Year: 2008

A few more hours to go…and the moments are ticking out!

A few more hours to spend before the Church Bells start rattling!

A few more hours to pass before the dark sky flashes with the light…the multicoloured dazzle of the cracking fireworks!

A few more hours to roll on before the ‘old order changes yielding place to new’!

A New Start! A New Beginning! A New Era! A New Year!

With New Resolutions…New Activities…New Achievements…New Dreams…New Hopes!

Never to ‘pine for what is not’…Never to hanker after dried emotions…Never to cry for shattered dreams…Never to sigh for blown out hopes…Never to let the world rule over us!

Never to look back in anger—the Past is happy enough to fill the heart to brim; and the Future be surely more beautiful!

Through out the Year, about to merge in Time, surely had we enough to cherish; and the one about to come forth, will be as equal!

May we have peace of mind—smile on the face—love at heart…forever and eternal!

May God bless all of us!

Wish a very happy and prosperous New Year to everyone, known and unknown, who have ever sighed over Some Poetic Thoughts and felt the inner turmoil of a poetic heart!

Flight Over The Roofs

All day and all nights long the flights keep flying over the roofs of the slums far below.

On broad daylight the windows of the huge flying machines could be seen; and during the dark hours the blinking lights at the corner of the stretched wings and tails.

They keep moving over the roofs all day and all nights long.

The little kid, half naked and malnourished, runs out of the one-roomed-hut each time he hears the groaning sound of the airplane. He runs out to point his curious eyes at the mammoth jumbos all day and all nights long till his nerves are all steady and awake.

He looks at them till they disappear behind the skyscrapers around. Only then he sighs and turns his kiddy steps back. Sometimes he pauses and glances at the sky from where the plane has disappeared.

He returns to his cottage each time only with an increased determination to fly away with such one when he should reach his age…

In his vision he enters the cockpit, turns the switches on…a sweetly groaning sound of machines rolling and then…huuushhh!!!

Within a fraction of second he leaves the touch of the ground and plays with the clouds high above…

…he eagerly waits to reach the age…for sure…!

The Dying Moment…

You grabbed my hand for once
You kissed my lips
My forehead felt
The coldest touch
You to offer
Faint but awake
I lie
Your lap soft and cozy
I felt immediate at Home
No pains stung my heart
Be for sure no pains…

Oh then
You left me desolate
My carcass
Stiff and heavy
Turned to stumble again
In my lonesome world
Panicked I shriek
Pleaded to take me with
You moved unmoved
Only a gentle polite smile…

I die a one moment’s death
I arise to live an eternal life…

Love...Through The Ruins…

“Maa, ekbar edike eso…ekta jinis dekhe jaao…”

“…Mother, come over here please…have a look at this…” the feminize-boy called his Mom in a tone almost childish that hardly match his age or height. I became more embarrassed. He had been standing just in front of me, as close that he almost stepped on my feet and I could easily feel his minty breath right through my gray hairs.

He had been standing there nearly for fifteen minutes, reading something on the pamphlet board on the wall just above my head.

I felt more embarrassed…so far it was only he, now he was inviting his mother to join the show!

I glanced at his mother—sitting at the other corner of the waiting hall—a mid aged lady, somewhat weird looking on a very loose salwaar kaamiz with uncombed hairs about the length of her neck. She must have been exhausted; I clearly remembered how she staggered her legs into the room resting on the shoulder of her son with the right hand.

All of us were sitting in the patients’ lobby waiting for the Neurologist to arrive and our turns to come. I was thinking about my CT Scan Report of the Brain and about the headache that I often end the day with.

Meanwhile all these embarrassing ‘close encounter’ and most unwilling ‘invitation’ to gather more crowds around me!

I only sighed while the woman once again staggered her steps through the hall and drew near me.

