In a Virtual World

“Jason Stone, help me! Hey, Stone,” screamed a lady in pain. She was waving at me to help her as the background sounds of exploding bombs and Bullet showers repeated.

Seeing the ladies 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 scrolled down 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.

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Some teeny-tiny stories

◆ “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. “Honey, you must understand that that diamond ring is out of my budget, out of my boun…” the words never reached her ears because she was out of his life anyway.

◆”So, 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, “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 just to get an answer 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.”


A very cherished bookstore

Copyrighted: United Publishers, Guwahati

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.

জীৱন

ঈশ্বৰে মানৱ জাতিক বিতত কৰি ৰাখিছে

জীৱন বুলা পথটো নুবুজোৱাকৈয়ে

সংসাৰলৈ নমাই আনিছ ৷

তেওঁৰ আদেশবোৰকে মানি নামানিও চলি থাকোঁ,

কিন্তু এই নীৰৱচ্ছিন্ন বাটৰ শেষ

মৃত্যু বুলি মানি লৈছোঁ ৷৷

জীৱনৰ বাট এটা ৰহস্যময় জৰীৰ পাক

অৱশেষটো পুনৰবাৰ একে অৱস্হাতে

ঘূৰি আহি থাকোঁ ৷

জীৱনকালত এইশ্বৰ্যৰ লালস কৰোঁ

অৱশ্যে, মৃত্যুৰ মুখত- পমগুৰুৰ

পদধূলি হবলৈ হাবিলাষ কৰোঁ ৷৷

এই বাটত চলি থকা এটা মাঞ্চকলা

কিয়নো জীৱন হৈছে এখন নাটক…

আমিয়ে অভিনতে, আমিয়ে ৰচক ৷৷

কিন্তু এই যুগত-

নহয় জীৱন এটি বাট

নহয় জীৱন এটা পাক ।

জীয়াই থকাৰ কাৰণ নহয় এতিয়া

মানৱ সেৱা

সংসাৰত বাস কৰাৰ একমাত্ৰ কৌশল হ’ল

মাথোন কিছু অসৎ প্ৰতিযোগিতা ।।

On Speaking

Legendary writer Stephen King’s On Writing has immensely benefitted numerous people wanting to venture into this innate art of writing. Not only that, as one scrolls through famous bloggers’ articles, one can somewhere find at least one blog titled On writing, thoroughly describing their success stories or really advising us on how to make any write up appealing.

But is writing the only part of literature that can be aptly called an artwork?

Art is indeed a broad term amassing numerous kind of skills- from theatre to fashion, from your bearing to the humble quality of writing.

As said by a teacher-what one forgets that one just cannot run out of the periphery of art, and art is what that governs this universe for it cannot be merely a refined and highbrow showpiece understood by a connoisseur.

Less deviating from the definition of art, the answer to the question cannot be a yes. Literature does not bound itself to turgid words and never-understood prose and poetry. And this is why humans were bestowed by the Almighty to speak.

Propagation of an idea doesn’t merely confine to listing out what one wants to say but rather what one says. No one hardly ever remembers what someone writes but fairly remembers, by even adding some concoctions, what someone says. Implicit learning, as it tends to, mostly remains in our brain for a long time, thus, speaking is also deemed as a form of art because one’s thoughts delves into another’s mind.

But speaking, or public speaking, plays a highly-important role in almost every field. Democracy will never run had people not been allowed to speak nor will it even run if people didn’t know how or what to speak about. Box-offices topple down when the actors fail to deliver, but what remains intrinsic to the art of acting, still remains the art form of speaking.

Considering these examples, one can infer that oration is one powerful tool to proliferate cherished ideas. But insightfulness and discretion is also needed. Insightfulness because repetitive words can make any speech monotonous and boring, and discretion because your thoughts, not your words, can wage a war. And the best, yet the worst, example is the warmonger named the Führer.

Perhaps, that is the very reason why speaking was never epitomised as a form of art as the main motive of sustaining an artform is the preservation of the notion of why we deem ourselves as humans- humanity.

Saras-what Puja? The Local Prom

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.

Source: http://www.flickr.com

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.

Source: http://www.flickr.com

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.

Source: booyah! I clicked

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.

Pondicherry Reveries

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.