A Show on the Wheels

------------------------

The duo set out on their morning walk as planned the previous night. A mist veiled the landscape, creating an ethereal atmosphere, though the gentle breeze hinted it would soon dissipate. Aarohan, walking just a few steps behind, remained resolutely silent while Mayank waited for him to catch up. Perhaps Aarohan would narrate another dream, revealing pieces of his past. Yet Mayank was cautious; a vivid recollection of past misery through a dream could push his friend into a fresh paroxysm of agony. How could he prevent that eventuality?

However, the silence proved companionable, and as the duo kept walking, it was punctuated by the sound of Aarohan’s rubber flip-flops. Before long, the wearer of the onomatopoeic footwear began to discern its meaning.

‘Tell you what, I remember something,’ Aarohan broke his silence.

‘What? You finally remembered? And what did you remember, Aarohan?’ stuttered Mayank impatiently, expecting a lot from his friend’s upcoming disclosure.

‘I recalled a dream from my childhood,’ Aarohan shared. Mayank could not guess if it referred to a dream Aarohan had as a child or a dream about his childhood.

Without further ado, the dreamer began recounting the dream.

***      ***      ***      ***

Some memories, you know, refuse to dissolve. Given that damage has already occurred, how can we recreate the past and institute justice ex post facto? I wish I could do that!

Then, I was a thirteen-year-old rustic with little or no aplomb. Need I say in as many words that I wasn’t smart? Well, was there any need? My seniors used to select my books, the movies to watch, the games to play, and the boys to befriend. The list of dos and don’ts remained open-ended: don’t climb a sacred tree; swimming is patently sacrilegious; avoid handling musical instruments; and so forth. A child should not act like an adult, which was the rule. If a senior bothered to explain on a good day, he would say, ‘Hey! You poor thing! You ought to first learn and then apply a skill, right?’ That’s fine, but didn’t it contain an apparent contradiction? If one were not to start a trade without learning, how would he learn it without starting?

Not that I didn’t resent such a state of endless suppression, but my protests were neither well-timed nor socially correct, so they were sure to recoil with loads of punishments. Punishments? That’s right. They’re to have a cleansing effect as my perpetrators ever believed. They’re meant to temper my childish yearnings to learn, question, explore, amend, cherish, and choose.

Ok, no more waffles. Let me relate my dream first.

That day, I had reached the limits of my endurance. An instance of humiliating treatment at the hands of Mahajan, the moneylender, proved to be the proverbial last straw on a camel’s back. He demanded that I own up to stealing guava from his tree because he had once seen me climbing a banyan tree on the embankment. That was his unassailable proof—as if I had plucked guava from a banyan tree, Mahajan’s magical banyan tree!

Then he slapped me—not to recover his imaginary loss, but to assert his authority as the community’s self-appointed disciplinarian. ‘A guilty child should receive a thrashing—the severer, the better,’ he would have pontificated had a bystander offered even a gesture of sympathy. But alas, there was none to come to my rescue. A second wave of abuse followed before I could even begin to dismiss the excess. This time, my music teacher took his turn, showering me with verbal abuse in his piercing nasal tone. Hold it! Now it was my father’s turn to enter the scene—not with any empty package of comfort, but to deliver the final blow: a wild, unrelenting thrashing.

Despite his insensitiveness, I was ready to excuse my father because he was indebted to the usurer for all I knew. In that case, who was not? The music teacher with a gleaming scalp, the headmaster with his ruler sticks and dangling specs, the pigtailed priest, the slovenly quack with his shoulder bag—all used to worry about their unpaid loans and the ever-burgeoning interest. Therefore, money was the answer; it stood between me and my father’s love. A few thousand was enough to liquidate his liability.

Thus, I made up my mind what I must do. I must leave home to earn money and return with wads to dare the lousy usurer. ‘Take your blessed money and leave us alone,’ I thought aloud. It was possible. There must be a place on earth, a town abounding with employment for sincere people. I would be honest and hardworking, and I would stand out!

The nightlong self-encouragement prepared me for the big job ahead. I was eager; ‘come what may’ was my mantra. I should perform with finesse in the first job of my life, so I would have no regrets later.

It was well before the first flush of the morning on the eastern horizon. Waking up before anyone else in the house, I left with a small bag containing three stale chapatis and a few jaggery chips. I met none except the rising sun on my way. So, the departure was well-timed, ensuring that my exit remained a secret. The morning dew soaked my feet as I walked, and my rubber flip-flops splattered the wet dust up to my knickers. I concentrated on my footfalls even as my footwear gave out a series of monotonous taps, as you hear them now. Thinking about what lay ahead, I ignored the sound. A chill was in the air, and I took long, determined strides.

Thus, the runaway I left home resolved to return soon with a bagful of money so I would avenge myself on the moneylender. How my mother had been spending sleepless nights praying to God! Once, I begged her to tell me the reason for her insomnia. She confided in me: our mortgaged homestead was at the mercy of the moneylender. Poor Ma! She deserved a good night’s sleep after a hard day’s labour.

The first bus on the route arrived on time, and I got on. I had just enough money to buy a ticket to Tatanagar, the steel town that promised employment.

Covering a ten-hour journey would take the better part of the day. The road had its bumps, but greenery lined the way. Those who looked out of the windows and breathed in the intimate sylvan fragrance didn’t mind the rough ride. As for me, I had never ventured farther than my district headquarters, barely thirty kilometres from my village. This was a brand-new experience—the earth I knew expanded, growing grander and lovelier than I could have imagined, staying in the hamlet under the constant threat of eviction. A feeling of belonging soon overcame me, easing my sense of uncertainty. Even then, I wondered what I would do upon arriving in Tatanagar, where I had no one to shelter me. ‘I’ll just squat on the railway platform,’ I thought, gaining an instant sense of confidence. In the face of uncertainties, adopting a carefree approach seemed best—a realisation that struck me profoundly.

It was about noontime when our bus halted for lunch. The place had a few roadside eateries. A little ahead, many lofty silk-cotton trees with buttressed trunks were standing in a row on either side of the road. I remember the red texture of its soil, very different from the earth that shaped my village. And I remember how a breeze wafting across the coppices of ipomoeas brought a heady scent.

‘Those who want to take lunch come out or else stay inside. I’ll lock the bus from outside,’ announced the doorkeeper. It was his security drill, a must to prevent possible theft.

All but me elected to leave. I needed money to venture out and order food in the eatery. Rustling my bag from outside, I ensured the chapatis and jaggery had remained the same! The vagrant in me could disappear from home, but not the chapatis inside my bag!

Seeing me stuck to my seat, the doorkeeper felt slightly foxed. ‘Won’t you take your lunch?’ he shot the question at me. ‘No, I won’t,’ I replied.

‘Fine, as you wish,’ the doorkeeper said, slamming the door, locking it, and leaving. I looked at his speeding steps. Maybe he was hungry. My stomach rumbled as I tried to gauge his hunger.

My chapatis would last at least two days if I could ration them judiciously. Otherwise, they would not be edible for much longer.

The bus halted for a little over half an hour. The driver returned and had to hoot the horn twice to hurry up the passengers. A couple of waffling women were among the last to enter. Everybody had a contented face. The eatery must be a place worth visiting, I concluded wistfully.