The boy pointed at the bulletin board above and uttered in a very soft touchy tone:

“Here is a report on Epilepsy mom—indeed some unknown facts about the disease—it says, even Isaac Newton, Napoleon, Louis Carroll, Charles Dickens, Socrates, Joan of Arc, Van Gogh were life long patients of Epilepsy”…

…then suddenly his voice changed into the most sympathetic whisper—“you see Mom, there is nothing to lose heart…you can still lead a normal life with it…like all those”!

I was startled and looked up straight into his eyes—

his mother must have thought all her dreams and normality ruined as she came across the crude reality of suffering from Epilepsy—but she is fortunate enough to have a son like him to love her and lead her a way out right through the ruins of her shattered hopes.

I looked into his face—and this time he didn’t look childish, rather a grown-up—enough to bring her loving Mother out of the depressions of life.

Five Point Someone

I always considered myself to be a “Classical” sort of reader with my own choice of books—mostly coming from the classical pens of the time-trusted classical writers and always turned a high nose towards anything written in prose or poetic form in English language that was not atleast a century old!

No credit offered to you guys for guessing the big upliftment of my eyebrows and the frown at the edge of my mouth when I heard Ani—a long and time-trusted ‘Classical’ friend—mentioning a Novel “worth reading” (that is merely three years old) written by a never-heard-his-name author!

Certainly Ani was not aware of my peculiar taste and disdain I choosing the books that I read, thus he repeatedly pock me during telephone conversations to read that book advocating its various aspects.

I am glad that Ani was unaware. I was a bit carried away by his supposedly selfless propaganda and finally managed to tame my hostile heart and agreed on giving it a try.

I searched the local bookshops for a copy but unsuccessful were my ventures—nobody seemed to, as I guessed, even have heard the name, either of the book or the very author. I only chuckled and patted my own shoulder.

Finally I got it at Kharagpur Railway Station on one of my regular rides back home from a long tiring day at school. I discovered to my horror that The Novel lays blush fully at one mobile book vendor’s amidst some half and full nude porno mags. I immediately hated my own decision of even considering the book to offer a try. “How could on earth you man”…. I rebuked myself, “consider such a book worth reading”….I was limitlessly hostile indeed, “that has a resting place behind all those nasty looking porno-models?’’

Any way, I gave out 100 bucks flat for one paperback printout!

The cover read: “five point someone” as title; followed by a sub-one: “What not to do at IIT!”. At one corner lied the name of the author on bold: “Chetan Bhagat”!

During the 45 minutes train ride back home I casually turned the pages, not reading actually, but glancing here and there; and felt somewhat amused while my eyes caught some lines of the ‘Acknowledgement’ section—beside some others Mr. Bhagat had thanked Mr. Bill Gates and Microsoft Corporation for creating MS WORD—that he had used typing the pages out! “Interesting” I said to myself.

That was all. I came back home, took the book out of my fat daily passengers’ bag, stack it into the pile of ‘classical’ books of my possession and forgot all about it.

Chetan Bhagat, with his national best seller novel rested peacefully there inside that book shelf for six more months before I pull him out of the coffin to offer him a glance during my long trip to Chennai by train. Actually all I wanted was a light book (both by weight and content) to get slip inside my over weight travel bag easily without bothering my shoulder much (and not to mention, brain off course)! And Mr. Bhagat seemed a perfect fit there considering the situation at hand, as the ‘Classical’ authors of my collection just refused to smug there in both by size and subject matter!

The train left in the afternoon and soon I had to reach out for the book as the night outside window became darker.

I went to the upper berth, stretched myself comfortably and started going through the pages…. and the saga began!

I started off in the most casual fashion, but soon the three friends in Delhi IIT Campus completely enfolded my attention. I started to laugh their way and cry with them.

The narrative had enough pace to remain my nerves busy all the time; and the incidents only became more and more interesting. It was purely intoxicating.

I was bound to spend the night sleepless only to finish the book. Indeed I felt it to be unputdownable.

Finally it was all over. I turned the last page, slammed the book and took out my cell phone to send Ani a message of “Thanks”!

