Reflections of Youth: Ramu’s Journey Through Time in Connaught Place.

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Ramu was walking down Connaught Place in New Delhi, recalling the day when he was chased by a couple of goons from Paharganj in the '60s. The bustling marketplace, known as a haven for the elites, was filled with the sights and sounds of a different era. The wide, circular roads were lined with colonial-era buildings, their white facades gleaming under the warm sun. Cars were a rare sight, with most people opting for traditional tongas and the distinctive phut-phut of auto-rickshaws, which offered regular service from Connaught Place to the Red Fort.

As he passed the familiar old café, a sudden gust of wind brought with it the faint scent of spices, instantly transporting him back to that chaotic evening. He ducked into his favorite joint, Gaylord, though it was beyond his paying capacity; he knew the goons wouldn't dare enter, as it was the poshest joint in the area, frequented by the well-to-do.

The dim lighting and soft jazz music inside provided a stark contrast to the chaos outside. The gentle clinking of glasses and the hum of conversation created an ambiance that felt far removed from the outside world. As he settled into a corner booth, he noticed a familiar face at the bar—an old friend, Vishnu, who hadn’t changed much over the years.

Ramu hesitated to approach him, remembering that the last time they parted, they had actually fought. Just as Ramu was contemplating whether to slip out unnoticed, Vishnu turned, locking eyes with him. A brief flicker of recognition crossed his face before he raised his glass in a silent gesture of truce.

Feeling somewhat relaxed now that Vishnu was there, Ramu thought they could tackle the goons together, testing his martial arts skills once more. As they exchanged a few stories, Ramu couldn't help but feel a surge of adrenaline, imagining the possibility of confronting the goons together. Vishnu noticed his restlessness and grinned, "Still itching for a fight, Ramu? Let’s see if those goons are brave enough to face two old comrades."

Both walked out with clenched fists and taut muscles, all senses in sharp focus. Ramu thought it was better to fight in the alley behind Regal Cinema, where the evening crowd would not be disturbed; in the '60s, the crowd was not much. Nodding to Vishnu, Ramu led the way toward the quiet alley, where the shadows provided cover. The distant hum of the city faded, leaving only the sound of their footsteps.

As they waited, the eerie silence hinted that the goons might already be watching from the darkness. Ramu noticed the leader of the gang strolled cautiously with both hands raised, but he was not fooled by that gesture. Ramu narrowed his eyes, knowing the leader’s seemingly peaceful approach was just a ploy. His fists clenched tighter as he whispered to Vishnu, "Stay sharp. He’s up to something."

The goon leader stepped closer, a smirk on his face, as if daring Ramu to make the first move. Ramu nonchalantly pulled out his packet of Panama cigarettes and took out a matchbox, throwing a ring of smoke calmly. The leader paused, eyeing Ramu's cool demeanor with suspicion. Ramu took another long drag and flicked the match aside, his expression calm but ready. "What's the matter?" Ramu said with a smirk, exhaling another ring of smoke. Vishnu stood just behind him, silently watching, every muscle ready to spring into action.

Just then, Vishnu noticed the goon leader and came out whistling the popular tune of a Dev Anand movie, asking, "Do you really intend to fight or are you just trying our patience?" He loudly yawned. Vishnu's casual demeanor seemed to infuriate the leader even more. "Who do you think you are, clowning around?" he snapped, but Ramu could see the unease creeping into his posture. Vishnu, unfazed, continued whistling, "Just enjoying the show. If you're here for a fight, you better make it quick. We’ve got better things to do."

The psychological game played by Ramu and Vishnu paid off. The goon leader hesitated, caught off guard by their unexpected confidence and casual banter. Ramu seized the moment, stepping forward with a smirk. "You’re outnumbered and outsmarted. Why not walk away before this gets messy?" The tension in the alley shifted, and the other goons exchanged uncertain glances, clearly weighing their options.

Realizing his gang was losing their nerve, the leader shot them a furious glare. "What are you doing? Get back here!" But his voice lacked authority, and one by one, the goons turned and fled down the alley. Ramu and Vishnu exchanged triumphant glances, feeling emboldened as the leader, now isolated, shifted nervously, eyeing the two old friends.

With hearty laughter, they advised the leader to scram before he got a beating from them. As the leader turned to leave, Ramu called out, "And tell your friends that next time, they should think twice before picking a fight in Connaught Place!" The leader stumbled away, leaving the alley in silence.

Ramu and Vishnu shared a moment of camaraderie, realizing that their friendship had weathered time and conflict. As they walked back toward the lively streets, filled with the chatter of people and the occasional clatter of tongas, Ramu felt a sense of renewal—sometimes, facing old fears with old friends made for the best memories. They resumed their chatter, laughter echoing down the alley, leaving behind not just a past confrontation but also the promise of future adventures together.

