THE WINTER CUCKOO

I resented the cold...
Who says Delhi is 
a winter surprise?
Romance gets tougher
amidst shivery surrounds.

Scented candles are luring
or, novels are tempting,
where dark, foggy nights
hold mysteries of murders
by a romantic freak!

My God!
She walked out of the car;
her earrings whispered 
to angels hidden amongst
foggy clouds perhaps...
Eyes did their act too:
almost stabbed me,
but words saved me
saved me so that
I can write for 
another decade...
But I die every time
I hear her stories
just forget...
think there 
is a cuckoo in winter!

CULCATTA 120

PC: Charles Haynes, Australia

If love could be wrapped
in leaves of green joys,
Pleasure wouldn't
be satisfied enough
to please a man's
taste of flavour!

He designed with care,
dropped a few pieces
of betel nuts,
buds jewel-like,
a touch of edible lime
and reddish cutch wild,
folded the leaves
with fingers artistic
and packed it quick
in a transparent plastic...

Recreation.
Far beyond that
rested the outcome;
I chewed like a Prince,
did the spat and spit,
the green and red
romanced with my lips
and the dinner I had
was finally fulfilled.

Temptation.
Not always a woman
or lust idiotic;
I walked back
and 
shouted in glee:
"Dada, Culcatta 120!" 

NOTE: Culcatta 120 is a flavoured paan, the recreational edible food item of India and many South Asian countries. Culcatta refers to Kolkata. The betel leaves used in Culcatta 120 (or 520) are special, grown in and around Kolkata. Culcatta is the older name of Kolkata. The name of the city has changed but older memories have stuck with Culcatta!

KING

Crown.
Only slaves would steal
to trade with a chemist, 

a king shall win it

through inheritance 

or by sword or merit. 

And what about the mind? 

A hidden Crown is

the question, 

arouses much curiosity, 

plays in silence

like the Grail, 

calls for retrieval 

yet hides in skins

of womanlike mystery!

The treaty?
Mind is the king,
body its slave,
all books say,
all know
none pays interest
for the Crown
manages
mirrors and veils,
the Crown always
rests and awaits
for the body
to bow to its King,
until the game
ends on check
...
and mate,
are you worried?

WINTER RAINS

Romance.
A subject known,
yet, difficult to absorb
like aloof dew drops
get soaked not
on grasses of
abandoned lands,
green and innocent.

Surprises are many,

winter is just once;

wedding roses 

wither again,

clouds may pour,

who knows?

Hearts may settle

on a plate of dimsums,

rains may splash
memories on void;
hugs may be cinematic
and kisses may turn true!

All nostalgia may spring
from seldom touched old diaries
the air awaits some moisture
to reunite souls in an early December!

A SHORT NOTE ON GOD

Often, I feel, while beginning to write a short note, that I may be the next one in line to get people's vote for a death sentence. But having realized that people still do acts of nonsense seriously, I am assured that it shall be long before I am executed. 

Keeping these bad possibilities aside, and with a reminder that this is indeed a note which is short, here is my deduction on who or what God is. First of all, God is unseen and present everywhere. Secondly, He exists in 33 crores of avatars in Hindu mythology and believed as One in most others. Even the oldest of faiths did worship multiple gods. Now, speaking much on gods in such a sensible world may end up in me being a world criminal. So, keeping these aside too, let's focus on God. 

Defined by properties of omnipotence and omnipresence, this God of ours must have extreme powers. From a needle to the Burj, He is there and we respectfully believe in this. But has anyone seen/heard God speak? According to most, we feel His love through our successes, and His lessons through failures. He must live beside us, from before birth to after demise, must travel with us to offices and hospitals, must laugh in our joys and cry in our sorrows, and must be within us. So, He must be someone who is familiar to us. Only one satisfies these properties, or more crudely, specifications, and that is, Time. It (He) stays with us, remains with us on birth certificates and even after death on death certificates. It decides whether our name shall remain here after we are gone. It stays within us in our pulses. Our offices and schools start and end with It. The day and night are Its decisions. It has been here since unknown, and cannot be killed, although killing Time is an expression. We pray to God seeking that Time be with us, unknown of the fact that we pray to Time (God) asking It (Him) to be with us.

