UNhappy Diwali: Air Pollution, Bhopal and Delhi

 

UNhappy Diwali: 

Air Pollution, Bhopal and Delhi

Dear Prime Minister, Family, Friends, and Well-wishers,

I hope you celebrated a joyous Diwali yesterday.

I thank you for your Happy Diwali messages. I wanted to thank you individually and reciprocate, but I won’t.

Dear PM, I don’t have your WhatsApp number, and the email address from which your greetings were sent won’t accept any reply.

Dear Others, I won’t because the day began badly, and there’s no sign it’d get any better today or tomorrow.

I slept poorly last night since the Diwali revellers continued the unsettling din till after midnight. The early-rising kids discovered the unexploded crackers and successfully detonated the bombs, startling me awake and frightening the poor birds.

When I opened my laptop, I got an alert—a Health Advisory: AQI near you is HAZARDOUS. Stay indoors. Avoid any strenuous physical activity. Switch on the Air-Purifier after wearing the N95 mask.

As though it wasn’t scary enough, it announced, “Currently (Nov 9, 2026 at 07:29 hrs), Bhopal ranks 6th among the most polluted cities globally.” (www.aqi.in)

“Breathing the air in this area (Saket Nagar, Bhopal) is as harmful as smoking 11.6 cigarettes a day (81.2 cigarettes a week, and 348 a month),” it continued its diabolical and depressing monologue.

Strangely, I was instantly cheered up, because only a day before, the CJI had opened a hearing with the ironic hope that those appearing before his bench were enjoying Delhi's weather. The amicus curiae then pointed out that breathing Delhi's air was equivalent to smoking 30 cigarettes a day!

How wonderful. I’m smoking less than the President, the PM, the CJI, and other VVIPs. How very blessed to live in Bhopal, the 6th most polluted city in the world, rather than in Delhi, the 2nd most polluted.

A few countries issue travel advisories to their citizens, counselling them about the health hazards of a trip to India, and particularly Delhi, in winter. Bryan Johnson, who perhaps wishes to live forever, took no chances. He arrived at a Mumbai press office carrying a large, portable air-purifier for his interview!

Perhaps governments, airlines, and railways should consider issuing similar health advisories to domestic travellers.

Airport billboards could display in red:

You are entering, at your own risk, a Gas Chamber. Governments, local bodies and agencies will NOT be liable for damages, if any, to your lungs. No claim would be payable by insurance companies.

Ayodhya perhaps lit up over 30 lakh diyas to create yet another Guinness World Record. Surely, the devotees must have used entirely non-polluting oil in the earthen lamps for the sacred and solemn spectacle.

Postscript

Readers’ Comments

The birds and animals have suffered in silence. They don't have air purifiers or N95 masks, nor can they stay indoors after shutting the doors and windows of their homes. If their lungs are damaged, they won't visit a doctor.

Humans have the power and choice to speak, but most don't. They, too, suffer in silence.

A reader, a senior doctor, asked, “What to do? There is no choice.”

My reply:

“Each of us can do a little to save our planet, not only during Diwali, but through our lifestyle choices every day. Why not begin by switching off the lights when we leave a room? Or carrying a cloth bag for shopping, as our parents did? Small changes, but if most people did so, they would make a huge difference.”

Several readers from various cities and towns shared their personal distress and the air pollution status of their towns. A few readers were upset. “Why write against Hindu culture?” a reader asked. “Why the selective outrage over Diwali?” another asked.

To the best of my knowledge, no religion or culture supports activities that are harmful to human beings or other forms of life. Perhaps pollution in its myriad forms may be considered irreligious.

ॐ द्यौः शान्तिरन्तरिक्षं शान्तिः

A Vedic Shanti Mantra—Om Dyauh Shantih…—invokes peace for the heavens, the atmosphere, the earth, the waters, herbs and trees, and indeed all creation. It finally seeks that peace for the supplicant as well.

