Category: Story

As I reminisce about my Vani Vihar days, vivid memories flash with spontaneity casting a spell of nostalgia. These memories have accumulated layers of romanticism over the years, blurring the true characters and events behind them. It feels almost surreal – nothing today seems mundane or ordinary about Vani Vihar. These are stories of friends dreaming, striving, competing and laughing together. Each friend is the hero of a story, and each story is a thriller filled with excitement and intense emotions.     

Let me narrate just three out of the innumerable stories. The backdrop is mid-eighties, when the political landscape was undergoing tumultuous change and the economic liberalisation was taking early roots.

Story 1: Twist in the Plot

It was early days in Vani Vihar – still time for students to meet, greet and get introduced. While bonds of new friendship were setting in, students were found in tentative groups based on their common undergrad colleges, native places or previous acquaintances. Yet some students had started gaining visibility, thanks to their smart interaction with the shy and nervous students from smaller colleges and towns. Hostel seats were still not available to the freshers, as old students had not yet vacated; their final exams were still to be held. Most of us intending to stay in the hostel were either managing with our local relatives or staying temporarily with seniors in the university hostels.

We got the good news one day – our seniors would formally welcome us in a grand function in the lecture hall. All were excited; a formal introduction session, songs and perhaps jokes were lined up apart from refreshments. Most of us were eagerly waiting for such an occasion to break ice. One extrovert fresher assured that he would deliver a well-prepared vote of thanks on behalf of all newcomers. That sounded great! Soon, the D-day arrived – the Department of Analytical and Applied Economics went into hyper activities. The wall magazine was refreshed with poems written in the freshers’ honour and the corridors were decorated with flowers and posters. The lecture hall was done up as well. Every effort was made to make us feel special.

But a big shock and surprise was waiting to unravel. Suddenly, the news spread about the assassination of Mrs. Indira Gandhi, the then Prime Minister. The country was drawing into chaos and violence. Classes were suspended, and students asked to leave the academic area. We were disappointed – the much-awaited and hyped event in our honour was never to happen.

While the spirits were low in the hostel area, one fresher planned to cheer us up. He quickly collected some money from some friends and planned an impromptu get-together slated later in the evening. He managed to get some bottles of beer, cold drinks, and salted snacks. The party that followed in the evening was set against all odds, but it helped us bond as friends forever. Of course, we sincerely mourned the death of the Prime Minister.

Story 2: Dry Taps

The second story is a tragic one. A student slipped on the staircase and died in a freak accident while carrying a bucket of water from the ground floor. As the news about his death spread, students gathered near the hostel – sad, angry, and curious. It turned out that there was no water in the hostel for several hours due to repeated power outage. Such an incident was perhaps waiting to happen – students started moving towards the Vice Chancellor’s office in protest. Some went to the superintendent’s residence in the campus shouting slogans. Even if there was no social media or internet, news spread all over and the protests swelled. By evening we had many politicians, journalists, social activists making onsite visits; there were promises, speeches and assurances. Even honourable Governor Shri Bishambhar Nath Pande visited the hostel accompanied by top government officials. He was in tears while sharing our grief. Anger of the protesting students subsided.   

We knew that the ill-fated student was from a very poor family. An idea came to some of us that we would collect and donate some funds to his family. In a matter of just two days, we could collect a handsome amount from students and from some of the shop owners around the hostel area. I still remember Kartik, who owned a magazine store in front of the Second Hostel. He used to help poor students by lending books and magazines overnight free of charge. ‘Books should not lie idle inside the shop during the night, as no one would come to buy them at that time’ – he would often say. Kartik donated a big sum and blessed all of us in his immaculate style.

I was holding custody of the money along with a fellow batchmate. The problem started when several strangers approached us separately to grab the cash on behalf of the dead student’s family. Someone played his uncle while another pretended to be his cousin. Each one had a convincing story. We were confused but understood how there were sharks everywhere waiting to dig an opportunity in someone else’s misfortune. That was indeed a big learning for us. With the help of a student belonging to his native place, we could finally hand over the cash to the student’s family through a post office savings account. The ill-fated guy was not a great chum being an introvert, but his death had shaken us all. Soon life resumed its pace and so too power outage and dry taps in bathrooms.

