Friday, 5 December 2008

Amidst trammels in life there still floats a promise of renaissance !

Death—premature or likely, accidental or natural—always leaves an impervious void in souls of those near ones where gentle tunes of life resonate in strings of togetherness. Even memories of sweeter moments fail to replenish such vacuity. It remains secreted somewhere deeper forever in only a few weeping souls. Yet, such death does not offer ripples beyond a limited pool of human relationship. At times, it may infuse a greater collection in society with inspiration, or courage; but it does not leave deeper impact of sense of losing within. The martyr remains honoured as a social hero—a dedicated soul sacrificed at social cause—but not as a soul whose absence is felt deeply only for being no more.
But, when a death transcends beyond a thin horizon of kinsfolk to create an indiscernible hollow in broader ocean of people that gets instantaneously filled in with a dread of losing confidence, a fear of subjunctive sense of calamity, a fright of apprehension and a panicky state of insecurity; then it a terror. It cripples the society as a whole with a collective sense of vulnerability. With such psychosis prevailing, the society often rebuilds itself on more compatriotic sense, reconnects itself with more reasons and human values; but it may also fall prey to imprudent comprehension of reality that eventually leads to impregnate social mindset with a sense of retribution, hatred and ruses of crafty enemy of humanism. It often leads to war. It only travels from one form of war to another form. And, in every war, the victims are innocent people and the values of human civilisation that again take years to revitalise and bloom.
If there descends an eerie darkness, only flicker of hope still shines in peace. Camaraderie of conscious people can only prevent the peace from being at ransom. Let us not leave another page of history of bargaining peace at the cost of vengeance. Let us rekindle deep spiritual consciousness embedded in our culture, heritage, art, philosophy and all other creative forms of human civilisation through solidarity of respecting souls.
In concluding I would only wish to share those beautiful lines of great Bengali poet, Jibananda Das, written some forty years back, but are still relevant (Never mind my poor transliteration) to this present world.

The earth is now sheathed in an eerie darkness;
Those who are blind now see the most,
Whose hearts bear no love or affection,
Where ripples of compassion do never surface,
The world now sways not without their counsel.
Those who still have deep reliance in humanity,
Who still find intrinsic values in great truth,
Or in culture, or art or its fondly pursuit,
Their souls now lay offered at vultures’ feast!

Wednesday, 19 November 2008

Frozen memory of an unnamed Morning Glory

I never knew his name. Nor did I ever ask him about anything except what I could only learn that he worked as a peanut vendor. It was not a long back when we met for the first time in one summer morning. I was on my regular on-field workout when he popped in to wish me, “Good morning, uncle”. I wished him back. Those sparkles in his smiling eyes immediately had flown me several thousand miles where my 20-year-old son must still be on a dream session. He was just of that age and enthusiasm.
Will you go home now, uncle?
Yes, just within minutes. Is there anything?
No, uncle, I just need a few flowers.
You pluck some, if is it for Puja?
Yes, it is. It is for my mom.
Since then, every morning carried jolly wishes of that ever-smiling boy and his presence for a few minutes was a sweet pill of memories of our loving son. Our garden was favoured with another Morning Glory.
Lovely sunny mornings of summer had, in the meanwhile, turned grey with the arrival of monsoon. The veiled sky was cuddling warm sunshine within billowing apparel of clouds as if she loved to enjoy moments of happiness with her sole possession alike a mother with her little angel. Occasional showers of affection drenched arid soul of the Mother Nature. The gentle music of falling raindrops had infused the world with amazement of its simplest tune and rhythm. And, with all these changes around, the morning still did not cease to bless me with the bliss of welcoming wishes of an adorable soul.
The autumn arrived with its bagful of colours. It was now the time to shed leaves, to show off colours before a final parting. Green, yellow, and red intermingled into silhouetted portrait of wide web of branches and foliages. The first rays of the morning sun pierced through that great artistic image to shine those fallen ones; it was last kisses for them before bidding adieu. But, the boy did not come. One, two, three—days passed by—and so the weeks. But, he did not come.
The sun had traversed southward and chilly breezes had started blowing in from the northern corner of the heaven. Butterflies had collected all colours to spread its wings for a few more days. In one enjoyable early winter noon, I met the boy again; now, somewhere on roads. His vacant eyes did not shine brightly when he wished me for the first time, “Good afternoon, uncle”. I wished him back too, but I could hear my own words resonating within in utter helplessness to perceive the pensive portrait upon his eyes. I could only say, “Why don’t you come?”
I don’t need flowers now, uncle. There is just none for me to offer those. I am alone. I miss her too much.
My flowers miss you too much, my dear boy.
We did not meet again. Losing only consoling space of creation is nothing comparable to the greatest losses of life. I walked back home. Fond memories of my mother suddenly started rising up, encircling my body, my soul, from those fallen dried leaves of autumn. I stumbled upon another revelation of my ordinary life; another Morning Glory had left my garden.
The world we see is the most fascinating art of impressionism portrayed upon a vast texture of endless time. It remains frozen in each such tales of life.

Tuesday, 11 November 2008

A stoic evening

The evening stoically hung against the sky
With moments suspended in eternal time;
No wishes for the day to part,
Nor for the darkness to intrude into,
But the weeping flow of life continues.

Smoky air bears fragrance of lust,
Husky voices of unknown people convey
Mirth in losing love and morals;
Laughter bought, passions traded
And, fame shines upon blade of razor.

Some ugly roses, offered and forsaken,
Some ignored innocence, duped and dumb,
Some naked truth, hated and shunned,
Some tender palms, bruised and burnt.

A few wishes still float on with clouds,
A few colours still await some brushes,
A few dreams still dare to unravel itself,
And, the evening still pursues the nest.

Monday, 29 September 2008

Pages from a by-passer's diary--"Life's like that" in College Wallboard

The life is like a tossed coin floated above, spinning around with ever changing faces—of joy and sorrow, success and failure, hope and despair, bonding and breaking up, cognisant and impulsive. None can bet on what it will show up at its eventual fall. Nevertheless, what it reveals may never carry more value in market transactions, but for its experiencing long hours of meaningful flight through the continuum, it gets the precious tag of wisdom affixed with; and that sets it straight to the treasure trove of human consciousness.

Wednesday, 27 August 2008

Pages from a by-passer's diary--"I" in College Wallboard

If I were to die, I would wish not to die once;
Cowards die many times,
O Lord, I lay my valour at your feet!
I mind not, but I wish to be born and reborn
For to travel through those unknown worlds,
Somewhere remote from dins of known.

I would not crave for to be a bird
For to soar high and near to sun;
But a simple life of a butterfly
With a small world in some unnamed woods.
If I were to die, I would have closed my small wings,
And, dreamt through an endless slumber.

I would not crave for to be born again
As a beautiful tulip, praised and loved;
I would have just wished to be a tiny leaf,
Afar and away, for to embrace gentle morning rays,
And, to listen to last wishes of those raindrops.
If I were to die, I would have just fallen unnoticed.

I would not crave for to be another boy,
Respected and revered by many;
I would have just yearned to be again as I
With so much of pains and so much of joy.
If I were to die then, I would lay bare, up above,
Unclothed to my soul, satiated, so near to you