Here is a link to this beautiful chant from Shukla Yajurveda (36.17):

https://youtu.be/7MKCmBSSt7o?si=yLrLW7D90ZCIT-S1

सर्वेषां स्वस्तिर्भवतु

Another prayer, Sarveṣām Svastir Bhavatu (सर्वेषां स्वस्तिर्भवतु), is widely recited as a Universal Prayer for Peace and Well-being.

Here is a link to the chant:

https://youtu.be/uZeqfUN1JQ0?si=UcN31D5S-Z6GGBZo

May there be well-being for ALL.

May there be peace for ALL.

May there be fulfilment for ALL.

May there be auspiciousness for ALL.

Shantih is whole and indivisible. Individual peace, prosperity and happiness are possible only when ALL are at Peace.

~~~

Dainik Bhaskar, Front page, 10.11.2026

MP Pollution Control Board Portal: Bhopal, 10.11.2026: Air Quality Index (AQI) - Very Poor

Never Too Late to Say Sorry: Two Unusual Apologies

 

Never Too Late to Say Sorry: 

Two Unusual Apologies

An Unusual Ragging

Dear Rama,

Please forgive me for the liberties I took with you years ago when I was young, mischievous and insensitive.

My unconditional apology comes after many years—fifty-two, to be specific—but it’s better late than never. I hope you will be as gracious in forgiving me as you were in putting up with my misdemeanours.

Had you been a typical senior at college, and a little less indulgent or kind, you would have brusquely put me in my place, asked me to mind my manners, learn some basic lessons in civility, and perhaps dumped me as persona non grata. But you didn’t.

You didn’t allow my antics and impudence to come in the way of our lifelong friendship. Years later, you even established contact with my lonely father at Sambalpur and spent time talking with him. That came naturally to you, for you also sometimes walked up to Gopalmal to sit in silence with Shrimat Sahu—our dear Professor who had taught us during undergraduate years and had retired long ago. He was very sad. He could no longer go for a walk, his failing vision prevented him from reading, and he was weighed down by anxiety regarding the uncertain future of his only son, who was mentally challenged. Yet, he stoically suffered the indignities of old age and utter loneliness. Your visits perhaps brought a little respite from his depression.

Why am I telling you all this now? Because tomorrow, you and I may be gone, and I do not wish my apology to remain unsaid. Also, I truly treasure you as a friend.

---

Ragging was a customary rite of initiation during the 1970s in the engineering and medical colleges at Burla in Odisha. But it was unheard of at Jyoti Vihar, perhaps because the students had their turbulent teens behind them, and the uncertainty of job prospects after the PG degree ahead of them. For the two-year PG course, the seniors graciously welcomed and mentored the freshers.

P and one or more of his classmates sometimes walked past the Central Library and along the gravel track between paddy fields to the Men's Hostel, which had twin-sharing rooms for juniors and single-occupancy rooms for seniors.

Each room was a small cubicle with a bed of rough-hewn wooden planks, a wooden table and chair, a small almirah and a slender book rack carved into the wall. There was a window without grills to cool the room as best it could. Burla, surrounded by bald hills, was hot for most of the year, and the ceiling fan did little to cool the room. So, the students mostly read at night, though inside the mosquito curtain on the bed.

P doesn't recall why he was friendlier with two seniors—Rama Chandra and Rohini Kanta—than with his own classmates. Maybe they were gentlemen, kind and soft-spoken. Both were among the brightest students in their class. P visited them occasionally at their hostel.

They generally discussed academic matters, research for an upcoming seminar, or books they were studying, such as The Waste Land and Death of a Salesman. Seldom did they discuss family, friends or girls.

Rama Chandra's peculiar sensitivity to tickling was perhaps discovered inadvertently. Most people are averse to tickling, but none quite as much as RC. He didn't even need to be touched. If P simply called him by his name with an intonation conveying the mischief in his mind, RC would run for safety.

If tickled for a second, he'd giggle for several minutes; if tickled longer, he'd roll on the bed or the floor. He was totally at the mercy of his assailant—the tickler.

RC had an electric heater in his room. He boiled tea dust for a long time to make strong tea and added several spoons of sugar to make it drinkable. A cup kept him awake for several hours.