‘My ring, oh God, where’s my gold ring?’ grumbled the lady sitting beside me across the aisle. The bus was about to rev.

The man who accompanied her—he could be her husband or somebody as docile—stood up from his seat with a jerk. Finding a small object, like a dropped ring, amid their baggage jamming the leg space was challenging, yet the faithful chaperon knelt and groped around. But, alas, his efforts were in vain.

‘Where did you lose it?’ the man enquired.

‘Not that I know of,’ she said tentatively and looked at me. ‘Have you seen my gold ring? You’re in the coach while we all went out, right?’

I could easily sense that she had pointed her accusing finger at me. So indignantly, I replied, ‘Nope! How do I know where you lost your gold ring?’

‘You only stayed here when we all went outside, didn’t you?’ alleged the man.

Shocked, my facial muscles twitched. I couldn’t explain to myself why people took pleasure in blaming me. Only yesterday, the mahajan of my village accused me of stealing guava. Now, at a new location, a man unreasonably devoted to his lady baselessly suspected me of taking his lady’s gold ring!

‘So? Didn’t the doorkeeper lock the bus from outside? How can you forget that?’ I countered him.

‘Then show me your bag. I’ll check it,’ the man demanded.

‘My bag? Why should I show my bag to you, mister? Will you ask everybody here to do the same because you lost your blessed gold ring?’ I maintained my bold front as I retorted.

By now, others had joined him. What was it about this man that attracted friends to his cause? I wondered. Perhaps his affluence drew in those who saw an opportunity—an advantage that had even taught his lady to lose a gold ring without a second thought. I felt a scream building up inside me, but my poise had long since faltered.

Someone lunged at me, eager to be the first to apprehend the “thief.” I clung to my bag, unwilling to let go. If they opened it, they might discover I was a runaway, interrogate me, confirm their suspicions, and ultimately send me back. How would I earn piles of money to make my mother happy?

I held onto my bag, shielding it from the prying pack of self-appointed enforcers. Yet, they insisted on searching its contents, all the while escalating their verbal abuse. ‘He seems to be a seasoned thief; don’t let him off. He’s a dacoit in the making!’

The mob of passengers dragged me out of the bus. I leapt and covered the bag with my body. Before long, I was on the ground, lying flat on my belly. People started kicking my back. The first kick was by someone with equestrian nails on his heels, followed by another whose stiletto hit my shoulder. So, a woman joined them, too. Someone tried to lift me from the ground, taking my ears, but failed, and then another grasped my hair as if they were the two weightlifters, practising their jerk in turn!

I was pathetically powerless against a determined mob. No wonder my bag went out of my possession in minutes. Then someone upended it, and my invaluable chapatis bounced on the ground. They were already hard but remarkably in shape as they touched the soil. Aha! Their musty fragrance! Had I not stolen them from our kitchen, they would have fed my family at noontime. Oh no! They must be starving now. Before my eyes, someone pitilessly trampled the chips of jaggery, which were the last to fall out of the bag. I wistfully looked at them.

However, they did not get the gold ring.

The mob was not without wit. It had the cheek to cover up its unabashed persecution.

‘The rogue has hidden the ring inside? So, don’t allow him inside,’ suggested one.

It was the exciting denouement of the drama enacted on the road. Should I call it a roadshow, a street performance, or an improv theatre? There was no rehearsal nor back-of-the-screen promptings. Even the bus conductor’s silence was unscripted, bespeaking his concurrence. He had little to lose, for I had already paid him the fare. Hence, they left me there to salvage my chapatis and the chips of jaggery that lay trampled out of shape.

***      ***      ***      ***

Aarohan concluded and fell silent, his eyes tear-filled. A puzzled Mayank noted his friend’s real-life sulking over his in-dream persecution. Were the dream images following him to his conscious state? Was it a case of oneirophrenia?

‘What’s this, Aarohan? You crying?’ asked Mayank.

Aarohan did not reply. Perhaps his words could not struggle through the tangle of sobs. By now, he had chosen a wayside rock to sit on. He sat there for a few minutes, silent and pensive. Then he stood up to resume his walk. He was out of his emotional spike.

Mayank was not sure how to react. All that Aarohan claimed to be his own childhood experience was not true. Mayank knew his friend’s family possessed bungalows, vehicles, and gold ornaments. Even they had a ferocious dog as big as a year-old calf! Once, Mayank had wrestled with Aarohan, and he remembered the strength of the latter’s gold chain. It was even sturdier than the stay-wires of an electricity pole! So, why should they borrow? At Visakhapatnam, they had sufficient urban lands worth hundreds of millions. So, how could Mayank take him to be a poor boy who endured exploitation by moneylenders?

As for Aarohan’s upbringing, Mayank knew Captain Brijbhan Dev as a sedulous father and a liberal soul. Save for the instances of sternness that he adopted to wean his son away from bedwetting, he was, by and large, a loving father. He had nurtured the only ambition to make his son an IAS officer. Otherwise, Aarohan was the only child, the natural claimant to all his parental love and affection.

However, Mayank had seen hardships. His mother, Shalini, and his father, Shrikant, broke up when he was a child. Then, he and his mother left home in Berhampur for Visakhapatnam to live with his maternal uncle Sudarshan. He was admitted to a school with English as the medium of instruction. The school admitted him not to class two, where he was studying in his old place, but to class one, where he was taught alphabet lessons. Aarohan became his fast friend there, and Mayank remembered sharing his grief stories with his new friend. However, it was not to the extent Aarohan related to now. Despite not being rich, Uncle Sudarshan had been remarkably generous to Mayank. He got poorer by the year yet toiled hard to give the best to his nephew. He even neglected to educate his two daughters in the process adequately. Sometimes, Mayank would consider dropping out of school to earn and help his uncle financially. Once, when he broached the topic, it came as a shock to Sudarshan. He cursed himself for his inability to meet his nephew’s expectations. That event in Mayank’s life rather matched Aarohan’s in-dream resolve to seek a job in Tatanagar. But how his co-passengers treated him was not Mayank’s story—the latter had never fled his uncle’s house!

Despite all these, Mayank feared confronting his friend with the dream-reality dichotomy. Just a while ago, he saw how Aarohan was in tears; it meant the narratives had a grip on the narrator. But, by no stretch of the imagination, his was an attempt to shed crocodile tears!

Mayank changed the topic.

‘I was wondering, Aarohan, if you remember Visakhapatnam. Do you?’

Aarohan would not mind if one addressed him as such; he was not ready to face the following quiz—Well, if you’re not Aarohan, who are you?

‘Remembering Visakhapatnam? Nope. Hopefully, a Visakhapatnam dream will pass me by tonight,’ replied Aarohan while a sigh escaped him.

------------------------------

By

Ananta Narayan Nanda

Bhubaneswar: : 3/8/2026

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A Review of Megha Majumdar's A Guardian and a Thief

 

A Review of Megha Majumdar's A Guardian and a Thief

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I wanted to write this review immediately after finishing Megha Majumdar's A Guardian and a Thief, before the details of the plot faded and the exhilaration of having read a genuine page-turner wore off.

The novel's plot is not built on labyrinthine twists. Instead, it moves in a remarkably straightforward manner, sustained by the author's skill in tying up loose ends until the very last page. Every seemingly incidental detail eventually finds its place in the larger design.

