Ripples

It was love behind the sustained silence, in desire to stay lonely in the bygone fragrance.

It was love in the whirlpool of sensations, frozen behind a cold face, dejectedness in his all actions.

That merriment of his was love, when it bloomed for the first time in his life. That too was love inside, when the heart broke for the second, and for the third time.

It was still love, when his heart withdrew from faith, and stopped to dream anymore.

It's my love for him, as I narrate to you his story. Its story of a wave, which never recovered from the wraith. He rippled till he died, and homed inside the grave.

Love is a game too, only later he realized. You win, you lose, but its love that pushes you to play.

Image Courtesy : Google Images Search

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The Love that I saw...

The dreamscape was not over yet… Stories within stories were still unfolding, and I was there the protagonist savoring the near perfect life. There were friends, relationships, and the love existed in those relationships. Life was not a cramp to live with in a city of hustle. It was winter, the moon shining white, and the musk floated in the air of a small town called Brotherhood. A colony of people dwelt there who loved to grow affection for others. They cultivated love, they ate love, but they never sold them. They had stored so much of love in their hearts that their chests were bigger than the people on the other side, separated from dreamy episodes by a thin film. ‘Those who rupture the film don’t get roles in our episodes’, he had said. They must cross over it, without tearing apart their own existence as well as that of the film.
I am not the creator of dreamscape; I am the protagonist playing the role that I wanted. He always insisted me to quench my thirst with Love and gallop on the pavements without the fear of falling down and getting injured. He confirmed, as long as I am in Brotherhood and my wishes are sacred I won’t get injured, although he never guarantees anything for the world on the other side. Everyone calls him the Grandfather. Big chested people say that he is the creator of Brotherhood.

I had always thought of love. I imagined that one day I will be at par with them who were loved on this side, in the real world. I was in delusion in reality. I was deluded till the night when the grandfather explained me the truth. I don’t remember how it happened, but I recollect that he had crossed the film, stepped into the real world, and carried me away to Brotherhood. In that episode, I spent the whole night at Grandfather’s mansion where he lives alone. He is the one with the biggest chest in his town. There we had dinner together; we had roasted turkey, sausages, and warm milk for me while he had wine for himself. He kept smiling at me in between his sips of wine, and through pauses in his speech. He explained me how deluding the world on the other side is, and how deluding its inhabitants are.

‘Love is not just between a girl and a boy. Love is so sacred that it exists between every two entities and more. Love is between sand and stones. Love is between air and the mountains. Love is between birds and the sky. Love is between a mother and her kids. Love is between me and you. And don’t forget, that the love is between you and yourself.’

As the grandfather spoke, his eyes used to get closed and his right arm swung here and there in air.

‘But do you know what is necessary for the Love to be present? It’s the truth and the honesty. And I doubt they don’t exist anymore on the other side’, his head bowed down, his eyes were still closed.

Grandfather sipped some more, and then followed his words.

‘You might get yourself hurt my son. Expectations have been killing people from inside. I have lived my whole life there, and I know how many times I was killed.’

‘Will I get killed too grandfather?’, I asked hesitatingly.

‘I will not let you. And I have brought here to prevent you from any injury you might incur. Expectations, wishing for love staying on the other side, these are potentially dangerous’, replied he.

‘Come on, give me your hand and lets go for a night stroll. Let me show you how the Love feels like in its truest form. But I suggest you not to expect the same when you wake up in your world. In Brotherhood we cultivate love, we eat love, but we never sell them. You must know what the true love is and this will prevent you from falsehood and delusions…’

The night was beautiful. Trees were dressed with shimmering lights from fireflies. The twilight was mused in the music of violin coming from a distant hut. I saw the moon through the clouds that were not polluted. I could see people with varying sizes of chest. And I could easily deduce who were more loving. ‘Truth and Honesty’, I was engrossed within depths of my mind with these two words told by the grandfather to an extent that I watched every movement in that episode to confirm that indeed the truth and the honesty existed there which made the whole ambience so loving. The truth and the honesty, they existed in families, between friends, and strangers. I was the protagonist, but I was the stranger too. But the showering love never seemed to go lesser on me.