Saturday, 16 August 2008

Tales from a by-passer’s diary—The journey

I woke up before darkness could unveil its last faint cover. Silence of fading night soon swept away in fresh tunes that flowed from wings to wings, branches to branches, and trees to trees. It was another Sunday. An unusually longer summer day was tempted to proceed on.
I worked hard for half an hour on field. Rivers of sweat took curly paths down to the steps irrigating my entire stretch. I walked back to the garden. Horrid sunshine could not wipe out colours of those beautiful flowers—some were yet to bloom, some needed covers drawn. I caressed each of them and my wet palms could feel their innocent hopes. I spent a long time there—watering the soil, prune some unnecessary shoots and weeding out grassroots.
Upstairs I slowly lifted myself. Alone I walked through the long corridor. Six wide rooms were hung on its wall with all encompassing emptiness in existence. It was already nine when I stood before the Lord and mother Mary—prayers on lips, candle in my trembling hands.
It was just like another Sunday—an off day for the maids and cook. My son and wife must have reached the temple in remote high of Himalayas. They would not be reached over cell for a day more. I needed to take care of her Lord here. White marble sparkled in halo emanating from inside the temple. I placed the flower tray at the feet of Lord Shiva, hung the milk pot over the Lingam and prayed what a few sentences I learnt from her.
Time did not move as faster as I wished. I walked in the kitchen, washed overnight dishes and made a pot of coffee. Sipping over it, I glanced through the newspaper—uninterestingly bulged in useless items. The giant clock knocked eleven. I had always envied it and once considered it my choicest enemy for my father’s loving concern for it. He used to wind it every morning, wipe it with fresh white linen until it dazzled in its brown shining skin. It was probably gifted to him by my grandfather.
I came out of cold chamber. I lit another fag. Smoke swirled up, played with southern breeze for a while and vanished into whiteness of void. I finished my coffee. It was burning noon outside. Still, I was not enjoying comforting cool air in closed compartment with an enormous vacuity laughing at me.
I ran out with an empty sack on my back. I let it hang as leisurely as if to set for a trip—a journey to a never-fulfilling destination. Under the torrid sun, I treaded on gently through the county road, evenly stretched till it traversed below the railway bridge. Then it ran along the flight of a fly to end at desolate corner of not-so-long railway platform. The station did not have much to praise sans its glorious imprint in the history of Indian railways. It had existed for ages since railways had its first journey in the orient. It had been a silent audience to those proud hissings of the giant machine, painfully suppressing its burning soul. It stood as a mute spectator to witness panicky run of people when an iron-mammoth sped by trampling gentle soil of a tranquil county.
I could count more dogs than human figures over the platform. The sky was aflame with no clouds to console its parched skin. With a pallid face it stooped down to the horizon. Down train to the city was announced by some sleepy voice. Three sets of rails were still asleep. Soon one would wake up in sensing metallic reverberation through her body. It would have a momentary tryst with her chivalrous paramour for whom it had awaited so long. With sweet reminiscence of his virile presence in her eyes she would again fall asleep and dream on.
I boarded in one deserted EMU coach. One old couple was dozing on the backside. Ahead all thee rows were vacant. Two milkmen were discussing something at the end row. I could see none else. I moved on through the aisle to those seemingly vacant rows. I was about to take my seat by a window when I saw a little boy on the other side of the row. He was half-awake. Hot gushing air was fashioning newer and newer waves with curls of his abundant hairs. He was holding a wooden box—some shoe polishes, brushes and a few dirty cloths—by thinly palms while his half-closed eyes were set to longer than its foci. I gazed on his gentle face adorn with wide brows, a straight nose and perfectly pink lips holding an uncanny smile.
The train stopped at another station for a while but none boarded in. I was not feeling that alone. I peeped through the window. I looked at those huts, buildings, pools, paths, trees and accompanying tracks, all moving in a sequence—nearer they move faster. I was enjoying being alone when someone stayed nearby. It was a peaceful silence; a silent peace.
The boy straightened up. Stared straight at my eyes. Smiled. It was ingenuous yet melancholic. His eyes were as wide as my son’s. I smiled. Another station came. One peanut-vendor pushed in. His toiled face crafted with signs of futile struggles had numerous streams—streams of sweats, sorrows and life—flowing down to infinite hollowness of life itself. I bought two packs.
The vendor disappeared. I put one pack of peanuts between hardened palms of those soft little hands. Speechless we watched each other. I was frantically searching for some words; what to say? The agony of being is to experience whole of it. The life does not offer liberation from such excruciating pain. Finally, I spoke out.
Where will you get down?
Just one following the next.
The boy paused for a longer time, but spoke again.
Where will you get down?
Don’t know, maybe, to the city.
He smiled quite broadly. He looked like angel amused by my insecure destination. It prompted me to justify my words.
I mean, I don’t have a plan to go to any specific place. I have just been out to be out of inside. It is Sunday, an idly long holiday for me. When you have enough time to spend but nothing definite to do, it makes you feel caged in futility of life. One feels nice being in deeds.
I see. I enjoy doing work. I have no holidays. Since my mom got injured while working as a mason-maid, I have been out for work even when I had fever.
What does you father do?
He stays away. People call him a thief. But, he loves us too much. When he comes home after a month or two, he brings sweets for me and my two little sisters. He doesn’t drink or beat my mom like every family in our slum. He wanted to send me to school. But, I don’t like that work. I enjoy what I do. So he put my next sister to studies. Ha ha, the following one is sure to go too when she grows up.
You enjoy your work. If you study then you can learn more things, get a better job.
I don’t need a better job. We are all happy at home. I earn a lot. And, I really love the work. I can make an old shoe shine like a new one!
How much you earn a day?
Enough ! Even on dull days I can earn 20-25 rupees.
His eyes were innocuously sparkling with all pride of achieving and satisfaction. Yes, enough. My childhood crept slowly into my entire judgement. A one rupee coin was more than enough for me and my two cousin brothers. We did not have added flavour of own earning over it. Yet, we used to celebrate that day as a millionaire. We would wait anxiously for an old gentleman. The Cakewalla—a Bihari with a peculiar Bengali tone. He used to carry a large black trunk. We wished so long to see what treasures were there inside. We loved the most the first sweet smell from inside when he would open it; slowly lifting one tray after another. The prettiest ones would be surely in the last layer. On most occasions, he used to give us some attractive items as gratis. But, the sense of having enough evaporated through years of maturing. We silently walked into the world of dissatisfaction, unhappiness and wanting.
I have to get down now. I like you.
The boy smiled as widely as his little face could hold it. He got down waving his slender hands.
I smiled too. My thoughts stood defeated. I stood utterly defeated amidst all my boasting successes in life. I felt alone again. The world seemed crushing upon me and I wanted to get out of those falling walls and roofs.
I got down in the next stop. I wanted to come back home. I wished soulfully for a return journey to the place that I had left so carelessly. I wanted to come back to the abode of happiness that I had not cared for so long. The deeds were all for doing. The love was all for loving. The prayers were all for praying. The soul roamed chasing a forlorn solitude that ignored those loving eyes, comforting hearts and warmth of togetherness shamelessly.
I keyed in. The summer day had almost faded into the twilight. The last rays of sun had intoxicated the world. The day’s work had ended for the birds. They would soon share their nest together. They would sing the last tune for the parting day.
I stretched myself upon the settee. The night unhurriedly drew its curtain; a cool breeze poured in, wiped my forehead, and softly touched my face. Afar the stars stared at me with tiny twinkling eyes. A wet flow ran down. My eyes were lost in holding those sopping dreams; it drenched my skin, went deeper bedewing the veins and arteries, and the deluge swept away the soul cages with whatever it had wished leaving behind only some shiny droplets of emotion and a few unpaged promises.

Friday, 15 August 2008

Freedom !

In an environment insured with freedom of speech, words will often fly from mouth to mouth, streets to alleyways, rivers to oceans, villages to cities, but, seldom it speaks the heart or comforts it. It gets enormously occupied by whirring expressions of freedom while thoughts silently weep in the dungeon of soul.
Liberation of confined speech has, perhaps, been bargained for freedom of thought. Only hopes can offer some flickering shines upon those dark cells.