The story follows Ma, her father Dadu, and her two-year-old daughter Misti, who are preparing to leave Kolkata for Michigan, where Ma's husband works as a scientist. Their plans are shattered when a thief breaks into their home and steals their passports. Recovering the documents becomes the novel's central pursuit, drawing the characters into an exhausting sequence of bureaucratic and personal ordeals.

Running alongside this is another thread. Kolkata is gripped by famine, and Ma, who manages a non-profit shelter, secretly steals food to feed her starving child. The thief, Boomba, witnesses this act and uses it to blackmail her. His demands gradually escalate until he attempts to occupy Ma's house after she leaves for the United States. The novel culminates in a violent confrontation in which Ma falls to a blow dealt by Boomba's father.

The first aspect of the novel that challenged my understanding was its temporal setting. A famine in Kolkata—or Bengal more generally—belongs, for most readers, to history. Yet the novel is filled with CCTV cameras, mobile phones, social media, and solar panels. The contradiction puzzled me throughout my reading. Only after finishing the novel did I notice the jacket copy, which describes the story as being set in "a near-future Kolkata beset by flooding and famine." It is a clever narrative choice, though also a demanding one. The reader must grant the author the freedom to define the story's fourth dimension—the time in which it unfolds.

One endorsement on the back cover praises the novel for having "no villain." That strikes me as an overstatement. Boomba is certainly not portrayed as an innately evil man. His theft, blackmail, kidnapping, and attempted squatting are shown as the desperate acts of someone trapped by circumstance. Likewise, Ma steals food because her two-year-old daughter is starving. The novel repeatedly places its characters in situations where desperation pushes them beyond accepted moral boundaries. In such circumstances, easy ethical judgments become difficult.

Yet the narrative itself seems to benefit from a more conventional device. However morally complex the characters may be, it ultimately channels the conflict through a single identifiable antagonist. The climax, in that sense, owes something to the familiar logic of popular cinema: moral ambiguity gives way to a recognisable villain around whom the final confrontation can be organised.

I also sensed a stereotype underlying the novel. The family's desperate quest for a climate visa to the United States echoes a familiar third-world aspiration, while the novel simultaneously presents America as increasingly unwilling to admit climate migrants. Since the story is set in the near future, the implication is striking: Kolkata remains a city devastated by hunger and climate catastrophe, whereas the United States continues to represent security and opportunity. One may reasonably ask whether this reflects an unexamined acceptance of a familiar hierarchy between the developed and developing worlds—perhaps even a lingering inferiority complex.

A comparable stereotype appears in the depiction of the police. Although the officers are shown to be kind to little Misti—offering her a Good Day biscuit, for instance—the broader portrayal remains recognisably conventional.

What impressed me most, however, was Majumdar's precision as a storyteller. While reading the novel, I was repeatedly reminded of Chekhov's Gun. A window left slightly ajar in one chapter later enables the thief to enter the house. Similar narrative seeds are planted throughout the novel, each blooming naturally in later chapters. Nothing important appears arbitrary.

The pacing is relentless. The novel reads almost like a detective thriller, carrying the reader forward with such momentum that there is scarcely any opportunity to pause and anticipate where the story might go next. If I have one reservation, it concerns the episode involving the peddler of forged documents. At that point, I expected the narrative to branch into a more substantial subplot. Instead, the story ends soon afterwards, making that episode feel somewhat underdeveloped. Perhaps it serves merely as a realistic detour in the protagonists' ordeal; perhaps the author chose to conclude the novel quickly to keep it within its compact length of about 200 pages.

Despite these reservations, A Guardian and a Thief is an absorbing novel. Its greatest strength lies not in ingenious plot twists but in the assurance with which every narrative thread is gathered together. It is a fast, compelling, and emotionally engaging read that keeps the pages turning while leaving the reader with questions that linger long after the story has ended.

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By

Ananta Narayan Nanda

Bhubaneswar, 27-06-2026

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Cities Do Not Die: On Reading City of Djinns

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This is the second book of Darlymple that I read recently, the earlier being "The Last Mughal". Like this book, "City of Djinns", I had also attempted a review and posted it on my blog. That is available at the following link.

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Cities Do Not Die: On Reading City of Djinns

Books are often shaped—sometimes subtly, sometimes overtly—by the intellectual climate in which they appear. Narratives about colonial India, for example, continue to oscillate between contrasting impulses: some emphasise the destructive legacy of empire on India’s economy, culture, and institutions, while others seek to recover and foreground the scientific and cultural achievements of precolonial India.

William Dalrymple’s City of Djinns opens against the backdrop of another such cultural moment. Dalrymple notes that Britain in the mid-1980s was experiencing what he calls a “Raj revival”: a wave of nostalgia that revisited colonial India through television, fiction, memoir, and public debate. Series such as The Jewel in the Crown captured audiences, newspaper correspondence columns debated the historical accuracy of films like Gandhi, and novels centred on imperial India enjoyed renewed attention.

Yet City of Djinns is not merely a product of this nostalgic climate. Nor is it an exercise in imperial reminiscence. It is, at its best, an attempt to understand Delhi through layered observation, historical excavation, and conversation.

Although often classified as travel writing, the book exceeds the genre's usual expectations. Dalrymple does not simply record what he sees; he constructs a mosaic of Delhi through archival research, memoirs, oral history, and encounters with an astonishing range of people. One moment, he is dealing with a severe landlady; in another, he is speaking to a loquacious Punjabi driver. Elsewhere, he meets eunuchs, dervishes, old Urdu scholars, descendants of Mughal nobility, expatriate chroniclers of fading Delhi culture, pigeon fanciers, calligraphers, ascetics on the banks of the Yamuna, and devotees at the Dargah of Ajmer. Through these encounters, Delhi emerges not as a city but as many cities layered upon one another.

The ambition of the book is extraordinary. Dalrymple attempts to trace Delhi’s historical and cultural continuity from the Sultanate and Mughal periods into the late twentieth century. His canvas includes architecture, memory, migration, changing social classes, fading artistic traditions, urban transformation, and the lingering consequences of Partition. He writes with equal attention to vanished grandeur and living decline.

Particularly memorable are his reflections on communities that once shaped Delhi but gradually lost their influence as times changed; on neighbourhoods transformed by migration; and on traditions that survive only as faint echoes of an older city. His account of the anti-Sikh violence following Indira Gandhi’s assassination is especially striking for the way it captures how quickly civilisation can reveal its fractures.

The historical sections gain authority from Dalrymple’s engagement with contemporary records and eyewitness accounts. He draws upon letters and memoirs of figures associated with late Mughal Delhi—among them Ochterlony, William Fraser, James Fraser, and Charles Metcalfe—to recreate a world at once cosmopolitan and fragile. As the author also observes in his other popular titles, in the earlier phases of British presence in India, some colonial officers adopted elements of Mughal culture and formed close social and familial ties with Indians—an aspect often overshadowed in simplified narratives of colonial separation.

Equally compelling is Dalrymple’s eye for transition. He notices not only how Delhi’s skyline changes—from colonial bungalows to vertical urban growth—but also how language, class, memory, and identity shift with it. Even English, he notes, carries residues of the Raj through words such as bungalow, cummerbund, pyjamas, and pundit.

