Toofan Mail!
It was some years back, may be thirty years ago. I was going to my going to my sister's place in Hindu Colony. As I was proceeding towards her home I met my friend, Gaja at Dadar station (Central Rly).We were meeting after ten - fifteen years. He hadn't changed much, except for some grey streaks peeping through his dark black and thick hair and now he sported a dark black Van Dyke, which he had dyed black and the fact he confessed later. He hadn't put on any weight, the same thin and lean Gaja! We were meeting after many years. It was a pleasant surprises for both of us.
We ordered for 'maska khari' and his tea and my coffee. It was the same, nothing had changed, our taste (likes) had remained the same and even the surroundings.
Gaja must have read my thoughts, for he said, "We have come here several times before and now after so many years, nothing has changed over here!"
Those wood chairs with round seats and bent backs, perhaps of German or Polish design, wooden tables with marble tops with red & blue - checked table cloths and on which stood large jars that allowed one to have a nice peek into the goodies ( mostly variety of biscuits and chocolates) that these jars held. Yes, everything was the same! Even the huge mirrors on the walls to create a feeling of space, and the high ceiling.had remained almost unaltered. The eagerness and speed with which the waiters served wasn't missing either. We both were impressed by their hassle - free service so far.
Thee menu read as bun maska’ (bread and butter) and ‘paani kam chai’ (a strong Iranian tea), or khari chai (very strong tea), mutton samosas, Keema, Akuri (a scrambled spicy egg preparation), berry pulao, vegetable puffs, vegetarian/chicken Dhansak (a spicy broth with lentils, pulses) and Biryani, cherry cream custard, cheese khari biscuits, plain khari biscuits, coconut jam and milk biscuits and Dukes Mangola and Raspberry drink. The whiff of Keema was quite tempting. So we ordered Keema pav. It is needless to say that the taste hadn't changed a bit!
Yet something was missing? What was it?
"Juke Box!" Both of us shouted together.
This lead our talks to songs and music .Gaja was Encyclopedia on Music. His knowledge was immense - fathomless - he could accurately tell the music director, the lyricist, the playback singer/ singers, the actor for whom they sang and name of the movie. Now our talks had gathered momentum. Gaja was in his elements, talking rapidly about those old songs and simultaneously humming and even singing them. He had a good voice.
Perhaps, some passenger train was nearing the station, there was the shrill whistle sound of the engine and soon we could hear the rumbling and then the hiss and the screech of the brakes. There was too much noise, so we too took a break and our second helping of Keema pav
Now that train was leaving the station and it was making steadily increasing chugging sound ' hush, jush'. and Gaj's humming too had gathered speed. It had reached a crescendo and Gaja switched to singing..
" तूफान मेल, दुनिया ये दुनिया, तूफान मेल। ---कोई कोई कहाँ का टिकट काटता , एक है आता एक है जाता सभी मुसाफिर बिछड़ जाएंगे पल भर का है मेल तूफ़ान मेल। दुनिया ये दुनिया तूफ़ान मेल। जो जितनी पूँजी है रखता उसी मुताबिक सफर वो करता। जीवन का है भेद बताती ज्ञानी को ये रेल तूफान मेल। "
Gaja was singing this Kanan Devevi's (कनान देवींचे) song in the same rapid tempo and quite loudly.
"Do you know Kanan Devi was often called A Real Life Cinderella?" he asked me.
There were some young teenagerse sitting on the nearby tables, they hardly paid any attention to us. They seemed to be in rush , far they were telling each other," टाईम नही है मेरे पास l ", " फुर्सत नहीं", " No time , " Dead line to meet", and so on.
And I realised that this world is indeed like the Tufaan Mail - it has become so fast that we have forgotten ourselves, because of gadgets like smart phones, computers, we have lost touch and forgotten those small moments of happiness we used to cherish! Today Gaja is no more .
But I still remember that day of 2nd January, 2013. We, some colleagues from our old company,Chowgules had met at Gaja's farm house in Wangani Many of us were meeting after some thirty years after leaving Chowgules. Thirty years us long period. Lean and thin Francis had put on definitely some weight but Molly, his wife (also our colleague), who was also slim , had become a typical Amma. (Perhaps, this must have been the result of their years of gratifying stay in Saudi). Of course, I had met them in Saudi, but to others the change in Frances was shocking. Dilip Bhasale had managed to remain almost unchanged, just a streak or two in his thick hair. Both Pore ,who was always bulky, but he and Rane now had bulging pounche and receding hairline. . I was pretty thin earlier (in Chowgules) and had shoulder length hair. Now I had shaved them and kept bald., I still regularly do. Gaja hadn't changed much, looked as fit as a fiddle. Only his beard, moustache and hair had turned grey.
