Our family rules here over hundreds of years. The saga which started with my great fore fathers has become a tradition through my grandfather and father, and now, I am to carry the prestigious name and reputation of my great forefathers to a level next.
All my family members never forget to make me aware of the great heritage our family bears, and reminds me on a constant basis of the duties burdened on my shoulder to look after it.
To be honest, I often, lift my head high to glance at my father high above near the sky. He seems so rigid…so strong…so powerful a creature to my eyes. I always consider him to be a real hero.
He is indeed a hero. His father and grandfather too were heroes. Ours is a family of high esteem that has given birth to number of heroes.
I could clearly view a sceptic smile on your lips friends when I mention my family a breeding ground of heroes; but believe me, I am not kidding.
They were all great souls that could better be described in a four-lettered word—H-E-R-O!
Just have a look at my father. He is more than 100 feet tall, his dome shaped body is as smooth as the silk, and in his dark green outfit he looks ravishing—just ravishing. He is taller than any body else in this Amazonian Rain Forest—so dense with piled plants in storeys that the bottom hardly sees the sun-rays.
From the dark humid region of the mossy ground I watch my father looking sleeplessly to the outer World miles and miles away peeping higher than all others of the place. I could easily feel the satisfaction in his heart about his thankless service to the innumerous epiphytes, to the Mankind and to the entire Universe. Thankless, but how satisfying!
I eagerly look at him, and sigh over my own fate. I feel nervous and anxious too whenever I think of the glorious past of my family and tremendous achievements of my ancestors. It makes me over conscious. I become afraid—what if I fail to maintain the reputation of the family! What if I fail to be a true son of my father! What if I fail to be a Hero like all other members! What if I am considered a black sheep!
But if I fail miserably how much am I to blame? It is more likely that I would taste the bitterness of failure with the changing climatic condition, the queer habitats of increasing mankind and the ruthless urbanization that deliver a clear threat to even my sole existence.
I do not know the reason, but somehow, at my heart I clearly feel the call of Destiny. I am sure, I shall ever be able to be that much taller like my father—his grandeur will remain ever illusive to me—I might die infant —not having any trace left on this beautiful world.
I might die—die a premature death—most pathetic for my family—but whom to blame for this? I ask you, my friends, whom should I shoulder the charge of murder? Is it punishable to murder the dream of an infant Sapling; or is it only heroism in your part? Do you have any answer?
Gratitude:
My sincerest thanks to Sanghamitra Das, M. Sc. (Botany), B. Ed. —a friend and colleague—who has most smilingly undertaken all the laborious pains of providing me all the necessary information about the Amazonian Rain Forest, but never ever shown a jot of disgust!
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
A Candle In The Wind
The road is narrow. Dark and full of sharp stones lay about here and there. The darkness—pitch-black immense darkness—has embalmed the night sky above head. No stars to be seen, no light ever reflected.
The weather has become hostile tonight. Furious wind and fearful roaring of thunderstorm multiply the fretful atmosphere. A shivering wave comes from the panicked heart and runs quivering through the entire body.
It is raining. Tiniest drops of sharp spears lash from the dark clouds, pinching pain onto the body surface… and the coldness. The icy touch of rain—the icy touch of death…and darkness.
Alone I’m groping my way through the shallow dark lane. I’m in mad pursuit. Pursuit of something I myself am not sure about. Running in darkness—a blind unmindful run. My feet, naked, are bleeding. Deep cut marks and long scratches engraved all over. I’m running desperately. I’m running for light—a drop of light. But the omnivorous darkness seemed eaten up all rays and all mere sources of light; and has left us only darkness—pitch black, opaque darkness.
With life popped out at mouth I’m running. Trying most passionately to come out of this surrounded darkness. The stones make me stumble, I roll over the dusty road, I arise, and I restart running.
Lo!! God!! There is a Light!
A faint ray, but definitely a Light! A Candle! A lighted Candle!
A Candle in the Wind!
It is waiting there at the other end of this dreadful dark lane. Waiting enigmatically. The Light—dancing and fluttering in the violent storm. The light flashing, as if stretching its inviting loving arms towards me—a faint ray of Light, but an invitation unavoidable—an urge, unimaginable!