Story 3: Creative fete

Vani Vihar was a fertile ground for all kinds of creative endeavour. There were budding poets who loved to stay immersed in deep feelings of love, spirit of revolt, spirituality, and patriotism. It was a treat to participate in the weekly literary meets. There were platforms for intellectual debates and innumerable opportunities to showcase performing art forms.

The story is about four or five students from Vani Vihar who went to Aligarh Muslim University to participate in a youth festival. I was fortunate to be a part of the group. For most of us, it was our first experience of traveling outside Odisha. In fact, boarding a long-distance train was itself a novelty. Once in Aligarh, we participated in many challenging competitions based on just not oratory and debating abilities, but on humour, coordinated communication, and logical speaking on illogical topics. The participation opened a new world of creativity before us. On our return, we meticulously planned and hosted a state-level youth festival at Vani Vihar replicating our learnings. Soon University College of Engineering, Burla also held a youth-fete on a similar format. We were happy to have successfully introduced new dimensions to creative youth engagements in Odisha.

The immense appetite for learning and adaptation was palpable in the campus. The success stories of past batches of students kept inspiring us.     

The Bonus Story

The story of Vani Vihar will remain incomplete without a mention of the ‘Students Special’ buses that ran every morning and evening to carry students commuting between Bhubaneswar and Cuttack. The short bus journey everyday was a great source of enjoyment filled with meaningless banters, passive romance, and crazy group activities. On one occasion, the bus was hijacked and taken to Nandan Kanan for an impromptu picnic making the administrative authorities to threaten disciplinary action. What was more common, however, was the sudden stopovers at Pahala for Rasagola parties on our way back. There were instant funders and cheer leaders to make the Pahala affair click every time.

However, a crazy incident took place one summer morning. A Professor of Economics boarded the Students Special at Madhupatna to go to Vani Vihar. This was extremely unusual, as professors do not commute by these buses. Noticing him occupy a seat at the front, students sulked into a gloomy silence. However, the backbenchers quickly plotted a prank. As a strategy, all Economics students were silently moved to the rear end so that they could hide from the professor’s attention. And then the adventure began – few students went near the professor pretending not to recognise him and casually told him, ‘Uncle, this bus is not meant for you; it is for the students of Vani Vihar’. The professor got irritated at this disrespect from the students and shouted with arrogance, ‘What? How dare you? I am a professor – don’t you fools know?’ This is exactly what the students intended – making the professor angry. An argument followed till the bus was made to stop midway and the professor literally jettisoned. Applause and claps greeted the students, who taught a lesson to a professor, who was known to be unfriendly, rude and unreasonable in his dealings with students. The professor must have faced great difficulty in arranging a transport for himself standing in a no-man’s land between Cuttack and Bhubaneswar. To add a perspective, there was no mobile phone, GPS or internet for help!

The mood in the bus was intense, impulsive and emotionally charged. Some students felt sorry for the professor and did not think it was the right thing to do. However. Students Special was known for exaggerated expression of emotions. Few cared for a victim, if at all.   

Last Words

I was lucky to attend the annual alumni gathering of our batch recently, decades after having left the campus. I could not associate many of the names of the participants with their current faces, but their sheer presence revived the vibe of our familiar companionship.

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This is the story of a donkey who had risen to unbelievable fame.

It all began quite accidentally. One fine morning, the humble donkey strayed into a circus tent attracted by the stockpile of hay and grass. Little did he know that he was close to the cages of wild animals. Even before he got a glimpse of the place, a man appeared from nowhere with a big stick in hand and was about to hit him hard. The donkey froze in fear. His usual donkey-instinct would have angered the man further. But something flashed in his mind – he leaned backward stretching his front legs and bowed in submission – an act of surrender he had seen among weak, stray dogs. That unusual behaviour amused the man. The donkey stayed unmoved like a statue. ‘This ass looks special; it may be a good addition to the circus animals. Let me speak to the manager’ – said the man and threw the stick away.

In the beginning, the donkey was trained to perform a funny act with a dwarf clown. The dwarf would make unsuccessful attempts to climb the donkey’s back while the donkey would jump in jerks to make it difficult. Every time the clown fell, the crowd would burst into laughter. And finally, the donkey would bend for the dwarf to mount on his back in triumph. The crowd would clap in appreciation as the donkey would bow before them repeatedly before running backstage.