I sighed, some what a sigh of relief—now going back home I wont feel ashamed to offer Mr. Chetan Bhagat and his “Five Point Someone” a place in my book shelf along with all other “Classics” of my possession!

Thanks Ani—thanks for advocating!

Kiss From A Rose

The sun has hardly risen. The morning light has hardly appeared. The mist of the dawn has hardly melted. I left my niche for my usual hand out. Miles roll away—hours pass by till I reach The Garden—the Utopia of my Dreams—The Garden of Heaven!

Acres and acres of sweet multicoloured flowers are laid out—I have tasted most of them; thus have a clear concept about which is sweet and which is not. I only glanced at them and without a pause kept on moving. I may sound a “Casanova” but simply I am not contented at heart with any of them.

I went to the most secluded and ignored part of the place, where at one barren corner stood a desolate Rose Tree.

Thin are Her branches, almost naked and full of sharp thorns. God has never graced Her with a single flower.

The lonely Tree, clearly sad at heart, has always been the centre of all my attraction. So far I have tried innumerous attempts to establish a friendship with Her; but every time She, with Her silent refusal has blown all my passions out. Still I did not give up hope. I knew quite well, that desolate Lady—whom I never saw smiling—is the object of all my happiness, all my passion, all my peace.

Visiting Her has now become my regular routine. I keep on talking with Her—mostly one sided—hours after hours. Sometimes She replies, sometimes believes only in reticence.

From a distance I saw her. Something must have happened. She looked different. She was still desolate, but definitely She looked different. I came closer. She waved her branches and oh! What a surprise! I saw a small flower! A budding Rose! Finally She has a flower at the edge of one of Her branches! God has smiled on Her—and gifted Her with a bud—a bud of Rose!

I came further close. I sat on the lap of the Rose! She is so Red! She is so Bright! Then She kissed me—on my lips—on my cheek—on my forehead. I felt Her touch—I felt Her lips—soft and moist yet with the morning dew. I enfolded Her—rested my head on Her swelling breast. Aaaahh! I felt Her! Her Heavenly Fragrance—Unearthly Tenderness—I felt all. It made me go wild—I gone mad! I simply went mad! Now I am the King of the World. I have the Kiss—Kiss from a Rose!

(And The Drone can never think of remaining departed from His loving Rose any longer!)

Oh! Time!

Oh! Time!
Ruthless impetuous Time,
Canst thou stand still
For a while or two
That I may look at her eyes
For a life unending!

Oh! Time!
Ruthless impetuous Time,
Canst thou leave us apart
With lips join hands
Breast on breast
Shadows together
To gift us a Love
Never to pine or die!

Oh! Time!
Ruthless impetuous Time,
Canst the Wolf in thee
Spare thou Prey
Some moments
Memorable and motionless
So to delve deep
Into the core of Hearts
And sing thy Hymns
Forever Young
Forever Fresh!

A Walk Through The Crowd

The rattling rain has ceased dropping quite sometimes now. Only scattered traces of muddy water reflect the over cast sky above—the crowd near the bus stop is now slowly settling back to their normal rhythm that had been interrupted by the untimely shower.

In that moody light, ideal for some mournful remembrance of a few long separated kins, two human beings walked slowly making their own road through the crowd. One, a shabby looking man; the other, a lady, graceful and lively.

Both of them had heavy bags hanging from their shoulders. Evidently they knew each other as they were walking side by side, engaged in some serious conversation—having only occasional break to allow the floating crowd from the opposite direction.

The man, lean and pale, with an unshaved rough skin and a shirt torn out near the collar, having a fixed eye on the face of the lady—who, in contrast, was a paragon of beauty. Her eyes—as deep and vast as the unfathomed depth of the seas, her face—shaped like the unique oval, her lips—as inviting as a mellowed strawberry—all were most eloquently announcing the supremacy of God’s creation. Oh! God must have had several sleepless nights before creating such an embodied beauty!

