tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25299103753360785742024-03-06T01:18:30.431+05:30the diary of a dead moththe first half of truth is hard to believe, the second half of it hardens the beliefDibakar Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11461627971193736382noreply@blogger.comBlogger157125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2529910375336078574.post-57490549543067494332021-06-10T11:06:00.000+05:302021-06-10T11:06:39.248+05:30Children, how happy you were here! <p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Corona virus, on entering a human body, may yield lethal injuries to the organs that help it live life vivaciously. On the other hand, joyfulness, if throttled anyway, will surely yield an unending pain and develop an abysmal vacuum in human heart. Now, here raises a grave question – What is more painful?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I have literally put my children in a jail.
They play, but can’t continue playing play like they did before. They smile,
undoubtedly, a priceless smile, but helplessly do they so. From behind the
bars, they chirp their hearts out, fling loud cries out of the window, into the
roads. In the morning, when all the household narratives are just begun and
each one has just walked out to champion the other one in getting fresh
vegetables and fishes from the bazaar; they call out to her or him, whom they
don’t even know. They stare and wink at them only with the eyes. A man, hoary
with age, comes out with a frothy toothbrush dangling unsteadily from his
mouth, bends his towel like Beckham and taps on the tap to ensure himself about
the time of his bath. The senior citizen throws splashes of water on and around
his body, folds palms to the firmament; while the junior citizens fall into a
cute conversation with him. The morning saga is eccentrically joyful to the
world peopled by the three beautiful citizens.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">To my daughter, the world is full of gems and joys.
Already she has got a tooth cavity; therefore, she warns her brother about the
pain that those elliptical coins offer in the end and carefully hides all the
multicoloured stuff from the little detective’s sight. My daughter doesn’t miss
her school days any more. She has forgotten the roll numbers of her friends. She
has started feeling accustomed to the four-walled cavity where we the four
reside. Often, the river Jalangi, on whose flank rests her school, inundates
her eyes, probably, as a result of the over-brimming condition due to the
recent natural calamity.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I am a teacher who has always been housed
inside the students and busy opening the windows and doors of their minds to
let the breeze of knowledge and the light of wisdom come in. The world has seized
the key that opens the room. A few days ago, my wife hesitated to answer a
question, “Mam, apni valo achen?” (Madam, are you well?). How long have we been
out of school? I have forgotten the date of the last class I gave. Now, we see
the frozen four-wheelers parked near our lane. Their engines are ice-cold. Even
a year ago, their stomach was in an about-to-burst condition due to the school-going
children. How can a teacher stay happy without a bouquet of students?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">But, somewhat I feel, the world is heading
towards a world without physical schools. At least, the present scenario of the
world atlas says so. Generations after generations will suffer an untold
misery. They will invite a drowsy numbness to alleviate the pain of having no
pleasure hut like school. Here, the two children will grow up, there, another
two. Will they meet ever? Where will they meet daily? How often will they meet?
These questions are being asked by not only their schools but also the
cacophonous zoo, the jaw-dropping museum, the noiseless planetarium and the twittering
parks and playgrounds. They will find friends in Facebook, titillate their
fingers on Whatsapp chats, train their soaring minds to find birds in Twitter.
They will be compelled to be familiar with an artificial behavioural pattern. They
will stay connected all the time, maintain an inaccessible social distance, and
bump emojis to express their grief at the news of anyone’s demise. The world is
provoking the children to get lost in this untoward environment.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Since imagination is lost amidst amenities, everything
is easily accessible, let us close our eyes and imagine for a moment. What
would have happened had we not known about the virus? We would have walked out
daily, seen the children playing football, enjoyed our precious time and mixed
with the people, free birds and stray animals. Had we known about the fact that
all across the globe a newborn dies in every 39 seconds suffering from
pneumonia, what would have happened to the mothers? They would have hugged our
children tightly and bathed in incessant tears and carefully watched their babies
every 39 seconds. According to a <a href="https://www.unicef.org/press-releases/one-child-dies-pneumonia-every-39-seconds-agencies-warn" target="_blank">report by UNICEF</a> dated 11 November, 2019,
India is one of the responsible countries along with Nigeria, Pakistan,
Democratic Republic of Congo and Ethiopia, where children succumb to pneumonia
almost in a jiffy. We haven’t read any article about the raging number of deaths
of flowers, have we? Any forwarded message popped up? Have we ever chatted with
our friends on this topic? Presumably not. We spend our days with either Corona
virus or forwarded memes. Any meme follows any news of death. We don’t even get
wind how deep we are eroded by the technologically advanced psychological
disorder.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The spread of anxiety and horror about a
disease is far more dangerous than the disease itself. What is going on, all
across the world, is a crime. Shopping malls are open, parks are closed.
