the diary of a dead moth

... a mobile child

2012-02-08T22:15:00.001+05:30

During my journey to school, I see hundreds and multiply them into thousands at my every return. Today, I was going to school as usual and hundreds passed by me. However, in front of me was a child, whose face put languages of all nations to my heart to translate love and affection. There was no camera with me. The one I had was my mobile. Even the memory card was left home quite carelessly. So I had to delete some photos from the phone memory in order to take the child home.

I have no end of family problems. But today I forgot all this when I began looking at this child - a unique embroidery of sunny beauty and moony innocence.

... my father's day

2012-01-29T22:22:00.001+05:30

Yesterday, I celebrated My Father's Day. No, not with candles, palatable dishes, balloons and dusts of mica. The day went on with purgative torture, with almost no food and without hilarity.

I had no school. My father's physical breakdown crippled my feet home. A week ago, he felt a severe cardiac pain, which was actually a depressing upshot of gas. A two-time cerebral haemorrhage winner as well as a bypass surgery conqueror had now lost all energies to fight with constipation. Constipation led to that point that laxative was used in his rectum for clearance of his bowels. A few days ago, he got rid of a severe difficulty with prostrate gland. The nebulous urine had made it in the limelight. The winner of yesterday is totally vanquished by tormenting today. The laxative worked on him. I cleaned him at first and then the waste matter, carefully, from the rubber cloth. He was more vehemently trembling due to neurological disorder than fighting shy of his nakedness. After half an hour, I helped him urinate. He can neither stand nor walk steadily due to his unresponsive left leg. I took hold of his hand firmly, as my mother, laden too by geezerhood, cannot maintain the balance. She endured much. Now, it's time for me to rearrange challenges of life and curb her endurance.

These days, I can't sit at my computer for hours together. I read much these days, riveting my eyes to the pages of Kundera and Eliot. I feel if I sweep thirty-six novels round a year, at least, for Learning's sake, a limited learning will be done. However, time thwarts time. I have stolen myself away from them at this juncture. Now, I was with my father. I saw him like I had seen him ever.

The day consumed much of him. The agonized groans died down slowly. He began falling asleep, tired and tortured by his illness. Commonly, I am mentally distanced from my father. But, yesterday, I sat for a length of hours, rubbernecking at his fuming face. He was sleeping, snoring, his face systematically ballooning upward, his exhausted body hidden inside a quilt, looking like a soldier with neither armour nor sword. Inside the mosquito net, inside the room closed and curtained, the hazy figure of my dear father was mantled in jade light. No candle was lit up, yet it was much better than a candlelight dinner. The distance between my father and me was just of a five-foot silence. Silence was that silent that even a deaf could hear the breathing of a bug.

This is my father, whose constant guidance has made me stand on this platform. I have seen none write English that excellently. None could bear a candle to his linguistic aroma. Only fluorescent words could tide over the distance between his pen and paper. Today, he is mute like a swan, almost blind like a Milton. Time has questioned on his adaptation to the cosmology, perhaps, because of his age, being two more than seventy. He has forgotten many words, but frankly saying, he has forgiven many words too. In my childhood, he constantly provoked me to make use of proper words, otherwise, breaking through the barriers of grammar can never ever be possible. He always said in his instructive panache – what to write about is known to everybody, but there is hardly a soul who knows how to write. I miss this teaching right now... a numbness, therefore, pains.

Pain relieves us greatly of our mental squalor and reduces any distance. The distance that was invested by both of us is having no worth to me today. What could be more delightful than this? The sudden failure of his health has triggered a reaction in me. I know – one day, one tragic day, with the flashing of the sun or with the rising of rainbow or with the waxing of a moon, he will receive a full stop to his life, and with this he will be atomized into the eternal sentience to plug into absolute freedom.

There will be another day calendared for me to celebrate a father's day once again...

... when flowers make flowers

2012-01-24T23:36:00.002+05:30

Last year, we went to enjoy a three-day drama workshop. Away from our busy town, swinging on the laptop of Nature, we were in a festive mood to cleanse ourselves of the civic rubbish and know ourselves a little better. The workshop was replete with children of different ages. And if you find buddies like these little ones, your joy will know no bounds. Here is a day's evening activity, which was collaged with the spectacles of life and colourful origami. Photos were clicked by Arnab Sengupta, my friend.

This little girl was captured at her careful scissoring through a paper. She was too engrossed to towel the dust off her knee.

