Chai

There! Drink up sir! That is my Chai, laced with ginger and turmeric. I bang my wares upon each other, but it is made with all the love you can find in a tea stall under the shade of the banyan here on this crowded Bombay alley. Things are so transient here upon this city and so much more on this alley. The faces are new, the weather uncertain, the politicians, poets and parents all talk differently with passing time, even the street changes it's colour. But me? No sir, I stay right here giving you this adrak wali chai laced with the love that is found only in this sweltering shady tea stall. This place is that one unmoving spot which you will know exists when your spouse fights with you over breakfast and that bastard in office bums you out again. My Chai is the unchanging parameter in your insurance policies and in how you bring your kids up, as you discuss them with you friend. We need these honest faithful parameters don't we sir? With all these crazy changes there ought to be some honesty in our existence, that is my job sir, I give your reality a sense of truth and then of course, I give you Chai.

The First Page

There I begin again O! diary, like the many virgins I have stained and left unfinished, unsatisfied. I am not sure why I start over again this time, or for that matter why I started the many literary affairs in the past with other diaries who could have done better as pure virgins than as relics to my reckless fantasies of the ink elevating your purity to the status of a work. It must have something to do with that look of fresh balck ink from my quill forming neat letters upon these pages, it pushes me into a trance. What will I write in here? Like all the times, I only have a vauge idea, and I give myself leave for that, for how does one concieve of an idea that fills a diary this long in one go? I would have to wait an eternity before such an idea fills me with its stupor. So like all the times I will begin with this stale vaugeness and proceed to write upon your virginity with abandon. I am willing to, deep within my counsious mind of course, for my waking self would never permit me such depraved behaviour, stain a thousand such virginities for a single diary that I will elevate to the status of a work. You may or may not be that sacred pile of paper, one can never tell, until I fill that last page of yours which screams to be written upon, they are a piteous lot, these last pages, how unfortunate, for they almost never get written upon.

Be that as it may, but here ends your first page and thus has begun your life as a diary that has been used, I wish you luck and a last page that is written upon by the stains of my quill.

Missing

Dear Friend,
Please come home, your parents are worried and we miss you a lot. I have come to learn that you left home because you wanted to land yourself a job and be independent. I understand that sentiment but your life is full of people who will worry their heads off if you go missing. I am not so worried because somewhere I know you will not kill yourself, but I am afraid that I might lose you to this vast city and not know ever where you are, knowing only that somewhere in this large world you walk your own walk. That will make this world special place, like an island that hides a treasure or a sky with one star on which a flower that you have cared for lives. But I don't want that mystery, It is better that I know where to find a friend when I am in need of one. Maybe you are thinking we people will bug you if you come back and you will not have the peace of mind you are so in need of. Your fear is justified and it is very true that you will lose you peace once you are with us, but I think we live a life not alone but with all the people near us. Nearness adds meaning to our lives , a lot of what we become in life is also about what your loved ones become because we loved them. It will take effort to come back, but I can help you with a few memories, our past is an amazing ambassador. I invite you to think of the times when we passed time in the college woods sipping on hot tomato soup and munching chicken rolls, or just think of how every time I saved for you that last piece of meat of the three pieces the Chinese guy from college used to top our fried rice with.

Your Friend,
Sagar.

He wrote back.

I thank my readers for encouraging me to send the open letter I wrote to Ruskin Bond, and I thank Megha for the postal address. He was kind enough to reply.

A letter to Ruskin.

Dear Mr.Ruskin Bond,
I like your work very much. I am writing this letter to let you know how your writing has influenced my life. I thought you should know. The first book I read was 'The India I Love'. I happened to read a poem in that book, it was about a school boy with a shiny coin in his hands. The poem touched me. I decided to read more of your stories and poems. I like what you write because it is so honest and direct. I like the way you talk about animals and trees, the way you talk about the mountains and about road side shops. I like the bazaars in your stories, I like the Rusty that you created. I began wondering what it was that made your writing so beautiful, even when you were not telling a story, like in your diary: 'Landour Days'. In order to find out I decided to write something myself. I started writing. I kept it simple and true, I write about everyday things, sparrows, butterflies, beggars, my breakfast, even the cockroach in my bathroom. I don't write stories as I don't have the time to think of nice ones. But I write poetry and it makes me very happy. I share it with my friends, sometimes they like what I say, the other times they don't understand or don't like it. I started writing about sweets and birds and kids on the railway platforms. I wrote only what I saw, and tried to stick to the description alone. This produced good results. My writing gave me joy and sometimes my friends liked it a lot. Since then I have been writing, I don't think I will ever write for a living, but I might publish a book. Your books have inspired me to look at things around me with fresh eyes. I notice that your books never judge or label. I keep it that way when I look at things or when I talk to people, it is so much more beautiful.

I thank you for all the stories and poems.

Yours,

Sagar Kolte

The author wishes to thank Megha for inspiring this post.