Life is so beautiful..
That sometimes I just wonder..
How cud it be possible...
To have so much of it around us..
All my life..
I kept wandering...
My footprints falling on concrete steps..
The steps of lives..
The steps of souls..
The wet imprint dries up in many..
But they would always know..
That someone has come their way..
Then one day..
She came..
And I realized...
Her footprints were imprinted..
On my life...On my soul..
she dried me up..
When i was wet and shivering...
An imprint on Wet Concrete..
Then she makes me realize..
all of a sudden..
That even I carry...
A part of the concrete which i had trodden on..
And even as I didn't realize..
My foot is forever n ever..
Stuck in the wet concrete of her life..of her soul..
And I realize..and revel in the feeling of...
Life being so beautiful...
Love you my soul..
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Monday, June 8, 2009
THE RUNNER
The Runner
Maybe God wasn’t looking when John was born.
John was a normal boy. He loved to play. He loved to watch cartoons. Just as any other eight-year old boy. In fact, he was perfectly normal – except for the fact that his left leg was bent. He had been struck down by polio at the early age of one.
John realized his problem only after he went to school. “Why have you got such legs, John?” his friends had asked him. And he couldn’t reply. That night, he went to his mother and asked her about it. His mother took a deep breath and replied, “ Son, you suffered from polio when you were very young. But that doesn’t mean that you should lose heart. You work hard and show your friends that they aren’t superior to you just because you have a bad leg.” And John heeded his mother.
John worked hard on his studies and soon became popular among his teachers. Reading books somehow seemed natural to him. Within a few months, he became the topper in his class. His classmates began envying him. And so they struck at his weakest link – his left leg. “One– legged runner” they would call him in his back. These jibes stuck him as they were meant too. He tried to run fast but alas! he would fall down every other yard. And he would try hard not to cry.
But God had different plans for him.
That night, he went to his father. “Father, do you think I can ever run with my bad leg?” His father looked into his eyes and without the slightest hesitation replied, “Yes, my son, I believe that you can run.”
That day, a new John was born. The old John was weak and full of doubt about his abilities. The new John was physically disabled but mentally very strong. An aura of strength surrounded him. He began to try to run. He would fall but he got up again and again. This falling and getting-up ritual went off for a month and then gradually his falls decreased. After three months, John could be seen running in the neighborhood. His teachers and friends looked in wonder as John began to run quite fast without ever falling.
The annual school-run begun. And, without doubt, John took part. There were about thirty students taking part in it. The participants were divided into two groups – Group A and Group B. The winners from each group would meet each other the next day. John was in Group A.
Group A’s run started. John tore across the tracks passing his bewildered opponents. And to the astonishment of the crowd, John reached his destination much before his opponents. John was the winner of Group A.
Up there, God smiled at John.
Everyone knew who would be the winner from Group B. Ronnie Mcquanzie. He was a champion runner, the winner of the competition for three years continuously. His long and fast legs were far better than his opponents’ were. Ronnie knew that he would have to win the competition – because he was very weak in studies. He was a natural bully sort of boy who, everyone believed, wasn’t expelled from school only because of his running abilities. No one liked him and he didn’t like anyone too.
The shot was fired and Group B’s run started. Ronnie sped across the tracks while his opponents looked on. He easily won the competition. He was just too fast for his opponents. And the crowd knew that they were in for a big match the next day.
The big day finally came. The tracks were ready. So were Ronnie and John. The crowd waited with bated breath to see the competition. Ronnie glanced at his opponent and stood shell-shocked – he saw John’s bent left leg. John was looking intently on the tracks.
And then it started.
On your mark, get set, and Bang! went the gun. Both the runners sprinted across the tracks with tremendous speed. The crowd watched in silence, everyone praying for John. Ronnie began increasing his speed while John began struggling to keep up with him. Ronnie was twenty yards away from glory when one of his feet fell outside his track. He was disqualified and to the crowd’s delight, John became the winner of the annual school-run. There was a tremendous applause for John. The whole stadium erupted in a huge thunder as John lifted the trophy. He had done it !!!
Lying in his bed that night, Ronnie thought about the day’s happenings. No one knew that he had deliberately stepped out of his tracks and no one would ever know. But still a new feeling of happiness was in his heart for he had done a good thing. He knew that John was the deserving winner.
In the next examination, Ronnie, to the amazement of his classmates and teachers, passed in flying colours. Even Ronnie couldn’t believe it. He had, definitely worked harder than before but still he never expected such great marks.
Little did he know that up there, God was smiling at him too.
Maybe God wasn’t looking when John was born.
John was a normal boy. He loved to play. He loved to watch cartoons. Just as any other eight-year old boy. In fact, he was perfectly normal – except for the fact that his left leg was bent. He had been struck down by polio at the early age of one.
John realized his problem only after he went to school. “Why have you got such legs, John?” his friends had asked him. And he couldn’t reply. That night, he went to his mother and asked her about it. His mother took a deep breath and replied, “ Son, you suffered from polio when you were very young. But that doesn’t mean that you should lose heart. You work hard and show your friends that they aren’t superior to you just because you have a bad leg.” And John heeded his mother.
John worked hard on his studies and soon became popular among his teachers. Reading books somehow seemed natural to him. Within a few months, he became the topper in his class. His classmates began envying him. And so they struck at his weakest link – his left leg. “One– legged runner” they would call him in his back. These jibes stuck him as they were meant too. He tried to run fast but alas! he would fall down every other yard. And he would try hard not to cry.
