To begin with, this post is both about 'that one novel' and yet, it isn't. It's not about that novel because this post doesn't aim to introduce the book. Yet, it is about that novel because... well....
In truth, this piece is less about that novel and more about myself. As usual 😉
*****
This story dates back to around 1993-94. It's so old, and the details are so hazy that I might even be remembering the year incorrectly. The point is, it's a very old story.
A friend of mine was working in Allahabad at the time. The atmosphere around her was such that people insisted on calling it 'Prayagraj' instead of 'Allahabad.' She was working full-time for an organization. I had worked full-time with the same organization for six and a half years and had left a couple of years earlier. However, there was no animosity between my former colleagues and me, or if there was, I wasn't perceptive enough to notice it.
This friend, let's call her Meena (I've changed her name since we're not in touch anymore), was eagerly inviting me to visit Prayagraj. I was drifting through life at the time. Having a clear direction and I never really got along, so whenever something new caught my eye, I'd take a peek. (Not that things are any different today!)
So, I went to Prayagraj. Meena was busy with her work, surrounded by a group of activists, all of them enthusiastic and young. Some of them I had met earlier during my time with the organization, and some knew of me from stories they'd heard. So, whenever Meena wasn't free, one of them would keep me company, take me around, chat with me, make me eat local dishes, and gift me things.
But one day, no one was available to keep me company. They were busy planning an important event and would be in a meeting for half a day. I found a book on Meena's desk and said, "You all go ahead with your meeting. I'll read this book in the meantime." They felt reassured and got back to their work.
I had (probably?) never read a Hindi book before, so I hesitated a bit at first, but that novel captivated me. The flowing language, the unique subject matter, the blend of worldly life and spirituality... it was delightful. I enjoyed it. The three or three and a half hours flew by unnoticed. It felt like I had been transported to another world. I made sure to write down the name of the book and the author on a piece of paper and carefully tucked it into my bag. I decided that whenever I have a home of my own, this book must be in my collection. This thought made me smile since it was somewhat contrary to the message of the novel.
The next few days were busy. Eventually, I returned to Mumbai (I was living in Mumbai at the time). Later, I moved out of Mumbai and settled in another city. I worked as a volunteer for a year in the earthquake-affected areas of Latur. Then, I worked full-time for another organization for four years. My work took me to various parts of Maharashtra. Amidst all this, the memory of that novel would surface occasionally. But the piece of paper with the book and author's name, carefully tucked away in my bag, had vanished. I remembered some characters, dialogues, and events from the novel, but I couldn't recall the name of the book or the author, no matter how hard I tried.
When I met Meena, I asked her about the book, but she had no recollection of such a book being on her desk. So, there was no point in asking further.
Ten years after this visit to Allahabad, I began to visit the city regularly again. By then, I had stopped working as a full-time volunteer and had started working for a social organization as a salaried employee. During each visit to Allahabad, the memory of that novel would inevitably resurface. I thought of asking my new colleagues about the novel, but the details I could provide were so vague that even a well-read person might not recognize it. Moreover, there weren't many book lovers around me, and the few who were didn't read Hindi. As a result, I found myself reading more and more English books.
As life settled down, the urge to recall the name of that novel grew stronger. Meanwhile, I had become quite familiar with the internet, but I couldn't figure out what keywords to use for the search. I couldn't remember the author's name. I remembered a few specific words from the book, like "Rishikumar," "Princess," "Bullock Cart," "Life," and "Brahma." I was struggling to type in Devanagari. Whenever I found some free time, I tried searching for the book using these words, but I couldn't find anything. I just couldn't remember the right keywords.
Then, I searched for a list of famous Hindi authors, but none of the names seemed familiar in the context of that novel. Thus began another restless search in the dark—a growing frustration at not remembering the name of a book I loved, the annoyance at not having anyone (who reads Hindi) in my circle who could provide the right information, the self-reproach for losing the piece of paper with the book and author's name twenty years ago, and the repeated attempts to convince myself that "If I can't remember it, maybe it wasn't that important a book for me." But these efforts would only lead to a sense of helplessness. There were countless things happening outside, I didn't have time for them... yet, within me, the struggle to recall the name of that book continued relentlessly.
Meanwhile, in 2010, I moved to Delhi. During that time, I focused on reading Hindi books. I bought a lot of Hindi books, which took me years to read, but that's another story. I read classics like "Kathasaritsagara," "Sant Kavi Ke Pramukh Dohe," Premchand's "Mansarovar," "Shrikant," Ismat Chughtai's "Tedhi Lakeer," Shrilal Shukla's "Raag Darbari"... one after another, But I did not find the novel I was searching for.
Eventually, I left Delhi. While living in another country (other countries), the only support I had was my 'Kindle'. Along with that, I tried to learn the basics of foreign languages (other than English). I made clumsy attempts to read in those languages.
*****
While searching for Hindi authors, I ordered some Hindi books from 'Rajkamal Paperbacks' in 2021. One of them was Hazari Prasad Dwivedi's 'Punarva'. During my search for Hazari Prasad's books, I came across the name 'Anamdas Ka Potha', and it felt somewhat familiar. When I looked it up online, I found its cover, and...
...And this felt like the very novel I had been trying to remember for the past thirty years.
But Rajkamal didn’t have the book available; perhaps the edition was out of print.
In December 2023, I went to the Rajkamal stall at the Pune book fair. I had decided to buy 'Kashi Ka Assi' by Kashinath Singh, and suddenly, I spotted 'Anamdas Ka Potha'. Needless to say, I immediately bought it.
So, after thirty years, I found this book back again!
That whole idea of "Kayanaat" (the universe conspiring to help you achieve something you truly desire) ... it’s not that, you have to make efforts yourself—that’s another truth I realized during this journey.
It felt as if I had met my past self once again. Will the novel resonate with me today as it did back then? Will I understand it now as I thought I did then? Or will I discover something new—about the novel, and about myself as well?
After getting this book, I felt an immense sense of calm. The restlessness that came from the feeling that something precious had slipped away from my hands (and memory) was gone. I experience a state of peace. I felt having a strength to completely shut out the external noise. The feeling that there’s nothing left to search for anymore... a sense of having reached the destination, with nothing more to do.
These feelings don’t seem to align with the message of the novel, I realize now. Perhaps I’ll gain more clarity when I read it again.
For some reasons, it took me six months to finally open the book.
Currently, I’m reading it, which is why all of this came back to me.
*****
Hazari Prasad Dwiwedi (1907 to 1979) was a renowned Hindi author. He taught at Shantiniketan for many years, and the influence of that experience is evident in his writing.
This novel includes the story of the sage Raikva, mentioned in the Chandogya Upanishad.
Raikva, who lost his parents at a young age, is deeply immersed in meditation and asceticism, and has come to the conclusion that Prana (life force) is indeed Brahman. During a stormy rain, he encounters Jabala, the daughter of King Janashruti. She is the first woman Raikva has ever seen. What follows is a love story, as well as a tale of the search for truth.
The characters in the novel are all remarkable. Much more could be written about them. But as mentioned at the beginning, the purpose here is not to provide a book review.
More about the novel can be found here.
