I AM WAITING.....

When the prospects are far away from good, I try to live within myself as much as possible. Probably I pen down vital thoughts, or carry on with the humdrum Chemistry tome, trying to crack the numericals with as much accuracy as possible. Sometimes, when alone in the house, I take an impish bite at the cashew or crunch a couple of delicious cookies. After all the work, I sit and relax, with either Hollywood Hills or Tu Jaane Na streaming though the air and dive into fathoms of fantasy and emotions.

                      At times, while dreaming about a Physical or Mathematical concept, 98.3 Radio Mirchi, no wonder, hogs the limelight: with the lightweight Philips radio kept virtually in contact. And when infinite scribbling and calculation fill the latter pages of an exercise book, I myself tend to lose the point where I came from and what results is an intensely intricate piece of math, maybe beyond the reaches of correctness.

Sometimes I close my eyes and mull over what started me and what is ruling me. Whenever I notice some serious shortcoming, I try to work upon it by the day and improve the situation. Being a gaming freak, it’s really difficult for me to stay without a game. I satiated my desires, rather much more satisfactorily, at my cousin’s, 30 metres from my house. Facebook had to be suspended to quite an extent temporarily, owing to rather problematic and abrupt circumstances. My close attachment with coding had rather loosened quite a bit over the last two years, especially. And now since, I have little time for inventive programming, I essay some meaningful smiles when I look back at those two glorious years of 2007 and 2008, when the subject had been my obsession.

I lie now, sandwiched between the duress of day-to-day assignments and the sine-cosines, lambdas-mu-s hidden somewhere in the 1000 pages of the colossal volume(s). The time for the dictionary has also decreased, or rather has stopped. For many days, I am not receiving the Word of the Day since I haven’t opened my Gmail account for 2 weeks.

Out here, at the Don Bosco, Park Circus, Bosco Fest’s on the cards. Quite a few schools are having their own Fests, namely X-Uberance at St.Xavier’s, Creations at La Martiniere Calcutta, Boscotsav at DB Liluah, Bosco Xprezns at DB Bandel, etc. I like it.

Overall, if you can enjoy the life (that includes everything: from simple class tests to great limelight) here and can keep your rhythm, you are soon to be the daedal swimmer ready to dare the high waves.

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CATER-COUSINS

         Unknowingly some things thrust towards my mind some times. Some dazzle me, some challenge me, and some benefit me. I like them. Every little thing around me, or rather, every minute happening that seem to move me, target the ability of my expression and I go on—sometimes, finding myself engulfed by the seas of fantasy and sometimes, cudgeling out poignant realities. Sometimes the same mind embarks upon a journey down the memory lane, reliving those sweet, golden memories. A confused mind, sometimes, fails to differentiate. At a time, only one option appears correct and at other times, the other option only. Then the mind leaves it to the heart and the latter goes on with its impeccable judgment.

When at times, the sun disappears under the horizon or the rain clouds obstruct the sun, the partners forget their states; depressed, they lie. But whenever the sun reappears with grand regalia the next day, they give a new meaning to themselves and dive into the depths of what had created them; the realization of their importance is achieved.

Their life is a blend of evanescence and remembrance, both playing a balanced role in the game, the Game of Life. This game isn’t bordered by high fences; this game isn’t the austere theories of pragmatics; let them decide what the game is, actually.

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Where have you gone?

I have seen the innocent being trapped,

I have seen the wise being fooled,

I have seen the hardest being moulded.

The claws of Death,

When grapple the most beloved,

The lovers break down.

When the most delightful sight

Is seeing them move their

Beautiful, loving hands,

Caring for you from the heart,

The reality becomes a bit difficult,

A bit difficult to accept.

Endless tears follow,

When one only gets to see their smoke,

Curling towards heaven,

Leaving behind a lot of memories,

A lot of love.

It’s the most difficult

When the unexpected happens,

Without warnings, without omens.

One lies under the sun,

Singing tearfully the song of love and respect,

While they, miles above the sun,

Look down cheerfully.

If tears could make a stairway,

And memories a lane,

I would walk up to you,

And bring you home again.

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THAT LITTLE GRASS

The claws of darkness

Swept away the sun today,

As the incessant drops wetted the grass again.

The world thought the grass a trifle,

The trees never knew if it was there at all,

And humanity trampled it unknowingly.

The grass had some story to tell,

The grass had something to express,

But it didn’t know its destiny was in the ground itself.