But God had different plans for him.
That night, he went to his father. “Father, do you think I can ever run with my bad leg?” His father looked into his eyes and without the slightest hesitation replied, “Yes, my son, I believe that you can run.”
That day, a new John was born. The old John was weak and full of doubt about his abilities. The new John was physically disabled but mentally very strong. An aura of strength surrounded him. He began to try to run. He would fall but he got up again and again. This falling and getting-up ritual went off for a month and then gradually his falls decreased. After three months, John could be seen running in the neighborhood. His teachers and friends looked in wonder as John began to run quite fast without ever falling.
The annual school-run begun. And, without doubt, John took part. There were about thirty students taking part in it. The participants were divided into two groups – Group A and Group B. The winners from each group would meet each other the next day. John was in Group A.
Group A’s run started. John tore across the tracks passing his bewildered opponents. And to the astonishment of the crowd, John reached his destination much before his opponents. John was the winner of Group A.
Up there, God smiled at John.
Everyone knew who would be the winner from Group B. Ronnie Mcquanzie. He was a champion runner, the winner of the competition for three years continuously. His long and fast legs were far better than his opponents’ were. Ronnie knew that he would have to win the competition – because he was very weak in studies. He was a natural bully sort of boy who, everyone believed, wasn’t expelled from school only because of his running abilities. No one liked him and he didn’t like anyone too.
The shot was fired and Group B’s run started. Ronnie sped across the tracks while his opponents looked on. He easily won the competition. He was just too fast for his opponents. And the crowd knew that they were in for a big match the next day.
The big day finally came. The tracks were ready. So were Ronnie and John. The crowd waited with bated breath to see the competition. Ronnie glanced at his opponent and stood shell-shocked – he saw John’s bent left leg. John was looking intently on the tracks.
And then it started.
On your mark, get set, and Bang! went the gun. Both the runners sprinted across the tracks with tremendous speed. The crowd watched in silence, everyone praying for John. Ronnie began increasing his speed while John began struggling to keep up with him. Ronnie was twenty yards away from glory when one of his feet fell outside his track. He was disqualified and to the crowd’s delight, John became the winner of the annual school-run. There was a tremendous applause for John. The whole stadium erupted in a huge thunder as John lifted the trophy. He had done it !!!
Lying in his bed that night, Ronnie thought about the day’s happenings. No one knew that he had deliberately stepped out of his tracks and no one would ever know. But still a new feeling of happiness was in his heart for he had done a good thing. He knew that John was the deserving winner.
In the next examination, Ronnie, to the amazement of his classmates and teachers, passed in flying colours. Even Ronnie couldn’t believe it. He had, definitely worked harder than before but still he never expected such great marks.
Little did he know that up there, God was smiling at him too.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
It was still getting colder
It was still getting colder
A trip to Nathula Pass
“Oh, No!” I thought. This was the third time the current had gone. I knew it would not come before one hour. I was exasperated with the continuous power cuts of Guwahati. I sat down in the comfortable couch besides me, closed my eyes and let my mind drift…
As I looked out of the window of my hotel room in Gangtok, my heart ached. Anyone’s heart would. The weather was too foggy, too wet. The plans of seeing snow maybe dim in this kind of weather. It felt as if you were wrapped up in a white blanket. Nothing was visible. Nothing. Just the fog.
I closed the window and switched on the television. There was nothing to watch I looked around gloomily in our elegant hotel room. My aunt was still in deep slumber. I sat back in a chair and stared at the ceiling. As if that would help to clear the fog!
Suddenly, I realized that someone was knocking outside my door. I opened the door only to find my uncle who told me to dress up quickly. I knew that with my uncle around, who was always energetic and ready, we would go to Nathula Pass. Nothing was going to stop us. Not even the weather.
Within an hour or so, we were all ready with heavy sweaters and jackets and were zooming through the narrow streets of Gangtok. Mr. Dugal and Mr. Deb had also joined us on our trip, acting as guides. Mr. Dugal said that there would be a great chance of seeing snow, as the weather was cold. How I longed to see the snow! How very mistaken I was when I thought that the weather was bad!
We passed over mountains and we felt that we gradually gaining altitude. We could feel the cool breeze in our faces. It was getting colder now. The roads had sharp curves but our driver was expert and didn’t even make one mistake. He felt the curves and rightly didn’t try to test them. God knows what would have happened if he had made a single mistake. Well, I know too – we would have fallen down right from eight thousand feet!
My aunt kept her eyes closed. She was sitting besides the window and was getting psychologically frightened about what might happen. I shifted seats with her. Now, I was in the window seat.
At ten thousand feet, we saw the first snow. We stopped our vehicle and got down to take some snaps and to touch the snow. The snow felt as if it was wet sugar. It was getting colder now. We resumed our journey. The sights were getting magnificent too. Huge mountains with roads around them and beautiful valleys of pines and many other trees greeted our eyes. The cows had fur too! I also caught some glimpses of mountain dogs, which were fully covered with fur. How I longed to be an artist!
It was getting colder now. Temperature was down to about five-ten degrees. The mountains were totally covered with snow now. I looked out of our Mahindra Bolero only to find that the clouds were now beneath us! Isn’t it amazing that we were travelling in a car at a height in which planes travel?
We went past the Tsangu Lake, which was at an altitude of around twelve thousand feet. We proceeded on our journey to Nathula Pass. It was still getting colder. Temperature was now three-four degrees. We had a cup of tea at a place called 17 mile. I suppose it was at an altitude of thirteen thousand feet. There was a blinding wind that was full of powdery snow. Ashok, our driver, wore his sunglasses now as the sunlight glittered in the snow and you couldn’t possibly see anything clearly.
