There was this guy in Delhi. I met him only once in 2010. At a music concert of Kailash Kher at Purana Quila on a winter evening. We exchanged only one word, 'Hi'. That is it. A friend introduced him to me. Then I found him on Facebook in 2011. After a year of that musical evening. Maybe, I chatted once or twice with him that whole year. Then again, I found him on Yahoo Messenger in 2012. And this time we chatted for hardly a month. Online. Irregularly. Somehow, all the nicest words would come out when I used to chat with him. And we talked about ordinary and usual stuff like politics, economy, philosophy, life, and yes, poetry. He was a doctor working in a hospital in Delhi, a heart specialist. Or maybe kidney or bones. I forgot that now. But he was a hardcore poet at heart. His chats and discussions said so. I can feel his words tapping on my shoulder while writing about him now.
By the time we chatted, he had shifted to Ireland and begun his medical practice there. One day before Holi that year, we chatted continuously from morning to night until it was afternoon the next day! We totally and literally forgot about the time and forgot that we need to rest and sleep after hectic working hours. After a month or so, he suddenly messaged that his family wants him to marry some girl. And he could not say No to his family. It was a conservative Muslim family as he told me. So, he said we should stop chatting from that time on. I did not say a word. I did not have anything to say since we had never ever spelt love in any of our conversations. Not even near that word or feeling. And then he disappeared. I did not contact him again till date. I just know he is still in Ireland. Happily married and with two kids. I feel curious at times wondering if he still writes poems or discusses with someone the way we did. I do not know what or how else to explain whatever bond we shared. But what I clearly remember is the image of a guy lost in Kailash Kher's Sufi music on that winter evening. He is Kashmiri and hardly knew Hindi when we met. I saw him only for a flash when we were in that concert. But how I felt at that time is something I can still feel fresh in my heart when I think of that guy. No love, no communication, nothing. But some sort of attachment, a string of it maybe, and it is alive; that vibe is so alive; that image is alive. The image of a guy shaking his head rhythmically, lost in Sufi music.
The hills of the Himalayas always bring in breath of fresh air to the heart only the soul can describe. I always felt so. There was this guy with a tall, lean frame. A kurta-clad young man who was more than a sight in a silent café of a sleepy Himalayan town. He looked young with a mature and sober face and a gentle smile, quite approachable yet someone whose eyes tell you to draw a clear line in a sophisticated way. He was busy puffing a cigarette and looked at us with several quick glances. Us meaning three friends enjoying in a café there. After some time of distant yet close inspection, he came to us, introduced himself, and asked if he could join us. We happily approved. He was a doctor. A surgeon as he said and on a sabbatical to enjoy the mystic treasures of the Himalayas. We discussed almost everything under the sun - politics, the systemic flaws, farmers, corruption, bureaucracy, and what not. He went away for a short while and returned with a flute. Yes, a flute. He played it for sometime. In fact, he was quite good at it. We thoroughly enjoyed that silent afternoon in the Himalayan café. A few days later, we went trekking to a neighboring hilltop. We kept trekking up until it was deserted with absolutely no sight of humans. The nature was quite a company though. After walking continuously for a few hours, we reached a small café at a tiny junction that forked out several small alleys towards different corners of the thick, dense forest. We went inside the café for a little break. There he was again, the doctor on sabbatical with his flute playing absent-mindedly, lost in his own tune. We did not want to disturb him this time.
While coming out of the café, I saw another lost soul playing a flute and walking barefoot coming out of one of the alleys. He emerged out of nowhere, a pale white-skinned guy with ruffled hair and shabbily garbed in a worn-out kurta. He came from one alley playing his flute and disappeared in another alley walking to the dense forest. The tune of the flute echoed in the air, over the thick forest. Where did he go? Where would he reach? I kept wondering. Weird, mystically weird sight it was. But I can still remember what I felt there at the sight. A few days after that trek, we went for yet another hiking trip to another hilltop. This time it was heavenly the moment we reached the peak. It was a meadow, a long green carpet stretched on the peak. There was a café at the top. The entire Himalayas witness endless rows of café which are usually crowded by the most lively souls one can ever imagine of meeting. We entered the café. It was rather a long hall with resting places and chimneys everywhere. And it was full of musical instruments I do not know the names of, with a hustling crowd of young people and faces from across the world. I saw the doctor on sabbatical there the next morning. He was playing a guitar this time. For me, he was the face of mystic the hills painted. There are other stories from that trip, but I will keep it only till this encounter for this story. The feeling I had when I felt that mystic is still fresh like a lily in my mind. It appears as fresh as always whenever I think of mystic of the Himalayan hills. In short, these are some of the encounters that bring me great, soothing vibes whenever the memory crosses my mind. These are more than memories. Maybe part of my life that taught me a thing or two about brotherhood and belongingness, and undoubtedly the shooting stars that twinkled and directed shaping my philosophies of life. These are the connections of the heart and beyond, something, a feeling, an emotion even love fails to explain.
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