By Kulbhushan Kain
“Years turn… but memories return.” That, I’ve learnt, is the quiet truth of every New Year—especially for those of us who have lived long enough to collect stories like heirlooms, each one carrying the patina of another passing year. Some treat it as just another day. Others see it as a milestone—an excuse to turn up the music, raise a toast, share laughter, and let the night leave a mark on the heart. My own New Year celebrations over the years have worn both moods with equal honesty. Once it glimmered in the shadow of grandeur, when the Burj Khalifa lit up the Dubai sky amid fanfare and deafening applause. And once it glimmered in silence, beside a forest gate, deep in Madhya Pradesh, where stars shimmered brighter than fireworks ever could. Different worlds. Same wonder. Both mine to remember.
When I was younger, New Year’s Eve was a beacon I sprinted toward. Not once, but repeatedly. Why? Because invitations arrived like confetti. There were parties (sometimes more than one in a night), and there was dancing, eating, and drinking. I don’t recall a single celebration where food or drink was rationed. One could feast to one’s heart’s content and—miraculously—still stagger back to bed without losing one’s way. Youth, thankfully, came with built-in GPS!
When I was in university, there was one particular New Year’s Eve party I still replay like an old film reel. It was held at the embassy of a country some of my friends belonged to. The venue? The poolside. As the music rose and the drinks began taking their toll, the night was punctured with shrieks. It so happened that one of the guests, dancing too close to the edge, had plunged into the pool. Picture it: a fully dressed man, suited and booted, cigar in mouth, drink in hand, falling into the icy waters of a Delhi swimming pool. When he was finally hauled out, someone handed him a large shot of whiskey. He slurred a protest (once bitten, twice shy!) and refused—only to be told that he needed it more than ever, lest pneumonia gate-crash the party instead. Wild? Absolutely. Unusual? Not really. It was simply the grammar of New Year celebrations—bold, loud, reckless, unforgettable.
Then came marriage and inevitably responsibilities. Then came the era when I became a school Principal (early 1990s to the mid-2000s). In those days, Principals were considered a separate species—rarely spotted in their natural party habitat. I stopped attending large gatherings, not because I had sobered, but because someone always recognised me. So, I took a different route to celebrate—small, intimate, uproarious house parties. In one such celebration, I learnt an important lesson: if it is a wet party, rum must always be on the menu.
My neighbour, a young and earnest SSP at the time, was horrified when he discovered I had no rum.
“I only drink rum,” he declared, crestfallen.
Since the hour was late and rum seemed more mythical than logistical, he marched home and returned triumphantly with a bottle. A week later, a jeep rolled in and delivered six more bottles to my doorstep!
“I don’t drink that much,” I told him.
“Don’t worry,” he grinned, “I’ll drink them whenever you invite me.”
I agreed, provided the remainder would be returned if either of us were transferred. He smiled and said, “If the bottles still remain!”
It was around this time that New Year’s Eve began feeling like a comma rather than an exclamation mark. In 1998, to escape a barrage of invitations, we packed our little Maruti Deluxe and set off toward Kanha Game Sanctuary—a journey that turned out to be the quiet border between untamed youth and mature middle age. With me were Sangeeta, Pratique, Gokul (my ever-loyal peon), and Sneezy 1—our furry, non-negotiable travel companion.
We took the long and a terrible road to Jabalpur and then onwards through Mandla to the Game Sanctuary. At Jabalpur, I was very keen to see the Empire Talkies which was once owned by legendary actor Premnath (remember him doing a fabulous dance in the movie Bobby singing “Na mangoo heera moti, na mangoo bangla gaadi”?). It was said that as a young child he was once thrown out of the talkies for sneaking in without a ticket.
He had vowed to buy it one day. And he did. It became a landmark, screening James Bond and Hindi movies. Prithiviraj Kapur inugurated it, Raj Kapoor visited it several times, and so did Randhir and Rishi Kapoor!
I stopped my car in front of it. It looked in disuse and dilapidated. It was once Jabalpur’s landmark and had seen better days. Finally, the Jabalpur authorities bulldozed it in 2024. A piece of history disappeared.
But I did take a photograph of it in 1998!
It was on New Year’s Eve!
The road from Jabalpur to Mandla was through forests and from Mandla to the Kanha Game Sanctuary through thick forests and big and small rivulets. One rivulet was so swollen that we had to hire a tractor, hoist the car onto it, and ride across like victorious pioneers. It was a different kind of New Year—unscripted, inconvenient, thrilling, and oddly perfect.
We checked into the Forest Rest House—yellow walls, creaky beds, steel baltees, mosquito nets, and the deep music of silence. Dinner had been arranged with Thapa at his lone dhaba just outside the Khatia Gate, the entry to the sanctuary.
“Can I drink rum if you don’t have objections?” I had asked.
“If you don’t want to carry yours, I’ll give you mine,” he had replied with a big smile. He served us terrific spicy desi chicken with oil floating on its surface, rice, rotis, and watery dal. A small bonfire crackled. There was no electricity- only lanterns. Deer peeked shyly from behind the trees before dissolving into the forest. Rum warmed the chill. Nature supplied the soundtrack. History lingered in the background like an uncredited character (Premnath’s Empire Talkies at Jabalpur).It was an unforgettable New Year because I remember every detail of it ….
And what about those six bottles which my SSP friend had gifted me? One was left behind with Thapa, four were returned to my rum-loving neighbour, and the final one was consumed at our last dinner before I left Bhopal.
Some chase the New Year with fireworks. I once crossed into it on a tractor, with rum, memories, and the roar of a Bengal tiger piercing the silence and echoing in the jungle as if greeting us to the New Year!
As 2026 approaches, I know many of you will celebrate it your own way—with music, dance, or perhaps adventure. However, whichever way you welcome the year, stay safe.
May 2026 bring you peace, laughter, and stories worth retelling.
Happy New Year!
(Kulbhushan Kain is an award winning educationist with more than 4 decades of working in schools in India and abroad. He is a prolific writer who loves cricket, travelling and cooking. He can be reached at kulbhushan.kain@gmail.com)