We are so engulfed in business that we have missed Its interpretation! God can never be complex, He is simple. He exists such that even though man shall be ignorant or busy enough to visit a place of worship, yet He shall be there around him, and within. It is Time that is God!

THE BURNING TRAIL

(Wishing everyone a happy Deepawali)

Waving hands and dancing feet
of the young, uncles and cute aunties
brought a scene of pretty treats
to anyone who felt crazy, festive!

Fragrant candles and earthen lamps
instilled freedom and happy gains;
burning sticks and swooshing rockets
welcomed the falling star's burning trail!

SAFFRON LIGHTS

This write-up gives a glimpse of men, gods and festivals, and believe me, the words in it shall be fewer than my previous ones! Also, don't take it to be an article on photography; it is just a collection of sights seen at a place! Try to grab the way in which the art is done rather than how it is clicked!

This October, I had a chance to visit Puri, Orissa, India well-known for the Jagannath Temple. Although travel is not my cup of tea, and I am too poor at it, yet what I experienced there was more than inventing an algorithm on One Time Password. On Dusshera when victory of good over evil is celebrated, I was a part of something which I must not blabber and let the photographs speak!

The idols of Goddess Durga were lined on one side of the road, and the idols of the Ravana on the opposite. It was a joyous affair. People did not wish to miss the last farewell of the bride. About the idols of the Lanka King, people actually wanted to keep those, and never burn them. For there was a touch of imagination in every product of clay that stood godly and human, thanks to the artist who moulded behaviour into a mere muddy mixture. I just had to watch. On one hand, the crowd was carrying me forward, and on the other, the art was so convincing that I wished to understand every colour present. The posture and texture of the gods and goddesses were worth appreciating, and I know I cannot finish writing them down here. I don't know about the rituals involved, but I honestly feel that the art connected me to the thought that imagination is beautiful.

And, amidst so many people, I somewhere felt the presence of a soul, and how it stays calm beneath the skin.

Pardon me for the raw and poor images. Neither am I a photographer nor did the madding crowd allowed me to capture the click at correct times! I was clicking on the phone so that at least I could bring back some saffron lights captured in a device and a mind too!

The Post Dinner Affair

All copyrights of the photographs rest with anyone who may use them for any peaceful purpose!

STARS ARE NEVER LONELY

I had always thought that mosquito liquidators are not pretty effective;they are only comforters to those who are too tired or lazy to put up their mosquito nets. Similarly, I had always thought fiction could never be as clean as truth. True stories are so evident, and fiction is just like a basket of beautiful lies. And that cool Sunday too, I was wondering on my verandah if the progress in the country was actually happening when I saw that little girl at my house's newly painted gate. She was enjoying the weather like I was, but I hoped she really did not care about liquidators, fiction and progress. She played for sometime with the brownish pebbles perhaps, I was unsure of the tools used, and then laughed her bellies out at a motherless stray kitten which I had not allowed my wife to take in. Watching her, I dozed off. 

When I woke up, it was almost dark. The lights of the gate should be put on before my wife returned from her Sunday shopping. I knew she would learn some new recipes from her friends and experiment them on me. However, she never fails to impress me. I am a gourmet, you should know. 

The girl was still at my gate. I was a bit worried and neared her.

"Hey. Why are you here? " I asked, but suddenly felt my question was too harsh for a kid. 

I asked again," Where is your mother, kiddo? " 

She smiled, and it was comforting. 

"She has gone to work in the nearby lane," she answered. 

"What work? " 

"She carries bricks on her head to that big house that is being built there." 

I understood. She was talking about the Angel Apartments being built newly at our locality. My brother in-law had insisted me to invest on that construction, but, I felt it quite a troublesome job to look into. 

"But, kiddo, you shall feel cold here. Come in." 

She smiled again. 

"No, Ma shall be arriving soon. The stars are out in the sky. It means she will return." 

I was quite amazed at her words and worried too. 

"Beta, you are lonely out here. Come inside till Ma arrives." 

And she replied promptly, "Ma says that I can never be lonely, because she says that stars are never lonely." I decided not to speak, and allowed her to live those moments in complete faith on what her mother had told her. I waited beside the little girl.