Once made, nothing matters, but making matters a lot. The absorption is hinted at this fact that creation is just a victim of beauty. Slowly had they made the stem...

Red flowers, blue stems, yellow sleeves and children at their deft hands...

Look at the absorbed eyes and feel the density of her thinking! Who could excel her in terms of concentration?

Flowers are one of the soothing creations of the world. Children are no way less soothing. They are born to make the adult think of their inner impurities. When children smile, flowers bloom; when flowers bloom, the creation smiles. Here is a flower, whose smile after success, flowers.

Here we see, the flowers are kept in the vase, a toilet mug indeed. They did not drop their heads. The night, though thickened with swarthiness, was embalmed with red, bluey and purple aroma of flowery origami.

... 2012 ~ Nothing new * Everything anew

2012-01-01T07:25:00.002+05:30

Happy New Year

It's time for me to carry on mistakes like 01/01/11 for a number of days as it needs a few days more to adapt myself to the fresh fragrance of 2012.

I could neither write anything nor post something memorable at regular intervals due to some unavoidable circumstances. Today, I have clicked a snap of a woollen seat for all my readers and co-bloggers.

This soft seat was gently knitted by my mother river-long ago. I feel myself sanctified to have a seat on it and eat before going to my school. On this new year's day, I request my readers to have an imaginative seat on it. The woollen seat is theoretically mine, but practically the silent art belongs to everyone. Smell the past, sense the busy yarn ends and sing the paean of the all-time great womanhood ~ anew.

... my novel

2011-11-16T22:22:00.001+05:30

[My Novel: FM. For a bad writer, what can be of more value than a worse novel? The novel began its journey almost five years ago. It's still being penned down. Cling to it and leave a flood of views.]

*Attention: The page ... my novel has been shifted to a stand alone page, where you can still flood comments. The next chapters of this novel will be published on the stand alone page from now on. All others are as same as they were before.

FM ~ Chapter 0

Yesterdays

In all my city-pent yesterdays I was a goofy victim who walked gently "With buds, and bells, and stars without a name".

I am the shadow of a goofy victim of life. “Hi, Mr Goofy!” one may call. During my college years, this Mr. Goofy was pressed to walk differently into politics, though not by entering it by any means. I was just a vision victim. I was without a name. It's not that thinking otherwise was my political view, it was rather a visionary glimpse. I was a captive lord of John Keats. I hummed lines like, “Forlorn! the very word is like a bell / To toll me back from thee to my sole self! / Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well / As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.” made me bleed occasionally. This occasional bleeding built up a house of hunger inside me and threw me into one hundred years of solitude. I got into a habit of risking my life into anything and began a fanatic search in quest of the horizon where the two ideas of what is good and what is bad touch. Then there was a one-sided war between a professor and me that touched down the academic grounds with a fantastic failure. So, this Mr. Goofy laughed to fail and failed to laugh.

Silence passed into me.

Everything went so much inspiring for me when I got the opportunity to mix with the mass and be forlorn. The effulgence of the dullness and the dry sunbeams of approaching winter used to give me a certain feeling of stupidity that I began comparing my years of writing and conflicting struggle of becoming a writer to the strange jollity of a humdrum human life.

In all my city-pent yesterdays I carried two genuine frames – one of my being, another of my becoming.

I passed into silence. Life appeared to be a gamble and a gambler appeared in me. A stupid gambler, who loved more to be ruled out of the team and watch it win than to be included in the team and watch it lose. One day, in front of our mirror, I looked at my declining body – a dilapidated house – an empty house to let – to whom to let was beyond my knowledge. My face was full of face fungus. There was a certain attraction that I felt toward me.

I asked my reflection, “What do you want?” The man standing in front of me husked his voice and blurted out, “I want to be a writer.” I approved of his wish, signed it carefully and then dived into his hungry eyes. Then, another day came. While combing I asked him, “OK, then you want to be a writer. What's there to write about?” He husked for the second time and blurted out, “There's nothing to write about.”

Then? Then you still want to be a writer!
Yeah, of course!
What the hell is there to write about when there's nothing to write about...
There is only a feel of subjectlessness left...
Subjectlessness! What's that?
It's nothing but nothingness.
Nothingness. Then, you're going to write about Nothingness – nothingness of life?
I didn't say so.
You said Nothingness.
... but not affixed by the stupidly related words, “of life”.
O, I am sorry then.

[Here he paused a little and went on murmuring at a slow pace...]

