NovoSphere

Channel Surfing

2012-01-11T13:37:00.000+05:30

When the time came for me to watchthe television serial I was excited about since morning; the channel was gone.I was angry, frustrated, upset all at the same time. When I switched on thetelevision it was on channel number 21. And I ended up surfing forward thethree hundred plus channels installed in my television set with no success.Finally, I saw the channel I was looking for at channel number 20.

Sometimes, the incident taught me, thethings we want in life are so close to us that we end up overlooking them.

The Edible Quotient

2011-12-31T18:24:00.000+05:30

There are twodishes in front of me: one contains loads of peas in it and the other has a lot of capsicum. The peas taste great but the capsicum seems uncooked. I inquire aboutit. I am told the extent to which capsicum, in general, is cooked so that it becomesedible is much less than what peas need. I realize though both arevegetables but they essentially have a different ‘edible’ quotient. Likewise, Ifeel we all have our own ‘edible’ quotient. Nature ‘cooks’ some of us more andsome less only to connect us to the best we can be. Its a waste of time to look at others and be judgmental about oneself.

Re-touch

2011-11-30T10:52:00.002+05:30

One was sitting on the bed. The other was on a chair. The one on the bed was virtually retouching a photograph on his laptop while the one on the chair was admiring the same but the untouched version of it in his own computer. Once the one on the bed was done he said, “See how awesome it looks now!”

“But that’s not what it naturally was.”

“Okay! But I’ll get more likes in FB than your natural one would.” He mocked.

This was not the first time he saw his friend re-touch a photograph. It made the one sitting on the chair wonder:

Most of the time his friend’s action was a reaction to his presumption of other’s judgment and an imaginary conclusion of it being embarrassing. At every step he had this pervert urge to re-touch his natural self to become more acceptable. But, isn't embracing the imperfection within one a part of being oneself too? And isn't the will-to-re-touch something natural itself a disgusting way to puncture one’s self-esteem?

“I’ll put the photograph just the way I took it. More than anyone else’s like, I love it that way.” The one on the chair said.

Boiling Milk

2011-10-07T12:53:00.003+05:30

I’m in the kitchen. I put the bowl filled with milk on the oven. I turn on the burner. I wait for the milk to start boiling. I hum a song as well. I hear my mobile phone ring out loud. I realize it’s in the bedroom. I scamper out to attend the call. I come back in the kitchen after some time. I see the boiling milk has spilled all over the place. It’s a mess.

I was committed to boil the milk. Thus, it was important for me to ignore the call. I didn't.

Now all I can do is clean up. But will I be able to retain the spilled milk? Some of it at least?

I sigh.

Rocket

2011-09-18T11:31:00.004+05:30

All my life I have seen rockets embellishing the night sky during a festival. But the following observation and the subsequent realization happened for the first time during the recent Ganesh Chaturthi.

A guy placed a rocket inside a glass bottle and lit the tiny tail branching out from its chest. A moment later the rocket scooted high up in the air where it expressed itself via a delightful explosion.

Even a rocket remains bottled, to start with, before the necessary fire triggers its journey high up in the sky where it realizes it’s true and irrevocable potential.

Download

2011-08-30T11:22:00.004+05:30

When I saw my friend getting frustrated while trying to download something which he had been eyeing for a long time, I queried about it.

“There are still no seeds and peers. I will have to delete this torrent. Waste!" He was about to delete it after keeping the torrent for over a month when I requested him to give it another fortnight. He agreed since it anyway wasn't eating much of his hard disk space. On the fourteenth day the download was successful.

One can dream as much as one wants to but alongside, it is also important to believe in the fact that a trigger to its fruition is only a moment away. And till that moment happens one should never pause or delete the torrent of a Dream.

At The Party

2011-07-16T21:55:00.001+05:30

Few days back I was at this party with friends. We were having a good time till they decided to drink and dance. I, being myself, chose to enjoy the sight from a distance. A nearby table, where each of us had kept our mobile phones and wallets, caught my attention. Soon, I found myself arranging the mobile phones randomly. Then I noticed a pattern. Here’s what the arrangement was like:

Micromax Q50

Dell XCD28

Blackberry Pearl

HTC Desire

Apple iPhone

Sony Ericsson Xperia X10 Mini Pro

Samsung Galaxy pop

Samsung Guru Dual

The sequence was an amusing one because it occurred to me the list was tantamount to man’s evolution through time. A journey from simplicity to simplicity via complexity.

Video Streaming

2011-06-26T12:03:00.007+05:30

My internet connection boasts of a good speed. Okay, usually it’s better than good. And a video in any streaming website loads quickly.

But last night for some reason (unknown to me) the internet speed was like that of man’s evolution through time. I was dead bored. It was only an hour later the video I was so desperate to see had fully loaded. One hour compared to the normal half a minute! I was irritated because I had to watch few more parts of the same video. Talk about long nights!

And in the humdrum of a slow internet connection I realized: I’d actually waited for all the videos to load because I wanted to see them. If the Wait had not happened, the Want would have been a traveller in the land of excuses.

The Tourist

2011-05-22T19:26:00.001+05:30

During a casual walk down a famous street in arguably one of the most coveted city of India I overheard couple of tourists praising a particular aspect of that city. And it was the same aspect which made the native disown the city many a times, complain about it insatiably and at times simply ignore it under the garb of a helpless acceptance.

Walking ahead of the two tourists I wondered how the same thing appealed to some who probably saw and lived it for a day while it disgusted the ones who witnessed and faced it every day. Subsequently it dawned on me that sometimes it’s better to take a breather and ‘become’ a tourist to our own problems, relationships, dilemmas and our own being. It surely helps us grow some more (and much needed) green grass on our emotional pasture.

PS: How to ‘become’ that tourist? That, I am afraid, can’t be generalised.

Auto Rickshaw

2011-04-10T11:56:00.001+05:30

Last night I boarded an auto rickshaw without really knowing the exact location of the place I was heading to.

I did enjoy the three-wheeler's ride but I also had an eye on the fare meter all the while and was aware how swiftly it was ascending. Finally when I decided to step down somewhere close to the intended place the meter was showing a herculean figure.

I realized when we get into any relationship there’s always a fare meter running somewhere within. The more time you give to the relationship, the more the meter’s figure. And then if one decides to step out of the relationship at random or deliberately or even against will, the fare shown by the meter of the heart, almost always, goes well beyond one’s emotional budget at that point of time.

I concluded enjoying the ride is as important as keeping an eye on the fare meter so that in case something happens and one needs to move out, one should at least be able to handle it.

Happy Women's Day

2011-03-08T09:54:00.005+05:30

Following is a short write-up of mine that was published couple of years back in the book 'Woman: Many Hues, Many Shades' by Satjit Wadva. Hope you will like it. Comments are welcome and because its not the exact version, my sincere apologies for the mistakes/glitches, if any.

Thank you! :)

The Hand That Rocked My Cradle Fuels My World

I don’t remember it and I can’t forget it either; I mean, her first touch.

Though I arrived in this world without any luggage of language but I don’t know how (does anyone?) I pronounced the word ma all by myself. On one hand I am still oblivious to the exact moment when that mysterious word escaped me for the first time and on the other, the sublime emotional resonance of her first touch upon my soft, ignorant and naive skin has nested – like my own conscience – within me forever. And whenever I feel the resonance of it choreographing my soul, birth seems like a euphoric swing between physical heaven and mental bliss.

The first time she took me in her hands and pressed me softly against her bosom I was subliminally connected to my identity: I was a man. The first time she offered me her milk, it transpired a realization in me: I needed a woman to provide me with the strength that epitomises a man. The first time she prepared Cerelac for me I foresaw: I’ll need a woman for my growth. The first time she took my hands and feet onto hers and taught me how to walk, my subconscious conjured: I needed a woman for the direction that eventually decides the difference between a man and a human. The first time she scolded me when I picked up foul language in primary school I learnt: I needed a woman to punctuate me. The first time she helped me with my bath I understood: I needed a woman to rinse me of all my dirt. But the incident that helped me realize the real value of a mother – probably the most significant manifestation of womanhood – happened one night when she lit a candle during a power cut.

The stubborn wind, continuously peeping in through the open windows, denied the candle flame a stasis. As a reflex, my mother placed both her hands around the flame. Within seconds it calmed the flickering flame down lighting the area properly and also those dark corners of ignorance within me, once and for all. I realized had it not been for her caring and comforting presence the flame of my existence would have flickered relentlessly under the influence of the wind of delusions and temptations. And perhaps extinguish too, way before the true potential was achieved.

My mother always looks like a mother to me. Rarely have I seen her in any other attire than a sari with a dot of vermilion between her eye brows as well as a streak of it on the centre parting of her hair. To go with it are a set of white and red bangles – typical of married Bengali women – on both hands and a gold chain – her mangalsutra – around the neck. There was a time when I thought without these one is not a proper mother!

I remember I had once asked her why she had to hit me every time I did something wrong.

“You could have explained me verbally also!”

“A stick is also a pertinent expression of love.” She said and conveniently changed the topic. Looking at her face I could very well judge it must have been tougher for her than it was for me.

Her perceptions of things are unique. And whenever I think about them at length they seem gravid with keys to some archaic locks.

For example, once a communal riot had broke out in her home town. Curfew was declared and army deployed. At midnight my mother – then a small child – suddenly was woken up by my worried-looking grandmother and asked to run out of the house. As she followed her outside, my mother enquired what the matter was.

“There is an earthquake!” My grandmother almost screamed.

“Is it Hindu or Muslim?” My mother shot back.

Whenever we get time to discuss various things, the session leaves me, more often than not, in a pensive state; embellishing my outlook with maturity all the time. Going by my mother’s confession, she wanted to study further and thereby make her own mark. But the kind of societal quicksand she belonged to trained her emotionally from her childhood to live her life within the shadow of a husband. Talent, desire, passion and the zeal to make an identity and design a personal independence – she was made to believe – doesn’t matter after a point in a woman’s life. So much so, that in the end she started believing in the faux belief.

“But how do you carry on without ever feeling frustrated?”