Then, I realised that liquidators are not false instruments, truth may often entirely

seem like fiction, and my country's progress is not stagnant. For there is hope in even the dullest of life, farthest of winds and weakest of stars. For stars are never lonely, and I believe in fiction.

THAT ONE SILENT DOVE

 [Dedicated to Mother India]

They failed...
to cage the avian souls;
they tried hard to paint
the cage bluer than before,
but skies couldn't be wronged
how could one mistake one's home?

Those iron bars lost polish;
bodies decomposed within,
but they could not cuff souls
in a cage not of God's!
Wings were weaker
but wills didn't falter,
death was not feared;
who cared about tears?
Freedom could be touched,
not, but, breathed just;
country could be fought for ,
not, but, asked to walk upon. 

She never quit prayers
despite the uncanny cage.
Her children bore the pain,
grew restless and violent,
their Mother's right to be free
should not die suffocating!
The Keeper could not resist
the chirps of his caged wings,
released them at last to embrace
their destiny that awaited never far!
Their Mother earned Her Self
but did freedom cause pain?
She spoke not, stayed silent,
reassured Her doubting faith! 

Her clean skies were just lies.
A cage can hold physiques,
an ill mind can slave souls.
Her freedom was stained,
seemed feeble and cruel.
She only wept, stayed silent!
What more could she do?
Whiteness could not define Her clan
for Her little doves had turned ravens;
She, but, is a Mother to them all.
She is that one kind silent dove!
 

SHILLONG: when the gods call - PART I

I am a poor traveller; poor in the sense that I travel less although I wish to enjoy places. This is quite contradictory, isn't it? Yes, and all the thanks to my laziness!

But this time, a few friends sufficient enough to cause the humdrum, made a toast to a plan for a Shillong tour. And I joined in, trying to test my travelling luck one last time.

Luckily, there was no disappointment. The tour proved to be cherishing. The Department of Meghalaya Tourism is well organized and they gave us the best and most comfortable sight-seeing planner. We returned happy. 

The complete tour was broken up into three days of exciting travel. The first day, we were taken to Cherrapunji, the second, to Asia's cleanest village, Mawlynnong, and the third day, we drove around Shillong. Cherrapunji is around 75 kilometres away from Shillong town (w.r.t. Police Bazaar point). Mawlynnong is located at a distance of around 90 kilometres.

We expected rains; so, we had five umbrellas packed in our bags before the journey. The roads housed spots of pleasure: the curvy mountains rubbed with specks of clouds, the valleys that nested little huts and houses, and the roadside tea stalls of bamboo. Everything seemed like a painting on the air. Cherrapunji trip had the following spots: Seven Sisters Waterfalls, Nohkalikai Waterfalls, Bangladesh View Point, Mawsmai Cave, Thangkharang Park and Ramakrishna Mission Ashram. Although each of these was unique in their own way, the most striking were the Nohkalikai Waterfalls and Mawsmai Cave.  

'Nohkalikai' in local tongue means 'jump of Likai'. Likai was a woman who earned by labour. She had a daughter who was more than her life. She had to remarry as she turned widow early. Her second husband could not bear her love for her daughter and was jealous of their bond. He felt Likai's love for her was the reason why she did not pay attention to him. One day, when Likai went out for work, her husband planned a murder, chopped her daughter into pieces and cooked the little one's flesh. Likai, on returning from work, was surprised to learn that her husband had cooked the evening meal. He offered the meal to Likai. Tired, she ate the meal and after dinner she went out to have a taste of betel nuts. As she drew the hand out of the grinder, she found a finger of her daughter. Suddenly, her world turned ugly. She was struck with unimaginable grief, and grew insane. Her heart was too weak to carry the weight of her daughter's death. She could not believe she had eaten her love's dead flesh. She knew not what to do, and as she had already grew insane, she jumped off the waterfalls. So, the waterfalls was named after the 'jump of Likai' to remember a mother and her love for her daughter.