We finally reached Nathula Pass. We were at a height of 14,500 feet! That is about half the height of the Mount Everest. The temperature was the lowest now. Minus Four Degrees! My fingers felt paralyzed in the bitter cold. We went to very close to the Indo-Chinese border. It was about a metre or so from us. There was deep and dangerous snow, which prevented us from going to China. We were given vitamin tablets with some reddish kind of water to drink by the guards there.
There was a conference room right there at the Nathula Pass. Chinese and Indian officials had talks there. We couldn’t resist the temptation of going into the room. It was bound to be warmer than the minus four degrees outside. We went inside the room and were followed by a gust of powdery white snow. It reminded me of the cold air that comes out when we open the freezer door of our refrigerator. Here the only difference was that we felt as if we were the ones inside the freezer! After staying in the snowy mountains and looking around for a few minutes, we returned to our vehicle to proceed back to our hotel room in Gangtok with wonderful memories imprinted in our minds. The soft snow of the mountains had made a soft corner for itself in our hearts.
Suddenly a light flickered on. I opened my eyes. The current was back. I had spent the last hour thinking about that memorable trip. I touched my forehead. Not a drop of sweat. Not even a single drop. Then I reasoned, how could I sweat when it was still getting colder, when it was still minus four degrees! I switched off the light of my study-room and walked out with some wonderful cold memories still lingering on my mind.
A trip to Nathula Pass
“Oh, No!” I thought. This was the third time the current had gone. I knew it would not come before one hour. I was exasperated with the continuous power cuts of Guwahati. I sat down in the comfortable couch besides me, closed my eyes and let my mind drift…
As I looked out of the window of my hotel room in Gangtok, my heart ached. Anyone’s heart would. The weather was too foggy, too wet. The plans of seeing snow maybe dim in this kind of weather. It felt as if you were wrapped up in a white blanket. Nothing was visible. Nothing. Just the fog.
I closed the window and switched on the television. There was nothing to watch I looked around gloomily in our elegant hotel room. My aunt was still in deep slumber. I sat back in a chair and stared at the ceiling. As if that would help to clear the fog!
Suddenly, I realized that someone was knocking outside my door. I opened the door only to find my uncle who told me to dress up quickly. I knew that with my uncle around, who was always energetic and ready, we would go to Nathula Pass. Nothing was going to stop us. Not even the weather.
Within an hour or so, we were all ready with heavy sweaters and jackets and were zooming through the narrow streets of Gangtok. Mr. Dugal and Mr. Deb had also joined us on our trip, acting as guides. Mr. Dugal said that there would be a great chance of seeing snow, as the weather was cold. How I longed to see the snow! How very mistaken I was when I thought that the weather was bad!
We passed over mountains and we felt that we gradually gaining altitude. We could feel the cool breeze in our faces. It was getting colder now. The roads had sharp curves but our driver was expert and didn’t even make one mistake. He felt the curves and rightly didn’t try to test them. God knows what would have happened if he had made a single mistake. Well, I know too – we would have fallen down right from eight thousand feet!
My aunt kept her eyes closed. She was sitting besides the window and was getting psychologically frightened about what might happen. I shifted seats with her. Now, I was in the window seat.
At ten thousand feet, we saw the first snow. We stopped our vehicle and got down to take some snaps and to touch the snow. The snow felt as if it was wet sugar. It was getting colder now. We resumed our journey. The sights were getting magnificent too. Huge mountains with roads around them and beautiful valleys of pines and many other trees greeted our eyes. The cows had fur too! I also caught some glimpses of mountain dogs, which were fully covered with fur. How I longed to be an artist!
It was getting colder now. Temperature was down to about five-ten degrees. The mountains were totally covered with snow now. I looked out of our Mahindra Bolero only to find that the clouds were now beneath us! Isn’t it amazing that we were travelling in a car at a height in which planes travel?
We went past the Tsangu Lake, which was at an altitude of around twelve thousand feet. We proceeded on our journey to Nathula Pass. It was still getting colder. Temperature was now three-four degrees. We had a cup of tea at a place called 17 mile. I suppose it was at an altitude of thirteen thousand feet. There was a blinding wind that was full of powdery snow. Ashok, our driver, wore his sunglasses now as the sunlight glittered in the snow and you couldn’t possibly see anything clearly.
We finally reached Nathula Pass. We were at a height of 14,500 feet! That is about half the height of the Mount Everest. The temperature was the lowest now. Minus Four Degrees! My fingers felt paralyzed in the bitter cold. We went to very close to the Indo-Chinese border. It was about a metre or so from us. There was deep and dangerous snow, which prevented us from going to China. We were given vitamin tablets with some reddish kind of water to drink by the guards there.
There was a conference room right there at the Nathula Pass. Chinese and Indian officials had talks there. We couldn’t resist the temptation of going into the room. It was bound to be warmer than the minus four degrees outside. We went inside the room and were followed by a gust of powdery white snow. It reminded me of the cold air that comes out when we open the freezer door of our refrigerator. Here the only difference was that we felt as if we were the ones inside the freezer! After staying in the snowy mountains and looking around for a few minutes, we returned to our vehicle to proceed back to our hotel room in Gangtok with wonderful memories imprinted in our minds. The soft snow of the mountains had made a soft corner for itself in our hearts.
