Amidst the skyscrapers, where live in the sun tan fearing population, do you see The bricks moulded by those rusty hands , Of the sun-scorched migrants Blackened by the chimney exhaust?
On the hoardings, do you see A dejected young man Drooping on his table, the pills spread out? The creative loner drugging to spark ideas in absence of sleep, For a presentation next week?
Of the cars that glides smooth Do you see that solemn driver Marred by the uncomfortable silence Of the fatigued couple, entangled in a nasty, felonious fight of a young girl suddenly coming In-between their 25 years?
On the driver’s side, His thoughts tossed by the loss of the education he couldn’t complete?Dampened by the happiness To his family he couldn’t give?
In the young boy slumbering uncomfortably under the buildings, As the drain stinked the humid air, While he Drowned in his own sweat and tears; And, the sweltering heat, Do you see the A.C water dripping Near his feet?
If not, You, my sweetheart, The happiest dandy rose of all, Are sure tucked in your urban nest.
…“Oh, the doves!” pointed Ana, with amusement in her eyes. Frank, suddenly taken aback, looked at her in surprise, “Ahah! You remember them?”
She nodded her head agreeing.”How will I forget them, Frank?” she smiled at him, and then abruptly shifted her focus on the willow tree.
“Did I ever tell you, back in the 50s,” said Ana, suddenly taken back through the time tunnel, blankly unbothered about the surroundings. “In a beautiful evening, I was sitting under this very tree with Michael by my side.”
“I can precisely recall, 15th October. A Monday it was .”
“The Pharmaceuticals paid him like a miser, Frank. He didn’t even have the money to buy a decent car to go to the office, let alone buy some unnecessary pieces of jewelry to profess love!” she grinned.
“And still on that day when he put the ring on my finger, Frank, I felt so sorry for the extra spendings of these materialistic stuff people gotta buy to show romance. God!” she laughed, clutching her stomach too.
And then soon slipped back into being solemn, the sorrows engulfing again. “In all truthfulness, I wanted to pity him. I honestly wanted to.”
A soft smile crept up on her face as she let out a deep breath. “But then, I don’t know what hit my brain, or my heart precisely. But with this…this fearless,” she paused, and then continued with much emphasization, “this colour blind love we had, all I could feel that day, after enduring so much with our rule-breaking, unacceptable love of ours, was the courage he had for me.” She waited, “And the immense respect I truly held for him.”
“When on that special moment he put the ring on my finger and came close to plant the sincerest kiss on my lips, I kept thinking if I was to cry or smile, or like everyone else just close my eyes, as in some cliched movies being shot under the tree,” Ana snorted a laugh, rolling her eyes at the same time.
A long silence followed, the old lady now lowered her head in dismay. Some yards away, the ducks paddled trailing a symmetrical V on the gleaming sunlit surface.
The brimming tears, that had been covered up with her crinkled eyes of her roundabout laughter, for so long, threatened to cascade down any moment from now. And the more relentlessly she tried to bore them, more did the tears pierce her eyes, in return.
“Did he really do a crime loving me?” Ana choked on the words, as she quickly turned her head, looking at Frank quizzically. “When love doesn’t match people’s black and white world, do the just feel their prejudice boiling? Is that why they complain to authorities?”
And then the tears burst out; her frail body shuddering violently when she struggled to mouth her inner trepidation after so long.
“Frank, what a nuisance I must have been to you for the past years, haven’t I? I wish I-, ” her voice drowned in her own pool of tears. “I can’t help it. Every moment, I could still see him dragged by the police. And, whether our love was a crime or not, I still couldn’t help feeling so pathetic about being lucky for the skin I had, feeling so immensely guilty for the job Daddy held.”
Ana struggling to breathe, took in large dollops of air, her weak body trembling along at the same time.
“Truth be told,” she went on. “We were quite lucky. Quite lucky. Never discussed about having kids. Lord! what a burden the world would have been on them.”
She halted for a bit. The tears unstoppable in their streams, made hey eyes bloodshot staining her face pink, “I still can’t let go of the pain in my heart, Frank. It’s till now holding onto the biggest grief I feel.”
As though going to shake the burden on her heart with the air, she exhaled heavily, staring at the other end of the lake, her eyes now dewy, “The grief , the gulit of never imploring the court about what happened to him, never even tying to find out; it haunts me.”
“And, even though I could have ended up this past ugly days today with a genuine apology to you,” she gasped for air again. “But, I won’t.”
“For all the times I have contemplated ending my life this day or that, Frank, the love that you hold for me, I see them in the morning cups of tea, sense it in the silent long stares each morning. It’s all for you, Frank, that I tell myself suicide’s not worth the pain I’ll pass on to somebody else. Atleast, never to you.”
“I can not say sorry, Frank. That’s such a pointless and worthless thing to say,” she halted. ” It’s thank you. For coming into my life when I needed you the most, for bearing the sack of burden that I am, for accepting me even when I absolutely loathed myself failing to suicide 3 times since the last two years.”
And then she ended there. Abruptly. The past spread out in front.
All the grief that she had been holding on for so long flowed. The pain vented out.
Old Frank, with his fingers squeezing his eyes, and gut wrenched, as he now gaped for air, hearing the first time his wife’s attempted suicide failures, found difficulty in breathing.
A stillnes settled in the atmosphere; the quiteness making the kids’ laughter, the dogs’ ecstatic barks echoing all around; eventually being broken by those doves of the willow tree, ruffling their grey-browm plumage, preparing for shooting into the sky again, soon flying away to their distant locations.
“Oh, Ana” he quivered, his shakiness, remembering the bygone case of Michael Custody Brutality, the infamous death of a Michael, a black man tied in a felonious interracial marriage in the 50s U.S, now apparent.
The horror of retracing the “Police murdered Michael” rally in his small town, the horror of hearing for the first time his own wife’s failed suicidal attempts, left him covering his wide open mouth with his hands. The terror visible in the bloodshot eyes.
It took a long, drudging minute to finally break the void that had suddenly entered the conversation. Frank being the one breaking the melancholic silence, slowly filling the air.