The Mawsmai Cave is a natural cave which has a length of almost 150 metres and can be traversed through. The tourists can have a trip through the rocks amidst the cave. There are a number of narrow paths and so, people with problems of bending and breathing are advised not to take a chance. However, it was an adventurous inside, like Indiana Jones going for the Crystal Skull. There are little bridges to cross watery portions but since it was raining, the bridges were a bit submerged. But nothing seemed a problem. The water trickling from the sides of the rocks presented a true experience of a dream. The Mawsmai Cave is, in fact, a place which must not be missed at all.

The fog played its best, but we did not regret. The fog touched a sweet sense in the photographs we took. The Nohkalikai was a playful place. The fog lifted for only around 2 minutes. The people there commented that even a 2 minute glimpse is luckier; sometimes people return after 6 days of visiting without having a pleasure to watch it. Perhaps, that's how silent Nature participates in games with Her world!

Seven Sisters Waterfalls

Bangladesh View Point

Seven Sisters Waterfalls Eco Park amidst fog

Nohkalikai Waterfalls: India's second largest falls!

At Nohkalikai Waterfalls: fog surrounds the hills!

Roadside on the way to Cherrapunji

Just me!

BURP !!!

[Dedicated to all food-lovers.]

There is a certain misunderstanding in understanding the concept of a joyful dinner! Obviously, you should not measure it by the number of plates you have gobbled up, not because quantity is hypothetically secondary, but because your order may come in a bowl! Oh! Come on! You need not add the number of bowls, not because quantity is too mainstream to weigh joys, but because half of your orders may arrive in plates and half in bowls! Now what? Would you average them? None marries a dull mathematician! You need to be smart enough!

Sometimes, a quarrel over the most insensible subject makes a dinner joyful! Sentiments are the last thing that technology shall eat up. Forget Einstein's technology quote; we haven't yet discovered the tenth dimension! I am still stuck up on how to figure out what a 3D looks like in 2D! Still, there are us who fight over whether the lady at the other table is married or not! The one who gets a smile from the cutest girl at the restaurant gets his favourite drink. And that makes a dinner worth a dinner!

Although selfies/groupfies are the new style remarks these days, believe me, food plays an important part in deciding whether you are smiling in the "..."-fies or not! A dish of chilli prawns if not served with the proper urban superstitions is a waste! Like, a prawn's extended tail should be felt (sometimes seen) to consider it a perfect starter. Otherwise, all general fish fries are same. Chicken in corianders should taste like chicken in corianders. Otherwise, all chicks are same! And there is this plate of butter paneer. The perfect blend of butter and paneer fried to the best limit of brownish look makes it adorable; otherwise even Ramu Kaka makes butter paneer in his eighties!

Maintaining a healthy diet is utmost necessary. In India, most people find themselves in obese-category on the BMI scale. This is due to a phenomenon called eating-beyond-bellysize. Diets are like resolutions- they are kept to be broken. And we are so skilled in employing this. After all, diet should not sadden us. What say? Eating is a gift. And eating beyond bellysize makes a dinner joyful.

Often, company decides the nature of a dinner. Girlfriends or wives mean a dinner like a funeral. Mom means the best dinner we always cherish at home. Seniors go on a 50-50 note; some are over conscious while others don't possess the talent of identifying a fruit! I have kept the last option at last because their presence always means a bombastic dinner! They are sometimes called friends, and sometimes we know them by the same name, 'Oi' or 'Ay'.

Finally, when I am concluding this piece, I shall say: Enjoy your meals. They are important and...Sorry! Excuse me! BURP !!!

NIKITHA HINGAD REVIEWS THE MOUSTACHED POET

[This review appears on goodreads].

I loved the book cover design and also the name of the book. I think it is very unique. I liked the fact that author dedicated the book to poetry lovers.
The poet writes in free style. He follows no fixed pattern like any modern poet. From the poem Rains I noticed he can rhyme well too but he doesn’t force or restricts himself.
He sees poetry even in simple daily occurrences in life. He is a good observer. He writes poems on people and issues which we as a society tend to ignore. And I appreciate this quality in him. After all a true poet sees the unseen.
I found his poetry more like folk tales or regional language poets. If you read Kannada poet, Kuvempu’s English, they are very similar to his poems. . After centuries, if our future generations need to know about our culture and lifestyle, then this piece of literature would help them.
He describes a lot. He has satire poems written about stark realities of life. And also breaking stereotype like Stepmother and C.R.O.W. I liked the conclusion (poet’s words) added after a poem. It seems like the poem is a song and there is narration after. It gives a clear picture on what circumstance the poet has written these lines. It is easy for people who have minimum vocabulary or find it difficult to decipher poem’s true meaning. To be honest, I read some of his poems twice to understand them more deeply. His poems need to be read slowly and leisure.
He expresses so gently about everyday emotions and I think everyone can connect with his poetry unlike what people usually think that poetry is not their cup of tea. He is a poet since eight he says and I see the way he writes. It shows how beautifully he expresses. And it seems like he has been reading poetry along with academics. I like rhythm in the poem Stubborn. The poem My Kite is as if a child has written it.
The Moustached poet: few pots of poems is a good collection of poems giving glimpses of his life and various people around him.

