Echoes of Home: Nostalgia and Family Ties in Delhi #nostalgiaDelhi

Seated outside my Delhi flat, the pages of Haruki Murakami's "Norwegian Wood" held me captive in a literary realm. The enchanting fragrance of blooming Saptaparni, the Chatim flower, surrounded me, emanating from the tree standing majestically in front of my abode. As I immersed myself in the novel's portrayal of Watnabe's struggles in Japan, the words wove a spell, merging seamlessly with the nostalgic ambiance.

The subtle perfume of the Chatim flower became a bridge to bygone days, intertwining with the book's narrative and casting a magical aura. With each page turned, the fragrance of the Saptaparni blossoms blended with the protagonist's journey, creating a sensory symphony that transported me to a different time and place. The winter sun, gentle and comforting, soaked the surroundings in a warm glow, enhancing the tapestry of nostalgia and literary enchantment.

Closing my eyes, I surrendered to the embrace of the winter sun and the interplay of fragrances, allowing the amalgamation of Murakami's prose, the Chatim's aroma, and the memories of Delhi to weave a tapestry of sensory delight. In that moment, the convergence of literature, nature, and nostalgia became a sanctuary, where the lines between fiction and reality blurred, and the essence of each word lingered in the air like the sweet fragrance of a cherished memory.

Nestled within the vibrant heart of Delhi, my ground-floor flat holds a profound connection to cherished memories and enduring family ties. The complex, not just a residential space but a communal haven, exudes a familial ambiance that resonates with shared experiences and the comforting presence of loved ones. The kinship felt within the complex, where my parents spent their last days, is palpable, creating an atmosphere akin to that of a big, extended family.

The enduring spirit of family is further strengthened by the choice of my two younger brothers and their families to make their homes within the same complex. This interwoven familial tapestry is particularly evident when I step into my ground-floor flat, as there is an immediate sense of belonging and reassurance knowing that my near and dear ones are just a stone's throw away. It's as if the spirit of my parents continues to watch over us, their presence felt in every corner of the familiar abode.

The ground-floor location not only offers convenience but also a profound sense of security. The proximity of loved ones serves as a constant reminder of the enduring power of family ties. The evenings unfold as a delight, with leisurely walks in the adjoining DDA sports area becoming a rejuvenating ritual for both body and soul. These shared moments not only strengthen familial bonds but also create memories filled with laughter, shared stories, and a deep sense of togetherness.

Adding an extra layer of enchantment to this familial tapestry is the presence of the Saptaparni tree just outside my flat. Known as Chatim in Bengali, this tree, with its distinctive seven leaves, stands as a living testament to continuity. As autumn graces the city, the tree bursts into bloom, filling the air with an irresistible fragrance that acts as a portal to a bygone era. The subtle perfume of the Saptaparni blossoms becomes a nostalgic reminder of a time when Delhi's roads were adorned with a diverse array of fragrant trees, contributing to the city's unique charm and character.

In the presence of the Devil's tree, I am transported to the Delhi of yesteryears, vividly recalling the bustling streets, the vibrant hues of Gulmohar blooms, and the sweet taste of Jamun picked straight from the roadside trees. Each scent, each memory, is interwoven with the very fabric of the city. The Saptaparni tree, with its seven leaves standing proudly, becomes a symbol of continuity, a witness to the changing seasons and the evolving cityscape.

The Saptaparni Chronicles unfold with every breeze, carrying with it the whispers of nostalgia and the fragrance of a city that has grown and changed yet retains the essence of its roots. In the seven leaves of the Chatim, I find not just a tree but a living testament to the enduring spirit of Delhi and the cherished memories it holds. Each visit to my flat in this complex becomes a journey into the past and a celebration of the present, weaving together the threads of family, memories, and the timeless beauty of nature.

