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.

Is it morning yet??

It so happened that I decided to revive my writing habits and came across this... an excerpt of something I never completed it and probably never will do :( . You are free to assume the previous and later parts. This is more of an abstract and not a story. I understand, there is no plot.


... It was one of those bright sunny morning you would love to see when u wake up from a chilly winter night with the sunrays glistening the window-panes and the sun neither too glaring nor hidden by the cold. One in which the sky is clear blue, almost transparent, as if you can see the heaven above. One in which the fury of the heaven is forgotten. For some days, the sunny mornings had become quite common, so much that it was almost forgotten that the season was still of winter... winter - cold, frosty, chilly winter... one that does not have snows but just sharp, freezing breeze cutting through life. For, it was yet another sunny morning with no breeze to cut through and walking on such a morning is not mere pleasure, but more than that, an experience that one would like to have everyday. But then when things happen too often, they are taken for granted, their pleasures forgotten, importance lost and uniqueness merged with the "common". The same thing happened with this morning as well. It was taken for granted, its gleaming glory lost in the mundane works of everyday. Untill there was a flash of light. A silent flash that was easily missed in the broad daylight. Lightning with no sound of thunder - like the slit of a knife suddenly slicing the skin, blood oozing out, no pain but just a realization that the skin is cut. With that flash the sun was lost. Dark, heavy, frightening clouds took over the sky, curtailing the heaven that was till now visible. Darkness consumed the land like the wild fire that spreads in a jungle.

It rained. Heavy drops fell, dotting the soft land with grooves. Grooves that would remind of the rain long after the water vaporizes above or percolates down and the land is dry again. And with the rain a cold, chilly winter night descended ...too early, too quickly for the bright sunny day. The beating of the heavy rain in the ground lulled ... no... lulled is too soft a word... frightened the mankind into sleep. Each time the eyes opened, the mind thought "is it moring yet", and the heart asked, "where did I lose my bright sunny morning". And nature does not reply, but the question echoes -

Is it morning yet??

Ahem... I guess this was a try to write something different form my usual things. A bad try I agree, but a try is still a try... :D,And bear with me for this is neither a poem nor a story. And however much I try, I cannot turn my eyes away from nature :D as I am asked to do so often.

Fumes of thoughts

Life is just one thing after another.

A book.
A book of disjoint short chapters arranged in chronological order. But stll disjoint.
Just as a book is read, one by one the pages are turned almost unknown to wat the next page holds. One by one the chapters end, a new chapter opens. And the previous chapter vanishes in a blur... unknown to us, we dont even doubt tht it was once so much a part of us. But sometimes the old chapters are very precious to us... we treasure them, lock them up in shelves so tht we can read them again. And they remain there... silent, untouched, undisturbed for so long that the pages turn to dust... layers of dust accumulate... and even wind dares not disturb them, lest it wakes them up from their eternal sleep... somewhere on those pages, it is written tacitly RIP... and we never touch them or visit them not even to put flowers... our treaured pages, chapters locked up safely in shelves of closed rooms. Rooms that are curtained thickly to drive away the bright sunlight. Then from those dusts of forgotten chapters thick white fume rise... clouds of fumes that slowly envelope the closed room... fumes that come out from the pages that burn slowly without a flame. And amidst those thick cloud we suffocate.

But thts just one part of it. It is not always like this. Sometimes the windows are let open. The fumes move away, mingle in the fresh air, get diluted and is soon forgotten just like the pages from where they rose.

And life... goes on... one thing after another... a book... a river. And in its course, bubbles form, bubbles - soft, delicate... vulnerable to even a slightest touch that causes it to burst and disappear leaving no trails behind, no footmarks to be washed by the river.

But its beautiful. The book as we read its pages. The present. Even the forgotten past and the anticipative future... all blended into one... the colour of white... tranquility.
And the river... the flowing river....

I see the inundation sweet,
I hear the spending of the steam
Through years, through men, through Nature fleet,
Through love and thought, through power and dream.

And life sings....

For men may come and men may go
But I go on forever

Friendship week.

There’s a miracle of friendship that
dwells within the heart
And you don’t know how it happens
or where it gets its start
But the happiness it brings you
always gives a special lift
Any you realize that friendship
Is God’s most perfect gift
-Anon.

First of all a very happy friendship week to all the readers of this post :)

This post is written in an attempt to thank the second best pepole in my life ... (the first and foremost being my family). It will be a long list if I started mentioning everybody here... from the time of my primary school days (whom i had the chance of meeting once more this summer), then my XIth - XIIth friends (without whom i would not have survived that altogether new and strange place... and with some of whom, i dont have any contacts now :( )... my friends at Delhi,(who were a constant support at a very crucial point... and who had found a special place for themselves in a very short time... less than 6 months..) and last but most importantly my friends whom I have gathered here in a span of 2 years.... some very recently and some from the very first day or even before that. We have argued on difference of opinions, fought on petty stuffs, consoled at the weak times, supported at the broken moments, pulled each other's legs, laughed on PJs more than all these they were always there for me.

I believe, whatever I am, I have been influenced by everyone whom I have come across in the course of journey of my life. The appreciations, criticisms, the simple words and the philosophical "fattes", each of them has its own hand in forming my opinion of life and living. And since I consider myself an unique individual (just like everyone else), I am thankful to all those people of my life for making me what I am. (And in case u consider me "not so good".... now u know, whom to blame :D)

A heartfelt thanks to all my friends who still remember me, even to all those from whose memory I have faded away, to those who believed in me and more than that to those who wanted me to prove myself before them.

Happy friendship week once again.

Signing off
Anki

Dreams

Only as high as I reach can I grow
Only as far as I seek can I go,
Only as deep as I look can I see,
Only as much as I dream can I be.
--Karen Ravn

So we all dream, from when, is a matter we never tried to find out, for dictionary defines dream as A series of images, ideas, emotions, and sensations occurring involuntarily in the mind during certain stages of sleep. And we have no memory of our first dream. :D

There are other dreams as well... the ones I am talking about now.

And in our strive to realise these dreams there always comes moments when you reach a fork in your road, and you have to choose. Most of the time... in fact why most of the time, i should say always... the future depends on your choice. The problem is that there is no such choice as "none of these". And in the process of sitting on the fence we have actually decided our next course even if involuntarily. I ofcourse wouldnt like to do something like that so that if tommorrow i look back, at least i will be able tell that okey fine may be i was wrong, may be it didnt work but i was at least sure what i was doing.

For now at least i can say well i did realise some of my dreams and well not all are related to acads :D. And now again i am sitting here having decided one more of my choices... to see if it takes me to the realisation of my next dream.

Here as i write about my next dream, i count those of my past... wasnt bad... i say 4 out of 6 were realised... as far as i remember. And the ones I dont remember must not be worth counting... !!!