On securing a seat for my post-graduate studies in a university in Hisar, a typical dusty north Indian town, my first priority was to complete the admission formalities. As expected, I also landed in one of the largest hostels stationed in the campus. The next agenda interestingly was to locate a church if ever there was one. I inquired about it from my new classmates. Ajay Moond, a local student assured me of one in downtown district. That was music to my ears.
Not long after, we took advantage of an ‘off day’ and began our frantic search. The rickshaw was the best mode of transport in such circumstances and the bumpy ride was something I won’t forget in a long long time. After an uncomfortable drive past crowded market lanes, scented with foul odours and a blend of deafening noises, we somehow reached our destination. It was an old church dating back to the heydays of the British Raj ; not large enough though for a big town whose inhabitants savour pride in calling it a ‘city’.The church surroundings doubled up as a cemetery. Tombstones and memorial stones dotted the landscape. One particular structure caught my attention. On close observation, the history of the place was laid bare. The site was the province’s burial ground for soldiers who died during the revolt of 1857. And to imagine such stories were meant only for textbooks! Well, the point is,I found a homely church which dons a saintly name, St. Thomas Church,Hisar. Even if I was the sole christophile in the whole university, I unearthed something for comfort.The humble church at the other end of the modest town.
I recall a funny incident which happen that day. As we were loitering around the church, an elderly man approached us. I briefly introduced myself and took pain to impress the man with my polished talk. Then came the turn of Ajay, my Haryanvi friend. ”What about you? What is your name?”, the old man prodded. The next few moments shocked me to hilarity. Instead of simply giving an honest answer, Ajay, of all people, fabricated his bio-data. ”I am John. I came from Mizoram”, replied Ajay nonchalantly with a dignified poise. Ajay?…..John?.I was in dilemma what got into his head. There was hardly a need for a lie there. What amazed me more was the way in which Ajay put up the act. He felt so accomplished. It was indeed pathetic to witness him fooling the old bloke. By all account, the oldie was not convinced. He had years of experiences behind his back. Moreover, Ajay’s accent and appearance absolutely betrayed him. Feeling embarrassed, I hurriedly dragged Ajay from the church and bundled him into a waiting rickshaw. We soberly made our way back. Traces of Supppandi.
Some months later, I was in my third semester.As was wont, there was a departmental study tour. Only this time, the outing was centered on the pristine hill-state of Himachal Pradesh. Shimla, Kullu, Manali, Manikaran, Rohtang Pass, etc. were on our itinerary. On our way up, I caught a glimpse of Solan, of “Kya Kehna” famed vis-à-vis Preity Zinta. As we ventured out to discover Shimla the next afternoon, what gradually unravelled was a lasting moment to cherish. In the heart of the capital, on one of the most frequented public squares, stood a grand church. The famous Christ Church,Shimla. I thanked God in my heart that a church had to stand there for all to see. When all I had observed so far spoke of other lesser things, the towering church once again reminded me of the ceaseless presence of the Lord. For a while, I forgot everything else. Immersed in the wamth of the place, I murmured a silent prayer. I am not sure of the exact words anymore. But one thing is beyond doubt, they came ………"Straight from the Heart". Solemn. Like ‘Whispers in the Wind”.
The author can be reached at smithkilong@yahoo.co.in
©Copyrights Reserved. Hauthang Kilong 2005. Editing only on approval of the author.
