The Letter

This is to notify that The Collage, official partner of SFTH, has completed its first complete story: The Letter. We from SFTH heartily congratulate them for their debut achievement and wish them a bright future ahead. We will look forward to them for some great stories with fabulous shows of talent.

Read The Letter

THE MEMORIES REMAIN

THE MEMORIES REMAIN…- Rreena Sharma

Times have passed by
Little do we realize?
We have dumped our past
Somewhere deep inside,
But then on certain occasions
We shed those dried leaves outside,
And try to gather them
With joys and tears and loving smile.

Today the time has come
When you sit back and recall the times,
The times when we all used to be together,
Having all the fun and frolic,
Which we knew, would not be forever.

So what, today we all are not together
The times do change and so does the weather,
But one thing that will never change,
i.e., the love and warmth – which are the only treasures.
The treasures, which mean to me more than gold,
With its price untold,
Therefore can never be sold,
Only shared with few more people and
Enjoyed as the moments get unfold.

But once again the chapters of past will be closed,
Waiting for another time to reopen.

FRIENDZ FOREVER

Dark has become
Frequent in my life
I struggle
I fight
With difficulty and strife

I wanna heal the pain
I’ve felt so long
I get lost in my own soul
Can’t remember
Where do I belong???

Everytime I think of you
I melt
Itz like a burn
I’ve ever felt…

I’ve become strong
Become silent…
Life taught me to accept
I was wrong…

Itz the moments
I do possess
Past has gone
Future not reached
Today is the time
To confess…

Today
My poetry becomes real
My passions, my gift
My heart becomes open
The dark shadow lift…

I want to meet you
To talk face to face
But fear for our friendship
My heart remains in itz place…

I shall always be there
No matter where you are
Any turns come to us
We shall be
Friendz forever…

About Reservation

Well,friends over the last 1 month there had been a great deal of discussion and cry regarding this reservation issue.Though I'm not so wise or learned to comment on it,but I thought being given the Right To Freedom of Expression(I read about that in Pol.Sc class xi),I may write something which I feel!

There's been a whole nation wide protest about both pro and anti reservation.I'm not here to justify anyone...I know too little to do so......But I seriously feel that the UPA Govt instead of making sucjh a fuss about reservation in the IITs IIMs and Medical colleges should rather concentrate on the issue of primary education in our country.Apart from Kerala which can boast about more than 90% literacy, none of the states can do so!actually literacy rate in India haven't improved that much since independence.

Hence I feel that the Govt should rather concentrate on Primary education...If there they try to help the backward castes by quota...that would be better.After all if the base is right and strong ...given equal oppurtunity then they will be able to compete with everyone in the long run.I seriously believe that there should be no reservation when it comes to higher studies.

Even if the Govt feels they can arrange for scholarships for the backward castes.And also what about the poor but meritorious students...will they suffer because they are born with a trademark of general category?This seriously makes me believe that all these are really for nothing but increasing the vote bank...else there are so many issues which should be sorted out too like Witness protection,Women's Bill etc etc.

I don't know what you people feel about it...but in a democracy where the Govt is by the people,of the people and for the people ...the Govt is answerable to its people!Its time they answer Us..............

Blood smears the sun

Blood smears the sun
In the eve of the dusk

Anonymous glimpses fade
Shadowy evening begins its journey

Unknown is the future
Narrow road moves forward

Heart beats
Eyes blink

Music plays on ..
Damp air flows into my lungs

Do I see it coming ?
Has the end arrived ?

Look , give us the past
We will purify the future

Try giving us the reason
Try giving us the answer

Drop by drop
Smoke by smoke

We conquered the cliff
Hang on

We have some words left to say.

Stoned

Lying at my bed I was smoking. it was nearly midnight.I can see darkness through the window. the patch of black was occasionally disturbed by light coming out of a room here and there. rest was black. in the silence of night, I could hear my breathing. inhaling a deep puff, I was getting stoned..slowly , very slowly... my senses were getting numb.

I looked at the wall below the tube light. an insect was moving back and forth . I kept looking.. it was moving back and forth. in the same direction. the same movement. it took time to get in my sedate brain that the bug was trapped. in some remnants of a spider web. invisible it may be, but powerful. the bug was moving back and forth. fruitless effort to get free!

in the floor some newspaper were scattered. the pages were showing pictures of students protesting against reservation, students being bitten by police, docs on strike, people protesting silently. an article was saying that P.M. has asked the nation to have faith in the system and withdraw protest.

I took the last puff and smashed the cigarette. the bug was still moving back and forth. the papers were scattered in the floor. my numb body feel asleep.

FROM ME TO YOU...

Close your eyes
I’ll kiss you
Oh dear
I miss you

That day
I thought I’d found
My love…
But
You took away your love
Left me…

Silent…
My companion
Death my destination…
I never want
Your explanation…

You were loved
Loved by me…
But today
I’m lost in an ocean of pain
My thoughts are going around
Through down memory lane

Today
I’m still alive…
Waiting and waiting
May be someday
You’ll be mine…

If there is anything
I can do
Remember me…
I’ll do, with love
From me to you…

I know whats In there

The below Embeded Flash object shows your Loacl Machine Info

Cactus-Flower

Sometimes
Itz nice knowing new people,
Not known before
Coz what they are
No one's sure...