Hurriedly I’ve to rush there. I’m to reach there. Reach there, before the Candle melts or the Flame blown out.
Curse you fierce Wind! Curse you sharp Rain! Be a little merciful! Blow slowly, Oh Wind—be thin, Oh Rain—don’t put it out…till I reach.
I’m to reach there. The Candle is there…for me…the only Light to guide me out of this blinding black…this darkness…and this death…
Wait, you Light, you Candle, wait for me—here I come…see…here I come…
The weather has become hostile tonight. Furious wind and fearful roaring of thunderstorm multiply the fretful atmosphere. A shivering wave comes from the panicked heart and runs quivering through the entire body.
It is raining. Tiniest drops of sharp spears lash from the dark clouds, pinching pain onto the body surface… and the coldness. The icy touch of rain—the icy touch of death…and darkness.
Alone I’m groping my way through the shallow dark lane. I’m in mad pursuit. Pursuit of something I myself am not sure about. Running in darkness—a blind unmindful run. My feet, naked, are bleeding. Deep cut marks and long scratches engraved all over. I’m running desperately. I’m running for light—a drop of light. But the omnivorous darkness seemed eaten up all rays and all mere sources of light; and has left us only darkness—pitch black, opaque darkness.
With life popped out at mouth I’m running. Trying most passionately to come out of this surrounded darkness. The stones make me stumble, I roll over the dusty road, I arise, and I restart running.
Lo!! God!! There is a Light!
A faint ray, but definitely a Light! A Candle! A lighted Candle!
A Candle in the Wind!
It is waiting there at the other end of this dreadful dark lane. Waiting enigmatically. The Light—dancing and fluttering in the violent storm. The light flashing, as if stretching its inviting loving arms towards me—a faint ray of Light, but an invitation unavoidable—an urge, unimaginable!
Hurriedly I’ve to rush there. I’m to reach there. Reach there, before the Candle melts or the Flame blown out.
Curse you fierce Wind! Curse you sharp Rain! Be a little merciful! Blow slowly, Oh Wind—be thin, Oh Rain—don’t put it out…till I reach.
I’m to reach there. The Candle is there…for me…the only Light to guide me out of this blinding black…this darkness…and this death…
Wait, you Light, you Candle, wait for me—here I come…see…here I come…
Sunday, January 20, 2008
One Night @ The Call Center: The Second One
It is almost the same scenario like the earlier one! The same Golden-Brown Wheelers’ Stall at Kharagpur Railway Junction—the same semi-nude porno models offering enticing gaze—the same old book seller—the same taking out of hundred bucks flat for one paper back printout—it is almost the same!
But this time I spent the hard-earned money at my own will! With out the slightest influence or provocation from Ani—the time-trusted ‘classical’ friend mentioned in my earlier posts like: Love Among The Ruins and Five Point Someone—I picked up One Night @ The Call Center. Yes! The Second One from Mr. Chetan Bhagat—whose earlier one I’ve gratefully treasured among my collection of Classics.
Voraciously I started ransacking the pages. Many a references of his Five Point Someone caught my eyes. Even the long Prologue is entirely based on references of his first novel.
As the name suggests, the story is set in the backdrop of a Call Center—the load of inbound calls and the uncertainties of life. The lives of six call center agents.
The Novel is a jam pack of incidents—flash back memories—encounters with unexpected natural and supernatural activities—so many incidents are interwoven that sometimes, towards the end of the story, one has to be a little sceptic, if that many things could happen in just one single night!
I must say, still, Five Point Someone is Chetan’s masterpiece. Though certainly enjoyable, One Night @ The Call Center is unable to reach that peak that Chetan has created for himself with his first one. May be we expect a bit more from you Chetan.
One point to finish with, Ani is yet to go through this second one of Chetan; and perhaps now I can pick up the cell for one long distance call to pursue Mr. Anirban Biswas for reading a Novel! A Novel called One Night @ The Call Center—yes! The Second One!
But this time I spent the hard-earned money at my own will! With out the slightest influence or provocation from Ani—the time-trusted ‘classical’ friend mentioned in my earlier posts like: Love Among The Ruins and Five Point Someone—I picked up One Night @ The Call Center. Yes! The Second One from Mr. Chetan Bhagat—whose earlier one I’ve gratefully treasured among my collection of Classics.
