By Rajshekhar Pant
This story goes back some thirty-five or forty years. A close acquaintance—one of those earnest disciples of the Epicurean philosophy of living—was visiting us. It was December 31 evening. The setting sun cast a hazy glow, and the pine trees lining the ridge of the opposite hill appeared in silhouette, like a caravan hastily packing up and slipping away—much like the outgoing year itself.
I was admiring this scene from a second-floor window of our old Bhimtal-house, along with a few cousins who happened to be home at the time. Just then, our Epicurean friend entered the room, followed my gaze for a moment, and sighed dramatically: “December 31 evening—and look at this gloom! Real enjoyment in life, my dear fellow, exists only below the Kichha Bridge.”
Kichha, for the uninitiated, is a small town in the plains below our hill settlement, with a bridge over which the highway to big cities like Delhi and Lucknow passes.
At that time, his remark struck me as rather odd. Like most middle-class families of those days, for us December 31 simply meant cooking something slightly special and eating together—not in the kitchen, but in the big room that housed the b/w television. Anticipation for the Doordarshan entertainment programmes would begin a full week in advance. During evening get-togethers with friends of our age, these details were carefully exchanged—whether it would be Shail Chaturvedi, or KP Saxena’s satirical poems this year, or some celebrity’s magic show.
As evening fell, glowing embers from the courtyard fire were collected into an angeethi—locally known as a saggar—and brought indoors. We would huddle around it, shelling peanuts seasoned with black salt or jaggery, staring faithfully at the television. By ten or ten-thirty, exhaustion would politely announce itself. As we helped mother clear the plates, father would turn the TV knob firmly, as if sealing the fate of the year, and cover it with an embroidered tablecloth—a gesture of closure far more decisive than any countdown.
Staying awake till midnight to switch off the lights and say a flashy “bye” to the old year, followed by a dazzling, noise-filled “hi” to the new one, welcoming it with explosions, lasers, and amplified optimism was completely unknown to us. We stayed home, ate well, watched television, and considered the evening well spent.
Today, the caravan of the departing year—once visible in the silhouettes of pine trees—has vanished. In its place, a crop of hotels and resorts has sprung up on the opposite hill, selling the New Year’s celebration. There is blinding illumination, deafening music, a bewildering spread of Indian and foreign dishes meant as much for consumption as for disposal. Long lines of cars carrying eager celebrators climbing the hills with dreams of explosive New Year’s Eve festivities have been arriving steadily ever since Christmas.
Celebration has now crossed the household threshold and settled comfortably in the marketplace. New Year mornings begin with hangovers. Those who ventured out in search of joy at least have an excuse; the elderly left behind content themselves by rummaging through memories of quieter, cheaper, and mercifully sober years.
It appears that the pleasures of life have indeed crossed the Kiccha Bridge – to climb uphill.
(The author is an amateur filmmaker, a photographer, and a writer, who has written over a thousand write-ups, reports, etc., published in the leading newspapers and magazines of the country. He can be reached at pant.rajshekhar@gmail.com)
