Book: Strange encounters: Adventures of a curious life
Author: Parikshat Sahni
Publisher: Simon & Schuster
Price: ₹699
Parikshat Sahni is quite un-Indian in his writing in that he does not make much of the fact that he is the son of the great actor, Balraj Sahni, and the nephew of the writer, Bhisham Sahni, apart from the occasional fond nod to these distinguished relatives of his. There is a certain old-world charm, made in equal parts of regret, nostalgia, a seeking after strange conquests, and candid admission of failure to live up to his own expectations about himself, as he relates his life’s stories. He does this in a simple but racy style, although his habit of repeating certain phrases and expressions is tiresome at times.
Apart from a short prologue and an equally short epilogue, Parikshat has divided his book into three chapters of varying length, calling them “Russia”, “Pakistan” and “India”. Each chapter consists of several ‘encounters’, some more engrossing than others. His chance meeting with Nehru in Moscow, where he was training to be a cinematographer at the famous VGIK film school, is as funny as it is educative. There are at least two other ‘encounters’ on Russian soil that ask to be mentioned, one dealing with how he was surprised by the honesty and comradeship of a patrolling policeman on a freezing cold night, and the other about his friendship with a Russian girl whose expectations appear to have exceeded what the visiting student was prepared to offer. About the latter ‘encounter’, Parikshat writes: “I got a phone call from Russia one morning. A mysterious female voice said succinctly: ‘Galina is dead. She said she waited for you but the cancer got to her first’. I had left Russia and Galina 45 years ago. I had never gone back. Galina had waited for me for almost half a century. And she had died waiting …”
In its own way, this is a wise book, although one is not sure whether Parikshat started out with any such intention in his mind. It is wise because, at places, it is steeped in a sense of loss, which one daresay is the surest and most difficult route to discovering oneself. Look at the dedication: “For Aruna who has left behind a vacuum which is impossible to fill.” And then just below those words, he quotes Ernest Hemingway: “Then you write for who you love whether she can read or write or not and whether she is alive or dead.”
However, the book is far from being heavy. True, there are portions where Parikshat is able to persuade the reader to accompany him on precious, meditative trips, but he can also regale the latter with little tales of mirth and merriment about ordinary men and women. Parikshat’s many ‘encounters’ embrace humans, gods, animals, and the natural elements but, most importantly, his own good, irrepressible self. His zest for life, despite memories of mourning, is to be read to be believed.