I would never free my hand from the grandfather’s. I wish if I could stay here forever… I wish if…

I was about to mutter some more to myself but the episode ended. The night full of love came to an end with the warm sun overhead and with the alarm clock proudly at its work.

It’s not summer here, but still the heat is killing. I don’t focus on weather reports. I have a different measurement scale like the one that the grandfather used in his life here. I want to learn some more from him. But not right now. I must hurry for the school. I will be the protagonist in the next episode of the dreamscape tonight.  

PS: Every night I get into dreams, and they are like episodes of a tele serial where the life is what I have always wanted. Dreamscape is a tele serial, and I am the protagonist, and I will continue to be in each of its upcoming episodes.

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A token that spreads happiness...

Happiness is not just a state of mind; it is the reason for us to live. From the smallest of our actions to those of our biggest futuristic plans, they circle around our desire to attain happiness. Reasons to be happy are innumerable, but its us who decide what would make us happy at the end. Job, money, foreign tour, a lavish bungalow, and the list can go on increasing. But the reason for happiness for a few around us could be to be able to get a full day meal for himself and kids. The reason for happiness could be to gather enough money to cure the disease that the wife is dealing with.
They gave me a token of happiness, and it changed my perspective towards life forever…

Bodh Gaya is the prominent tourist spot in eastern India, famous for Mahabodhi Temple. It lies in Gaya District of my home state, Bihar, and is known for Gautam Buddha to have obtained enlightenment here. Events that I will explain to you here dates back to the time when I was in class sixth. I, along with my mom and dad were on tour in Bodh Gaya. It was around 10 AM, and we are strolling down the streets outside the premises of Mahabodhi Temple. I was reluctant to move, while mom consistently pulled me by my arm, making me step forward forcibly. I merely inched, and that too through baby steps. Do you know why?

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BARKHA

“Pearls of my eyes, today I seek over again to solace you. Be still; I won’t let you sneak out through ages of love homed in my eyes.
Be gentle; ease me off to sleep, for I am awake since you left me. I am seized in the wait endless, staring forever at the skies.”

Mr. Partho Ghosh mumbled these words, his voice heavy, and eyes strained from insomnia. In between closing and reopening of his eye lids, he stared at the night sky through the open window close to his squealing bed. Stars displeased him.
He wanted sleep to take over him, but she had been meanest and rudest to him lately. This sixty two year old man, with his mind mused in some belonging he cared to keep alive forever, lived in a small one bedroom flat alone. His flat has a leaky roof and it damps after rain. People in general would hate that, but Partho loves it. He loves rain.

I watch Partho every time. I wish if I could help him out. But I am also a mere toy in hands of the almighty.

II

Mr. Partho was a poet, not by profession but yes he was very much passionate about it. His wife used to be the agonist in all of his story telling poetry. Things haven’t changed even today.

“Hello Mr. Partho, how are you doing?”, greeted Mr. Kashyap at the grocery store.

Mr. Kashyap was the fresher for the job from which Mr. Partho retired. Mr. Partho never accepted his promotion. He retired from the post which he had when he joined the company. He knew promotion brings ‘transfer’, and he never wanted to leave his home and his wife. He wanted to be in this town for ever and ever. Because it was here in this town where he met her for the first time.

“I am fine Babu Saheb, just the mornings have been a bit cruel to me. Nights are also no different”, replied Mr. Partho.

“I suppose you are not getting sleep properly. Your eyes tell the whole story.”

“I am sure they do, but I tell you that the sweet and memorable part of the story they don’t tell, and you will never know of it”, replied Mr. Partho.

“I see. But I suggest you that at this age you must not live alone. Moreover your health has been consistently declining.”