As he curled his hand around Ana’s, hinting at his promise he wasn’t leaving her so soon, he uttered, “Gone is the dead, Ana. Gone in somewhere faraway land.” His, raspy voice now becoming deep, his attention matching eye to eye with his wife “But, don’t you dare go away leaving me alone, Ana.” “Not so soon, please.”
And then he pulled her closer, kissing her forehead fervently, both of them breaking down together, before releasing her from his embrace.
“Or, maybe,” he said, softly beaming at her moist face now cupped in his hands, “Not before me. Alright, love?”
The grey dawn paved the way to a rosy morning as the light creeping through the windows touched Frank’s face. Shuffling from the creaky bed, his head and spine drooping as he seated himself on the edge, Frank let out a large yawn, trying to soak in the morning light of the day. Outside the birds, chirruping their daily melodies, seem to sparkle up a life in the dying garden.
Beside him was his wife huddled in the cushions and the blanket, still deep in her sleep, unaware of the light creeping up on her face by now.
Moved by the calm atmosphere that reigned, the innocence of the scene in front, Frank couldn’t help but to smile to himself.
Looking at his grown-up cherub, her wispy white curls sprawled on her fair forehead; the world seemed so angelic each moment he stares at her sleeping face; the every day mundane problems vanishing into thin air, the memories of their young days, those long drives in the highways, the wine glasses they clanked in their Saturday picnics near the cliffs, all of those reviving again.
And then all of a sudden, out of the blue, kicked in the present scenario, just like reality tries to break the castle of your daydreams.
The reality that rang like the morning bell of the church nearby. Chronic depression it was. The anti-hero straining the moments they shared, the marriage that tied, the future they envisaged. And even though, depression could have been the villain, the antagonist painted in all of the wrong, depressing, melancholic colours but it wasn’t. It couldn’t be.
For all the time Frank has been frustruted at her fatigued soul, fed up of the daily chores, the everyday chaperoning of his wife, a tiresome job he found himself into, the more his heart liquified.
The young love, the joys of it, all the memories recollected flooded inside him. He felt in in the core of his heart; no matter how many tragedies that could appear, it falls short when juxtaposed to all the troubles that they have weathered through their strong 30 years of togetherness.
Yards away, the misty morning shroud unveiled, brightening to a blue-skied morning now.
Straightening up from the bed, Frank ambled towards the kitchen to make the morning cup of tea for both. Bending and raising, rummaging through all the heaps of packets in the drawers, the jars on the slabs, he was struck with a sudden realisation that he was running out of tea bags since yesterday.
“Love,” Frank called to his wife, who has now woken up, her wide eyes afixed to the ceiling. “I guess we shall have to take a walk today for a morning tea. You up?” A question met by a grunt, with no further reply.
A few minutes later, donned in the plain grey clothes, the old couple stepped out of the house; Frank’s hand gripped around Ana’s as if a tragedy may be looming in any second and he couldn’t afford to make it happen. Even though, he knew those tragedies, those explosions of melancholy inside her will remain unuttered no matter.
On their way, right beside the road, the Alabama Heartland, a small park in the neighbourhood stood, its banner draped by a bougainvillea arch. The blooming pink flowers curved like a bow of mini bursts of colours catching Frank’s eye as he stopped midway, marveling at it.
He asked, turning to his wife, whose uninterested eyes set straight forward on the road, “Mind strolling for a bit, Ana?” A big wide smile cropped up on Frank’s face, “We’ll kind of have our morning walk by today.”
Reckoning her uninterested ” Yeah, alright”, the old woman accompained by her husband walked quitely, each in their own headspace, to the path leading to the central lake, all the while the husband just beaming to himself, looking around glancing at the young lovers on the park benches, the kids scampering around, the loners invested in thier gadgets.
And, of course the doves on the willow tree.
How would he forget them? The daily spectacle of the Alabama Heartland’s , the birds branching on the willow tree every morning, flying farway to some distant lands at 7 a.m somewhat, in a harmonious symmetry, but unfailing for their theatrical show every morning, as if it had morphed into a ritual of theirs to present itself by the wee hours.
“Oh, the doves!” pointed Ana, with amusement in her eyes. Frank, suddenly taken aback, looked at her in surprise, “Ahah! You remember them?”
“Ma, I don’t get it!” exclaimed Samli, raising her hands in frustruation. “Why do you need to get up from your seat and serve deuta the scoop of rice when the pressure cooker is literally in front of him?”
“Thet, Maajoni,” her mother replied, dismissively. “Passing the food is table manner,” she countered, as she silently put the ladle inside the cooker, while her husband, unbothered about the conversation about him even taking place, smacked onto the daali.
Samli narrowed her eyes in exasperation, frustrated having had her mother shrugging her off again.
Dismissing her as if she had in all these years unable to grasp the minute undertone of this scenario in the dining room happening everyday.
Her mother pushing away from the table, getting up from the seat, serving the food onto her father’s plate, briskly commuting from the kitchen to the fridge. Hearing her husband’s requests for a papad now, a chilli then, perhaps a slice of lime or a cube of onion to crunch on with the dinner.
And, she unrelentingly complying to all of the trivial wishes.
“Samli maajoni,” her mother called, snapping Samli out of her bubble of thoughts. “Please, go fetch the curd from the kitchen, maa,” she said dotingly, as she finally took the seat to carry on finishing her own plate of dinner. “Maybe, Deuta would like having some curd rice now.”
Samli stared at her mother silently, blinking. Her eyes squinted and eyebrows raised in a questioning look. “He hasn’t even asked for it,” she was about to utter in irritance, but then tiredly disregarded it, silently proceeded towards the kitchen, merely fumbling alone to herself.
Flickering on the lights, she kept her hands on the slab in frustruation, unable to understand why does her muther shrug her off? Pondering upon it, she kept looking in silence at the untensils rack, where all the cutlerys and dishes have been lined up in their respective compartments. The bell metal vessels on one side and the normal, daily-used stainless steel on the other.
