My Lord! As an adolescent, this old geezer was terribly fond of Bulbuls. The village teemed with numerous Bulbul enthusiasts. They caught Bulbuls, raised them, and made them fight. The boy, Shivshambhu Sharma, had no interest in doing so. He only coveted the happiness of having a Bulbul rest on his hand. But, how could the son of the Brahmin get hold of a bulbul? The father feared that if he gave a Bulbul to his boy, he’d kill it which amount to felony. Or, if a cat snatched it away from his hands, it would count as sin. After immense pleading, even when his father borrowed a Bulbul from a friend, it wasn’t allowed to stay for more than an hour, that too under his father’s supervision! 

It was the inn keepers who caught the Bulbuls. The village boys bought them for 2-3 paise. But the boy Shivshambhu could not do so. How could he bring a Bulbul without his father’s permission and where would he keep it; in contrast, his heart flooded with infinite obsession that a bulbul ought to rest on his hand. That’s why he went all aflutter at the sight of a Bulbul’s flight in the jungle. His heart danced with ecstasy as he heard it chirp. Oh, what fantasies sprung in his heart — others can’t begin to image the experience. What to talk of others, when today it’s the same Shivshambu who himself can’t taste the inexplicable fervor and ecstasy of that childhood. 

With myriads of Bulbul-trapping fantasies in his head, the young Shivshambhu drifted off to sleep. He saw a world full of Bulbuls: Bulbuls flying all around the village, hundreds fluttering in the playground in front of his house.  They do not soar high above, instead fly at lower altitudes. Their resting spots too are at fairly low heights. They fly all around, to and fro. They sit randomly, here and there — occasionally resting on Shivshambu’s hand. Gripped with ecstasy, Shivshambu prances all around Two or three of his companions follow suit to catch and release Bulbuls, skipping and hopping from place to place.

Today, Shivshambhu’s wish stands fulfilled. Today, he has no dearth of Bulbuls. Today his playground has transformed into Bulbulistan. Today, Shivshambhu’s isn’t just the lord of bulbuls, he is the grand emperor. The concatenation of pleasure does not break here. Shivshambhu saw a beautiful garden in front of him. That was where all Bulbuls came flying from. The boy scrurried in hops and skips to reach there. He saw golden trees and leaves and flowers in various shades of gold. Golden Bulbuls sit there, sing and fly around. Right there is a palace of gold. It has hundreds of golden pots. Bulbuls are sitting on them as well. The boy climbs to the top of the palace along with 2-3 companions. At that moment, the garden of gold flew for once along with the palace and Bulbuls.  Everything flew in ecstasy. But this pleasure did not last long. 

The concentration of the boy now drifted away from the Bulbuls. He wondered, “What! Where am I flying away to? Where are my parents? Where is my house?” The ingress of these thoughts disrupted the reverie of sweet dreams. The boy sat up anxiously. He saw nothing but his own house, and his own cot. The empire of desires had been destroyed. 

Ever since your arrival in Bharatvarsha, My Lord!, have you only dreamt of Bulbuls, or have you actually done something worth doing? Have you only fulfilled your fantasies or have you even followed your duties toward the public? For once, reflect on these things in your heart with great patience.  You have completed five years of your deputation in Bharat. Now, if you continue to stay for some more time, that would be on a borrowed loan, for the principal has already exhausted. Do assess if you have done work at all except ostentatious indulgence, or have you ever cared about any of your duties and responsibilities in this country instead of just pomp and show.  Your speech in this year’s budget session, was the last of your tenure. Let it be read out.  What feats have you described as your accomplishments? You’ve repeatedly mentioned two odd achievements eulogizing yourself.  One — the Victoria Memorial hall and the other — Dilli Darbar. But just think it over: are they “show” or “duty”? Victoria Memorial hall would only be a spectacle that a few rich well-fed people would visit a couple of times. Even you wouldn’t be of the understanding that this would reduce hardships of the destitute, or ameliorate living standards of the Bhartiya public.

Now, let’s listen to what the Darbar was about. In your opinion it was quite a grand feat. But in the eyes of the Bhartiyas, it was nothing more than the dream of bulbuls. The elephants of the procession returned to where they came from. The elephant that you were seated on — the one that was decked up in a golden spread and carriage of gold, with a canopy overhead — has returned to his owner along with all its valuables.  You too know that it doesn’t belong to you, and so does the audience. The golden throne that you were ensconced in during the Durbar where all kings and queens of Bharat paid you their respects, was just to serve the occasion, and you very well know that you don’t own it. That too went back to where it came from. All of these things were just for display. They were existed here in Bharat. Has it displayed any of own talents? What is it that people remember, Vikram or his singhasan, Akbar or his takht? Was Shah Jahan revered because of his virtues or his takhtotaus? An intelligent man like you needs to think about these things. 

Things should be built such that they can endure fair duration of time. Young Shivshambu’s sweet dreams dissipated as soon as the memory of his parents struck him. The Durbar compound, the Amphitheatre — all became commodities to be dismantled, once the Durbar concluded. Building here, dismantling there! That’s the consequence of pretentious things. They have lives like those of butterflies. My Lord! After feasting at chai waale sahibs of Cachar, you’d said that those people were the permanent lot, and folks like you had only few days to serve. Your ‘few days’ have drawn to a close. The tenure stands completed. Now, even if you get a grace period for a few more days, then you ought to attribute it to the power of some old virtuous deeds. It’s in anticipation of the same, that this Shivshambhu Sharma sends you this letter, in order that you can tend to your duties for at least once in the course of these borrowed days.

The position that you’ve occupied is not a property that you’ve inherited from your forefathers. It’s like the combination of a boat and river. Once you vacate the office this time round, there’s no hope for you to stay connected with it in future anyway. However, for as long as you hold this capacity, you have the power in your hands to accomplish something. All that you were able to accomplish in Delhi and elsewhere involved nothing that belonged to you; however you had the power to get it all done. Similarly, you have the power to do some concrete work for this country before your departure. You have the power to consecrate a memorial in the hearts of the people of this country. But it is possible only when there is some iota of respect for such memories in your heart as well. Do remember that commemorative statues of metal can flood the grounds of a fort. Notwithstanding whether the statue of the Empress obstructed the wind, the statues of others will proliferate to the extent that the wind would have to make its way, striking some fifty thousand hands. Any random person can have his statue built in a country where Lord Landsdowne’s idol can be erected. My Lord! Do you too desire a similar idol around it?

How are these statues memorabilia of any kind? It is waste of this country’s enormous wealth and serves no purpose. One glance at it is enough to realize that they are nothing more than temporary resting spots for some special birds. My Lord! What dignity would your idol have there? Here, let me show you an idol, not in the compounds of a fort, instead in the hearts of the people of Bharat. Recognize this courageous man, who thought it was better to engrave his image in the hearts of people rather than building sculptures on grounds. That’s the image of Lord Rippon; and observe this commemorative temple that is sturdier than your fifty lakh’s marble structure, and many hundred times more valuable — the late Queen Victoria’s declaration of 1858. You too can build a similar memorial, if you have any reverence for these two memorials in your heart.