“A woman is tailor-made to absorb pain, right from her puberty.” She smiled and continued, “Actually a woman lies somewhere in the middle of the equilibrium between man and nature. So whatever we do or happens to us influences everything from individuals to society; nolens volens. Thus we are the ones for whom rules are made.”

My mother worships daily. And when she distributes the Prasad her eyes seem a vial filled to the brim with faith. I think this is her defence mechanism against the vagaries of life. I had also asked her what she thought about God.

“He can’t only be an idol?” I had remarked.

“God is nothing but our intentions.” She replied leaving me alone to ponder over it.

She is always surrounded with an aura that is a stentorian pronunciation of the substance that a genuine woman is made of. I have even seen one of my father’s office colleagues touching her feet! I didn’t understand that at first but as I grew up and women – in various avatars – touched my life there were instances when I tried to find my mother in them. I wasn’t successful every time but whenever I was, I felt honoured to bow down.

The most shocking thing about my mother is she does the same thing every day. And the most surprising thing is she does it with a smile. An entire life in the well of monotony! As if a mother never lives for herself. Every action, urge, wish in her is because of a surreal reaction to her family’s needs and wants.

“Were you always like this, living for others?”

“No!”

“Then is that the change a woman goes through when she becomes a mother?”

“A woman connects with the woman inside when she becomes a mother.” She had a twinkle in her eyes when she said it. I believed it was a tear but she termed it pride.

I think the greatest blessing for any flame is the hand that guards it from flickering. And how the flame burns depends, to an extent, upon the warmth of the hand. Yet sometimes we take things so much for granted that we tend to ignore the very basic element that helps – at different stages of our existence – cement the bricks of sanity together to build a healthy wall of living for us.

It’s not that I have seen my mother play only a mother. Like the different seasons she too has played various roles exclusive of each other. As if within her resides the climate of creation. And in doing so she has allowed us to reap the benefits of all the different facets sown within her.

As I continue to see her getting caressed by time, I have confessed to myself that a woman – doesn’t matter the role – is, above all, the climax of a man’s life.

Platform 2 and 3

2011-03-01T12:29:00.001+05:30

The station had four platforms; One and Four were on the either side of platform Two and Three who shared the same base.

The Wind passing by the platform heard one of the empty Benches there whisper to the other, “Platform One and Four are always far from the other. But look at Two and Three. They are always there for each other.”

Platform Three was silent but Two replied, “It’s not how it looks. Even though we were built on the same foundation, we have been catering to different trains ever since.”

The Wind sighed and moved on.

Moving On

2011-02-17T13:10:00.005+05:30

There was this particular fear that used to grip me tight whenever I bought clothes for myself as a teenager. More acutely if the fitting was immaculate because then I was totally in love with the dress. Following which I, quite compulsively, remained nervous wondering what would I do if I over-grew it at some point of time? If its worth was lost after repeated washing? Worse, if I felt a sudden urge to or perhaps had to discard it in the future? Gosh, it was some tension!

Till of course I bought another set of perfect fitting clothes which coaxed me to fall in love with it (and I did!) invariably bringing forth the same fear. Though it also severed from me whatever I felt for my earlier clothes.

The point is, I learnt, Life is about moving on be it one’s clothes or relationships. And there’s nothing like ‘this is it’ in life. Everything has a substitute.

Only, you need to come across it.

Sketch

2011-01-22T11:49:00.004+05:30

I usually don’t sketch. The reason is simple: people HAVE eyes!

Jokes apart, yesterday I sat down with a blank piece of paper to sketch my own symbolic impression of Life. To begin with I drew a straight line. Then I drew a sinusoidal line. Next, was a trough. Followed by a crest. Then a line with only crests. Again, a line with only troughs. After which the bell rang.

It was my neighbour. I chatted with him for some time while his seven year old son kept hopping all around the flat. When they left I went back to the sketch where, to my surprise, I found a big circle drawn which included the straight line, the sinusoidal line, the trough, the crest and the lines with crests and troughs respectively.

PS: I smiled.

Poetry

2011-01-15T18:26:00.005+05:30

When I was a kid I thought Poetry only meant a collection of lines with sometimes intelligent and at times ridiculous rhyming words in the end. And it was something which always sounded fun in totality.

But when I grew up I came across such pieces which didn’t have a single rhyming word in the end or any overtly synchronised rhythm in the content for that matter. And yet people termed them Poetry. Perhaps of a different kind! I surmised.

One day, I tried to translate my life so far in simple sentences as in each year of my life equating to one line. Surprisingly, there were no rhyming words in the end and some of the lines were scary as hell!

It took some time but eventually I accepted and later respected the fact that those lines -defining my life thus far - taken together was also Poetry.

Perhaps of a different kind! I know. And I thus realized, its not how a particular piece is written but how it all sounds and what all it evokes that is the point of it all!

Few words..

2011-01-04T00:29:00.002+05:30

“A Thing Beyond Forever” [written in 2007-08 and published Sept. ’08 by Srishti Publishers and Distributors] was a personal story. The essence of it was something that troubled me constantly during my adolescence. The book's working title was “Something In The Air.” Honestly speaking, am yet to find an answer to the question I put up in the book: is attraction really the missing link between souls? I think, yes.

“That Kiss In The Rain..” [written in 2008 and published in Nov. ‘09 by Srishti Publishers and Distributors] was inspired by all the women who touched my life at different times in various avatars and helped shape the man that I am today. The book's working title was ‘Three Cubes Of Sugar.” I strongly believe love ‘is’ the weather of life.

After my second novel I promised myself I will not churn out novels for the heck of it. The ordeal of penning a story, I told myself, should take me on a journey within me and thus give me a once-in-a-lifetime chance to meet the strangers – one at a time – who live inside me thereby helping me explore and realize something new and concrete about myself be it beautiful or ugly. My first two books definitely did that for me. When I finished them I felt I gained few things permanently and lost some, forever.

In the months that followed I started a total of three novels which I was sure were great stories but left all of them in-between simply because that desired inward journey was not happening. After months of frustration and speculation a plot happened to me. I started developing it, made notes, researched and the like. The more I involved myself, the more scared I was because of the epic scope of the plot. “Will I be able to pull it off?, was my prime fear. But the best trait of Fear is it ‘takes’ you somewhere unexpected if you allow it to. Right then I knew…this has to be my 3^rd novel!

After thirteen months of preparation now am ready to pen it down.

And what is it about? Well, at this moment all I can confess is that the book will be:

FUN. DARK. PRISTINE. SCANDALOUS. PROFOUND. EROTIC. ETHEREAL.

The acronym of the working title is ‘S-B-T-F’. Shall disclose the full name with time and if it stays as the final title.

Would need all your best wishes :))

Stay blessed!!!

Music

2010-12-25T12:54:00.003+05:30

Last week, I visited a musician uncle of mine after a long time. The moment I entered his music room I was baffled to see a plethora of musical instruments; from the Sitar to the Saxophone to the Flute and what not!

“Uncle, can you really play each one of them?” I found my awe-struck self ask.

“Yes. Actually, I was very young when I started.” He began. “The first musical instrument I ever saw was the Sitar. I was afraid to even touch it. I was so small compared to it! But then, I did touch it, sat down with it and slowly but steadily started playing it well.

Then I was introduced to the Tabla. Again, the same thing happened. I was afraid because I didn’t know if I would be able to learn it, understand it or synchronise myself with its sounds. You see, Music is when an instrument’s sound and your soul are having a tête-à-tête. But within a few years I became a good Tabla player. After which I taught myself to play the Flute, the Sarod, the Saxophone and all the other instruments that are present here, one by one. And every time, my relationship with each of these instruments started with a noise and ended with music. Now, we are a part of each other.”

I realized there is no inherent Music in Life, nor is it within us. Music (of life) happens when our problems – the instruments – and we sit together and copulate spiritually.

The 420-characters Quota

2010-11-09T12:00:00.002+05:30

Early in the morning I was trying to update my status message in Facebook. But I wasn’t allowed to publish it since the full message exceeded the limit of 420 characters. Thus I refrained myself from publishing it all together since half of it wouldn’t have made any sense.

And I wondered how important a single character – a small deed – can often become. When something in life reaches its 420 characters quota (if at all!) it’s these characters – one seminal part each that was supposed to make up the whole but somehow didn’t – that become all the more pronounced for people to judge and for us, as an individual, to criticize, treasure or infer, accordingly. And when it does happen all we are left with is a sigh which, if given words, shall read, “Wish they knew the whole. Wish I realized the whole.”

How does it matter how many pages of Life’s calendar we flip back in our heart everyday when in reality nothing can ever be flipped back, erased or corrected entirely if and when something abruptly hits the 420-characters quota.

Quiz Show

2010-10-01T10:24:00.002+05:30

Last night I was watching a popular Bengali quiz show on television. And each time the celebrity host shot a question to a certain participant he made a face as if the answer was there, waiting to pop out, and yet it was so not there. While his competitors around jumped with excitement already sure of the answer.

But this particular participant, too, became restless with zeal, dead sure of the answer, once a different question was asked to one of his competitors.

And I wondered…his competitor knew his answer and he knew his. I know your answers and probably you know mine. We almost always know each other’s answers but seldom our own. Guess that’s one of life's oldest tricks!

BILLING QUEUE

2010-09-05T21:21:00.001+05:30

A day before I was in a small departmental store. I dutifully picked up whatever I had to buy and added myself onto an already long billing queue. Getting bored since the line was moving slowly I started looking here and there. My eyes hooked onto a huge mirror kept right beside the billing counter. It reflected almost the entire billing queue.

And this is what I saw in the mirror:

Each one of us in the queue, it seemed, had hand picked our own dreams and then were waiting with a hint of impatience to reach the counter of destiny hoping the self chosen dreams that we were holding onto so tightly would soon be handed over to us within the packet of reality since making oneself a part of the billing queue simply meant we all were ready to pay the marked price.

SPEED BREAKERS

2010-08-09T11:52:00.004+05:30

Last week I was travelling in a car with a friend. We were constantly bantering. But our faces transformed into a temporary sad emoticon when the car hit a steep speed-breaker. By the time we relaxed there was another steep speed-breaker. And from then on my friend didn’t talk to me. He drove slowly and carefully all the way expecting a third speed-breaker…which never came. From a joyous drive it became a quiet one.