Nothingness, but not the nothingness of life. [He paused again and asked gently...]
Something on the subject, please?
It's not a subject; it's a situation.
Situation is also a subject.
No.
Then?
It's a way to subject.
Very sorry my dear! The way to subject may also be a subject, as it's here, in your writing.
Maybe, it may not always be.
Don't play with words pliizzz...
I am not exactly playing with words. I have just portrayed the situation.
Oho, then Maybe it may not always be is your situation
... and your subject
No, not my subject!
Why not yours? I suppose it's not mine.
It's not mine too as it's not a subject.
A situation, I said.
A situation, I say too.

[Here I paused a little and went on murmuring at a slow pace...]

A situation that I said is the situation that you say. A mutual say or a bifurcated one. [I paused again and asked gently...]

What should we call it?
A kind of...
A kind of what! Please, go on and be my inspiration...
A kind of a...
A kind of a WHAT!
A kind of an...
Please don't play with articles!
I am not playing with articles. I am in search of a phrase...
What the screw it is, pliizzz!
... an adjustment with truth

I played with my mirror image this word battle – word mirroring existence. And during this battle in those unfamiliar years, I lost everything and the most tragic loss of all, I lost my father. No, don't tear off any voucher of sympathy. It's not the losing synonymous to death. It's just a breakup of relationship; – once it was supposed to be as weak as the parting of hair, but, with the passage of time the parting of hair grew to be a defence to excuse the relations once happened to be in between the two opposite sides.

This losing was promoted by father himself and eventually ended up by me. The relationship went lingering and loitering in the dust of time, without a name... I gradually isolated my becoming from my being and my being from my father.

... a moan on National Education Day

2011-11-11T09:54:00.000+05:30

In West Bengal, education has no other derivative but a division-making policy in society and has long played a role of drawing demarcation between social beings so far. The education inculcated in students of Bengali medium is just a shade of education, a melancholy of education, and often, a stale food of hypocrisy. To be fair or unfair, students go into the institutions with a view to learning something and pass out with and As a teacher, I can't find ways to rub off the layers of hypocrisy from this system.

Today is National Education Day. We would gurgle with these three words as a supreme consolation to ourselves.

We desire to hobnob with the elite of the society. Today some Rahul came in my sleep and I shuddered to rise. Who is this chap?

a weak fellow of Class V
does classwork carefully
does homework every day
a bruise on the left elbow, left long-untreated
one shirt washed at the weekend
deprived of father since childhood
his mother works as a scrubber
his brother battles to run a tea-stall

Rahul is part of the Right to Education Act ~ THE GAZETTE OF INDIA EXTRAORDINARY, Page 2 / Part II: (e) "child belonging to weaker section".

On the last 5th September, Teachers' Day, this fellow came as early as possible with his dirt-soiled shirt and stood in front of a queue to take a look at Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan. He was hauled by the hand to the end of the queue as his shirt dispersed no surf-excel whiteness.

This Rahul, the target of our communist culture and culture-born education, has lost all strength to belt him up and to fight against his traumas. Had our country had any sanative education policy, we the teachers would have been wise and would have encouraged Rahul to follow the steps of education.

Today is another day related to education and I am afraid, dismayed and hurt.

Maulana Abul Kalam Azad – the first Education Minister of our country! Please read this story, hear the groan of the little fellow and rise again as others are short of hearing the cry.

Should there be any significance of such day when the total education system is crippling the right of a child and brutal teachers go scot-free?

... dynamic views and IndiBlogger

2011-11-10T10:53:00.000+05:30

The 2011 October was a brilliant month for me as everything went against me and I also went against everything. To be precise, life was as same as it was in the October of the last year. This rolling of time has made my electrical pen go dry of thinking with threefold sledging. “The Sense of an Ending” by Julian Barnes has sledged – transported – my thinking into a no writer's land and again sledged – hammered – my arid brain.

What's the third sledging?

The Dynamic views of my blog has been a great experience for me. What can I have more than having such a rock-solid structure of a blog? It was so recherche that I became fixed to its depth for a number of days. But this new view became a hazard for some of my readers whose PC-s are lagging behind the march of time. Their Mozilla would either take a long time to show it or get the readers' patience frozen to time. It never happens with Linux for its upgrade is a demand child of open-source love. The widgets also went away with this new view. The Google Teams are working with this adventurous look too. We look forward to a great new beginning in front of me.