I know you
Through and through
Though you've not told...
For me
Noneever was so fair
As I thought you...

When
I walk with you
It becomes a journey so long
you and me
two stranger
Became friend as we walked alone...

Two roads are there
in your life
Only one of them
you can share...
In one part
There are lots of flower
Another one
There is one cactus...

You are the judge
decide now
Flowers can get
butterflies
Cactus can't...

Itz known
Flowers are
Your destination
May be you'll prefer
blue and yellow than crimson...

Crimson flows
within my heart
Those flower - you like
They really hurt...

Sometimes
It did seem better it were
Never to see you
More than linger here...

With only gratitude
Instead of love
A pine in solitude
Cradling a dove...

The Language of Silence

there comes a time
when words fail.

when words fail
to express the storm
that rages within.

that is the moment of silence.

silence.
but it is not void...
that silence is filled
with words!

those words carry a message,
which is so intense, so expressive
that, if spoken...
the lips will burn,
the eyes will shed
tears.

tears are not mere drops
of water.
they are pure emotion -
with such a magnanimity,
that we cannot hold it back...
it spills, it overflows
the rim of our character,
the edge of our calmn.

this water does not put out the fire.
but,it encourages the flame
to burn others.

so I bless the silence,
I prevent the tears...
instead, I let Myself burn!

May the soul that arises,
from the heap of the ash-
escape the stinking cage
of the present rotten corpse!

my words have failed,
my tears have failed,
my own character has failed...
but, my dear God-
do not fail me.

take me with you!

Fear

She looked through the glass windows at the city that seemed to eat her up.With time , she had slowly been engulfed in the dark side of the city and she let the water flow.She sat alone hoping to hear something.She had betrayed herself.She wanted to die but could not as life did not allow her too. She dreamed of a paradise where she wanted to live rest of her life. May be , in the dark circumspects of life she had lost a part of herself.

City seemed to be undittered by her unhappiness as the people around her moved with the usual pace, cars moved around with the same pace.Lonely , may it was the word she could describe herself.

She had never wanted anything from life and may be that is the case which brought her into this place.She did not hesitate to look into the face of death.But it was useless chasing death around rather than calming her own senses under the influence of alchohol.In a trance she danced around unknown territorries , she wanted to breathe.She had dream but she never wanted to fulfill it.She never spoke of it.She jumped into the dark waters but the water seemed to be ungrateful to accept her body as a gift.

A chant followed, the sound was too surreal.The clock was ticking, and to some people's utter dismay it keeps ticking.Trance of eyes in a dark seemed to a prenomition.It is easier for the flowing water to find a course into the sea.But still , calm seas are seldom seen.Light may go out very soon , the experience may be over soon.But someone must guide me home.

Fighting a lost battle , the cry of war is often heard.The warrior moves forward in dressed to kill,but the plans may be different.The plans may be of peace.Confusing traits arise out of no where. Fine lessons are to be learnt from tales of failures.

His heart skipped a bit whenever he thought of her.His escape to the vast open spaces would let him go off this point of no return.

He walked by the river which flowed down the valley without respite.He seemed to be pure.Purity however was relevent as his love towards her was pure.The destruction of city had taken him to this place.He lived alone.The noise that he heard was of nature.He seemed to have lost his voice , he wondered if he could speak up again but there was no one to speak to apart from himself.

Every morning when he bathed in the cold chilling water of the river , he wondered what made this water to pure.The only answer he got was it kept flowing.He took a deep breath and took in the pure air.He was at peace.He forgot about the betrayal , he forgot about having lost pace in the city, he was at his own pace with life.

It was not easy for her to lead her life amidst the sense of guilt and betrayal.Sanctify thy soul was the answer she got from her inner voice.Around her lay a lot of people who seldom listened to it or perhaps never heard it.

A point where a person seeks respite in Alcholism and a point where a person seeks respite in silence.

Green loyalist often live a life in concrete households, a patch of concrete seems to be cementing thier hearts.The blood seems to lose colour , red is no longer the colour it turns pale blue.The cold blooded organisms dwell in the civilizations of the future.They have lost thier mind long ago to some machine , the vices of mankind had seeped into them.The potrait seemed to be turning gray , with time , with pollution.

I cant breathe,I feel my lungs collapsing any moment now.There goes a piece of the broken moon.I am torn apart into pieces, the flesh seems to dry.Splinters of air seem to drill into my flesh.I look at death in my eyes.Then I closed my eyes and I dreamt.

WHAT HAPPENS???

What happens
When you feel
All you ever had
leaves?
All you ever seen
Disappears?
All you ever draw
fades?

love
No longer
Smiles upon you
your love
disappeared,
icy and harsh
Love comes
to an end
like a sudden
car crash

when it hurts
to smile,
to talk,
to cry
everything hurts...
But why???

He is loved
everything is still here
I loved him......
I've tried to convince him...
how he is
perfection......

I becae mute
couldn't say
one word......
The invisible knife
cutting my heart
no blood shed
Itz end of life......

I cry
I smile
To see him
Happy
but...
the secret
inside him
never revealed
I regret......

Scar from the past
renewed
once again
but he didn't realised
he is loved......

