If and only If

By Ratin Chhibber

Full of simple truths and delicate insights—

powerful, personal, funny and real...

A must read—today's world in words… yet eternal.'

- Padma Shri Tom Alter

Written in the classic ‘stream of consciousness’ style, If and only If, is an every person’s journey, back to their closet- that they promised to never open… yet yearn to !

So far, Raahi has lived an adventurously intriguing life. Myriad moments and occasions that occur through his journey have forced him to desperately seek the answers hidden cryptically, behind what his destiny has had to offer.

Somewhere deep within him, all of it remains buried until- one day, all that he ever wished for, is- ruthlessly and mysteriously snatched away from him…

His only wish now- To find out Why !

After a reluctant move back to the mystical and quaint town of Khushiganj nestled amidst the green hills, life turns upside down when he breaks his own promise- to never take the walk back to the Temple.

Harrowing questions, shiploads of burning memories, a feeble companion and an old bench-maker are his only allies in this journey now, to discover the truth behind what and why, the Universe conspired… Will he find what he sets out to search ?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Notion Press
• Release date: Sep 26, 2014
• ISBN: 9789384381974

Book preview

Author

ONE

The sun was up and so were all things big and small that rose along with him. He began an upward journey, slow yet poignant, resembling a petite orange-hued ember sparked off and stuck onto a blue canvas.

While he rose steadily as though beckoned by the Gods, he left behind a perfectly fine morning, where the world woke up to a rapturously blue sky and the mist-crowned mountains gleefully cheered on as witnesses to this daily theatrical ritual of an Aurora-like Dawn.

The mornings were high and bright - a continuum of delight that salved both spirit and soul. The grass turned into wonderland-green as if some magical jujitsu chop had banished the frost overnight. The season that marked new beginnings and ‘happy sunshines’, had finally left its cold and barren cousin winter and now stood mischievously hiding behind the bushes. It was the much-awaited ‘sister spring’.

When the morning came, the sun once again peeped through the clouds and injected life into my winter-stunned garden. It became lush and bountiful for another year: an oasis of life in a shrinking world. Splay-legged lambs, acolyte-white in colour, wobble on their knobbly joints before going a-gambol in the fields. Waves of coruscating light immerse the far away meadows in sheets of golden flames. Tufty thickets burst forth as everything is a-tangle in the branches for birdie kiss-and-tells. Little feathers mysteriously appear under ocher-brown trees.

I sat looking out of my aged, crumbly, partially cobwebbed window, at this marvel of nature. This window over time had been ‘fleece-fully encroached’ and is now a thriving home of a ‘happy three-generation-wide’, or so it looked, of the black big-butt ants and their extended family, the yellow termites.

Thriving harmoniously as though one large happy tribe, they never cease to amaze: a rare sight amongst the human domains, at least. This fest always led me to wonder how were they so wise, while on the contrary - despite the plethora of knowledge, plentitude values and morals pressed down upon us, through the formative years of our growing up, we humans struggled at co-existence. Life’s lessons were crypitically hidden everywhere and I had begun to understand that even more as years passed.

Often, my ‘window-resident tenants’ would drop by, though uninvited, every time I sat with a cup of Assam tea and a butter biscuit at my writing table. The table had travelled with me across cities by now, rendering a sense of belonging and attachment. Sometimes even a piece of furniture can arouse a sense of homecoming, while at other times, a fellow-being fails in a similar attempt. It is about attachment, not the fancy bricks that maketh a home. Surprisingly, they very diligently never missed their tea-time walks and arrived punctually like school children, one after the other in order of birth, I suppose. The marching contingent was lead by the great grandfather, a frail yet wise, dragging like-walking butt-less ant.

The younger ones were more ‘butty’ or so it looked, as they were the most active and social. They were not chronologically punctual however, on time, like the postman, who arrives, just when you find yourself wishing, that someone wrote a letter to you. I would gladly oblige and offer my last drops of tea with the biscuit crumbs. But by now, I would be ritualistically clumsy in creating a snack for them to feel wanted and looked after. ‘Isn’t that all we crave for, to be wanted?,’ I would often wonder. The ants had taught me the joy of sharing or maybe the art of giving. I had learnt my lesson on simple joys from these ants - for it was true that the heart is not born for indifference. It craves to be wanted and yearns to be cajoled.