Slowly they joined the crowd at the bus stop waiting for a long due bus. Some anxious minutes pass by…some silent minutes pass by before they could finally see a small bus appearing from a distance.

Suddenly the face of the ugly looking man darkened in some obvious pain…he was desperately looking here and there—as if he was seeking some help from some unknown source—seeking assistance from some mysterious power. The lady also turned pathetic. Her face all on a sudden lost all its glory, she was sad no doubt.

The bus arrived. The crowd rushed madly, jostled with each other for desperate search of a seat…the gorgeous lady, unmoved so far, hesitated awhile; then slowly made her unwilling steps inside the bus. The man waited at the door—his eyes bleed…his face clearly reflected the inner turmoil of his rock-heavy heart.

The lady stopped near the first row of seats and offered a full glance at the brooding man. For a few freezing moments their eyes remained fixed on one another—making a straight line of vision through the open window—which broke with the moving of the bus.

The lady was heard to utter some parting words, and the man smiled—the gloomiest one that some can smile.

With a thick black cloud of smoke spread onto the air the bus disappeared. So disappeared the graciously sad lady.

The man stood perplexed, his head was hanging downwards with a thick black fog accumulating around him.

Slowly the man got lost in the dark smog. The last piece of the sinking sunray died in the western horizon.

The Resurrection

Yippee! My “DADDY” is alive again!!!

‘He’ has been dead cold since last couple of months as the only 128 MB RAM module suddenly breathed its last on one gloomy morning. Being an age old one it is powered by 133MHz SD RAM and since then, I have madly ransacked all the local computer vendors’ in pursuit of one, just one 128 MB SD RAM, old or new.

My two months long labour has finally paid off—I got two SD RAM modules—one 128 MB and the other a miserly 64 MB.

Frankly speaking, I least hoped any of them to be matching with my Intel Mother Board, which is long been obsolete—but God is always great! Both of them worked individually—as I found one of the RAM slots of my Mother Board is not working.

Let the faulty slot die in peace for the time being—I can at least communicate with my dearest “DADDY” once again with only one RAM slot and 128 MB of RAM.

You have successfully completed the resurrection “DADDY”!

Daddy, can you hear me……dad……!

Although.....

.....Although I'm counting my days on Earth....yet I've hope.....hope to survive.....hope to live an eternal life....pray for me....Oh! God!....

A Life, One Day Long

“Ei shahar theke aro onek dure
Chalo kothao chole jaai,
Oi akash takei sudhu chokhe rekhe
Mon taake kothao harai…”

(…Away, away from this jungle of dumb concrete
Come let us move away to some place else,
Let the vast blue sky be our guide
When we begin to lose ourselves in one another…)

Far, far away from the madding crowd, on the grassy bank of a rivulet under the green wood trees they are seated like a part of nature. They are lost in one another—oblivious of the outer world. Definitely so, thus, creating a World of their own—a World of eternal love—a World of everlasting faith.

They are long been separated—they have suffered long-long nights of eternal woe—and now, finally, on this pious morn, they have managed to steal some moments of togetherness to share with each other.

With hand in hand, with footsteps side by side, they have found the spot beside the curve of the monsoon-enriched rivulet where two trees have generously spread their shade—one old Banyan and his companion Peepul.

With heartbeats equal in rhythm—with passion equal in intensity, they are lost in one another. Their eyes are fixed on one another—dreaming a dream of unity and equal completeness. They have died several lonesome deaths earlier, and now they have stolen some moments of togetherness—some moments to live.

Let them live. Let them live a life—a life, one day long.

Writing History Anew!

Name: Mr. Prolapendu Sanyal,
Age: 36 yrs,
Residence: Maldah, West Bengal,
Profession: Photo Journalist.

