Untimely...

Racers see only the racers

Count who is ahead or at heels

Crowd cheers, money flies

Floats the craze, rises the rage

But, racers count only racers

Life and death race together

Collars and shoulders up

Who knows which is ahead of whom

Races go on racing

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! 

(A repost)

Sound of silence !!

It was a noiseless path….in a leisurely afternoon of early lockdown phase. The Red Road of Kolkata was utterly desolate….not a single car visible till the end….not a single human figure or shadow of life anywhere. I drove through the silence of the soul after the day’s work. The Club Houses, The Eden, Fort William were all so silently arrayed on the western sky while the Maidan was sleeping on the east….slipping under a green sheet of gentleness. The Nor’wester clouds had engulfed the wide sky from all over leaving only a tuft of blue over the crown of sacred while Victoria Memorial. Upon the verdant expanse of Maidan, I came across the first sign of life—painted like a surreal image—a little before the turn of the Queen’s Way….one black, some piebald, a few more brown and a lone dazzling white…the horses were unbridled, wantonly grazing upon… elegantly painted upon the dark canvas of sky, so softly spread over the lush green meadow.

I got off….…walked down a little farther to get out of the shades of those giant trees and sat on the floor of grass of the city after so many years. I kept on observing them endlessly while darkness got encouraged and strong wind started blowing. They had no obligation to pull the ornamental carts in dusk….good or bad luck…..to toil in carrying the sightseers around the Memorial and garden….they had freedom for the days frozen in the catastrophe….yet, they continued to confine themselves only to the patch of the field they had been used to…..perhaps, they knew nothing more.

The silence of freedom was evident. The shadows of reality…the existence…was revealing and fulfilling. I let my  dreams walking through the caves of Plato….the prisoners chained to the dark wall for life with the fire lighted behind and counting and naming the shadows—coming and going….the shadows were the reality….the perception of reality….the impression of liberty….in oblivion of anything better known to them than that. The drama of nature had lost all meaning to senses…..no bondage of souls….freezing eyes and ears to the impression were taught to keep the silence….it was all about counting the shadows and attaining the sense of liberty through the eventuality….not to disturb the sound of silence.

The soul seemed sunken to the happiness of surviving the dread of the death so long it was affecting the shadows…the other shadows……without knowing if it was mine or else….counting and naming them as it wished……a perfect tribute to life and the indifference to it….and whispering the sound of silence. The freedom was sleeping in the other world…..up above in the heaven or in the unfathomable depth of the hell….accessible, perhaps, only when the silence would be broken.

The horses were fortunate….they learned it quick….the cave would wait for the prisoners to see the Sun….maybe, at the end of the cosmos…till then it would be an enjoyable, delightful and satisfying soul drowned deeply in the sound of silence.

Last moments...

It stretches the day a little longer

Memories of the Heaven’s blue

Still not died, still not dried up;

The sky is dust of gold

Still alluring

Floating in those vacant eyes

For a few moments left;

The life is a gem,

Spoilt by a failed palmist,

The band of clouds

Over the wings of horizon

Crimson—a stream of blood—

Through the darkness of Hell

Whispering tale of death-eaters;

A dream yet survives

To be there, to be there,

Carrying wounds,

Scars on the path

On those weary feet;

Still a dream survives,

To be there, to be there,

Miles away the home is peace.

An obituary of a dreamer

Was it real? I questioned many times before reassuring myself of its true happening. It had been an ache persistently pestering since before the containment of choices imposed due to assault of the invisible invader onto the earth and it just aggravated as soon as the freedom got stifled by the wishes of men and women in securing an escape from the curse of death. The pain had a simple origin and a single mission. Just to flee. Cared not whether it would a run through the jungle or cycling down to the foothills or sailing the yacht to nowhere or just wandering through the shapeless alleyways of the memories. It was an intense feeling of just running away from a world that spoke a different language what I could understand; and I accepted that it was all my inability, my unsuitability to walk in the middle of the world peeling out the muggle sense and stature. Yet, the world has its own chain of freedoms and keys to allow or deny one or many in a single turn. It would define the liberty in its own wise way and it would certainly be all for my welfare and in course of such, my wishes were tamed to soberness.  

