“Sitting like a maharaja! Basking in the sun, are we?”
The sun had just won its battle against the fog, announcing its sweet, warm glow. What time was it? Eight, nine? I couldn’t quite remember the exact time, but I knew I was already late for class. A winter morning. I was supposed to study physics at my tutor’s place starting at eight. I woke up to my friend Rupom’s phone call — the clock read 8:11. I got ready in exactly four minutes and left home at 8:15.
The road I take to class every day — I’m certain Bibhutibhushan or Jibanananda would have fallen in love with it and written at least a couple of lines. The Karatoya River flows alongside it. Trees darker than green line both sides. The road itself is beautiful, winding, paved with asphalt. But today I was running late; I couldn’t afford to be a Jibanananda today. I was walking with long strides. There, in the distance on the left, a small grocery shop. An elderly man, well past seventy, who runs the shop, was sitting outside on a chair. The warmth of the sun had grown a little sweeter by now. As I passed by, I saw the old man happily chatting with someone in an affectionate tone. Who was he talking to? Curiosity got the better of me. As I slowed down, I noticed a reddish dog sitting beside him, also soaking in the sun. I heard the old man say, “Sitting like a maharaja! Basking in the sun, are we?” The dog said nothing. How could it? It was just a helpless creature. While I was pondering the old man’s antics, he spoke again, “Of course! Enjoy yourself!”
Could the dog really talk to the old man? In some language we don’t understand?
That’s when my pet cat flashed across my mind. I used to talk to her day and night too! In return, she could offer nothing more than a meow, but to me, that two-syllable sound meant so many things. If translated, this humble soul could probably have written a short, bland novel out of it.
I was thinking. Walking. Slowly. Have you read Debiprasad’s book “The Never-Ending Story”? The book beautifully depicts the concept of Indrojal — magic born of imagination. Millions of years ago, when humans were not yet so civilized, when women had just learned farming — one section of the book describes those times. One year, when drought struck and rain didn’t come for their crops, they created rain in their own minds. They collected water from streams, gathered together, and threw it up into the sky. The water fell back on their faces, drop by drop.
Rain! Rain!! So what if it wasn’t real? It existed in our imagination! Who could have witnessed the joy of those foolish Homo sapiens after a long drought! That’s when Homo sapiens began building the world of imagination — a world where the mind reflects, where the impossible becomes possible — and that world came to be known as Indrojal.
By now, I had come quite far from the grocery shop. Looking back, I could see the old man still chatting away with the dog in his imaginary world. A story of Indrojal.