Restaurants are open, schools and swimming pools are closed. With a road pass,
adults may get a bail to roam about in the open. Only children are forced to
stay inside.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Childhood, if not celebrated, will turn out to
be a murdered adulthood.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Everybody is prophesying; I don’t know how; a ‘third
wave’ is swelling almost a stone’s distance. Another heavy period of stringent lockdown
is marching towards us. But, it will leave the children bone-dry and the half
of the world die with an empty stomach. All the juices of joy and mirth will be
sucked forever. Life will be there, but in a horrific stalemate. We will see
the children regarding smart-phones, taking notes from their digital teachers, solve
question papers on the touch-screen and order all the essentials including baby
trees online. Would we let the flowers die in the buds when the death rate is
that low?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Is it a virus or a worldwide mass-murdering plan!
The first wave challenged the aged persons, the second wave suffocated the
youth and the third wave looks upon the children as the bull’s eye. How
cleverly the fear of death has been spread, nay, mutated, to destroy the
vivacity of the human civilization!</span></p>Dibakar Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11461627971193736382noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2529910375336078574.post-80104031803200371382021-06-07T20:39:00.001+05:302021-06-07T20:39:38.741+05:30Clouds ~ shrouded by clouds<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwYpHLR3LUZvQX4hIdV16ZJDWs_otZ_4mPWknEWXGL7LGQsneo2gvbZjWjiZHMRiEuQTPSUAhiLjyYFISZquTfBKUOIDQ48jdfSUla5E-fYJPVytgY9KfUS-IQqz09mspytdL4U1CcfGoR/s1280/WhatsApp+Image+2021-06-07+at+8.34.45+PM.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="720" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwYpHLR3LUZvQX4hIdV16ZJDWs_otZ_4mPWknEWXGL7LGQsneo2gvbZjWjiZHMRiEuQTPSUAhiLjyYFISZquTfBKUOIDQ48jdfSUla5E-fYJPVytgY9KfUS-IQqz09mspytdL4U1CcfGoR/s16000/WhatsApp+Image+2021-06-07+at+8.34.45+PM.jpeg" /></a></div><br />Dibakar Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11461627971193736382noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2529910375336078574.post-10248089023180929032017-04-27T21:50:00.000+05:302017-04-27T21:50:05.516+05:30... old age home<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Given the responsibility of producing a child, the woman with a bowed belly went straight into the OT. She desired long for a baby hoping that she would be her future mainstay. In a man-ridden world, a daughter is quite like a refreshing breeze. The breeze floats away the choking smell of burnt ammunition and brings together the consolidated force of thousand Banyan and Benteak trees to pull out the dirt of human mind. A girl had always been a treasure to the woman with bowed belly. The OT was cold like a cold human face. In a medicine-molested silence moved by a few <span style="font-family: inherit;">aproned</span> doctors and nurses and anaesthetists, she navigated her eyes onto the stunning lights. The lights seemed to be the eyeballs of a girl. <span style="font-family: inherit;">L</span>ittle later, from where she couldn't get that moment, a young lady with a smile made a cover drive on her. She counted her pulse, measured her blood pressure and dived into the bed tickets. "Name?" "Dipanwita." The young lady told something, in an audibly opaque distance though. The tinkling of instruments she could hear clearly brought into her mind the sounds of spoons swooning into utensils in her kitchen.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And then, the anaesthetist broke the intermediate silence and silence came with anaesthesia.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">When the heavy eyes of the woman with a flat belly opened, she saw some pairs of eyes with exhausted tension draw happy smile. Her husband, twitching his eyes, whispered, "No-no, no word! Just sleep now."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">She got herself fully almost after two hours. A nurse tendered the day's bulletin<span style="font-family: inherit;">. In the sky of her family r</span>ose a beautiful boy.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">... <i>Years later</i><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Breezes blew hard<span style="font-family: inherit;"> and hard t<span style="font-family: inherit;">ill the tree <span style="font-family: inherit;">got</span> pulled out</span></span>, an<span style="font-family: inherit;">d swe<span style="font-family: inherit;">pt</span></span> away till it reached <span style="font-family: inherit;">the <span style="font-family: inherit;">wood</span>.</span> <span style="font-family: inherit;">A</span>nd <span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">t</span>here, it met</span> other trees with the <span style="font-family: inherit;">common</span> wound.</span></span></span></div>