And I thought how the steep speed breakers suddenly started controlling us and our behaviour. The brewing anticipation of a third speed-breaker didn’t allow us to relax and also, to an extent, altered us for the rest of the journey. And thus made us forgo all the happy talks which we would have done had the control-shift not happened.

Novo's Eleven!

2010-07-29T20:50:00.005+05:30

Now that the FIFA World Cup '10 has ended I thought of compiling my own eleven in a 4-4-2 formation! Here they are:

1.) CHARACTER – Goal Keeper.

2.) ZEAL – Centre Back One.

3.) FOCUS – Centre Back Two

4.) EGO – Full Back Right.

5.) ATTITUDE - Full Back Left.

6.) BRAVADO - Centre Mid-field One.

7.) INTEGRITY - Center Mid-field Two.

8.) DISCIPLINE - Side Mid-field One.

9.) HUNGER - Side Mid-field Two.

10.) LOVE - Center Forward One.

11.) COMPASSION - Center Forward Two.

ATBF - A CLARIFICATION

2010-07-28T13:17:00.008+05:30

From the time my debut novel 'A Thing Beyond Forever' came out I have been receiving mails in which people have put forward their feedback...but one question that continues to remain common in those feedback is why did I kill Radhika? Well, I never gave a genuine reason to anybody for that but deep inside hoped they cultivated it themselves...but now I guess its high time I present the clarification...

Here it goes:

The issue arises when we take Radhika's suicide in a literal sense. I only want to ask one thing: Can't it be a metaphorical suicide...? Can't it simply signify the death of Radhika's resolve (bordering on idealism) to love Raen forever and not substitute him with anybody?

What if I tell you from the point she thought of jumping from the terrace the story takes a 'delusional' turn where Radhika is only imagining what will happen if she 'really' jumps ... and the last scene where she hallucinates making love with Raen for one last time is her farewell to Raen and all his emotional gifts to her. She imagines it all while standing on the terrace perhaps realizing for the first time that her life deserved a second chance with Sunil and thus, may be ... just may be she didn't ACTUALLY jump off the terrace ... Now, what did she do afterwards if she really didn't jump?

I deliberately kept the ending a little vague and open because I wanted my readers to interpret the ending on the basis of their own cognition and not thrust something concrete on them from my side...hence I didn't dig into 'what Radhika did afterwards' in the novel.

And with the Epilogue I am not saying Radhika is born again - sorry, no 'Bollywood' here - it just-simply-only signifies that a 'story' is born somewhere in the form of Elizabeth Heather Ferguson and that she too would have to, at some point of time, swim in this mysterious ocean of Love and Attraction the way Radhika did ... the way we all do in our own lives...

Whether one agrees or not with this explanation is not the point here. I have presented my real thoughts behind the ending that happened to me while I was writing it. Everybody has the right to agree or disagree. And my regards for both. The point here is sometimes in stories, like in life, there's MORE than our eyes tell us and MUCH MORE than the words frame. Of course you might ask where have I written all that in the book but I would humbly confess I, as an author, don't like to spoon-feed my readers for I respect them.

Thank you for your time.

NOTE: This is only for people who have read the novel. Comments for this post WON'T be published. My apologies. Also, I love questions :) ... so in case of any residual query please feel free to email me: novosphere@gmail.com

And, Cut!

2010-07-06T10:35:00.004+05:30

I was writing a film script and while I was switching between scenes a thought thundered in my mind. Success is a CLOSE UP. Nobody cares to see anything else apart from the sudden glittering spark in your face. And failure is a LONG SHOT. Every bit offers itself for a subjective analysis. And the funny part is one can cheat a ‘close up’ but it’s difficult to cheat a ‘long shot’.

Also, I realized the ever so eluding entity we call life is basically a summation of those eager and at times scary expectations we promise ourselves knowing the ‘Cut’ (from ‘close up to a ‘long shot’ or vice versa) might happen…anytime.

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

KNOTS

2010-06-04T20:49:00.005+05:30

Stuffing all the jewelleries inside a bag the thief hurled a rope out of the window and began to move down slowly. Within half a minute his feet touched the ground and in a trice he disappeared into the darkness.

The entire scene was witnessed by a young man who, sitting by the window of a flat in the opposite building and smoking pensively, was having his own private moment of introspection. The sudden sight of the thief made him sit up on his chair. His first instinct was to scream and awake everyone but something made him forgo the temptation. He observed the rope…full of tight knots at regular intervals…much like his own life…and the purpose?

To help the thief climb up…!

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

Jana Hai

2010-05-10T10:17:00.009+05:30

Tanhai ke suitcase mein,

Naye-purane zakhmon ko sametkar,

Lamhon ke khirki-darwaze band kar,

Jana Hai.

Mazhab kai hai, Bhagwan wahi.

Dard kai hai, Dil wahi.

Judai ki bus le kar, main,

Pauchunga pachtave ke stop par.

Umeed ke har store band honge aaj.

Rishton ke shahar mein curfew jo hain.

Waqt ke purse mein,

Galtiyon kay photo chupaye nahi chupte.

Mohabbat currency note hain,

Zamane ke theatre mein ghuste hi kharch ho jate hain.

Badan ke zoo mein,

Naraazgi ke kai jaanwar qaid hai, ab bhi.

Afsos ke kapdon se dhakkar, magar,

Jana hai.

Mijaz kayi hai, Mausam wahi.

Bahane kayi hai, khichav wahi.

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

Tap Water

2010-04-17T20:46:00.006+05:30

While coming back home from college few years back my bus stopped at a signal. I was sitting by a window seat so got a chance to notice an old man sitting by a road side tap. He was carrying a not-interested-in-this-world-anymore kind of expression on his face. Or was I reading too much, I don’t know. Though he kept watching the people (so did I) who came for water and seeing the tap empty of it went away abusing the municipality.

The signal turned green and my bus leaped forward with gusto. For once I turned back at the old man only to see him happily filling his bottle. Voila! The water had come.

After I reached home I somehow felt relaxed from within for I now knew, sometimes, one needs to wait for the opportunity with the dress of preparation on and not make a blind sprint for it.

Thanks ‘old man’, wherever you are!

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

Stand Fan

2010-03-31T21:05:00.004+05:30

It was hot. It was humid. I was irritated. I was angry. Suddenly a woman came over and put a stand fan where the patients were waiting for their call from the doctor. As soon as the fan was switched on it started swinging from left to right. I relaxed feeling the air but soon the fan turned away to my locked-jaw chagrin.

A little boy, who was sitting next to me, kept shifting from left to right in accordance to the fan’s face. And I soon surmised he was the happiest and the least sweaty amongst all the visitors. For unlike him we all were only waiting for the fan to turn towards us.

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

PC Game

2010-02-14T18:39:00.005+05:30

There is this friend of mine who is a PC Game addict. I was at his place few days back and seeing his maniacal collection of game CDs I shot a casual query at him, "Bro, is there any game you have played but couldn't complete?"
"No!" It was prompt. "There is no game in this stupid world which can't be completed. Sometimes you have to be at it day and night though."

And he was right. I remembered all the PC and Video games I played as a kid. Every stage was an impossible challenge at first. But eventually - after playing it obsessively day and night - I did manage to conquer and move on to the next stage.

I thought about his statement for a while and then said, "Voila!" with a faint smile of realization.

And I guess you know why.

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

BADMINTON

2010-01-18T12:58:00.006+05:30

During my Kindergarten days I used to play badminton with my elder sister. And her condition was straight and simple, "Whichever side the shuttle-cork falls you’ll have to pick it up!" Since helplessness gives you a new God, I always gave in.

But when I recollect those moments now I realize there is such a big lesson in it. Consider this: If the game has to continue one of the two will have to pick up the shuttle-cork.

If you know what I am talking about…

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

Tomorrow - Today - Yesterday

2009-12-25T13:12:00.004+05:30

I believe (a personal one!) the way one laughs changes over time. And that the change is proportional to the experiences of life.

Last Sunday one of my uncles visited me. Though I was meeting him after a long time but he didn’t seem to have changed at all. My uncle always laughed like a child; without any inhibitions and straight from his heart. The surprise? He still laughs like that. If I tell you about his life then your definition of ‘bad luck’ would certainly be pushed. But I won’t do that as it will dilute the intention of this particular post.

All I want to share is what he told me when I asked him how he still manages to smile in his life-is-beautiful manner. This is what he said, “Even if Tomorrow is the most gorgeous woman on earth I don’t fantasize about her. If Today is the girl I love the most but I know I can’t get her I still live it to the full and not stop mid-way. And if Yesterday is the first crush of my life I, at best, remember her but never miss her.”

God bless him!

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

Awaazein

2009-11-27T18:11:00.004+05:30

Dum lu bhi toh kaise,
Khwabo mein aana ab tumhe manzoor nahi.
Tumahri aawazo ki sui si chubhan zinda rakhti hai mujhe.
Bechani meri suhagan hai,
Sukoon meri vidhwa.

Haqeqat se jannat ki dooriyon ko
Zindagi kaha karte the kabhi.
Unki aawaz ki gaaliche main let kar
Sadiyaan paar kar lete the kabhi.

Bachpan mein khilono ke tootne se
Hum ro liya karte the kabhi
Ab khilone tootte hai bhi toh kya?
Bahano ke bazaar se waqt milta hi nahi.

Rok nahi sakta mann ke darwazon se
Beete waqt ki roshni ko, magar.
Aaj aur kal ke ek room ke flat mein
Andhera kayam rehta hai abhi.

Bhool jau bhi toh kaise,
Zindagi ka sweater chota lagta hai abhi.
Tumhari awaazo ki rui se dabkar
Neend aa jati hai kabhi.

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

Mobile Phone

2009-10-14T22:04:00.006+05:30

Last week one of my cousins bought a suave new mobile phone. And Jesus, was she hyper about it? All through the week she kept exploring its features to the maximum (postponing her dinner at times!). But this week she didn’t seem as interested and excited as she was when she just bought it. When I inquired she said, “Oh, I already know all about it.” So that’s it, I thought. I’ll probably see her hyper-self again when she lays her hand on another set.