When I was about to enlist the uniform resource locator (url) of any novel blog to my favourite blog-zone, IndiBlogger, the link was unexpectedly given a refusal. This problem persisted with a number of posts since then for it was an instance of broken rss feed. The monthly rank broke out N/A. No, I was not cast down at this ranking, but I was certainly disturbed with the technical problems that dazzled up with the new look.

I sensed an ending to this endless embarrassment...

Dismayed by this constant combat of viewing and getting viewed, posting and getting read, I teased and titivated my blog once again and the procedure of this new look is still going on.

It's time to sledge down the sorrows of a blogizen! The sense of an ending has carried the ideas of promises of prospect beyond the end... Readers can read my blog without submitting to technical troubles from now on.

... your footprint rank

2011-11-05T19:01:00.001+05:30

Thanks Global Footprint Network!

The world's population is expected to hit seven billion in the next few weeks, and I think it has almost reached, or it may spill over the expectation. After growing very slowly for most of human history, the number of people on Earth has more than doubled in the last 50 years.

According to calculations, I was the 4,557,364,942nd human being born on earth! However it may sound illogical, stupid, the sensation is always on...

Fill in your date of birth here to find out your rank in this population queue.

... the milkman's friend

2011-11-02T21:49:00.000+05:30

The milkman's friend - all alone - basking in the sun

Left apart from other friends...

Looking forward to be carried away like the distant fellow can...

And, at last, taken off to a certain place...

... a bun as a boon

2011-10-26T21:11:00.000+05:30

I was touched when on this 24th October I saw the humane face of law and order. One of the security personnel, on Dum Dum Cantonment railway platform, was seen tearing snaps from a bun and feeding a waif. I hooked myself on the spot and flicked a shot. This is the child whom I fed a number of times ago. I like him very much. He usually stands at the front end of the waiting lines and pulls edges of our colourful shirts. He is the only one who will give you a smile if you offer him food instead of coins, as others, bigger than him, always throws snow on his eyes. The picture clearly suggests that there is still somebody to stand by anybody and nobody is alone in the world.

... snaps of life on the roof

2011-10-19T09:22:00.000+05:30

I know that the following snaps have not touched the photographic height, still I feel you would enjoy the beating of life. I have to shoot down my passion with this 2-Mega Pixel camera till I can afford an SLR.

I went out into the roof to arrange the washed-and-cleaned articles of clothing. I had my mobile with me and therefore couldn't prohibit my passion from taking a few snaps. The blinding heat of the sun made my feet play a touch-and-lift game on the sunburnt roof. I had no footwear and therefore I continued to jib wildly.

These beautiful yellow marigolds, the four sisters, get my mother's fond splashes at everyday evening. She applies no manure to the soil and takes no technical care to grow them. The moment she caresses the saplings, they spring into blossoms of life.

Have a look on Catharanthus roseus, the dancing queens in white apron. They seem to be very much annoyed nowadays at the mischievous climbing of the nectar-greedy ants.

My mother's saris - resting with the warmth of peace. Far away are seen the marigolds - diminishing the glory of the melting yellow of the sun.

This bird, who started to flutter toward her nest, seems to have forgotten either the atlas or the flight of flying pilgrims. I framed her flight while she was broadcasting the bulletin of her helplessness.

I won't request you to have a look on the tousled hair of the coconut tree. Rather, I would pull your attention to the life at stake. A kite has been stuck there since 15th August. She not only lost her tropical independence to the coconut branches but also lost her life.

... caught in sleep

2011-10-18T22:58:00.003+05:30

I was so tired today... and as a result... sleep spread a net over me. I was too tired to remove my spectacles. It's my phone who took snaps of me:

Dalai Lama once said, Sleep is the best meditation. I can't even remember how long did I meditate today.

Though sleep was tired of me a few days ago, she caught me yet again in my extreme fatigue.

[Photo courtesy: Samsung Ch@t527]

... about the cry of a little soul

2011-10-17T10:42:00.001+05:30

My depression always allows a provoking conclusion that any space is filled with emptiness.

A baby of a little over four months, my littlest niece, had to go through an inoculation yesterday. It was a natural event in the baby's days-out and pursuing the natural event travelled a gnawing pain in her right thigh. There was a purple swelling. She could not move her leg fast and failing to do so out of pain she could not drop to sleep also. The acrobatics she usually shows to draw attention was missing in her face. Tired – singed with untold pain and trilling under a mild temperature, the little eyes, quite blank, filled only with crimson pain, could easily draw tears from her mother's eyes. My mother, her grandma, was restless at her suffering that she could not put into language. Only the hoary wisdom and experience, spread like the greenwoods, of how to bring up children, moved her into ease and her ease into reminiscence of her struggle against the odds of life and insurance of safety to the two kids that have died in us ~ the two brothers.

