Me

Don’t dig me up

Roots are still wet

Fresh leaves of Spring

Had enough sunshine

Rain I love, the weeping tales

Of dove beneath grey eyebrows.

Don’t dig me up

The pearl is yet to shine

Moments to walk long

Rustles of brown leaves

Strewn on pavement of life

Undusted for so many years

Don’t dig me up

Down to the stairs still

Childhood gestures

An inseparable illusion

Of me, my tree, my seed

Of memories neatly painted.

The day I was born

Long nights and days sped by

To yearn and earn and count and die,
In loving spree and dreams and cry,
In heaps of petals fallen and dry.

Swirling serpents—smoky dread

Invading sky to paint and spread,
Erasing signs of innocent myths—

Cradled so long in cerebral piths.

Promises faded, one by one,

Nothing was lost and none has won;

Reaped not harvest, seeds not sown,

The last wish awaits the last ribbon.

Moments flee, pages burn,

And ashes fill the memories’ urn;

Yet the sojourn shines in glee

When life recounts its first turn.

(A repost)

Such is the path of your creations...

"Tomar Srishtir Path" was the last poem of Rabindranath Tagore....he dictated his last two poems lying in the hospital bed...he could find time to edit the earlier one, but this last one remained unedited....he died a week later.
I transliterated the earlier one, "Dukher Andhar Ratri" a few years back, but found it extremely difficult to get right words to convey right feelings of the original one, yet have just attempted it finally...


O the Supreme Charmer! Such is the path of your creations,

Tangled In a bizarre web of deceptions,

You have laid traps of your illusory faith

Slyly in a simple life;

Such treachery has only crowned you with

The glory of your avowed greatness.

Denying even a secluded night for an innocent soul,

The path that your constellations lead to

It is his insight—the conscience—forever unblemished;

His unfaltering faith has gleamed it eternally radiant.

May he seem outwardly devious

Yet resolute he is in the core,

It is his precious piece of pride.

May he seem distressed,

May he appear harried,

But he seeks for the truth

In innermost cells of a self-illuminated soul.

Nothing lures him away,

He leaves only in treasuring the final reward.

He who bears through ceaseless assault of your deceit,

Blessed he is with the bliss of peace forever.

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)

Naming life !!

Every life has a unique tale to tell. It scripts itself as life meanders on—staggering in aspirations and desperations, enamoured of passions and illusions, armed with name and fame, induced with dreams and deeds, and inspired with wills and nerve—in wealth of ripening. Numerous bends on its course—some meaningful, some memorable, some forgotten or some tragic—are testimony of its conciliation with the circumstances for sake of securing own existence. Yet, it presents a sheer bafflement in defining itself with an identity—an identity that establishes, who is who, which is which and what is what, in the mirror of the world around. It raises an awkward question, “Do I exist sans a name?”

What is in a name? Even an elementary scholar knows what Juliet expressed in her soliloquy. The name binds the bond, tears apart too. But, does it deny the existence too. It raises my perplexity and I carry it for so long.

Once I met a little girl and her brother (I wrote about them a decade back on my blog too) who did not have any name. Is life such meaningless that we presume that they don’t exist at all? Nameless is not faceless, yet the story of a life seems suffered when it is exposed to social scrutiny. But, is such an average assessment defines existence in life ?

In peaceful settings of Manderley, second Mrs Winter didn’t have any name. She narrated the tale of her life—her dreams, seclusion, haunting shadow of Rebecca, indifference of her husband—the killer of his first wife, and gradual accession to confidence. All without name in the entire novel.

Jane, an orphan raised at the home of her aunt, when was asked by Mr. Rochester, “Am I hideous?”, replied affirmative with certainty. She was the governess in his house, love him, he didn’t disclose about his earlier marriage and it all surface when she was about to get married with him. Rochester had a name and fame too. Yet, his real face is hidden. He was still bearing a faceless identity before Jane, and with certainty. They got married and the novel had a happy conclusion. Neither name nor fame nor its suppression was a matter of rejection in life.

Meursault was enraged and brutally killed the Arabian. The glimmers of the sun on the edges of his rapier generated so much irritation that he couldn’t resist himself from such crime, and without any future remorse. Was it the Sun, or the Arab man or the knife or the hatred or the intent of crime to be blamed; or the namelessness of the Arabian? The killer had a name and pride of race, but the Arabian didn’t. The novel of Camus evolved around the life who was nameless native and justice was faceless. The stranger remains a stranger so long life doesn’t attempt to know it. Knowledge is, perhaps, also something which exists when known. Does life have similar existence? I exist only when you know that I exist and get attributed by a name to be known? My confusions have grown up with me since childhood.