Sunday, 10 August 2008

Creation succeeds in conflict between real and unreal

Life is beautiful for its innate sense of creativity. It daintily expresses the beatitude of its being. Even when it fails to appreciate its deeper relevance of its continuance for years and ages, it remains unfailing in appreciating the beauty of its creative self. Life for every living being has a mission that is justly expressed it its own intensity of creative sense. It does not differ much from a cellular form to higher level—of insects, reptiles or mammals—and, finally to human beings.
But, thinking beyond what is scripted for its mere sense of creativity is the philosophy of life. It excels its objective form to attain more subjective analysis to unveil a broader horizon. It transcends beyond a finite edge to search for a greater space full alluring infinity in its sky, clouds and environment. This is what that makes human superior to other species just in like manner as life itself makes living beings superior to non-living beings.
Yet, it is pretty intriguing fact to experience that essentially what is there before us is nothing beyond a structural pattern of some elements and the science tells us of only a few sub-atomic particles that do the splendour in creating whatever we see. What has ever enthused me to ponder over how it can then differ from inanimate objects to living beings, trees, and to its higher echelon ending with intellectually superior human beings? If particles have finite and definite strength and properties, then it should universally have similar effects for all its compounded functionality. If such power is its real power, then there can be no unreal consequence of its effects in similar situation. But, this happens, and it happens more often that it does not in this world of our experience.
Before analysing in this way and much before I could acquire some elementary idea from the views of the greatest philosophers, I had always been queerly fascinated in perceiving the world itself as an unreal world. It included and includes my own existence, my ancestors, my descendants, and all that is there in this world of experience. And, with years of maturing, I have become more inclined to believe that the creative sense is just a thought—just a message—for glorifying a scripted conflict of real and unreal experiences. I cannot sense why should there be such conflict and why should it continue—for whose interest and wishes; but, I find myself more comfortable in believing in a philosophy of life that tells of unending allurements in thinking processes that make it sustain through creative expressions.
Often I think of an image—maybe, a reflection of great mountain range upon placid face of a lake or a virtual portrait upon a mirror or just a photographic sheet that holds the past for years together. What intrigues me is how far they are real. People will definitely convince themselves in doubting over its either real or unreal existence. But, they are in full view before me; so they should be real. Light reflects it before my eyes, reveals it to create sensation. If my vision is real, and if my sensation is real, then what causes it to respond should also be real. But, a reflection of that mountain series can never reach us to a reality beneath the face of that lake, or the photograph of the past cannot be a real fact of experience for many who have not experienced it their own eyes. Then they must be unreal. But, can an unreal object cause real sensation ? If that be so, then there must be something inherent to sensation which does not depend on the object’s real or unreal existence and it is only a creative sense that reflects itself in its own wishes to experience real in unreal or unreal in real or in any other permutation of those experiences.
But, even when we accept that the creative sense can perceive and translate any subjective observation of real or unreal into any chosen form of its wish, then it should also express uniformly for everyone having such creative sense. An unreal thing may have dissimilar effect on various observer for its fundamental void in objective existence, but how can a real object appear differently; it should have uniform effects upon the observing minds for its finite causable existence. Surely, it does not happen in our experienced world. Our experiencing remains dependent upon observing minds—the subjective self. Thus, the objects cannot be a real object. The world we see cannot be a real world. The observer cannot be real observer. Only the thought is real; it only carries the power to bring about any result it wishes to see. And, there lies the creative sense to explore reality in an observed unreal existence and it flourishes in the conflict of real and unreal world within the thought process.
What I intend to present here is nothing more than a few words that will float in the net for a finite time; it has its origin in my own thoughts, but shall remain afloat in the world of unreal existences. People from all over the world writes articles, uploads images and share feelings and thoughts over the net; they all float in an imaginary world where nothing is presented in real ink or colours, people read in knowing not where it is stored. The creative world of our real exchange of expressions also yields before the world of unreal objects.
Forget this article in such a fashion that it keeps on floating forever in the void between those two worlds—the real and unreal.

Tuesday, 22 July 2008


Dear kids, I had read about this gentleman when the world was all standing up in applauses to his unbelievable achievement. I wept for long when I read his book “Touch the Top of the World”, and I could come to learn about Eric Alexander also whom I undoubtedly believe to be an idol of true friendship for his untiring efforts that could make his friend achieve the feat.
It was a dull Sunday evening with clouds hovering pensively over the sky when the cell rang to connect my son’s school number. It was my younger son on the other end. After monsoon vacation, this was our first verbal communication and we discussed for quite a long time. Before it was time to conclude, he told me, “Dad, I just forgot to tell you one thing. They will be telecasting Erik’s journey to the summit tonight in Natgeo. We are all set to view it in school. You and Mom, don’t miss too !”
It all brightened up in joy. We kept ourselves glued to T—the item I have never befriended with—for hours. Every step that fell on that tough track of ascent, from one camp to another and to the summit, had had pounces over my aching chest with doubts despite confirmed knowledge of its eventual success. I kept on watching him crossing a series of ice-faults separated by unfathomable voids through makeshift bridges, traversing glacial zones adorn with alluring crevasses and negotiating those merciless ice falls and finally, trudging on just a table-wide narrow ridge along South Col. Yes, he was there on the top of the world—atop 29,035 feet crown of the mother planet.
The gentleman I talked about is Erik Weihenmayer who unfortunately lost his sight at an age of only 13 years. But, he did never let such adversity interfere with passions for life. Yes, godliness can only reach up to holiness, and, he met Eric Alexander, a divine gift to humanity who himself was a renowned climber, but instead of achieving personal feats he offered his soul towards making others achieve newer heights. Eric was engaged in helping teens with disability, particularly with visionary defects, to explore beyond limits. Yes, his mission was named too as “Beyond Limits”. They met in 1998 during a seminar. Two hearts were soon lost in each other to realise eventual victory of human relationship.
People raised many questions when they heard about Erik’s dream about touching the summit and the most were averse to Eric’s support to make such dream realised. When their dream got the blessings of the almighty, the world stood stupefied and Eric gently said, “We shattered the perception the world had about what a blind man could or should do. We silenced doubters. We even silenced our own doubts.”
It was May 25, 2001. Erik Weihenmayer became the man in the history of human progress. Again, on September, 2002, he was atop Mt. Kosciusko in Australia to become a member of only 100 mountaineers who had climbed Seven Summits—the highest mountains of each of the seven continents. It did not end his journey. Success is only a turn in the road we travel. It encourages us only to walk towards another turn.
Dear children, I sincerely believe that most of you must have known those facts, at least a broad overview of what I have so far discussed. It is neither my wishes nor my dream to make you aware of human successes. I only wish to make you feel that seeing is not the vision. Millions of living beings are blessed with that beautiful sense that enables them to explore colourful world. The journey that we travel is there for letting those shining rays together light the candle within. That’s the vision. That is what Erik did. That is what Eric did. Sight is a pleasure, insight is godly. That is the vision.
I will definitely love to mention what Erik told Tom Foreman about his feelings after summit :
“ Tom Foreman: All of us who have not been there, imagine the view. What was the sensation for you?
Erik Weihenmeyer: I could hear prayer flags flapping in the breeze and I could hear the wind and the sound of space and I reached down and touched the snow. I didn't have those views dropping away in front of me, you know, but I think a summit is a lot of an internal feeling anyway. When people say they summit mountains for a view, you know: Get a pretty picture of the mountain and save yourself two-and-a-half months of work. I think it's a lot of an internal symbol of what your life is about. ”
I will continue to hope that you will feel about who is blind, the person without ability to see or those without vision. I keep my soulful wishes that your innocent souls will feel enough passion to make the candle lighted within your gentle consciousness. Once it is there, it will endlessly go on emanating shining rays of trust, truth, faith, compassion and knowledge. There lies the lotus of humanity, the dream that HE blessed us all with to realise the dream of being together with HIM for ever.

[ Acknowledgement : I sincerely acknowledge contributions made on this score in “,,, "Touch the Top of the World" by Eric Weihenmayer, and, and.
You will definitely enjoy knowing more facts from the mentioned links and the book ]

Friday, 18 July 2008

Empowerment and Equality !

