Once, at a Sahitya Akademi Auditorium in Kolkata the renowned professor, poet, translator and publisher P Lal (1929-2010) was being felicitated, where I was present. Delivering his address on the occasion, Prof. Lal spoke candidly, among other things, about his feelings when he received a letter from Nobel Laureate T S Eliot, poet, dramatist and literary critic for the first
time.
As I write this, I remember the excitement and thrill I felt when I received a letter from the gifted travel writer Bill Aitken when our maiden conversation was first published in The Sunday Statesman in May 2001. From then on, for almost 25 years, Bill and I exchanged letters and emails till 31 December 2024. A few months on, the Grim Reaper took Bill (1934 – 2025) away.
Bill, one of my literary mentors, who had travelled to the four corners of India for his books and done a series of travelogues for The Statesman, had constantly encouraged me to keep doing ‘lively interviews’. Each time an interview by me was published, and it came to his notice, he never failed to send me a little critique, always positive, a kind of blurb that any aspiring writer would pay to have on the front or rear dust jacket of their books.
On 26 Nov last year (2024), I sent him an email: “Sir, at this time of the year, Mussoorie must be getting colder by the day. But as you once memorably said that after years of grinding at Mirtola ashram, nothing could daunt you anymore. Do you sometimes visit Cambridge Book Depot these days? My instinct tells me books by this year’s Nobel & Booker prize winners (2024)—Han Kang & Samantha Harvey—are already there on your bedside table …”
Pat came the reply: “I haven’t been to Cambridge nor visited Ruskin (Bond) for FIVE years! And can’t remember when I last read a Bestseller. Probably Arundhati Roy’s. I confine my two daily walks to local features. Like me my old dog Freddie is feeling her age and requires visits from the Vet. Otherwise age has worn well and the body’s wisdom is in evidence.”
The following month, after I wished him Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, he wrote: “While December till a few days ago was brilliantly sunny the last two days have been so bitterly cold snow cannot be ruled out tonight on Christmas Eve. I am told Landour has received some snow. Sadly both my dogs have passed away. Freda died peacefully on Gandhi Jayanti from an unknown stomach complaint while Freddie passed away from old age quite recently. She suffered from an infected uterus that didn’t respond to treatment. One feels bereft of companionship and the house empty of company…”
When I suggested that he write an obit about them that might ease his grief somewhat, he wrote me this line on 31 December 2024, his last: “The only way to shed grief is to find another dog.” Little did I know then that I’d receive no more lines from this author, a creative colossus and a spiritual seeker who was besotted with Bharat Mata. Now I, too, feel bereft and do not know how to shed my grief.