My niece was airing all her grievance and ailment that took flight from the ground floor due the second floor and rocketed through my solitary sitting. In my study, I could not focus on trimming and titivating my blog as the breeze playing inside due to open windows was transporting the passionate cry of the little girl that I took for a piece of Ahir Bhairav.

I could have hurried downstairs. But, I sternly nailed my self to the bed rested in the first floor. Had I been down there, I would have to face her unconditional approach of life, “I always give you a smile, and in return you always give me pain.”

I stayed pasted on bed at 2:50 AM and thought for almost half an hour that this acute pain would inspire her to deflect diseases and the endurance of pain justify her strength for confronting more pain in life.

This pain-into-tears motion picture has carried the simplest of simple realizations regarding the day's duty discharged by the trio – the little girl, her mother and her grandma. It is the joy of life that the only inheritance of life is pain, which stitches the relationships in a splendid needlework.

Something worked inside me and hummed into my ears that the space is not always filled with emptiness.

... a writer after illness

2011-10-12T07:43:00.003+05:30

i came out of my room
on gentle footsteps
and heard the fragments of me
making noises inside

a strange curiosity shoved me back into the room

silence fell

the legs were found inside the trousers
hung despondently from the hanger

the left hand was set tight on the forehead
and right hand pressing a motionless pen

i had left my eyes months ago
in the half-open pages of Waiting for Godot
i glimpsed at them and their tired eyelids
dropped

quite amazed

to find my stomach begging morsels of air
from the dust-dotted ceiling fan

and silence laid on the medicines
squeezed foil
and the finished disc inside CPU
power rolled on its mercy

i shuffled myself once again,
collected all cut-outs
and came out

only what i left without, within,
only what i forgot to take with me
was some raw flesh that echoed my Mind
as remnant

5th September, Teachers' Day

2011-09-05T18:28:00.000+05:30

Happy Teachers' Day to all Indian Teachers

... my two nieces...

2011-09-04T13:55:00.000+05:30

The little ones, the natty-naughty nieces of mine, are captured in my webcam. Hope you enjoy the bit...

... corruption floats, India sinks

2011-08-25T08:55:00.000+05:30

A Bernard Shaw say begins this way... "Liberty means responsibility..." I say, sadly, too much liberty means irresponsibility and leads to a state of brinkmanship...

Democratic India has so much freedom of choice that she allows a family of Prime Ministers to run a monarchy. Should we not consider it to be an inheritance of corruption?

Around and about whom the popcorn talk is hung to sensationalize the morning hours at the tonsorial parlour, inside the local trains, staff room and through lanes is none other than the social activist Anna Hazare. We only cheer for the day's opening hours to pass in furies of laughter, then slowly walk into our job arenas, have a brisk sophisticated browse through the newspaper and carefully carry out the day's corruption... ourselves... at our every footprint. We the demoralized have just turned Anna Hazare as part of our run-of-the-mill tidings.

Support JanLokpal Bill 2011.

The average life expectancy figure of Indians is 63.7 years. Nobody knows why we find such a terrible pleasure in thickening the political grime and doing nothing literally. In our lifespan, we are more close to churn money at any sector and make pinpricks into others than to drink the natural beauty of the folded sea waves, the bohemian aviation of birds, the dewy-eyed smile of waifs and sweet relationships that go along with our everyday life. Only for our sector-wise toadying to the authority to gain vested interests, Kisan Baburao Hazare, the 74-year old youth, has to fight for a great cause.

Support JanLokpal Bill 2011.

The message of Anna, "The dream of India as a strong nation will not be realised without self-reliant, self-sufficient villages, this can be achieved only through social commitment & involvement of the common man."

Who is the common man? The first half of the Shavian say is followed by, "That’s why most men dread it."