Some days back I heard kids discussing over why I had been into blogging. Their personal likings might have probably discouraged them to go for any acerbic comment, yet it abruptly concluded (maybe for my presence nearby) with the cutest one remarking, “He may be hoping to publish a book and must be just judging how readers will respond to it! Maybe, he looks for the comfort of safety.”
Their discussions truly amused me for their so much of concern. I doubt not their sincerity also. Although I have neither any plan to publish a book nor any regular readers, I found their discussions interesting for the inference drawn in the line I mentioned before. A kid can also analyse how important the sense of safety is in relation to human thought-process and action. I wondered for a few days over the whole of whatever I had overheard. Strikingly, it pierced into my deeper self and I found it more interesting when debates went flying in some other blogs over the issues primarily dependent upon human actions and its relation to comfort of safety, protection, empowerment and sense of equality, however greater levels of intellectual discourse they might be. It only generated a newer sense of identity to which I had so long been oblivious. I wished to go on pondering over and over again with a faint hope to touch that illusive thread, which possibly entwined all resonating chords of human aspirations into one finite objective of securing itself.
In this modern world, our civil society holds high the banners of adequate empowerment and equality for all over all other emergent social needs of humans. Without going into any debate on how far they justify the present stature of socio-economic progress, we may reasonably infer that they are priority demands to which majority of civil movements are actively involved. But, do those two pillars of our long professed civil societies stand justifiably when tested against the history of human civilisation? Do they even correspond to each other and can they be supplementary in true manner towards generating a cohesive structure of civil societies upon it? These are the questions that had torn apart me on instigation of a mere childish remark of an adorable kid.
The history of human civilisation does not show us anything contrary to the facts of its seemingly evolution around securing protection and comfort of the species. While the demands of empowerment and equality, in many forms ranging from individual to social to regional to national to international configuration and concerned to ideological to racial to religious to gender-based to ethnic, surfaced time and again, but what has apparently led to are mere corroboration of our historical past. The progress of human civilisation did never comfortably witness those two prime pillars to hold its burden upon in unison, rather it always encouraged a balancing game of interchangeable priority of one over another through its journey. I never claim to validate my expression in order to demean tireless efforts of our forefathers in raising our entity as the supreme one amongst all living beings. Yet, with my little learning of history its progress through thousand years of journey in this world and with a far lesser faculty to appreciate entirety of such enormous contributions, I have found myself comfortable with such a distant generalisation as I penned the starting line.
Whatever we have guessed about our past are also important events of history. Whatever we believe in professed philosophy of human life are also contributory to history of human civilisation. They all lead us to agree in oneness that we were different from other species since we had been here. We were weaker in strength, but stronger in soul. Thoughts were our assets while our existence was vulnerable. Protecting our existence had been the prime concern of our ancestors. They had to wander alone for food and water in deeper zones in jungles. Collective strength, they thought, would save them from wild animals. They formed group that turned into a stronger unit of extended family. They were some way safer in securing daily needs of sustenance. Wiser they became; they learnt to move near to rivers and water sources for further protection. Slowly they learned to make blunt weapons to make hunting easier; discovered to light fire, and with that magic power, they became concerned in protecting themselves from mighty contemporaries. They formed clan to get stronger unit. Soon they discovered iron. The triumph to control fire and iron gave them confidence to go for further exploration. They found copper, learned to make bronze and they could start an improved society by then with sharper weapons, usable tools and utensils. They thought to protect themselves from nature’s wrath; slowly learned to weave cloth, build house and proposed to transform fertile land as choicest field for growing food. They experience greater protection while they learned to grow grains, irrigate and cultivate land and use weapons more effectively.
The phase of protecting themselves from assault of wild animals was about to be over while a new crisis too birth. The society which had more food security, more weapons and more numerical strength thought to attain further security in sustenance by overpowering societies with lesser strength and engaging its members as their slaves. The slaves were to work, hunt, cultivate and fight for their masters. The clashes were then to take place between super-societies identified by such ruling masters. The sense of protecting by then had traversed long to relieve them from threats of wild animals to newer threats of societies of same species. Groups, clans, societies clashed; some merged with other, some vanished and some fled. Whatever be the position, societies became broader, voluminous and took shape of settlement, village and county. Finally, along the geographical concept, nations were born. The nations then fought for own protection with other nations. Comfortable living had offered richer societies more time to engage in thinking and exploring. Religious faiths, customs and rituals were introduced to have greater control of the society over its members and more to secure it from every vulnerability to external threats. Nations soon became conscious of religious identity. They fought against each other with frontal cause of religious supremacy while hidden objective of securing supremacy of rulers. The sense of supremacy seemed analogous to safety and security. The wraths of famines, wars, and calamities were to be withstood by the slaves to secure comforts of their masters. The empowerment of one has always led to inequality for others and equality of some led to ignite passion for empowerment in some others so the equilibrium could again be broken. The history shows us the process repeated in this fashion so far.
Thousands of years passed by in delivering newer and newer consciousness of life and such revelations took societies transcending one horizon to another. Levels of security and comfort also changed. Developed societies were engaged in colonisation of under-developed or semi-developed societies in newer fashion. Diverse forms of oppressions are devised basing on, either individual or collective, state of caste, economic-strength, gender, skin, ethnicity, religion, military strength, and even intellectual privileges. Conflicts between religions, working classes, castes, ethnic groups, and mercenaries went on happening while the strife for empowerment and equality overshadowed one another in their subterranean flow through history. In this article, I have not indulged myself into undermining either the cause of empowerment or the equality; but only to draw attention to a fact that history of human civilisation has not indicated ever to acknowledge mutual dependence of those two ideals in securing primary supremacy of humans as species. Only one front has primacy all through is the concern for safety and protection, either at individual or collective sense. I find its validation in what kids were discussing over my concern for the comfort of safety. I don’t know how far I am satisfied with my own analysis, but I am satisfied enough to place it before the readers for their own individual appreciation.

Thursday, 19 June 2008

Homecoming !

Yes, there will be no homecoming this monsoon, my son ! We will together move, run, ride and trek all through the hills and vales in Himachal during your vacation. We will have long hours to walk side by side and to sit by some unnamed poolside in some idle evenings. Together we will lay our ears to hear nature’s own tune that it plays forlorn in deeper world and will also breathe in full with different smell of its soil, foliage and air. Yes, togetherness is always enjoyable, be it on homecoming or being away from home; it only brings homes together—homes where souls reside.

My dear son, once I read about homecoming for a son separated for years from his parents. It was during tragic Second Great War. The young scientist was Sam Goudsmit. When back to his own place where he had had spent the most beautiful years of his childhood, his youth, his eyes sparkled in joy and glistened in sorrow—in remembrance of those happy years of togetherness and its melancholic absence.
When Goudsmit, as a member of American Intelligence on German progress in science, could afford a homecoming in an idyllic Holland countryside during later part of the war, he thought of comforting lap of his blind mother, her smiles and gentle presence, and those comforting pats from his ever-caring father.
No, it was a homecoming, but without those most beloved souls. The war had already set the destiny. They were dead in Gas chambers. And, when he scanned the records a few days after, he could only be shocked again to learn that they died suffocating on the day his father had his seventieth birthday.
If you want to cry aloud, read what Goudsmit himself wrote about it :

“The house was still standing. But as I drew near to it I noticed that all the windows were gone. Parking my jeep around the corner so as to avoid attention I climbed through one of the empty windows…..
Climbing into the little room where I had spent so many hours of my life I found a few scattered papers, among them my high school report cards that my parents had saved so carefully through all these years. If I closed my eyes I could see the house as it used to look thirty years ago. Hear was the glassed-in porch which was my mother’s favourite breakfast nook. There was the corner where the piano always stood. Over there had been my bookcase. What had happened to the many books I had left behind? The little garden in back of the house looked sadly neglected. Only the lilac tree was still sanding……”

That’s all before we move out for the vacation….
[ Acknowledged with deep regards ::
Brighter than a thousand suns
by Robert Jungk ]

Wednesday, 11 June 2008

My offering !

I never thought of attempting translating Rabindranath Tagore's songs !
He has been my source of inspiration, ever-enriching my thoughts, philosophy and ever more in realising my own existence in this beautiful world.
The following poem (song) belonged to the original "Gitanjali" written in January, 1908 ( the Bengali chosen collection of Tagore himself, not that won him the Nobel ) and for years together it has been the morning hymn that I (we) hear to welcome the day and the Sun !
My reader friends, be sure that it is a futile attempt to convey deep philosophy and devotion that the great poet expressed in his original contribution; still I felt to do so only to share even a fraction of it with my Non-bengali readers. In doing so, I tried to be as honest to convey the spirit, not the limited meaning of the words.......
It is my tribute to my eternal guardian, my conscience-keeper, the great poet and a greater human being, Rabindranath Tagore; I have nothing to lay before as my offering but to pick up only from amongst those in the tray that he once had offered before the ultimate self....
The Bengali version is :---
...............Nivrita praner debata
Jekhane jagen eka
Bhakta, sethay kholo dwar--
Aaj labo tar dekha ................
The transliteration follows :--
Where the Lord stays alone and awake
In a recluse corner of my soul;
O Devotee ! Unbolt the gate;
Let my eyes satiate in splendour of His presence !

I know not whom do I seek
Wandering all the day out and afar;
Only I overlooked to learn
How the evening sacrament is performed !

With the beams of thy radiant life
I let the candle of my life be lit;
O Priest ! Let me alone arrange
The tray of my offerings !

Where the meditative self pursues
An all-embracing piety of completeness;
O Lord ! Let me also touch and hold
A thin ray of thee lustrous spectrum !

Monday, 9 June 2008

The seed that was sown in another June !