"Familial tapestry woven with memories, the heart of Delhi embraces us with love and the sweet scent of Saptaparni blossoms. 🏡🌳 #DelhiNostalgia"

Astral Echoes :" A Dance Across Bodies and Time"

I was immersed in the Rajasthani folk dance at Virasat in Udaipur when a foreigner caught my attention. He stared at me, smiled, and waved after the Bhawai dance by Vijaylakshmi Ameta. Intrigued, I was perplexed when he and his wife, Esther, approached me during the audience-invited dance.

As we exchanged introductions, Helmut's conversation suggested a familiarity that left me puzzled. I questioned if we had met before. He chuckled, recalling our encounter in Darjeeling back in 2014 at Hotel Shangrila, where we supposedly conversed on astral travel and Lobsang Rampa's books, especially the book "The Rampa Story".

Doubtful, I remembered a different foreigner from that trip, and he clarified that I knew him as Herbert during his previous visit. He explained that then he was seriously sick with kidney trouble, and during that time, he visited a Tibetan monastery seeking a cure from a monk with astral travel abilities.

 Astonished, I inquired about his approach to Esther and the circumstances of the transition.

“ Yes, the head Llma had the power of astral travel.”

“I remember that's how we came to discuss Lobsang Rampa who left his old body and by astral travel got into a freshly dead body.”

Helmut laughed and said,” Yes from that Llama I learnt about astral travel.Initially I did some trial travel with Esther looking after my body. I was on the lookout for a fresh dead body. I chanced upon the body of Helmut who died because of falling down from a height in Darjeeling. I entered his body.”

“What about his family?” I asked.

“He was a divorcee ,came to Darjeeling to buy peace of mind.”

“ How could Esther know that it was you? "

Helmut explained that both him and Esther had discussed that issue.They then decided that when he comes back in new body then she would ask him a set of questions about which he only had the answers.

“So when you returned as Helmut ,the body of Herbert was lying dead with Esther watching it?”

“Yes,we buried my old body in a graveyard in Darjeeling.”

After hearing the strange story, I wasn't in the mood to continue in Virasat. I needed some time alone to digest the concept of astral travel of the soul. Back in the hotel, I Googled to find any similar cases but unfortunately didn't find any. I was totally flummoxed by the issue; that guy had been discarding his old body as if he was changing into a new jacket, casually discarding the old one.

Note:

The story is inspired by "The Rampa Story" by Lobsang Rampa, renowned for "The Third Eye." Cyril Henry Hoskin, originating from Plympton, Devon, and the son of a plumber, adopted the name Lobsang Rampa.

In his 1960 book, "The Rampa Story," he asserted that a Tibetan monk's spirit inhabited his body following a fall from an apple tree in his home's garden. Hoskin consistently insisted that his books recounted true stories and vehemently refuted any allegations of a hoax.

Confluence of Wisdom: Dialogues Under the Banyan Tree

Samaranand and Bhootanand, two Sadhus of different spiritual paths, engaged in a discussion under the ancient banyan tree. Curiosity sparked in Samaranand's eyes as he asked Bhootanand, "What awaits those who follow your teachings after death?"

Bhootanand, with confidence, asserted, "They ascend to swarg, where they revel in the pleasures of life—beautiful women, gold, and luxurious living for male devotees, and similar joys for the females."

Amused, Samaranand chuckled and shared a tale. "Once, a devout follower of your sect reached swarg. To his surprise, he found his guruji on a cloud, with a beautiful girl seated on his lap. Congratulating his guru for the reward of his penance, the guruji angrily retorted that it was, in fact, the girl's punishment to be stuck on his lap eternally."

Samaranand's story left the air with a lingering laughter, but Bhootanand's face turned crimson with anger, livid at the unexpected twist. The banyan tree witnessed the clash of perspectives between the two Sadhus, each rooted in their beliefs.

As Samaranand concluded his tale, the air around the banyan tree echoed with laughter, but Bhootanand's anger intensified. In an attempt to diffuse the tension, Samaranand invoked wisdom from the Bhagavad Gita, saying, "Krishna teaches in the Gita that true devotion transcends material desires. It's not about the fleeting pleasures of swarg, but attaining a higher state of consciousness."