All he was looking for was some snaps of immoral-unethical activities in his locality. Being a photo-journalist, working for an English Daily, he was desperate to manage a sensational investigative report further supported by photo-proofs. At late hours of night he went to the locality encircled by numerous registered and unregistered Saloon-Bars cum well-known dens for the oldest trade of human history—where no activities or gestures were considered to be immoral. He faced a group of hooligans with his SLR Camera as his sole weapon—had some shooting (surely a few bull’s eye hits) before they landed on him and threw him on the railway track in front of a speeding locomotive. And the rest was bleeding body parts cut into small bits.

As a professional journalist he was dying for a cracking news story—or may be he considered it to be his duty for the later generations to come to sweep away all that was unethical from the society in which they breathe—all he wanted was to unmask the so called gentlemen and focus the spot-light of reality on to their faces—who can tell!

But finally he was found there on the railway track—with blood clots and thrashed body pieces.

All he was looking for was some photographs and he was found dead. But the rest is history. He has written history anew.


Source: Ananda Bazar Patrika (A leading Bengali Daily), Dtd. 30 May’2007

When Dreams Come True

I was busy with my usual class lectures when my cell phone vibrated. Unwilling to attend the phone in the class, I rejected the call, without even noticing the caller. I was just going to switch off the little gadget when it vibrated again. It was from a very intimate friend—perhaps the most precious one I ever had.

A slight hesitation, and then I decided to receive the call. Immediately a scream almost snatched away my hearing ability! After some moments of careful listening I understood that She was indeed expressing her happiness. As a budding-promising classical singer She has got a chance to get further training from Pandit A. Chakraborty—a renowned classical vocalist—her dream-singer.

I knew from the days of her childhood She has nurtured in the core of her soft touchy heart a lifelong dream to become a student of Pandit A. Chakraborty—and now, with her matured age and voice She is really going to be his student.

Quite natural that today her happiness knows no bound and it is also normal that She is desperate to share the happiest moment of her life with an intimate friend.

She was ecstatic—almost unable to digest the greatest news. To her it is some sort of Dreams Come True. I was also jubilant and thrilled equally to know that my friend was indeed one of the three most talented singers to get a chance competing with hundreds others.

I greeted her with all my soul and demanded much more memorable achievements in near future.

Still now her jubilant voice is echoing in my ears and for the first time in my life I am feeling how it feels when dreams actually come true. What is the sound of dreams coming true! How tantalizing the sound is—and how fortunate are they who have ever tasted it in their lives.

The Sharee

“Babu, finish up your milk first, then go to play”—the weird looking fat maid servant most perfunctorily instructed the kid; who was by no means in a mood to concentrate to the food-plate or the glass of milk supplied to him.

He has just arrived from school and there is nobody in the house to receive him than the maid servant. He is yet to change his school uniform, engaged in dropping a tennis ball on the floor. The maid servant is eager to go back home. She has the contract of staying in the house till the kid arrives from school and then she is free to go back home after supplying him some refreshment.

Some minutes later the kid is seen all alone in the house. He is the only child of a Govt. employee parents—who are duty bound to attend office 10-5’o clock—so, through out the week he has to stay all alone in the house till the parents come.

And presently the child is all-alone in the house.

He bounces the ball on the floor for some times, and then suddenly, impatient, he throws it away. He ransacks the pages of some books and magazines, but finally all these fail to keep him busy for long. Hesitant legs move him through the cozy rooms, an inexpressible agony of being lonely is pinning constantly in his heart. Impatiently he looks here and there, definitely in search for something attractive. Nothing in the house seems to attract him. He is brooding for his working mother. His heart is metal-heavy for his absent mother. He remembers the faces of his classmates—they all are probably sitting by the side of their mothers—having the Tiffin prepared by their moms. But he is all alone in the house.

He is all alone in the house. He looks around, gently makes his way to the dressing table, he touches all the cosmetics his mother uses one after another. His face gradually becomes pale and his eyes gather tears. Slowly he turns towards the bed and sees The Sharee onto it. That was the sharee his mother was wearing in the morning—he identifies. Slowly he lolls on the bed crushing and holding the sharee near his breast. He takes a deep breath—evidently wanting to inhale all the smell of his mother that is enfolded into the folds of that crushed sharee. Some moments of utterly suffocating silence pass through, then he cries out loudly—he only wants his mother to be beside him—like all others—nothing else.