Suggestions: I would prefer the poet divided poems into different segments. And also please write an Author’s note at the end of the book for your kind readers. I suggest the conclusion poet’s words are renamed as author’s note because poet’s word is the poem itself.

PS: I wonder as to why Mr. Goswami doesn’t grow a moustache!

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Had the bird not flown, I would not have known how far the skies existed! Content of poetic literature is difficult to judge for poetry is amorphous! One pair of eyes should bear sufficient viewpoints to generate a judgement of poetry. And this is where, a poet sees a poet. I thank poetess Nikitha Hingad for reviewing my book, The Moustached Poet: a few pots of poems. This review is worth my efforts, and I thank her for the suggestions. For my next book, they shall be followed as said! And regarding my moustache, I am still trying to grow a perfect one! :)   

SILKY

Are threads of silk deceptive?
I am struck by a wand of curiosity!
Deception is an art,
illusions are large-
a shot of poison can
be less lucrative
than a thread of silk
only the cocoon is
what is decisive
or perhaps...
skilfully deceptive!

The night has her own 
spools of silky intentions-
beds are luxury,
minds are stupid;
a handful of spider's web
can roll the world down 
into hopeless apocalypse:
a hand long silky piece
of night wear can be
so tempting, indulging...

Had hearts been silky,
we could have stitched
the voids of threads
but it's unfortunate
no heart is silky,
no silk owns a soul,
because only the nights
know of the coils of silk,
and you must know,
nights are deceptive!

WHERE'S THE GHOST?

The outside was frightening. He never feared a ghost, but he had heard his friends speak of the one black shadow that roamed at the fifth turn of the street beside the pond. Ghosts occupied those who harnessed feeble minds, in whom fears cloud obvious truths, and he very well believed that. He kept on walking. "Ah! The street lamps are never repaired, adding to the fantasy of the horror that rests just in tongues", he thought. He crossed the third turn at the street, and felt more relaxed than ever. Splashes of ripples in the pond often alerted him, but, he knew of the falling twigs of the trees beside the pond. There were fishes too. He was satisfied at how his reasoning was impenetrable. He reached the fifth turn at the street. The width of the street reduced to almost half. He encountered no invisible who became visible to him, and threatened his soul. He tried not to cross the part too quickly: he knew he didn't believe in spirits. He walked steadily, often watching his phone's chat windows and smiling at the messages that kept flowing in. There was a hustle among the bushes. He paid no heed to the jungle alerts. Suddenly, he faced an attack from a being. He fell down. It looked like a man, lean and thin like the midrib of a leaf, and restless. The man crossed the street towards the pond leaving him wounded. And then, he heard his footsteps again in the dark. He rose immediately, and as soon as he felt someone near him, he pushed with his might. There was no sound of a splash in the pond. He was terrified. Ghosts are lighter than air; they carry no weight, and hence there was no sound of a fall. He started running as quickly as he could. Had he been in a different situation as in sports, that run would have been his all-time best. He reached his quarters safely. Tired and weak, he chose to sleep early...with the lights on. The next morning, he woke up early. He could not reason if that incident was real, or was he hallucinating. He kept aside his thoughts and readied himself for the day's work. He started his journey through the same street that had compromised his life the previous night. He reached the fifth turn, and saw around 10 men with fishing nets discussing things. As he neared, he heard one of them," Poor fellow. God has his means of pulling out lives. He died because of the curse that haunted him- his in born dumbness. We could have shouted if we fell, how could he? Pity."

