Aab was reading Shakespeare. Not that he is a literary type, but once in a while he does make an attempt to read and comprehend the creative works of Wordsmiths who pick up simple lifeless alphabets, squeeze them together into intriguing words, and like a Sutradhar, thread the words into enigmatic sentences.
From Aristotle to Confucious, Thoreau to Tagore, Gibran to Voltaire, all have weaved the mysteries of the language that today has conquered vast majority of the world. When Aab opens a book, he goes off into a dream world – a world far and remote from today’s mad rat race, a world of exploration and adventure, of romance and treachery, of construction and destruction. Sitting in his cozy room, or sometimes even on a footpath bench, Aab gets catapulted thousands of miles and hundreds of years away. He follows the characters of the book, observing them carefully as the author gives them shape like a potter working with raw clay. He sees those characters coming to life and acquiring minds of their own, some serving humanity, others spreading fear and despair.
Aab knows that the pen is mightier than the sword. And more so in today’s age when influencing the mind carries greater clout, and unfortunately more destructive power, than any nuclear bomb. Hence he admires the wordsmiths who can weave a magic through their words and make people not only read – but also think.
Aab also writes now and then. Sometimes he tells a scribe to write down his thoughts. But very few people read what Aab writes. Because Aab is not a celebrity, he has no name and fame, and shies away from status and glory. But somewhere deep down Aab knows that the same way he enjoys and evolves through the words of the often sung bards, there will be people who will read and learn from what he writes. And he also hopes that his words will make people introspect and do a Manthan or Chintan, churning of their own minds to create new lines of thoughts and a better world.
