An aged lady was walking on the road, bent due to her age and bent further due to the weight she was carrying - an iron bucket filled with water. She was bringing home, drinking water from the roadside tubewell about two hundred metres away.

A black Austin car silently parked. The chauffer got down, took the lady's load and carried it the distance for her. Upon returning, he saw her engaged in a happy conversation with the occupant seated next to her in the rear seat - the ten year old beautiful daughter of his mistress, upon whose request he just completed his latest task. Pratima, lived with her parents in a big mansion on the same street, four houses after the lady's. Theirs was the only big mansion on this street. Pratima's father owned several such mansions all over the state, hailing from a family of zamindars.

Pratima was the only child of Vibhutinath and Supriya Roy and was not only extremely beautiful but also tremendously caring and merciful for her age. On her birthday each year since she was five, her parents arranged for a free clinical camp within their grounds and opened their gates to one and all. She observed their house physician take charge of the event and strolled with her parents and sometimes alone, affectionately asking people sweet questions, which transformed into more meaningful and relevant ones with each passing year. Last month on her birthday this year, she even worked errands for Dr. Sanyal, following the footsteps of her equally caring and efficient parents at the camp. The Roys' were influential people and had several men and women working for them, however they did not believe in just ordering others around while relaxing themselves. Both Vibhutinath and Supriya were hands-on and active. Pratima was growing up well trained by both her parents - hard working, honest, kind and caring.

The more we press sand inside our hands the more it slips through. Some souls just visit us for spreading love and light and leave us behind before their time is done, the harshness of it all making us question the very existence of God. Pratima was adored and admired wherever she went. It was in September, 1958, when Pratima was diagnosed with Malaria, a life threatening disease which forever silenced her sweet pearls of laughter and stole the light from her merciful eyes. What it couldn't take away from her, however, was the love she was leaving behind, the seeds to which, she very carefully planted deep in the hearts of all those she met and touched with her affection. An invisible shroud of muteness covered not just the mansion but the entire area. The receding monsoons stopped to let the sun peek from behind the gloomyness of the clouds. Both man and nature hushed that day to give farewell to a beautiful eleven year old girl, a lovely sculpture, Pratima, decked up in wedding fineries - a bright red Benarasi saree, gold jewelry,  her hair tied in two thick, long plaits that rested on both her sides Over two hundred people accompanied her on her last journey to the crematorium that afternoon.

It rained incessantly that night for one final time that year. After returning home from the crematory services, Vibhutinath,  in a fit of madness thrashed and beat Supriya till he collapsed senseless on the floor. Supriya, bruised, battered and dazed like a lifeless statue, closed the door to their room and sat by her husband's bed, affectionately tending to him and to their loss just like Pratima would have done had she been there.


Vibhutinath and Supriya a couple of months later, gave away the mansion and relocated to the countryside, never to be heard of or seen again.


(Based on a true story.)


The stream was a beautiful shade of green and wherever the waters tripped on rocks, it bled white.
Polo drank from it to his heart's content and rested by its side. Around him were hills covered in a lush green carpet of grass. The soft touch of slumber snoozed his eyelids shut and drifted him to a peaceful nap.
A week ago, Polo had run away from his house with a bag containing some food, two sets of clothes and bare minimum money. He was always the quiet kind with a mind, full of questions. All of fourteen,  Polo thought about the source of life, of happiness and sorrow, the extremes - of people having food, money or a complete lack of it.
When he woke up, the daylight had already faded. Far away, on the other side of the stream was a mountain and the sky above it was subtly lit. Confused about the source of light he stayed still and kept gazing. Moments later, to his surprise at first, followed by delight, a beautiful off-white colored full moon peeked from behind the mountain. He witnessed a moon-rise for the first time and sipped with his heart and soul, the ethereal scene.

Weeks later, Polo's lamenting parents, who belonged to a hill tribe and of limited means, visited a monastery. They had received word from this religious abode; word about their only son. After waiting for several minutes in the open courtyard, within the monastery, they finally saw him. His mother kneeled on the ground before him, wrapping her arms around his knees; weeping. His father took his hand to his forehead and cried uncontrollably. They found Polo, only to lose him forever.

Polo stood before them; head shaven, wearing saffron robes and a calm smile. Tears trickling down his cheeks.
Tears of joy and of his divine calling - Monkhood.

The silence, that follows the cacophony.

Look into yourself, at some plane you are unhappy, complaining and vindictive.
Look at the person you are closest to, you will see the same.

We are all complaining and claim to have been wronged the most, none of us are ready to listen.. Those of us who do listen, unfortunately do not know how to guide the other into peaceful silence. There's a reason for that.

A poet, that creates resonance in his/her reader, they say, is formed out of a person who has faced unhappiness in life.

When we are in pain and are unable to do anything about it, we complain, to whoever is ready to listen or half-listen. When we are chatting with friends, we discuss other friends, mostly in a non-constructive manner. While watching K-Serials, we listen to the characters discontentedly grumbling, accusing and quarreling. We have, with time, programmed our lives with so much of this cacophony, that it seems alright and even self-consoling.

I recently visited Bali, Indonesia and noticed something very interesting. All places of worship, including statues and priests wore the same black and white checkered clotharound their waist. Upon asking they said, (there is a much deeper interpratation, but speaking loosely) good and bad traits reside in a mesh within every person.

We have to slowly train our minds to think positive. To forgive those that wronged us. To think of our misfortune as our own Karma and move on with acceptance. It's like exercise, the more we practice the sooner we experience the results of positivity in our lives.

The silence that follows a period of cacophony is of a heavenly nature. Once you've lived it first hand, please assist others who are going through similar dissonance in their lives. During the silence we realize that the bad was not entirely bad and that there was always a "method in the madness". 

There is no coincidence. Everything happens for a reason.

Trust in His plan and if you find yourself failing in life, ask Him for help. He will send you angels.


No matter what i think of blogging about has already been written a thousand times everywhere. The sense of purpose and of originality goes for a toss; unless of course I'm writing a story or a poem. None of which i seem to succeed in doing either.
So what do i blog?

Speechless: Remember to observe like you did before and remind yourself to be the best listener that you once were.