“What should I do then? Get myself registered at Briddhashram? I mean what you call as Old Aged Home? Hmm?”, questioned Mr. Partho stiffly.

“No no. I didn’t mean that. I mean you should invite your relative at your place or go to live at theirs sometime.”, replied Mr. Kashyap.

“Hehehe. No thank you. I have only one relative, and she visits me every year. I think that time of year has already arrived.”, and with this Mr. Partho walked away.

Mr. Kashyap kept trying to figure out what Mr. Partho kept mumbling as he passed across him.

Pains of Partho weaken me. I feel trembled. Even though I know what the old man wants but I can do nothing. After all I am also a mere toy in hands of the almighty.

III

I can see him from here, Mr. Partho has resumed with his poetry. Perhaps his diary of poetry can turn out to be the best seller if published, but Mr. Partho would never want to publish them.

“The chill, now the wind has contained. Kissing my neck with the breeze some sweet some sour. And in this breeze I…”,

Mr. Partho was gumming these words but then stopped as came the knock on his door. Mr. Partho walked towards the door. And the knock came for the second time.

As the door got opened, there she was holding a dishware; perhaps she had cooked something special and thought of sharing with Mr. Partho.

“Can I come in?”

“Yes. Please do come in Mrs. Dutta.”

Mrs. Dutta was Mr. Partho’s neighbor and his only friend. She was a year older than Mr. Partho.

“I know it’s a special day for you. I made something on this occasion. Wouldn’t you like to taste it?” asked Mrs. Dutta.

“Why not Mrs. Dutta. Its 11^th of August. Even if you ask me for poison, then I am ready to try that too on this day.”, said Mr. Partho laughingly.

“Why would I ask something like that Partho. Do you think I am mad? It’s your wife’s birthday. I have made a cake for you.”, replied Mrs. Dutta.

“Do you know Mrs. Dutta, I went to grocery store today. I did buy the ingredients. But when I started the work in my kitchen, I couldn’t put together all what Barkha used to do for preparing the cake. She used to cook so well, the vanilla puffed cake was her specialty. She never explained me how she used to make those lovely cakes. Neither did I care to learn. I used to think my wife will never leave me. She will stick to me till my breath will last.”

Mr. Partho got carried away. His eyes moist, and voice got heavy as he spoke his words. Silence prevailed in the room, and it seemed as if it’s going to last forever.

“Don’t say like that Partho. She never left you. It’s all destiny. God loved Barkha so much. And that’s why he…”

“Don’t you think I loved her too? I loved her more than God. She should have stayed here with me. Always. Forever.”, cried Mr. Partho, almost on the verge of breaking down he was.

Silence existed for few more moments. But it ended as Mrs. Dutta tried to fill the void.

“Now come on. Lets cut the cake. Its Barkha’s birthday and you are not going to disappoint her. She was a lovely wife. You must not sadden her by saddening yourself like this. Nature and its laws, we can’t go against it. Don’t you think so Partho?”

 “No Mrs. Dutta. I won’t cut the cake. I won’t celebrate until she gets back here. I want to get drenched with her caresses of love”, said Mr. Partho.

“Have you gone mad Partho? How can she come now?”, questioned Mrs. Dutta with surprisal.  

“You don’t know Mrs. Dutta. I have been waiting endlessly for her arrival. I have been calling out her name, looking at the skies all day and night”.

As came more of his words, the more he started to turn weak. It seemed as if he is going to fall down. But then Mrs. Dutta helped him to settle on the chair.

“Oh Partho. Please be seated. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry”

“Barkha!”, yelled Mr. Partho.

IV

Two hours swept on the clock. Mrs Dutta had left. And Mr. Partho was still on the chair, baffled and dejected. Suddenly tube light in the room flickered. It started with the lightening in the sky. As came the cracking of thunder in the sky, Mr. Partho woke up from his trance. He came to the window and glanced at the sky. A gush of adrenalin rushed inside his veins. Rushing outside of his flat, forgetting of the locks that he left open, he hurried towards the lawn.