Dalrymple also records with wit the everyday frictions of Indian bureaucracy: telephone applications, customs procedures, and administrative labyrinths that could bewilder both residents and visitors. These passages occasionally feel familiar to Indian readers, but they are written with enough humour and observation to remain engaging rather than exasperating.

The author is not entirely free from preference. His admiration for British imperial architecture occasionally surfaces quite openly. Commenting on New Delhi, he responds to Nehru’s criticism of the city as a symbol of imperial excess by arguing that it remains one of the finest architectural achievements of the British Empire—an opinion that readers may accept, contest, or simply note as part of Dalrymple’s sensibility.

Also deserving of appreciation is the breadth of reading behind the narrative. Like a careful researcher conducting a literature survey, Dalrymple engages extensively with earlier travel accounts and historical works. Among these are Bernier’s Travels in the Mogul Empire, Manucci’s writings on Mughal India, and accounts of the Tughlaq period by Ibn Battuta. This literary scaffolding gives the book much of its depth.

Finally, a word about the title. City of Djinns is irresistible—and slightly deceptive. It hints at fantasy or magic realism, yet the book itself remains firmly grounded in history and observation. The metaphor of the djinn becomes Dalrymple’s way of asking a deeper question: how has Delhi, despite repeated invasions, destruction, partition, and upheaval, managed to renew itself again and again?

The answer comes through Pir Sadr-ud-Din, who tells Dalrymple that Delhi survives because the djinns love it too much to abandon it.

Dalrymple leaves us with an image that lingers long after the book ends: just as, in Hindu belief, a soul returns through successive incarnations, Delhi too seems destined to reinvent itself century after century—never quite the same city, and yet somehow always Delhi.

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By

Ananta Narayan Nanda

Balasore 22/5/2026

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Review: A Hundred Lamps – Classic Stories about the World of Medicine

 

Review: A Hundred Lamps – Classic Stories about the World of Medicine

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Edited by Yatish Agarwal and published by Rupa Publications, A Hundred Lamps brings together seven translated stories from some of the finest voices in Hindi literature, including Phanishwarnath Renu, Munshi Premchand, Nirmal Verma, and Uday Prakash. Conceived as a reflective companion for medical students, the volume seeks to illuminate the ethical, emotional, and social dimensions of medical practice through literary narrative.

The framing material—especially the National Board of Examinations’ introductory note, “The Journey Within”—clearly positions the book as more than a literary anthology. It reads almost like an informal extension of the medical curriculum, urging aspiring doctors to cultivate empathy, integrity, and a deeper awareness of their role in society. Given this positioning, it is hardly surprising that the book has enjoyed wide circulation, reaching multiple impressions.

That said, not all the stories align equally well with this stated objective. For instance, “Birds” by Nirmal Verma feels somewhat tangential to the theme. While it is a sensitive exploration of loneliness set in a residential girls’ school in a hill station, its connection to the medical profession is minimal. The presence of a doctor is incidental rather than central, and the narrative does not engage meaningfully with the ethical or professional dilemmas one might expect in a volume of this kind.

The remaining six stories, however, compellingly illustrate the ideals and challenges of medical life. The opening piece, “A Hundred Lamps”, adapted from Maila Anchal, is particularly striking. It portrays Dr Prashant’s battle against cholera in a rural setting where ignorance, superstition, and caste hierarchies complicate every medical intervention. His struggle is not merely against disease but against deeply entrenched beliefs—especially when a village astrologer spreads the rumour that inoculations themselves are a source of illness. The story vividly captures the socio-cultural terrain in which medicine must often operate.

In “Mantra”, Munshi Premchand presents a sharply etched critique of professional arrogance. Dr Chadha’s indifference to a poor patient results in tragedy, only for fate to reverse roles in an almost poetic manner. When his own son suffers a life-threatening snakebite, it is the very man he once dismissed who comes to his aid—refusing both payment and recognition. The story is a powerful reminder of humility and moral accountability in medical practice.

“Vande Mataram” addresses the systemic neglect of healthcare in remote and tribal regions. Doctors often regard such postings as punitive, yet Dr Wakankar emerges as a figure of quiet commitment, striving to serve despite acute shortages and bureaucratic apathy. His confrontation with administrative indifference, culminating during a high-profile political visit, lends the story both urgency and relevance. While the narrative is engaging, the title feels somewhat oblique; one is left to infer that the story equates true patriotism with service to the most underserved sections of society.

A similar ambiguity surrounds “Doppelganger”, where the title appears only loosely connected to the narrative. The story focuses on the psychological strain within a childless marriage and the recourse to artificial insemination, exploring themes of identity, masculinity, and emotional distance. Yet the titular suggestion of doubling or mirrored identity remains more suggestive than fully realised.

Taken together, the collection underscores the dual expectations placed on medical professionals. On one hand, they must remain deeply embedded in the social fabric, responding with compassion to human suffering; on the other, they are expected to contribute to scientific advancement through rigorous inquiry and, at times, serendipitous discovery. The stories collectively map this spectrum with sensitivity and insight.

Despite a few uneven inclusions, A Hundred Lamps largely succeeds in its stated aim. It offers aspiring doctors a literary lens through which to examine their vocation, while also inviting general readers to appreciate the moral weight and complexity of medical practice. Thought-provoking and accessible, it is a volume that lingers beyond its pages. 

-----------------------------------

By

Ananta Narayan Nanda

Balasore, 04-05-2026

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From Complexity to Clarity: A Gita for the Thinking Reader

 From Complexity to Clarity: A Gita for the Thinking Reader

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This edition stands apart from many contemporary works on the Bhagavad Gita that primarily aim to showcase the author’s erudition. Right from the introduction, Brigadier G Bhuyan sets himself an ambitious and reader-centric goal. He writes: “Many young, intellectually curious individuals are intimidated by the original Sanskrit text or overwhelmed by voluminous commentaries filled with doctrinal biases. This book bridges the gap—offering a clear, logical, and unbiased exploration of the Gita’s core teachings while staying true to its structure.”

This is no modest undertaking—especially when addressing modern readers who are conditioned to first understand, then believe, and finally practise. The Bhagavad Gita, however, often gestures toward a different progression: faith preceding understanding. It even cautions against indiscriminate dissemination of its teachings, underscoring the need for discernment in sharing spiritual knowledge.

It is against this subtle philosophical tension that Brigadier Bhuyan’s achievement becomes particularly noteworthy—one that may, without hesitation, be described as an unqualified success.

After both reading and rereading this work, one arrives at a clear conclusion: the author has, to a commendable extent, fulfilled his stated objective. He brings an unusual lucidity to a text often regarded as dense and forbidding. His language is contemporary without being reductive, accessible without being simplistic. Even readers accustomed to analytical or managerial modes of thinking will find the prose engaging, intuitive, and surprisingly relatable.

Phrases such as “course correction,” “broader perspectives,” “leading by example,” and “an inclusive and compassionate worldview” reveal a conscious effort to translate timeless wisdom into a modern idiom. His deft use of parallel sentence structures lends rhythm and persuasive force to key ideas. A representative line captures this beautifully: “Liberation is not merely a state attained after death but a realisation that can be experienced here and now while living.”

