R.I.P My Dream!

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One day, as usual, I was running to earn my bread and suddenly something pricked one of my legs. I was in hurry, so neglected that prick. I kept on running. I Went to my work place and was busy there the whole day. Amid the din of livelihood, the mind couldn’t feel the pain of the prick the whole day. As usual, the day ended with its routine adjectives and I once again prepared myself to be a part of the restless throng in search of rest after a tiring day.

I got pushed by the power of the multitude to my house.

 I was tired to the core and fell flat on my bed with a thud. The numbness of fatigue kept me under its thrall for half an hour. When I got emancipated from the serfdom of fatigue, the sound of pain in my leg, knocked on the doors of my mind. I lifted my leg and when I looked the sole of my leg, I was stunned!

It was a piece of my dream that had pierced my sole.

 In the frantic race of life, I couldn’t give heed to the delicate dream of mine. And when it slipped from my mind and got into smithereens, I was so engrossed in the commotion of mundane life that I couldn’t hear the cries of my dream. It fell and got mutilated.

I stood up from the bed and ran as fast as I could in the direction of the busy square. Now it was quiet and away from the hustle bustle of mornings. I started looking for the other parts of my dream. Suddenly, my eyeballs noticed the bruised body of my dream. It was trampled badly by the legs of livelihood.

I lifted it on my palms, it was hardly breathing. However I tried to resuscitate life into it, I failed and my dream breathed its last before my eyes. It didn’t have any grievances from me that why I didn’t care for it? It just silently passed away, without blaming me.

I started sobbing but it didn’t care for my tears and evaporated in the sky: from where it had come. I couldn’t help it see the days of youth, my dream died young. R.I.P my dream!

God of Monetary Things!

What is God? Is it a feeling or an emotion? Perhaps it is both. God is alive as long as we believe it to be alive. It is alive as long as we wish it to be alive. And it is alive in those places where we believe it to be alive.

Once we stop believing, God stops to reside in those places. What remains is only a stationary stone.

But as long as we believe in God, there is a crowd around temples. And this crowd is mad to get a glimpse of their beloved God. Serpentine lines before a particular temple is proof that the God of that temple is real and all prayers are heard.

People frazzled with their daily situations seek the refuge of God to get reprieve from those situations.

But their problem only increases when brokers of God (i.e. Pujaris of Temples) trap them and exact several notes of rupees in the name of various pujas.  The real essence of God and devotion gets a beating when innocent devotees of God are cheated.

If God is sold and bought then the meaning of God dies. What remains is a rotten ritual!

Sisters: Fountainhead of love and life

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Care and affection has personified in the shape of sisters. Whether they are elder or younger, the longing for their brothers refuge to recede. The unqualified and unconditional warmth that they proffer to their brothers is unparalleled in terms of relationships.

Irrespective of age, sisters understand and fulfill their responsibility to a tee. Even if she is a toddler of five or a dodderer of sixty, the level of love remains the same in her heart for her brother.  Despite making  several relationships in her journey of life -- such as being a wife to someone, being a sister or daughter-in-law to someone-- she never forgets that she is also a sister of someone and her love remains undivided and unscathed for her brother.

They are as delicate as the petals of a flower but will support you in your need of hour with toughness of a rock. They are like melodious note of a flute but will roar like a cloud when you are in a danger and save you. The fortitude and valor of sisters make feminine emotions sublime and on many occasions the hollow hubris of masculinity seems dwarf before them. Because women are sisters also, the womanhood gets a different angle of fondness that is as limitless as the bosom of the sky. 

The purity of care and sincerity of affection makes the role of a sister inimitable in a life of a brother. A sister never stops to be a sister even if a brother forgets to be a brother. And that is the beauty of being a sister.

People are lucky who have sisters because they can experience the love that is divine and care that is pure. The female feticide in our country makes many brothers bereft of this wonderful feeling of being in a cozy and lovely company of a sister. I hope some sense prevails on the psyche of Indian population and a day comes when the birth of a sister is not considered a curse in this country.

Happy Rakshabandhan!!!!!

I Am Sorry!