Jeanne’s life unfurled itself in exploration of delight in everything and died in disillusionment of its staleness. She tells her life through the events of her life. Nothing more than that. Yet, the existence retained itself without her professed identity in social mirror. She spent her end days forsaken—the dreams dried, emotions died and prospects baffled. In concluding sentence, she tells Rosalie, the maid and the mother of her husband’s son, “The life, you see, Rosalie, is not so good or so bad, what people think.’

Life, perhaps, is an impression. An impression has complexity of explaining the truth and value. We run after it without knowing, and leave it when experience. Our pride confines us only to its grave.

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  

Destiny

Dreams breaking into memories

Passions destining …keeping some,

Some not….why?…perhaps,

Only seashells know

O rain, sweet rain

O rain, sweet rain !

Keep falling like laughter

Weep alone through my pen.

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.

The journey to nativity

Darkness….lovely darkness…the smoke around..

Swirling up…sketching elf in white cloak…fading somewhere;

Alone…the silence…mind drowning thoughts endlessly…

Lay me there….sink me deep…to the native land

Where once I floated for a while…

Before laughter came out of loud cries…

Where it all started before it all about to end so soon…

Destiny has already scripted the epilogue….in absolute darkness.

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.

Destiny !!

Destiny reigns; silent and ageless in the

Mortuary of passions and thoughts;

An indisputable certainty in the vacuity  

Of an eternal flow of senses—within and without,

For a deadened soul to reprieve and reproach.



Life denies life and death derides death;

Delight and sorrow walk away—hand in hand;

The proximity of the present erases the face

Of the past—the moments, hours and years;

Shrivelled eyes fail to mirror a path unbroken.



Time smudges the image of a decent moon

Painted upon a dark face of young night;

Jacob and Esau battles within her womb

With promises of two distinct futures;

Never knowing which will shine the dawn.



From the vacuity it rises and dies within;

The margin between the fortune and misfortune

Is wiped up in the hollowness of events;

Enduring a greater fall to attain a loftier ascent—

Oblivious of the certainty scripted for the End.



Destiny defines; the present is of sheer suspense

Secreted within the bankruptcy of a dead past,

And the prospects of an unborn future;

As night is stifled between the legacy of a day spent

And the certainty of a fresh dawn.

Summer Vacation Topic--Kids Zone !

Waste no time to become good….believe me…believe in yourself…you are good….spend every moment of life to remain just that….just not let it turn bad in exploration of becoming too good for this world….

The summer reminds me of those long vacations….of those idle afternoon hours of sitting alone by a deserted pond when neither fishes spoke to me nor did I….and of a simpler life…of crying every time when Joan sang Guantanamera….of people still having time to be by your side….of no racing around in the hollow of goodness !!!!!!!!!!!!!

Take care, kids !

The paean and the pyre

He had never seen gentle smile on his mother. Never had he known his birthday. Since sensing the beauty of this world, his only own and known person was Father Brown.
Father Brown was a clergyman who had spent several years of missionary service in his native place. Devastated Europe after two great wars had a handful of people of ability and sincerity to work for the society and after his successful attainment of a degree in medicine, he wished to spend rest of his life in social service. When he opted for serving lepers in some remote Indian village, a great society of missionary colleagues had considered it a huge loss for Europe; but he travelled thousands of miles with a sacred smile spread over his face like wings of a springtime butterfly. He was soon seen cycling around a few small hamlets—bulged with numerous humans of diverse age attempting to sustain with primitive superstitions, poverty, and ignorance. The soil of civil society was yet to be irrigated with moral values, education, and basic living conditions. It was long past when the man of fifty-four years started residing in a small hut at one edge of those clustered darkness.The boy pressed his weak palms over bearded face of his old friend; a few drops of blood oozed out from those lips that smiled for its last time. The boy wept for the first time in his life. Through a hot smoky curtain, he could see Mother holding her son; burning and melting, still holding. Within his swollen eyes he held that image so long he could keep those open. He stared at. His body, soul, blood and existence—all were melting along with his dreams—his mother. She held her close to lap, comforting. He could see that divine smile on her face. The boy smiled for the last time in his life. His eyes were dreaming—closed with pain, sorrow, and joy for being through the life; it went on dreaming until darkness evaporated into the eternal slumber.
The next morning was bright. The peace was perfectly pervading all over while a burnt hut and a bundle of charred life inside reflected its muted existence in life, in its entirety.