Suddenly a light flickered on. I opened my eyes. The current was back. I had spent the last hour thinking about that memorable trip. I touched my forehead. Not a drop of sweat. Not even a single drop. Then I reasoned, how could I sweat when it was still getting colder, when it was still minus four degrees! I switched off the light of my study-room and walked out with some wonderful cold memories still lingering on my mind.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Undead Souls
Undead Souls
In the times when hands were the machines in the towns, there existed many unusual and superstitious customs and traditions. In the forlorn villages near the sanctuary of Kaziranga, the story was not different. The customs of the tribals were unique. Death, it seemed, was their main enemy. An unknown devil – that’s what the tribals called it. They feared death like anything. Therefore, the lifeless shells of the dead men were brutally cut into pieces before burying them in the earth. There were no rituals. There were no prayers and there wasn’t any remorse for the departed soul. Only a big rock was put up to mark the place of burial.
Today Kaziranga is quite a modern town. All the facilities are available. The age-old traditional customs had lost their original dreadfulness and there were temples and proper burial grounds now. I had the opportunity to visit the place in recent times for a conference was being held there. The journey to Kaziranga from the capital city of Guwahati was uneventful and boring. But the stay was not so.
Being the peak time in view of tourism, the hotels were all booked and there was a lot of problem getting a good hotel. We were three families there – mine, Raja’s and Rahul’s. After prolonged search for hotels and cottages, at last we managed to get three nice little cottages that looked quite newly constructed and decided to stay there for the night. The three cottages were adjacent to each other and the only thing un-picturesque were the two rocks that stood between two of the cottages in which Raja’s and Rahul’s families were living. Early next morning, I had to go to the conference with my friends and our wives stayed alone in the cottages. It was then that the trouble started in Raja’s cottage.
The wind was blowing fast and the trees, which surrounded the cottages, were making a eerie sound. Raja’s wife, Rachel, was reading a novel. A faint distinct rap on the window made her look up. She thought perhaps her husband had returned early. However, there was no one. She thought it must be someone playing a prank. But then again, she heard the knock on the window. She was alone and so she got a little afraid. She got up to see if anyone was hiding behind the wall. There was no one. This time she heard the rap on the window even when she was looking straight into the pane. There was no one. Just the knocking on the glass and herself. She opened her mouth to scream. But no sound came out. She was terrified of the shadow of a man which stood in contrast to the sunny ground behind the cottage. She was afraid because she could not see the man – she could only see the shadow knocking on the window.
Then there was the second incident. We had returned from the conference late at night. There was a cocktail party and so my friends and me got a little late walking alone from the conference hall. We were very tired and went to our respective cottages. It was then that Rahul had a nightmarish experience. Rahul’s wife, Seema, was watching TV late into the night while Rahul was giving out his monotonous sonic blasts from his quivering nose. Then the whole cottage gave a violent shudder. Earthquake, she thought, and went to wake up Rahul. He woke up shaking to the second rumble. He and Seema ran out. But everything was silent. There were no more shudders. They laughed at each other for being so panicky. And went inside to have a good night’s sleep. Rahul thought that he must have had a trifle more of the cocktail than he should have. But then his thoughts were given an assurance. There was a loud shattering of the window panes overlooking the two big rocks. And he knew that his drinking had nothing to do with it.
I learned about these incidents in the bus during our return journey. I told Rahul that there wasn’t any earthquake the previous night. I reasoned with them – what could it have been? The knocking on the window pane might have been the misguided venture of a lone lady’s suspicious mind. Perhaps there had been an earthquake which I was too sleepy to notice. Perhaps some wild mongoose had broken the pane. Or maybe, as the old tribal conductor of the bus told me later with a wily grin on his wrinkled face, the two big rocks between the cottages had something to do with it.
In the times when hands were the machines in the towns, there existed many unusual and superstitious customs and traditions. In the forlorn villages near the sanctuary of Kaziranga, the story was not different. The customs of the tribals were unique. Death, it seemed, was their main enemy. An unknown devil – that’s what the tribals called it. They feared death like anything. Therefore, the lifeless shells of the dead men were brutally cut into pieces before burying them in the earth. There were no rituals. There were no prayers and there wasn’t any remorse for the departed soul. Only a big rock was put up to mark the place of burial.
Today Kaziranga is quite a modern town. All the facilities are available. The age-old traditional customs had lost their original dreadfulness and there were temples and proper burial grounds now. I had the opportunity to visit the place in recent times for a conference was being held there. The journey to Kaziranga from the capital city of Guwahati was uneventful and boring. But the stay was not so.
Being the peak time in view of tourism, the hotels were all booked and there was a lot of problem getting a good hotel. We were three families there – mine, Raja’s and Rahul’s. After prolonged search for hotels and cottages, at last we managed to get three nice little cottages that looked quite newly constructed and decided to stay there for the night. The three cottages were adjacent to each other and the only thing un-picturesque were the two rocks that stood between two of the cottages in which Raja’s and Rahul’s families were living. Early next morning, I had to go to the conference with my friends and our wives stayed alone in the cottages. It was then that the trouble started in Raja’s cottage.
