The man not in books

Roaming around at the World book fair, it seemed as if the whole world, with all the possible pros and cons of the past, present and future has accumulated at this place.  Perhaps this is the only place in the world where Gandhi and Bhagat are seen next to each other. Or the only site where you can find both left and right occupying the center.

You might be known for your good or bad deeds but if you are a part of history, you are here in some or the other page of these millions of books.

After wandering around the endless collection of the books spread across many halls of Pragati Maidan, I was tired enough to stroll any further. A loud but soothing classical tune was constantly going on in the background., May be someone was performing a folk/ classical dance .I walked towards the open theatre of the ground, from where the music was coming, not to enjoy the classical dance but to give rest to my aching feet.

The enthusiasm of the audience there was unlike the previous similar shows I had seen.  But when I stepped up the six giant stairs and looked at the center stage, I felt that the show was actually not similar to anything I had seen before.

There was a man with earthen pots (matkas) placed on his head, not one but 6 of them. Carrying the entire load, he danced with such ease that not many can dance even with a hat on their heads.

He did all the moves graciously, then he danced on two swords and then on broken pieces of glass. And while doing all this he sported a smile as if nothing underneath his feet was hurting .

The entire crowd stood up in his respect, all one could hear was applause and whistles.

The man didn't need to speak anything. His dance had said it all. But he spoke. He spoke to make us realize that for the last 27 years, he is the only one in the city carrying the burden of this art on his shoulders.

One could easily feel the pain in his voice as he mentioned the term “dying art”. The man will celebrate his golden jublie next year. But there were hardly any traces of joy in his voice or on his

face as he mentioned this. It seemed he didn't want to grow old because he knew that with him will die his 'dying art'.

I entered the show late, so I didn't know his name, I asked some other people sitting around, they also had forgotten the name announced in the beginning, even the anchor did not repeat his name. It seemed as if his dance had overshadowed his all personal identities.

I could have taken the trouble of searching for a catalogue to find his name, or could have tracked the events website. But I didn't do any thing of that sort because I knew that although his was a historic art, this man would never be remembered in history.

The present that gets written in the books, becomes history and amongst the millions showcased at the venue, this man was not in those books.