I think there is a latent lesson in relationship here. And the more I thought about it the more the answers to what makes a relationship click or bleak grew on me.

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

Fault

2009-10-08T21:59:00.004+05:30

A young boy, walking – quite rightly – on the footpath was transformed into pulp in a matter of seconds by a car driven by an alcoholic out-of-control rich brat.

It was a normal newspaper report I came across recently. This boy paid the price because someone else was drunk driving.

When I lay on bed that night I thought how many times it has happened to me. I did things the way they should have been done and yet paid the price because some alcoholic out-of-control brat (God?) rammed his car (destiny??) onto me squashing my hopes and will into pulp. I mean what else the boy could have done if not walk on the footpath?

And the question – whose fault was it – continues to remain unanswered in my mind.

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

Yun Hi...

2009-09-29T13:12:00.005+05:30

Bheed-Bhaad ke pahado mein,

Khamoshi ban ke ghoomta hoon.

Takrata hoon beetein palon se,

Aur,

Ek gehri saans ban ke barasta hoon.

Dil ek Qabr hai.

Samjhote ki mitti se,

Jahan Dafan hai laashe;

Uski, meri aur humari…

Dosto ki mehfil mein,

Tanhai se mulakaat hoti hain, aksar.

Hum bhaitte hain ghanto

Aur,

Dard ka shagun baatte hain.

Dil ek Kahani hai.

Haseen shabdo ke beech,

Jahan chippi hai kayi Kashmir jaise lamhe;

Uski, meri aur humari.

Hassi ke pardon ke peechein,

Jab waqt fizool nikalta hai,

Tum mujhe sulana chahti ho?

Aur jab wohi waqt ek barf ban jata hai,

Tum mujhe rulana chahti ho?

Khushiyon ke oonche buildingo ke beech,

Ek kharab si lift ban ke rah gaya hoon.

Na upar jane ki taakat baki hai,

Aur,

Na neeche jane ka koi maksad.

Dil ek bebas Jism hai.

Har kone mein jiske giraft hai,

Intezaar ki ek Mahek;

Uski, meri aur humari.

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

Yaad Aayen

2009-09-03T19:12:00.009+05:30

Zindagi ek gale ki kharash,

Aur tum, adrak ki chai.

Bukhaar ke dino main,

Mathe par bheege rumal ka rakhna...

Jeena jaise ghanton ki bhuk,

Aur tum, ma ke haath ka khana.

Umeed ek chori ka samaan,

Aur tum, Diwali ki mithai.

School ke dino main,

Har din hajri dene ka mazhab...

Honsla ek ad-jali si mombatti,

Aur tum, sukoon ki neend.

Pareshaani ek daravni si parchayi,

Aur tum, shaadi ki shennai.

Ruksat ke dino main,

Gehri neend se achanak jag uthna...

Mann ek thaka hua musafir,

Aur tum, hawai jahaz ka udna.

Maut shaam ki ek local train,

Aur tum, baagiche main khelte bachche.

Mulaqat ke dino main,

Waqt ka bewajah fanaa hona...

Main sirf ek guzarta hua lamha,

Aur tum…barso ki yaari.

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

Thank You !!!

2009-09-01T23:44:00.005+05:30

THIS SEPTEMBER 'A Thing Beyond Forever' COMPLETES ONE YEAR !!! A HEARTFELT THANKS TO ALL MY READERS...!

Hum Bichchre The

2009-08-22T00:12:00.005+05:30

Aankhen band karta hoon, nami ban ke chedhti ho;
Aankhen kholta hoon, duniya ban ke chidhati ho.
Saans chodhta hoon, behoshi ban ke chah jati ho;
Saans leta hoon, zevar ban ke zindagi ki bahon ko sajati ho.

Yaadein saap ban ke lipti hain...
Pairon par, kamar par, haatho main aur wahan...
Jahan koi zaher asar nahi karta.
Shayad maut bhi nahi.

Dard Ganga naha chuka hai.
Dil Namaz padh chuka hai.
Sawaal ka jawaab sawaal se kyon deti ho?
Intezaar bhi toh pyar ka ek saya hain.

Khule main sota hoon, kabhi toh falak se nunhe-munhe khat ban ke barsogi.
Un Khaton se bheeg kar dooriyaan mitengi toh nahi
Lekin,
Sapno ke tikhe sharbat main beetein mithein din zarur ghul jayenge.

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

The Choice

2009-08-04T14:22:00.008+05:30

I REMEMBER...

Once in my third standard a boy was punished for stealing another student’s chocolate. The teacher had asked him to stretch his hands. He did. In one he was holding onto the half eaten chocolate while the other was open. The teacher boxed his ears and hit the open hand hard with a stick. And still the boy had smiled.

I HAVE REALIZED...

Whenever life gives us a chocolate in one hand it simultaneously hits our other hand hard. And it’s our choice (simple?) what we want to focus on: the pain generated by the stick or the pleasure of getting a chocolate.

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

The Rest Is History

2009-07-19T11:05:00.007+05:30

As he ran for his life the past unfolded like an old dusty carpet on the courtyard of his mind.

Morris Black was better than most at almost everything. That is, only when he actually tried to do something. This was one black spot in Mr. Black’s otherwise white personality – he was an incorrigible laggard.

When he realized his parents wanted him to take on farming, like his previous fourteen ancestors, he felt sick from head to toe. He simply couldn’t stand the thought of staying on the field all day long, under the sweltering sun, denying himself the chance to revel in his rambling reveries. Thus, one day he ran off in search of a job that would offer ample rest.

Within two days of his arrival in the neighboring village, he knew he had done the wrong thing. Survival, on one’s own, was surely tougher than he had anticipated. Time and again his mother’s voice haunted him.

“Don’t be that lazy son. Do something!”

“But mother I want to lie down and sleep. Is anything wrong with that?”

“Everything is wrong with that. This life, that God has given us, is an opportunity to do what one wants to, in a constructive manner. And opportunities are like shooting stars son; every one doesn’t get the chance to witness it. If you are lucky enough to see a shooting star then you better make use of it! It’s because man was clever enough to hold on to such shooting stars that the world hasn’t yet been a bog. So work my darling.”

“Isn’t there any magic wand with which I can become a better farmer than father?”

“There is, it’s called hard work son.”

“But mother…”

“Shut up and go join your father in the field.”

Hunger, they say, is the mother of direction. In Morris’s case, what began as an urgent reaction to hunger soon became his vocation. He started stealing food from different houses in the early hours of the day. This was the best survival tactic according to him as he not only could sustain his life but also keep his eighteen hours of daily sleep intact.

As time stripped the days, one by one, from its overwhelming figure, Morris mistook the calmness of his life as an omen for a happy life ahead ignorant about the fact that the butterfly of happiness sits on those who smell of sweat. But by the time reality rehearsed him about it, he found himself doggedly chased by a mad crowd.

And as he turned back the past became as insignificant as an old wrinkled face. The present took over…

His legs could take no more. Acting intelligently Morris ran up to an apple tree in the distance and before the crowd could notice, he hid himself behind it. The crowd kept running and soon they passed by the apple tree. Morris let out a sigh of relief. Suddenly something hit his head. He looked down first – it was an apple from the tree – then he looked up. The fruits seemed tempting. He carefully climbed the tree and started plucking the apples one at a time. After he had gathered enough he wished to come down when he saw a man sitting below. He wasn’t aware of his presence till then. Morris stealthily climbed down but not before accidentally dropping one of his fetched apples. It hit the man on his head. Caressing his head, the man picked up the apple from the ground. He kept staring at it. By then Morris had climbed down. And as he did the man looked at him for the first time.

“I was taking few apples for my children.” Morris lied in a casual manner. “Hope you don’t mind.”

“No I don’t mind for that’s not important. What’s important is why did the apple fall?”

“I need to go. I am getting late. May be one day you will exactly know why the apple fell.” Morris said with a hint of mockery and left the place in a hurry.

Mr. Newton wasn’t bothered though. He stared at the apple trying to figure out the reason behind the fall. He was sure to make use of this shooting star.

The rest, as we all know, is history.

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

The Peephole

2009-07-17T19:54:00.003+05:30

Since her marriage to Nikhil, a year back, Sheetal’s favourite, and only, hobby involved turning herself into a self-talking gossip magazine.

The posh colony in Ballygunge, where she lived with her husband, had many dwellers but none with an overt socializing instinct. Thus trapped inside the three-bedroom flat, all day, her eyes kept making notes on the diary of her sub-conscious from whatever she could see from behind the curtains of the myriad windows in the flat or the spacious balcony or standing behind her best friend – the peephole on the main door.

And lying idly at night, beside her always-tired-after-work husband Sheetal used the notes to prepare a collage of a fantasy world.

Her current collage work, though, concerned her neighbour, Mr. Bhatt. His wife, on Sunday, had gone to her parents’ place for a week while he was supposedly bed ridden with viral fever. But on Monday Sheetal’s peephole helped her see a fit and excited Mr. Bhatt opening the door to a woman clad in a saffron sari with a matching blouse and a neatly made bun.

“Who is she?” Sheetal wondered.

Four hours later when she saw the woman leave adjusting her dress indecently Sheetal reframed her query.

“Who the hell is she?”

Her mind scripted all sorts of stories each with the tarka of a typical daily soap but it was while returning from the market on Tuesday evening she knew exactly who the lady was.

It’s Mrs. Sen! She was wearing the same saffron apparel. But she has got two kids and a husband. Her senses felt a forbidden tickle. That’s the eligibility criteria, I guess, these days!

On Wednesday, Sheetal, with a journalist’s instinct, waited for Mrs. Sen to arrive. And she did! Same time, same dress. After half an hour Sheetal decided to defy her patience. She went to the kitchen, took an empty cup, walked up to the main door and opened it slowly.

She looked around. There was nobody in the corridor. A quick glance at the elevator’s indicator told her it was on the ground floor. She took one deep breath and proceeded towards Mr. Bhatt’s flat.