May be
he'll realize
he is felicitous
to have someone
so......wonderful

I'm there to hold him
as he cries
or broke down
I will be
his confidence
I loved him

Loving him
keeps me
alive
makes me smile......

My love
Strong enough
for him
to overcome
anything......

To Write...

To WRITE is a heavenly feeling. Certainly not because it make people call you a writer. Who cares what they christian you as? and who cares what they take you as?

To write is a heavenly feeling because you can express what you feel deep within, -- the feelings that had always lacked a shape owing to the fact that you had always dared and cared to lock them up within, fearing what reactions will they lead to, if they were ever disclosed in public.

That is how we tend to mix both up -- what we feel inside, and what we 'should be' feeling inside going by the Conventions and Rules.

But, then, it becomes a 'mere' work, with least originality. We often tend to forget that ORIGINALITY is actually what real readers had always yearned for.



To WRITE is to paint. To WRITE is to sing. To WRITE is to forget the boundaries of prose and poetry. To WRITE is to express what you FEEL.

If that feeling has got a depth, your writing has got a depth.


It is tough to say what i exactly feel right now.
It might be that i feel satisfied and fulfilled -- that, at last, i have been given a chance to express what i feel,...-- in this blog.
Thank you for providing me my space.

It is so very nice to know that nobody's going to interfere with my ' i ' ; --... that i had decided to call myself in the smaller case... It is as if to say with maximum possible humility, " That was MY decision. Why should you interfere?"

It is for SAYING such things, we become WRITERS.

It's not the 'EGO' which speaks. It is the 'independence'.
It is useless to be a WRITER and not to feel INDEPENDENT.

It is like a cup of tea missing its flavour. It is like a morning missing its freshness. It is like a bird missing its colour. It is like a song missing its feel.

It is like missing THE ESSENCE of WRITING.
What is the use of writing then?
-- to draw a few claps? -- childish!


So, that's why i've come here... you see... to feel INDEPENDENT.
Hold my hand. And i am going to make you feel the same.
It's a 'Springtime Promise'.
You'll see.

i've written two -- what you call in this blog -- ' comments '. You may check them out, if you feel that this guy is all about tall talk.

...it is only that i just don't know how frequently will i be able to write in this blog, as i don't own a P.C.

Chanda Ki Doli

It was getting dark. Dusk was falling fast. The birds were returning to their safe shelters in the banyan tree just outside the courtyard of the small two-roomed house. Koel had left the door open. There was a mild breeze blowing. The wooden door was shaking slightly under it. A gust of air found its way into the room. It ruffled Sumon's hair, playing with it just as Diti used to do, caressing it just as Koel had been doing a few minutes back. A narrow ray of light from the window lighted the wooden age-old desk in front of which Sumon was sitting on a chair. But he couldn't see it. His face was buried in his hands.

The door had almost got closed under the wind which has by now died away. One look at the reddish sky could tell you that it was going to rain. Any other person would have felt relieved at the very thought of rain. It had been very hot indeed for the last few days. Summer hadn't been this long for quite a few years.

The door opened with a creek and Koel entered. She was carried a dish with a banana, curd and some rice.

"Sumon Da, kheye nao."

Sumon looked up. One look at his face would tell you that he wasn't in the pink of health. He hadn't shaved for a few days, his eyes were red, and there was a certain expression in his face that was difficult to describe. There was pain in it, there was a sheer lack of hope. It was as if his eyes were wandering off to some far away land.

Koel sat down on the chair beside him. For a moment their eyes met. There was a jarring pain in his chest. He looked out of the window. The last ray of light from the setting sun fell on his face. But he didn't turn away from it. Images flashed past his eyes. Diti was his best friend. They used to play with each other in the childhood. She was a year younger than him but she used to always beat him in carom. Koel was much younger. She was quieter than her maternal sister. She used to sit beside them and watch them play. But whenever Sumon was about to lose she used to pick up the striker from the board and run away with it followed by Diti at her heels. More often than not, Diti used to catch her before she could even enter their house but by that time Sumon had gently improved his position in the game. Diti used to call him a cheater. Now it was she who had cheated all of them.

Sumon couldn't remember his father. He had died when he was just two years old. His mother died when he was just 15.He used to live with his uncle in the house beside Koel's. How he has now built up a company of his own is a story of a fairytale struggle. But Sumon didn't feel like thinking about it. Diti's father was an alcoholic. He had left her mother for another woman. Sumon felt that Diti's mother was the most wonderful woman in this world. She was in no way related to him but a major part of his childhood was spent in her lap. She looked upon him as her own son. He owed a lot of his success to her.

It was Koel's father who gave Sumon his first job-that of a medical representative. It was with his help that he even went abroad. It was when he was in the U.S. that Diti's mother died. He couldn't get a leave then. It was after two more years that he could come back to India. Diti was now a school teacher. He could still remember how Diti had reacted when one fine day, on opening the front door, she found a neatly dressed Sumon standing in front of her, his suitcase in one hand, a bunch of flowers in the other, and a big smile on his face. She just couldn't recognize him at first. Sumon didn't tell anyone that he was coming back. He had meant to surprise her.

It was then that Diti had told her, "Just wait, dekhbi toke ami ekdin kirokom surprise debo."
He had then said, "We'll see."

If only he would have known that it would be something like this...