Equally commendable is the author’s fidelity to the original text. He does not sacrifice substance for brevity or modern appeal. Moving carefully across chapters and verses, he retains even those details that might seem minor—meditation postures (fixing gaze on one’s nose tip), dietary prescriptions (eating no leftovers), or notions of rebirth and cosmic order (even partial practice of meditation ensures birth in the rich household). Such inclusions are not ornamental; they reflect a disciplined commitment to the source material, confirmed through cross-referencing.

At the same time, Bhuyan consciously steps away from the dramatic dialogue between Arjuna and Krishna—with its emotional intensity and cosmic spectacle—and instead adopts a structured, almost textbook-like narrative. This choice ensures clarity and continuity, allowing the reader to engage with the philosophy without distraction, even if it gently mutes the original's dramatic resonance.

What ultimately distinguishes the book is its sustained readability. Even a reader not instinctively drawn to spiritual literature will find it difficult to disengage. A second reading does not feel repetitive; rather, it deepens the experience. Yet, as with the Bhagavad Gita itself, true understanding seems to demand something more—reflection, introspection, and gradual assimilation into one’s lived experience.

For readers pressed for time, Chapter 13—“The Interplay of Body and Soul: Exploring the Essence of Being”—offers an excellent point of entry. Its philosophical clarity and narrative grip are likely to draw the reader further into the text, often compelling a complete reading from beginning to end.

In the final analysis, this book does more than interpret a sacred text—it gently recalibrates the reader’s way of seeing. It leaves behind not conclusions, but questions; not dogma, but direction. Even scepticism finds space within its framework, not as opposition but as a stage in inquiry.

As the author himself notes in the preface, the work is intended for “young minds exploring philosophy, sceptics seeking unbiased insights, and readers short on time who need a compact yet profound take on the Gita.” On that promise, Brigadier Bhuyan delivers—lucidly, faithfully, and with a quiet, enduring persuasive power.

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By

Ananta Narayan Nanda

Bhubaneswar, 26-04-2026

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Just to Celebrate

 On the occasion of the World Book Day, 2026.

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By

Ananta Narayan Nanda 

23-04-2026

Bhubaneswar 

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कौन था वह?

 

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The post constitutes the Hindi version of a chapter in my novel, "Ivory Imprint". Very soon - maybe in a month's time - I'll finish translating the novel from its original English version into Hindi and that will appear under the title "चेतना की खोज". I have also posted the original version of this chapter in this blog, just a moment ago, and its title is "To Exorcise or Not" Hope my readers will like my efforts and encourage me.

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कौन था वह?

मयंक गहरी नींद में था, जब अचानक उसे एहसास हुआ कि कुछ उसकी छाती पर भारी पड़ रहा है और उसकी टाँगें मानो लकड़ियों के ढेर तले दब गई हों। उसने आँखें खोलीं तो देखा कि आरोहण अपनी जगह छोड़कर उसकी ओर लुढ़क आया है और अपने पाँव उसके ऊपर जमा दिए हैं। इसी वजह से वह खुद को पूरी तरह जकड़ा हुआ महसूस कर रहा था।

इसके अलावा, आरोहण की मुट्ठियाँ कसकर भींची हुई थीं; सिर एक ओर से दूसरी ओर डोल रहा था। वह तेज़-तेज़ साँसें भर रहा था और कुछ कहने की जद्दोजहद कर रहा था, जबकि उसकी आँखों की पुतलियाँ अजीब ढंग से घूम रही थीं। तभी अचानक उसने आँखें खोल दीं।

“क्या हो गया तुझे, आरोहण? तुझे तो जैसे दौरा-सा पड़ रहा था। सपना देखा क्या?” मयंक ने हैरानी से पूछा।

“सपना… हाँ, देखा तो था,” आरोहण ने उनींदे लहजे में कहा, “लेकिन ये दौरे-वौरे की बातें क्यों, भाई? मैं तो बस सोच रहा था कि मेरे लैपडॉग आइबो के उस हमशक्ल का क्या करूँ।”

मयंक हल्के से मुस्कराया। उसे मालूम था कि लोग नींद में बहुत कुछ कर बैठते हैं—कभी बकबक करना, कभी उठकर चलना, कभी कॉफ़ी बना लेना, और तो और दोस्तों की लॉकर से चुपके-चुपके बिस्कुट चुरा लेना—ये सब ग़फ़लत में हो जाता है।

आरोहण अब पूरी तरह उत्साहित था। "सुन ले मेरा ख़्वाब, भाई, नहीं तो भूल जाऊँगा," उसने इसरार करते हुए कहा।

मयंक, जो अब क़ैदी श्रोता बन चुका था, बोला, "मैं कान लगाकर सुन रहा हूँ, आरोहण, बोलते जाओ।"

हालाँकि वक़्त तो दोबारा नींद में लौट जाने का था, लेकिन मयंक अब भी यही आस लगाए था कि आरोहण का यह ताज़ा ख़्वाब शायद उसके अतीत पर कुछ रौशनी डाल दे। दरअसल, इतने सपने सुन लेने के बावजूद, जिनमें से ज़्यादातर का कोई सिर-पैर नहीं निकलता था, मयंक मन ही मन यही चाहता था कि यह सिलसिला तब तक चलता रहे—जब तक आरोहण के पास सपनों का ज़ख़ीरा बाक़ी है, या कम से कम तब तक, जब तक उसे अपने दोस्त की ग्यारह बरस की ग़ैरहाज़िरी का कोई ठोस सुराग न मिल जाए।

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आधी रात को किसी सुनसान जंगल से गुज़रना सचमुच दिल दहला देने वाला तजुर्बा होता है। सूखे बाँसों की आपसी रगड़ से उठती किरकिराती आवाज़ किसी चुड़ैल की चीख़ जैसी डरावनी लगती है। राह के किनारे उगी कोई मामूली झाड़ी भी ऐसे मालूम पड़ती है, मानो कोई बदनुमा साया एड़ियों के बल घात लगाए दुबका हो। पत्तों की सरसराहट से दिल में यह वहम जगता है कि कोई दबे पाँव पीछे-पीछे आ रहा है। झींगुरों की कराह, मेंढकों की टर्राहट, दरिंदों की दहाड़ और उल्लुओं की हूटिंग—ये सब मिलकर किसी भी शख़्स के होश उड़ा देने के लिए काफी हैं, जो उनकी भुतही दुनिया में क़दम रखने की जुर्रत कर बैठे। ऐसे माहौल में, एक छोटे बच्चे या किसी पालतू कुत्ते की सोहबत भी जंगल पार करने का सहारा लगती है। आधी रात का जंगल वाक़ई इतना खौफ़नाक हो सकता है!

मैं अभी-अभी अपनी जंगली मुहिम से लौटा हूँ। आह, सोचता हूँ तो लगता है—क्या अजीबो-ग़रीब रात थी!