Now, in 2024, as Ramu walked through Connaught Place, he recalled that fateful evening. He was now an old man of eighty, and the once-vibrant area had transformed; modernity had replaced the charm of the past, with sleek buildings and bustling crowds. Yet, as he strolled along the familiar pathways, memories flooded back.

He could almost hear the laughter he shared with Vishnu and feel the adrenaline rush from their confrontation with the goons. The walk felt like a journey through a time travel tunnel, transporting him back to that fateful day. Unfortunately, life had changed since then. He had lost Vishnu to COVID-19 in 2021, and the weight of that loss pressed heavily on his heart.

As he paused to gaze at the now-distant Regal cinema!Ramu couldn’t help but reflect on the fleeting nature of time and friendship. The memories of their adventures together echoed in his mind like scenes from his favorite book, Three Comrades by Erich Maria Remarque, where camaraderie and the bond of friendship shone brightly against the backdrop of a changing world.

He was relieved to see that their favourite joint Gaylord is still there in Regal building though the single screen Regal cinema hall has closed giving way to the modern Rivoli Multiplex.

With a bittersweet smile, he continued his walk, feeling the warmth of those cherished memories embrace him like an old friend. Though Vishnu was no longer by his side, Ramu carried him with him—forever a part of his journey through life.

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The history of Birbal retold

In the quaint village of Tikawan, near Kalpi, a young Mahabir grew up with an insatiable curiosity and a sharp mind. His Braja Bhasa teacher, Panditji, marveled at Mahabir's quick grasp of languages and mathematics. The villagers soon recognized the clever boy's talent for trouble-shooting.

One day, the local oil presser, Lala, complained about thieves stealing his precious mustard oil. Mahabir, then just 12, offered to help. He observed the presser's daily routine, analyzed the theft patterns, and set a trap. The thieves were caught, and Lala's gratitude earned Mahabir the nickname "Chatur" (clever one).

Mahabir's mathematical skills also helped expose the village grocer's deceitful practices. The grocer would mix stone particles with rice to increase his profits. Mahabir calculated the discrepancy in weights and measurements, revealing the scam. The villagers applauded his ingenuity.

As Mahabir grew older, his reputation spread. Village elders sought his counsel to resolve disputes. He learned Persian from local mullahs, broadening his linguistic skills.

Years passed, and Mahabir's exceptional abilities caught the attention of Emperor Akbar's courtiers. Summoned to Agra, Mahabir became Birbal, one of the Navaratnas.

My childhood friend Pushkar, a descendant of Khubchand, would often regale me with tales of Birbal's exploits during our school days. He spoke of how Birbal's cleverness had earned him a place in Akbar's court and how Khubchand had supplied firewood, tallow, and other essentials to the Mughal soldiers.

As the Mughal army marched from Agra to Jodhpur, Khubchand joined the entourage. The grand procession was a sight to behold:

At the forefront, horse riders led the way, clearing the path and securing the surroundings. Behind them, Akbar himself rode atop a majestic elephant, a symbol of his power and authority. Following closely were his trusted Navaratnas, including Birbal, Tansen, and Abul Fazl, each mounted on elephants.

Next in line were the foot soldiers, armed with swords, spears, and dhal (shields). These brave warriors formed the backbone of the Mughal army. Make-shift kaccha roads were built to facilitate their passage, as established roads were scarce.

Akbar's chief strategist, Man Singh, planned the army's movements, wisely advising against marching during the scorching hot sun. Day journeys with restful nights ensured the army remained fresh and alert.

When the soldiers pitched their tents, merchants would set up a bustling market at a distance. The aroma of roasted meats, freshly baked bread, and spices wafted through the air, enticing soldiers and local villagers. This impromptu marketplace transformed into a vibrant Mela, with villagers and soldiers mingling freely.

Birbal's presence ensured peace and harmony, as he mediated disputes and maintained order. Akbar, pleased with the cordial atmosphere, would sometimes invite Tansen to perform. Tansen's soulful renditions of various ragas would mesmerize the emperor, soldiers, and villagers.

One evening, Akbar asked Birbal, "What is the difference between a wise man and a fool?" Birbal replied, "A wise man learns from others' mistakes, while a fool learns from his own." Akbar smiled, acknowledging Birbal's insightful answer.

On another occasion, Akbar asked Birbal to find the cleverest man in the kingdom. Birbal returned with a humble farmer who had wisely divided his land among his quarrelsome sons, stipulating that each son must cultivate the land together, ensuring unity.

Akbar was impressed by Birbal's choice and asked how he had selected the farmer. Birbal explained that the farmer's innovative solution demonstrated wisdom and understanding of human nature.