A year has sweetly sped.
When my fingers touched to mirror my expressions on this blog, they delightedly danced to the rhythms of my heart; it was all about a short trek to Nachiketa Tal.
My journey in the blogosphere commenced with that brief travelogue in June, last year. Months hence, I opted for an exclusive blog ( Footsteps…..) to write on travelogues ( only a single addition so far after transferring of four posts originally appeared in this blog ). I wished not to part with my first post, but had to for assuring myself of an unbiased attitude.
But, sailing against melancholic waves diurnal and nocturnal thoughts along the annual course touching the equinox, zodiac and events of my destiny, I have reassured myself to honestly honour my first post on this anniversary.
It was the seed of the past that bears the root for the present.
I reproduce the post ( as existent in my travel blog ) just to acknowledge it as the seed of this blog…
Dear readers, you like it or not, please acknowledge that it is the seed !
“ Posted by: Saibal Barman Wednesday, June 6, 2007

Nachiketa Tal

I never thought that a lake so near to a State capital could be so silently laid.
Nachiketa Tal is only 30 kms away from Uttarkashi. Trek starts from Chaurangi Khal, a usual stop on the main road connecting Uttarkashi–Lombogaon–Gourikund. Just a four km leisurely trek through the solitary path will make you reach the Lake. Kissed by gentle rays of the morning sun peeping through the green veil of foliage, she blushed in alone and unnoticed. Alike gleaming mirth upon sweated face of a mountain lass, her countenance presents a perfect union of joy and innocence. Along the trail, sudden encounters with fascinating panoramic vista of the Himalayan ranges are only offerings that you carry along for her.
The path laden with fallen leaves passionately awaits your warm presence; with every turns it presents a newer way of experiencing beauty, and silently it translates your hidden desires expressively intense. It lays upon lonely content with its natural beauty and virginity. It bares itself as pensive as a tragic heroin seemingly posing for the last shoot of her show. Her native exposure betrays her natural independence of commentaries and enthusiasm as you forget to understand what nicety is there while endowed with a deep feeling that it is just good to have a life in this beautiful world!
You can only hear aching sounds of twinging dry leaves trampled under your footsteps; some ignored murmurs of slender trees and unheard tunes of some unseen birds renewing in every moment of creation.
Someone who loves nature will certainly feel relieved that there are still some places, some vague patches remain where the earth finds its childhood cradle still swinging!

Tuesday, 3 June 2008

Truth is thy religion, so is love !

Gentle kisses from lips hundred, wishes flew to the boy christened;
Yonder was the girl carried to Lord Shiva’s feet so sacred.
Years went by, love flourished, and wished they soon to wed;
Faiths fought, Lords were shunned, just to relish unity in hatred;
Up above from the Heaven’s sky, Lords together smiled and blessed.

[ It is an attempt to write a fifty-five poem.
Inspired by Indicaspecies..
The readers may read her Here ]

Friday, 30 May 2008

KIDS ZONE--A few words to think for the rest of vacation

None can betray you unless you open the window yourself;
None will mistrust you until you loss faith in yourself.
You will never feel loved until you start loving others;
You can never make others happy without yourself being happy.

Tuesday, 27 May 2008

KIDS ZONE--My dear little teachers

Dear children, I can surely hope that you have some idle hours now in vacation to spend on something beyond your regular studies. With your amazing presence in my life, I have learnt to feel sacred touch of each moment of my journey. Never before I could see the world so clearly until I get to know its myriad reflections upon your innocent souls. Every aspect of life conveys me a newer meaning in liberating my mind and thought from the guilt and bounds of knowledge and experience. I owe to you for this finest revelation that the passion for experiencing things can only add value to knowledge; else it dares to expose its absolute fallibility despite all its profundity.
Just to my mind appears a perfect instance of your silent teaching. Some months back, when the winter was curiously gazing upon the world to view its magical effect, I had been enjoying company of a sober boy by a poolside. He has always fascinated me since his childhood for his disciplined approach to anything in experience and absolute religiosity in expressions. While his father had a Christian inheritance, his mother belonged to a Hindu family. With their marital union both the paths have meaningfully mingled into his view of life. Over his face sparkled a gentle shine of the fading sun. While deeply engaged in staring at the dark face of the pool he asked me, “How deep is the pool?”
“Maybe, some 15-20 feet, as it colour says”
“Quite deep. Yes, quite deep to hide secrets underneath. But, does it have tides too?”
“No. Rivers close to its mouth can have tides. But, that’s ever-renewing scorecard of endless game between sea and the moon; rivers only display it.”
He sat silently for long time and then said, “Depth is dull enough. It loses rhythm in holding secrets only. It misses the mirth in rhythm and remains dark and stale forever. How joyous are tides—they are only effect of greatness over great—the moon and the ocean.”
I never thought about it in such a fantastic way. I felt guilt of all dark stale knowledge that I had cherished so long to hold as secrets within—to boast of, sell to buy respect and fame. This little soul transformed the twilight into a portrait of my vacuous existence. He did not need to explain what he so fluently said and such a few words tore apart millions of pages of books and words afloat around the world before me into a singleness of a perfect moment of wisdom.
I never consciously felt recognition of young mind during the phase of my own youth. I couldn’t understand why “Child is the father of man” as felt by Wordsworth. I had been engaged in measuring the depth unfathomable while ignoring its absolute revelation in simplest term of emotion. I had never been a great soul to have effect of such greatness in the poet. I am not even now, but only endeavour to be a river near to a great ocean.
My dear kids, I wish to share this with you to make you feel why you are so important to the life that promises the future of this world. With my little love in heart and scanty intellect in brain I have pursued to know more than what I am credited to. Still I loved reading literature, history and science. Those three aspects of scholastic pursuit have necessarily run down midway for being bereft of both devotion of heart and intellectual essence in me. But, whatever little passion I have hold in me has always been for knowing unattainable.
I always felt happy in company of both history and literature. They seem so differently attractive. Literature is boundless, spontaneous and a space where I can simply lie leisurely in her lap. It is just like my mother. I can weep, I can laugh, I can play, I can shout, I can do whatever I wish with always rewarded with an unending love. History is disciplined, bound, logical and systematic. It is like my father. It shares its love only with guidance of its past successes and failings. It is conditional for good or bad to choose. Science seems to be a music that borrows its lyrics from the history and the melody from the literature. It has both vision towards horizon and its feet on the ground. I love to look them as such.
But, being renewed in your lovely companionship, I have recently felt very differently while experiencing tryst with those of my beloved subjects. A much-read book now bares a new revelation. You have given away this priceless reward to me.
History of Science is an interesting subject. It is the costliest aspect of human progression towards both pleasures of creation and pains of destruction. It deals with people of the highest intellect, great philosophies, and conscious individuality, who had to struggle more with stubbornness of rulers, religious preachers, and political masters than the complex explanation of events in the nature. Their crises were multifaceted. Science needed a tranquil thought-process in individual consciousness, humanity needed a strong presence of conscience, and society needed comfort and security of their contributions. These crises in them and their journey through such crises have been the finest attraction in the History of Science.
But, while re-reading one such fine history by Robert Jungk I experienced altogether a different feeling for which I only owe to sacred teaching of you, my beloved children. It evolved around the events concerning political turmoil in early 20th century over the effects of the first World War and its impacts over Science and technology with over-approximation towards feeding the conflicts and, in the midst of all such turns of social progression, the fate of a bleeding society of the Scientists who had ever been satiated in its own humble peace-loving environment but could not withstand the socio-political pressure upon concertedly.
I didn’t understand the crises fully in course of my previous numerous journeys through it. Then I felt that the German Scientists were intellectually more individualistic than those of Allied countries. I always felt pity in how miserably they failed to feed the social demands of Germany. They had a vast pool of brilliant scientists, superb educational atmospheres like Gottingen, Hamburg and Berlin, and a strong cultural base to entwine all fine faculties into completeness. Nevertheless, the history conveyed me of its faster declassification with the wishes of its political masters in comparison with what happened in the rest of the world at that time. I thought their devotion towards both the nation and the Science was not so pure compared to that of those migrated ( rather forced to leave Germany ) or domicile scientists of Allied and neutral countries.
But, when I read it again twice this year, I was shocked with shame to find my utter intellectual bankruptcy. The history of Jungk clearly defined how pure were the great German scientists towards committing themselves to humanity that they did not engage in manufacturing an atom bomb for aiding an evil hand and wilfully wasted time to shatter hopes of its mighty rulers just to protect innumerable deaths of civilian societies across the world. The collective responsibility of those scientists was pure enough to shed all apprehension of what scientists of Allied countries were doing. On the other hand, great scientists of Allied countries were slowly won over by fear of impending disaster at devil’s hand that eventually put them in claustrophobic cells of terror. It was truly for personal experiences of many of them to apprehend such a disaster and there is no iota of doubt to reason that even a smaller bomb would have been shelled by the then German ruler had it been offered to them by its scientists. But, what matters most is those great men could not differentiate between the political masters of Germany and its scientists on intellectual terms. The people they worked with in same laboratories for decades were undervalued as human beings. When the war was about to end with bomb ready in military hands of allied nations, one of those greatests of the great scientists, Albert Einstein regretted for once having advocated for attainment of super nuclear power by Allied nations before it was done by Germany. He led all his life for peace and humanity; yet he had to bear the deepest scar of war upon his mind. Individually some of them took enough initiative to embolden the neutral society of scientists and even dared to express their opinion risking own career, reputation and even charges of treason. After Hitler’s authoritarian acquisition of Germany and its consequent effect in purging of Jewish intellectuals, some of the greatest German scientists did not bother to oblige the rulers. Professor Hilbert, a great mathematician, who had to take over the charge of Gottingen University had once answered to a query of the then Minister of Education, Rust. Rust asked the professor, “Is it really true, Professor, that your Institution suffered so much from the departure of the Jews and their friends?” to which Professor Hilbert simply said, “Suffered? No, it didn’t suffer, Herr Minister. It just doesn’t exist any more!”
I shall conclude with some meaningful words of respect of a great father towards his scientist son. It was a tribute not only to his son, but to humanity itself.
Pastor Emil Fuchs was the father of Klaus Fuchs, the great atomic scientist, who was convicted with the charge of treason for espionage scandal for supplying security inputs of scientific data to other world. His father spoke in an interview about his son:--
“As a father I can understand his extreme inward distress at the moment when he realized that he was working for the manufacture of the bomb. He said to himself, ‘If I don’t take this step, the imminent danger to humanity will never cease.’ He thus found a way out of a situation that seemed hopeless. Neither he nor I have ever blamed the British people for his sentence. He endures his fate bravely, with determination and a clear conscience. He was justly condemned under British law. But there must of course always be people from time to time who deliberately assume such guilt as his………….His action imperilled the highly paid and distinguished post he held and a still more distinguished career in the future. I can only have the greatest respect for the decision he took…”
I have no matching tribute of any father for any great work by his son so meaningfully conveyed to the future generations.
But, I could only realise his message only for teaching, bit by bit, I have received from you all. I love, my kids, for making me thinking honestly, to trail back to the world of peace and believing in others.
That is my honest tribute to your commendable contribution towards my life. Wish you all spend nice summer vacation with studies, games and all nice hopes and dreams.