मैं फ़ुलबाणी की ओर जा रहा था, जो कंधमाल ज़िले का सदर-मकान है। रास्ते में कलिंगा के एक सरकारी विश्रामगृह में ठहरने का फ़ैसला किया। वह जगह "कउरी जिरा" नाम के एक घने वर्षावन के क़रीब थी।

कउरी जिरा की शान-ओ-शौकत के बारे में बहुत कुछ सुन रखा था—साँस रोक देने वाली, दिल मोह लेने वाली, मानो सारी जादूगरी वहीं आकर समा गई हो। वहाँ की भोर की ख़ामोशी वसंत की महकती ख़ुशबू में घुलकर दिल को मदहोश कर देती है। झाड़ियाँ अपारगम्य नहीं थीं; उनकी सलीक़ेदार बनावट चितकबरे आसमान-सी लगती थी—न कि किसी समंदर किनारे बिखरे कूड़े-कचरे की तरह बेतरतीब। जंगल में साल के पेड़ हर तरफ़ सलीके से खड़े नज़र आते थे, और उनके तनों के चारों ओर फैली साफ़-सुथरी ज़मीन पहली ही नज़र में दिल लुभा लेती थी। वे पेड़ सचमुच जंगल के बादशाह मालूम होते थे—उनकी ऊँची छतरियाँ जितनी दिलकश थीं, ज़मीन भी उतनी ही करीने से सजी हुई थी।

“वैज्ञानिक सोच और आदिवासी विकास”—यही मेरे शोध का विषय था। योजना थी कि निष्कर्षों को किस्तों में प्रकाशित करूँ और उसके साथ-साथ एक डॉक्यूमेंट्री भी बनाऊँ। इलाक़े के कुछ समाजसेवियों से बातचीत का इरादा भी था, जो अंधविश्वास और डायन-प्रथा के ख़िलाफ़ लगातार जद्दोजहद कर रहे थे।

अप्रैल की एक सुकून-भरी शाम थी, जब मैं उस सरकारी विश्रामगृह पहुँचा। उफ़! पिछले बारह घंटे से बिजली ग़ायब थी। केयरटेकर ने बताया कि अगले अड़तालीस घंटे तक आने की कोई उम्मीद नहीं। मजबूरन, मैंने उस रात की असुविधा सह लेने का मन बना लिया।

मगर अजीब बात यह थी कि मेरा पालतू आइबो—लाल रंग का निडर पोमेरेनियन—ज़रा भी परेशान न था। वह अपने मालिक की क़ाबिलियत जानता था, और शायद इसी वजह से बेफ़िक्र भी था। बल्कि वह तो खेलने के मूड में दिख रहा था। उसके अंदाज़ से लगता था मानो कह रहा हो, “ये छोटी-मोटी तकलीफ़ें तो आती-जाती रहती हैं; मैं तो अब किसी साहसिक मुहिम की तैयारी में हूँ!”

उस जगह की मिट्टी की भीनी ख़ुशबू और सुकून भरा माहौल मुझे भी छोटी-छोटी फ़िक्रों से आज़ाद कर गया। जैसे मेरा फुर्तीला पालतू हर नए मोड़ पर उत्साह से उछल पड़ता है, वैसे ही मैंने भी उम्मीद की डोर थाम ली। कउरी जिरा की झाड़ियों के बीच शायद मेरी तहक़ीक़ात को नई दिशा मिल जाए—कहीं कोई भूली-बिसरी डायन की गुफ़ा या उसका जादुई असबाब हाथ लग जाए! एक स्थानीय बाशिंदा, जो उस ज़मीन से भली-भांति वाक़िफ़ था, सहर्ष गाइड बनने को राज़ी हो गया। उसका कहना था कि लोग उसके तजुर्बे से फ़ायदा उठाएँ। कुल मिलाकर, यह सफ़र यादगार बनने ही वाला था।

“कउरी जिरा” नाम में एक अजीब-सी तुकबंदी थी। मैंने पूछा—क्या इस नाम का कोई मतलब है? गाइड, जो जानकारी देने को काफ़ी उतावला था, बोला, “मायने हैं, हुज़ूर—वो जंगल जहाँ पुराने ज़माने में भैंसे ग़ायब हो जाया करते थे!” यह तफ़सीर बड़ी दिलकश और प्यारी लगी—किसी ‘शैतान की गुफ़ा’ या ‘वीरान बीहड़’ जैसी डरावनी नहीं।

हमने तय किया कि अगली सुबह निकलेंगे। हमारी छोटी-सी टोली थी—मैं, गाइड और आइबो। आइबो—वो निडर मुसाफ़िर—जोश से लबरेज़ था; गाइड, तजुर्बेकार होते हुए भी, भूत-प्रेत और उनकी नस्लों की कहानियों में डूबा रहता था। मुझे डर था कि कहीं यह सफ़र “मिडनाइट्स चिल्ड्रेन” की तरह न हो जाए, जहाँ सलीम और उसके दोस्त सुंदरबन में भटक जाते हैं। मगर गाइड का दावा था कि वो सिर्फ़ हवा की ख़ुशबू सूंघकर रास्ता पहचान लेता है! आइबो ग़ौर से हमारी बातचीत सुन रहा था—उसकी हिलती पूँछ उसकी रज़ामंदी का सबूत थी। इतना खुश नज़र आ रहा था कि मानो अभी मुँह खोलकर कह दे: “सुनिए मालिक, मैं तो बेहद रोमांचित हूँ! अगर आप किसी वजह से नहीं गए, तो मैं अकेले ही निकल पड़ूँगा।” इत्मिनान से वो आराम करने चला गया।

शाम की नाश्ता और एक सिगरेट के बाद, मैं गाइड से थोड़ी देर और गुफ़्तगू करता रहा। दिलचस्पी ऐसी थी कि बार-बार वही सवाल दोहरा देता:

“क्या रास्ते में कोई रीछ हमें घात लगाकर दबोच सकता है?”

“नहीं, हरगिज़ नहीं!” गाइड ने तसल्ली दी। “भालू रात तक अपनी मांद से बाहर नहीं निकलते।” फिर भी, एहतियातन हमने तय किया कि सुबह थोड़ा देर से निकलेंगे और दोपहर के खाने से पहले ही लौट आएँगे।

अब रात के सवा दस बज चुके थे और मेरी गाइड से गुफ़्तगू मुकम्मल हो चुकी थी। मैं फौरन उस छोटे कमरे की ओर दौड़ा, जहाँ आइबो ठहरा हुआ था और अपनी रोज़ाना की रात की सैर के लिए बेसब्री से मेरा इंतज़ार कर रहा था। यह उसकी दिनचर्या का हिस्सा था। आम तौर पर अगर उसकी दिनचर्या में बिना रज़ामंदी के कोई तब्दीली हो जाती, तो वह बेचैनी में कूँ-कूँ करने लगता।

लेकिन आज अजीब सन्नाटा था—हालाँकि हम काफ़ी देर कर चुके थे। मगर आइबो था कहाँ? यह कोई वक़्त नहीं था कि वह अपने-आप बाहर निकल जाए। वह कोई आवारा नस्ल का थोड़े ही था!

"आइबो, ओ मेरे मनमौजी, मेरे शहज़ादे आइबो!" मैं पागलों की तरह बग़ीचे के पिछवाड़े में उसे ढूँढने लगा। जवाब सन्नाटे का मिला। मैंने बग़ीचे के हर कोने को छान डाला—यहाँ तक कि उन छोटी-छोटी झाड़ियों में भी, जहाँ आइबो खेलना पसंद करता था। लेकिन सब बेकार।

भटकना आइबो के मिज़ाज में कभी शामिल नहीं था। हाँ, उसने जीनिया की क्यारी को इस कदर खोद डाला था कि अंकुर फूटने की गुंजाइश ही नहीं बची, अब तक मज़े से आधा दर्जन तकिए फाड़ डाले, आँगन के हर चमेली के पौधे पर लघुशंका कर अपनी मौजूदगी दर्ज कराई, और शैंकी नाम की बिल्ली से बेवजह झगड़ा मोल लिया। लेकिन अपने मालिक की हद पार कर बाहर आवारागर्दी करना—ये उसकी आन-बान-शान के ख़िलाफ़ था। तो फिर गया कहाँ? और वह भी इस अजनबी जगह में?