Remembrances....

Silently they sat in the rooftop terrace. Slender leaves of tall coconut trees were sweeping the silicon sky in gentle southern breeze while bathing naked in silvery moonshine. Their sunk faces were half-lit in faint glow of nearly-burnt candles—broken souls of twenty five soldiers arrayed in stupefying defeat of their fallen martyr—and half-silken in gleaming touches of the pretty princess of the Night . Upon a tiny stool stood an image of their little angel—their Angelica, their Anjali—lovingly puffing nine colourful candles elegantly placed upon a boat-shaped cake in dazzling splendour in blushes on her angelic face. It was another Full Moon evening....of the last ride together. Drawing sweet tales from hidden chest of remembrances tears went on whispering into Deepsikha’s ears—creeping into cells of her soul.

“Papa, don’t worry—I’ll sail it—we will cross all seven seas and reach the Dreamland. Mom, don’t be afraid of those monsters. See, I’m with you.”

An innocent child could not even know why was she kidnapped...and sold...or perhaps, killed. The seed that was just turning to bloom upon a solitary plant at the confluence of two streams of spiritual consciousness was nipped before one could even define it as a bud. All around remained dispassionate...proud society remained satiated in its progressive deeds while semblance of religiosity faded into faces of curses eroding essence of itself.  

Inertly sat Robert and Deepsikha—alike figurines exposed to hidden giggles of destiny—counting days and nights and months and years—long twenty five years of holding the seed closeted only to wailing souls. Remembrances hum on dirge....

 Along wafts of intoxicated breeze of the spring

All have gone to the woods in this moonlit night;

Nay, I won’t go out but confine myself to

Own silent corner of my room;

Oh No ! I shan’t go out tonight

Amidst revelling breezes of the spring.

I am to cleanse my home, wipe it with all care;

I will need to stay awake for I know not

When would she recall me and arrive

Amidst waft of intoxicated breeze of the spring.

(Poetic part is transliteration of Tagore’s “Aaj Yotsna Rate Sabai Gechhe Bone”)

The honeymoon station

Consciously, they did not think of touching a new ribbon of silvery togetherness—so fast and so long in one content self. It all happened in course of time turning moments into events and events into memories. But, without essentially entering into valuation of what has there been and what not, the flight upon four wings has let them float and fly through abundant expanse of life in unison.

The morning dropped from the smiling lips of rising sun. They were awake with steaming mugs of black coffee in green backyard lawn enclosed within beds of chosen flowers and an orchard of tall old trees—alike an emerald eye elegantly cradled in curves of long dark lashes. Birds whistled on, butterflies spread its colourful wings to gather warmth of morn and dew drops swung upon needles of grass; and they did so as they did a day before and in every other dawn of the past. Amidst all usual tunes of nature only different note that softened the chord was hidden in long speechless moments. They sat for longer than usual. And, she smiled. And, she spoke to break silence too.

It was that day!

Yes, it was that day! And, the night…the first night together? Remember?

Yes, twenty five years ! Pretty long, yet seems to have just come across, no?

Let’s go there…spend the day and the night too…would we?

The train stopped. Everything had changed so much that they could not believe it was same place. They searched for without exactly knowing what to and what for; yet they walked along the platform, from one end to the other…once…twice…thrice…and met the banyan tree—only bond to the past. They missed those two broken iron benches, and that tiny red tin-roofed railway office; and they remembered that lone hand pump too idly lying by a narrow path leading to horizon. The lean platform had gained all shines of health over the time. Its bare body had now been draped in colourful tiles…digital clocks, speakers, drinking water mounts, cemented seats and a new office with busy people running, walking, talking, and adding proud presence of civilization. There was no space for them to keep apart—to feel about being alone. Their souls travelled fast to the past….to that warm noon…and a colder night.

The dawn accompanied her to the threshold of a home for last nineteen years and the liberation erased all evidences of her root while the doors were firmly shut behind forever. He did not bring the bride home for to stay. Yet, it turned them absolutely unwelcomed for even a night. He did never dream that his own home could turn him homeless for marrying a Hindu girl against wishes of the family despite expecting not-so-happy expressions for the rebellious couple. They knew that neither of their families would love to see them together for life, but had not thought of losing access to it even as a distant guest. He just thought of spending a single last day in own known space…and to introduce his beloved to that space. They had ticket for the next day. The marriage did not get blessings of the past, of the space that took care to transform him from an infant to a kid, a kid to a boy and a boy to a man. In one moment, they were transported to a society of romany in the city abundantly saturated with old friends and relatives.

