Truth

It’s another dull July morning—sodden, deadened and passionless. Gray sheets of clouds are stacked, one upon another, in abandonment of all expectations and expressions. An unexciting dawn slowly steps in.
I fear this stolid presence of moments. I fear this suspense surreptitiously buried in prospect. I fear these frowns of eventuality so perfectly painted upon my hopes. I lie defenceless, curled up in own tiny space with all judgements neatly proscribed.
The reasons are imprisoned, brutally crushed in soul cages for all past revolts. They have no pain to hide, yet it remains secreted for expressions not being so forthcoming. Still I glimpse a veiled hearth of rebellion tenderly smudged into patches of obscurity upon walls and roofs of the coops while the sullen sky bluntly folds of her smoky wings to conceal all radiance of the sun.
Only stream of pleasure flows through an infinite valley of dreary moments is of irrefutable divinity in truth.

Woeful darkness of night

It is my vain attempt to present transliteration of another Tagore’s masterpiece, “Dukkher Andhar Ratri”. This one followed by his last poem, “Tomar Shristir Path”, was dictated by bed-ridden Rabindranath during the last fortnight of his life. He could, however, edit the first one only. In that way, it was his last edited poetic composition. I have no dream even to expect that my words would either hold literary brilliance of the Great Poet or would it ever touch those fine threads of philosophy contained in the original, yet I would love to share it here with friends who are unable to access it in Bengali.

So often has woeful darkness of night
Had its sojourns to my door;
I stole a few glimpses of its sole rapier
Shining in buried beams of ruses;
Those perverted pretences of anguish,
And bizarre gestures of terror were only
The prelude to its feints in utter darkness.

Ever so I relied upon its wily mask of fright,
It only offered some hollow defeats;
This weird game of loss or win—
Sheer delusions of life, and
Of each steps entangled in horror
Ever since the days of infancy and beyond—
Remained satiated in quirks of grief;
And, betrayed animated streaks of dread—
A complete art by the Death deftly diffused upon the darkness.

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.