Those were the farewell days of Indo-Soviet romance (Soviet Union was to fall & disintegrate) and an entire generation of Indian would-be ‘intellectual’ kids was thriving on stories of Russian origin. As a part of its brilliant foreign strategy, KGB had successfully infiltrated India’s scholarly souk with Russian literature. Chacha Chowdhry, Billoo, Super Commando Dhruv were yet to arrive on the doorsteps of my mind and I had already found a dreamland made up of wood sunk knee deep in snow.
The book fairs had special Russian stalls which flared with stories of brave princes and beautiful princesses, of how czar was always the oppressor and how peasants fought him. Their socialist communism was beyond the grasp of my juvenile mind, nonetheless not too distant either.
I wished my name was Ivan and I lived in a huge palace, lofty towers in between with onion tops. I wished I could go on adventures galloping miles across the mountains, valleys, jungles and the rivers to fight the evil monsters and sorcerers to win my princess – her skin as fair as milk. And there was Baba-yaga, the witch croaky, ugly yet sensitive to the good. Her hut was always on the edge of the forest, standing on the feet of chicken! It had its back to the visitor and turned around only if the visitor asked for it. How fun would it be to make a hole in the ice on the frozen river and drop bait for a fish that would come out and ask its captor in human voice to leave it so that it could go back to its children. I would have a dog as fierce as a wolf for my pet and a horse with golden hair, falling to one side radiating royalty with every step. Stories of how magical instruments could guide someone to their destiny still magnetize me.
However, to think that Russian stories were entirely different from the ‘snow less’ world would not be true. In some of the stories there would always be a cruel step-mother, who would throw the good step child out in the snow left to die of chill and hunger. A simple village girl’s ugly step sisters would be jealous of radiance on her face. I believe they have a universal theme all over the world, the virtuous staying patient and eventually thrashing the malevolent.
It was a time when czar was still in St. Petersburg and Moscow was no more than a mere tavern for farmers and peasants. Kiev was the stronghold of rich and poor didn’t exist within the boundaries of the opulent city. Only in the more mature years of my life did I understand that the writers always reflected the real impression of oppression of the weak in the country which culminated in the Bolshevik revolution in 1917. In fact, I also read a book based on the mutiny inside the city spearheaded by a trapeze artist – Tibul, who fell in love with the innocent young daughter of the czar while dodging the royal soldiers in the streets. Though it was bustling with violence, writer made special notes to justify the justice brought to the oppressors.
The thick books are still one of my most prized possessions, their stories etched in my mind forever. I may never live in towers with onion tops but I certainly did try to name myself Ivan (unsuccessfully, of course). And that is why, it was through the Bolsheviks (and not Indian revolutionaries) that I understood why writers, poets and artists were in the center stage of any rebellious change; the history from the soviet snow however bloody, had already tasted me, much, much before the NCERT history did.
