Sur-Prizes!

Sur-Prizes!
Honored by Usha Ma'am & Rukhiya

Of Love

>> Apr 21, 2011

There are islands inside all of us. Uneven in size, floating, drifting towards or away from each other they are, in an ocean. The thickness is a mystery. You never know how much is inside that deep blue water. The inches that float above the level is just a layer one would fathom. Assuring in its kind, it serves another purpose. You never let two islands come close.

Between them lies the ocean - split, convenient in its flexibility. It trespasses onto and around everything. That is why we keep our secrets inside it. Treasured deep they are. On quiet nights I dive in the freezing cold and warm myself with my pasts hidden at the center of the earth.

Now that you have an ocean inside you, there are stormy nights when the memories surface to sea level and touch islands. Curious souls pick them up and return to you, breaking or savouring. For some, the sea is rough, repetitive. For me, its quiet, its blue and just that.

For a relation, principles are like that thickness of an island. You never are sure when to use one, or to say, that you used. It is amusing indeed. But then, our deepest feelings are wondrous. They travel like clouds over a night sea when the stars and the moon observe.

Nothing is stationary. The oceans move, so does your treasure inside it and the islands that emote a thousand you into quietness of nights or the brightness of a morning. There, while traveling that eternity, an ocean is shared.

Little matters beyond. on a very beautiful moment you realize, someone has intruded into yours and stolen an island.

Sea meets a sea.



SoUmY@

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Utsav

>> Apr 12, 2011

23, Kashi Bose Lane, Calcutta, then.

This is about a time when Calcutta was still colonial, atleast by name. A time when hand-pulled rickshaw and its chime used to define the sounds of the city, a time when communism was still red, seasons were still interested in being theatrical. Relations were earthened by writing letters, rhymed and novice poems. Festivals then were celebration of life, first. They had souls. That was the time, more or less, all the cities like our emotions were simple, unambitious and honest. It was before options decayed life into ashes.


On festivals like Durga puja, we would gather in our grandpa's house. I remember our parents were uncomplaining that way. They knew the quiet maturity of gatherings. The long verandah with black and white squared tiles, that has seen generations crawling, walking, running over it, was wise. Even during the summers, it would be cold, thus. Men, all wearing kurta pajama would sit on it and play cards, talk business, futures and ofcourse cricket. There was never a hurry. Technology was still pregnant with 3G and mobile phones. People were slow, quiet and understanding. They won't excuse themselves from elders. Relations were proud and respectful, those days.

Women had their own warmth and vibes. I used to wonder, how a double bedded cot could accommodate all my aunts and mom happily. Their noise was undisturbing. They will laugh, talk proudly of family, whisper new recipes and remember and resurface every tiny moment that had impacted them in the last year. Waves of emotions had a symmetry. Their sixth senses used to create the high and low notes of resonance miraculously affecting none.

The festival and its schedules and celebrations had dedicated followers in all. Us, cousins will keep memories like gifted story books, secretly. There was a heart that used to make us aware of the specialty of the moments and that they may not be continuing forever. There were moisture in the air during the end. We have seen men with wet eyes, then.

23, Kashi Bose Lane, Kolkata, now.

There are no stereo-typical comparisons to be drawn. We still get the blue inland letter from the above address, in a shaky handwriting, every year. An invitation that calls us to our roots. Conveniently we ignore the postbox at times.

We gather once in a while and play cards on the old verandah, Spouses gather and secretly talk bout their changing priorities and busyness, we excuse ourselves frequently from each other. On the last day we go to the same room and follow the traditions of showing respect to grandma.

There, just there, in a squarish room, under a dim lit bulb, infront of a weak 70 year old soul - engineers, doctors, lawyers cry silently. Guilty they are may be. That living soul puts her hand on our heads to bless. The warm touch assure us of forgetting. It assures us of forgiving.

Quietude performs a different resonance then. While leaving, We regret the times we have pretended to be busy.

SoUmY@

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The Hungry Tide

Inspirations Continue...

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