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