The donkey was a fantastic discovery for the circus. He picked up new tricks and started participating in dare devil performances, some of them with the ferocious lion. Soon the donkey became the darling of the circus, a star!. He too was enjoying his new-found life, assured food supply and growing popularity. He would often bow in gratitude before Raju, the first soul he had met inside the circus when he trespassed into the tent. Raju had lovingly named him Bitu. Both had connected to each other in an emotional bond. The donkey from a remote village had acquired a respectful identity.

It was no more a donkey’s life!

The good times did not last long. As authoirties banned use of wild animals in circus, the crowd thinned and business declined. Few monkeys, parrots and a donkey could hardly make up for the elephants and lions in the shows. At last, it was Bitu’s turn to be jettisoned. Bitu was sold to Agadhu – a person known to Raju as a fellow villager. As Bitu walked out of the tent, Raju whispered to Agadhu, ‘Please take care of our sweet Bitu. Remember, he is not an ordinary donkey’.    

The world outside was tougher – a donkey did not receive applauds for any reason.

Bitu joined a drove of donkeys in Agadhu’s backyard. The new job had no excitement for a performer like Bitu.  Along side fellow donkeys, Bitu had to carry  pilgrims on his back to a temple located at the hill-top. The path was rough and steep. It was real hard work with inadequate food, and of course cruel punishment received at the drop of a hat. Months passed – the glitters of lights and music of the circus were a distant memory.

One day, while carrying an old pilgrim on his back, Bitu got immersed in his thoughts remembering his debut act in the circus with the clown. Without his knowledge, he jumped in a jerk as if he was playing with the circus clown. He realised his mistake only when the old pilgrim fell precarioously and his master started hitting him mercilessly.

Bitu lost the job and his home. ‘A circus donkey could never be trusted’ said Agadhu while driving him away angrily. Bitu was sad and disappointed – he cursed himself and wandered aimlessly without food and rest. He had no idea what was in store for him. He drank from the river nearby and slept under a tree. Next morning as he was trying to gather himself, he realized that the place looked familiar. Years ago, he had led his juvenile friends on an adventurous trip from their village to this part of the world! It was indeed fun that time!! His eyes glowed with hope as he tried to lick the wounds on his body.

Bitu reached his village after walking a marathon. His joy knew no bounds as he thanked his luck. ‘Life is after all a circle ….. I am back where I started’ –  he told himself.    

However, no one can guess life’s surprises. Bitu was an unwelcome entratnt into the community of donkeys. Instead of a hero’s welcome, Bitu received idifference and agreesion. No one showed any interest in knowing where he had disappeared few years ago. The power equation in the community had changed. He was ridiculed and drawn into brawls. Bitu had no strength to withstand such challenges. He was already groaning with worsening injuries all over his body, thanks to Agadhu and his men. He limped away from the village into a life of solitude. He got used to intimidation from all sorts of animals, who came in his way. Days passed as he was getting too weak even to stand. 

One day, Bitu was lying lifeless near the river. He hardly had strenghth to breathe. Who would believe that this destitute was once a great performer and entertained the intelligent human kind. The hot wind of the summer was hitting on the face; the dust around was making him gasp for breath. He saw a donkey staring at him from a distance perhaps with sympathy – could it be the beginning of a truce? Could it be another call for a fight till he stood no more?

Bitu looked the other way. He felt as if someone was approaching from a distance – in the dusty hot air, the  hazy creature looked like a human figure. Bitu was no more interested in anything; he wanted to die and end the ordeal. But as the human figure closed in, Bitu heard a familiar voice calling out his name. It was Raju! As they met each other, tears rolled down Bitu’s eyes uncontrollably. Bitu tried to sit in the posture of surrender as he had done on the first day when he had met Raju inside the circus tent. Raju hugged him and sobbed.  

Raju sat by Bitu’s side and told his story – how the circus had folded up forcing him to return to his village and how he was worried for Bitu after speaking to Agadhu. Bitu did not understand a word, but was feeling the warmth of love. He discovered some strength within and brayed loudly – perhaps he was trying to validate his own existence. The other donkey staring at Bitu all this while, ran away. Bitu placed his head on Raju’s lap – both sat there for hours.

Few months later, Raju was seen making roadside shows for a living with his companion, Bitu. Those were few tricks Bitu had learnt in the circus that amused the crowd. Bitu had become a part of Raju’s family. Was it a donkey’s life for Bitu and Raju?