The privilege always dances in a peculiar rhythm. It came unexpectedly when the world got suddenly engaged in a fight for survival. They had no luxury time then to see who all had fled, why and to where. And I fled on a bright broad day. 

The jungle was thinner and, in the noontide, the radiant rays of the middle-aged sun were streaming through the hairs of those tall trees. It dancing footsteps were alike the transient images of the golden deer in the deep forest of Chitrakoot and chasing it had already left my memories turning into pebbles on the trail, shining here and there. I could see the track getting narrower as I began ascending through the clouds mystically veiling the shoulder of the mountain. The jungle was getting denser and dark too and gradually I lost the margin between the day and night. I kept the walk on the edge of the coin without annoying either face. In that day or night, I had my insomniac eyes glowing green to guide me through an invisible path and the thoughts driving me to preserve my existence in a contrasted sequence of experiences. The thoughts were dreams animated and dreams were thoughts frozen while they coexisted without much resentment or integration.  In a similar non-confronting mood, I saw the God, Satan and Lucifer sitting a little far upon a dead branch of an old oak tree. Together they asked, “What’s the purpose of a man here?” I said, “I’m not a man. I don’t have that enamelled soul, those suave lips and that holy wisdom. I am an outcast; an outsider to the world of the man. I am a fugitive who is a seed of a dream that couldn’t prosper into reality; but the dream has lost its prime in the pursuit. It is now like a white beard that shines and swings only.” Satan said, “Then you must be in my team. Hey, God, see! The time’s changing.” Before I could further explain, the God and Satan fell into a real squabble. Lucifer intervened rather timidly, “Come on, friends! Don’t fall into another trap of devious man. They have learnt all the spells to wreck our spines and split our spleens. I lost all credibility only in believing them, loving them. Satan was right to foretell that man was not at all an adorable creation.”

I decided to move on as I had neither any love nor hatred towards any of them, but did not enjoy their presence in my blissful journey. Yet, I couldn’t resist asking only a small question before leaving, “What makes all of you together in such an awkward place at such an awkward hour?” The God whispered diffidently, “We are in crisis now. As you are neither a god nor a demon nor an angel and, most importantly, nor a man too, we can unhesitatingly tell you that we are in a deep crisis to secure our realms from the shameless attempts of man. They are out to dislodge us. It was all my foolishness to bless them with freedom of choices alike I did to the angels. Now, I, rather we all, are victims of their cruel manoeuvrings. In their manipulative tricks those divine choices are now delivering disastrous outcomes. We need to defend the earth and will thrash them, punish them, curse them. We shall regain the world from pervasive ambitions of man.”

As I had no interest in who won and when, I took leave and slowly reached the summit of the mountain. It was dazzling bright with ice speaking to air and sunshine. I could see the small earth below under complete lockdown. People breaking the laws created by own and imposing it also by own might. I wondered if I had grown wings. I could feel my hands were not moving, but fluttering. I was delighted to have wings at last to fly; to fly around, over the mountains, over the dales and meadows, over the rivers and lakes, over the forests. I spread the wings and soared higher and higher in the sky. The earth began to wrap itself and turned into a blue ball floating in a sea of space. I relaxed in a free flight. But, for spreading it for a long time, my wings had melted in the warmth of the naked sun and it almost lost the air in its shrunken sleeves to hold me afloat. Gradually I started falling, floating and falling. The fall was inevitable that I could also sense. The blue earth was appearing closer and closer and I could see her face more keenly. It looked like an innocent face of a child. Did I break the innocence of its crescent face? Can one reclaim the innocence once broken? Wondering and falling, I found myself floating by her side in an eternal sea of thoughts. I drifted and floated and it floated along with me. When waves took us to the shore, I was out of breath. I had no strength left to rise. I could barely open my eyes. I was on the shore. I was on the shore of the mankind. I was lying upside down, my chest pressing the wet soul of the weeping beach. By my side I saw the earth lying; motionless, upside down. Her blue face still I could see. I struggled hard to open my eyes to see her for the last time. Her faced seemed to look like the gentle face of a Syrian kid. A little soul from the other side of the world—bruised and cursed—lying upon his tiny chest on lap of the angelic shore of Turkey. Bloated and floated in a failed pursuit of dream. A dream to see the world in peace; in loving care of little wants of living. I was journeying a new path. A path leading to nativity. To the innocent past of man; the child in him down through the ripples of the sand dunes, where bubbles of ocean were sacrificing the wishes of the expanse; to a world never known, in all darkness, through the solitude of Macondo; erasing the image of the chivalry on the back of the ancient coin. In deep silence, I sank; drowning through the bubbles of memories, rising above from all around, leaving me in an emptiness of mind, thoughts, dreams and desires. I could see the last dream, the last memory, the last desire leaving with those smiling sparkling bubbles; perhaps, they were to build a hope, a true hope to return to the freshness of the day; a forgotten childhood of man.