He increased the pace of his walks. How could a sensible man who never believed in ghosts could commit such a tedious error that could be counted as a federal crime? He realized the ghost had rested in him, how suppressed fears clouded the obvious truths in front. He was the ghost that night. No ghost ever resides, it is men who breathe blood into fiction!

Man is a ghost...only if he retires from being a man with a mind!

THE LAST UMBRELLA

She now adorns the museum
of antiques and mammoth bones...
Aah! Those are what museums hold:
leftovers that suddenly grow precious
but she rests silently, frozen perfectly...
Wait! How do you know she's a she?
Her colours suggest her of being girlish
like pink satins are always flooding
the stores even when there's no bonus
wired to a common man's accounts...

She lies behind the glass,
of her kind she's the last-
a treasure is she titled
away from the smoky rains
that once drowned metros
and paddies, blind was mercy.
Her colour has weakened
as she longs for freedom
below the skies,
on the muds
out where air flies
be it a day or a night!

Her steel still shines,
a mistress of life,
respect kisses the glass
of the old but painted museum.
And she glitters in silvery
spine, robust and pretty
and....

Hey! Come again...
How do you know she's a she?
Please explain!

THE SINGING ROTARY

POEM NO. 2 

(As a part of the friendly poetry challenge, nominated by Pijush Kanti Deb​)

Honks of horns,
clothes what worn
conclude priorities,
status and destiny!
Sirens are useless,
death is evident,
jobs aren't permanent
seconds are important!

She played her broken flute
in the rotary's garden;
her brother tried to tune
into what he last sang!
Her friends hit the dhols
the air kissed its freedom;
the rotary seemed true
like stars falling from the blue!
Sick fumes of the city
seriously looms over the rotary,
yet the blinds ceased not playing
their best songs in the rotary!

But, honks of horns
and business measured in clocks
design their deafness
wherein lies tomorrow's deaths!
Life may run in a circle
like pride calmed in shackles;
the cars just have to carry
flesh that shall melt in agony
so, should anyone pay heed
to the city's only singing rotary?

THE LAST OF MOCKING BIRDS

POEM NO. 1

(As a part of friendly poetry challenge on Facebook; 

nominated by poet and friend, Pijush Kanti Deb)

If a life could grow in mists,
she was the finest hypothesis;
the noon brought its guests:
leather shoes, nylon nets,
poachers arrived and camped,
voices strengthened the plans-
she waited, silent in shrubs,
one slip of beak...death at dusk!

Freedom isn't a free country.
Life isn't a colleague's theory.
A blazer hides a hesitant heart,
can a watch buy one's fragile past?
Love stays in bookmarks of novels,
romance is a mere metric of progress-
maturity is filing a divorce,
confidence is marrying twice,
who cares for the sons?
They shall soon be grown-ups
just like our neighbours',
a divorce isn't that much!

She waited...silent in shrubs,
one slip of beak...death at dusk!
A man aimed his slingshot
at a sparrow's nest at spot;
the eggs were new,
she was sorry, she knew!
Suddenly, she chirped
the sparrow's best part;
the man just turned half
released the rubber.
...
She felt no wings,
but she would die in peace
for the sparrow
wasn't hurt
all because of
her, the last mocking bird!

HAFNIUM, MY LOVE

[Dedicated to people and scholars working on semiconductor devices and electronics]

I haven't seen the barber

since the last one year,

because I am in love

with a lady named Hafnium!

She had called me a fool

when I didn't know the rule

that a day is enough not

to please a Mistress hot!

She would react often

on seeing ice cream silly cones,

and I would sincerely calculate

permittivity of her vocal tones!

The morning rains turned me lazy,

zero jogs affect health's kinks,

she pleases me with her constant 22;

love is a current, there's only a you!

Noiseless neighbourhood

and candle-light Indian food-

there's a power cut

how can life conduct?

Hafnium, my love,

pleasant winds out

can never kill my warmth

you shall be mine, 
my simulated bride!

                                                          ***

[NOTE: For anyone not so familiar with transistors or electronics, the following one-liner on italicised words in the poem may basically help!