Breaking the silent atmosphere settling with her infuriation, she mindfully fetching two steel bowls and one bell metal bowl from the rack spooned out the curd from the clay pitcher. As gently as she could, she placed the bowls on the tray and took an attentive glance at the arrangement of the bowls itself for a few moments before eventually proceeding to carry it carefully to the dining room.
With an intent eye kept on the bowls, Samli set the steel ones near her plate and her father’s, right after placing the sole bell metal bowl near her mother’s side.
And then maintaining a still composure while taking her seat, she sipped on to the glass of water waitimg calmly, examining the bowl near her mother’s plate, contemplating her prediction to unfold in reality in a few minutes.
And, then it happened so, just as she had rightfully guessed.
Her mother swiftly placing the spoon in her bell metal bowl, Samli saw what she has been expecting all along. With deft hands, switching the bell metal bowl with her husband’s steel one, in front, a wife finally took to having her dinner once again.
The grandeur of bell Metal plate in the Assamese Culture isn’t always reflected by it’s lustre, the mark of the history of reigning Ahom kings nor the cost of this handicraft piece. Sometimes it can be a blatant reflection of patriarchy itself.
‘Daali’ is dal (pulses), ‘Maajoni/Maa’ means daughter, ‘Ma’ is mother, ‘Deuta’ is father and ‘Thet’ means ‘whatever’, in a scornful manner.
Reality is a lovely place But we need more fucking happiness; Onboard we travel into this virtual maze Popping daily pills of the internet.
People seem to blanket their life’s mess With filters, white-smiles and their radiance Yet, the backstory seems to be off-place That we’re all hyper-connectedly lonely, merely craving for solace.
I wonder what would have been If our distorted presentation Of the snippets of our glossy-messy life’s amalgamation Struck us with a realisation That we are floating in an ocean of our imagination. Our minds’ make-believe construction. To seek social validation.
No worries, I am as bored as you are and you are as hopeless as I am!
As the nationwide lockdown is getting further and further extended, our mental health agonies are going more and more painful. As much as we want to heave a sigh of relief for the crisis to end, but presently, our mental health maybe crippling undoubtedly. And then, on top of it, is our boredom to do anything.
We hope for Social Media to be a platform for easing our pains, yet we end up constantly feeling dejected for seeing the rat-race in a pandemic. Believe it, people, that’s the reality (or should I say: virtuality? 😉 ). But, whether people go on displaying their glittering smiles or not, I genuinely want you to take time for yourself because if mental health degrades in this crisis, the pains are felt not only by you but it affects your whole family itself.
Sadness, Depression, Anxiety or Panic Attacks don’t respect whether you live in a 300 sq. feet apartment or a 3000 sq. feet sprawling mansion. You are as vulnerable to the grips of mental health degradation as much as I am or any of the readers of this blog.
So, to keep you mind sane and intact atleast for now, scroll down below to check out what you can do to be in a better state of mind because if you are happy, the rays of joy uplifts other as well. And the world needs to be nothing more than a happy place we deserve to live in, a happy place we need to create for others.
P.S- you can also scroll to the end, the middle part is basically craps if you’re anxious at a different level.
If you are blessed with a good yard or a balcony and have pots, seeds and soil in advance, don’t wait, now is the perfect time to create your own vegetable or flower garden you have been aspiring to do so.
For vegetable gardening:
If you lack the seeds, here’s a suggestion for you: for growing tomatoes, store brought tomatoes work fine and you can just plant them in the soil simply or you can follow the picture below. Or for growing turmerics or ginger, simply bury the rhizomes in the soil and with proper caring, fermentation and irrigation, withing a week or a fortnight, you’ll be able to see new leaf springing up from the lush, chocolatey soil.
Youtube is filled with so many knowledgable videos about gardening, I mean, I really don’t have to explain much more about veggies at all.
For Flower gardening:
Flower cultivation is tougher than vegetable gardening, but if you have moss roses somwhere, simply pluck the stems and plant it in the soil, and it hardly needs any nourishment. Or, if possible, acquire some cuttings of Hibiscus and Roses cut at a 45 degree angle and follow the steps by clicking this blue texts for HIBISCUS and here for ROSE.
Also, if you have other such marvelous ideas for a flower garden, do share it in the comments section below.
For CHEAP-like-me gardening:
There is no sense of shame to tell you I am thrifty like you are. When entering a shopping mall, I go straight to check the price tag of the clothing item and then i decide whether I like it or not.
Jokes aside, if you really don’t have time or the enthusiastic effort to let alone touch the soil, fill the pots with it, shovelling the mud and yada, yada, here’s my take of the cheap style of gardening that I had done just to add a dash of green in my house.
◘Money plant and bamboos work fine if you just add it in a glass bottle, for which, adhering to the idea of sustainability, you can use old ketchup glass bottles or wine bottles. More transparent, the better looking!
◘ Succulents and cactus are so easy-to-care for plants that the only step you need to take is just plant them, and water them the day you think the plant lacks it.
Well, yeah, exactly. I mean, that’s basically it. They don’t complain and go moodily brown if you don’t care for them. In simple sense, they don’t care for water as you don’t care for watering them.
◘ Snake plants are your best house mates. Whether it is Mother-in-law’s tongue or bird’s nest as shown in the picture, snake plants purify the air around the house as much as they add a dash of greenery in our concretised houses, maintaining and balancing human-nature equilibrium.
◎ Listening to Music
Don’t deny, music helps you, right? Breaking the boundary of language and cultures, music fingers the strings of our soul when the mood is sunken and damp. In such a time of boredom and distress, we can sure try to shake off the sadness with good, happy beats. And, that’s why listening to a some happy tunes elevate our souls, channels some kind of unknown energy to be awake yet lost in fantasy (which, I feel, is actually good in sad times).
So, no more babbling. Transcending barriers and boundaries, here is a list of good-to-listen tunes to make you jump with some joy, and if you want, go shake your legs in front of the mirror for a good dance therapy and an energy-filled dance workout!
Even though the language I speak may not match yours but, c’mon, music isn’t about language, is it? You just need to soar away with the groovy tunes and take a flight with it!