Illumine...

O cute little Blue bird!

Sing me life

Take me to the caves

To an untold era

Under a stormy night

I shall learn to light a fire

A lamp is awaiting me  

Walk on...

Walk on

Walk on the silver boy

Walk on thousand miles more

Walk on to the moon

Chase the bread in the sky

Who cares?…you live or die

Walk on through the sins

Walk on through the dreams

Walk on through the screams

Infect the world with life

Once more…tearing the deadened world,

In cities of cheering faceless ghosts

Despair

The moment is fading...between the pages of time…

Beneath the clouds—building courage for the fall—

Denser and darker, in complete silence.

The earth is split, spoilt in emotions unchained,

Colours sacrificed for painting a black yashmak,

The day and the night meet no more...kiss no more...

O the traveller of the noontide! Stay far,

I shall walk on in the dark, beneath the flapping

Wings of that night heron, subtly wiping the moonshine,

Denying the sense of being and becoming.

The lone star on the west is just a smudged dot,

An earnest effort to survive, shapeless...inert,

Yet, to trudge up the stairs for it to live a little longer.

O the Supreme! Riven into many, you broke us in many,

Pouring the venomous wisdom into our ears,

Deafening, with endless call for unity and peace;

Turn your wretched head, open your morphine eyes

See the devils designing weapons, honest they are,

Arming to untie the bond that has loosened within,

To scatter us—fragmented and faithless for long,

United they are, unbroken in dream and deed.

Why deceiving us more? The faith is a licence to deceit.

The spring shall be no more...the sailor will

No more chase the horizon...waves will only rise,

For just a final fall...to break into bubbles,

I can see the shore sinking....drinking....the last drop

Of his beloved...the blue ocean...

I can see the forest advancing, now and then,

The lonely moon weeping in the grey…alone,

The flickering lamp is about to be burnt out.

Being a stranger...

Am I just a name? Or just me what they see?

Or a stranger to the way they know?

Am I just what seemingly I am—in life and beyond?

Or just a few footprints on my walk

On a path lost forever in a meadow unknown?

Am I a soul, far away from life’s roll—

Stuck onto a changeless boll—

Like an unnamed flower in an unknown knoll?

Or a path never walked before, yet awaiting,

Or a dream forsaken in dreamer’s eyes, yet shining,

Or a trampled hope in a frozen cell, yet undying?

Maybe there is a beauty—a beauty forever—

In being a stranger to the way they know

Or to me or to what seemingly I am.

Am I just a few senses that paint me as I am,

Of unchained thoughts of defeats and scars,

Of motion stalled and stymied wars,

Of glorious triumphs and crowned stars?

Or are they just what I lose, one by one,

In becoming a stranger to what they see in me—

To me or what seemingly I am.

Perhaps, there is a beauty—a beauty forever—

Of knowing the way I become a stranger to me

Of becoming a stranger to the way I know myself

Of refining an image of being a stranger within—

To myself indeed—or the way they see,

Or what seemingly I am—in life and beyond.

Tale of a copycat.....

Dear readers,

I received interesting information from an unnamed reader this morning. It is in my comment box of my February 18, 2010 post, “The Barman’s string”
http://saibarman.blogspot.com/2010/02/barmans-string.html
and when I checked the link provided therein I was shocked to find its contents...you may check yourself too at
http://mkalkunte.blogspot.com/2010/02/barmans-rant.html
And, on further scrutiny I found two more posts in that blog—one being
http://mkalkunte.blogspot.com/2010/02/tormented.html
 copied from one fine contribution of “Shas”
http://wwwscribblingsonthewall.blogspot.com/2009/04/tormented.html
and another one
http://mkalkunte.blogspot.com/2010/02/memories.html
copied from what I wrote in the comment box of “Memories” written by “Shas”
http://wwwscribblingsonthewall.blogspot.com/2009/11/memories.html
I have requested the blogger to search for conscience....

