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.
Friday, May 25, 2007
Saturday, May 19, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
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?
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?
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