Meanwhile, Koel's thoughts had also drifted away. Perhaps,she was also thinking of their early days. A clap of thunder startled both of them. She got up, switched on a small bulb and started closing the windows.

"Looks like its finally going to rain today."

Sumon looked at her. He tried to speak. But he couldn't. Koel sat down on her chair and looked at him. He had again buried his face in his hands. Koel could never have guessed that Sumon would react in this way to the news. It was she who had first told him about it. She knew that they were the best of friends, but she could never have imagined that this would affect him so badly. She started to peel the banana.

"Sumon Da, kheye nao. Its getting late."
Sumon looked up. He couldn't refuse Koel. He took the banana from her hand and started to eat slowly. There was that lost feeling again in his eyes.
"Koel, you remember her wedding?"
Koel was mixing the curd and the rice with a spoon. She didn't reply. A smile from her part was enough.
"You used to love her, didn't you?"
Sumon smiled back. Was it that obvious? He smiled to himself and fixed his gaze at the fan above.

There was a strange feeling in Sumon when Koel first told him that Diti's wedding has been finalized. He hadn't realized when this childhood friendship had blossomed into love. He didn't know what love was. The only girl he had really known since his childhood was Diti. Yes, Koel was there all along but she was far too young to be even a good friend of his. When he realized what love is, it was too late. He didn't express his feelings to Diti. He had never known if she shared the same feelings for him too. He would never know.

In spite of everything going on in his mind, he had arranged the entire wedding ceremony. Not once did he let Diti get even a glimpse of his mind. The groom had turned out to be a friend of his in the US. Rahul was a very nice guy. Soft-spoken and mild, he would be a perfect complement for Diti, he felt.

The sound of the spoon against the plate stirred him up. Koel was holding the plate towards him. He took it from her and stared at her for sometime. She said,
"Just got the post-mortem report. Accident", she sighed.

A drop of tear rolled down Sumon's cheek. He started to eat. Koel looked fixedly at him. It was she who had told him the news the day before. It was Tinni's second birthday. Rahul and Diti had gone to buy the cake. While returning, the car sped out of control and fell off the Dhakuria Flyover. Both of them were spot-dead. Their bodies couldn't be recognised. It was horrible!

Sumon finished the plate. He handed it over to Koel and drank some water. Then he again fixed his gaze on the fan.
"What'll happen to Tinni?", he asked.
"I don't know. Rahul's parents are saying that they are too old to take care of her. Even his sister doesn't want her."
"What about kaku?"
"Even he's saying that he has got too old for this."
"Why don't you take care of her?"
"If only I...I..." For the first time Koel's voice shook. Sumon looked at her. She was crying.
"Koel..." He couldn't complete it. She had picked up the empty plate and had stood up.
"Sumon Da, I've to leave now. Its getting late. Take care and close the door after me."

She went out of the house in a hurry. All she left behind was a strange emptiness and hundreds of questions, unanswered. What will happen to Tinni now that both her parents are dead? Who will bring her up? Who will love her? Who will care of her? Who will look after her everyday needs?

Sumon couldn't take it any longer. He got up, dressed, took his umbrella and went out of the house. The two houses-Sumon's and Diti's, stood silently together, possibly pondering over the fate of the child left all alone in this cruel world. We never know what the future has in store for us.

Eight years later...

Sumon was sitting in front of that same desk, on the same chair. One look at the insides of the room would be enough to tell you that this house has got a mistress after a long time. The walls have been painted, the clothes are washed and neatly ironed, even Sumon had gained quite a few inches in his waistline in these eight years. In short, everywhere there were signs of some feminine contribution.

Two children, one of them still a toddler, burst into the room shouting "Baba, baba" and promptly got under Sumon's desk. Within a few minutes Koel entered. You wouldn't recognize her now. These eight years have made her the perfect, sometimes almost annoying, housewife.

"Tinni...Titli...Kothay gelo?", spotting the two children, "So there you are. Come on, the school-bus will be here any moment."
Laughing, the two children ran out of the room. Koel went near Sumon and bent over his desk.
"Still haven't finished with the accounts?"
"Hmmm", was the brief reply.

Koel turned to leave when she found Sumon's hands holding her's. She looked at him and smiled. He smiled back and uttered only one word-"Thanks". Kal kisne dekha?

Rain

Rain.
Angst and pain.
Happiness and gain.

I don't know why I like when it is going to rain. It feels pleasant inside. As if I was born to be with the rain. Entwined with all the memories of mine, it is. High and low, fast and slow - whenever I remember it, I feel. Feelings are so muted without them.

I was thirteen then. When it first rained for me. Through the grey clouds came the rain, drop by drop. I used to visit the terrace everyday then. There was an awning in our terrace those days - a flimsy piece of corrugated metal sheet to stay under if it rained. And in of those magical days, it got blown off by the Kalbaisakhi winds. I used to sit there till the clouds turned black. I used to sit there till the winds went howling against my ear. The light used to dim, and there used to be a sudden coolness everywhere. And then it rained. And I used to sit there until it ended and the rainbow came out. And sitting there, alone, I used to think. It didn't matter what I thought. There was a hidden joy in it. A subtle laughter. A suppresed cry. An emotion of fullness and emptiness at the same time.