मेरी बेताब पुकार सुनकर केयरटेकर दौड़ा आया, मगर कोई कारगर जानकारी न दे सका।

"हुज़ूर, यहाँ विश्रामगृह में कोई नहीं है जो आपके कुत्ते को चुरा ले!" उसने मेरे अनकहे इल्ज़ाम का जवाब देते हुए कहा।

अब चाहे आइबो नासमझी में कहीं निकल गया हो या किसी चोर की नज़र का शिकार हो गया हो, हमें तो बिना सिरा पाए तलाश शुरू करनी थी। मंज़िल: कउरी जिरा। ग़नीमत थी कि गाइड अब तक गया नहीं था, सो हमने फ़ौरन रात्रिकालीन तलाश का इरादा कर लिया।

मैं टॉर्च साथ लाना नहीं भूला, जबकि गाइड ने लोहे से मढ़ी हुई लाठी उठाई—यानि उसके निचले सिरे पर लोहे की चप्पी चढ़ी थी, ताकि ज़मीन पर टिकाऊ रहे और जल्दी न घिसे। ऊपर से, उसका यक़ीन था कि लोहे को छू लेने से भूत-प्रेत और उनके तमाम कुनबे से बचाव हो जाता है। उसके पास नमक की एक छोटी पोटली भी थी—कहता था, यह सबसे सख़्त रूहों को भी डराने के लिए काफ़ी है।

हमने जल्द ही तक़रीबन एक किलोमीटर का फ़ासला तय कर लिया। रास्ता टेढ़ा-मेढ़ा था और बड़े-बड़े पत्थरों से अटा पड़ा था। मैंने आइबो को पुकारा, मगर कोई जवाब न आया—सिर्फ़ मेरी आवाज़ थी, जो जंगल की ख़ामोशी में गूँजकर लौट रही थी। मेरी टॉर्च की रोशनी गहरे अंधेरे के सामने पस्त पड़ती जा रही थी, और मुझे ऐसा लगने लगा मानो मैं किसी कोयले की खान में भटक रहा हूँ, जहाँ मेरी एकमात्र रोशनी किसी भी पल बुझ सकती है।

हम बीस मिनट और बढ़े और एक ऐसे मोड़ पर पहुँचे, जहाँ रास्ता दो हिस्सों में बँट गया। आइबो किसी भी राह पर निकल गया होगा, मगर उसका कोई सुराग नहीं था। आख़िरकार हमने अलग-अलग दिशाओं में तलाश का फ़ैसला किया—गाइड बाएँ मुड़ा और मैं दाएँ।

पाँच मिनट भी नहीं गुज़रे थे कि गाइड के क़दमों की आहट जंगल में कहीं गुम हो गई। अब मैं बिल्कुल अकेला था। आइबो को पुकारता रहा, मगर डर भीतर ही भीतर पहाड़ की तरह बढ़ता चला गया। न मेरे पास गाइड की लोहे से मढ़ी लाठी थी, न भूत-भगाने वाला नमक। अब तो मेरी अपनी आवाज़ ही मुझे खौफ़नाक लगने लगी थी—उसकी गूँज मेरी रीढ़ में कभी तपिश, कभी ठंडी लहर दौड़ा देती। नतीजा यह हुआ कि मेरे क़दमों की रफ़्तार भी डगमगाने लगी।

अचानक मेरी दाहिनी ओर कुछ सरसराता हुआ गुज़रा—सूखी पत्तियों की मोटी परत को चीरता हुआ। मेरी टॉर्च की रोशनी इतनी कमज़ोर थी कि मैं साफ़-साफ़ देख न पाया।
“शायद कोई लोमड़ी या खरगोश होगा,” मैंने अपनी दहशत दबाने की कोशिश की और आगे बढ़ गया।

थोड़ी ही देर में कुछ सौ क़दम दूर किसी जानवर के खर्राटे सुनाई दिए। मैं ठिठक गया। टॉर्च की रोशनी चारों तरफ़ घुमाई, मगर नतीजा सिफ़र ही रहा। किसी भालू के अचानक सामने आ जाने का ख़याल आते ही मैं काँप उठा। आँखें बंद कर हिम्मत बटोरने की कोशिश करने लगा।

पास ही एक पानी का गड्ढा था, जिसमें न कोई धारा मिलती थी, न कोई निकलती थी। मैंने उधर नज़र डाली—कुछ दिखाई न दिया। मगर दूसरी बार देखा तो टॉर्च की रोशनी अचानक तेज़ हो उठी।

और वहाँ क्या था?

अरे! वहाँ आइबो था—एक चट्टान पर बैठा, खुद में सिमटा हुआ। बेचारा बेहद परेशान मालूम पड़ रहा था; पेट खाली, जान पूरी तरह थक चुकी थी। क्लांति और निढालपन उसके जिस्म से टपक रहा था। शुद्ध नस्ल के कुत्ते अक्सर ऐसे ही होते हैं—मैंने खुद को तसल्ली दी—अपने अज़ीज़ों से जुदाई वो सह नहीं पाते। उसने मुझे ऐसे देखा, मानो हमारे पुराने रिश्ते की डोर याद करने की कोशिश कर रहा हो।

मैंने उसे नर्मी से गोद में उठाया और वापसी की राह पकड़ ली। उसका जिस्म ठंडा था, लेकिन उसने अपना सिर मेरी बाँह के नीचे छुपा लिया। इससे मुझे हल्की-सी गुदगुदी भी हुई और क़दमों की लय भी लौट आई। अंधेरे, वीरान जंगल का खौफ़ जैसे धीरे-धीरे पिघलने लगा।

अब मुझे अपने गाइड को इत्तला देनी थी। जहाँ हम जुदा हुए थे, वहाँ पहुँचने में तक़रीबन आधा घंटा लग गया, लेकिन गाइड अब तक लौटा न था।

"आइबो यहाँ है!"—मेरी तरफ़ से ज़ोरदार पुकार थी, मगर कोई जवाब न आया। आधी रात बीत चुकी थी, और जंगल हर पल और ज़्यादा सीलन भरा, बेचैन करने वाला लगता जा रहा था। आइबो भी बेक़रार हो उठा।

वो मेरी गोद से कूद पड़ा और बिना पीछे देखे चल पड़ा। हैरत होती है कि एक पालतू जानवर भी इतना गृहातुर हो सकता है!