P and his friends would sometimes barge in unannounced, interrupting his studies, and demand that tea be served. RC, like most other hostel residents, was on a tight budget. Tea and sugar were expensive, and whatever he bought had to last a month or more, till the next money order arrived from home. But he had no choice. The guests didn't really request tea; they demanded it. Would you serve us tea or else... They said without saying.

RC made tea and also brought out a few biscuits and a little namkeen mixture—without doubt, a bribe to prevent future ragging by the unwelcome guests.

Once, after enjoying the tea and snacks, P's friend guarded the exit door while P made a move towards RC. Sensing the imminent danger, RC, though attired in just a loincloth wrapped around his waist, moved swiftly like a panther, jumped out of the ground-floor window and vanished into the adjoining fields. He remained in hiding until he was sure that his tormentors had left.

RC was most generous. He didn't hold a grudge against his troublesome juniors. He remained a friend for life.

He retired as a Professor of English and now lives in Sambalpur. P calls him once in a while for a chat.

Now, it's time for an unconditional apology.

Sorry, Dear Rama, for tormenting you and causing unbearable physical distress for our 'fun' at your expense.

---

Some debts of gratitude remain unpaid for decades. We remember them, occasionally feel a twinge of remorse, and promise ourselves that we shall make amends someday. Sometimes, that someday takes a lifetime.

For me, that time has arrived now.

The Friend I Was Ashamed Of

Dear H,

I'm more than a little embarrassed to remember you after ages. Please forgive my negligence, callousness and ingratitude, and my failure to say 'Thank you' to a friend who stood by me for years, in rain and thunder, scorching summer and chilly winter.

You truly helped me move ahead in life. I am what I am, and where I am, only because of you.

Decades ago, you stayed beside me like my own shadow, always ready to help despite your failing health and creaking bones.

Did I ever say a heartfelt thank you to you? No, never. Rather, I was embarrassed about you, as though you were a poor relative with whom I was reluctant to be seen in public.

How very ungrateful I was! How sad you must have felt when I abandoned you at a distance from the gate of the Ladies' Hostel, where I went to chat with my girlfriends. I didn't want them to notice that you were my companion. What would they think of me? Wouldn't they unfriend me instantly? I feared.

I'm truly ashamed of myself. I should have introduced you to my friends, including my girlfriends. I should have sung your praises for your muscular strength and sturdiness despite your advanced age. I should have praised your dependable service. I was remiss. I was petty-minded, insecure and disloyal to a loyal friend.

I tender an unqualified apology for my insensitive and inappropriate behaviour. I apologise for not finding out what happened to you once I took a job and went far away from home. I never even asked whether you were simply abandoned to die in a dusty corner or were otherwise shabbily treated.

You deserved a more respectful farewell.

Now, I write this letter, an elegy for a dear friend.

Once again, seeking your forgiveness, Dear Hercules Bicycle of 1935 vintage, which took me to college and elsewhere during 1974–1980.

Note:

In the mid-1930s, Hercules cycles sold in India were fully imported British models manufactured by The Hercules Cycle and Motor Co. Ltd., Birmingham. Being a premium, durable import, a Hercules bicycle, including accessories like a bell, carrier or lamp, would generally cost about ₹30—which was then the price of a tola of gold.

***

 

A Touch of Divinity

For the forty senior citizens who reached Somnath, the Trust had made excellent arrangements for darshan, a special puja, and the aarati at noon. After the aarati, as the pilgrims were at the customary parikrama, the dhvaj offered by the pilgrims was hoisted on the shikhar, signifying Lord Somnath’s gracious acceptance of the humble offering by the devotees. Before departure, the group received the dhvaj that had flown earlier on the shikhar as the Lord's precious prasad.