I was fifteen then. When it next rained for me. As if the rains had come only for me. She was there then. Amongst those thick drops and thundering sounds. And she was just a few feet away from me. We were returning from a quiz competition. We had lost. But it didn't matter. Her glasses were getting foggy all the time. But still it went on raining. And then she got on the auto and waved her hand to me and went away. And again, I was alone. Wading through the waterlogged streets I came back. I don't why, but it struck me that this was not the last time it was going to rain just for me.

I am seventeen now. And it rained for me again. It was dark then and the lamps on the roads had lit up. I was sitting on the pavement when the drops started calling again. People began to run, fewer cars started plying and the dogs started barking. The silece was unbearable. And then the raindrops started screaming in my ear. And with the briny tears they flowed away, disguised. I got terribly wet. But it didn't matter. Atleast I didn't feel sad. Atleast I was not alone...

About nothing!!

Well friends this post is basically about nothing! I don't have any particular topic in mind... perhaps just the blabbering of an idle brain! these days I'd been busy preparing for my Part I exams... got so many things to prove to others.... got so many tings to prove to me too! You know what there comes certain phases in your life that brings with it a Question mark! A question mark about the things you believed in.. the things you've done....etc etc. And these make you wake up from your slumber and start introspecting........ about everything! And you come in confrontation with some of the things that you've long cherished! Sudeenly you feel that all the things you believed in were nothing but a hollow sham....... and you feel miserable... depressed.... everything seems to be engulfed in utter darkness! Everything seems lost........ No hope whatsoever! In these kinds of moments of desperation you feel like as if you've deprived from your existence itself!You feel like a caged bird in fretters... unable to drink from the stream of life!

And when everything seems to be lost....... Aye!you can hear a melodious tune from somewhere. You dont know where it comes from..... but it soothes your tired soul...... it acts like a balm on blemishes that you've got! The music enchants your soul.... and you feel as if Nature has opened her casket of Bounty........ and all that is Beautiful!!!! You forget your sorrow...... You too start singing with the tune..... and you feel as if a Ray of Light from the heaven has fallen on you and you are baptisised! Aye! My friend........You are thus Blessed!!!!!

Rabindra Jayanti

Sometimes I wonder that I’m so lucky I was born Bengali. It’s not that feeling which comes to every person that makes him like his own language, his own culture, his own traditions… but it’s a more personal feeling. You may think that I’m being very ridiculous, but still I don’t fear to say that… one of the most significant reasons that I like being a bengali is that I can live, breathe, feel every breath of that genius, of that conscience inherent to each and every human being personified through this single man’s creation! Believe me, I’d be definitely not lying when I’m saying that … there’s hardly a human mood which does not associate to a particular creation of this unimaginable wonder of the world, Rabindranath Tagore.

You can argue that it’s always possible for any non-bengali to learn the language and start appreciating his creations, but here I’d like to say… yes, it’d be definitely possible, but still you wont be able to get the full flavour of it… as here comes the thing called ‘culture’. Until and unless you belong (yes, ‘belong’ and not ‘know’) to a certain culture, no matter how much imaginative, how much talented you are, but still some things will remain unknown, mysterious and maybe irrational to you. That is why I say that “I am a proud Bengali.”

‘Rabinda Jayanti : poncheeshe boisakh’… these few words bring me a lifetime of memories, which will always remain cherishable to me, almost like the field of daffodils of Wordsworth! For some years this day meant a whole lot to me… a month of days without evening study, a month full of enthusiasm to create a new play, a new recitation and a new bunch of songs.

I was hardly 10 then. Though I loved to churn out the melodious tunes of Gurudev (read: Rabindranath), still I couldn’t reach at the depth of these… and so for recitation. From my childhood I took pride in recitation and also in one-act plays. So much so, that I directed school plays in the celebration days of Teachers’ Day. And don’t worry, we did really well. Even some people who were considered so shy and callous, they surprised the whole lot by giving their best performance! I really dream those days…

As for Rabindra Jayanti, my father, who took part in serious dramas and plays in his younger days, directed the 15/20 of us. All the acts we did, all were from the book ‘Hasso-Koutuk’ (laughter-satire). Almost the whole book was acted out cumulatively in these few years of our performance... and we underwent the rehearsals so much intensely that after 10 years, yes, after 10 long years, I still remember most of the expressions corresponding to each sentence in those plays… and I’m not joking my dear! Give me the book, even right now, and I promise I’ll make you roll with laughter!

Among us however, Paltu-da and Jijo-da always got the bigger roles. Paltu-da was really a talent. With my father’s directed expressions, he always added his own and after the evening we literally had pains in our ribs by rolling and laughing and kicking!! Jijo-da used to do the serious type of roles and he handled them well. But Paltu-da obviously was more popular among us.

As for singing, Dipon-da and me used to lead the boys and Manta-di and Mom from the girls’ side. I loved singing… and singing Rabindrasangeet alone, since my childhood. I had later undergone some proper training in it and even performed in Rabindra Sadan. Till today when I come across/redisover a new touching song, I make sure that I can sing it. So naturally I enjoyed the stage performance. When I get up on the stage today to present my Powerpoint Presentations, I hardly falter in stage-sickness, thanks to these colourful years, which have completely freed me from all of the stage-tensions!