A few days ago, on the dusty floor of our school, we three friends were having a teatime talk, and the topic of corruption intruded into our discussion at a breakneck speed. Naturally came the "man behind RTI revolution". Almost at the end of our discussion, when the little triangle that we three had made slowly broke, I began musing over our working hours and the scenario I am forced to watch and watch over every day. We come to school, teach almost nothing, harvest leisure in maximally allotted five classes and idle away the rest of the time. We open our mouths like sharks when a new month begins ~ and a new layer of monetary medication sellotapes the damages done to our country by us ~ the irresponsible teachers. Since we are irresponsible we besmirch our faces with different political colours (making the whole of the administration that robs us of the ability to think for ourselves and be independent) only to become dependent and irresponsible. We, like unscrupulous mountebanks, show thumbs up to our faineant souls after creating a series of illusory feats in the name of teaching. We, the common, propitiate corruption, and therefore, it seems to be our birthright to get into the progressive putrefaction. Corrupt is our administration, as we, due to our acute accidie and misanthropy, love to enthrone them who bring peaceful laziness. And in this peaceful laziness, peace is nowhere.

Support JanLokpal Bill 2011.

Politicians always dread this peaceful bullet; even we too; we dread the bullet as well. Our politics is independent, however, we have no political independence. We, the small-corrupt humans support Anna and anchor faith in his messiah-like image, an image that reflects his dream aim of India filtered of corruption. We must not forget that the corrupt are always united; but the incorruptible are dispelled from one another.

Sonia Gandhi, another common, is admitted at Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Centre (MSKCC), New York, hope she pull through soon and have her royal seat of the Congress chairperson. Even a well-fed Indian will dread the cost, that is at least Rs. 760,112.50 ($16,660) per procedure. We cannot and should not compare her with Vidyasagar's mother, Prabhabati Devi, who could not put on a new woollen shawl only because that the villagers she lived among and loved had nothing to keep themselves warm in the biting cold. Had Sonia Gandhi been our mother or we been her imaginative children, she would have thought to get admitted to a country hospital or asked Rahul to recover the money from the Swiss Bank and make necessary arrangements to distribute provisions among the wretched Indians. India may be considered a shard of a global village; however, we are not villagers. If we glue our hopes to the TRP-raising TV-telecast of Anna Hazare, these layers of moral putridness will not even come within the purview of our mass-media-manipulated thinking.

But our thinking should have been ours ~ modelled on the basis of the folded sea waves, the bohemian aviation of birds, the dewy-eyed smile of waifs and sweet relationships.

While the activist’s critics may keep guessing about his ultimate aspiration, he has achieved what politicians couldn’t: bringing the privileged middle class to the street.

The common, the derivatives of the common, are divided into three groups. The first one raises one's voice like that of Anna; the second one waits for Anna's help to raise his voice. The third one, waits for the hand, which would hold the baton. The common are forced to stay brainless and colonized by the corrupt administration.

Support JanLokpal Bill 2011.

Nothing is wrong if Anna claims the removal of the rotten apples from his country. It is his profession to filter out impurities. However, only a mug of water will be lifted from the Pacific of corruption in a certain period of time, which will be enough to encourage hundred mugs of water to mix with the Pacific. We must admit that some other's profession is to fill in the gaps with polished impurities coated with polished griefs.

My discomfort has risen high and I have started to feel a sense of malaise within me. I think that I have to clean my mouth with unclean water. Up to 63.7 years ~ if not less, if not more ~ I have to live with the Janus-faced monarchical-democratic satisfaction and write a few good lines like... bullets are useless if peace is the trigger... or...

Support JanLokpal Bill 2011.

... silence, students and teachers

2011-08-16T19:11:00.000+05:30

At least 150 familiar faces chirrup and twitter, cheep and peep, every day, in this corridor. Yesterday, just before the observance of our Independence Day, I went upstairs, took a somnolent picture of the passageway and dived for a heartbeat to hear the cemented silence on the parapet.

The balcony-cum-corridor reflects a walkway into their future. To the left, three sections of two classes each are filled with plethora of angelic faces. In spite of inharmonious clashes inside the staff room, the dirty political actus reus, it is the only passage where I heave a sigh of relief, spread dried seeds of pangs on the floating dust and look voiceless deep into the speaking silence. My heart goes on reciting the lines that I have abducted here also from Derozio's Sonnet to the Pupils of Hindu College,

"Expanding like the petals of young flowers,

I watch the gentle opening of your mind,..."

I had to hurry downstairs...

... Then I moved back a little and pressed the button once more to get the front view of our school. Look at the students, hear their planning for translating the day's modus operandi into reality...