◎ Read jokes
Alright, all my aunts and uncles deserve a round of applause for brightening the mood with forwarded funny tiktok videos and jokes, and brightening my mornings with a virtual bouquet of flowers captioned with some quotes ending with a good morning.
But, there’s always an edge to reading good humoured jokes, the punchlines at the end making you cough with tear-eyed laughter.
Jokes from Readers’ Digest or www.laughfactory.com are hilarious as Kim-Jong Un and Trump being BFFs. Frankly, the edge of reading jokes is that you’ll get a hang of delivering and writing jokes afterwards because, after all, life is a joke and death is the punchline.
Accept it or not, everyone cannot understand abstract, and if some jagged lines really represent something in somebody’s eyes, I gotta wear specs from now on.
Well, there are people who draw good or bad, uff done speaking. Don’t stab me.
Anyway, abstract crap or not, art is aesthetic whether you get it or not. But if boredom chews up your artistic creativity, doodling, the new emerging art, has come to your rescue even if you are or aren’t an artist.
Well, there are people who are good at doodling but, honestly saying, if you are an amateur or a Van Gogh, doodling is aesthetically satisfying to do. Mandala or cartoonish doodle are beautiful arts, and all you will need are just a black pen/marker and a paper.
Yes, now go doodle something because doodling is quite beautiful and messy, much like our lives are, ain’t I true?
◎ Cook something up
Superficially, you only got the idea of being in the kitchen cooking and trying your hand at some dishes. Yes, that is a good way to kill time but no, I meant it literally.
Cook a story, cook the scene out of your window in sketches or writeups, cook up some jokes, cook a fantasy, cook up a minecraft world, cook up playing-cards house or a matchstick house or a cardboard city or a lego town, cook a cross stitch design, cook a landscape art or a portrait face only out imagination, cook a quarantine-video, cook a slideshow of your family. Cook whatever you want!
Because cooking is creativity
And creativity makes us human.
some last word gibberish:
Let me reiterate again, this is a pandemic not a productivity race. Perhaps, after reaching to the end of the blog, you may not want to do any of it, and it is quite understandable.
You’re stuck in mental health degradation like many here in a virtual world, seeking for some relief from anxiety (or boredom), or migrants and frontline workers struggling in our real world.
But, your attitude toward any crises matters, it either makes you our breaks you. Humankind has sailed over many storms, have paddled against the waves sometimes and yet, we still remain here in present times, in our present world.
I can’t point out why or how after so much of so many emergencies, so many crises and wars, humankind is still existing. After hearing so many news which are hardly any good, humankind along with all other species exist.
Do you know the reason why? Because as much as we have blood-boiling dislikes for somebody, for something, as much as we have acted beastly, waging wars across land and ocean, I can still tell you humanity exists.
Humankind exists because humanity exists. The day when we overcome this crisis, which I hope sooner, I truly wish we as a species become more humane and care more about the earth and its species.
And as for now, I can only give you the hope that:
We shall overcome We shall overcome We shall overcome, some day
Oh, deep in my heart I do believe We shall overcome, some day
Disclaimer: As there are readers from around the globe, some may find it difficult to comprehend some words, here is the list. Goja, Singora and Jalebi are rich Indian sweets loaded with extreme sugary fat. Aloo pitika (mashed potatoes), Bhat and Dali (Dal, pulses) is the regular amount of carbs and protein Assamese folks of India eat. Aiyo is an Assamese word for exclamation to depict pain. Roshogolla is a Bengali sweet made from milk.
The combination of dancing ballet in Bollywood song is as same as eating Cheetos with jam.
And, as you have rightly guessed, Ma is my mother.
Matriculation Examination burdened on tensions
So, lockdown came to save my day
But soon as this started, all plans to nowhere bombarded…
And for all I do know,
Routines and Disciple now rest in peace, in their respective graves.
But Ma was the hilarious lockdown specimen to look at
For she was hooked. To what? As usual, it’s Facebook.
In a pensive, of what to cook, and how to share,
The titillating glazes of all her foods
In all the Aunties’ groups.
Well, the end of the rope was then,
When Ma’s overwhelming doting on me
Made my temperature shoot higher with anger:
In fact, you could make the good ol’ fish and chips,
On my head (yes, for sure), if you are ready with the fryer.
‘Cause miliseconds after nanoseconds, she pests me
“What would you love my sweety?
Shall I make some goja, singora or jalebis?
Aiyo, my heart! It’s fine.
Only that one starving, dying child is melting it inside
‘Is she kidding?’ my eyebrows raise in terror
With uncertainty of the global food security, what is she talking?
I feebly smile,
“Na, ma, it’s fine with the regular aloo pitika, bhaat and daali.”
But don’t get beguiled with the sugar crusted apple-pie or roshogolla love
For when she’s, in turn, annoyed by my handcuffs to mobile
She bellows orders from the sofa,
“Can’t you, you terrible lil bastard,
Like me, see it from afar
The clods of dust, settling and snuggling close on the furniture?
Fetch the cloth and get the work done!”
“Ma, there’s nobody coming,” I grimaced
“You lil brat, don’t make that face,”
Says my ma, “You do know how I payed
For the deceitful luxury of the varnish to stay.”
But as evening dawns (or dusks, you may)
She slouches on the bed, her face rests on her cupped hands
Storming her brain on what to do
To beat the lockdown greys and blues
So, I sing in my bathroom voice
Bollywood oldies and romantic tunes.
Jostling up, she clasps my hand, and to Indian songs,
People, I get it, everybody does: you are freaking bored to sadness these days. Who wouldn’t be? The viral pandemic has either got you hooked to the TVs or phone screens scrolling through the bad news of cases, deaths, extension of lockdown and people boasting and posting about how productive they have been. And then, on top of that, comes the range of influencers all smiling their flashiest teeth, doing hardcore workouts or making tiktok entertainment.
In fact, you are so bored that reading an article like this is testing your patience to scroll to the end, right?
Join the group, people. With doubling information throughout internet regarding anything and, seriously, about everything, it has muddled your mind, suppressed your patience. And patience has got so vanished from your life that you might be having a difficult time even resting for peace to thought about what to do to beat the quarantine blues.
