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!!!