Anxiety in his voice was palpable as Ashish spoke with me over phone. His predicament was understandable – he had inexplicably seen the same sequence of events in his dream on two consecutive days in the wee hours.

I know, Ashish is rational in his thoughts and would not get perturbed even by the most horrifying dream. His fear, however, came from the unusual repetition of the same dream in his sleep. He could not drop it as a mere coincidence. ‘How can the dream repeat itself bit by bit? There has to be some meaning behind.’ – as if he was seeking validation.

I rubbished all speculation running in his mind as he was interpreting his dream.

Ashish had described his dream to me with bated animation. To tell it in brief, he was walking aimlessly through the Cat Street market in Hong Kong. He is quite familiar with this market as he has visited this place many times when he used to live in Hong Kong. This is a market that attracts tourists looking for antique household objects often representing ancient religious and cultural heritage of the Chinese. He has, in the past, picked up several interesting objects in this market which adorn his shelves back in India. He enjoys telling stories behind these objects to his guests at the slightest interest shown by them.

Coming back to the dream event, Ashish was walking through the busy and narrow lanes of shops with shoppers competing to seek his attention. Suddenly a small placard caught his fancy and he followed a narrow pathway to a tiny shop that sold ‘mirror for the blind’. The prospect of finding something new was exciting him from within. There were many interesting things on display on the shop floor, but he found no mirror. Mirror for the blind seemed an unusual thing to explore. On enquiry, an old, bearded person appeared who looked like a wizard of the fairy tales. He spoke in a deep and heavy voice and bore a mystic aura around him.

The old shop keeper told Ashish to his disappointment, ‘The mirror for the blind is for sale only to the blind. I am afraid we cannot even show it to you. It may indeed be harmful’. The old man was trying to dissuade Ashish from buying the mirror.

But Ashish did not give up – he had rather become more inquisitive. As he insisted, the old man cautioned, ‘This is no ordinary toy, gentleman! It has supernatural powers’. He paused a little; took a deep breath and stared at Ashish for few moments. He was perhaps evaluating how much money Ashish would be willing to shell out for a piece of magic mirror – Ashish thought. The old man went on to say, ‘When a blind person holds and concentrates on the mirror while chanting some given verses, the mirror tries to detect if the person is naturally blind. It then induces some special powers in him and the blind receives heavenly blessings to see a glimpse of the world around him, specially presented in the mirror – he can even see his family and friends.’

‘Wow, that is incredible! It would be as good as having one’s vision back.’ – Ashish exclaimed.

‘No, not exactly’ – said the old man and went on, ‘- this can happen only on three occasions in the life of a blind person and it would last only for few seconds each time’.    

Ashish was excited with the story and was determined to buy it. He knew it would be a nice addition to his collection of Chinese antiques. He was prepared to pay the asking price after a little haggle. The old man cautioned again, ‘This mirror is for the blind and not for you. Please do not try it yourself and never chant the verses while you look at the mirror. The verses are written behind the mirror and contained in the sealed envelope placed in the packing!’   

Ashish was thrilled at his new possession as he walked out of the shop. On reaching home, his curiosity overtook him. He knew how sellers of antique objects create unique stories to sell their products and try to spin their perceived value. Ashish was simply laughing at the seriousness with which the old man had cautioned him against experimenting with the mirror.

The mirror in any case looked beautiful and out of the world with a carved wooden rim and a mystic bluish shade. Ashish held the mirror in front and chanted the short verse. Nothing happened, as expected. But on his third jocular attempt, Ashish got a jolt. He saw a big flash of light coming out of the mirror carrying the glow of thousand suns – the glow pierced through his eyeballs and in a moment, he was groaning in pain. The worse had happened – he had lost his eyesight.

In a state of shock and helplessness he woke up and realized that it was a horrifying dream. It took him some time to realize that the mirror, the old man and the blinding glow of light were just as real as the dream itself.

Does anyone ever see the same dream again and again exactly in the same way? I was not sure.

Few days later, I came across a similar shop at Colaba Causeway in Mumbai. Walking along the busy pavement, I saw a board with an arrow showing the way to a shop selling ‘magic mirrors’. Curious, I wanted to buy one. It was an ordinary looking mirror though very old. The stains on the glass and its broken handle gave an impression that it was in use hundreds of years ago.  The shop keeper claimed it to be the rarest of the rare, a part of the hidden treasure secretly recovered from an ancient temple in the far south. The seller also emphasized that the mirror was an original piece although duplicates are available in the market aplenty.

