The sky blue envelope

It’s still raining here, my son!
The sky blue envelope sleeps in warmth of my palms. It’s yours, I know. I let it sleep, sleep for a while after miles of journey!
I open it up slowly, smell your sweet fragrance and run through the images in flashback—like a stream that never flowed before. Dear, I find you scribbling—pages used by—and sitting by a solitary window you look afar through drizzles of nature’s laughter. I can surely glimpse the face that lugs along the yokes of severance yet flashes in the mirth of ceaseless togetherness—I go on observing--smitten by bliss of absolute love!
You write, “It’s raining here, father!”
Every little drop descends leisurely from an unnamed cloud and enjoys pleasures of uniqueness and finally mingles into a pool of entirety. We remain captivated by its distinctiveness yet fail to delineate its pride of existence. We perceive of its sojourn that interweaves individuality with whole, still fail to behold of its meaningfulness.
It’s still raining, son!
Clouds meet above in hazy sky and greet each other with spurt of thunders—faces gleam in ecstasy of reunion and I sit quietly by a solitary window. Through the veil of cascading raindrops inanely I stare at— meadows and trees and mountains sitting speechless—the world pensively lying idle.
The drops trickle down the window pane; they yearn for what they know not, and rummage around to find ways deep into my soul. They walk past myriad ways that were never trodden before. They come out—drenching every bit of my innate pride with divinity—and bid adieu. I keep on wondering why they came and why they are gone. I remain captivated by such tryst, sudden although a certain one. I cry unsure of whether it is for pain or pleasure, but I cry aloud. Tears roll down my cheeks and drops find their way long, long enough through my soul, to meet into finality.
I could see only those innocuous eyes, which sparkle in thrill of delving into newer pathways—running deep into an unplumbed depth—that lead to the subterranean values laid hidden for years within, still uncultivated. I find reasons to believe in your eyes and start to learn why you wrote, “It’s raining here, father!”
I long to know why it is still raining, my son!
Let it rain, let those clouds roam around and meet in exuberance, let those raindrops fly down and find their ways deep into our souls and let us cry in joy of unearthing a true world of togetherness where only souls find distance annulled.
I close the envelope—a sky blue envelope—that I know to be yours only, my son!
I remain seated by a solitary window and find you by another, some hundred miles away.
It’s still raining here, my son!

[ This was my first post on this blog in another June of 2007....reposted again here ]

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.

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!

The Recess

I take leave now, friends!
It’s time to dream now; those serene dreams of losing individuality! No set dowels of fluttering flags of triumph will await me while I pursue a silent walk through those forlorn valleys. I will listen to murmurs of those fallen leaves and tunes of some nameless birds. My wandering soul will feel alluring presence of an imperceptible companion. I shall rejoice in forsaking manacles of prides and prejudices. I will tread on a few more steps farther to nowhere with only my beloved accompanying by.
Perhaps, kismet may not be bounteous enough for me to elude incarcerated city life for long; but, will it be sooner than the next New Moon? I doubt.