Biased to the biscuit, they did peep approvingly at the tea laid out for them, acknowledging the little gestures I would indulge in, out of love anticipating - that they would notice it. I believed, sincere efforts when and if acknowledged, are more reassuring than a million words of promise never lived.

For our high-tea get-togethers, as a routine now, I had begun to place an extra biscuit with my tea. I had it served on the white-blue ornately designed bone-China saucer my mother had decided to part with, on one of her kitchen cleaning sprees. Over the years, this big family of the tiny had seemed to trust me, not confining their walks only to the times when they reached out for tea, but also at leisure. They were courteous, to never come in the way when my pen went furiously scratching over the sober-paper. Time, tide and fate were turning me into a writer, a dreamer and making me more human, above all!

My bantam cottage that was the amphitheatre for these theatrics and more was nestled amidst luscious peach and apricot trees atop a lush green hill in a small laidback, quaint, scenic and mystical town.

With long snakey paths, welcoming and affectionate neighbours (which was like living in a large family of rather uncongenial relations), the town was sometimes fun, sometimes perfectly awful, but always good for you, if you stayed here. Sadly, the big cities succeed in creating strangers out of and amongst us in our own by-lanes.

This fascinating town was called, Khushiganj.

Legend has it that ages ago, one unforgettable year, ‘all babies that the storks carried’ stopped crying the instant they popped out. Instead began to babble, giggle and smile.

This left all elders awestruck and the world laughing, unbelievably. The village was filled with herds of people pouring in as news of ‘the laughter-God-blessed babies’ spread. Everyone wanted to either touch the babies or enquire what potions the men drank when they hopped onto their beds and so too, their wives. There was a buzz that sent waves of curiosity across to faraway lands. Many came, who wished to record these moments but were denied by the chieftain, ‘L.O. Bunkey’ Markandeya Chatur. He wanted to preserve and prevent any dilution of the blessing of ‘Parvaatabhangu’, the mythological mountain God of Khushiganj, who the village priests had attributed this strange blessing to.

It was that year that the elders renamed this town from Soyashehr (the sleepy town) to Khushiganj (town of happiness) with the hope and blessings for generations to come, to remain happy and to live in harmony among themselves.

It was quite common for all to wonder, why when a child was born, he cried and burst into tears while others around him laugh and rejoice. However, when he did finally arrive at his funeral pyre, when a calming smile and a sense of peace arose within that reflected upon him, why strangely now, did the others around him cry and burst into tears? What was this duality? Was life a leveller? This paradox coaxed each to think even deeper.

Bhanumat, was the first one who had been to the city and learnt English. He had returned that same year when all this happened. Upon his return, as a ritual, he went to meet the head of the village-like town. Bhanumat was asked, how would a person greet in the language, he had just learnt to speak. To this, he answered, Hello, Bunty!, calling out to the chieftain Bunty Markandeya Chatur. Impressed, the old yet young chieftain had ordered to be called what he had remembered of the sound, L. O. Bunky. He was soon addressed by his rechristened name and very proudly added his father’s and grandfather’s names to it too. He would introduce himself with this new name to all those who came to the town after the miracle. After all, everyone had his or her own definition of being happy - this was his.

This folklore stayed in the minds of many, for years to come and many more events turned this town into a destination of sorts. One of which, leads us too, to Khushiganj, at a time years ago, when all roads to seek happiness seemed to fade. In moments of despair we turn all hope onto anything that spells, even faintly as hope.

It was here at Khushiganj, that every trip back and forth would bookmark a newer chapter in my life, as the wheels of time would continue to spin, mercilessly.

I used to love looking out of windows from the many rooms in my abode and relish the dramatic stage show the changing seasons put up. The sun would have washed the garden with a golden glow and the sugar-frosted coating of winter melted away from the grass. Bird-song filtering in through the glass. Bobbing robins usually adding in; lilting in an age-old melody. I have a garden pond behind my cottage where you can see the frog spawn glistening like mini-moons. They even have the dark spots, as if to suggest that they are as old and alien as the moon itself. Every year, this time, bluebells burst into a song from the earth. Buzzing bees surf open spaces from flower to flower, desperately seeking pollen. The pollen looks like floating grains of pixie dust, scattered by the blustery