During their journey, Akbar once asked Birbal four questions:

1. What is the most valuable thing in the world?

2. What is the fastest thing in the world?

3. What is the biggest thing in the world?

4. What is the most numerous thing in the world?

Birbal replied:

1. The most valuable thing is knowledge.

2. The fastest thing is the mind.

3. The biggest thing is the universe.

4. The most numerous thing is stupidity.

Akbar was delighted with Birbal's thoughtful answers.

Another time, Akbar asked Birbal to find a solution for the kingdom's water scarcity. Birbal suggested building small check dams to conserve rainwater and harvest dew. Akbar implemented the plan, alleviating the water crisis.

When Akbar asked Birbal, "What should a king do when his people are unhappy?" Birbal replied, "He should either change his policies or change his people." Akbar appreciated Birbal's candid advice.

As the Mughal army approached Jodhpur, Birbal reflected on his journey from Tikawan to the imperial court. His childhood experiences had prepared him for the complexities of statecraft.

Decades later, Pushkar, now a cunning lawyer, would exploit our ancestral connections for personal gain, gobbling up a portion of our ancestral house in Allahabad. I couldn't help but contrast Pushkar's deceitful nature with the integrity of Birbal, the clever boy from Tikawan.

Years passed, and Birbal's legend grew. His wit and wisdom became synonymous with justice and fairness. Akbar's court was transformed by Birbal's presence, and the emperor's reign was marked by unprecedented peace and prosperity.

One day, as Birbal prepared to leave Akbar's court, the emperor approached him with tears in his eyes. "Birbal, my friend and advisor, what can I gift you for your years of service?" Birbal smiled, "Your Majesty, my reward lies in the smiles of the people, the prosperity of the kingdom, and the memories we've shared."

Akbar nodded, understanding Birbal's humility. "Then, let me build a monument in your honor, where future generations will remember your wisdom and wit." Birbal declined, "No, Your Majesty, my legacy lies in the hearts of the people, not in stone or marble."

And so, Birbal returned to Tikawan, his village, where he spent his final days surrounded by loved ones, sharing tales of his adventures and imparting wisdom to the next generation.

The story of Birbal serves as a reminder that true greatness lies not in wealth or power but in the positive impact we have on others' lives.

Epilogue:

I sat with Pushkar, now an old man, reminiscing about our childhood days. He looked at me with a tinge of regret, "I wish I had followed Birbal's path, my friend." I smiled, "It's never too late, Pushkar. Share Birbal's stories with your grandchildren, and perhaps they'll learn from his wisdom."

As I left Allahabad, I couldn't help but wonder: what if Pushkar had followed Birbal's example? Perhaps our ancestral house would still be intact, and Pushkar's legacy would be one of integrity, not deceit.

But Birbal's story remains, a beacon of hope, inspiring generations to come.

I have twisted the history about end of Birbal,he was assassinated by jealous courtiers of Akbar as per some historians. As the historians were not present during that period of 16th century  so they used circumstantial evidences from various Urdu and Hindi manuscripts to conclude, hence I used my imagination to give a happy ending.

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Whispers of Rebellion: The Untold Story of Spies in the Shadows of 1857 Delhi

While riffling through the old bookstalls in Ajmal Khan Market, the bookseller handed me a worn, dog-eared book filled with historical stories of Delhi. Intrigued, I began to read, and among the faded pages, I stumbled upon a captivating story. Now that I'm in Delhi, I thought it would be the perfect time to share it with you...

In the sweltering heat of 1857 Delhi, the city was simmering with tension, its narrow lanes and bustling bazaars a silent witness to the brewing storm of rebellion. Chandni Chowk, the vibrant marketplace, was alive with whispers of mutiny and revolution. In the midst of it all were two men—Imtiaz, the water-supplier, and Madan Lal, the kerosene-seller—both well-known faces in the alleys and cantonments of the city. By day, they moved freely between the soldiers of the East India Company and the sepoys stationed at the Red Fort. By night, they whispered secrets to whoever could pay the most.

The revolt had truly taken shape in March 1857, when Mangal Pandey, a sepoy in the Bengal Regiment, refused to bite the new Enfield rifle cartridges greased with animal fat—an insult to the religious beliefs of both Hindus and Muslims. His defiance at Barrackpore triggered what would become the Sepoy Mutiny, a wave of rebellion that quickly spread across India. As the mutiny grew, Delhi became a critical front, with both British forces and the rebel sepoys vying for control of the city.