This year I performed (as a veteran) in the Rabindra Jayanti, which was non-functional for those 10 long years. When I got on the stage (pandal to be precise), built on the exact place where we had our happy times, I was struck with a sudden nostalgia… all those old images were fleeting through the canvas of my mind… but still I managed to recite, sorry not ‘recite’ but ‘read’, Gurudev’s ‘Proshno’ (meaning ‘Question’).

Looking at the excited faces of the other youngsters, I tried to discover myself among them… but sadly I saw the temparament has totally changed. Instead of enjoying the show, they were ‘competing’ with each other. There was no co-ordination, not even one congratulated each other… they were hardly 10 and most were even younger!

So I leave you the ‘Proshno’… will these children be able to extract the same feeling from these days when they go up? Will they ever recall these days with the passion I am right now? Will they ever be able to discover the inherent tremendous intensity of joy? Will they be ever realise : There’s no use winning a rat-race… because if you win, you still remain a rat!

Save them all Gurudev, shun thy sacred light of enlightenment on them… make them proper human beings, because one day these young children will be the future of Bengal, of India, of the World…

The paradox that is love

Love.
I don't know its meaning.

Thousands have spoken about it. Many more have not. And many more may know better about it than me, I believe. I don't think I will be able to say to you anything more than what has already been said. In fact, it also may be completely untrue and absurd.

This most-discussed, most-not-discussed and most-thought-of word, according to all reknowned dictionaries means "A strong positive emotion of regard and affection". Of course, our topic here would not deal with its meaning in dictionaries. It would deal with its effects, its probability, its improbability, its functions and its mechanisms. (I, of course, will not stop from beating about in the bush, as I normally do in situations where only I get to speak.)

What is love? Is love a feeling? Is love a want of love? Is love a emotion? Is love a complex process which involves the stimulation of certain parts of your brain? Is love a drug? Is love poetry? Is love pain? Is love oxygen? Is love poison? Is love lust? Is love trust? Is love a crush? Is love a need? Is love a connection? Is love a certain cartoonish shaped heart with an arrow through its approximate left diagonal? Is love sex? Is love originating in a place where blood is constantly being pushed in and pumped out? Or is it originating in a place much lower? Is love freedom? Is love a muse? Or is it just a series of alternating currents send by a unknown external source to make your semi-conscious mind reciprocate with the release of certain analgesics like endorphins? Or is love football?

Is love really love?

What can a person in love do? Can he give his/her life for it? Can he/she take someone's life for it? Can love make a person do things he/she can't do? Can love make a person not do things he/she normally does? Can the absence of love after the presence of love kill a person? Can the presence of love after the absence of it kill a person? Can a person live without love? Can a person die without love? Can love make a person endure the hardest of all difficulties? Can love hurt?

Does love make a person happy? Does love make a person sad? Does love make a person enthusiastic? Does love make a person angry? Does love make a person laugh? Does love make a person cry? Does love make a person write poems? Does love make a person leave everything? Does love make a person to want everything? Does love make a person a slave? Does love make a person complete?

I don't really know the answer to the above questions, and I feel I am not getting the answers to it in the near future. The answer to why I think so is hardly in my domain of comprehension.

Love is different for different people. Love maybe sweet for one and bitter for another. Love maybe a girl for one and a Lamborghini for another. Love maybe family for one and food for another. Love maybe life for one and death for another.

Love is ambiguous. Just like real life. Neither completely black nor completely white. Just different shades of grey.

Just like everyone of us.

A little of both, to say the truth.

A little of both.

He is what He is

It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.

Awake, it was bad. So was sleep. Respite was nowhere.

It was as if He was dead and alive at the same time.

As if He was singing breathlessly all the tunes He had ever heard but it was horribly rythmless.

Like someone was strangling him whenever He tried to forget and whenever He remembered.

It was like seeing the whole universe while still being immersed in a confined well.

It was as if He was underwater and in space at the same time.

As if the fabric of space and time was crumpling near him and straightening again.

As if someone was pressing a pillow against His face.

Coldness and heat - He felt both together.

Sweet and bitter - He tasted them both together.

All His past memories which He was living on was passing by him at inhuman speeds - running off like a handful of sand in a fist.

Laughter and tears were as if flowing like rapid streams in opposite directions through the same path.

The pain was now racing through His blood - clogging His veins and blocking His heart.

It was as if all He said and all He didn't was escaping him.

It was like as if he had got the answers to his unsolved problems and had lost them at the same time.

As if all the unanswered questions and all the answered ones were hammering away at His brain.

It was as if He was existing and perishing at the same time.

Rain and darkness was together - and the sun wasn't shining anymore since the moon had engulfed it.

He could see the ugliness and the beauty together.

As if He was vulnerable and strong at the same time.

He was feeling lonely even when among a crowd.

It was as if the rising notes and tempo of the song, which was at the tip of His tongue, was not stopping - neither was it starting.

As if he was hearing the silence and the noise at the same time.

It was as if white and black had merged together - and the result wasn't grey.

As if the colours of the rainbow were draining away.

As if the wind was blowing in all directions at the same time.

As if His soul was being torn apart and rebuilt at the same time.

It was as if He was mad and sane at the same time.

It was as if He was being killed and being born at the same time.

As if all His wounds were being torn apart and sewn at the same time.

He was the True and the False, the Good and the Evil.