Look no further, here is the scroll down list of what you can do to be at your best self these days, not meaning it to be hardcore, high-energy filled productive race, but a time of learning to keep your mind sane.
◎A To-Do List
Admit it, people, you have, keep an activity check on Instagram about limiting your screen time on social media, while some, on the other hand keeping Forest app or such time-checking apps, then suddenly, after the exams gone and none seem coming in the henceforth days, you are high on fire diving in the screen, and to hell are gone those disciplined days.
Now, to be frank, when you lose discipline, or a schedule, you may say, your daily routines get crazy. You are then stuck ‘with what to do now’ or more like, ‘what did I before this pandemic started?’ Honestly, things have gone turbulent, but you still can responsible to be on a steady track. How?
To-do list, check it, check it, check it.
If you are the person who seems like you have a lot of things to do but not finding the right motivation, keep yourself organized and grounded with a to-do list, so when night comes and you look at the works you have completed, the night’s gonna be a real good night.
If to-do list is not your thing, maintain a journal if you wish to note down what you have done in a day (even if waking up from sleep, scrolling the news feed ;)) as long as you get this habit of jotting down your works or feelings, a routine will be set to beat boredom blue and black.
◎Start a diary
If you’re blurred with a notion of shy introverts penning down thoughts, emotions, sentiments in a notebook called diary, you’re wrong in thinking that diary are for the shy ones and right in just getting a idea of what diary is. Introverts, extroverts, ambiverts, whatever you deem yourselves to be, you are firstly a human with thoughts getting high in your brain, or incedents you might wanna remember or laugh at.
Now, is like the perfect time to be in a bliss talking to patient, unreactive, non- judgemental papers about how you maybe drowning in lonliness these days when you should be beeathing in the new life spring offers you.
The angst that boils inside because of not being enjoy the sky, the smiles, the crowds, the faces, pen it down. Who knows one day, when the battle against the virus ends, those papers may carry the nostalgic blues of once-in-a-lifetime experience of humankind and may enter the pages of 21st century history. See, my thoughts are getting high now?
◎ Poems, Songs, Art or talk to somebody
With the hollow feelings in the heart, there is undoubtedly not a speck of motivation to take the pen or paper while the hung-down feelings bog you down.
Now what I want you to do: take a breath, reflect upon the sorrows and unleash all of it in a creative outpour of songwriting, poetry or art or dance or whatever suits you the best. Or if need be, talk to you closest ones about your sorrows.
As long as you get the the sorrows out of the mind, you will be surely hella fine.
◎Help the needy
I swear to God, even if you are not a business philantrophist, helping the needy isn’t out of your leagues. Go share some food to the stray dog aimlessly roaming around or contribute to the PM fund or share good vibes for the sad folks.
When satisfaction and gratitude sets in the heart, so does joy.
Siblings or parents, with whomever you are with, workout with them to let the sweat drip and flow. Because once after that happens, the body will scream to your mind in gratitude.
Make sure, you’re not hyped up to break your limbs and bone! Stay fit, stay healthy.
◎ Start some new resolutions
Oh, well, the humankind is making resolutions, from the government preparing to battle VUCA troubles to us, mere mortals, planning what to particualarly do something in one day; so, it is never too late to chart out plans you wish to do after the period ends.
Truth is and admit it, this unbattled drudgery has taught us many things, about how ungrateful we were to earth or how grateful we are to have people called family. So, pledge to be a good citizen of the earth, pledge to be thankful of to be living, pledge to atleast not hurt earth anymore and stop being sadistic and be compassionate.
The earth needs nothing more than good people.
◎Movies and Books
I told ya, this is not a productive race but a test to our levels of sanity, and to bash up lockdown griefs, go and dive onto thw world of movies. If you aren’t carried away by stimulating scenes, then dive into some trilogy or collections.
Enter the Harry Potter world or the faction-driven universe of Beatrice Prior in Divergent series or peeking a glance at Feluda’s creation while rofling; English books available on the ANYBOOKS app on Playstore. And for films, Netflix or Hotstar or Prime or our good, old TV always come to rescue.
So, people, as long as boredom and the slight tilting towards depression gets mitigated, trust me, Quarantine period won’t be labelled as a boring, saddening period but a hope of reviving humankind to be good, working for the best for the healing planet and healing selves.
Hasta la vista, expect the worst, prepare for the best!
It was a warm morning hearlding a clear day, the clouds hanged above lazily and the breeze blew over the tilled and sowed fields. The hillocks the bounded the edges of the paddy acreage stood as a valiant guards, protecting Kisan’s crop from impending danger of God knows what.
But Kisan had been expecting the looming grey clouds across the other side of the sky to bring him the good news of a plentiful shower for the final irrigation of his field. How had he been impatiently waiting for the Rain God to alight on his field, bless it by quenching its thirst. And after this last sprinkling, miser Kisan will make a fair profit of his crop without spending much for its tending and growth.
Yes, it was a sunny morning until it rained and along the overflooded irrigating canals, it brought the endless joy for the farmer.
The weather pleasantly unleashed its offering of the raindrops. But as moments passed by, a loud roar of thunders split from the black clouds and then Krishna smiled to himself, looking at the sea of green in front.
After stealthily drawing the adjacent irritating pipes from the next field to water his own, and now waiting for the nature to show its monsoon grandeur, Kisan had successfully managed to be at the top of misery game.
Only things took an unpredictable turn. The rain transformed to a storm, the water lashed the fields, the canals brimmed. The crops swayed to and fro with the gushing wind. The rain didn’t stop itself. It went on and on, rampaging on the labour of Kisan, on his less of a hard-work and more of his smart-work.
He wondered why had he not trimmed the field before the harvest festival could begin, or why could he not just store the seeds and the crop in the sill and managed to earn a fair profit too.
Not a careful thought struck his head, money muddled his mind. The smart-work seemed to ease his burden of labour, labour he hadn’t done really much except planning when and how he’ll use the water of the next field or shift the bund separating both fields a little or to start a quarrel accusing the other side of unfair playing. His mind worked, but his body did not.