Voraciously I started ransacking the pages. Many a references of his Five Point Someone caught my eyes. Even the long Prologue is entirely based on references of his first novel.
As the name suggests, the story is set in the backdrop of a Call Center—the load of inbound calls and the uncertainties of life. The lives of six call center agents.
The Novel is a jam pack of incidents—flash back memories—encounters with unexpected natural and supernatural activities—so many incidents are interwoven that sometimes, towards the end of the story, one has to be a little sceptic, if that many things could happen in just one single night!
I must say, still, Five Point Someone is Chetan’s masterpiece. Though certainly enjoyable, One Night @ The Call Center is unable to reach that peak that Chetan has created for himself with his first one. May be we expect a bit more from you Chetan.
One point to finish with, Ani is yet to go through this second one of Chetan; and perhaps now I can pick up the cell for one long distance call to pursue Mr. Anirban Biswas for reading a Novel! A Novel called One Night @ The Call Center—yes! The Second One!
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
City Lights
It was a chilly Winter night in my small native town. I was making long lonesome strides under the moonlit sky through the road decorated with a paddy carpet of dry leaves of trees. The road was engulfed with fog, accumulating and becoming thick every hour, devoid of any other movement…devoid of any other sound but the breaking of stray leaves under my feet.
In that defused light of accumulating fog, which may resemble to the backdrop of psychic-mystery stories, I encountered something…some common-place visions—some strings of light—some patches of colour—some glimpses—glimpses of the City Lights!
# Light Source: One
A few boys, half naked, hardly with any protection for the North Wind, have joined together at the roadside. All are busy in pilling up withered leaves that come to them free of cost. Some one lit a match-stick and then—a whirlwind of joy! Joy of warmth—joy of light—joy of Campfire! Wait, is this a campfire, or rather, an inevitable necessity of life? Of survival? Of existence?
# Light Source: Two
In the junction where four roads meet beneath the move less feet of the giant sized replica of a Great National Hero, some shadowy figures are queuing up. Some are loaded with flags and banners—indicating their die hard faith on a leftist political ideologies; their banners announcing a few basic demands they believe to be their birth-rights; or at least, they are made to believe. All are waiting silently for the procession to commence forth. May their awaiting for the better prospects be not an endless one.
# Light Source: Three
Near the small Railway station, under the shade of a pan shop the youths are seriously engaged in the groovy matters of India-Australia test match. Each playing a Gavaskar in them, have some definite opinion about the team selection that none can reject nor can even try to.
# Light Source: Four
The Railway Siding Shed is busy as ever. Pay loaders groaning—clinching sound of iron teeth on the surface of heaped iron ores—the tired flow of exhausted perspiration from some lean bare bodies—some white smoke from shared cigarette tips.
# Light Source: Five
At one corner of a secluded blind lane—impassable for the gentlemen of the society—some ladies are waiting. Waiting eagerly for someone. Someone, ungentlemanly, with some basic urges to fulfill. Their eyes, expectant at the slightest human approach towards them; their heart, liquefied with the thoughts for the epiphytes who are impatiently waiting some place else with flat bellies and hungry eyes.
# Light Source: Six
By the side of a long wall through a lonely street, at a dark spot, a man is peeing off. The man, completely drunk, is in desperate effort to keep his balance up—resulting only a windy flow of water. He is mumbling continuously—belching out his agitations of life. No body is there to pay attention to his mutterings—except a street dog with wagging tail and friendly gaze…
…I made my long strides back; silently passed all of them, like a stranger, like a dumb. I was walking on a lonesome road—without a faint ray of light—surrounded by immense darkness. As if moving towards a black hole, I continued my long steps forward—I entered the black hole—I squeeze in the black hole—and the rest is Darkness…
In that defused light of accumulating fog, which may resemble to the backdrop of psychic-mystery stories, I encountered something…some common-place visions—some strings of light—some patches of colour—some glimpses—glimpses of the City Lights!