Gaja and Rame were both industrious and would never stick to doing jobs and hop from one job to another. Rame had a small tempo and a private taxi business and also ran a small shop. Gaja was also industrious, risk taker and had done many things in life. This assistant of mine had risen ,starting from lowest rung, trying his hand as a stock broker and even became an entrepreneur
But it was the same Gaja we knew, a jovial and humourous guy, who tremendous love for music and songs. At his farm house he had a good collection of old songs and a turn table to play those lovely records of melodious oldies and we listened to them till the wee hours.
His sense of humour and fun loving and joking habit hadn't left him either. When we were inside the compartment of V T bound train at 6 in the morning, he asked Pore,
"काय पोरे,डेक्कन क्वीन काय गात आली? वसंत बापटांच्या दख्खन राणीच्या बसली कुशीत ऐकू आले का? नाही न- कसे ऐकू येणार- आपण कवी कोठे आहोत - आपल्याला ऐकू येते ते 'हाहा हा हहा - हीहहा ही' गाडीचे हसत खिदळत धावणे - बरोबर? हा हा ...हा हा हा!!!"
On his birth anniversary , which was pn 10th September, hisson, Yogesh , had made this Facebook post:
If we can be even halof what you were - as independent thinker, a principled man, an ever supportive husband, an always encouraging father, a doting grandfather, all this while keeping the most energetic and humorous take on life - we will consider ourselves blessed! No wonder we still find ourselves, all too often, looking back at your life and drawing inspiration from it personally and professionally. Thank you for giving us wings and, more importantly, the courage and freedom to dream and to pursue those dreams. Happy Birthday, Baba !
This then was our Gaja.
There was time when we, be it a friend an associate, a relative or a colleague, would meet some time, chit chat, joke and have fun. We even had arguments and debates on principles, but it was never personal. No one had any hard feelings. We had respect for one another.We expressed our views without any hesitation and with an open mind. We laughed at even PJ jokes cracked. Initially this chit chatting took over cups of coffee and tea. Soon the cups were replaced by glasses and tea and coffee were replaced by ...we had got ourselves promoted to have Beer, Whiskey or Rum. But the sweetness of these meetings never diminished.
We made pen friends and I was even a member of one 'Friends Club' ,such was our craving to have more and more friends! We friends wrote letters to each other. I loved it. Now this art has gone on dust bin.
Right from my schooling days, I had this habit, you may call passion to write letters. Greta Smith, an American girl, was my first pen friend. Exchanging gifts was all that she cared for, our wave lengths never matched and our friendship simply fizzled out. Moreover, her requests for costly gifts I simply couldn't afford (with no pocket money allowance, my pockets used to always remain empty then. )
Then I selected a senior person ( already a colleague senior) asy next pen friend. To impress him, I sent him this letter:
Dear Ravi,
Isn't that your name? Ravindrakumaram Kuriakose is all very well, but you see when you are dreadfully busy in studies for X exams (as currently I am), you will certainly have no time to write such long names; particularly when it takes you more than an hour to remember how to spell it. Again there is another difficulty you may face - of finding the 'Malayalam to English & English to Malayalam' Dictionary. Do you have one? Even if you do have such a dictionary, you have to actually find it, then see if you have spelt the name correctly, which will come only after you have made out which is dictionary and which is dust and there is job of finding where 'R' in Malayalam be located. So with all this bother that I may have to undergo, I am sure that you won't mind my writing it short and calling you 'Dear Ravi'-----
I am not sure if this letter of mine had made any impression on him or any impact. But it certainly started a series of exchange of letters between two of us. His letters was always on similar lines, always covering his college life. He had taken Science stream, how he was finding it difficult to cope up with physics vand mathematics and yet he was now doing Engineering and frequency was getting reduced and then had stopped all together.