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I still have warmth of your smile (that once you gave me as a gift for becoming your friend) stashed away in closet of my heart. Today, when you seem aloof and away, I am trying hard to keep that warmth warm, as the coldness of time seems to have indomitable will to trounce me.

But I will fight the time tooth and nail and save the warmth at any cost.

I still have shimmer of your eyes frozen in my eyes that you gave me as assurance that you will never move away from my life. Now when you seem upset and angry with me, the storm of tears is wickedly smiling that they will wipe that shimmer off my eyes.

But I will fight the tears with every ounce of energy in my body to save the shimmer of your eyes etched in my eyes. Even if I need to cry badly, I will cry from my heart and shed drops of blood but will never allow tears to beat me.

I still have aroma of your personality ensconced in my soul. The stench of demonic episodes of life is trying hard to wear off the fragrance of your being.

But I will fight till my last breath to preserve the passion of your personality and delight of your demeanor that reside cozily in my soul and will give those episodes a tough fight.

If at any point in time you have been forced to doubt my sincerity to shield your feelings and memories, then it must have been because of any shortcomings of mine. And I am really sorry for that!

The Cage!

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It is a closed box with sliding doors that opens at regular intervals. It devours people in its belly and digests the fatigue and sweat of them and leaves the people squeezed like a mangle machine does. Here I am talking about the coaches of a metro train.

On a casual look, people hanging to the rods look like monkeys hanging to the rods in a cage. Packed to capacity, bodies get smashed to maximum limit. It is a miracle that you come out of it without dying of suffocation. When you get pressed heavily by other bodies, for a moment the breath seems to be deceiving you, but with grace of heavenly tolerance levels that Indians develop genetically, they resist these moments bravely. Gradually, the tough times of hard pressings pass by and a bit of space gets created when the train moves ahead.

Though the journey is far from a lovely experience, there seems hardly any grievance on the faces of commuters for a lack of comfortable journey. They are so deeply embattled with other problems that these perennial pushing and shoving have stopped to attract any attention. Like a flock of sheep they mount and alight the coaches, hardly ever thinking that they deserve a comfortable journey.

Any desire for improvement in the situation seems to have died down, though it is a fact that they are the same people who brought about a sea-change in the democratic horizon by forcing a long reigning party to abdicate the throne.

Warts and all, it is inhuman to see humans suffer from a plight that would give even animals a shudder down their spine.

But, with every chugging of the metro trains, life of the common person moves ahead as well and forgetting the wrestling of the morning he/she gets ready to wrestle again in the evening with the eagerness to reach home and meet that little daughter who is waiting for the father to bring chocolates and that stubborn son who wants only his mother to feed him.

MAHANAYAK UTTAM KUMAR

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The life of luxury and decadence is characteristic of film stars. But when their existence gets adorned with utmost respect from their fans, their acting gets real and they become immortal and sublime.

Such is the case with the legend of Indian Cinema: Uttam Kumar. (I don’t want to categorize the Indian cinema with the tinge of regionalism such as Kollywood, Tollywood or Bollywood for that matter, India is one and for that very reason its cinematic endevours should be recognized as only Indian not Bengali, Tamil, Kannanda, Telugu or Hindi.)

In Kolkata, a metro station has been named after him.  The portraits and photographs of his, deck up the walls of the station. Every time, I see those pictures a sense of awe wraps me up. Mind you, I have hardly seen more than a film of his (and that is ‘Amanush’ in Hindi) and despite that his aura leaps out of the walls and catches me with utter charisma of its. His panache seems divine, his effect magical.

Every expression of his face emanates serenity and sincerity of his existence. His eyes, his lips, his cheeks, his forehead work in a synchronization to create a bewitching appeal.

The debonair, suave and uber-simple Uttam weaves a halo that seems enigmatically enchanting. You are certain to get the influence of a hangover after visiting the station.

No wonder he has been given the appellation of Mahanayak (The Great Hero). If he can cast a spell from his inanimate pictures, what used to happen when he used to come across his fans in blood and flesh! Indeed he is the great hero, because he speaks with his fans even with mute photographs of his.