At first she only placed her ears on the door. No sound. Then something. Rocking of a bed? No, falling on the bed. No, rocking of the bed for sure! No, nothing really. Sheetal pressed the calling bell once. After few silent seconds there were urgent footsteps following which Mr. Bhatt opened the door. He was perspiring copiously and breathing a tad faster than normal.

“Oh! Sheetal.”

Is his face exhibiting a caught-red-handed expression?

“How can I help you?” He asked.

“Sorry to disturb you but I ran out of sugar. If you could-”

“Yes-yes. No worries.” He hastily took the cup and closed the door.

He closed the door! On other days he requests me to come inside. All her doubts were crowned with conviction. He is having an extra marital.

On Thursday, after her husband went to office, Sheetal fast motioned through her daily chores and waited impatiently by her door. The woman came – again same dress, same time. Doesn’t she stink? Sheetal thought and immediately dialled Mrs. Sen’s number to confirm.

“Hello.”

“Mrs. Bakshi?’

“Wrong number.”

“Sorry.”

What the hell? She is at home, Sheetal wondered, that means Mr. Bhatt and Mrs. Sen aren’t having an affair. She sulked. On an impulse she decided to go to the security. There she checked the visitor’s register. The name read: Mohita Jain. Not from this colony, she thought.

On Friday Sheetal’s indomitable curiosity pushed her to be more daring. And she once again took an empty cup and approached Mr. Bhatt’s flat. This time I won’t let him close the door quickly. But before she could press the bell her eyes fell on the door knob. It wasn’t locked properly. Wetting her dry lips she pushed it gently. The door slowly opened up. She rubbed the perspiration off her forehead with the lose end of her sari and stepped in. She was about to call out to Mr. Bhatt when she heard some vulgar groans. An instant lump formed in her throat. Should she call out his name? Or should she simply run back to her flat? Eventually the voyeur within her won.

With the gait of a cat she carefully ambled towards the bedroom unsure about her endeavour. And as she peeped into the room she saw the saffron sari scattered on the floor, the blouse, petticoat, undergarments, a white trouser, vest, a wig and finally on the bed, she saw, Mr. Bhatt riding her husband.

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

The Staircase

2009-07-04T17:16:00.006+05:30

Yesterday, after a long time, I used the staircase (usually I take the elevator – I am damn protective about my couch potato status!) to reach my flat. The moment I landed my feet on the desired floor I turned back and looked at the staircase. I impulsively counted the steps in my mind: nine in total. My look became a stare and I started naming them one at a time. The names, starting from bottom upwards, are as follows:

STEP 1: Loss. [It often is sudden and when you are least expecting it.]

STEP 2: Pain.

STEP 3: Tears. [The time between STEP 2 and 3 is the quickest.]

STEP 4: Realization of purpose.

STEP 5: Preparation. [Nick names: Struggle, Hard work.]

STEP 6: Meeting with Assholes in the garb of a Saint. [These big time losers are there only to make you smarter. So cheer up!]

STEP 7: High octane Insult. [Nick names: Failures, Heartaches, Challenge and the like.]

STEP 8: Indomitable Stubbornness. [Many people stop here because of exhaustion.]

STEP 9: The Ultimate Goal.

Once you cross these nine steps then – Voila! – you are at a place which your heart called and soul recommended as Home!

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

The Deep Sleep

2009-06-17T10:28:00.009+05:30

Questions were asked, Answers denied;
I slept, slept and slept.

Darkness transpired, Light expired;
I slept, slept and slept.

Winter arrived, Spring passed;
I slept, slept and slept.

Dreams blossomed, Hope suffered;
I slept, slept and slept.

Happiness knocked, Wounds hollered;
I slept, slept and slept.

Songs were sung, Tears oozed;
I slept, slept and slept.

Love happened, Separation followed;
But –
On the bed of Arrogance,
With the soft pillow of Ignorance,
I slept, slept and slept.

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

And whenever I ask myself about the significance of suffering (as in what I gained by it) my within repeatedly comes out with one answer: you were always what you are. Suffering only increased the font size of your innate belongings just to the limit so that you can understand and express them well.

Really well.

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

The Address

2009-06-04T21:15:00.006+05:30

His Heart

C/O Her Heartbeats

First Sight Villa,

Sleepless Nights Avenue,

(Landmark: Tears Tower and Internal Pain Shop)

Phone Call Block, Weekend Date Building,

14, February Gift Lane,

Right turn from Trust Crossing (Away from Break-Off Cafe);

Opposite Flirt Market.

In front of Honesty and Care Salon.

P.O: HUGS & KISSES ; DIST: RESPECT

LOVE STORY – 2009

United Soul for Marriage.

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

Zeroes

2009-04-29T10:50:00.005+05:30

When he told his father the truth – he failed in the second unit test as well – his father took him to a restaurant. Why? He was clueless.

After they placed the order his father took out a pen and placed a paper napkin on the table. The boy watched him write on it.

“What is it?”

“Zero.”

He wrote something beside it and asked, “What is it now?”

“Zero again.”

His father looked at him for a while and then wrote on the napkin again.

“What is it?”

“One.” The boy replied looking intently at the figure on the napkin.

“What does it do to the other two zeroes?”

“It adds value for its one hundred now.”

“Good. The point is, son, never be afraid of the zeroes in life. Even after an innumerable number of zeroes a ONE is always possible which might alter the figure of your life to your liking. The important thing is,” his eyes riveted on the boy, “Keep up the hard work going.”

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

Coordinates

2009-04-13T11:41:00.004+05:30

The solid hug they gave each other almost made up for the years that kept them apart.

“Gosh! Its ten years since we last saw each other.” Exclaimed one of the two.

“Eleven, to be precise.” The other one corrected.

“Oh, doesn’t matter. Now we’ll be in regular touch. So, tell me what’s up? Hey did I tell you I am going to join IIM, Ahmedabad this summer.”

“Great news. Congrats.”

“Thanks. What about you?”

“I am a struggling actor.”

“That’s alright. But what are you doing in life?”

“I told you.”

“Struggling actor? Nothing else?”

“No.”

“Dude, thousands run after the glamour but only handful of them survive. Get yourself a job first and may be then-”

“Have you ever seen a star studded sky?”

“Why, yes.”

“You may like the star just above your head or the one in the right or to the left perhaps but you got no right to question why the star to the left is in the left. I believe the point of our living is to find the coordinates where we know we belong and respect it irrespective of whatever difficulties or humiliation we encounter.”

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

The Dove and the Eagle

2009-04-02T10:11:00.005+05:30

“Why shouldn’t I cut someone else’s throat to snatch what I deserve? Why shouldn’t I be blatant about my needs? Why shouldn’t I cut the crap of decency and get straight to the point instead? Why shouldn’t I simply be a predator? Why shouldn’t I push the other in the crowd to get to my prize? Tell me mom, why shouldn’t I?

His mother thought for a while and then replied, “Have you ever seen an eagle?” The boy nodded. “Have you ever seen a dove?” The boy frowned but nodded again. His mother continued, “An eagle can fly much higher than a dove. Much higher! It’s fiercer than a dove too. Anytime! And being an eagle may surely help you fly higher than high in your life but in the end, my son, people only admire a dove. For - doesn’t matter its limitations - it’s a dove that inspires love in the hearts of people. And it’s the image of a dove that stays on, in a pleasant way, long after it’s gone.”

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

GUILT

2009-03-29T09:24:00.006+05:30

Gopi was destiny’s illegitimate child. And apart from his distant dreams he only had a father who, presently, needed an urgent heart operation.

Gopi, in his quest for some money, knocked at Mr. Sharma’s house where his father worked as a gardener. He, in his own sugar coated words, denied to give any money. Gopi was upset but the moment his eyes fell on the exquisite flower vase kept on a table beside the couch his desperation peaked. He asked for a glass of water. The moment Mr. Sharma disappeared into the kitchen Gopi went straight in and grabbed the vase. He wanted to put it inside his bag when Madhuri appeared in the room.

She was Mr. Sharma’s only child and, perhaps, used to live elsewhere for Gopi had seen her only once before. She was sitting by a window and he was working with his father in the garden. And one look at her made him connect to that portion of his soul where all the will to fight life lay.

Gopi was taken aback seeing Madhuri in the room. He didn’t know she was there at home else he would have never attempted such a mindless act. He immediately loosened his grip and kept the vase back on the table in haste. Gopi didn’t even dare to look into her eyes. He simply dashed out of the house dressed in utter shame. From now on, his within hollered, his first love would know him as the boy who tried to steal her vase. As a thief!

Seconds after Gopi went away, with the snake of guilt around his conscience, Madhuri called out to her father, “Papa, would you please bring me my dark glasses and the stick. I want to go out for a walk.”

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

Just A Thought

2009-02-20T11:53:00.004+05:30

Little Mickie was with his best friend, Chickie. It was evening time and instead of playing cricket outside they were in his room playing Scotland Yard (a detective board game).

“Hey,” Mickie said, “yesterday I saw my dad shouting at grandpa.”

“Really? Your grandpa means your dad’s dad, right?

“Ya.”

“God! I don’t think I’ll ever be able to shout at my dad.”

“Same here. I couldn’t believe it.”

They continued with their game. Outside the room Mickie’s dad, sitting idly on the couch, happened to overhear the conversation. As a child even he used to shudder in front of his dad. Perhaps more than his own son did in front of him.

Looking out pensively at the evening Sun, through the window, he realized: nobody dares to eye a noon Sun. But when the Sun is half into the lap of horizon…

A shadow of remorse, soon, blanketed his conscience.

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

RACE

2009-01-21T10:09:00.005+05:30

Officially N wasn’t racing with C but unofficially they wanted to beat each other. Both were on their top gear and no streak of time witnessed either of them going past the other.

As they approached yet another traffic signal N slowed down seeing an old woman cross the road while C recklessly zoomed past her.

By the time N picked up his speed the signal had already turned red. He reluctantly slowed down, again, watching C drive away showing him a thumbs-down.

The speed was almost the same…my concern was justified but still I got stuck at the red signal and he…N sighed with disgust.

Waiting for the signal to turn green he wondered, “Does the colour of the signal, in the end, decide the outcome of every race?”