When it was time for the pilgrims to leave, it was already very hot. A few golf carts were lined up to take them to their bus. Most of the pilgrims were already seated in the carts, except for the last two or three. One of them noticed a lady sanitation worker standing beside the walkway from the Trust office to the temple. He went near her and offered her a small token of appreciation—not a tip, but an acknowledgement of her service to Lord Somnath and his pilgrims.

She was an employee of the Trust, doing her job, and hadn't done anything specifically for this group of pilgrims. No visitor offered her anything, nor was she expecting a gift from this group. So, she was a little surprised. But when the senior citizen, perhaps much older than her father, bent down, touched her feet, touched the broom she had in hand, and then touched his own snow-white hair—a symbolic smearing of the dust from her feet and her broom on his head—she was overwhelmed. She looked in disbelief at the pilgrim, and then quickly turned her face aside. Did she tear up?

Shree Somnath, the first of the twelve Aadi Jyotirlingas, is a sacred teerth. Did the Lord enact this extraordinary moment, perhaps a miracle?

Divinity resides in the grand temple, the joined palms of the pilgrims and their prayers whispered into Nandi's right ear, the sacred Shiva Linga, the jal abhishek, the chantings of Shiva mantras, the dhvaj fluttering on the shikhar, sprinkling blessings on the earth, the sky, and the seas. And in the humble feet of the lady with the broom, too.

Divinity resides, finally, in the soul of the devotee.

At Somnath, the divine spark connects the devotee with the Divine.

***

Postscript

A dear friend read my blog and sent me this entirely undeserved compliment: “आप की महानता, विनय और विनम्रता को सादर नमन।” (Salutations to your greatness, humility, and modesty.)

I was merely a witness to this heart-touching scene. I had deliberately refrained from naming the senior citizen with snow-white hair, knowing that he would have felt rather embarrassed.

Ratapani REJECTS Bhopal Development Plan: Citizens of the Jungle Lodge Protest

 

Ratapani REJECTS Bhopal Development Plan:

Citizens of the Jungle Lodge Protest

Sher Singh, the King of Ratapani Tiger Reserve, convened an emergency General Body (GB) meeting of his citizens and addressed them with an introductory growl and a non-threatening roar.

“Dear Citizens of our Great Jungle. Today, we have assembled to deliberate upon a most serious matter: the Bhopal Development Plan 2047, recently notified by humans. Minister for External Affairs will now brief you on the BDP.”

The Golden Jackal—smart, clever, well-informed and alert—rose, bowed to the King, and said,

“BDP is a very long document, monotonous to read and difficult to comprehend, with numerous Tables, Maps, Boxes, and more than a hundred acronyms. But we don’t have all night to go through all the details. So, I’ll present a brief summary.

The BDP is just like all previous plans by humans for themselves. It protects and furthers the interests of all stickholders.”

The Hyena interrupted. “You mean stakeholders?”

“No, stickholders; I choose my words with care,” replied the Jackal. As in जिसकी लाठी उसकी भैंस—Might is Right!”

“Why are humans still besotted with भैंस in this age of packaged milk delivered at doorstep in minutes?” tweeted the irreverent Myna, but swiftly silenced by a stern, censorious look from the Jackal who summed up the BDP:

“They want MORE of everything: land, water, energy, roads, buildings, factories, malls, hotels, clubs, entertainment zones.”

“Does it concern us?” Some of you might wonder.

“It does. It means LESS of everything for us: forest, land, safe corridors for movement, water, food, and even breeding space.

Moreover, humans have consistently demonstrated their failure to plan and live sensibly. Why else would they poison the land, water, and air which nourish and sustain all life including their own?

Therefore, we must OPPOSE and REJECT the Plan.”

Sher Singh signalled to Bhalu, Home Minister, and the wizened Chair of the Cabinet Committee, to present the Draft Resolution for discussion, if any, and approval by the GB.

Bhalu rose to his full, imperious height on his hind legs and said, “The Cabinet Committee has unanimously recommended the following Resolution:

Our Objection, in one word: NO.

Our Suggestion to humans, in three words: Go to Mars.

Our Vision: To overthrow the hegemony of the greedy, rapacious Homo sapiens and Make Jungle Land Great Again!

“Feel free to voice your opinions and concerns,” the King told the GB.