For students, celebration never stops. They are like a jocund band of flowers. To them, martyrdom and history of bloodshed and blood-throbbing British intimidation have less importance than the about-to-soar flag resembling their about-to-soar aspirations. It is due to their age when spell binds more than rationality.

We should respect this spell also and learn from our mistakes we commit in the historical present. Even as teachers, what we do round the year no way send a message of true independence and democracy, and the simplest and strongest of all, brotherhood. The students are not freedom fighters, however, under the weight of uninteresting heaps of teaching harangues, they always fight for freedom.

A nation only knows the pain of climbing heaven and gazing on the doomed earth which rotates in the soul of every student and often makes them or some one of them turn back, look back in anger and reduce to weak despondency...

Still we say, we the rational Indians, Happy Independence Day!

Forgetting ourselves, let us unite, once more, like the gurus we read about in the wrinkled pages, to help them learn and create a world of learners.

[Camera courtesy: My elder brother]

... she and her independence days!

2011-08-14T01:10:00.004+05:30

Look at my little mother ~ The Future of Mother India ~ The Mother of Future India.

My smallest cutest niece, Kaveri, the cynosure of all eyes, has one day still to go to fill a whole of two months. Yesterday, it was just a few seconds away before her falling asleep when I took a few mobile snaps of hers...

The movements were indescribable... absolutely stunning! She was drooping, dropping, dreaming, dozing, dilly-dallying, all eyes, all glares - and then, sank herself into sleep. I had been the worst photographer ever in my life. I was busy drinking her placid and ineffable beauty.

Her entry into the dreamland tinctured me with a little amount of awareness that I have engraved below...

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.................

The cutie pie is swimming in her independence days in India, our motherland, where thousands of girl-children are killed in their foetuses. Kaveri flows through her parents. As a daughter, she is respectfully theirs. Let us not forget... A child sleeps this way... A Nation rises this way...

... the litterateur and the harbinger of peace

2011-08-08T09:13:00.002+05:30

বাংলার ঘরে ঘরে আজ ২২ শ্রাবণ। বাঙালির প্রশ্বাস নিঃশ্বাসে, জীবনের পূর্ণতায় অপূর্ণতায় আজ বাইশে শ্রাবণ। আজ সেই বিশিষ্ট সুজনের প্রয়াণ দিবস, যিনি এই বিশেষ ব্লগটির উপলক্ষ্য এবং প্রেরণা। যদিও রবীন্দ্রনাথ মানেই একটা জাতির জন্মলগ্নের শুভক্ষণ ~ আমাদের অনাবিল আনন্দের বহিঃপ্রকাশ।

এই অবক্ষয় হানাহানির যুগে রবীন্দ্রনাথ ঠাকুর এক অতুলনীয় শান্তির উদাহরণ। যে-কোনো ভাষার ক্ষেত্রে সেই ভাষার পাঠকের সবথেকে বড়ো তৃপ্তি তাঁদের ঘরের লেখককে জানার জন্য অনুবাদের সাহায্য নিতে হয় না। রবীন্দ্রনাথ আমার ঘরের লেখক। আমার ঘুমজড়ানো চায়ের কাপ থেকে শুরু করে আমার টুকরো টুকরো হয়ে যাওয়ার চরম যন্ত্রণায় - তিনি এক পূর্ণতার প্রতীক।

বহু দিন আগেই আমি তাঁকে আমার কাণ্ডারি রূপে মেনে নিয়েছি।

This blog - a bilingual keepsake - is a heartfelt tribute to the greatest of all great souls - Rabindranath Tagore. No matter how long I exist, I have my memories of early childhood, when I began rolling my soul in the waves of the litterateur and the harbinger of peace. His songs pacify the philharmonic ears of mine, yours and ours.

Let us soothe our hearts with some of his songs ~ আমাদের প্রাণের স্পন্দন ~ রবীন্দ্রনাথের গান।

He passed away today; however, I can't see his passing away. I always see me, you and us pass past him. Facts are many, but the truth is one. Let us not forget that he is the only person who is always born for the redemption of humankind. He is everywhere, still generating power to cast away our colonial bankruptcy.

... the Gandhian days in the iris of Henri Cartier-Bresson

2011-08-04T18:50:00.003+05:30

Yesterday was the 3rd of August. In 2004, we lost on this day the father of modern photojournalism, Henri Cartier-Bresson. Here are the screen-shots of ten immortal snaps of the Gandhian days in India.