It had started raining. As drops of rain touched his forehead, it seemed to him as if he got hold of his departed love from his life once again. Memories that his old eyes had preserved afresh, seemed to revive into existence. Pellets of rain, skinned over love and compassion from heaven solaced him.

Moving by the kitchen window of Mrs. Dutta’s house, he cried her name.

“Mrs. Dutta. Oh Mrs. Dutta. Come out and see. Barkha has arrived.”

 ...

As I told you before, I watch Mr. Partho always. I watch him closely all days and nights. But I am devoid of any emotions now. God turned me like this. Reasons are unexplainable that why he did so. However, I know what Mr. Partho wants. Every wife knows what his husband wants. He wants me back in his life. But how can I? I am also a mere toy in hands of the almighty.

Sorry, I didn’t introduce myself. I am… (sighs)
I was Barkha Ghosh, wife of an angel in reality, Mr. Partho Ghosh.

Image Courtesy: Google Images Search

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Sneaky Tales : Rejection

I always wake up, and my breath becomes heavy. As of now, I am still feeling heavy, as tattered notes from the last dream come across my mind. And for past four years, waking up, and facing the reality has actually hurt. The cold realization, that I am still there, from where everyone else moved away, sets inside me slowly. I am not fond of waking up. And I tend to sleep, even when I am not asleep. Waking up from your dreams, and waking up from your sleep, I take these two things separately. I have set my own ways of treatment with them.

I am afraid, but optimistic locutions don’t impress me. Whenever I have tried to apply them, they have lead me to nowhere but lost away in vain. Why do people greet the day with smiles? Are they escaping from the simple truth? Today is a cold reminder. It’s one day later than yesterday, one year later than last year. And sooner or later, the destined one will come. But I dare not express these. I need to polish myself each day, so that I may not yell out everything that I have kept inside.

I have been a heap of thoughts and convicted feelings that bring me rejection. Rejection has been a part of my life, and I faced it more than acceptance. The one writing this is the real one. It takes me sometime, each day, to turn what I am in front of people. It takes courage to hide the storm inside you. And once you have spilled out the storm, you ruin your relationships. I have ruined mine. I have untied all the knots that used to bind me. People won’t like to get drenched in your stuffs that don’t suit them.

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Sneaky Tales: The Storm

The wind was gravely chilling. I felt like moving no more. Wrecked at my knees, short of air in my lungs, I was drawing myself into state of Hypothermia. I remember the stress I exerted to bow down and sit, rest for a while under an icy shed. The storm had wiped out everything from my vision. Sands were overrated. Just like tiny little rocks. It was only here where I built our castle. Sands were smooth then, and lighter. In the blurred vision, only one figure was precise; a lonely girl in orange. Her bare feet had trailed a name. Shipra!

Her first glimpse asserted I could meet someone; someone who would be like me. I had always guessed chances of that happening were diminished. And so were they. The storm was needed to uncover the true face. And I was struck in middle of that storm. How long the icy shed will sustain standing, I will calculate with number of days left in my life, or may be hours. My skin which was ripped out weren't bleeding. A part of storm had entered inside me. Everything was freezing; outside me, and inside me.

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Faces of India

Mr. AP Sharma didn’t let his voice go low ever, even when his hands were busy in labeling the plant cell organelle. He was discussing the functioning of each component of cell in his biology class.

“Students! Studies about cells enriched gradually, with every upcoming small development. And those developments resulted due to talented foreign scientists”, the teacher went on.

“1665, Robert Hooke, first discovered the cell. 1676, Anton van Leeuwenhoek, provided further evidence of cells. 1838, the German biologists Schleiden and Schwann advanced the idea that all organisms are made of cells. 1859, German physician and biologist Rudolph Vichow stated that all cells divide and that is how new cells are made.”