Sometimes it sprang up

Under the bright morning sun,

And dallied with the dew drops.

When it sprang,

It tried to share—

Whatever seemed new to it,

Whatever seemed unique to it.

Sometimes the grass desired to grow

Tall like the tree,

Strong like the man,

But alas! Nature didn’t permit him such.

When it tried to share,

The other grasses mocked at it,

The trees never paid heed;

And man, like always, trampled it.

Sometimes the grass was wetted,

Sometimes it was bent under heat;

But it tried hard to stand erect defying the inclement.

It wanted to live;

It wanted to see the rainbow

Like all others;

It wanted to shine through darkness;

But its destiny was founded.

It got to understand—

The meaning of a grass,

The meaning of its roots,

The meaning of its existence.

Trampled, wetted, crushed—

At last when it could bear no more,

When it had lost the blood of desire,

The grass-cutter uprooted it,

And threw it away.

And such was the end,
Of the short and sweet life,

Of the grass.

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WHO IS HE?

When the sun peeked over the morning clouds,

The sky smacked rubicund,

An involuntary impulse woke me up.

I stood before my shadow, still.

Intensely scared at its first look,

My mind shrieked hysterically;

And I calmed myself.

The dew drops around stood insignificant,

As I had trampled a rather tough grass.

I put myself to sleep again,

After many efforts of putting aside

That fearful feeling, that fear…..

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THE LOST MEANING

The world goes on;

With the celerity of time,

It degrades by the day,

Rots by the hour,

And dies by the minute.

The thirst for knowledge

Truly has lost its existence;

Blended with the superficialities

Of the 21^st century,

Life has lost its meaning,

Life has forgotten its depths, its roots.

People live within

What is given to them;

The humdrum, routine leaves of the book

Have been bounded to the curse of the syllabi.

Its existence is indeed fruitful,

But with it,

Comes the deathly parochialism,

The fatality.

I couldn’t garner any interest,

I couldn’t acquire much support, much encouragement.

Only the known expressed themselves,

And the rest, rested.

The most expected failed to involve themselves;

While I lay praising and encouraging myself,

Discovering myself,

Without feeling the need for others.

The world lies enveloped

In a cloud of undying darkness,

Which if, is not perforated,

Shall be doomed forever.

I lie grief-stricken today,

Thinking about a way to revive the passion,

The desire for eternal knowledge….

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Pavement Professions

                The thoroughfares of Gariahat, Rashbehari Avenue in the heart of the City of Joy are still arguably, one of the best destinations for the “income-on-footpath” phenomenon. From dawn unto midnight, the pavements teem with bushels of mortals—some belonging to the proletariat and merely savoring a vision of the endless activity there; some glamorous shopaholics rummaging every source of affordables and attending to their purse very now and then leaving themselves uninjured by the qualms of reckless extravagance. And there lie the other bevy of individuals, occupying, maybe, a position inferior to that of the buyers, but nevertheless profitable. This is the group that comprises the trite haunts of the hawkers whose strident exclamations seem to overcome all the obstacles of the social strata.

                These people have indeed found a better way of income than hankering after the merciless tail of employment until the claws of limit and tolerance arrive to grapple them. We don’t need to attend some posh restaurant or gain entrée into an expensive garments store to tell ourselves profligate; just for our daily needs, the pavement’s enough. Ranging from the likes of clothes to even a bicycle chain or a screw; you name it and you have it. All day long these people work themselves to the teeth and return home satisfied. The prevailing sense of humour, the DLF IPL, Bollywood and everything around serve as the topics of discussion of those all-day-long entertaining conversations amongst the “pavement employees” amid the raucous whispers of the city. Professions range from sale of caps, footwear, comestibles to sarees, garments and alike. The professions involved with technology is probably the only commodity found wanting in the footpaths.

The per diem income ranges from Rs.400-500 and sometimes spikes up to Rs.1000 during the Pujas. They are mostly happy and satisfied about their professions. They interact and are subjected to all sorts of haggling and they sometimes succeed, sometimes fail.

Many of them dwell in the farthest points of the city—some arrive by the first Banga Local in the wee hours and some by the Metro while others by autorickshaws.

Their life is a mélange of ups and downs, entertainment and depression, profit and loss—and through these, they thrust their way forward; since they have to go on. They dream of their sons and daughters to turn successful when they grow up and rid them of the hardship that they face in the open pavement under the harshness of the rain, sun and wind. But till then, they shall carry on.

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