They lost luxury of spending one of the most memorable moments of life. They still had one complete day and night before boarding in train to Bombay. He had a decent job, decent accommodation and a decent amount of money in his purse to idle away the interval in decent hotel. But, the feeling of losing own space and denial of access of his wife to his own space on the marriage day was so intense that it not only killed his softer soul, but also punctured all assumed pride of being born in a liberal Christian society. They climbed down the stairs—straight to the street—and walked on with bagful of belongings---some memories, some wishes, some rejection, some losses, and some emotions martyred in pursuit of love and its honour. They walked together, holding hand in hand, for long hours—without speaking to each other.

Suddenly, he whispered something. She heard not, but nodded yes. And, they headed straight to Howrah Station and bought two tickets—for a honeymoon trip on the marriage day.

The shabby local train swam through passages of both idle noon and ever changing pastoral images. It stopped at one desolate station, and it had no urge to move on.

Warm winter noon had its sweet companion—a narrow platform with just a tiny red office…two broken iron benches, a few trees and a hand pump. Evidences could not still be enough to let one believe that it had ever heard footsteps of life. It was lying lifeless alike a statuette awaiting some special moment to arrive when someone would drop in to bless it with new life in a single touch and the pursuit would be fulfilled. There would be nothing to seek beyond that.

They looked at each other. The train left soon leaving behind two aliens—far from another galaxy—in that deserted island of solitude. They sat beneath a large banyan tree. Sun sailed through sky from above to far in the west. A few more passenger trains came and went; yet they did not see anyone boarding or alighting. They were so emotionally carried in deciding to get down there that they thought not of buying anything for long winter night. It was late evening, when the last train too departed. A middle aged man suddenly appeared from nowhere. He was the first human being they met. His husky voice had an unmatched compassion in its exchange.

What do you people sit for? The last train has gone.

Er… actually, we are not waiting for any train. We are homeless for tonight…yeah, we got married just this day.

Oh, I see. Just fled home…love marriage? I’m the Stationmaster. If you wish, you two may come to my house …just in the village, a couple of miles away.

Okay, thanks! But, we don’t want to disturb you. We would rather spend honeymoon here.

Ha..ha…nice. It is indeed a nice place for honeymoon…a perfect full moon. Okay, as you wish. But, after I left there will be none here till I come again in the morning. Have you eaten ?

No…we will manage, sir.

The fat wild man said no more. He brought out something from his cloth bag, handed the paper pack to her and walked away slowly. Their glistened eyes followed the figure…from platform end to railway office….riding on a bicycle….and finally fading into misty veil of darkness.

She opened the packet…some baked rice and a few pieces of boiled potatoes. They did not realize how hungry they were until they had finished it all.

The golden disc of moon had risen, by that time, behind silhouetted towers of trees…some closer, and the most afar. Its warm shines could not wipe chill of February night. He took her on his lap, stroked softly upon her wide temple neatly stretched between two closed eyes and braided hairs. And, he stooped low to put an elegant kiss. She was already asleep after long ruinous day of joy and betrayal. He pulled out a towel and placed it upon her curled body. The Eden was all set for two loving souls in its wilderness.

They traversed back from memories…from dreams. It was all new. They fought to believe it was where they had their first honeymoon…and they believed and failed to believe in rhythm of time. Being caught in dilemma, they remained speechless for hours. And, it was almost a state that brought them to brink of losing expressions when she whispered.

Home…let’s return…own home.

Long years….long lane of memories….slowly lifted them to a new globe….enclosed in a new blue sky…and they sensed something anew….the space that favoured a home for homeless had turned them homeless again.

They packed up, and looked behind to seek again for something unattainable—the permanence of luxury of peace confined in dungeon of space—and failed utterly. They felt for the first time in life that a space turned into a home only to be immortalized by moments of glory—love, reliance, trust and truth—it had been through expressions of life fastened to it.

They faded into new sphere of moments. The honeymoon station stood motionless as a milestone in a path connected by two unknown ends—the beginning and the finality—embracing stolen images of emotions of those evaporated souls.