The next morning, the sunrays peeped through the clouds, and this time bringing in the news that one can less expect any storm or shower in the week but bright, clear days. Kisan glanced at the neighbouring field, its paddy harvested and neatly sold to flour factories. But there remained him, reflecting on his bad luck, his head resting on his fisted hand, looking at his devastated field.
Maybe, every creation of God has two sides, but then again karma too exists to teach one a good lesson.
A fellow blogger of mine in the WordPress world nominated me for the Leibster Award. And she’s none other than Niharika Gurusahani, whose blog site theniharikadiaries is one heck of a creative outpour of poetry to dive into. Filled with enchanting words, enchanting topics and enchanting prosetry, Nikita won’t fail to enchant you. So, hurry, check it out!
1. Thank the blogger who nominated you. 2. Share a few facts about yourself. 3. Answer blogger’s questions. 4. Nominate other bloggers that inspire you. 5. Ask your nominees a few questions. 6. Notify your nominees of their nomination.
A few facts about myself:
Narcissist by heart. Beyond the screen is a person who has inflated like a balloon winning a Liebster Award yet struggling to win real medals and trophies. I am a teenager, who has luckily not faced any cyberbullying but bullying? Well, lets shove it under the carpet. Spirtual, Optimist and a life loving person, that’s what I am. Aspiring to be a social servant because I believe God had bestowed the duty to me to make all our lives a teeny-tiny bit better.
Question-time; time to act like a celebrity, woohoo
1. What is your favourite thing to blog about? This blog is just a notebook of an apprentice writer who is trying to hard to write anything and everything from opinions to facts.
2. What would be one thing that you would change that you did in your life? I wish I could have dived into the bookish world of vast knowledge since pre-teens.
3. What is your favorite food to cook? Patanjali noodles (Indian noodles) and Paneer gravy in which I always cheat the flavours by finally adding ketchup and soy sauce.
4. What does love from God mean to you? The fact that I exist in both hell and heaven makes me enjoy the life I have been gifted by God.
5. Hot dogs or hamburgers? Veg hot dogs, I’ll eat the bread first and the munch on the sausage.
6. What is your favorite TV show to watch? Suburgatory, Citizen Khan, Modern Family, F.R.I.E.N.D.S, Brooklyn 99 and the more you name it, the less I have seen it.
7. What would you be doing if snow came to your city? Make snow angels and snowmen, slowly sip coffee and do all the other cliché stuff. No, I’ll be mostly wrapped in the blanket eating pakodas and noodles. Oh wait, my ma is calling me to clear the driveway.
8. What are you thankful for? I’m thankful for a family, an abled body, food to eat everyday, friends, enemies, internet, education, happiness and of course, life.
9. How long have you been blogging and how were you inspired? It has been 1 year and 3 months. And when you suffer from existential crisis, blogging came to my rescue. I learnt about WordPress after hearing from my sister/ neigbour Dristi Ba, to whom I owe half of my life.
10. What country do you live in and for how long? I have lived in India for 16 years straight and I still don’t have a passport to flaunt a global lifestyle. But hey, I got internet.
11. What is your favorite food? Spicy chaats, a type of street food from India.
12. If you had a chance to do something over what would it be? Reset my teenage again. Being a teen is a tough job and in mi casa, my parents scream about their jobs.
I would like to nominate the following for the Leibster Award:
: Me: ‘Diti wrote on her hands And always with a blue pen About things that she never remember. So, when the to-do-list became longer, BLUE TATTOEs were on her body all over
: Jyoti: There is a girl named Jyoti When nervous, becomes sweaty The day when she didn’t bring her note-copy In her sweaty-salty river drowned everybody.
: Amrita: Amrud had a face that was pitcher-shaped Truth, sweetness, and courage she always had So, when the class bully asked her if he was bad Then, Amrud, the lion hearted, Among all the peers, bravely nodded.
: Krish: Modernity met traditionality For the girl who never forgets her cultural history I sometimes wonder how she maintains her sun-tan fearing beauty and studies While juggling, on top of it, prose and poetry.
: Sreenidhi: Sree had halo-ghostly looks Sat in the class’s shadowy corners and nooks. For friends, she dived into the world of satanic books God-forbid, she isn’t reading about bhoots!
: Deeksha: Deeksha had surging, hot, hot, terribly hot rages On small topics, for minute phases. So, the next time I mocked her I did make sure it was near the freezer. But out of control went her anger So to cool down her temper I finally had to call a fire fighter along with a power ranger.
The sunrays glimmered on the sloping pineapple fields. Men and women abstained from listing out their dreams, and went on doing what their ancestors did and what their children would do- reaping what they had sown and selling it in some dainty markets in Shillong.
The hard workers toil the earth as if it were their own. Neither did they stop to rest nor will they glimpse at the ferocious dark clouds looming on. From somewhere blew a smooth, tangy air enticing their freckled, pinkish skin. But will they rest? Sigh, life goes on just like the wind does.
Behind the tree stood a tallish hill, what Mathew called ‘the Meghalayan Everest’. If people of Noylingom ever had their piece of rest, it was all devoted to nurturing this hill. Children and old had memories firmly bonded with Everest, perhaps, watching a rainbow, amassing firewoods or recounting the building of the highway winding around the hill.
In the laps of Grandpa, Conrad hears his goodnight stories, not of fairytales and fantasies (that’s for children) but about the building of the highway, about better connectivity and communications. Conrad only gapes at grandpa’s worldly wisdom and his old man’s weak voice quivering big things. One thing for sure is that Conrad didn’t understand Grandpa. Not at all.
But Conrad soon understood what Grandpa meant when he witnessed it one morning. Dozens of bulldozers lined at the foothills of Everest. Days went by and the hill was denuded and stripped, bored and dug until it was no more a hill.