What I write on my blog are just to share expressions, and they never go for publication elsewhere...blogging and publication are two distinct categories for me which are well classified, both in content and context...and, I don’t mind even if someone wants to use any of my blog-posts for any academic or personal interest so long it bears an honest intention...

I still believe that time is never lost...maybe, only delayed...for to learn to renew trust in truth...and I wish the person finds comfort of a guileless space of soul.

Let us hope that this turns out to be the last tale of a copycat....yes, of the last copycat !

To my dear readers.....

This life has, along its long branches of tree, offered countless leafs of moments for me. Some could comfort a few blossoms of dreams to bloom, and some more to let float its soft pollens of expressions to meander in smooth breezes of relationships. In its enduring presence through seasons, years and decades, it might also have laid some long shadows of memories upon the beaten path. They grow longer, slender and darker as time ushers faint rays of falling sun in through webs of foliages. Perhaps, soon they will outgrow of its own contents and approximations in an intense yearning for to lie just close to the soil that has, for so long, drenched its roots, treasured its fallen leafs and listened to whispers of its mirth and sorrow. In silence, they—the tree, the soil and the shadows—gently weave on its last wishes to merge into an inseparable oneness before evaporating into a grand expanse of darkness.

And, it all happened in its own solitary world unperturbed by presence of anything external to it. It all happily happened within its own pleasure and pain. Yet, someone observes. There are always some silent observers...yes, it has been as my father once cautioned me. I did not comprehend the truth hidden in his expression. It was so long before !

I smell the flowers again where the seed of this life was once tenderly held in the deepest core of love and care. I run through long lanes of remembrances to hear those sweet tunes that they sang for me only. I float again in that pool of childhood innocence. I hear melodies of joy of creation....I draw signs of my love on those trembling lips with my tiny palms. And, I hear again those murmurs of the past...there are always some silent observers.

In truest sense, I opted for blogging to share my travelogues some three years back. Yes, it runs still separately. I opted for another space here to write on whatever I feel...just a freedom road for my thoughts. I never expected readers, nor do I as this page has no specific objective of discussions. Although my travel blog and online journal are comparatively popular in trekkers’ world, I have enjoyed more in writing here than elsewhere for some interesting revelations that it has offered me with. I will mention just one instance to confine to what I intend to finally end with. After publication of a few posts under Kids Zone, there came an email communication from an US teacher. I was really amazed and happy to learn that she had some lively sessions over those posts with her junior level students and even shared some of their brilliant reactions. A few observations were so incisive that I had to subsequently revise my ambition to write serious things for kids in a more cautious manner. And, finely I learnt that neither the teacher nor the students were bloggers but regular readers. Yes, we are still in occasional touch. And, I can feel their presence through traffic feed counts too. This particular event of life led me to embrace my dad’s words intensely. I realized essence of it and enjoy listening to footsteps of those observers, more and more, in our silent trysts. I started observing them too...yes, truly and meticulously, for it inspirational value...I can travel to those far countries, distant cities, remote corners of this planet—from Norway to Australia, from Texas to Bangalore, from Romania to Hong Kong...and, for last a few weeks I can observe gentle footprints of someone...someone so far from Snow Hill, Antarctica.

I honour you all for being with my expressions, for within my inspiration and for I learn to trust you to explore trust in me. I rejoice in being silenced by your silent presence, my dear readers !

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 alluring into the 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 can it then differ from inanimate objects to living beings, trees, and to its higher layers ending with intellectually superior human beings? If particles have finite and definite strength and properties, then it should universally have similar effect for all its compounded functionality. If such power is its real power, then there can be no unreal consequence of its effect in similar situation. But, this happens, and it happens more often than 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 effect 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.

KIDS ZONE--VISION, A DIVINE GIFT !

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 “http://www.climbingforchrist.org/, http://www.my-inspirational-quotes.com/, http://www.touchthetop.com, "Touch the Top of the World" by Eric Weihenmayer, and http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2003/07/0730_030730_everest.html, and.

You will definitely enjoy knowing more facts from the mentioned links and the book ]

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 ]

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.