His sobs echoes in the silent house—his tears falls upon the speechless sharee.

Silently The Sharee soaks up all his agony like a fond mother. The kid falls asleep.

Computer Name: DADDY

The young vendor had pushed the bell hardly for once before the enthusiastic child unbolted the door and rushed at him. He was eagerly waiting for that bell all day long.

With glowing eyes and wide-open mouth he landed on the various sized boxes those were being carried into his little study stuffed with books on all possible topics. He could hardly wait for the boxes to be opened and the contents to be fixed.

One and half hours later it was all done. The day-long await had come to an end. There it was—a brand new assembled computer placed on the table at a corner of the room. Praising eyes were fixed on the glittering machine for a while; then slowly the boy turned to his father—the financer father off course, and silently thanked him for such a beautiful gift. Not to mention, that night went all sleepless for the boy.

Since then, the dust of time had started accumulating on the brand new Pentium: I; and the peripherals had begun to lose its glitter. The machine has toiled hard—the boy has laboured hard—finally they ended with dusty cabinet and gray hairs.

Merciless time has given the child so many things and has snatched away too many things. He was gifted with things unnumbered; and remained deprived of things uncountable.

The Old Child still works on the age-old machine—but his daughter has a new one to do works of her own. The old Pentium: I still runs, not as fast as the Core 2 Duo placed next beside at another table—but it still manages to perform with puff and gasp.


The Old Boy still works with it and sighs while looking at the new machine. He asks himself if some day, when his footprints will stop leaving a mark on the dust of the living world, should the Core 2 Duo also be named as “DADDY”; just as he did to the Pentium: I some years back?

A Reverie

“…I fall upon the thorns of Life! I bleed! …” ~ Shelley

The antique Grand Father Clock in the adjacent room struck twice—certainly reminded me that I have been sitting here on the narrow windowsill for nearly three hours. I was doing nothing. Or may be I was performing the most important task—thinking about her. My eyes were fixed at the darkness of the night outside, a light occasional breeze was rambling through my hairs and also making the smoke stuffed room a little comfortable for living.

In the faded blue light emitted by the lamp on the wall, I gazed at the blue bed beside the window. She had made that for me three and half hours before.

She had glanced her beautiful lively eyes on me and with a smile incomparable she told me to sleep well through the night and had wished me sweet dreams.

I am all awake since then. How could I keep my head on that pillow that is still warm with her touch! How could I have sweet dreams sleeping on a bed that had always rested her mellowing body through out the night! How could I have peace when she is not anyway near!

I was all awake since then, looking at the dark outside, having smoke one after another.

Most silently the half shut door became full wide open. At once blood brimmed out at my heart. In the faded blue light I saw a silhouette standing at the frame looking at me. With a transparent gown it was standing in front of me in a silhouetted figure. I could not see its face in the dim faded light—I was desperate for more light—“Light! Give Me Light!!”—I cried out in agony; but nobody seemed to care for me—neither did the light became brighter. The silhouette was still standing at the door—all move less—all silent.
Hurriedly I rushed at that—I stumbled over and crushed on the stony floor. Before loosing my sense I heard the silhouette to burst out in laughter—immediately I identified that voice—it was She I was thinking of whom since last three and half hours!

On recovering myself I looked up—She was not there—the door was still half closed. I looked around, astonished, as, Her laughter was still echoing in the small room. I looked everywhere—She was no way near me—as usual!

I glanced everywhere—desperate—I was full awake to accept Her with all my passion; but She was no way near me—as usual….

From The Diary of A Village Teenager

Dear God,

In the short span of my seventeen years life I have heard the family members and relatives say a number of occasions that what ever You do, You do for our betterment. From the very beginning, when I was only able to walk one or two steps or capable of uttering very little meaningful words—my kith and kin taught me to trust You—keep faith on You.