Imtiaz, lanky and quick-witted, carried his goatskin water pouch, slaking the thirst of soldiers under the unforgiving sun. What no one knew was that this 'visty' (water-supplier) had a mind as sharp as his tongue. He supplied more than just water—he dealt in information, picking up stray bits of military talk and strategy. His loyalties, however, leaned towards the sepoys. Madan Lal, his closest friend, was no less cunning. A dealer in kerosene, he knew that fire and light were just as essential in times of war. His presence at both the British cantonment and the mutinous sepoys’ camps went unquestioned. Underneath the facade of a humble trader, he was a master spy, selling more than just fuel.

The two men made frequent trips to the Sarai at Chandni Chowk, a bustling inn where merchants, soldiers, and traders gathered. It was here, amidst the clinking of glasses and the murmur of intoxicated conversation, that Imtiaz and Madan Lal found their goldmine. As the soldiers—British and Indian alike—drank themselves into stupors, secrets flowed as freely as the madira. Imtiaz and Madan Lal listened closely, catching whispers of battle plans, troop movements, and political maneuverings.

Occasionally, an older man with a turban would sit quietly in a corner of the Sarai, reciting ghazals in a melancholic tone that echoed through the dimly lit hall. It was none other than Mirza Ghalib, the famed poet of Delhi. His presence drew attention, but beneath the words of love and loss lay veiled criticism of the times. It was said that Ghalib knew more than he let on and that he too whispered to those who had the ear to listen. Yet, it was the rumour about Bahadur Shah Zafar, the last Mughal Emperor, that truly electrified the city. Though old and frail, it was whispered in hushed tones that he was the heart of the rebellion, secretly guiding the sepoys as they plotted their revolt.

Imtiaz and Madan Lal knew they were in the midst of something far greater than themselves. Though they played both sides, their hearts were with the sepoys, their fellow Indians. The duo began to carefully gather intelligence from the British soldiers, memorizing their strategies, and then slipping through the winding lanes of Daryaganj to warn the mutinous sepoys at the Red Fort. They provided more than just information; they found safe hiding places for the sepoys who had been discovered, using their knowledge of the city's labyrinthine alleys and abandoned homes.

As the rebellion gathered strength, Imtiaz and Madan Lal became invaluable assets. The British trusted them, unaware that the two men were double agents. The sepoys, in turn, began to rely on the information they provided to avoid ambushes and outmaneuver the British soldiers. It was thanks to Imtiaz that the sepoys knew of a secret patrol near Kashmere Gate, allowing them to retreat to safety. And it was Madan Lal who warned of an imminent British attack on the southern part of the Red Fort, giving the sepoys time to strengthen their defenses.

One night, as they sat together in the Sarai, Ghalib recited a particularly somber ghazal:

"Bazeecha-e-atfal hai duniya mere aage,

Hota hai shab-o-roz tamasha mere aage."

(The world is but a playground before me,

Night and day, it plays its drama before me.)

The words felt prophetic, as if he sensed the danger that was growing closer. Imtiaz and Madan Lal exchanged a glance—they too could feel the weight of the moment. The city was on the brink of chaos, and soon, neither side would tolerate double-dealing.

Their greatest challenge came when a high-ranking British officer began to suspect there were spies in the ranks. He had ordered a thorough investigation, and Imtiaz and Madan Lal knew they were under watch. Yet, their cunning minds found a way out—they fed just enough misleading information to the British to maintain their trust while ensuring that the sepoys remained one step ahead.

In the final days of the uprising in Delhi, when the British closed in on the Red Fort, it was Imtiaz and Madan Lal who ensured that key sepoy leaders found safe passage out of the city through hidden tunnels near Daryaganj. Though the rebellion would eventually be crushed, the two men had played their part in the fight for freedom, slipping back into the shadows once the dust had settled.

And so, in the annals of history, while the names of the great leaders and warriors would be remembered, the story of two cunning traders—Imtiaz, the water-supplier, and Madan Lal, the kerosene-seller—would remain hidden, known only to the few who survived the mutiny. Yet, their legacy lived on in the quiet corners of Delhi, whispered in the streets of Chandni Chowk, and in the haunting verses of Ghalib’s poetry.

As the rebellion faded and the British tightened their grip on Delhi, Bahadur Shah Zafar, the last Mughal emperor, found himself a prisoner in his own city, watching the end of an era. His once grand empire reduced to ashes, Zafar turned to poetry to express his sorrow and resignation. In the final days of the mutiny, his couplet echoed through the crumbling walls of the Red Fort, a reflection of his shattered dreams:

"Lagta nahin hai jee mera ujde dayar mein,

Kis ki bani hai aalame-na-payedar mein."

(My heart finds no solace in this desolate land,

Who has ever found peace in this fleeting world?)

The couplet encapsulated the despair not only of the fallen emperor but also of a city—and a people—whose hopes of freedom had been momentarily crushed, yet still lingered in the hearts of those like Imtiaz and Madan Lal, who fought from the shadows.