1. Hafnium is a metal, and its oxide is used as gate dielectric in modern day transistors.

2. silly cones: refers to Silicon- a semiconductor used in transistors

3. permittivity: the property of a material to hold electrical charge

4. kinks: undesirable shoots in a plot, especially in current.

5. constant 22: relative permittivity of Hafnium Oxide is 22, also known as dielectric constant

6. noise: unwanted fluctuation in electrical circuits

7. conduct: to transfer electrons (current) from one point to another

8. simulated: transistors and circuits are often tested on real-time softwares before manufacture]

LOVE THAT SHALL ALWAYS STAY...

Dear Miss M, 

I never keep diaries. I keep memories, because they add to the extra weight of my soul. Those doings and wrongdoings- all are still a part of my self! Time plays sport of nostalgia, and it is Time that has teased me to write another piece. Time changes...

A few keystrokes on a blog are not sufficient to express the inexplicable. But I am trying, at least for you who is so far away, yet always nearby. Days were good as today six years ago. There was that vibrant youth, and admiration for you so wonderful. Waiting for phone calls was included in schedule. There was love despite the fact that there were no meetings. Three times we met, and I wonder even today how a complete year could be everyday! Beside talks of life, there were Kirchoff's Laws and Schrodinger's Cat, and math of course. And before all those, there was a proposal. There was love!

Wait was sweet for me; I never did the best to fetch an answer. I am a poor runner- 70+ weight always keeps me lazy. I never meant to do anything wrong. And then, suddenly that long gap of silence in the year weakened me.

The curtains were already wrapping up. But there was this love that has always stayed, and shall stay even in the deadliest of times, if not death. In the last conversation, you had asked me not to talk to you again. I found it easier...easy enough to hide within the silence that you asked for. But I tried to be there, as long as I could in silence...during the on air show, and during your favourite photo shoots. But silence is only a weak thread. Your joys still mean the most!

But in this world of emotions being framed as sentimental freaking objects of attention, I do not ask you to forgive nor believe this letter! No...not at all! Forgiveness is often a devil's excuse.

There are things perhaps, which I feel so empty to type! That's why I don't keep diaries! I carry memories, because they add to the extra grief of nostalgia when I remember you...and smile! Perhaps we may never meet...and if there is a birth waiting on the other side of the river, I shall pray that your memory be rebooted! Next time shall be the last time, and there shall be no errors! Stay blessed! May my life be yours!

From,

Mr. N.

[NOTE: This letter is only fiction. Fiction is true in dreams. And Mr. N loves dreams. So, this letter may be true fiction.]

AND WHEN THE RIVER DIES

(Dedicated to World Elder Abuse Awareness Day, June 15) 

She would grind some betel nuts, and then settle herself under the moonlight! We would surround her with expectation of another tale best enough to put us to a wonderful slumber. A night was incomplete without her chats! We preferred her narration to the television, because we could have voluntary recap of our favourite episodes of Grandma's Tales. Sometimes mothers would sit behind us to have a taste of Bezbaruah's tales flavoured with Grandma's recipe of sweet narration. Stories of camouflaged snakes, greedy brahmins and cursed princes were the best gifts. Interestingly there were intermissions too. She would take a two-minute break two times, once during the middle of the 30 minute tale and the other just at the climax. The last break was her strategy perhaps, to allow us to expand our imagination as to what would happen next. I feel our silly questions on why the prince disappeared, how the frog could have powers and why the stepmother hurt her daughter, amused her the most. She derived the best entertainment out of those innocent FAQs, and would feel pleased.

She once told the tale of a river that was cared upon by the people of the village. The river was the people's hope and they did their best not to disturb or pollute it. One summer, there were no rains, and the river died due to lack of water. This saddened the villagers; they could not bear the death of their Mother, and so decided to fill the river by bringing water from the nearest village. They worked hard: men and women equally carried gallons on their backs and filled the little river. The River Goddess then appeared, and told them that She was happy at the love of the people even when She hadn't been there. 

Today, when I recall the tale, I sometimes feel, and am quite amazed to realize that in the tale, our Grandma is the river herself, and we all her little audience, the villagers. She meant that even when the river would die, love and respect should remain in the hearts of us. 

And so, when the river dies, there should be a fairy tale of good deeds in everyone's life... 

