Dalbir Chetan story

 It was a warm, golden afternoon when my mother returned from the Central Bank of India, Beas, with an unexpected message. “Nachhtar wants you to come by,” she said, her voice tinged with curiosity. “He’s there with Dalbir Chetan, and they’d like to meet you.”

The name “Dalbir Chetan” struck a chord in me. He was not just a name; he was a force in Punjabi literature, a storyteller whose words graced the pages of Amrita Pritam’s iconic magazine, Nagmani. His stories had depth and soul, and as a poet who regularly contributed to the same magazine, I felt an almost unspoken kinship with him. This was an opportunity I couldn’t pass up.

By 2:30 p.m., I was ready and on my way to the bank. Walking into the small yet bustling building, I spotted Nachhtar immediately, his wide grin welcoming me. Next to him stood Dalbir Chetan, an unassuming man with sharp, observant eyes and an aura of quiet humility. He extended his hand with a warmth that put me instantly at ease. “I’ve read your poems,” he said, his voice measured and sincere. “Your concepts are fresh, full of life.”

I felt an indescribable pride at that moment. To have my work acknowledged by someone I admired deeply—it was a validation I hadn’t realized I needed. We spent the afternoon engrossed in conversation, exchanging ideas about literature, the essence of storytelling, and the rhythms of poetry.

At 5 o’clock, it was decided that we’d go to my village, Wazir Bhullar, for a relaxed evening by the Beas River. Nachhtar, Dalbir, Mehta Sir (one of Nachhtar’s bank colleagues), and I piled into a car, our spirits high. On the way, we stopped at a roadside vendor and bought a live chicken, destined to become the centerpiece of our evening meal. Mehta Sir, known for his culinary skills, was in charge of cooking.

By the time we reached my home, my mother greeted us with her usual grace, though her curiosity about the chicken was evident. “Mehta Sir will handle it,” I assured her with a grin. The kitchen came alive with activity as Mehta and my mother worked together, their laughter spilling into the house. Meanwhile, the rest of us settled into a room, making plans for our little picnic by the river.

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, we made our way to the riverbank, the air cool and fragrant with the scent of the flowing water. The Beas River shimmered under the fading light, its gentle current a soothing melody in the background. We spread a simple mat on the sandy shore, unpacking the perfectly roasted chicken and a bottle of homemade liquor, a local specialty that seemed to warm both the body and the spirit.

It was here, under the canopy of twilight, that Dalbir Chetan began narrating one of his new stories. His voice, steady and rich, painted vivid scenes of life, love, and loss. We listened intently, the world around us fading into the background as his words took center stage. The stars began to emerge one by one, as if drawn out by the power of his storytelling.

The evening passed in a blur of laughter, food, and heartfelt conversation. By the time we packed up, it was too late for Dalbir to return to his village, Taragarh, near Jandiala Guru. Nachhtar and Mehta bid us goodbye and drove back to Beas, leaving Dalbir to stay the night at my home.

We settled into the small room near the main door of the house, its simple interior illuminated by the soft glow of a single lantern. After a light dinner, we lay on our charpoys, talking late into the night about poetry, life, and everything in between. It felt as though time had slowed, allowing us to savor the rare camaraderie that had blossomed between us.

Somewhere in the middle of our conversation, I mentioned Shubhangi. “She’s coming at midnight,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. Dalbir raised an eyebrow, a mischievous smile tugging at his lips. “Really now?” he said, his tone teasing.

I nodded, my heart pounding with anticipation. “She’ll knock softly. Don’t make a sound,” I warned him. “Just hide under the quilt and pretend you’re not here.”

As the clock inched closer to midnight, the room fell silent. Dalbir buried himself under his quilt, his stillness so convincing that he seemed to disappear entirely. The house was eerily quiet, save for the faint rustle of the trees outside.

Then came the knock. Soft, deliberate, and right on time. My heart leapt in my chest as I crept to the door, careful not to make any noise that might wake my mother. My father was away, but my mother’s vigilance was legendary, and I couldn’t afford to risk her waking up.

I unlatched the door slowly, my palms slick with nervous sweat. But instead of Shubhangi, it was someone else who stood there, framed by the dim moonlight. My elder brother.

A captain in the Army, he was stationed in Chandigarh and had come home on short leave, unannounced. For a moment, I was frozen in shock, my mind racing to reconcile the joy of seeing him with the disappointment of what his presence meant.

“Surprised to see me?” he asked, his voice low but filled with warmth.

“Very,” I managed, forcing a smile. “Come in.”

He stepped inside, his boots making a faint thud against the floor. I closed the door behind him, glancing nervously at the quilt where Dalbir lay hidden. My brother, blissfully unaware, began recounting stories from his life in the Army, his words a mix of pride and exhaustion. I listened, nodding and responding when appropriate, all the while acutely aware of the quiet figure in the corner.

Eventually, my brother retired to another room, leaving me alone with Dalbir, who emerged from his hiding spot with a grin that stretched from ear to ear. “That was close,” he said, his voice a mixture of amusement and relief.

I couldn’t help but laugh, the tension of the moment dissolving into shared humor. “I didn’t know whether to feel happy or disappointed,” I admitted.

“Life has a funny way of keeping us on our toes,” Dalbir said, his eyes twinkling.

That night, as we finally drifted off to sleep, I couldn’t help but marvel at the unpredictability of life. The incident became a story in itself, one that Dalbir and I would recount many times in the years to come, laughing until our sides ached. It was a memory etched in the sands of time, a testament to the beauty of friendship, family, and the unexpected twists that make life worth living.