[I thankfully acknowledge quotes in this essay from the brilliant history “Brighter than a thousand suns” by Robert Jungk. This has been used only with sharing academic aspects with kids without any effort of infringing copyrighted authority of the great author and his publisher]

Wednesday, 21 May 2008


Kids, I’m sorry to be late in offering you a vacation topic to ponder over. Here it is (Just a few lines for you only in the midst of a bit busy schedule these days ) ……
Enjoy Summer vacation…

“There are people, who have failed to win confidence in self, to win trust in fellow hearts, and, lastly, to learn from earlier failures.
War is a collective nuisance of those such people whose futile pursuit of vengeance sustains only in furtherance of a sole common objective of erasing marks of all previous defeats.”

Saturday, 3 May 2008

An innocent revelation

Honestly, never I had met before with such an unusual interrogation when sweet pink lips upon an innocent face quietly liberated it straight from the heart.
Is my mom really Narmada?
What makes you say so, dear?
No. Sadhubaba told this to me.
The kid had just returned from a nice trip to Madhyapradesh. It was for him a dream travel with only his mother accompanying. It was to happen for them, so fast, so soon that neither his brother nor his father could take part in according to their own preoccupations. Yes, it was to happen inevitably as I feel the most now on retrospection!
Interesting! What did the sage say about it?
He was a gentle wise man whom we met at Maheswar temple. Long 107 years had travelled with him to deliver signs of age and to bless with a sacred smile and profound wisdom.
None told us about him. We walked into the temple and we met. The sage looked up, stared for long at mom’s face and then smiled. He kept on smiling as gently as moonshine falling upon a vast field of ripened wheat. He spoke not, yet his lips quivered under caressing white beards upon his face.
Al last, the wise man struggled to stand with his frail stature and could finally settle in holding mom’s hand. He drew me near and I could then hear him saying, “Here is my Narmada. I have come here from Haridwar and have waited for months to meet you only. Now I will have my deliverance. Mother, you bless my seat, my god and let me feel ecstasy of eternal happiness!”
Mom could say nothing. The wise man took her to seat on his sacred seat. The glow of a morning sunshine flourished all over his face. Slowly he lifted the veil upon his own sacred possession, his god. He offered it before my mom. She touched HIM, embraced HIM, wept profusely to bathe HIM and remained speechless for hours.
Before we took leave, he had wished no more to meet again. He only whispered in my ears, “Let your precious life remain as worthy and sacred as the place it had had its birth.”
I never doubted of what the little boy was telling me about. I knew his worst enemy had ever been the falsehood.
I went on dreaming—a reverie that took me to a world which for so long I had never even perceived. Sins in me had held my vision blurred; I wished to smell the fragrance of holiness, but could never do; I longed to sing the sacred hymn, yet failed to grasp its tune. My world seemed to soar high with an innocent revelation of amazement upon the fairy’s innocuous eyes.
I came to consciousness when those pinks lips again sweetly expressed, “If she is Narmada, who am I?”
I could only utter, “You are a temple on her bank.”

Tuesday, 22 April 2008

The postman and a bagful of memories

A brilliant post by a fellow blogger has had its resonating tune playing with my mind.
( To read the original :-- Our Nomadic Future )
A tranquil subterranean flow of thoughts has suddenly felt a hidden desire to emerge and seek pleasures of presence of those glowing rays of sun, kisses of sweet gentle breeze and whispers of those mirthful trees. It yearns to revisit the ruins of a civilised mind that has its confined existence in a dungeon of connectivity of this modern world.
This world has numerous languages; some are dialects, some have broader realms and some are at deathbeds. Still each has a glorious past; a past that once comforted souls of some of our ancestors, sweetened their lips and conveyed their love, anxiety, concern and wisdom, which has nourished tender saplings of humanity.
As human endeavour to reign in time and labour has prospered indisputably during the last few decades, it also brought forth an unappeasable insolvency in defraying on for peace and contentment. And, the society and its citizens are afloat on a vast pool of time with no time to spend for its own.
Life has broadened, connectivity has drawn the remotest horizon to an atomic distance, and time has endowed humankind with all its opulence; yet the string that binds souls has slowly slacken off. Words have learned to shed its feathers, one by one, to clothe in newer forms. Messages have learned to clip its wings and adorn itself in SMSs. Those short signs still communicate, sometimes they connects hearts with passion, emotion and love; yet it fail to get warm cuddling of unfamiliar souls, to connect people beyond in process and to enliven the social environment. Sharing of human expressions remains a disconnected beat in the sweet rhythm of melodious social harmony.
The postman who had carried bagful of emotions for so long years has now had enough fertile time to seek pleasure of a trance, which will lead to a quick end of his duty. And, for me? Closer to end of my journey, I have ample time to reminisce—to reminisce about those postbags, those letters, those simple toiling lives and those precious moments that time offered generously to me. I wish to share the excerpt of one recent post in my travel blog........
( To read the original :-- here )........
…………Next morning, when we boarded the first bus to Ukhimath, it was just three quarters past four. The darkness of a dead night had still not silenced its dirge. A faint glow on the eastern sky was a promise only. The stand had a leisurely gaze on its sleepy eyes. The bus would start sharp at 5 for being in mail service. With us there were only six other passengers.
It moved on laden with a few of juddering lives and a bagful of human expressions in sharing love, pain, concern, anxiety, and wishes. As soon as it left the main town, we were left with a road to run and mirthful Mandakini to accompany of the left. Soon we were joined by a pool of tiny tots—nicely dressed for school—at the next village. And mailbags were dropped and some fresh bags were collected. Abundant beauty of nature, laughter of those innocent kids, and occasional trysts with some known, some unknown villages carried me to a state, where I had longed so long to belong, yet it never sustained in the melee of brutal city life. I could feel pure efforts of so many souls that make us convey a single line of love or pain or else to our loved ones—it takes aids of so many hands, meet so many bright innocuous faces, listens to so many intimate exchanges, runs so many miles softly caring the seeds within, and observes expressions so closely of both the writer and the reader. Someone whispered to me, “Each of us is only one such message”. I was lost somewhere and woke up to sense when someone again whispered, “It is where you wish to reach”…………

I wish to live on with memories of my postman, my society, my long letters and my useless, yet soulful life.

Tuesday, 15 April 2008

KIDS' ZONE---A divine gift

[ It has not been a long past when all my confidence over this blog got a crushing before the valuation of some sweet little kids, who found it as boring as their grammar books. I was literally hurt but soon got to reason while my youngest son advised me to post some stories I had written for him only. I do it now to honour their wishes..
This is purely in the Kids’ zone….This is about "A divine gift".......]

