The eternal question that haunts everyone is ‘Do I
exist? (or, Why do I exist?)
Every moment of our life,
we answer this question in different ways, as per the circumstances we face.
Like destiny, the answer keeps on changing.
And in these transient moments of crisis, we begin
to fear that due to change, we would be losing things we know the way they are,
the way we know to be correct…..
But things are changing at an awfully rapid pace.
Nothing will ever be the same.
Take
the case of ‘C’ grade cinema halls in small mofussils of India and the people
associated with them, whom we knew as ‘blackers’. We used to recognize them,
not to mention that we knew a few by name as well, as on many occasions, they were
our last hope, while trying to get tickets for the first day first show of a
block buster movie. And now…..forget the blackers, even those cinema halls are
things of the past.
Or,
think of the numerous letter head printing presses with their blocks and proof
readers.
The
photo studios, with dark rooms for developing still film rolls and the waiting for
hours together, wondering how the developed photographs would turn out.....
Or, the tape recorder/walkman and the audio
cassettes...
The ‘hamara’ (Bajaj) Scooter...
The Black & White televisions....
Or, maybe grandma’s tales by the fireplace on winter
evenings.
Think
deep…… it’s a whole new world we are living in where nothing is permanent. Eventually
no (body) thing exists in this ruthless world.
Stressed
and unable to adapt to the newly defined values, we tend to become prophets/
philosophers /or epitaph writers and start prophesying the death of the things
we love (but also fear losing it in the whirlpool of time). I am no exception to
this habit. Maybe, growing up at a time of unrest and paranoia adds fuel to the
problem, as Assam in the 80s had all the ingredients for these negative
thoughts to engulf a pessimist like me.
As
always, I was sad that a few of my friends goaded me to head for Corbett
National Park. Deep inside the jungle, there is a Guest House named Dikala. To begin with, I hated everything in Dikala. Out here also, people were breaking every rule, competing with one
another just like in the concrete jungle. The worst thing was having firsthand
experience of seeing human beings invading the animals’ habitat and depriving
them of their privacy. Imagine someone lurking inside your room to take
glimpses of you bathing or cooking!
But who cares, everyone had to upload a tiger and
himself in the same frame.
As
I sat glumly in the backyard of the guest house, I started talking to the
people who had the “call of the wild” in their blood. As the adda continued, I found that each one of
them was an excellent story teller and their never ending stories ranged from
tigers of Corbett to Ghosts inside a ‘Peepal’ tree,
to the poachers or encroachers of Corbett national Park. Just a few moments ago,
due to circumstances, my mind was prophesying the death of an ancient art named
story telling. But I found out that it was alive and flourishing in the heart
of the jungle in its full potential in the heart of the jungle named Jim Corbett
national park.