Slowly I grew older and my faith on You gradually increased with my age. Like every village teenager, I was also educated the rituals of paying homage to You; and was occasionally handed over the charge of Your daily adoration when my mother was ill. You Yourself know at Your heart that I never neglected in offering my tribute to You; neither did my dedication come short. I grew up older only with an ever-increasing faith on You.

Dear Father, as You know, in traditional Hindu agriculturalist families like ours it is not the custom to send the women of the house to have conventional Higher Studies; and we are not an exception. My father wanted to arrange for my marriage but I became a rebel—perhaps for the first and last time in my life. I wanted to sit for my Higher Secondary Examination at any cost. After a prolonged physical and mental torture, after wasting a few gallons of salted eye-waters—finally I win. I win to fulfill the final desire of my life—my H.S. Exam. And You know, Father, I paid the entire credit of my victory to Your feet—regarded it to be Your mercy on me.

The Exam was about to begin in two days when all on a sudden everything shattered to bits. The political turmoil that was continuing for last few months on the handing over of land to Govt. suddenly reached the extreme point.

Shots have been fired, blood shed, roads blocked, bodies thrown away, exams postponed! I was tensed over the sudden unexpected changes—but still I kept my faith on You. I knew, You would do no harm to me. You will just not allow any harm to land on me.

And then came the night. My exam was to be started on the following morning. On the evening I spent a long time praying to You, so that I can have good marks.

And then came the night. At the darkest dead hours they came—they came, only to destroy my dreams. They were about to slay my father when with a shriek I jumped and enfolded him. They seized me. They seized my hand so brutally that I still have cut marks of nails near my wrist. They seized me to a field under the starry sky…………and all I remember is pain, extreme suffocating pain. Oh! God! I can’t tolerate the pain any more!

Dear Father, now I ask You, is this all that I deserved? Is this the way You work for our betterment? Is it for this I kept my life-long faith on You? Is this the way You protect Your earnest lovers?


Devotedly Yours,

Me!




(Gratitude: Sandipan Tarafder, My Pal.)

An Intoxication Personified!

Have you ever been tasted the paining essence of intoxication? Have you ever been lost control over your own brain and heart due to the inevitable consequence of some over-dose of narcotics? If you do have the experience you would be able to understand easily how it actually feels. My conscience seems to lose control seamlessly over the spell of on “Intoxication”. An Intoxication personified!

It is this “Personified Intoxication” that constantly squeezing me–even to the last drop—to extract all my vivacity, all the passion of my weakening heart—to its own will.

It is my fate; and I cannot but succumb to its unavoidable influence. It’s tearing me apart—always forcing me to speak out all that lie deep into the darkest core of my heart.

I look minutely to my own reflections and I begin to despise myself.

Saying “I Love You” Is Not Enough!

Some words in this universe are better felt than heard.

Imagine yourself to be whispering to the ears of the lady of your dream the three magnificent words day in and day out. Though the words are universally acknowledged and most enthusiastically liked, they are sure to lose both weight and impact if practiced in a regular basis.

Now, these very feelings that those three words convey could be portrayed without uttering a single of them—and perhaps, in a more effective way.

Just think of offering a small bud of Red Rose—newly plucked—to her beautiful hands without any special occasions, or buying her something as little as sweet candies—(as in my case, my “Dream” likes to taste ‘Cough Drops’ whenever she is doing nothing)—and see the instant effect. It is almost inevitable that she will at once greet you with a most desired hug and with a thousand watt smile that needs no more explanation.

Have you ever considered of offering her unasked help when she is busy at the other corner of the house with all her regular household rituals, and you are comfortably seated on the sofa enjoying every moment of the live telecast of that great India-Australia cricket match with some empty vessels of coffee rested peacefully on the centre-table? If you didn’t, well, you should—at least, once in a blue moon.