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

HAPPY NEW YEAR

2008-12-31T22:08:00.005+05:30

“Students, its new year!” the teacher said, “And I want all of you to write down five blessings that according to you would help you live this year to the fullest.”

The teacher, next, observed the students open their notebooks with intent. But as time passed half of them didn’t have a clue and the others, scratching their head from time to time, kept thinking. By the end of the class only two students came up with a complete list.

Little Danny’s list:

1.) Our new i-10 car.

2.) My X-Box.

3.) My pet dog Sammy.

4.) Dad has increased my pocket money by 300 bucks.

5.) My Adidas shoes.

Little Johnny’s list:

1.) Two hands.

2.) Two legs.

3.) Two eyes.

4.) Will power.

5.) A dream. (I want to stand first in class this year)

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

Escalator

2008-12-03T20:46:00.005+05:30

Day before yesterday I was standing on the second floor of a shopping mall with my friend. We were discussing nothing and everything.

Sometime during the discussion my friend suddenly pointed towards the first floor. I looked down and saw a middle aged man trying to get onto the stairs of an escalator. The funny thing was the stairs were moving down towards the base floor whereas he was trying to move up to the second floor. Yes, I did laugh along with my friend and so did all the others witnessing the bizarre attempt. But the public attitude didn’t deter the man from changing his intention. He kept on trying. It was comic – the scene – but only till the moment he climbed the downward-moving stairs, successfully, and reached his destination; the second floor.

While he was passing by us my friend cared to stop him. “You could have taken the other escalator. The one which-”

“I know.” The man cut him short. “Actually, all these years I never took on life. Every time my dreams urged me to climb up I found the stairs of my life moving down. And, each time, assuming it all to be impossible, out of fashion and something that’s not normal I, in the end, allowed my conviction to die. But today, in my own way, I wanted to kill the guilt inside. I know what I did just now is stupid prima facie but…”

“Never mind” my friend said, “We got the point.”

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

Love Story

2008-11-24T10:07:00.003+05:30

They were the most insignificant creatures around. Probably. But still, when they saw each other, the most significant thing happened. The male ant fell in love with the female ant.

On their first date they shared a cube of sugar and got bonded forever. Life, living in one corner of the house, was tough. They were forced to feast on the leftovers. Yet they were happy for their point of alacrity was not the food but each other’s presence while having it. Then came a time when even the leftovers stopped coming.

“But I have to go. There is no other option.” The male ant tried to explain his restless lover.

“Then take me also with you.”

“Try to understand, please. Some places might not be secured for you.”

“Why did God do this to us? We were so happy together.”

“Don’t worry. When I come back we’ll live together till eternity.” And so the male ant went away in search of food.

Dawn to dusk the female ant kept waiting for her lover to return. But there was no sign of him. If an ant was missing for more than two days, history said, only the inauspicious could be the reason. Though the male ant had already gone for five days still she chose not to get affected by the thought. Not even when she started starving.At times when she closed her eyes she was convinced they won’t open again but at the slightest of noise the strength returned.

This went on till the seventh day when the male ant appeared with five cubes of sugar. She couldn’t believe her eyes.

“I missed you like anything.” The female ant hugged him tight. “You know, no matter how much history haunted me, not for a single second did I believe you could die before me. My love for you gave my faith a vision.”

“Even I” The male ant took over, “While traversing the unknown territories, in search of food, was skeptic at every step. My parents had taught me not to cross the line ever. But I did it this time … and in doing so realized your love for me helped me reach not only the food required for our survival but it also allowed me to dare my fears and while coming back something important haloed my conscience. I not only covered the distance to the food alone but, for once, also the distance between me and myself. Even human beings fail at that throughout their lives!

They kissed and then started feasting on one of the sugar cubes, just like old times.

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

Slippery

2008-10-21T09:13:00.005+05:30

To Raghu’s utter disgust it happened for five days straight.

Moving across the hotel’s lobby, to provide the hotel staff with tea and snacks from time to time, Raghu always slipped and fell down. Every fall brought him thorny teases from the staff and a bite of embarrassment from within. In the end it was only Akbar chacha, the older security guard at the entrance, who used to offer his help.

As the first week got over he asked Akbar chacha about it. “Why do I fall in the same place every time? Though I repeatedly remind myself not to but still …”

“You fall because you don’t learn from the floor. You only focus on the fall while walking and thus a part of you always remains ignorant about the slippery floor. It’s always how-did-I-fall for you whereas it should be why-did-I-fall. Do you get me son?”

He didn’t get him completely but since his practice of what Akbar chacha told him Raghu never slipped again either.

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

Plus - Minus

2008-10-04T18:49:00.009+05:30

"Today" The teacher said, "I will tell you about the mathematics of life." He immediately turned around and drew a horizontal line on the black board. "What's this?" He asked aloud to the class.
Since it was a mathematics class the students were pretty much clear about it. "A minus sign."
"Right. It indeed is a minus sign. Each one of us has or will experience a minus, or minuses, at some point in our lives. What then?"
A boy raised his hand and after a nod from the teacher said, "Screw-time."
A wave of laughter touched the entire class.
"Exactly!" The teacher continued, "And I presume nobody likes that. So how do we turn the minus into a plus?" Blank faces gaped at the teacher.
"Let us suppose 'I' is an individual and 'I' chooses to confront the minus by being at the middle of things then lets see what happens to the minus." He again turned around and this time drew an 'I' vertically over the minus.

"That's a plus!" He heard the awe-struck voices and instantly knew his job was done.

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

The Zip

2008-08-26T11:45:00.006+05:30

"How can I help you sir?" The attendent asked me with the typical plastic smile of a salesman.
"I need a pair of jeans."
"What is her waist size?"
"Her? Excuse me...I need it for myself."
"I am sorry sir but this is the ladies section."
I instantly cleared my throat, thank you for embarassing, I thought while he continued.
"Please follow me this way sir."
I did.
After perusing a heap of jeans I finally got what I wanted. The texture, the cutting, the color, the fitting everything was just perfect. I knew my shopping was done. Out of curiosity I thought of checking it out one final time. And that was when I found the zip was not working. Believe me had it been anything else I might have still thought of buying that rare looking jeans but the zip ... no way was I ready to go public with my stuff.
"Could you please give me another of this thing?" I asked the attendent.
"Sorry sir we got only one piece."
"But the zip isn't working."
"If you give us two days we can provide you with another piece of this type."
A sighed deeply, when was the last time I got something without having to wait for it? "Alright. I'll come in the week end."
"Thank you sir."
Dejected I stepped out of the shop and as I took a taxi for home a thought ocurred to me: No matter how good a pant is if the zip doesn't work ... nothing works.
Something inside me immediately replaced the word pant with person and zip with character.

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

The Lonely Billionaire

2008-08-20T12:11:00.009+05:30

Life and death: the inevitable eclipse continues to elude me.
Today is my birthday. It’s also that one lonely day - in the otherwise treadmill three-sixty-five - I spend in my native place with the candles of nostalgia illuminating those surreal corners within me where someone resides being the warmth of my memories. Her permanent absence is as important to me as was her temporary presence. And sometimes I feel I am more about her than about myself.
As for the rest of the year I breathe in, I breathe out and yes I work. That only helps add more to my already billionaire status. But honestly, it was only when I was young, with my pockets empty of bucks, that I felt truly rich. One needs money only to be rich, not necessarily feel rich. Now, at fifty five, I have earned enough to buy half the world but I am yet to have that one currency note that would help bribe my conscience not to accuse me of being a beggar. Money really jumbles our attitude but love simplifies it irrespective of the altitude. More so a love lost. Trust me, I am an example.

It’s well into the afternoon and I wish I could have come at the intended time. An urgent board meeting got me late. But when a destination is reached, ultimately, the impediments along the way are often forgiven.
I direct my pensive walk towards a lake while an ineffable innocence, awake in every spool of this place, whispers her presence to me. And I don’t even have to close my eyes to hear it. Though she continues to hide behind the opaque curtain of oblivion with a terse mood of fate but nevertheless, whenever I come here everything around resounds with the immortality of her once-upon-a-time touch.
I stand facing a lake. Its ironic stillness reminds me of the way it used to smile – its face stretched with a myriad of zealous ripples – from the moment it tasted our youthful bodies. In fact I was the one who helped her understand the ballad of water. She had seen me swimming one day, from behind a tree, and later requested if I could help her learn the same. That was why we met and that was how everything started. Everything.
Whenever we were together – mostly during afternoons – the perfume of our impeccable camaraderie would intoxicate the air enough to compose an exhilarating choreography. Our favourite pass time was to swim together for hours and also dry ourselves later in the sun. We were teenagers then so happiness, rather being the raiment of a dolorous search within the dark catacombs of our existence, was more about experiencing the sublime serendipities that nature beheld for us to appraise; only us - she and I.
I doff my Armani suit on the ground and loosen up my Jacques Didier tie a little. I take a sip from the bottle of Champagne I brought along and sit down on the bed of dry fallen leaves. They crackle with my weight helping me to surmise the first time I had made love to her. Neither of us had professed our feelings till then and yet she dared to surrender her treasure to me. I was scared for I wasn’t sure whether I would be able to preserve her trust forever. I am a man after all and straying is as easy as falling prey to the torque of destiny. One curious touch led to another and the rest just followed. On one hand, the kisses, the caresses and the friction of our skin seemed like an oblation to life. While on the other, the concoction of pain and pleasure that shrouded us when we got consumed into each other was a sure thumbs-down to ecumenical suffering. Our desperate movements, to devour everything the other offered, made the leaves crackle with an ardent lunacy. By the time our innocuous instincts got daubed with the colour of satisfaction we thought we could never get up again only to feel the urgent ache of passion mounting, the immediate hour. I believe the entire process of corporeal completion, with the one person you ever felt was born as your gift from nature, is probably the lone silver lining in the otherwise black cloud of life.

