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the-south-asian Life & Times January - March 2011 |
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Cover Story Eminent
Pandits Veer Munshi Pradman Kaul Pandit Bhajan
Sopori Photo
Feature Aviation
Wildlife Comment
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UNFORGETTABLE MOMENTS By O. P. Dutta UNFORGETTABLE SILENCE Bombay (now Mumbai) was a very noisy place even then. But on
the evening of January 30, 1948, as I walked from Dadar railway station to
Shivaji Park, where I lived, I was greeted by complete silence - silence
that was eerie yet deafening. No vehicle was plying on the road; people were
huddled in groups of four and five on street corners without making any
conversation. Reason? That afternoon as Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi
(popularly known as Mahatma Gandhi) came out of the Birla House for a daily
prayer meeting and walked through the congregation, three bullets from
Nathuram Godse`s pistol pierced his chest. And the light went out of our
lives. Thousands of miles away in a small hamlet of Texas (U.S.A.),
a boy of eight, the grandson of the celebrated writer Pearl Buck, innocently
asked his grandmother ` "Why was a gun invented at all?" UNFORGETTABLE CONVERSATION One urgent call from my employer and I was on the Frontier
Mail – a train going from Delhi to Bombay. In a four berth first class compartment, the only
co-passenger was a gentleman - well dressed, well groomed and well immersed
in reading a book so intensely that he hardly acknowledged my presence. As the train moved along, I realized that I did not have a
book or a magazine to while away my time. My only option to avoid boredom
was to engage my fellow passenger in conversation. After all, man is a
social animal. I mustered enough courage and addressed him `"Mahashae Ji."
He did not even stir. I repeated, "Excuse me sir, I was talking to you." He raised his head, turned his stare at me and signaled me
with his left hand to be patient. He meticulously put the marker in the page that he was
reading, kept the book aside, removed his gold rimmed reading glasses and
turned to me. "Look here," he said, and rattled off without a pause not
allowing me to react or say anything. "My name is Yadavnandan Prasad Shrivastava. I am fifty five
years old, live in Delhi, and have a small family. I am happily married, my
wife is very much alive. We have three children – two boys and a girl." "The girl is already married and is well settled with her
in-laws, the elder son is an engineer working with Kirloskars - is paid well
and he is happy. The other son is a doctor, an idealist at heart, and has
opted for a service stint in rural India. I support him morally and
financially. By the way both my sons are married. I have been and am in
paper business, paper that is used for newspapers and magazines, even for
books. My office is in Chandni Chowk, Delhi, and the go-down in Daryaganj. I
am going to Bombay to receive a consignment through my shipping agents. I
will stay in Bombay for four days at the Taj Mahal hotel. My room is already
booked. This is not my first trip to Bombay. I travel to the metro twice
every year. And the book that I am reading is Mother by Maxim Gorky. I am
sure you have never heard of him. Even if I tell you about him you wouldn’t
understand." "I am sure you wouldn`t like know anything more about me.
And if you please allow me, I would like to go to back to my book." He promptly picked up his book. Fortunately I couldn`t see
my own face, it must have turned red, crimson, green and purple. I tried to
control my emotions telling myself `I should better move to another
compartment at the next halt. I may not be able to resist the temptation to
pick him up bodily and throw him out of the running train."
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