Tugging at the hems of one of the worker’s uniform, Conrad asked, “What are you doing here?” The worker suddenly becoming aware, looked around. Amused by Conrad’s innocence, he crouched down and said, “That’s called development, child.” He smiled looking at the construction site, “Of you, your place. The country’s. Every-”
“No sir,” Conrad interjected, “We don’t need it, thank you.”
Fluffy woollen clothes, legs on the sill, sipping hot chocolate with a book as an everlasting companion seem a familiar sight, right?
No, Winter. That’s a propagnda of yours to make me enjoy your time when in reality you make me curl up underneath a warm blanket, ardently whispering to my brain, ‘No need to bathe today’ while the chapped lips beg and cry for moisture, “Couldn’t you put some Vaseline on me?”
But wait, ’tis the season of celebrations and merriment. From Christmas to New Year, from…yeah, that’s it.
You really need to create a list of celebrations. What more festivals have you got in your kitty? Or have you run out of your ideas?
I’m so done with you, Winter.
Dear Sun God, show your wrath, make me go to the bathroom ’cause I stink even in winters, make me shampoo my hair beacuse the scalp is scrappy and the dandruff is snowing on my shoulders, make me warm because I have to stick my butt on the chair in this exam season.
And now you, dear Winter, go away. Let the Sun God show its A game.
Alright, ok. It’s not a change of heart but I have a feeling you should stay for a bit now because, dear hopeless winter, I have no expectations that you’ll ever change but right now, as you’ve got the faint idea from your late arrival, climate is definitely changing.
“Jason Stone, help me!” screamed the lady, mincing her agony somehow. “Hey, Stone!” . She was waving at me trying to beckon me to help her, with background sounds of exploding bombs and Bullet showers repeating uninterruptedly.
Sympathy arising from her pathetic condition, I left the shelter behind the barricades and crawled on all four to her by narrowly missing the bullets.
I reached her and took out my tiny backpack which, quite fascinatingly, carries a huge load of artillery. I scrolleddown to see what I needed.
A bullet less pistol? No. Brass knuckles? Perhaps, later. Just as I took out the medical kit, it snapped and disappeared and the lady stood in front of me, magically healed. She was in rugged clothes with a pistol in her hands.No wonder, that’s some chivalry! She was in my bandwagon now.
That is I get to direct her.
I stood there and scanned the place to escape. I am aware that it is always better to give a good fight but not when you have no ammunition.
My new recruit might be immortal with infinite ammo but here I am the hero. Oh, stop judging. That is basically how I was designed.
I glanced thoughtfully at those medical boxes adjoining the wall which leads to an open window of a building. That is my only chance for I got a bullet-less gun. I decided to use my new recruit for this purpose.
I focused on the window and thought ‘D’ to the direct her, but she stood there rooted to the spot. Unnerved, I thought ‘D’ again and there she stood in an akimbo position not giving a damn about it.
I knew by then that some obstacles and levels are for me. I plucked some courage, sprinted towards the boxes, climbed up on the wall and made my way to the window.
And then received a fist of blow on my face. Oh, damn that Russian soldier!
A punch is actually nothing in my world, but then my health rate flickered, the screen became bloody red and I was sucked up into a dystopian but a familiar world again. I looked up to the sky and it red LEVEL1, and then I knew I was dead.
Because someone outside my world screeched such unfamiliar curses that he did not even switch the computer off– he plugged it out and I was blurred to non-existence.
◆ “Thanks, Mom and Dad for being in my hard times…but, the pressure can’t be handled anymore. I am exhausted from life,” read his suicide note.
◆”You are boring.At least, you could try to make me happy,” she screamed out loud, smashing the vase right behind him, on the whitewashed wall. “Honey, you have to understand that that diamond ring is out of my budget, out of my boun…” Yet, the words never reached her ears because she was out of his life anyway.
◆”And, you little naughty brat, why were you causing a disrupt when the national anthem was being sung?” the Principal asked rather strictly. The little boy quivered, with tear-filled eyes, trying to grasp the little amount of air he could, “Ma’am, I just couldn’t control my pee.”
◆I knew there was a spectre gliding along the walls of the caves, a bunch of glimmering threads. It’s only the very next day that I learnt about that little glow worms who scared the daylights out of me.
◆The reporter jostled and pushed to shove the mic right on his face to make the headlines by daybreak. And she did. “Hey, Cuban, how did you feel climbing the Everest?” After a long pause, Jade replied, “Well, I definitely knew that I was on top of the world.”
Amidst the diasporic changes seen in the city, there still lies the quaint, revered bookstore named ‘United Publishers’ in the historically charming suburb of Panbazar, quite adjacent to the learning hub of the Cotton College (now Cotton University). An outlet of the United Publishers Association, New Delhi, this store is the paradise of bibliophiles.
My share of experience is very personal for I, along with my doting father, went there for buying puzzle books. After rummaging the whole of Panbazar, we finally ended up there and, to our utmost surprise, got what we sought for.
Even in the humdrum, Panbazar has this faint old tune humming along the narrow streets, but those marvels still exists, one being this bookstore itself. Reared and born in Panbazar, my mother dates back to her time and recalls that the shabby bookstore was there when she was a child. Pityingly, she and her friends felt abashed to go because they hardly knew English.
In a very sorry state, I cannot say much about it’s history but undoubtedly it looks quite old and cramped, which only added to its charm. The rustic hues lingers on… Altough old, it is huge and the books are stacked very neatly. Take some time to explore and you can definitely find your favourite book.
From a child seeking for adventure or learned scholar looking for academic books, there is no limitations for explorations. The heights of the shelves with the ginormity of ranges and sections, the store is daunting yet inviting.
Best part of all is that it is not crowded. And it can be ensured that none can suppress one’s urge to visit it again from time to time. In days when reading is a redundant hobby, the store faces the adversity of the pathetic conditions of decreasing readership.
Prom Nights are one of the most sought after occasions among the high school students of USA. There are no bones about it that one would never miss such an opportunity to look in their best avtar. And boos to teen films that add to the ever expanding hysteria circling around prom nights. This has created a sudden kind of urge for teenage students not studying in ‘prom-celebrating’ schools to join in in such a hard to miss and once in a lifetime experience.