Dear friends, you don’t have to make a big hole at your pockets and purchase her a diamond necklace to make her happy; just offer her a miserly nail-polish of any standard make and say: ‘this colour suits your pious nails much more than anything else’—and see the result.

How many mornings a year do you prepare the breakfast for her? Well, you needn’t to blush—do it for once a year—and leave the responsibility to her for the rest 364 days. Even then it will do the trick for you.

And you thought you love your lady very dearly as you have made a habit of saying “I Love You” each and every morning and in every little occasion! And you were wondering why you miss that much-awaited flash of glee in her eyes despite loving her so deeply!

Surely friends, only “I Love You” is not enough!

From A Railway Over-bridge

Imagine yourself to be standing on the lonely over-bridge of a railway junction at the dead hours of night gazing aimlessly towards the fading distant signals having no mortal eyes to watch you there or lips to ask you a question.

What did you see in the dim insufficient light? Only iron tracks lying horizontally with no visible movements? Only parallel lines running towards infinity in the shadowy fog?

Most humbly I must request you then to wipe out the moister from your glasses and offer a deeper look.

See, the iron tracks are running parallel—in huge numbers and in pairs. They come from all directions—all in pairs. Some of them merge with others, some diverge from others—and keep rolling towards an unknown infinity. They come, they meet and then they depart again.

All of us are like iron tracks. We come, we meet; and then, we depart again. In our journey towards a destination unknown, in the dreadful darkness of immense ignorance, we come across faithful companions a number of occasions.

We meet, only to depart again.

All of us are like railway tracks. We walk parallel through the course of our lives with the partner of our Dreams. We walk side by side—never having an opportunity to be united.

Destiny permits us to meet, but forbids to be unified.

All of us are like railway tracks. Dreams knock at our doorsteps—but we remain desolate despite we are together.

All of us are like railway tracks…

Love Among The Ruins!

“Those were the best of times,
Those were the worst of times…”

The late evening light is about to die down in the western horizon, the air is infiltrated with the chittering of the tired Sparrows and the violet sky is turning into shabby darkness with the ticking of the clock.

On the ruined roof of an unfinished house three representatives of the vivacious youth are seated next to each other. Their feet lowered and rested on the mossy-walls, their eyes fixed at the melting horizon. They are all students—they are all friends—flew away from their coaching classes! They all are, evidently, more interested in the slow and steady process of shifting of the busy day into enticing Spring nights than the factual events of the monotonous chemical reactions!

Gradually darkness sucks up even the last drop of light and enfolds the three human figures. There are no movements to be seen—no life to be observed—except three burning cigarette tips!

The ruin gets dark. The Eucalyptuses around get darker. Only gloomy moonbeams listen to the beating of hearts—hearts of three intimate friends. They listen, while, Time marches on.

Time marches on—from green youth to gray hairs, from careless whisper to careful decisions.

Time marches on.

We have gained much in our lives, but uncompensated are the losses. May we build castles of perfect wisdom on the realistic ground; the madness, the selfless love among the ruins is never ever to come back.

But still, Time marches on….

The Father Figure

Most of us can hardly recall the sweetest moments of our childhood days. To us those happiest days remain like some alluring dreams dreamt in the unconsciousness of dreary dark nights—leaving only a vague impression on the mind that too gradually fading away at the first morning light.

It is in this faded vision that I recall my Father holding me on his shoulder and singing Tagore to put me to sleep. His passionate narration of a few imaginary stories—having two elephants as central characters—were my favourites. I can delve deep into my miserly memory to recollect my unbound tears at the tragic end of those elephants.

It is indeed my Father who first taught me the basics of Literature—coronated me to the widest world of Poetry.

It is a long time now since Cancer has snatched him away from us and haply has provided a place some where in the sky among the stars.

But today, when I hold my little daughter on my shoulder, exchange some playful moments together or sing hard to lead her to sleep—I always end with moistening eyes.

I begin to astonish—is this how it feels to be a Father Figure!!!