# Light Source: One
A few boys, half naked, hardly with any protection for the North Wind, have joined together at the roadside. All are busy in pilling up withered leaves that come to them free of cost. Some one lit a match-stick and then—a whirlwind of joy! Joy of warmth—joy of light—joy of Campfire! Wait, is this a campfire, or rather, an inevitable necessity of life? Of survival? Of existence?
# Light Source: Two
In the junction where four roads meet beneath the move less feet of the giant sized replica of a Great National Hero, some shadowy figures are queuing up. Some are loaded with flags and banners—indicating their die hard faith on a leftist political ideologies; their banners announcing a few basic demands they believe to be their birth-rights; or at least, they are made to believe. All are waiting silently for the procession to commence forth. May their awaiting for the better prospects be not an endless one.
# Light Source: Three
Near the small Railway station, under the shade of a pan shop the youths are seriously engaged in the groovy matters of India-Australia test match. Each playing a Gavaskar in them, have some definite opinion about the team selection that none can reject nor can even try to.
# Light Source: Four
The Railway Siding Shed is busy as ever. Pay loaders groaning—clinching sound of iron teeth on the surface of heaped iron ores—the tired flow of exhausted perspiration from some lean bare bodies—some white smoke from shared cigarette tips.
# Light Source: Five
At one corner of a secluded blind lane—impassable for the gentlemen of the society—some ladies are waiting. Waiting eagerly for someone. Someone, ungentlemanly, with some basic urges to fulfill. Their eyes, expectant at the slightest human approach towards them; their heart, liquefied with the thoughts for the epiphytes who are impatiently waiting some place else with flat bellies and hungry eyes.
# Light Source: Six
By the side of a long wall through a lonely street, at a dark spot, a man is peeing off. The man, completely drunk, is in desperate effort to keep his balance up—resulting only a windy flow of water. He is mumbling continuously—belching out his agitations of life. No body is there to pay attention to his mutterings—except a street dog with wagging tail and friendly gaze…
…I made my long strides back; silently passed all of them, like a stranger, like a dumb. I was walking on a lonesome road—without a faint ray of light—surrounded by immense darkness. As if moving towards a black hole, I continued my long steps forward—I entered the black hole—I squeeze in the black hole—and the rest is Darkness…
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Godliness
A feeble quick hand
Stoops to the feet
Seeks a blessing inhuman
While
Drum beats thunder to the Core.
A forehead white,
Red with the rays of Heaven
Touches the ground
And meets to the feet.
A Deity ethereal
Stoops to the ground
Her feet soily tarnished
Ashamed be the
Impurities universal,
Glad be the Earth at Her touch.
A feeble quick hand
Stoops and touches the feet,
The feet turned to Gold.
A voice trembling
A passionate urge
Seeks a blessing
A blessing
To last a life-long.
Two mechanical hands
With palm raised
Touches the forehead soft
A half spoken murmur
Fades through Air
And becomes
The prophecy of the Human-God!
The Deity stoops to the feet
And transforms
A Human sufferer
To a God definite.
While Immortality laughs,
The Light falls on Earth and
Drum beats thunder in the Air.
“Rule your World, Deity ethereal,
Victory be Yours for ever for”—
Glad be the Earth and mine,
A prophecy Eternal.
Stoops to the feet
Seeks a blessing inhuman
While
Drum beats thunder to the Core.
A forehead white,
Red with the rays of Heaven
Touches the ground
And meets to the feet.
A Deity ethereal
Stoops to the ground
Her feet soily tarnished
Ashamed be the
Impurities universal,
Glad be the Earth at Her touch.
A feeble quick hand
Stoops and touches the feet,
The feet turned to Gold.
A voice trembling
A passionate urge
Seeks a blessing
A blessing
To last a life-long.
Two mechanical hands
With palm raised
Touches the forehead soft
A half spoken murmur
Fades through Air
And becomes
The prophecy of the Human-God!
The Deity stoops to the feet
And transforms
A Human sufferer
To a God definite.
While Immortality laughs,
The Light falls on Earth and
Drum beats thunder in the Air.
“Rule your World, Deity ethereal,
Victory be Yours for ever for”—
Glad be the Earth and mine,
A prophecy Eternal.
Sunday, January 6, 2008
A Wish
Why did you make me cry
Always?
Heart! My own Heart!
Why did you make me cry?