But suddenly, I received a letter from his elder sister, Rohini. Fr her I learnt that Tabi had marri
Dear Vinay,
I am Ravi's eldest sister. Ravi is busy in his studies. Even if he wasn't, he would hardly write. He doesn't love writing letters. It was me who pushed him into it. He wrote all those letters to you and his several pen friends, but they were my thoughts. It made me feel young, about 15-20 years younger, about your age. I am in my forties and you must around 16-17, right? I liked what you write and written so far. We, my husband, Keshvan and me, have often read together your letters (to my brother.Anyway he hardly ever reads them.).
Vinay, one thing I would like to tell you, like an elder sister would to her younger brother, is that to write a good letter you must approach the job in the lightest and most casual way. You must be personal, not abstract. You must not say, "This is too small a thing to put down." You must say, "This is just the sort of small thing we talk about at home. If I tell them this they will see you , as it were, they'll hear your voice, they'll know what you' re about." You could write about how your sisters had laughed at your bad jokes.If you intend to write such volumes you must know it will be impossible for you to keep any order or method in what you write; that will come first which is uppermost in your mind and heart, not that which is uppermost in your head --. A letter written in this fashion eliminates distance; it continues the personal gossip, the intimate communion (sharing of thoughts, in case do not know what communion is), that has been interrupted by separation ( you may be physically present); it preserves one's presence in absence. It cannot be too simple, too commonplace, too colloquial. Its familiarity is not its weakness, but its supreme virtue. If it attempts to be orderly and stately and elaborate, it may be a good essay, but it will certainly be a bad letter. Perhaps you may not understand all this right now, but one day you will.----
( She had written many things about Ravi, his graduation, and now he was doing his MBA and ended the letter in this manner)
--Yours ever loving sis Rohini.
She then regularly wrote me letters I learnt a lot from her letters.
In between, I had completed my BSc and even started working. Her letters too became less and less and they ceased to come . I wrote to her, but remained unanswered. Then one day her husband, Keshav, wrote to me - Rohini was no more, she had died of leukaemia.
I was shocked and deeply saddened. Oh Rohini , why didn't you ever tell me about your own health? Is this what call your ' intimate communications:? May your soul rest in peace!
There was this college classmate of mine, Farooq Ruknodian. Whenever , he would go to his home in Capetown, South Africa during vacations, He sent beautiful letters to me, be it about Apartheid, African wildlife and African language. But suddenly, he had left , without completing his studies and went to South Africa for good. No, he hadn't ever mentioned his address on those letters.
Another classmate, Neville Mistry, wrote good letters on various subjects - his Karate workshop (5tj degree black belt), his scouting activities ( he still continues both the activities even at + 75), movies from Bollywood to Hollywood and many other topics. But he writes no more those lovely letters,though he does sent me occasional email, SMS or WhatsApp messages of birthday wishes, and other wishes on festive occasions and even some forwards which are interesting and entertaining. But all these don't have the intimate feelings that his letters had .
My colleague Francis, about whom I have already written, would write good letters. Earlier he would pen them and then switched to typing them .He had keen eye for details. His letters, that he sent from Saudi Arabia, were always well typed, descriptive and neat and clean.
"Vinay, sorry I couldn't write to you earlier. I'm sending this from my colorful (colourful) electronic type -writer. I've a very busy sketjule (Schedule). Working here is different, but very satisfying. My boss is fantastic. He is small and stout (a rare feature for an American, you see.), with short arms,short legs and a round head with a red pimply face, planted directly on his trunk, which is also round and short, and with apparently no neck, which gives him a froggish appearance. But don't go by his looks. Beneath that thick round head there is a very sharp and clever brain and under that thick and stout chest there is a kind heart. When he appreciates your work he gives solid pat on your back or even hugs you and exclaims, "Very nice work,pal!" I feel very embarrassed when he does this."
This is exactly what I meant about my shy and humble friend, he is very observant and no airs , down to earth guy! He is now in Kerala and writes no more but phones occasionally.
We no longer have time to meet up with our friends and even our dear ones. No more those get togethers, which we once frequently had, when we joked and had lots and lots of fun. Gone is the art of letter writing, it has been taken over by brief email, short telephone call, SMS and WhatsApp messages.
The speed with which we have almost lost the beautiful art of writing is also catching up with the speed at which we are losing our skill of communication as well.
Oh, this world is indeed like the Toofan Mail!
Will we ever get off this Tufan Mail ?
Vinay Trilokekar