The wind was blowing fast and the trees, which surrounded the cottages, were making a eerie sound. Raja’s wife, Rachel, was reading a novel. A faint distinct rap on the window made her look up. She thought perhaps her husband had returned early. However, there was no one. She thought it must be someone playing a prank. But then again, she heard the knock on the window. She was alone and so she got a little afraid. She got up to see if anyone was hiding behind the wall. There was no one. This time she heard the rap on the window even when she was looking straight into the pane. There was no one. Just the knocking on the glass and herself. She opened her mouth to scream. But no sound came out. She was terrified of the shadow of a man which stood in contrast to the sunny ground behind the cottage. She was afraid because she could not see the man – she could only see the shadow knocking on the window.
Then there was the second incident. We had returned from the conference late at night. There was a cocktail party and so my friends and me got a little late walking alone from the conference hall. We were very tired and went to our respective cottages. It was then that Rahul had a nightmarish experience. Rahul’s wife, Seema, was watching TV late into the night while Rahul was giving out his monotonous sonic blasts from his quivering nose. Then the whole cottage gave a violent shudder. Earthquake, she thought, and went to wake up Rahul. He woke up shaking to the second rumble. He and Seema ran out. But everything was silent. There were no more shudders. They laughed at each other for being so panicky. And went inside to have a good night’s sleep. Rahul thought that he must have had a trifle more of the cocktail than he should have. But then his thoughts were given an assurance. There was a loud shattering of the window panes overlooking the two big rocks. And he knew that his drinking had nothing to do with it.
I learned about these incidents in the bus during our return journey. I told Rahul that there wasn’t any earthquake the previous night. I reasoned with them – what could it have been? The knocking on the window pane might have been the misguided venture of a lone lady’s suspicious mind. Perhaps there had been an earthquake which I was too sleepy to notice. Perhaps some wild mongoose had broken the pane. Or maybe, as the old tribal conductor of the bus told me later with a wily grin on his wrinkled face, the two big rocks between the cottages had something to do with it.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
The SEANCE
13th Friday, Jonathan Weekly
Séance is the practice of calling back the dead. It is often not considered healthy for a human being to summon a spirit. People have been known to suffer after making mistakes in the process of séance. The person can suffer from hysteria, phobias of many kinds and most commonly heart attacks, in case of even a small mistake during a séance.
Séance was first started in the 14th century. Over the years, the practice has developed to a great extent. The most common method of practicing seances is done by concentrating hard on a person, in a room where the only light should be coming from the candle which the practitioner is required to hold in his hand while sitting in front of a mirror. In any case, the practitioner shouldn’t put the candle off. Just concentrating on something other than the person recalled can end the séance. Throughout the process, the practitioner should keep his eyes closed. The practitioner should also refrain from asking questions about the other side of life.
The practice is very dangerous and should not be done without proper training.
But all these warnings had hardly any effect on Aarti who was determined to practice séances.
Aarti was a little girl when her beloved uncle died in a plane crash. Since then, Aarti had felt as lonely as a cloud until she heard about these séances. Once it had got into her head that there was a chance that the dead could be recalled, there was no turning back. She researched far and wide, interviewed persons who people say are related to witchcraft and read many books and journals. After all the lot, Aarti was sure of the fact that the dead could be recalled.
Then, Aarti started to practice séances herself with a view of contacting her uncle. After a lot of failure, Aarti finally was able to contact her uncle. Aarti was able to talk to her uncle for five minutes, which left Aarti mad with joy. As months passed, Aarti and her uncle had regular talks.
Once it so happened that just while she was starting her séance, her concentration was broken. It was unusual because during her last few months of séances, she had not been disturbed. Aarti opened her eyes and looked around. There was only the shimmering light of the candle, herself and her reflection in the mirror and nothing else but the darkness…
She again focussed her mind back into the séance. After ten minutes of deep concentration, she began to see her face fading in the mirror. It wasn’t that Aarti had opened her eyes, she saw this in the deep tunnels of her mind. Then something happened which Aarti thought would never happen to her. It wasn’t her uncle who had come to her séance. It was someone else. An old lady with a candle in her hand had come to her séance.
This was the most dreaded experience for the person practicing séances. More often than not, the practitioners got heart attack in such incidents.
But Aarti was too much educated and determined to be afraid of such experiences. She stared firing questions to the woman who looked more like a witch. The woman kept on replying. It wasn’t until Aarti asked her about the other side of life, that the woman became furious with anger. Aarti had broken one of the basic rules of séance by asking her about the life on the other side.
Aarti tried to end the séance by thinking of something else, but was not able to get the lady out of her mind. The woman started to get on Aarti’s mind but Aarti fought her from doing so. The woman was getting stronger while Aarti struggled to get her off her mind. Aarti knew that if she didn’t get the lady off her mind quickly, she would also be a victim of hysteria. Time was also running out for Aarti. Séances are usually conducted for fifteen to twenty minutes, but this one had already taken forty-five.
Aarti suddenly picked up her determination and decided to put off the candle. By doing so, the séance would end but the soul wouldn’t be able to rest in peace. Aarti put off the candle and opened her eyes. But then she realized that there was still a glimmer of candlelight. She looked up to the mirror. An old lady was staring back at her with a candle in her hand, smiling.
Aarti had her heart attack………….
Séance is the practice of calling back the dead. It is often not considered healthy for a human being to summon a spirit. People have been known to suffer after making mistakes in the process of séance. The person can suffer from hysteria, phobias of many kinds and most commonly heart attacks, in case of even a small mistake during a séance.
Séance was first started in the 14th century. Over the years, the practice has developed to a great extent. The most common method of practicing seances is done by concentrating hard on a person, in a room where the only light should be coming from the candle which the practitioner is required to hold in his hand while sitting in front of a mirror. In any case, the practitioner shouldn’t put the candle off. Just concentrating on something other than the person recalled can end the séance. Throughout the process, the practitioner should keep his eyes closed. The practitioner should also refrain from asking questions about the other side of life.