He was the Villain, the Hero and the Story Itself.

He is still so now.

I told you this was going to be exciting.

I am what I am

I am His Shadow.

Who is this you may ask.

I am the Writer itself.

"But how can a diary be the person itself?", you may ask.

Sometimes they say that a person obsessed with anything becomes that thing itself. I am just a cistern. And the scribbling that He does on me is his soul. People sometimes mistake me to be His property. In fact, the truth is actually the other way round.

It is advised that any person interested in reading me must first please obtain the permission of the Writer. He does not often let anyone read it though and I doubt that anyone is wanting to read this - leaving those who either possess incredibly long attention spans or simply an insatiable desire to read about numb dumbs like the Writer, I guess. Frankly, I will be amazed and pleased to know that anyone has read this far. In fact, I would like to take this oppurtunity to thank that reader for his/her stalwart readership.

He calls Himself "The Nameless One". A cliched and a very stupid way to address oneself, many think. I think the same. Though many people often laugh at the idea of a sixteen year old writing a diary in order to keep himself sane, it must be noted that the Writer does not often heed to their mockery.

I am treated by Him as a friend of His - he gives me many names - Evanescence (The event of fading and gradually vanishing from sight), Emovare (Emotion) and Doleros (The Deceptive One). But in truth, I am his doppelganger - his somnus ambulare (The Sleep Walker).

The reader may find certain pages of me empty - the Writer does not often stay in a state where such problems can be evicted - He apologizes for that with his blood. I weep for that.

If seen from a third person's view, we may notice that the Writer is in a threshold - at the face of a crossroad - where he must make choices which will shape His life, and this friend of His would bear a testimony of this trial.

He is aimless, to say the least - spicing up a story would never be so simple without this. The Writer Himself doesn't know what will happen to the Protagonist of the story i.e. Himself. In the age of reality shows, this is reality in itself.

A real life story with no apparent solutions or results in sight. The story will continue, no matter what.

Strange Things Will Happen To Him. Interesting Things Will Happen To Him. For He Is The Hero, The Villain And The Story Itself.

And I am his Shadow.

An announcement !

My dear fellow bloggers,

Some of us have now become so much of a blogaholic that we are now giving our creativity a new dimension in this blogosphere. Expressing ourselves globally was always a very lucrative job, and now we have thought to play a game, which literally challenges our creativity!

We have thought to participate in a collage... yes, you got that right, a collage. Here one of the members will start writing a story on a selected topic and then a randomly chosen member will have to continue it from his/her leftout end. It's like we're holding each other hand in hand and showing our unity in diversity as well as giving a challenge to our creativity. The topic of the story will be finalised after a meeting with the members and will be communicated to all the members who fail to be present.

However, we've thought to keep SFTH open for the posts of the member's choice and not burden the place with some compulsion. So we're having a new blog to begin our challenge.

But it is to note that NO MEMBER CAN BE INACTIVE. Without the active participation this project will be a failure. Though everybody is free to join the new blog, they must promise their eager participation. The other members can continue posting in SFTH on topics of their own will.

It is also to be noted that there are some members in SFTH who havent posted for more than 2 months. The management has the right to cancel their membership without further notice. C'mon guys, share your thoughts with us... we're all dying to hear from you! Even a short note of a few thoughtful lines can also brighten up the day.

Interested bloggers who dare to take the challenge of unified collage can request for a membership invitation at bringshu@yahoo.com

Hoping to hear from you all...
Sincerely,
Vivek

Walked upon a road
Wished upon a star

Smelt like a nice rose
Bloomed like a sunflower

Your eyes spoke
The water in them seemed real

The wind did not seem to stop
Water did not stop flowing

Fine Lets not talk
Silence shall speak

Leave apart the choices we made
Leave apart the mistakes

A fine evening
The brew of perfect coffee

Unknown ...
To me , to you

We play a game
Game to survive

Learn to desire
Desire to survive

Fearing the past
Hearing the beat

Time passed away
Could not curse the past

Throw the Eye of the Master

A couple of days ago we celebrated the Birthday of Satyajit Ray. As a small part of rememberance I post some magnificant Screenshots from his movie : Sonar Kella

The Indigenious title art

The colourful Jatayu meets Topse on train

The Enigmatic Camel Ride after the breakdown of car

Chasing the train on camel back.

The beautiful sunset in the desert station with Feluda, Topse and Jatayu silhouttes.

The serious face of Feluda , the moment to capture

The train arrives in Jaisalmer and on the mountain we see the Sonar Kella

The smiling Mukul

Jatayu with a smile.

The last scene set in Sonar Kella , everyone's headed home

We cannnot hope to capture a movie in moments because it consists of sight and sounds.Its a part of my homage to the master and this is one of my favourite movies.

Hope you like it!

THE GIRL IN THE PINK DRESS

There was this little girl sitting by herself in the park.
Everyone passed by her and never stopped to see why she
looked so sad. Dressed in a worn pink dress, barefoot and
dirty, the girl just sat and watched the people go by.
She never tried to speak. She never said a word.
Many people passed by her, but no one would stop.

The next day I decided to go back to the park in
curiosity to see if the little girl would still be there.
Yes, she was there, right in the very spot where she was
yesterday, and still with the same sad look in her eyes.

