... a morning saga

I am turtled by time these days. It is a state when doing something without spreading your hands is quite good, as the moment I draw my hands out to pick up something, they are brutally scratched off by the whiskers of terrible cold.

I can't pull my hands out, yet I want to share my thought with my facebook friends. Reaching out to friends via internet from inside one's den is a great idea. Yet, when I sink into my chair, my thighs are getting cold. When my fingers, usually skilled at brewing a storm on the keyboard, are supposed to be nabbed at. Yet, I haven't caught cold yet.

I woke up early in the morning. I was running short of this habit in the last few yesterdays. However, today I woke up and struggled much to battle with the cold. I came upstairs and forwarded my proud steps on the roof. The sun was nowhere, but there was a cloudy layer of light. There was no fixed whereabouts of my coup d'oeil. I spread my glances up and down, before and after, and tried to get hold of the frozen moisture floating around.

Today, as a result of my random musings, came to my mind the relationship that has cemented Dipanjan Datta with me. He is a voracious reader and everybody knows how much voracious he is. If he had a chance, he would stuff books inside his liver and kidneys. He is skilled at both English and German, however, unlike others, flashes no sign of linguistic tout. When he writes, he fills his paper with the breathings of his heart.

I wonder at this stalwart and I feel myself blessed while sharing a gossip with this beautiful friend.

It takes rounds of strenuous idleness to write from the core of one's heart. The heartbeats, the best rhythm of life, are often diagnosed in the writer's writing. I am still trying in vain to catch the rhythm of life, of ours and others'. Often I take deep breaths to let them come out and play around the tip of my pen. They come out and disappear like dilapidated staircases in the sharp-set sea.

We have acknowledged our friendship and we have to stand out to be lone figures, as the flashes of street neons have seesawed us and left our tortured minds quite in the lurch amidst the high-living-and-plain-thinking mass. This is the obscure and permanent suffering that has made us think a while about how to erase sufferings, the cold sufferings the students are facing these days.

We have to do something and do something with spreading our hands to those who need our hands to reach out to millions.