The practice is very dangerous and should not be done without proper training.
But all these warnings had hardly any effect on Aarti who was determined to practice séances.
Aarti was a little girl when her beloved uncle died in a plane crash. Since then, Aarti had felt as lonely as a cloud until she heard about these séances. Once it had got into her head that there was a chance that the dead could be recalled, there was no turning back. She researched far and wide, interviewed persons who people say are related to witchcraft and read many books and journals. After all the lot, Aarti was sure of the fact that the dead could be recalled.
Then, Aarti started to practice séances herself with a view of contacting her uncle. After a lot of failure, Aarti finally was able to contact her uncle. Aarti was able to talk to her uncle for five minutes, which left Aarti mad with joy. As months passed, Aarti and her uncle had regular talks.
Once it so happened that just while she was starting her séance, her concentration was broken. It was unusual because during her last few months of séances, she had not been disturbed. Aarti opened her eyes and looked around. There was only the shimmering light of the candle, herself and her reflection in the mirror and nothing else but the darkness…
She again focussed her mind back into the séance. After ten minutes of deep concentration, she began to see her face fading in the mirror. It wasn’t that Aarti had opened her eyes, she saw this in the deep tunnels of her mind. Then something happened which Aarti thought would never happen to her. It wasn’t her uncle who had come to her séance. It was someone else. An old lady with a candle in her hand had come to her séance.
This was the most dreaded experience for the person practicing séances. More often than not, the practitioners got heart attack in such incidents.
But Aarti was too much educated and determined to be afraid of such experiences. She stared firing questions to the woman who looked more like a witch. The woman kept on replying. It wasn’t until Aarti asked her about the other side of life, that the woman became furious with anger. Aarti had broken one of the basic rules of séance by asking her about the life on the other side.
Aarti tried to end the séance by thinking of something else, but was not able to get the lady out of her mind. The woman started to get on Aarti’s mind but Aarti fought her from doing so. The woman was getting stronger while Aarti struggled to get her off her mind. Aarti knew that if she didn’t get the lady off her mind quickly, she would also be a victim of hysteria. Time was also running out for Aarti. Séances are usually conducted for fifteen to twenty minutes, but this one had already taken forty-five.
Aarti suddenly picked up her determination and decided to put off the candle. By doing so, the séance would end but the soul wouldn’t be able to rest in peace. Aarti put off the candle and opened her eyes. But then she realized that there was still a glimmer of candlelight. She looked up to the mirror. An old lady was staring back at her with a candle in her hand, smiling.
Aarti had her heart attack………….
Sunday, March 8, 2009
The Mango Tree
I stand by..
feeling the breeze of the beautiful hill...
the hovering moon..
its shine looking over us
like a guardian angel...
I stand tall,
I stand strong...
My branches speak of experience..
Of past glory...
But I am pained..
I stand at the curve...
The zigzag mountain path..
The treacherous road..
The serpent of the mountain..
I stand aside at a turn..
I can see the approaching headlights
I feel the carefree laughter..
I feel the sleepy eyes of the driver..
Aah! The screeching of brakes..
The vain-ness of it all..
It wounds my soul!!
The gushing sound of the car rushing by...
The oblivion behind me...
waiting with its mouth open..
And then there is this silence..
The deafening silence..
and I curse myself...
for i could do nothing...
I just hear myself weeping...
My heart turns to stone slowly and slowly...
So much pain I had to see..
Over the years, I could no longer hear myself weep..
And then one day,
Life changed..
When She came...
The marvelous enlightening shine..
I could feel life flow inside me once again..
her entwining whiteness around me..
warning drivers at the right moment...
She makes me feel the beauty once again..
The moon shines on us...
I can feel the cool breeze once again...
And I could again feel...
That I stand tall..
That I am there...
That I exist..
I love you my soul...
feeling the breeze of the beautiful hill...
the hovering moon..
its shine looking over us
like a guardian angel...
I stand tall,
I stand strong...
My branches speak of experience..
Of past glory...
But I am pained..
I stand at the curve...
The zigzag mountain path..
The treacherous road..
The serpent of the mountain..
I stand aside at a turn..
I can see the approaching headlights
I feel the carefree laughter..
I feel the sleepy eyes of the driver..
Aah! The screeching of brakes..
The vain-ness of it all..
It wounds my soul!!
The gushing sound of the car rushing by...
The oblivion behind me...
waiting with its mouth open..
And then there is this silence..
The deafening silence..
and I curse myself...
for i could do nothing...
I just hear myself weeping...
My heart turns to stone slowly and slowly...
So much pain I had to see..
Over the years, I could no longer hear myself weep..
And then one day,
Life changed..
When She came...
The marvelous enlightening shine..
I could feel life flow inside me once again..
her entwining whiteness around me..
warning drivers at the right moment...
She makes me feel the beauty once again..
The moon shines on us...
I can feel the cool breeze once again...
And I could again feel...
That I stand tall..
That I am there...
That I exist..
I love you my soul...
Saturday, March 7, 2009
She
The earth cowers in the fiery rays..
The trees look for respite..
The heat is unbearable..
A dog lazies down...
The sun's temper flares...
He watches in awe..
He wishes for something to curb the heat..
He wishes for someone...
A wind blows...
Is it his friends???
Or is it her??
But all it brings is more Dust..