First tunes of few just—awakened birds echo from hills to forest to welcome the first morning glow of the Easter Sunday. Soon the ridges that look like long walls on the east will reveal an orange sun. Its very first rays will kiss crests of those slender trees, and, fast everything will get its luminous touch.
Joe gets up. Folding palms near to his chest, he whispers the morning prayer and leaves the bed. Sunday is always a different day in his residential school. It doesn’t have scheduled classes and home studies. Moreover, it is the Easter Sunday. So, daily errands are faster done than on any other day. Soon Joe is neatly dressed up and joins friends and teachers for ceremonial service. Although the spring has already arrived the morning breeze is still pretty chill in this hill town. Candles gently held between tiny trembling hands the big queue of innocent souls walks on towards St. Mary’s Grotto.
For Joe this walk has ever been fascinating. He loves the road silently laid in an idle morning with fogs hovering above. The busy market seems asleep deep with dreams of prosperity. The toy train tracks appear narrower and Joe loves to see how local lads use real toys to carry water-pots from source to dwelling places. But, the most enjoyable tract is where it runs a steady ascent through the pine forest. Joe can distinctly hear whispers of each of those trees. It finally reaches the Grotto where Joe puts his candle. More candles are placed, one after another, by his friends. Its smooth flames tremble with relaxing touch of the morning breeze. Soon gentle light and trusting souls illuminate the semi-dark cave and the smiling face of Mother holding her baby Jesus fills Joe’s heart with innocent joy. He can see somewhere in her face, ever smiling face of his sweet mother. And, instantaneously a few bundles of white fogs start swirling around and Joe can smell soothing fragrance of his mother. The Grotto has been nicely decorated with colourful ribbons, white roses, long pine leaves and some freshly bloomed rhododendrons.
Together they walk back singing beautiful tunes of hymns all the way. Joe offers a part of his breakfast and neatly finishes the rest. The environment takes him so floatingly away from the world of dins and funs that Joe finds peace more in sitting just by the side of his pet window. None knows but Joe talks to the window when alone; he even calls it by a name—“little world”—and, he loves clear long glasses it holds so wide to cover the most distant fading lines of the horizon. It is open to the south-east and Joe can see part of the plains long below where rivers and brooks have drawn numerous interesting designs. Here Joe has seen how birds build their nests in early Spring—they do not ask any one else to help, they just do it together, picking twigs, one by one, and put them neatly to make a warm place to stay for a few more months till their babies grow enough to fly on their own; and some day before winter, they will move out to some other place joe never knows. All these together make it the most trusting companion of Joe.
Joe opens it up wide and gazes beyond. His vision jumps upon, hills after hills, treetops to treetops, swings around a few mounds where tea plants have freshly been trimmed and again it soars high to catch up mountain eagles and soon glides down sweepingly near to the valley where some woodpeckers are engaged in playing a repetitive melody.
But, when it finally ends its journey, Joe is taken aback to find someone’s presence so near to him, yet unbelievingly he turns around to take no notice of it. Still, he hears some long—known’s sound, a musical one; and, soon he is called by name. He can no longer ignore it as a matter of past, as a matter of dream or a matter of fiction. He is sure of her sweet voice and it cannot be of anyone else.
“But, how can Minie come after so long time?”, Joe wonders.
Minie, a brightly coloured butterfly, has been a friend of Joe since his childhood and, to be more specific, since Minie was a caterpillar. She is the most talkative living being Joe has ever seen or met any during his not very long life. Despite all these facts, Joe used to enjoy presence of Minie for two reasons—firstly, she used to smile and smile even while speaking; and secondly, although she had a nature to carp on everyone’s action and find something amiss in anyone’s quality, she never doubted so of Joe ever. But, Joe hasn’t seen Minie since the last two springs. He honestly hoped for her coming back during the first season and sincerely believed that she would never come back for the next.
A very thought of Minie’s presence fills Joe’s soul with much nostalgic air, and memories start appearing, one after another, so fast as if it has been a child’s play of turning pages of a picture book. Joe recalls Tod also. Tod is tadpole; rather was a tadpole. He must have become a proud frog hopefully since Joe has not met Tod for more than a year. But, those days had been so rejoicing to remember when he and his two little friends had had all funs and freedom to get closer to the nature.
Joe remembers and smile makes his lips wider and bubbles of laughter starts brewing inside. He recollects when on fine morning he introduced Minie to Tod. It was near his beautiful home—a space with numerous trees, flowers, and bushes surrounding a saffron bungalow and a placid pool on its south. Tod was a cute tadpole with a shining skin, as dark as Joe’s naughty boy shoe. His eyes were as big as the gem on the ring that Joe wears on his right index finger. But, Tod had been pretty polite except when someone asked him anything about his somewhat awkward tail.
Minie had been too conscious of her beautiful wings. On seeing Tod, she started laughing so much that it was about to choke her ever-resonating voice. Finally, when settled, Minie asked, “Joe, that’s your new friend with neither a pair of wings nor a pair of legs? That’s so funny a creature!”
Joe did not like Tod to be so crudely described, and that too by one of his closest friends. He immediately rebutted Minie as furiously as his polite nature could permit. Yet, it didn’t discourage Minie to engage in further questioning.
“Tell me Joe, how could one spend his life just by swimming throughout?”, Minie queried.
“No, I will soon have legs, Minie. I will soon be hopping around all over the earth, even farther what your little feeble wings will ever carry you with!”, Tod retorted.
Even before Joe could intervene, Minie, as ever forthcoming, took a swift glide with fluttering of wings so nicely that even a foe would not fail to get tempt to appreciate her beauty. She finally sat upon the spectacles safely rest upon Joe’s slender nose and spoke musically, “Tod, how could you hope for a pair of legs while you don’t have even a faint sign of it on your body, and what will you do with your tail then? You will look like a Kangaroo then, Ha Ha !”
“How could you get those wings with so many colourful rings on it and only a few pairs of legs while you had had so many legs as a worm? It is as simple as that.”, Tod asked pretty intelligently.
“Hey, I had never been a dull colourless worm, Tod. Joe knows how green silky skin I had had then. Yes, I didn’t have wings, but had millions of thin hairs on my body to bear enough sign of having wings one day.”, Minie replied.
Joe found the debate going beyond its usual place and put a full stop with all assertiveness, and said, “Dear friends, we are all friends here. We should not discuss about how a worm can transform into a butterfly, or how a tadpole can become a frog, or how legs could change into wings or a tail could turn into legs.” Joe was quite satisfied to end this long sentence for it had silenced both his arguing friends and truly suppressed his own hidden desire to know how really those things happen. Nevertheless, he felt to drop the idea of knowing about it for in weighing the benefits of not knowing about it. Although there was the least possibility of those arguments leading to battle ( or fight in a qualitative term ) as neither minie would surely plunge into the pool to get drenched nor Tod would fly in the air to get dried up alike a wafer, still Joe didn’t like to be a witness to friends in conflict. That was not his nature. So, he bunged up all with as much authority as the bangs of the Jury’s hammer would bear.
A rather persistent call brings Joe back from the dream—walk down the memory lane. It is truly Minie saying something to Joe. She, in the meanwhile, has perched nicely upon her favourite place, the golden circular frame of Joe’s new spectacles.
“Joe, just forgotten me? So serious are you in studies and of a composed presence in those Harry-like specs that you haven’t wished me back, friend!”, said Minie seemingly hurt.
“I’m so sorry, Minie! I can’t believe that you really are here. Where have you been for so long, dear friend?”, Joe said quite apologetically.
“It’s a long story, Joe. I never wished to leave you all; still it was to happen and it happened when I was supposed to sleep for days and nights during winter—for us a long winter!”
“That must be a couple of years back when I had been enjoying my winter vacation. I had so much of fun with my parents while roaming around in Sikkim, laden in snow and fun. Was it not the winter you are talking about?”
“Yes, Joe! It was absolutely that season. It was a week hence since you had moved on your family trip and the moonlit X-Mas eve night had found me gently laid on a fragrant Basrai rose. I couldn’t feel sure whether I’d been awake or asleep, and my dreams seemed as real as were my realities. I fondly kept my wings folded and was felt to be smoothly swayed in gentle wintry breeze. Not afar, Christmas trees stood dazzled with tiny twinkling lights all over and a soft tune of holy air pervaded the world.
It was then I heard a sweet melodious tune—sweeter than anything I had ever listened to before—and while I gazed on, I could see a sleigh sliding down the way up from the hills. I had never seen him before but his smiling face—whatever little space it could hold uncovered within flourishing white beards—and a concerned call poured in enough vigour to let me rise up and see what was happening. I get awed in hearing so beautiful a song he sang….

…..In icy cold and wintry breeze
When all nice kids just shiver and freeze;
Here is Santa! Come, dear, come!
Brought these cakes, rich and warm.

With fun and love and wishing good
For your joyful dancing mood;
Here is Santa! Come, dear, come!
Take these gifts and share friends some.

