Random thoughts

[these are absolutely random thoughts. i regret the incoherent and confusing write-up.]

The more I try to look at the simplicities of life (i.e if there r !!! ), the more they get complex (as if they were not !!!) and I give up (did I have to even try??!! )

Then again there are times when I find in those complexities some simple thoughts and simple pleasures. I am being paradoxical, you would say. I will agree. But I cannot help it.

Human mind is probably the most complex of all creations. It has the ability to create things more complex than itself (if u remember ur school/college days, you cannot help but agree). The thought that this whole universe(including the human mind) is created with just five elements (if you believe it. i am not sure) sends me into fits of wonder. Impossible I say. Not just because of the complexities but the opposing natures of various creations and the wide disparities. But who knows. On smaller range the same thing happens in Chemistry. So I continue to ponder (do u think my mind is wrking overtime??).

I then extend this to thoughts. We cannot look into somebody else's mind and see what's cooking. Forget abt others, psychologist say there are aspects in our own mind which we have not explored. But once in a while when a glimpse some intangible thoughts comes close to my perception, it gives me a shock. Some of them are so close to my own mind that I wonder if i was looking into a mirror and some so far away that their origin remains a mystery i dont want to know.

But more than that wat I find difficult to comprehend is that ppl whom i suspected to know are so different from wat i thought them to be and whom i never got to know r so much like me. And do these realisations affect? 'No' i will say. Am I pretending to be someone else? May be not exactly but some beliefs have taken roots and i am unable to shake them of just like that... may be i dont even want to. Is that called pretention?

These seldom matter. A speed-breaker in the journey of life may be but life goes on soon with the same pace as ever. And I am back to the quest of simplicity in complexity to find just the opposite. (oops!!! did I mess up somewhere??!! )

Of Books and Authors II

(For all the readers of this blog, I have included the links to my poems in the side-bar. If you go through them, don't forget to drop in your comment)

I never finished the more-than-1100-pages book in fear that once I finished, I would never care to look at Holmes again. Today I took out the book and smiled at myself.

Soon after this during the same years I was introduced to Ruskin Bond. It was his simplicity of words that stole my attention, the depth of his thoughts. And his stories were in first person and while reading them I felt as if I was his confidant. There was something personal in the way his stories were told, quite different from Dr Watson who (almost) merely placed the facts before the readers. There were more reasons - his closeness to nature and that he could touch all the stages of life - childhood, youth and old age in the same way. Then there was the twists he always managed to bring about in some of his short stories like "The eyes have it".

Coming to short stories of course how can I forget some of my all time favorites "The last leaf" by O.Henry, "The Open Window" by Saki, ... I am forgetting some of them, there are so many which I can always read and enjoy even for the umpteenth time. The best however remains "The face on the wall"by E.V.Lucas.

In my standard 9th and 10th I had to stop my frequent trysts with story books. Then in my 11th it started again. But this time the books were quite different. Most of the time I finished them just because I had started them. I didn't give them much of my time either. After 12th, I started classics. "Jane Eyre" was good. "Pride and Prejudice" was fine. But after reading "Sense and Sensibility", I lost interest. The next book I undertook was "Fountainhead". The philosophy went way over my head but I liked it because of the strength of the characters.

Many books came on my way after that - books by Jeffery Archer, "Harry Potter", "Class", "Animal Farm", "Diary of a young girl", and there were more (my memory fails me). I liked them for different reasons.

In the recent days I read Da Vinci Code, The Alchemist. I also read some Indian authors whom I liked because of the richness of language, the poetic approach and because it was not one of those cut-sliced-and-served-on-a-plate sort of book, it was as-you-want-to-take-it kind of book. This includes one more book "The pale view of hills" (my regrets, I forgot the name of the Japanese author).

But you see all these still do not answer the question "Who is my favourite author". All are so much different from each other and I like them for different reasons. Is it not possible that the question remains unanswered.

Of Books and Authors - I

I always believed reading is my hobby. Of course I will agree that from the vast sea of books that exist, what I have tasted probably does not constitute even one drop. But does that matter? I wonder. Then the usual question comes up, "Who is my favourite author". For various reasons I always stumble upon this question. Although I do manage to answer, but the question continues linger in my sub-conscious.

My earliest memories are of the "Champaks" and "Tinkles" that used to occupy most of my reading. Then came "Tintin", "Asterisks" and all. With the introduction to my mother tongue I came in touch with bengali works including compositions of my father. All these were very prized possessions of mine. And I still remember the feel of the warm fresh tears that streamed down my eyes when I was returned one of my prized possessions in tattered conditions. It was as if someone very close to me was returned to me in near-death condition after being brutally tortured. That was when I was in class 1st.

My change of school in 4th standard brought me to the magical world of library. And with that I was introduced to Enid Blyton and the like. I actually do not remember the various authors whose work I read then because at that time, the characters were more important. Some of the characters were Mr Pickwick, Amelia Jane, and how can I forget Alice and Peter Pan. Then came the adventures. My first step was Famous Five, then I ascended to Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys. But none of these made much of an impact.

It was then that I came across Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes. All previous books gave a feeling of imagination but this one was different. I used to get so engrossed while reading it that I thought I was a part of the team too. I started admiring Holmes. His deductions, calculated moves, acumen, penetrating mind, flawless logic, the calmness with which he dealt with the situations - all used to take away my breath. Each time I found him in some danger, my heart used to skip a beat. Everywhere I went, be it school or travel the almost 5 cm thick book was to be with me. For me he was a like a living legend and I denied to believe that he was a work of fiction. I still remember after I read a story in which he couldn't catch the culprit (the culprit was a lady) I remained heartbroken for quite sometime. That was in standard 7th - 8th.

I am sorry the constraint of time does not permit me to continue. So I will take a break today but I will return soon with the rest of the journey.