मैं भी उसके पीछे-पीछे विश्रामगृह पहुँचा। वह सीधे कमरे के कोने में बने अपने छोटे-से बिस्तर की तरफ़ बढ़ा। अरे बाप रे! वहाँ आइबो पहले से मौजूद था—अपने ही बिस्तर पर इत्मिनान से सोता हुआ। तो फिर जिसे मैं पानी के गड्ढे से उठा लाया था, वह कौन था? क्या वह मेरा वही “गुडी-मूडी आइबो” नहीं था? मेरी हैरानी की कोई हद न रही।

मैंने दोनों जीवों को बारी-बारी से देखा। दोनों हूबहू एक जैसे थे—एक ही क़द-काठी, वही रंग-रूप, वही बालों की घनता और वही चमकती नाक। उनमें फर्क करना नामुमकिन था। अंजाना डर फिर से पूरे ज़ोर-ओ-शोर के साथ लौट आया। मैं सिर से पाँव तक काँप उठा; जिस्म का हर रोम खड़ा हो गया। चीख़ना नामुमकिन था—गला सूख चुका था। बस एक धीमी, लगभग अनसुनी सिसकी ही निकल पाई।

कउरी जिरा से आया आइबो मेरी तरफ़ झुंझलाकर घूरने लगा। उसकी आँखों में शुद्ध शैतानियत चमक रही थी। फिर उसने नज़र फेर ली और पुराने आइबो की तरफ़ देखा। धीरे-धीरे वह उसकी ओर बढ़ा—पूरी तरह इत्मीनान के साथ, बिना डरे, बिना पीछे हटे। एक कुत्ता दूसरे कुत्ते के इतने क़रीब पहुँचे—वह भी बिना झगड़े के—यह अपने आप में ग़ज़ब का मंज़र था। शायद कुत्तों की दुनिया में कोई नई तहज़ीब चल पड़ी हो!

अचानक उसने अपने चारों तरफ़ बेइंतहा तेज़ी से घूमना शुरू किया। फिर वह हवा में उठा और असली आइबो में जा समाया—मानो किसी धूम्रपान करने वाले के सिर के ऊपर धुएँ का गोल छल्ला बन गया हो। जैसे कोई छोटा बुलबुला बड़े बुलबुले में समाकर अपनी पहचान पूरी तरह ग़ायब कर दे। कुछ ही पलों में आइबो गहरी नींद में डूब गया—जैसे कुछ हुआ ही न हो।

इतने में केयरटेकर हड़बड़ाकर दौड़ा आया। "माफ़ कीजिए हुज़ूर, आपको बेवजह बाहर जाना पड़ा। आइबो तो यहीं था। आपके निकलने के थोड़ी ही देर बाद अपने बिस्तर पर सोता मिला।"

उसी वक़्त गाइड भी आ पहुँचा। मुझे देखकर वह खुश हुआ और आइबो को उसके बिस्तर पर देखकर और भी आश्वस्त।

"सर, कहाँ मिला वो?" गाइड ने ताज्जुब से पूछा।

मैं दोहरे आइबो की अजीबो-ग़रीब दास्तान सुनाने ही वाला था कि केयरटेकर बीच में बोल पड़ा, "अरे चाचा, आइबो तो यहीं था। आप लोगों के जाते ही थोड़ी देर बाद अपने बिस्तर पर पड़ा मिल गया।"

इस तरह, मैं न तो किसी को ये क़िस्सा सुना सका, न ही इस वाक़ए का कोई माक़ूल जवाब ढूँढ पाया। अगर मुँह खोलता, तो लोग मुझे टोने-टोटके में फँसा कोई बेवक़ूफ़ समझते। और हाँ, मुझे दोगला तर्कवादी भी कहते—वो पाखंडी जो हर वक़्त वैज्ञानिक सोच का राग अलापता फिरता है।

अब मुझे किसी से तसल्ली चाहिए थी। कौन कह सकता है कि वो कुत्ता कोई भूत-प्रेत या वेयरवुल्फ, यानी भड़मानस, का रूप न हो? मगर असली सवाल तो यही था—क्या अब मुझे किसी ओझा को बुलाना चाहिए?

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“यही सब मेरे ख़्वाब का हिस्सा था, और फिर अचानक नींद टूट गई।”—आरोहण ने फ़िल्मी ठाठ से कहा।

मयंक को यह क़िस्सा बेहद दिलचस्प लगा, मगर फिर वही पुराना सवाल सामने आ खड़ा हुआ: आख़िर वह अपने दोस्त के ख़्वाब और हक़ीक़त के बीच तालमेल कैसे बिठाए? एक कुत्ते का दूसरे में समा जाना जितना मज़ाक़िया लगता था, उतना ही गहरी अहमियत भी रखता था। क्या यह इशारा था कि अब आरोहण को वह क़ाबिलियत मिल चुकी है—अपने यार के दिल-ओ-दिमाग़ में झाँकने की, और किसी नाज़ुक रूहानी सतह पर ख़ुद को वहाँ पहुँचा देने की?

सुबह के छह बज चुके थे, और आरोहण फिर से गहरी नींद में डूब चुका था। मयंक उसकी साँसों की उतार-चढ़ाव भरी लय महसूस कर रहा था। पिछली शाम होटल के एक मुलाज़िम ने उसे बताया था कि सड़क के पार रेसकोर्स नाम का एक बेहतरीन वॉकर ट्रैक है, जहाँ सुबह-सुबह सैकड़ों सेहत-प्रेमी जमा होते हैं। मयंक की उड़ान 11 बजे थी, इसलिए उसने सोचा कि क्यों न एक छोटी-सी सैर के लिए वक़्त निकाला जाए।

ढाई किलोमीटर लंबे, हरे-भरे गोल ट्रैक पर टहलते हुए मयंक ने जेब से वह काग़ज़ी रोल निकाला, जो उसे वालपारई में आरोहण के कमरे से मिला था। सावधानी से खोलते ही उसमें से एक रेलवे टिकट निकला—नीलगिरि माउंटेन रेलवे का—जिसमें 26 जनवरी 2012 को ऊटी से मेट्टुपालयम की यात्रा दर्ज थी।

मयंक का क़दम ठिठक गया। इसका मतलब था कि उस दिन आरोहण दिमाग़ी तौर पर बिल्कुल सही-सलामत था… या फिर किसी और ने उसके लिए यह टिकट ख़रीदा था। मगर क्यों? किसने? और किस मंसूबे से?

एक पल के लिए उसके ज़हन में ख़याल कौंधा—शायद किसी देशभक्त हिन्दुस्तानी ने मदद की नीयत से, गणतंत्र दिवस पर, उसके लिए यह टिकट ले दिया हो। मगर यह संभावना उतनी ही जल्दी धुंधली हो गई, जितनी तेज़ी से आई थी। मयंक को याद ही नहीं आ रहा था कि क्या आरोहण कभी नीलगिरि की वादियों में गया भी था। और अगर गया भी, तो पहुँचा कैसे—जबकि सब जानते थे कि उस वक़्त वह दिमाग़ी तौर पर अस्थिर था।

तिरुपति यात्रा के दौरान वह अपने दो चाचाओं और चाची के समूह से बिछुड़ गया था। तो फिर कौन था जिसने उसे ऊटी तक पहुँचाया? और किसने नीलगिरि माउंटेन रेल की उस ठंडी, धुंध में डूबी सुबह उसकी यात्रा मुकम्मल कराई?

अब मयंक के दिल में यह एहसास गहराई से जम चुका था—जो सुराग अभी-अभी हाथ आया है, वह इस रहस्य का दरवाज़ा खोल सकता है… या फिर किसी और बड़े, अनदेखे भँवर में उसे खींच सकता है।

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दिनांक - 1-2-2026

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