expressions and actions to say that a ‘muscleman’, his every action and word was like a semi-slow motion and surprisingly delicate considering his heavyweight frame. Mr. Talwar’s first impression to many was ignorant and rude. Almost zero social circle, very poor attendance in festive or social gatherings, almost no facial expressions like Rahul Dravid batting on the Fourth Boring day of Cricket test match heading towards a Draw. He works in State Archives Department currently working on ‘Nehru project’, digitizing, preserving and analyzing the documents related to India’s first Prime Minister Late Pandit Jawahar Lal Nehru. Maybe the boring nature of his job was the reason for his inscrutable behavior.
Entry Id 1148: The Platform Ticket by Shashank Teotia
It was 02:05 AM. I had stepped down the last bogey. I could not find Naina in the train. In five minutes, the train would leave Nagpur and the chilly swirling fog would wrap and take away all my hope of meeting her into darkness.
This was the last train that left Nagpur. I looked around. A sea of snoring porters surrounded me. All oblivious to the flurry of activity the platform witnessed when the train had rolled in. Of course, oblivious too to my sorry state.
I sat down on the bench before AS2. She had been traveling in the same compartment, which stood in front of me, the last time I had met her. Since the last four days I had been doing the same routine. Waited for the train to arrive, search for Naina and then sat here on the bench, while the train rumbled away. I would then finish the sandwich I had been carrying for her and then make my move. At that hour, perhaps I would be the only moving soul than the restless pigeons and the flashing light bulbs on the weighing scales.
Oh God! I had been so sure I would find her today. I shifted in the bench, sent out a thousand prayers. I looked around. Platform number 10. She was studying in Hyderabad and I was at Nagpur. She would travel once in two months and we would meet for ten minutes. I would be there waiting for her with coffee and some sandwiches I made. Umpteen times I had asked her not to eat so late but she would just flick her hair and smile back at me.
“And spoil my appetite for these? She would point at the double cheese veg sandwiches. “Never till my dying day yaara!” And we would laugh. Then perhaps we would quietly slip into the arms of the night, trying to forget where we stood. Next to a resting monster, which would carry her away. We created memories in those ten minutes and lived them till we met again.
“I am still mad at you for not meeting me the last time.”
“Naina, you know that I missed the train because of that stupid cow who came in my way when I was coming to the station. I was lucky I got away. I was damn sure the crowd would beat me up for being rude to the cow.” I grinned, “I think you are going to complain to me about it for the rest of my life.”
“That is, if we will remain together for the rest of our lives.”
Entry Id 1149: Fear of Love by Makarand Lohire
Walking on a footpath of Ravindra Nath Tagore Marg, in Nagpur – the tiger capital of India, I saw a lady with a small voice recorder querying the people around her about something. Next to her was a man in typical journalist attire – a shirt and a pair of loose fitting cargos, with a sleeveless jacket over it. He was holding a camera and taking snaps. They seemed to be from the media and considering the ugly looks of the lady in question, they were definitely from the print media. Television news channels rarely hired ordinary looking folk.
In desperate need of publicity, I deliberately slowed down, as I neared them. Chhinka, who was walking beside me moved away hastily. He didn’t like the media.
The ugly lady noticed me and asked “Hey you, do you know who was our first prime minister?”
I realized that this was for some Republic day special column to be printed the next day.
“Ya…its..Pandit Jawaharlal Nehruji.”
Adding ‘ji’ was an attempt to be extra polite as I wanted to be in that column.
She said “Oh great, now tell me one word that links Nehruji and Love?”
On hearing that question, anyone would have replied ‘patriotism’, but for some unknown reason, I uttered “Rose”
-“Rose! That’s quite a different answer.”
The reporter seemed impressed. They then wrapped up their kit and were about to leave. I stopped the lady and asked “Excuse me m’am, where will be this interview printed?”
-“If your words get selected, they will appear in tomorrow’s TOI with your picture.”
Whilst the lady was talking to me, the man next to her snapped my photograph and asked for my name and profession.
I replied “John Perrera. I am a still photographer.”
And then they left.