The Numbers--to get connected and disconnected....

It has been for long the pages on my blog remain stoically dormant. There may not be more logical appreciation than dull errands of keeping professional priorities ahead if I am to satisfy myself with known tricks of reasoning. But, the world does not swing with your own priorities, own notions, own beliefs, own ambitions and own aberrations, rather they gather up into another world—the own world—which mostly swings with the world beyond. For some, this inner world, for some moments, remains disconnected to the greater whole; there it may play different tunes with octave incoherent to great orchestra of the outer world, it may rejoice in imagining this small world set afar and explore its solitary presence in seclusion of all feelings felt so far, of all pains borne and known, of all laughter spilled out of rims of fashioned lips, of all compassions generously shared from within soul sheathed in hypocrisy, and of all honoured sacrifices in deeds of a scrounger. There in such tiny space one may again float as freely, as safely, and as serenely away from all rays of wisdom as was once the pleasure of being encased in utter darkness felt for long joyful hours and months within mother’s womb. It is just that vacuity where the Creator spends only by His creation where just one to one relationship flourishes. Yes, there may be some space alike when you enjoy being disconnected, being away from numbers that chase you—the known tracks of race where ribbons bind you at both ends—and you remain fugitive forever.
One interesting mail that I received recently has brought me back to the pages, caught me between the numbers again that once stung so venomously during my youth. A slideshow attachment ( formatted as movie for viewing below ) presents how numbers are connected to its visual forms. While the show goes, you fall prey to it and seem to connect unknowingly to the numbers which aim to rule you for the rest of your life.

These numbers were once my companion in silent summer noon of vacation. They did follow me frolicking when glory of day vanished between those last strokes of brushes of twilight. Scaring dreams in flawless nights too flounced down with dusty pile of those unique elements. It took me several years to learn them, understand them and finally obey them.
They are strict in form, disciplined in action and ruthless in its subjectivity. You must have trust in them, else you are outnumbered. You must count you as one or many or nothing, but you are numbered. They despise anything abstract beyond themselves. They themselves take pride in different forms they love to be associated with—some are integers, some are primes, some are odds, some are evens, some are fractions, some are rational, some are positive, some are negative and some are complex. Only abstract forms they allow within their great world are its complex domain—the roots of negativity. That is the world within its wholeness where it reflects itself to create another competitive virtual world.
But, the most striking aspect of its supreme reign that has made be ever subdued to its power is its amazing sequence of unbounded stretch. Its real domain is boundless, so is its virtual one. They create an unbounded sequence with only a few bounded functions. It’s an endless universe with only a few elements. Whatever number you name, you have more followers than what preceding it. Every number is thus a unique leader with countless followers, still each of them are themselves followers of other leaders ahead. Everyone is following someone—a long unending queue. You shed one of your feather, gets down on count and so you move just a step ahead. You shed another feather—another proud feather of your self-conceit—to move another step ahead. You remain a leader always, but a follower still at the end of another long queue. You go on shedding one feather and another till you have left all you have. You reach the nullity of your own existence. You are none then—a big zero. You are the leader ahead of everyone, yet you never boast of being so; in the world of values, you are not counted, but your association make other numbers valued so multiplied. The known and unknown worlds of wisdom tend to your limiting values of nothingness to seek deliverance. At the feet of its sacrificial altar, all countless counted entities offer itself to finally find peace and bliss in you.
Maybe, the space where life gets it mission succeeded.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.