Few children are playing on the other side of the lake. They throw a pebble or something that disturbs its mystic trance. The turbulence, though mild, makes me wonder. How does one assure himself of a festive future? By embracing the love of his life, I answer myself. Tighter the embrace, titanic the assurance. I sigh and look above at the group of birds flying into the sparkling distant horizon. They look tiny and half a minute later vanish from sight. I avert my eyes to the sky and appreciate the fleece of white clouds that spare the blue infinity of humiliation as its nude form rarely inspires any soul. I hope it knows what the clouds are doing for it.
I turn my head and see the maple tree on whose bark we had written a mutual promise – Neil loves Angie – fenced by a fledgling romantic heart with a cupid’s arrow at the center. I get up and amble towards the tree. I see the promise still there. The emboss has sure flattened since last year but not the imprint. Trees are better than life; at least they help us bank our promises over a period of time.
I traipse around. With every alternate step I try to finish my Champagne, sip by sip. I notice some of the trees have been cut. Was it so the last year too? I don’t remember. A minute of loitering and I reach the spot from where her house is visible. It has aged. The gate looks real rickety now. The gate! Oh the gate! Standing beside it, a year after our first meeting, I had proposed her.
“One simple nod from you and my life would be blessed for eternity. I hope I don’t sound crazy.” I had said, after rehearsing it for two nights straight. I had also given her two nubile apples; stolen from a nearby orchard. But all she gave me was a stare. It confused me. Seconds later when she spoke, her eyes had tears. “The sea invades the life of a shore with the waves of love and then leaves it thirsty like never before. Certain things happen not to stay with us forever but only to ebb away in the end. Our story has no scope Neil.” Whenever she took my name, I swear, my existence felt worth a thousand gold. But at that time I felt nothing. Her words kept echoing, with an obnoxious resonance, within my suddenly turned hollow self. Neither did I speak nor did she add a syllable more. I could have pushed harder to squeeze out words that would have asked for an explanation. I definitely could have done that only if I knew it was the last time I was seeing her in my goddamn life. I sigh. Did anyone say life is short? I guess the person never lost out on things that mattered.
Alright I did saw her one more time but that was in the form of a body shrouded with a black cloth. That’s just a fact though. The truth is, no matter how much I craved and cried after that, I could never tell her those three words which constituted the Bible of my intentions, ever since. How would have the history of this world altered had I got her? How would have anybody’s sleep be ruined if she lived? And how would have our story denied anyone anything had it not suffered such a cruel climax?
Several times, after her funeral, I thought of killing myself. Anyone who leaves, after all, is only a death away. And death is always kinder than life for it happens faster. Much faster. But the moment I was about to slash my wrist I realized suicide is an insult to love and only a Pyrrhic victory against life. Had I committed the insult then I would have not only killed myself but also the austere feelings she flowered within me; feelings which hollered their desire to share a life with me. And who was I to thwart them? Thus I chose to wait for my end and not plot it myself.
I continue to traipse and once in a while pick up a pebble and fling it towards the lake. I don’t really care where it actually drops. Instead I wonder, what do we mean when we say I love you to someone? Apart from the literal meaning is there no other allusion to it? Doesn’t it also involve a no-turning-back kind of a commitment? Like the lessons taught at the junior classes: never compromise with your morals. Don’t the three words, once they are spoken, assume the moral lock of our feelings for that person? I sigh. There are so many hidden unscrupulous races within the human race that it is difficult to surmise any kind of answers.
Dusk is slowly blearing the noon ambience and the scene makes me feel as the only one alive within the purlieus of a powerful painting. I am now approaching the kids on the other side of the lake. They are playing and talking to one another. Few words from one of them nudge my ears. “What will you do if you get it back?” What will I do if I get her back? I ponder for sometime. What will I do if I get her back?
I don’t know.
At times, when I repine at her absence, I feel guilty. How can her distance from me be more significant than my love for her? And at times, when I rejoice over her once presence, I feel stupid. How can I overlook the obscure reality? But thankfully all the emotional polarities are about her. Thus, in the end, I manage to feel blessed.
Though I have few close friends but they are always full of themselves. Either they are plain bad listeners or may be my stuff simply bores them. So whenever a certain indomitable need to talk, in order to help my stagnant emotions flow, whirls my interior instead of calling the close ones I bang walls, break showpieces, tear bundles of blank paper or sometimes even deliberately injure myself. But nothing works till the need, perhaps out of pity, chooses to subside. Everything comes at a cost. And luck comes under that everything. I guess.
Previously, each passing day used to frighten me for it presented itself as another brick adding to the wall of separation but now the passing of days excites me for every moment lived is actually about conquering time, inch by inch, to reach her.
I suddenly realize a full circle around the lake is complete. I pick up my suit and at first think of wearing it but soon relinquish the thought. Flinging the suit over my shoulder I walk up to the tree. I sigh. I stare at our promise. I sigh again and keep the now empty bottle of Champagne on its feet. Though I know I won’t find it there the next time but that’s beside the point.
I look at my watch. Time’s up, it reveals. That’s it for this year. I slowly amble towards my private jet with a heart that reminds me of the thought I cater to, each time, before leaving this place. Will I stay alive for one more year to experience what I did today?
I rub my eyes. I hope yes but pray no.
Though an imminent tale of birth and death separates us but forgetting Angie, I believe, is beyond me and creating someone like her again, I know, is beyond God.

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

BELIEF

2008-08-06T12:17:00.003+05:30

They were lovers but they had never met.

It was by chance, while logging on to an online chat room, they bumped into each other and within three months of daily exchange of views, perceptions, likes and dislikes realized love between them was imminent.

With both confessing their love for the other the relationship advanced to the next stage where they started conversing over the phone every night. They desperately wanted to meet up but since they lived far apart they reluctantly had to wait for the right time.

“You know there is a tree in front of my house.” The girl once told the boy.
“Which tree?”
“I don’t know its name but it sheds a lot of leaves. And while watching it yesterday I thought of something.”
“What?”
“If our love for each other is true and pure then we will meet before it sheds all its leaves.”
The boy was silent for a while and then replied, “I hope so.”

Eight years went by and then there came a day when the boy happened to visit the girl’s place.
“I can’t believe we are meeting at last!” He was jubilant.
“I am glad we held on.”
Traipsing along hand in hand they reached the spot where the tree stood.
“Is this the tree you always told me about?”
The girl didn’t respond.
The boy checked out the tree but as he did so a cloud of gloom covered the sky of his emotions.
“It has already shed its leaves, isn’t?”
The girl looked at the boy and smiled. “Look closely…there is still one leaf present.”
The boy carefully perused the tree again but found nothing.
“Where?”
“Here” She pointed towards her heart. “It’s called Bleaf. And in the last eight years it never fell from the tree of our love.”

The boy looked at the girl for a moment and then hugged her as tightly as he could. His eyes were wet. And so were hers.

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

Its cricket!

2008-07-20T12:30:00.006+05:30

~NOTE~: This is one of my first write ups written way back in 2004. Hope you'll like it...

If there is any game which is a true reflection of life, it’s cricket.

Each one of us is born within a ‘stadium’ (house, surroundings etc.) which is unique in its own way. At first we watch our parents and then comes our turn. The pitch (life itself) given to us is some what related to the ‘stadium’ in which we are born. Whether the relation is directly or indirectly proportional depends upon the 3rd umpire (God!). Other than the 3^rd here also there are two umpires on field. The first one stands facing us - Mr. Destiny. Second one stands at square leg - Mr. Time. Consider them neutral but only at your own risk!

The pitch given to each one of us is generally different (no matter what your skills are or what kind of person you are.). That’s the monopoly our ‘3rd umpire’ has.

There are pitches which are flat. On such pitches every ball (opportunity) comes on to the bat (in our life) quite easily. The batsman only has to touch the ball and it goes to the fence like lightening!

Then there are pitches where it’s very difficult to play in the beginning because of its slowness. But steadily and surely as the batsman, with dogged determination, gets used to the pitch (life) he starts scoring and more often than not goes on to play a good knock.

There are also pitches which initially look flat but later become cumbersome to bat on. Immense pressure builds up and ultimately the batsman perishes. These batsmen are like Mirages – they promise a lot initially but rarely deliver.

Lastly there are pitches where every ball right from start is sharp and dangerous. It’s a pitch where every out-swinging ball eventually in-swings and the stumps (hopes, aspirations) goes for a toss. But only this kind of pitch has the potential to produce memorable innings. Such a pitch improves the batsman’s skill, makes him more focused, concretes his determination, develops his patience and cultivates in him all the right ingredients to make a legend! This is the pitch that teaches us a simple fact: sometimes staying at the ‘crease’ and facing the heat is also important.

Life is a One Day International (ODI) where every ball (opportunity) counts. [May be life in a metro is a 20-20!]. We cannot afford to defend unnecessarily as we are never sure of the number of overs allotted to us. So it becomes all the more mandatory to make every ‘over’ (day/opportunity) count and KEEP SCORING!

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

V-I-B-G-Y-O-R

2008-07-18T23:40:00.005+05:30

“Alcohol has taught me one truth”, the drunkard said aloud.

A young man, standing on the edge of a cliff, about to end his life, and thus far absorbed in his own world, suddenly wanted to hear the drunkard complete the statement. But nothing happened for a minute. With impatience boiling inside him he shot the question directly to him instead, “What truth?”

“Happiness is opaque.” The drunkard replied promptly.

“Really?” The young man mocked.

“It never allows the light of our congenital talents to express themselves.”

“Then what does?”

Half a minute went by in silence.

“The prism of adversity allows us to express our true colours. Only after going through it does our V-I-B-G-Y-O-R, the one reflecting our core, is visible to the whole world.”

The young man – as the drunkard’s words made a nest in his conscience – found himself standing with his back at the cliff…already.

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

Protection is Bliss

2008-07-14T21:17:00.000+05:30

Hi...

"Protection is Bliss" is a short film made by me and my friend, Arindam Dey. Though the idea struck me an year back but we ended up making it this March only.

We used a Nikon CoolPix L6 camera popularly used to click still photographs. :)

We didn't pen a single word before making the film (contrary to what we usually do) and yet managed to finish the shooting, editing, mixing and publishing within five hours straight...

I hope you'll like both the film and the thought behind it...

- Novo.

The Shape

2008-07-13T10:27:00.001+05:30

The writer, as usual, was sitting at a corner on the last bench of the road side motel observing everyone from the cook to the customers. That was important for observation excited stories within him. But today was a rebel. He was there since morning and by evening he still was clueless about his next story.