Today I was to make my own move and walk over to the
little girl. For as we all know, a park full of strange
people is not a place for young children to play alone.
As I got closer I could see the back of the little girl's
dress was grotesquely shaped. I figured that was the
reason people just passed by and made no effort to speak
to her.

As I got closer, the little girl lowered her eyes slightly
to avoid my intent stare. As I approached her, I could see
the shape of her back more clearly.  She was grotesquely
shaped in a humped-over form.

I smiled to let her know it was OK; I was there to help,
to talk. I sat down beside her and opened with a simple,
"Hello."  The little girl acted shocked,
and stammered a "hi," after a long stare into my eyes. I
smiled and she shyly smiled back.

We talked until darkness fell and the park was completely
empty. I asked the girl why she was so sad. 
The little girl looked at me with a sad face said,
"Because I'm different." I immediately said,
"That you are!" and smiled. The little girl acted
even sadder and said, "I know."

"Little girl," I said, "you remind me of an angel,
sweet and innocent." She looked at me and smiled,
then slowly she got to her feet and said,"Really?"

"Yes, you're like a little Guardian Angel sent
to watch over all those people walking by."
She nodded her head yes, and smiled. With that
she opened the back of her pink dress and
allowed her wings to spread, then she said
"I am. I'm your Guardian Angel," with a twinkle
in her eye. I was speechless -- sure I was
seeing things.

She said, "For once you thought of someone
other than yourself. My job here is done."

I got to my feet and said, "Wait, why did
no one stop to help an angel?"
She looked at me, smiled, and said,
"You are the only one that could
see me," and then she was gone. And with that,
my life was changed dramatically. So, when you
think you're all you have, remember, your
angel is always watching over you.

Life after Death...

The portrait was that of a young girl.

It was a mere head and shoulders, done in what is technically termed a vignette manner; much in the style of the favorite heads of Sully. The arms, the bosom, and even the ends of the radiant hair melted imperceptibly into the vague yet deep shadow which formed the back-ground of the whole. The frame was oval, richly gilded and filigreed in Moresque. As a thing of art nothing could be more admirable than the painting itself. But it could have been neither the execution of the work, nor the immortal beauty of the countenance, which had so suddenly and so vehemently moved me. Least of all, could it have been that my fancy, shaken from its half slumber, had mistaken the head for that of a living person.

I saw at once that the peculiarities of the design, of the vignetting, and of the frame, must have instantly dispelled such idea- must have prevented even its momentary entertainment. Thinking earnestly upon these points, I remained, for an hour perhaps, half sitting, half reclining, with my vision riveted upon the portrait. At length, satisfied with the true secret of its effect, I fell back within the bed. I had found the spell of the picture in an absolute life-likeliness of expression, which, at first startling, finally confounded, subdued, and appalled me. With deep and reverent awe I replaced the candelabrum in its former position. The cause of my deep agitation being thus shut from view, I sought eagerly the volume which discussed the paintings and their histories.

Turning to the number which designated the oval portrait, I there read the vague and quaint words which follow:

"She was a maiden of rarest beauty, and not more lovely than full of glee. And evil was the hour when she saw, and loved, and wedded the painter. He, passionate, studious, austere, and having already a bride in his Art; she a maiden of rarest beauty, and not more lovely than full of glee; all light and smiles, and frolicsome as the young fawn; loving and cherishing all things; hating only the Art which was her rival; dreading only the pallet and brushes and other untoward instruments which deprived her of the countenance of her lover.

It was thus a terrible thing for this lady to hear the painter speak of his desire to pourtray even his young bride. But she was humble and obedient, and sat meekly for many weeks in the dark, high turret-chamber where the light dripped upon the pale canvas only from overhead. But he, the painter, took glory in his work, which went on from hour to hour, and from day to day. And be was a passionate, and wild, and moody man, who became lost in reveries; so that he would not see that the light which fell so ghastly in that lone turret withered the health and the spirits of his bride, who pined visibly to all but him. Yet she smiled on and still on, uncomplainingly, because she saw that the painter (who had high renown) took a fervid and burning pleasure in his task, and wrought day and night to depict her who so loved him, yet who grew daily more dispirited and weak.

And in sooth some who beheld the portrait spoke of its resemblance in low words, as of a mighty marvel, and a proof not less of the power of the painter than of his deep love for her whom he depicted so surpassingly well. But at length, as the labor drew nearer to its conclusion, there were admitted none into the turret; for the painter had grown wild with the ardor of his work, and turned his eyes from canvas merely, even to regard the countenance of his wife. And he would not see that the tints which he spread upon the canvas were drawn from the cheeks of her who sate beside him. And when many weeks bad passed, and but little remained to do, save one brush upon the mouth and one tint upon the eye, the spirit of the lady again flickered up as the flame within the socket of the lamp.

And then the brush was given, and then the tint was placed; and, for one moment, the painter stood entranced before the work which he had wrought; but in the next, while he yet gazed, he grew tremulous and very pallid, and aghast, and crying with a loud voice, 'This is indeed Life itself!' turned suddenly to regard his beloved:-

She was dead!

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

This is an excerpt from Edgar Allan Poe's 'The Oval Portrait'. Paragraphs have been resized to catch the reader's interest. The image has been used only as an ornamentation. It has no correspondence what-so-ever with the original story...