However, the most interesting part was the story attached to the mirror, which justified the element of magic that held it apart. It seems the magic works only once in forty years, when the earth moves to a specific relative cosmic position. At that very moment, if a person looks at the mirror with meditative concentration, he would be able to see his next birth – his reincarnation as reflection on the mirror. The image of the next birth remains on display for few seconds, after which the glass breaks and the magical power of the mirror disappears. Nobody has any clue when that fateful day would arrive in the life of a magic mirror. The strands of the story could never be disputed, as it was impossible to verify the claims. ‘How nice it would be if one could get a glimpse of one’s reincarnation?’ – I thought to myself.

I bought the mirror and kept it at a prominent place in my study.

Next morning, I stood before the mirror to see if it worked.  To my utter surprise it did. I hardly realized that I was standing in front of the magic mirror at that rare moment in the cosmic time line, when the planetary constellation matched the secret code of the magic mirror. What a rare occasion it was!! The magic mirror revealed to me the body to which my soul would enter after I give up the earthly body of a human being! I could hear the clinking noise and the glass breaking into pieces. My excitement knew no bounds – only if I could record this moment to convince others that such a supernatural thing did take place. The magic mirror indeed showed its magic. The shopkeeper in the Colaba market was not fooling me with a random story. I was feeling blessed. The broken mirror was hanging in front of me.

But amidst all this excitement I could not register in my mind, the image that represented my rebirth. Was it an animal, a bird, an insect or a human being? Did I see a blank – a nothingness on the magic mirror? Would that mean salvation instead of rebirth?

I was not sure if it was a dream. If indeed it was, how I craved to see it once again to be more mindful of every detail.

I decided to call Ashish, my good friend, for help.

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I was walking past the iconic Asiatic Library near the Horniman Circle. It was another bright sunny day. Dozens of people were hanging out on the stairs of the Library; some of them posing and clicking pictures. However, the hustle and bustle on the pavement was missing as it was a holiday.

My smart phone faithfully kept displaying two unsolicited pieces of information – the temperature was 38 degrees Celsius and that it felt like forty two. Indeed the heat was higher than usual in South Mumbai even for a hot summer.

Just then I saw something curious on the other side of the road along the garden. An old man was sitting there leaning against a tree. His legs stretched out and hands lay lifeless alongside. His head drooped to the front.

I crossed the road intuitively to go near him. Perhaps the old man needed some help.

As I drew closer, I saw him as a frail old man almost lifeless. Neatly clothed in trousers and a full-sleeve shirt, as if for a formal occasion, how could he sit there on the dusty roadside? The wrinkles on the face could not hide his sophisticated looks. He seemed to be a rich person. He must have been a handsome well-built man in his youth.

I tried making some noise to wake him up. He sat lifeless making me fear that he was dead! I did not want to get into complications with the police if the old man was dead already and I was found near him as a stranger taking avoidable interest in his body. A rich man’s death on the roadside is not the same as that of the poor – one would raise suspicion of crime while the other, emotions against hunger and apathy.

But suddenly he opened his eyes and looked at me. He murmured something, loud enough for me to take notice. He was perhaps asking me to help him stand up.

I rushed closer to him and enquired whether he was fine. The old man ignored my anxiety and asked if there was high tide in the sea. I could not exactly follow what he was saying. I told him, the Marine Drive was few kilometres away if he wanted to go closer to the ocean front. He appeared incoherent in his words but was definitely not going to die at that moment. I had a sense of relief.

I genuinely wanted to help and not abandon him high and dry. I was trying to enquire whether he wanted help to go home, but the old man was not responding.

Suddenly he was trying to raise his hands perhaps seeking assistance. I was preparing to lean and lift his hands when a car stopped by and the chauffer came rushing. He rudely pushed me aside and effortlessly gathered the old man in his able arms and made him stand on his feet. The old man started walking at a slow pace towards the car with his right hand on the chauffer’s shoulders.

He still looked at me trying to say something. I went closer. He thanked me for being nice.

The chauffer helped him sit in the car. Before getting into the car himself, the chauffer looked at me and said – mind your own business.

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