“How boring the class is. And how arrogant Sharma sir have become; he never remarked the ‘most’ important contribution ever made, which an ‘Indian’ had given”; a student in the class conversed in his mind, stressing on several words. Ankush, his name was. He posited in his mind, “Jagadish Chandra Bose, an Indian scientist said that plants have life; and this was the most important contribution. And what about Aryabhatta? He gave us the zero; and using that only you calculated the cell division rate”.

“I feel pity for you Sharma sir; you have lost love for your nation”.

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The Friendship Day| 2012

The first Sunday of August, and I thought it to be a regular Sunday, until the time I opened Facebook. Yes the tagging day, the friendship day you call it. Keep juggling with your friend’s emotions throughout the year and on this day bouquet them your love, showing how much depth you have in your friendship.
This friendship day had certain distance bought for me. I already have very few people around me whom I consider to be trust worthy. I am very miser in creating friends. I fear to get betrayed and so I keep myself away from the causes that lead to betrayal. However, even after the cautious measures, my foot slips sometimes.

I thought I can blow away what happened yesterday, and proposed a soulful dawn for myself. I didn’t know that the dusk trails aren’t over for me yet. Few may proclaim that you need to move on. I do too. But I don’t have enough courage that Mr. Thomas Alva Edison had with himself to face 1000 failures before achieving success. There might be confusion on how I am relating Edison with my situation, but somewhere inside me I think I am right by comparing myself with him. I look around; find people on the internet that got to face circumstances that I have been facing now. I relate myself with them and try to figure out the best possible way to keep myself encouraged, moving, as I don’t want to stop. I have miles to go. I really don’t want to stop.

Things will turn out this way, I hadn’t thought. If I had sensed even a minute bit of this earlier, I would have stopped right then. I can’t scribble more. I learnt something. I learnt the difference between illusion, delusion and world around me at present. These three things often mingle together and delude our point of view, our conception. Bearing false conception which is likely to dishearten in near future should be prohibited. Thinking positive is something different. And I do support this. It is like; I don’t support people who think they can refill the toothpaste tube back with the paste that they eased off from it.
We must think, judge ourselves and our point of interests before we start considerations with them. These points of interests range from materialistic things to people alive and dead. We must not throw a blind faith on anyone.

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The Envelope

I was sleeping softly. My mom had dozed me off with one of her godly stories. I don’t remember how far I listened. I just remember what I dreamt of next. A wonderland, with supreme divinity all around; luscious petals and droplets covering their surfaces, were showering on my face. I can still smell that beauty. The light around suddenly became so bright that I had to close my eyes with my tiny little palms, but this didn’t cease my smile. Someone’s warm hand I felt which tried to get hold of my hands. I opened my eyes, offering him my both palms. His face hid the bright light coming from behind; I couldn’t see his face.
“Are you God?” I asked.
“I am a part of you”, came the reply, with depth in his voice.
“I need you” I remember what I had asked.
“And so do I”, his voice asserted.
“I am in search of my baby sister. My mom won’t let me go out and find her. Can you find her for me?” I questioned him.
I don’t remember what he said. I guess he didn’t say anything. I just saw the bright light fainting. A circular icy drop seemed to roll off from above, and landed on my nose. The drop sprinkled, I smiled. I knew he would help me.

…

I am 21 years old now, still the single child to my parents. Those intense and realistic dreams still incur persistently. I live them as if they are real, but in between I need to wake up. My mom continues to have faith in God. And she considers me his favorite child.

…

I spent my childhood as per the story I wrote for myself. I was led by my own creation of mind, something that I weaved out from my dreamland and believed them to be real. My mom knew that I wanted a sister. I often used to hold her by her hands and run towards TV whenever a cute little baby was there.
“Mom! When will my sister come?” I asked innocently.
“Arey ayegi beta”, she solaced me. She explained me again, that I was God’s favorite child and he had already witnessed my wish.
“He is going to surprise you soon son”, she jolted my head, and threw a smile. And then there was no limit to my happiness.

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