Teetar toned down her shrill voice and said as softly as possible, “May I humbly submit that the concerns of the smallest of our citizens be kept in mind? Fireflies are blinded by too much artificial light at night; bees and butterflies are starved of wild flowers; porcupines have nowhere to dig burrows in the concrete jungle of men; ground-nesting birds have no grassland or shrubs in which to build their nests and raise their young. Why, even the shy earthworm is deprived of a tiny patch of land to till.”

Bhalu rose again. “Very valid points raised by the eloquent Teetar. The Cabinet Committee has indeed considered at length the impact of the Plan on all citizens of the Jungle, including trees, plants and grasses. The earthworm is covered in Annexure 4.”

“Annexure 4?” asked Teetar.

“Annexure 4,” Bhalu repeated, with finality.

“If we oppose and resist the humans, won’t they call us mutineers or jungle naxals?” asked the reclusive Porcupine.

“We answer to Nature’s Rules, and not to rules made by humans for humans. Let there be no doubt about this,” roared the King.

There was a brief silence. Thereafter, the Resolution was unanimously adopted.

Sher Singh spoke. “Now, let us discuss our Strategy to meet this fresh threat from the humans. Tendua, Chief of Counter-intelligence, Surgical Strikes and RAW, will present the proposed Strategy.”

Tendua, lean and agile, sprang to his feet. “After careful evaluation of all options available to us, the following Strategic Plan has the highest potential for success:

Scat Satyagraha: We are unable to submit a written objection, or even send an email to the notified Joint Director. True, some friendly forest officials are voicing our concerns, but the authorities unceremoniously dismiss them as junglees. Therefore, we must launch Scat Satyagraha.

“After this meeting, we shall proceed to the gates of Ratapani Reserve and deposit huge mounds of scat to register our protest against the Plan. A Committee on Scat Logistics, under the Sambar, will coordinate the operation. Every citizen will contribute according to capacity, and the Bears are requested to contribute in bulk. Contribution from Jungle Safari elephants is also solicited.

After nightfall today, Flying Foxes (commonly known as Fruit Bats) of Kamla Park near Bhopal Taal will execute a top-secret stealth operation, the details of which will be shared after the success of the mission.

Surgical Strikes: Specially trained commandos from my army will launch guerrilla attacks, or surgical strikes, if you please, on human colonies carved out of our ancient jungle land. However, my commandos will NOT resort to any violence, but merely terrorise the humans.”

The Langur asked, rather timidly, whether “terrorise” and “non-violent” could coexist. Bhalu ruled that the Committee had always favoured dialogue, and the matter was not pursued.

After detailed discussion, the GB approved the following additional actions, over and above the military and sleuth action proposed by Tendua:

Non-Cooperation Movement: If the Scat Satyagraha and the Surgical Strikes do not dissuade the humans from implementing their mindless Plan, citizens of Ratapani will BOYCOTT the Jungle Safaris. All animals, birds and even butterflies will go into hiding, maintaining complete silence. This would ruin the tourist economy of humans.

March to Bhopal: If our territory is annexed by force and our corridors are shut down, we shall proceed on a silent March to Bhopal on a designated date.

A revered Jain Sadhu who was in Ratapani jungles for chaturmas blessed the March, and graciously offered to lead it to dissuade humans from violent reprisal and coercive action. Our illustrious King thanked him for his compassion but sought his blessings for the proud and self-sufficient citizens of the jungle to fight their own battle.   

Our Protest will be entirely PEACEFUL and our March entirely NON-VIOLENT. Even if there is provocation or use of force by the oppressors, we will remain non-violent and be ready to sacrifice our lives, if needed.

(AI-image by CoPilot, basis Blogger's story and prompts)

Media Coverage: This will be a historic occasion, a March that the world has never before seen. Our junglee friends have assured that the event will be covered by the Guinness World Records, WWF and other sensible, sympathetic organisations.

At the end, Sher Singh gave a deafening roar and called upon the jungle citizens:

“Awake. Arise. Protest or Perish."

The King coined the new slogan since 'Do or Die' had already been used.

"Protest against the unjust, oppressive rule by humans." the King continued, "We have resolved to fight for our FREEDOM; for Freedom from Hunger, Freedom to Propagate, and Freedom of Movement are our inalienable RIGHTS.”

“What is ‘propagate’?” whispered the Langur.

“Ask the Committee,” whispered the Sambar.

The rest of the King’s roar was lost in the sound of a distant JCB.

---

Next morning, the office of the Joint Director, Town and Country Planning (Bhopal Development Plan), received a large consignment at its gate. Work commenced only after the premises were thoroughly cleaned and certified fit for human use.

“This nasty protest is inhuman, uncivilised and unacceptable. It must be summarily rejected,” suggested the Receipt Clerk.

The judicious Joint Director sent a sample for forensic analysis. Upon receiving a report that the material had been deposited prior to midnight, he ordered:

“Objections filed by Anonymous Parties within designated date and time: RECEIVED.”

***

#Ratapani #WildlifeConservation #EnvironmentalSatire #BhopalDevelopment Plan2047 #humanwildlifeconflict 

A Modest Ravana: An Unusual Dussehra Story

Affluent Dussehra Samitis erect huge effigies of Ravana and the accompanying demons, their size perhaps a mirror image of the organisers’ egos and influence.

The tallest Ravana at Bhopal this Dussehra is a towering, imperious effigy of 105 feet. The modest Ravana I’m talking about is a little less than four feet.

“Uncle, will you give me some puttha, cello tape, and white paper?” Lucky asked.

“What for?” asked Uncle.

“We are making Ravana.”

“Check the washing machine area, the corner where discarded packing material waits for kabadi sale. Take what you need.”

Later, Lucky got the cello tape roll and a few sheets of white paper.

Lucky and Satyam got down to work, and twice a day—during the morning walk and after-dinner stroll—they reported their progress to their cardboard-and-cello-tape donor.

Two days before Vijaya Dashami, Lucky casually mentioned, “I’ll ask my Dad for 50 rupees, and Satyam will bring 70 rupees for the firecrackers to be stuffed inside the effigy.”

“We need a little help.”

“Go ahead. What do you need?”

“We’re making the central head. Will you please print the nine subsidiary heads?”

“Okay, remind me tomorrow after breakfast.”

Uncle was reminded. He downloaded a Ravana head from Wikimedia, got it pre-approved by the boys, and proceeded to print. Alas, his colour cartridge was spent. He tried to print in B&W, but a recent software update and laptop reboot had erased the printer settings, and the boys were getting impatient.

“How much would it cost to get the heads printed from the photocopier shop?”

“No idea, but a colour print costs 10 rupees,” said Lucky.

“Okay. Here’s my donation for the Ravana project.” Uncle gave 100 rupees. “Will this do?”

They got all ten heads printed—one in colour and nine in B&W—for 50 rupees.

(Ravana with his Makers- Lucky and Satyam)

“We spent the rest on more crackers,” said Satyam.

“Total cost of your project?”

“Less than 300 rupees.”

“Where is the venue?”

“The vacant plot next to H 84.”

“Time?”

“7 pm, so that after our event we may go to the Baghmugalia Dussehra maidan. This year, the effigies are taller than last year. Ravana, Kumbhakarna, and Meghnad are already standing tall.”

“Who will kill your Ravana?”

The boys hadn’t yet decided.

“How about making Sheetal and Shilpi Ram and Sita?”

Shilpi, who was present, grabbed Sita’s role; so, Sheetal, who was at home, would have to be Ram.

Chathi Lal, Shilpi’s four-year old cousin, would be Hanuman, it was unanimously decided. Chathi Lal had never been Hanuman, but he accepted the honour with a hesitant smile.

(Sita and Ram. Chathi Lal was AWOL, so his little sister joined in as the youngest of the Vanar Sena)

(Ram Leela Mandali)

Does evil come in different sizes?

What if the boys had made Ravana’s heads themselves, instead of downloading them from the net? Would some of them have looked a bit like the school bully, and a rather unkind teacher?

---

 

 

The Basket Weaver of Bittan Market

