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A Gandhian's 'vintage' collection

I had left my house for lodges a couple of times during my college days. Maybe this was because of my great fascination for old, stinky lodges with common toilets. I was also attracted by the mysterious presence of creatures like bedbugs, mosquitoes and cockroaches in the interiors of these ‘budget’ rooms. There was a sense of rhythm in our live-in relationship. The cockroaches were the most liberal, as they were occasional visitors. Once in a while, someone would perform a mid-night-walk over my body. I could even feel in my deep sleep the ‘hairy legs and antennae’ moving from one end of my body to the other. The action would last only for a couple of seconds. The mosquitoes attacked me only when they wanted food for thought. The bedbugs were the most dangerous. They were good mind-readers and they did this even in my deep sleep. Despite the disturbances, we shared an absolute tent of unity. A friend of mine had an interesting experience when he was staying at a rented house in ...
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Thanks, Achebe...

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Eight years ago, I had a tough time inside Landmark. I spent almost an hour inside the bookstall, holding “Things Fall Apart” on my right hand and “Anthills of Savannah” on my left. Both the books had the name of the author 'Chinua' on top of the covers and 'Achebe' at the bottom. Between Chinua and Achebe, there was a line of praise, which read: “The Classic Bestseller With More Than 2 Million Copies in Print.” But the interesting part was the one at the bottom, written by Nadine Gordimer, a South African writer. “Chinua Achebe is gloriously gifted with the magic of an ebullient, generous, great talent.” Even though I wanted to buy “Anthills of Savannah” (I liked the title due to some strange reason), it was “Things Fall Apart” that finally found a place in my bag. Unlike in the cases of Kafka and Pablo Neruda, no one really introduced me to the world of Achebe. I don’t know how Achebe entered my world though. Was it because of the African tag? Back home, I started...
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Hamara ‘Baa Jaaaj’…

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Thirty-five years ago, when my uncle bought a Bajaj Chetak scooter, many came to see it. “Please don’t apply front brake, the vehicle will skid, and you may fall,” said one. “Green is nice,” another one said, praising the colour of the scooter. “Can you handle it?,” an elderly couple asked my uncle, taking a dig at his short stature. He laughed and checked the orange colour indicator of the schooter, the way a child learns about digits. One, two, three, four… When he turned the switch on, the light blinked, like a melting orange chocolate. Soon, his wife, who is taller than him, came to the front yard. She was fond of scooters as her father had a Lambretta. Even though many raised comments, no one tried to read the name of the brand which manufactured the scooter. The aunt rose to the occasion, after looking at the scooter. “BAA … JAAAJ,” she whispered. A little boy who was standing near her heard this and he tried to correct her, Aunty, it’s Bajaj, not BAA JAAJ.” Aunt smiled;...
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