[NOTE: Bezbaruah in this piece refers to the legendary Assamese poet and author, Lakshminath Bezbaruah whose writings are contemporary even today, and without whom, we would not have grown.]

MARTYRS

[Dedicated to the demise of Indian Army soldiers in Manipur ambush] 

a breath equals a thousand souls
a thousand fires could break not
souls of bravery planted long ago
long before terror was born

they fought, they died but surely won
those who lost are coward foes
war is an art, anything stays fair
victory is fair, goes to soldiers

ON MEETING MR. GANGULY

[Dedicated to World Elder Abuse Awareness Day, 15 June]

He sat like an owl- wise and alert! His retro-like reading glasses reflected his intellect with a blaze of glamour! And who says the 1940s gave birth to old schools? He was stylish but not arrogant, talkative but intelligent, and carefree but caring. A fine personality he carried, and spoke, breaking the last crumb of his cigarette on the black bowel of his ash-tray: There is a sense of poetry in youth today. You must be pretty interested to watch my library!

I could not disagree at any chance; more than what books he had, I was more into thinking of how his reading room would be like! And then, the 74+ cowboy unlocked a door, and led me in. The room was a treat to the eye. Posters and newspaper cuttings on the walls were newer than his new beard. The room bore the scent of a bachelor, and he silently cracked open a secret to me in whispers: When I newly married, I used to romance with your grandma in this room. I sang many poems to her here. The table here bears the evidence of many postage stamps stuck on letters to the Editors of dailies and magazines. The thick and black spots of gum suggest that. That guitar you see...it is my passion. I still tune into this piece when your grandma gets angry at my act of stealing samosas, or when I skip sitting with her on the verandah due to a thriller movie. I do forget the notes sometimes, but these hands are skilled enough not to play the worst of music. Days are still pretty exciting, aren't they?

Words from the old man were young still. Inspiration rests in the attitude of living a life. The conversation reminded me of my college days, when friends narrated their fantasies of life. He drove me into a sweet past. He made me believe that nostalgia is not the ultimate penance of the joyful past. Time flies, but it is up to me if I should let it go. Ageing is evident- that's life, but enjoying is a choice! Waiting to see the end of life is a boring pastime! I was happy to see him. And that was Mr. Ganguly's most coveted victory of his life!

A WORD OF WAR

[Dedicated to the innocent people who lose lives in wars]

The sudden bombardment at the border cautioned everyone. Panic and wails resonated with deaths. The air was polluted by gunpowder, and hearts by fear! She waited in despair. Her child was among the few who were playing on the school ground. It was vacation and who thought of cross-border attacks. She cried like being punished. He found it difficult to hold her; he did not wish to see his woman die! She almost collapsed on the floor, rested her head on the muddy walls! The neighbours found their boy, but Akram was missing. She went running to the boy before he could speak.

Did you see Akram? Please tell me. Oh my God! What happened to my boy?

She started slapping herself! 

The little boy was already frightened. He spoke not. She asked again, but he stayed silent and drooped his head!

She hugged him, and shouted: Please tell me, son. I would give you anything you wish to have.

Gathering some courage, he tried to speak. There were no words- he started to narrate but there was no voice......

A LIE OF DEATH

The tires shrieked on the slippery Shillong Road, and Mr. Shrivastava heaved a sigh of relief: an inch more, and he would have met his most unfortunate death! He tried not to think much, and restarted the engine of his vehicle. The North-Eastern rain was Nature's guest that summer. It was his daughter's thirteenth birthday, and he was happy that his meeting at the Administrative Tribunal got postponed. He drove for almost an hour. The rains could not entertain him much. He switched on the radio, and listened to the music. It was soothing. Just then, an announcement on the radio diverted his attention: 

Here comes the traffic announcement on the Shillong Road. Fifty six minutes ago, a car crashed at the Fourth Corner area. The car which had only its driver inside instantly burnt to ashes. The driver has been identified as one Ankush Shrivastava. The road shall stay closed until.......

Mr. Shrivastava kept on driving. He felt his false veins circulating vacuum- there was no blood. He understood why his blood did not turn warmer. He dared not stop his car...he dared not realize the truth!