How will he survive...?
He looks up defying the rays..
There is no cloud in sight..
Will there be respite?
He wonders..
But...
Then He smiles...
Because He knows he has something...
that even the blazing heat
or the tormenting dust
can take it from him...
He smiles...
Because he can hope...
Because he can wait for her...
Because he knows...
She will come..
She will come...
The trees look for respite..
The heat is unbearable..
A dog lazies down...
The sun's temper flares...
He watches in awe..
He wishes for something to curb the heat..
He wishes for someone...
A wind blows...
Is it his friends???
Or is it her??
But all it brings is more Dust..
How will he survive...?
He looks up defying the rays..
There is no cloud in sight..
Will there be respite?
He wonders..
But...
Then He smiles...
Because He knows he has something...
that even the blazing heat
or the tormenting dust
can take it from him...
He smiles...
Because he can hope...
Because he can wait for her...
Because he knows...
She will come..
She will come...
Monday, February 23, 2009
The Tree
Every morning, I wake up and open my door to look out..Dried up trees, dried up grass, a stump of a tree which had been cut, broken bricks and stones lying around greets my eyes. There is a certain tree which I always take care to watch. I try to feel what the tree must be feeling. Its leaves are laden with dust. It bends under its own weight. Its trunk curves like a river flowing amongst the mountains. It made me think of my own life. Was it meaningless, just like the existence of that tree? Was I born to feel like a burden? What was my purpose in this world? Will I ever have any good friend or do I have to stand alone till the days make me wither away into oblivion? Will I be free?
Then I would divert my thoughts and actions into the 'hungama' of my hostel life...my fear only being of hurting my heart even more.
Some days back when I opened the door, I saw another small tree growing beneath the old one. Its leaves were green and shone in the sunlight. I was astonished as to how I had missed seeing that tree for so long. Its leaves fluttered in the wind and spoke of a life that I had always wished to have. It stands tall with its straight trunk..
i thank the old dried dust laden tree and the dried brown grass for making me realize the beauty of the green tree. But for them, i would not have been able to appreciate the difference..
Thus the two trees remain outside my door..teaching me to love, to hope, to learn from my past experiences, to be thankful for the 'today' I have, to be thankful to the person who made me feel life as I should, to live life as I want and to see the beauty in everything.
I can almost sense the smile of the old stump who had seen and felt it all.
Then I would divert my thoughts and actions into the 'hungama' of my hostel life...my fear only being of hurting my heart even more.
Some days back when I opened the door, I saw another small tree growing beneath the old one. Its leaves were green and shone in the sunlight. I was astonished as to how I had missed seeing that tree for so long. Its leaves fluttered in the wind and spoke of a life that I had always wished to have. It stands tall with its straight trunk..
i thank the old dried dust laden tree and the dried brown grass for making me realize the beauty of the green tree. But for them, i would not have been able to appreciate the difference..
Thus the two trees remain outside my door..teaching me to love, to hope, to learn from my past experiences, to be thankful for the 'today' I have, to be thankful to the person who made me feel life as I should, to live life as I want and to see the beauty in everything.
I can almost sense the smile of the old stump who had seen and felt it all.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Ambari Aita
AITA
I sit on my desk trying to recollect about my dear Aita. Images come in my head. Flashes of memories. It is as if, a wonderful tale of success, nurtured with love, unfolds in front of my eyes.
My earliest recollection goes back to the time when I was a small kid eagerly waiting to hear Aita’s bed-time stories. She puts powder on my back and begins her lullaby-cum-story of Lord Krishna coupled with rhythmic patting. I drift off to sleep, thinking of horses, maces and the whirling Sudarshan Chakra.
Right from childhood till her last days, Ambari Aita, as I used to call her, used to tell us stories from the Bhagwad Gita and teachings of Sankardeva. The depth of her knowledge of the sacred texts, topped with the art of story-telling created a rare blend which stretched my imagination and understanding to infinite horizons.
As time went by, I listened to tales of the old Ambari household from my mother. I was, and still am, overwhelmed to know about the wisdom and brilliance of Ambari Koka in all spheres of activity and the perpetual love of Ambari Aita. I came to know about her sacrifices for everyone in the family and appreciate her success in nurturing small kids into distinguished and respectable persons. It is worthwhile to mention that not only my mamas’ and my mother but also many others, who are now top-notch executives, must attribute an important part of their success as a result of the care and love they received from Aita.
There are certain things which tend to grow with age. Aita’s love for all of us is one such thing. Each time you go up those stairs to Aita;s room in the Ambari home, you’ll always be greeted with a smile – a smile that came right from her heart. She would fumble with the remote to turn off the tv and the happiness on her face would reflect back on you. She would always make you feel welcome. This quality of hers, the ability to love one and all, the ability to honestly care for others, is the one I appreciate the most. You may be a vegetable vendor or a CEO, she would treat you with so much affection, that deep-down you’ll realize that you cherish knowing such a lady.
An article on Aita would be very incomplete if I failed to mention her culinary skills. I remember the times when she would sit in a chair in the kitchen and provide direction to the cooking. She is a terrific cook and I bet, that everyone who knows her, has been treated to a sumptuous meal. I guess my mother and my mamis’ and also some others have learned some important tips of her craft as they are excellent cooks in their own right too.
Achar or pickle was Aita’s specialty. Starting from the common mango pickle to the yummy fish pickle, she had amazing range of recipes for a variety of pickles. Rice, dal and her pickle would make an excellent combination at any meal, any day. Sometimes I wonder whether there is any special ingredient which she puts in her achars to make them so delicious. Then it clicked. She did add a special something - love. The love, with which she offered it to us, was what made it extra special.