But let’s dive into the South Asian nation of India-somewhere close to my heart, in the state of Assam. Even Prom nights will be acting wimpish as to what we celebrate here- the much desired Saraswati Puja. Just as the New Year approaches, each student’s head gets stacked with the nagging problem of wearing a unique attire, yet merging with everybody’s. And consider how less talked about is the big, fat fact of the silent and creeping competition among the ‘fashionistas’ to be unique…and well, just like everybody else. No one spares anything to appear as someone faaaaaaar away from what they actually look like.
Most girls take their time off to rummage through their wardrobes or around shopping marts. Boys become oblivious to school norms, refusing to cut their hair for the look of D Day. No one looks the same, not at all of what they appear donning up their regular uniforms. Girls and boys cladded in traditional attires and packed in a ginormous crowd of rainbow colors can give a first time observant of this festival a really hard time.
Sarcastically, Saraswati Puja still remains the unofficial Valentines Day of Assam. This is the day of the hush-hush lovers, who elopes whenever a never-expected-nor-invited teacher patrols the ‘hideout’ (This auspicious occasion is mainly celebrated in educational institutes). Singles too have their merriment if they happen to have a big appetite, the food carts bordering the streets always provide them their coveted sanctuaries. Friends catch up on friends, tiny tots have serendipitously, marvellous recollections in their kitties. It’s a great day for, literally, anybody.
But, quite sadly, the biggest drawback of today’s Saraswati Puja can be well witnessed by the Generation X. The very reason that has made us celebrate this festival is not the primary and the sole reason as to why students look forward to this day.
The festival is when many students usually pray for a happy school life and better marks, well, mostly whirling around better results. Since education has a great role to make the world a better place, this ritual can never be disposed off, for Goddess Saraswati is the embodiment of profound knowledge and art. But today’s scenario out there is pitiful, and perhaps, hardly any student attends this puja to seek Her divine blessings.
Yet undoubtedly, this is a festival that runs in our blood, which is never painted with any religious colours. Just as what Devi Saraswati epitomises, this is one peaceful occasion that has blended with our culture. And one always hopes that the fervour and gutso that grip many of us never ever cease to exist.
Everything that you imagine about France is everything that you can seep in the French town of Pondicherry, situated along the Coromandel Coast.One could find it really daunting to perceive all the French aura mirroring in the architecture, the happy-go-lucky faces, the mouth-watering wood-fired pizzas sumptuously drifting in the air when these are the minute things that adds to the hustle bustle. Yet, somehow all these little things sums up the benevolent memories of my visit there.The flight to Chennai was a long, tedious journey leaving me all weary, but all the happy, hazy memories strike good feelings anyway. Chennai to Pondicherry was travelled on car. One must be very delighted to fathom every intrinsic details of the Coromandel Coast- long rows of coconut trees, the enticing dry, sandy winds and wide-spread salt farms are random sights to behold.And when the highway twisted to the ancient town of Mamallapuram, my family and I nodded to stop over there. Mamallapuram is a new name for our tongues, it had always remained Mahabalipuram for us. Even if the name seems new, this historic town never lost its ancient charm.Be it Mahabalipuram Light House or the Shore Temple or the Golden Beach, each monument was a scoop of delight for the eyes. Visiting the bewitching Light House for viewing the breathtaking panorama of Mahabalipuram and the heavenly merging of the sea and the sky definitely did not fail to leave us open-mouthed.Time hardly favours anyone. We had to steer to Pondi on that day, and adding to our utter surprise was that that the iconic Beach Road was made into a walking zone. And sometimes strolling in such a serene, tranquil place in a random evening can stir up a plethora of indelible memories.The waves lashing on the lava rocks of the Promenade Beach, the dimly flickering blue and yellow lights, the broad streets flanked by huge mansions the White Town and the cafés, the illuminated Gandhi Statue and the shops lining the footpaths are such scenes that drafted an inexplicable joy in each our hearts. It is a kaleidoscope of bustling town, hard to grasp still.Auroville is another marvelous destination, although a few kilometres away from Pondi. The Golden Maitri Mandir was a humongous temple situated amidst a big plot of land. One could walk or use a cycle to reach there; I suppose as long it’s eco-friendly, you’re allowed to explore this area.The journey was not as long as this post (if you consider it). Even in such a tightly packed routine while balancing jobs and family life, on top of it, vacaying was the last option in my parents’ mind. Changing their minds to enjoy life was, indeed, a shocking but welcoming idea.Well, Pondicherry just doesn’t merely holds travel memories now, it helped to bridge the uncontrollably extending gap between my family. And if learning is a part of travelling, I guess, my ma and papa learnt that there’s more to life than monotonous and mundane jobs in offices, and so did I.
I recently forayed into the mystical world of Hogwarts -the best institute to master Witchcraft and Wizardry- and such an inclination to complete the series has bloomed inside that I find little time to study school books.
But all for the best, Harry Potter is really enthralling and intriguing that captivates all my attention. I was and am very much aware of the Potter Craze all around, but dissuaded myself thinking it to be a teenage fad that will soon fade, all to be proved wrong now.
I was not at all aware about anything about this magical world conjured up by Rowling, and now it’s quite hard to stop rifling through the pages. Unfortunately, I do not own any Potter books. My faithful friend happened to lend it to me. All thanks to him that I too can consider myself a Potterhead now ;). It was simply a resolution to complete the series by 2020, and I am very grateful to an English teacher who incented this desire in me to learn about magic and English, both hand in hand.
Well, now, I find myself very much alike with Hermione Granger with a bit of slyness from Draco Malfoy. I have no idea about which house the Sorting Hat will choose for me but I believe that I would either belong to Gryffindor or Slytherin. Just because You-know-who came from the Slytherin house cannot veneer the fact that the Slytherin house, too, has its share of the Hogwarts’ pride.
Well, I recently took a test on Internet and it had an anticipated but a bit surprising result. The website described how my ‘shrewdness and work ethics are highly valued in the Slytherin House!‘ Whereas the Griffindor House is my last option. And if that is so…then I don’t mind considering myself evil!