Though you know
Quite well
At your heart
I can revolt against
The Universe entire
For your sake,
Sole for you
I can sacrifice
With out a pain
All that I have,
All I earned
Fame, Fortune and Folks;
But not at all
Ready
To lose you
For anything’s lieu.
Digest with glee, can I
The pains you ornament with
But offer you
Pains in return
Bound to be
Beyond my reach.
Be sure
My Heart,
You and I
For time immemorial
Are partners impartible,
Fate forbidden
Ununified Souls
That dwell in two bodies
Only to creed
A united whole.
Though you make me cry
Always,
Heart! Oh! Heart!
The tear I splash
Look, glance for once,
Adores you,
At your feet
Like Flowers
Made of Pearls.
Oh, Heart! My Heart,
Why can’t we
Remain together
For long, for good
Ages to come
With joy ravished
Ever tied in a knot
That neither
God can open
Nor can think of even!
Always?
Heart! My own Heart!
Why did you make me cry?
Though you know
Quite well
At your heart
I can revolt against
The Universe entire
For your sake,
Sole for you
I can sacrifice
With out a pain
All that I have,
All I earned
Fame, Fortune and Folks;
But not at all
Ready
To lose you
For anything’s lieu.
Digest with glee, can I
The pains you ornament with
But offer you
Pains in return
Bound to be
Beyond my reach.
Be sure
My Heart,
You and I
For time immemorial
Are partners impartible,
Fate forbidden
Ununified Souls
That dwell in two bodies
Only to creed
A united whole.
Though you make me cry
Always,
Heart! Oh! Heart!
The tear I splash
Look, glance for once,
Adores you,
At your feet
Like Flowers
Made of Pearls.
Oh, Heart! My Heart,
Why can’t we
Remain together
For long, for good
Ages to come
With joy ravished
Ever tied in a knot
That neither
God can open
Nor can think of even!
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
The Resolution
The Last passed in a breeze
A mixed bag of Tears and Laughter,
Some unforgettable moments of
Joy and Happiness—
Some ever remembered
Pains for the Heart,
Some hard to forget—
Few mellowed in the Memory!
Smile on the Lips
Raindrops brimmed in the eye—
At one corner
The Heart feels heavy,
Metal-heavy with a shock;
The other,
Joyous to the core
A joy for a Virtue!
A love for a Love!
A mixed bag true,
Passed in breeze
Sadness mixed in Joy!
The Last passed in a breeze,
What hast thou in Store
Oh! The Year?
Raw and Fresh,
What hast thou settled for me
New Time?
Pains and Laughter
Happy and Sad—
A Perpendicular Life?
Swing of Rosy Wings?
Cry for Relief?
What hast thou to offer
Unknown Fate?
What hast thou
In thy Will?
Whatever thou choose
And greet me with
Sad, Bad and Worse,
Let me make a Mind,
A Mind to face
Hard, and Stronger enough
To stand thy Blows
Calm and Quiet
Without a Frown
No Mercy begged,
With a Resolution
Esteem—
I’ll Fight till last
Till I last!
A mixed bag of Tears and Laughter,
Some unforgettable moments of
Joy and Happiness—
Some ever remembered
Pains for the Heart,
Some hard to forget—
Few mellowed in the Memory!
Smile on the Lips
Raindrops brimmed in the eye—
At one corner
The Heart feels heavy,
Metal-heavy with a shock;
The other,
Joyous to the core
A joy for a Virtue!
A love for a Love!
A mixed bag true,
Passed in breeze
Sadness mixed in Joy!
The Last passed in a breeze,
What hast thou in Store
Oh! The Year?
Raw and Fresh,
What hast thou settled for me
New Time?
Pains and Laughter
Happy and Sad—
A Perpendicular Life?
Swing of Rosy Wings?
Cry for Relief?
What hast thou to offer
Unknown Fate?
What hast thou
In thy Will?
Whatever thou choose
And greet me with
Sad, Bad and Worse,
Let me make a Mind,
A Mind to face
Hard, and Stronger enough
To stand thy Blows
Calm and Quiet
Without a Frown
No Mercy begged,
With a Resolution
Esteem—
I’ll Fight till last
Till I last!
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