Her inclination towards Naam is also known to everyone. When she used to sing, it was a prayer to some, music to others and a lullaby for herself. Every Friday she holds a Naam, along with Parama Atoi, and she would always have prasad waiting for us every time we go to her.
It is also worthwhile to mention that she was always well dressed and had supreme devotion to Lord Krishna. She loved going to the Dol-Gobindo temple. She always had inspiring stories from the Mahabharat and Ramayana and Sankardeva’s teachings, for all of us. She would always give me pocket-money whenever I met her. On our birthdays, she would always give us the best gift of all.
This December, I guess God got lonely. Aita got seriously ill after my brothers wedding. It seemed as if she was waiting to see her grand daughter-in-law. After I came back from Bhopal on 26th December, I saw everyone trying to keep her with us.
I thought that when my mamas’ and my mother were kids, Aita would have feared to let go of their hands when they first tried to walk but at last she had to let go and now, everyone was trying hard not to let go but after all, had to. So, on 31st December night, God took her to the heavens where she actually belongs. Up there too, I guess she must be singing lullabies and naam for God to enjoy, engulfing Him in her endless sea of love as she did all of us here.
At this juncture, let me tell you that I have used present tense in many of the sentences on purpose. It is because Aita is very much with us because she is within us.
Today, on her Adya Shraddha, I pray for her eternal peace.
May God bless us all to be able to continue her legacy of unconditional love and affection.
I sit on my desk trying to recollect about my dear Aita. Images come in my head. Flashes of memories. It is as if, a wonderful tale of success, nurtured with love, unfolds in front of my eyes.
My earliest recollection goes back to the time when I was a small kid eagerly waiting to hear Aita’s bed-time stories. She puts powder on my back and begins her lullaby-cum-story of Lord Krishna coupled with rhythmic patting. I drift off to sleep, thinking of horses, maces and the whirling Sudarshan Chakra.
Right from childhood till her last days, Ambari Aita, as I used to call her, used to tell us stories from the Bhagwad Gita and teachings of Sankardeva. The depth of her knowledge of the sacred texts, topped with the art of story-telling created a rare blend which stretched my imagination and understanding to infinite horizons.
As time went by, I listened to tales of the old Ambari household from my mother. I was, and still am, overwhelmed to know about the wisdom and brilliance of Ambari Koka in all spheres of activity and the perpetual love of Ambari Aita. I came to know about her sacrifices for everyone in the family and appreciate her success in nurturing small kids into distinguished and respectable persons. It is worthwhile to mention that not only my mamas’ and my mother but also many others, who are now top-notch executives, must attribute an important part of their success as a result of the care and love they received from Aita.
There are certain things which tend to grow with age. Aita’s love for all of us is one such thing. Each time you go up those stairs to Aita;s room in the Ambari home, you’ll always be greeted with a smile – a smile that came right from her heart. She would fumble with the remote to turn off the tv and the happiness on her face would reflect back on you. She would always make you feel welcome. This quality of hers, the ability to love one and all, the ability to honestly care for others, is the one I appreciate the most. You may be a vegetable vendor or a CEO, she would treat you with so much affection, that deep-down you’ll realize that you cherish knowing such a lady.
An article on Aita would be very incomplete if I failed to mention her culinary skills. I remember the times when she would sit in a chair in the kitchen and provide direction to the cooking. She is a terrific cook and I bet, that everyone who knows her, has been treated to a sumptuous meal. I guess my mother and my mamis’ and also some others have learned some important tips of her craft as they are excellent cooks in their own right too.
Achar or pickle was Aita’s specialty. Starting from the common mango pickle to the yummy fish pickle, she had amazing range of recipes for a variety of pickles. Rice, dal and her pickle would make an excellent combination at any meal, any day. Sometimes I wonder whether there is any special ingredient which she puts in her achars to make them so delicious. Then it clicked. She did add a special something - love. The love, with which she offered it to us, was what made it extra special.
Her inclination towards Naam is also known to everyone. When she used to sing, it was a prayer to some, music to others and a lullaby for herself. Every Friday she holds a Naam, along with Parama Atoi, and she would always have prasad waiting for us every time we go to her.
It is also worthwhile to mention that she was always well dressed and had supreme devotion to Lord Krishna. She loved going to the Dol-Gobindo temple. She always had inspiring stories from the Mahabharat and Ramayana and Sankardeva’s teachings, for all of us. She would always give me pocket-money whenever I met her. On our birthdays, she would always give us the best gift of all.
This December, I guess God got lonely. Aita got seriously ill after my brothers wedding. It seemed as if she was waiting to see her grand daughter-in-law. After I came back from Bhopal on 26th December, I saw everyone trying to keep her with us.
I thought that when my mamas’ and my mother were kids, Aita would have feared to let go of their hands when they first tried to walk but at last she had to let go and now, everyone was trying hard not to let go but after all, had to. So, on 31st December night, God took her to the heavens where she actually belongs. Up there too, I guess she must be singing lullabies and naam for God to enjoy, engulfing Him in her endless sea of love as she did all of us here.
At this juncture, let me tell you that I have used present tense in many of the sentences on purpose. It is because Aita is very much with us because she is within us.
Today, on her Adya Shraddha, I pray for her eternal peace.
May God bless us all to be able to continue her legacy of unconditional love and affection.
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