On the way from Shahpura to Bittan market, you may notice bamboo weavers at work on the pavement by the fencing wall of Paryavaran Parisar and the Regional Museum of Natural History. Migrant artisans, they have lived here for decades, making and selling bamboo baskets—once essential, now eclipsed by cheaper plastic products. They craft kites for Makar Sankranti, lightweight coir-and-bamboo slings for painters scaling tall buildings, and Ravana effigies for Dussehra—their annual week of brisk sales. The effigies vary in size to suit every budget. Affluent Dussehra Samitis of Bhopal commission towering Ravanas fabricated by artisans brought in from Jaipur and elsewhere, costing several lakhs. The humble bamboo weavers of Bittan market are never invited to such grand projects.

Among them, one figure stood apart. If you have lived in Bhopal for a few years, you might have seen her—a frail, diminutive, old weaver at work. Wrinkled, ebony-black skin; thick, curly, snow-white hair, unkempt for months, perhaps years, clipped now and then by her son or grandson.

Years ago, she sat with her family beside the boundary wall. Later, she was seen under the shade of a tree across the road, working alone. Did she choose solitude, or was she moved there because of the indignity of age and frailty?

By then, she was possibly in her eighties. Her back bent, her eyesight failing, yet her fingers remained sure. Every day she wove baskets—only baskets. Her family worked across the road and brought her food at mealtimes.

(ChatGPT read my piece, and upon my request created an image, and edited it further basis my prompts.)

She spent her days weaving, her nights inside a small, tattered tarpaulin tent beneath the tree. No one spoke to her. She spoke to none. Her work was a silent meditation.

Given bamboo strips, she wove them into baskets. Her family sold them. At what price? She had no idea.

Was she happy? Was she lonely? Difficult to say. The wrinkles on her face revealed nothing. Her eyes never strayed from her work. The world rushed past, unnoticed. The basket in her hands was taking shape. All was well with the world.

After the Covid lockdown, she was no longer seen. Her little tarpaulin hut had vanished.

On my way from Bittan market to Baghmugalia, past SBI, Shahpura, and Arera Colony, I often wished to stop, to speak with her, perhaps take a photograph. But I didn’t. Why intrude on her privacy, disturb her peace? Her family might have resented it. And the busy roundabout near Paryavaran Parisar offered no place to park.

I wish I had.

***

#Bhopal #BasketWeaving #StreetArtisans #IndianCrafts

 

The Secret Library

A forgotten storeroom, a mound of specimen books, and a young reader’s secret treasure. This is the story of a library that never existed—except for one devoted borrower.

It was a strange library, with a modest collection of about thirty slim paperbacks, neither indexed nor arranged in any order. It had no librarian, no catalogue, no borrower, and no 'Issue' & 'Return' Register. A secret library, with access to only a single reader.

No, the books were neither porn nor banned, subversive literature. Each was an anthology of select short stories, essays, and poems by eminent English authors.

Why, then, was the library secret? Because the reader and keeper had bought none of these books, but borrowed them from his professor—and forgotten to return them.

The Professor was erudite, a respected scholar, and a much‑loved veteran teacher. Every working day, he pedalled his old bicycle at an unhurried pace to the university, three kilometres from his bungalow. On weekends and holidays, he spent all his waking hours in the spacious veranda, reclining on a long chair with a stack of books on a little tea‑table beside him. He spoke little, even to his wife and sons, and only when necessary.

The young man, still in his teens, had begun college. On holidays, he walked to the Professor’s bungalow, nestled between the Medical College and the PG Hostel—not to meet the Professor, but his third son, a classmate.

They discussed books, syllabus, and miscellaneous 'study' matters, while a vigilant mother in the adjoining kitchen tracked their conversation as she chopped vegetables. Her son’s new friend seemed harmless, but was still an untested commodity. What if he had bad habits and corrupted her innocent boy?

When they stepped out for a stroll on the quiet streets of the small town, the boys discussed girls—cautiously at first, then with abandon. The innocent son relished his disciplined diet of only one fag a day.