I have only a day to roam
Till I return to my heavenly home;
Here is Santa! Here I go,
With lots of kisses and loving glow.

……And, I could not stay unmoved and sprang up and fluttered close to him. I stayed hypnotized over his sacred appearance and soon neared to find myself sitting on one of the railings of his toboggan.
He softly touched me and I could feel the warmth so full and comforting that it left me wondering what a bliss it would to be ever blessed with his eternal presence. I took no shame in saying so to him candidly and wished to roam around in his heavenly abode.
He looked at me, closely held me within his warm palms and whispered, “Minie, if you really want to go, I will surely take you there for a brief visit. But, you little dear, should love the place, feel peace, and shed all desires for own beauty and luxury. Will you and can you?”
I felt all shame in my soul for being so much boastful for what he meant, and soon my heart swelled in a strong sense of penitence for sins I had so long committed. I could realise that it all meant nothing in face of what sacredly peaceful and loving gesture of that great old man. Weeping I said, “Yes, I shed all. I love to be in peace, feel blessed with such heavenly bliss even for a moment, just to be back again here with a refined soul. Dear Holy man ! For me, no much time is left to live. I want to end it meaningfully. Please bless me so.”
He took me along. We rode miles on his sleigh. Deep imprints on ice it left looked like puzzling lines to the horizon. And, he took me there, the place up above in the sky, with twinkling stars so jolly and near. And, the air so refreshing in the paradise. The flowers I chose to sleep over had no sweet nectars to tempt, but had so relaxing taste that it quenched my thirst for long. They had no dazzling colours to get amazed; but its warm cosy embrace offered me the nicest dreams on my eyes in ease of my slumber. There was no cause to hurry, no pause to worry, none to remain unloved and none to envy.
When it was time to bid adieu, Santa kissed my temple and wished me a piece of gift. My old yet renewed soul did not crave for any, friend. I really did not wish to seek anything. His gentle voice then murmured, “Minie, say not “No” to what I like to give you. If you wish, give it to the finest soul you know down in the earth. This is not a gift but a true blessing of HIM.”
I had always missed you a lot and I had never known of any better soul than of my dear friend. I said, “Santa, I have a friend, Joe, who is as loving and caring as you are. I truly wish to carry such a divine gift for him, if you so bless me.”
Here is this tiny star for you, Joe. I wish you keep it on your pendant for ever. This ever shining little star of the Heaven will forever fill your soul with all holy feelings. This is what your friend, Minie, has brought for you, Joe. I have a very little time left now. Our life is not so long like humans. My journey will end soon. I wish you accept it and let me go. This will keep us together for ever, friend.”
Tears rolls down the cheeks of Joe. It is not for that Minie has brought one of the most precious gifts for him, but to witness how godly changes Minie has undergone with a sacred touch of Santa.
Joe, for the last time, holds Minie within his soft palms, loved her and gently rubbed her wings. Minie smilingly takes leave. She vanishes into smiling white clouds loosely hanging from the bright blue sky.
Joe finds himself alone again by his pet window, “little world”. The tiny star hangs on his pendant down from his long neck. He could see its shining face, and could feel Minie’s presence too. He feels presence of someone else—his mother, his God and an ever-pervading peace in soul.
Few repetitive calls of Brother Roberts rebounds inside Joe’s mind-lanes. “Yes, dear, it is now time for Lunch ! Come soon, Joe !”
Joe cannot discern whether he has so far been dreaming or not. But, his heart is so full of mirth and peace that he joins up others soon in the Dining Hall.
Some of his friends surrounds him and get so close to Joe that he can listen to the beats of their fast-running hearts. With awed eyes, one of them asks, “Joe, how sweet is the pendant with that twinkling star! Where have you got it?”
All queries remain answered within a gentle silent smile of Joe. Together they all smile…smile for ever…

Tuesday, 8 April 2008

An idle brain and some stupid thoughts

Imagination stretches the realm of intellectual competence of mind; but also attempts to sail wistfully afar towards some illusory horizons and mislays the anchor where it finally loses power to govern the whole anymore.

Thursday, 3 April 2008

In the name of the Father !

It was one monsoon day. The morning could reveal itself only through some grey patches on the overcast sky. The previous night was spent amidst angry shouts and flashes of thunders and I could only hear occasional beats of a faintly tuned music of falling raindrops. It was still a busy morning for me—to get ready by eight and set off. In a few seconds, I was seen walking towards the Bus stand. It was not raining, yet it had its presence deep in my thoughts and surely, in apprehension of its arrival at any moment. Such a pensive countenance of nature had a strong reflection upon the mirror of the city life of some twenty-five years back. And, I was left in the emptiness of the world with sky, sun and rain all veiled in uncertainty.
While in the midway to my destination, the nature could not hold its suspense any further, and it started raining furiously, as if to lay bare its anguish hidden so far and so long for to share with someone who never came. I hoped to comfort, console and hear, but I was left ignored with myself.
The bus dropped me at Mayo’s crossing and was soon vanished. Like a spoonful detergent in the eddy of washtub, I melted into dense walls of rain. Before I could decide whether to take shelter or not, I had almost run a few hundred metres. My glasses were weeping. I crossed the road with all confidence in mind of getting smashed under moving cars. When I got myself settled comfortably, I could realise that I was still alive, drenched completely from head to toe and had fifteen minutes before the first lecture was scheduled to start.
It was for that lecture only I had taken all troubles to reach my college. Within a few minutes, I was knocking at the dark brown door of a first floor room in St. Xavier’s. “Come in” sounded instantaneously and I rushed inside to find him fully dressed for the class.
“Hey, Shishu ! You’re soaked ! Put on that shirt, quick !”—he spoke as hurriedly as his nature could allow him to do. While I changed, he lit a galloise ( a French navy brand of cigar) and put it between my lips. I enjoyed its strong gust running through narrow avenues of my lungs and puffed out a grey cloud of smoke.
It was time for lecture to start, and together we entered the classroom—a meagrely represented—to be soon greeted by bursting laughter of my friends. When it mellowed down to silence, my septuagenarian companion said, “Kids, today we will discuss how meaningful is the spontaneity of joy over experiencing a new piece of knowledge, as you have felt in observing Shishu having put on my shirt, and what is its functional relevance as explained in mathematical philosophy.” He went on explaining a new facet and traversed from nature, rain, life, mind, expression, and finally to its reflections through mathematical functions. What he taught was what he was scheduled to teach on that day; but he began and ended with a new event all together to make learning a joyous soulful learning.
The man, I was talking about, was Reverend Fr. Goreaux, a great mathematician, philosopher, physicist and a superb human being. He was twice honoured with Doctorate in Science for his outstanding contribution to both Mathematics and Physics, latter one while working under one of the greatest Scientists of modern world, Albert Einstein. My words and thoughts will never be able to measure the magnitude of his vast knowledge, the profundity of his spiritual and philosophical opulence, and the devotion towards advancement of learning. In one single sentence, he was an idol to whoever had come to his proximity.
And, for me, he had been more than anything that could describe of an individual and a human being with similar flesh and blood like us, but so enriched in every aspect of human expressions. It was he, for me, who stood as an altar where I could have no sins left with me, no thoughts unexpressed and no pains uncomforted.
His lips were as pink as that of an infant, despite withstanding heavy smoking. For me and my closest friend (who is a renowned professor in PenSU), his prefect’s room was a world where our ideas, ideals, and expressions had taken refuge.
One day, after the morning lecture, he invited two of us to meet him in the afternoon. “I have a great surprise to share with you, kids!” We had quite anxiously passed through the day expecting a new discovery, a miracle of Science to be revealed before our eyes (quite naturally from a man of his character) and rolled into his room as soon as the classes had its end. We all sat together, cigarettes dangling involuntarily on our lips and anxieties frothing inside, and his soft voice conveyed, “ Here are those keys, I have added to my typewriter, and, you see, how perfect their strokes are !”. Those type-keys were all manually set against riders to get mathematical symbols to be typewritten. It might seem to be an anti-climax, but we were maimed by his innocent joy of exploring at an age of seventy plus and its richness in sharing so joyously. We learnt that only true knowledge could contribute to such innocence.
It did transform our life. We could not transform ourselves alike him; it can never be imitated; but it richly contributed to transform our views of life. We could learn to feel why those men were great, and why they had been so godly.
Father, endow me with strength just to embrace this much of faith and belief till I live in this beautiful world.
I miss you Father, I miss your warm off-white shirt. May God feel ever satiated for having created such a perfect being.

The epitaph !

Between leafs of time  S leeps the untold tale of life, In dreams of love and love of dreams. Smudging the margin in between The ...