The diary of a dead moth pays a tribute to this great soul and remembers the stormy old days, the father of the nation. A deep courtesy goes herewith for the unforgettable documentary, "Just plain love" [2001, ARTE France Les films à Lou]. And for the first photograph I bow to Jane Bown.

... an appeal to bloggers and music-lovers

2011-08-01T09:52:00.002+05:30

Dear Bloggers and Music-lovers,

I have indited a lyric of a still-unborn song and placed for all of you who treasure love for music. I humbly request all of you to set it to tune.

Let me explain to you why I have I chosen this task.

It has been my age-old desire to build up a strong relationship with music lovers. In our global life, nothing is everlasting except music, love and relationship. However, everything pass from physical life with the event of dying. So, before our death, to be very practical, let us turn every relationship into music. It is the very truth of this planet, where "ignorant armies clash by night" still, when, at the same time, they forget, "... mortal millions live alone".

Besides, million hearts have million ways to express their sense of beauty. With your tuneful endeavour we all may get the pictures of these different ways of calling love love.

So, tune it from the bottom of your heart.

.......... [here goes] .......................................

Nothing is with you. Nothing is without you.
Nothing sparks life. Nothing sparks like dew.

Nothing dies for now. Nothing lives for ever.
Nothing floats here. Nothing sinks ever.

Nothing is so loud. Nothing is so soft.
Nothing is blown down. Nothing is hung aloft.

Nothing is to foul. Nothing is to fair.
Nothing is to hide. Nothing is to share.

Nothing is known. Nothing is unknown.
Nothing is seeded. Nothing is unsown.

It happens, happens to the life
of a well-known song,
which sings out a dove
... in the tune of love

which sings out a dove
... in the tune of love

which sings out a dove
... in the tune of love

.......... [end] .......................................

Kindly send me a copy of the song at sarkar.dibakar@gmail.com whenever you have finished with the tuning process. Don't forget to mention YOUR NAME and COUNTRY, your blog/website if you have any. Surely shall I post all the sacred compositions on my blog and approach many others to make them listen to it.

A small request: Remember, I am not at all going to do any sort of business with your endeavour. It's just to get flooded with musical deluge.

I am holding my breath in anticipation...

Musically yours,

... creation of human beings

2011-07-31T13:09:00.002+05:30

I have always tried to draw something either in words or in colours in search of the ultimate ~ the creation of the universe and her people. Today, this lazy afternoon, mixed with my melancholy and a little depression, has driven me to draw this one... on my PC.

The black hole and the womb and the mother earth... portrayed with the technical tools of gimp.

... a pair of malnourished eyes

2011-07-31T03:22:00.003+05:30

On my way back home, every day, I see a small boy floating like a wasted paper piece of lottery, on the Dum Dum Cantonment Railway Platform. This platform offers him half board and, side by side, life imprisonment. He always laments, for what I don't know and never desire to know a bit too. I only watch him tightening his grip on the loose pant. His navel has maximum darkness and a thick patch of blood marred by dirt and dust is always there to attract my eyes to his suntanned bare bust.

One day, he came up to me and asked for a coin. The face of my nieces appeared in the subway of my heart. I asked if he would love to eat something. He pointed at a cake luring from inside a glass jar. I bought him a block of cake and asked him to devour it quickly. I also lifted mine and had a bite. He gave a smile, and without wasting time, thudded himself on the platform floor and sank his teeth into it. His smile edulcorated my cake.

I waited there until he devoured it completely. During this brief period, I stole some of his charismatic facial expressions - the movement of muscles - no less resplendent than that of others.

Children of his age have two eyes that flash two thousand hopes. While this boy melts over the melting pot due to his weakness. The difference is nowhere except in our lack of ability to accept a simple truth. The impoverished remain the same, while our ministers, the glitterati, shrill out their endeavour of emptying their Laxmi-bhandar for feeding the street children. However, it all goes in front of a sleek microphone on Children's Day and hardly touches the ground in the rest of the year.

It is easy to cast votes; it is easier to run a government. Therefore and only therefore, the ruderal children, human beings after all, when tiptoe along my moving legs, I helplessly notice the tired signs of their tireless starvation...

... a 360 degree love for violin

2011-07-21T14:17:00.001+05:30

Those who are fond of music know that violin is one of the supreme instruments in both the disciplines of Indian classical music and western music.

Let's have a look at a wonderful 3D view of a school where violins are made.

http://www.utah3d.net/panoramas_5/violin-school.html

Thank you the master creator...