Irritated, he panned his neck for the umpteenth time. And he saw a white ghost! A moment later he realized, to his relief, it was the same helper (now totally covered with flour) who had been giving shape to the flour dough since morning. He observed him closely. The man smiled faintly whenever he flattened the dough. Also, to the writer’s astonishment, each shape was an exact copy of its predecessor. Working without rest how can he be so perfect at it? The writer first asked himself and later to the man.

“I am the only bread earner for my wife and two kids.” He replied. “And when I joined this place last week my employer told me if I don’t falter at my job he would never wash his hands off me.”

“So?”

“So I try giving shape to the flour dough assuming it to be my destiny. Till the shape of the dough is intact, my destiny is intact.”

The writer, a little taken aback by the allusion, asked, “And what about this constant smile on your face? Don’t you get bogged down by the pressure of producing a perfect shape each time?”

“That is always there – the pressure – but honestly how many of us get a chance to shape our own destiny?”

“True.” The writer replied and a second later asked himself, “Don’t we all do?”

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

The Basket

2008-07-10T09:37:00.001+05:30

Henry’s job was that of a helper at the fruit department of the city's most popular supermarket. But instead of doing his job he always stood, wearing an invisible yet heavy cloak of frustration, at a corner looking indifferently at the customers. Not that they cared for him. The customers were always busy selecting and putting the fruits, one by one, into their baskets according to their liking.

Today was no different. Only that instead of looking blank Henry was observing a kid who was fighting hard to push few more apples in his already filled-to-maximum basket. And a while later, as imminent, all his apples were on the floor, rolling to various corners. Couple of workers from the other side came forward to help but Henry stood his ground. His focus by then had shifted to an old lady on the adjacent section who was slowly putting the mangoes inside her big basket. And instantly, with an instinct of creation, he heard a stentorian voice inside him speak.

What about your basket? The one you have been carrying for so many years now… your big basket of failure. Come on Henry you were given the basket not to carry it around like a fool all your life but it was your chance to collect, using the common sense of hard work, more and more fruits of success compared to the ones who don’t get that basket ever. It’s high time you get this into your head…failures are a gift!

Henry, with a faint smile of realization, ran up to the kid and along with the others helped him place all his apples in a bigger basket.

“Next time” He told the kid, “Remember to take a bigger basket from the counter.”

Bigger the basket of failure, greater are your chances of securing more fruits of success, Henry now knew.

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

A Thing Beyond Forever

2008-07-06T10:58:00.007+05:30

THE BLURB...

What happens when life plays a trick on two innocent lovers? What happens when your first love – much against all possibilities – comes back to you in the most bizarre and astounding manifestation ever?

Dr. Radhika Sharma, for the world outside, is an aberrant and arrogant feminist. But inside, she resides in a far-away world like a vulnerable first sketch of an artist. One night an innocuous enquiry by a nine-year-old patient coaxes her to open someone’s personal diary. And, as she reads on, a bygone era comes to the forefront taking her through a cavalcade of exclusive events that life, love and friendship offer at the noon of adolescence. By the time she finishes reading the diary, it’s already morning. And by night time she finds herself face to face with a question that defies logical explanation.

Is falling in love a random act or a planned coincidence? Is attraction the missing link between souls? Will the light of true love outshine the dark shadow of destiny?

Even when Radhika gets the copasetic answers there are still two more chapters to go…

~ THE REWARD FOR EVERY TRUE LOVE IS NOT LOVE ~

A Thing Beyond Forever :::

ISBN : 8188575674
Cover price: Rs. 100
Extent: 212 pages
Format: Paperback
Published by: Srishti Publishers & Distributors.

* Now can be purchased online @ :

http://www.landmarkonthenet.com

http://books.rediff.com

Life's Own Punctuation

2008-07-06T10:06:00.001+05:30

The boy, from his small window that helped frame the outside world, was watching the beggar lying still on the street, a stark contrast to his otherwise daily hue and cry. The boy, with a question thundering in his innocent mind, immediately ran to his father.

"Daddy, why is the beggar lying still today?"

"May be he is suffering from some disease." His father responded, flipping a page of the morning newspaper he was reading.

"Is life a disease daddy?"

The query made his father shift his focus from the newspaper to his son. "No. Who told you that?"

"I have heard the beggar say often that life is full of suffering."

His father thought for a while and then said, "Tell me have you been taught punctuations in school?"

"Yes."

"So what does a comma stand for?"

"A comma is used to bring order to a statement."

"Right. Likewise, suffering is life's own punctuation. It is the comma in the statement of life. When we encounter a comma in a statement we stop momentarily, absorb the sense and then move on. The real significance of suffering is also the same - wait, absorb the sense and move on." The father caressed the boy’s forehead and continued, "It’s the statements with proper punctuation that appeals the most."

The boy thinks for a while and then asks, "Then shouldn't the beggar be the most appealing person?"

The father laughs out. "Son, only the blessed ones have this punctuation at the right place. Though they don't realize it at first but once they look back at their statement of life it surprisingly reads better than the most…and in perfect order too."

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

What Are You Looking At?

2008-07-06T10:05:00.001+05:30

"It always happens this way." The Sun told the Wind. "What does?" The Wind was as usual

curious.

"Thorns and roses - they always co-exist."

"But there outer self is in such irony to the inner self."

The Sun gave the Wind a blank look. Surmising the hint the Wind chose to clarify further.

"Yesterday when I was blowing I overheard the rose talking to itself..."

THE ROSE:

I don't know why the hell people smile when they see me. I look so pathetic. All my life

I simply exist being a sharp and pointed thing good for nothing except hurting

people. Or may be they feel better about themselves after seeing my silly and ugly

existence!

The Wind sighed and continued. "I overheard the thorn too..."

THE THORN:

I don't know why people are afraid of me. Some even ask their children to maintain safe

distance from me whereas I think I am one of the most beautiful thing ever created. My

petals, my design, my colour, my softness, my aura, my romance...where else would they get

such an austere mix? And yet...still, I thank God for the way he made me and no matter what

others think or do to me I would rather prefer to remain happy forever as in the end there

are so few things in this world which are as beautiful as I am.

"So", this time the Sun sighed, "the rose is unhappy for it assumed itself – probably

looking at the thorn all its life – to be just a thorn and thus ignored the happiness that

it deserved all these years. While on the other hand the thorn assumed itself to be a rose

and thus enjoyed happiness ever since."

The Wind nodded.

"It always happens this way."

"What does?"

"Happiness can definitely follow us wherever we go and whatever we do ... only if we

know what we are and what actually we are looking at."

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

The Complaint

2008-07-06T10:04:00.002+05:30

"The sea was much better," the traveller complained. "Whenever I got tired it at least had its currents to push me forward on my journey but you," he looked at the vast desert surrounding him, "you are of no help."

He went down on his knees, dead tired. When his breaths restored back to normalcy, a while later, he heard the desert's voice.

"I agree. I am of no help like the sea and thus I often depress people. But do you really think people will remember you for crossing the sea? Never! For the sea doesn't allow you to leave any mark. I, on the contrary, do. Thus, if you cross me, I swear, you will in turn immortalize yourself with the imprints you leave over me!"

The traveller got the essence and got up to walk on. "It's always about the imprints," his heart echoed.

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

The Seed

2008-07-06T09:50:00.001+05:30

Once upon a time, there was a seed and because it was only a seed, nobody cared to notice it. Thus, gripped by a sense of inferiority, the seed gave no importance to his existence.

Then one day, a wind picked him up - randomly or otherwise he didn't know - and threw him mercilessly on an open field under the sweltering sun. He was confused. Why would anything do such a thing? But instead of any copasetic answers, he was provided with rain (in addition to sunlight); sometimes in drizzles and sometimes in torrents.

Meanwhile time flew and years later he saw a traveller sitting by his side. "Thank you God for this. I really needed some rest," he heard the traveller say.

"What are you talking about?" The seed promptly asked. He thought the man was making fun of him. Sure, he had witnessed many people sitting by his side - more so in recent years - but no one ever spoke to him like that.

"Who is this?" The man was startled.

"This is me. The seed."

"The seed?" The man looked at the giant tree. "Are you kidding me? You are no seed. You are a tree. A goliath of a tree!"

"Really?"

"Yes! Why else do you think people come here?"

"What do they come here for anyways?"

"To feel your shade! Don't tell me you didn't know you had grown over time."

A moment passed before the traveller’s words struck the chord of realization within him.

The seed, now a prolix tree, thought and smiled for the first time in his life. The years of relentless tortures by the sun and the rain finally made sense to him.

"Oh! That means I'm not a tiny-flimsy seed anymore! I wasn't destined to die unnoticed but was actually born to strip people of their lassitude. Wow! Now that's a life worth a thousand gems!"

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

NovoSphere

Channel Surfing

The Edible Quotient

Re-touch

Boiling Milk

Rocket

Download

At The Party

Video Streaming

The Tourist

Auto Rickshaw

Happy Women's Day

Platform 2 and 3

Moving On

Sketch

Poetry

Few words..

Music

The 420-characters Quota

Quiz Show

BILLING QUEUE

SPEED BREAKERS

Novo's Eleven!

ATBF - A CLARIFICATION

And, Cut!

KNOTS

Jana Hai

Tap Water

Stand Fan

PC Game

BADMINTON

Tomorrow - Today - Yesterday

Awaazein

Mobile Phone

Fault

Yun Hi...

Yaad Aayen

Thank You !!!

Hum Bichchre The

The Choice

The Rest Is History

The Peephole

The Staircase

The Deep Sleep

Font Size

The Address

Zeroes

Coordinates

The Dove and the Eagle

GUILT

Just A Thought

RACE

HAPPY NEW YEAR

Escalator

Love Story

Slippery

Plus - Minus

The Zip

The Lonely Billionaire

BELIEF

Its cricket!

V-I-B-G-Y-O-R

Protection is Bliss

The Shape

The Basket

A Thing Beyond Forever

Life's Own Punctuation

What Are You Looking At?

The Complaint

The Seed