During a long summer vacation, the young man was hungry for books but couldn’t afford to buy any, nor did he have access to a library. One day, he discovered in the Professor’s house an odd storeroom without racks or almirahs, its floor littered with hundreds of books—bundles toppled over by arrogant new arrivals. The books had formed a central mound and several subsidiary mounds, as though awaiting a bonfire.

"Why are these books on the floor? What are they, anyway?" he asked his friend.

"Oh, just specimen copies. Every year, publishers send five copies of each anthology they finance and publish, hoping Dad will prescribe them as textbooks. He’s Chair of the Syllabus Committee."

The Professor picked up one from the new bundles, glanced at the contents, noted that the currently prescribed books were better representatives of great writing, and dismissed the bundle to the store. He had no idea what happened thereafter, nor did he care.

The Committee’s policy was to prescribe new books only once every five years. Established publishers loved that; hopeful new ones didn’t, and kept sending five copies each year, praying for better luck. Textbooks, after all, are the bread and butter of publishing.

"May I take a look at these books?" "Sure, go ahead."

Every visit, he navigated the jungle, careful not to step on a book for fear of displeasing Ganesha and Saraswati. He picked one, browsed, borrowed, read, and returned it before taking the next.

How could he not fall in love with anthologies of fascinating stories, one‑act plays, and essays? One day, reading a humorous story on the bus, he laughed so loudly that fellow passengers turned to stare.

In each anthology, the icing on the cake was the brief but cogent 'Introduction' by the Chief Editor, usually a renowned professor—quite useful for exams and impressing the examiner.

He couldn’t bear the thought of losing these gems, and forgot to return them. His conscience never raised a red flag: he had borrowed just one out of a bundle of five. Who knew if the heap had twenty or more of this title?

After a year or two, a raddiwala was summoned to clean up the store, making room for fresh arrivals. He stuffed the decaying books into jute bags, paying a nominal amount since the cheap paper had turned brittle, unfit even for paper bags. Perhaps the chanazor garam vendor or paan‑sellers used it to serve customers.

Though he visited his friend’s house regularly for five years, the secret library’s inventory remained capped at thirty for two reasons. First, during his post‑graduation years, he enjoyed access to the well‑stocked university library. Second, the small bedroom‑cum‑study at E‑24/2, shared with his younger sister, had just two built‑in racks for miscellaneous items including their course books, and were already filled to capacity.

So, was it a stolen library? "No," protests the young man.

"A book is meant to be read, and I had read and re‑read these books. They had become dear to me. I couldn’t bear to lose my friends.

What if I sometimes forgot to return them? Didn’t I save my dear friends from a life‑term in that condemned cell?

My Professor is no more. But I guess he’d have accorded post‑facto approval to my Secret Library."

***

Postscript

Upon reading this blog, Madan- a dear friend- remembered his summer vacation days in the 1970s in Delhi, mostly spent in reading Jasoosi Duniya and similar books for 5 or 10 naya paisa a day.

I, too, recalled the books I borrowed from Ashok Badpanda, my classmate in Class-8, George High School, Bargarh for 10 naya paisa for two days. Failure to return on the due date had a penalty of 5 paise a day which was unaffordable. That might have taught me speed reading, to focus on the core story and ignore the verbiage; which came very handy in professional life.

I called Ashok and had a leisurly chat reminiscing those days of simple joys.

How many books did you have, Ashok? I asked.

"About 70, I guess."

"What inspired you to begin a library at that early age?"

"Well, I loved reading fiction, noted that many friends were hungry for books, and began my library by borrowing a few well-thumbed books from my father and his friends. I read Hindi fiction, too, and helped many friends to learn Hindi to enjoy the books in my collection."

I recalled my addiction for the dacoit series- Dasyu Nayika Meera, Dasyu Robin- and Chakranta- the detective series.

"Did I ever tell you that I read so many books from your library that I nearly flunked in maths in Class 8 annual exam? Also, the rent for books came from my meagre pocket money for snacks during the recess!"