Bhootanand, determined to defend his beliefs, countered with a quote from the Bible, "As the scripture says, 'For the wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life.' Swarg, in our teachings, is the reward for a virtuous life lived in accordance with divine principles."

Undeterred, Samaranand responded with another verse from the Bhagavad Gita, "Krishna also teaches that attachment to material desires can be a hindrance to spiritual growth. True liberation lies in detachment and devotion to the divine."

Bhootanand, firmly rooted in his convictions, quoted from the Bible, "Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God. Our path emphasizes purity and adherence to moral principles as the way to salvation."

The dialogue between the two Sadhus became a philosophical exchange, blending the wisdom of the Bhagavad Gita and the Bible. The ancient banyan tree stood witness to the convergence of diverse spiritual perspectives, creating a mosaic of thought under its expansive branches.

Reflections of Time: A Journey Through Mirrored Memories

As I sat in the cozy hotel common space in Udaipur, my eyes caught a glimpse of the ornate mirror directly in front of me. The reflections of the ambient lights and the elegant decor created a mesmerizing scene. Suddenly, a figure seemed to step out from the mirror, surprising me.

The mysterious figure wore a knowing smile and began to speak, recounting tales from my childhood. "Ah, Tunu, your childhood friend," he said, as memories flooded my mind. It was as if this apparition knew the intricate details of my past.

He continued, "And what about Kutu? The mischievous adventures you two shared are etched in time." The memories of our escapades brought a nostalgic grin to my face. The figure then delved into my academic journey, mentioning Durga, my classmate who had ventured to Germany. It was surreal how this enigmatic presence knew about every chapter of my life.

"Rabin Babu, our English teacher," he exclaimed, "He sparked the flame of your love for English classics, didn't he?" The recollection of those literature-filled days flooded my thoughts. "And Pagla Guha, our math teacher," I replied, "I owe him a debt for making numbers less intimidating."

The figure continued to reminisce about our school days, weaving a tapestry of memories that transported me back in time. Rabin Babu's passion for literature, Pagla Guha's eccentric teaching methods, and the camaraderie with friends like Tunu and Kutu were all vividly recounted by this mysterious entity.

As the tales unfolded, I found myself engrossed in the narrative of my past. The figure seemed to embody the essence of those cherished moments, reminding me of the people who shaped my journey. The hotel common space transformed into a portal to the days of innocence and camaraderie, leaving me both amazed and grateful for the unexpected journey through my own history.

The character emerging from the mirror continued to gaze at me, prompting me to delve deeper into the treasure trove of memories. "Gole Market in New Delhi," I echoed, reminiscing about the vibrant days of our youth.

As I began to recount, a vivid image emerged of us spreading khatias on the open ground of the 95 block of chummeries. The nostalgia flooded in as I recalled the spirited games of "sweap" with Saroopa in front of our flat, number 14. The vibrant scenes unfolded in my mind—the laughter, the camaraderie, the simplicity of those carefree days.

I could almost taste the puffed rice my mother served, expertly mixed with mustard oil, onion, chili, and peanuts. It was a sensory time travel, each bite carrying the essence of those cherished moments.

Glancing at the mirror, I half-expected to see another character emerging, but only my reflection stared back. The character beside me looked remarkably familiar, resembling a younger version of myself at the age of 14. The mirrored memories had resurrected a vivid portrait of my past, inviting me to embrace the echoes of youth and the simplicity of bygone days.

The character from the mirror listened intently as I continued my trip down memory lane. The recollection brought forth a night when Sadhanmama, then working with The Statesman, shared my higher secondary result. The anticipation lingered until the next day when the newspaper vendor's loud proclamation filled the air, announcing the release of the results.

While others around me eagerly awaited their fate, I found myself peacefully asleep. When questioned about my apparent lack of eagerness, I responded with a mysterious smile, as if holding a secret. The memory unfolded like a scene from a bygone movie, and the character beside me seemed to absorb every nuance of that moment. The mirror reflected not just my image but the echoes of a time when the future was uncertain, and a mischievous smile concealed the triumphs of the night before.