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Dibakar Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11461627971193736382noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2529910375336078574.post-58959757608065773812016-08-26T00:48:00.000+05:302016-08-26T00:48:09.033+05:30... through the toughened float glass<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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A few days ago. I was inside the compartment of Howrah-Puducherry AC Superfast Express. And the world I naturally live in was outside. I overnighted at a dull upper berth, from where nothing could be seen outside. It was past 10 a.m., a golden opportunity bloomed. Down there in the lower berth, I saw the passenger folding his laptop into his satchel. He got up to permanently rest his feet on an approaching railway platform. Just two-three minutes over, I came down and sat beside the glass window to enjoy the parakeet blushes of Nature. My eyes were mute while the train was whistling through its linear perspective.<br />
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It was, as if, the first morning blushes in a married couple's life after they remembered those sensitive touches, those hide-and-seek of involuntary body warps, those stealing of incognito-smiles. All these were in alliance with the morning. It seemed to be a winter sun hugging Nature tightly. The green blushes that are missing in my bleak-and-black Kolkata appeared inexplicably gorgeous in Andhra Pradesh. It was as if a mischievous act of the pet dog of an obsolete artist, who had mistakenly left his bucket of green colour in the custody of his pampered dog, and who, being naughtily overcautious, upturned the bucket. The pet might have received blows but the floor became a garden to him. Now, it was his turn to sprinkle stones of palms in a wanton way to make an orchard. Sunny days and rainy evenings would carry the precious time of birth. Sticking their soft heads out would be carried out in no time. And then, status would be updated... "We are grownups!" in the face of the season, in the book of the soil and in the facebook of the natural world.<br />
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These palm trees are beyond the human-brain-skimmed relationship of brothers and sisters, husbands and wives, uncles and aunts, nephews and nieces. In the green world, trees live with trees only, with their different art forms.<br />
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My world, the compartmentalized cosmos, was not so cosy as it apparently appears to be from outside. It was cold, glazed and glossed. However, the glossary of artificial glosses lacks the spontaneous changes of colours and smells. The green has layered the floor of the earth with all its mind-blowing shades. I looked speechless at the geo-graphic on the geo-graph. The green over, the green begins.<br />
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Pretty ideas apart, I went on a blind date with the palm trees. I wished I had the fist power to break the toughened float glass and jump into the green waves. Unfortunately, I'm too powerless.<br />
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On its running wheels, the Express slowed, panted and stopped to rest for a while. The green, flowing by, stopped too.<br />
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I was busy in drinking the beauty as long as possible, as far as possible. Suddenly, a drift, part and parcel of human life, played a trick on me. A slender picture frame amid this art gallery stole away my attention. An old lady, octogenarian I guessed, was making her hair soar high into the air. The gray hair, the result of smouldering coals of a <i>chula</i>, was billowing upward, but I saw a loco lady instead, with paper-thin skin texture, and gray hair posing against the green revolution and disposing sarcasm of life.<br />
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Education, even if taken to as part of opsimathy, should be gladly acquired. I learned, that day, youth is but a visual error of a photographic hour.<br />
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I smiled at myself and butterflied my hands around my neck as the train pulled into Vizianagaram Junction with above fifty shades of gray afternoon.<br />
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Co-passengers in my compartmentalized cosmos pulled my attention with their various tongues. I have always desired to enjoy long journey by train even to the penultimate day of my life. Those passing passengers and fleeting moments, filled with the flavours of cultural variety, kept my desire of a world tour aflame.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRy3ipQdd99holUzuljvyMNcie6ah1Dwpxxa0ZykAqjRIzC7u6XZaH5pPQcSrpLipEkvrG5lqWni3WcafQ0Mz4TDWBHLcL8Tyh1ianurK9xj1sRWvMhAiU7YXpJL2a-Wh1shBOrrg_oXBI/s1600/WhatsApp+Image+2016-08-15+at+1.36.12+PM.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRy3ipQdd99holUzuljvyMNcie6ah1Dwpxxa0ZykAqjRIzC7u6XZaH5pPQcSrpLipEkvrG5lqWni3WcafQ0Mz4TDWBHLcL8Tyh1ianurK9xj1sRWvMhAiU7YXpJL2a-Wh1shBOrrg_oXBI/s320/WhatsApp+Image+2016-08-15+at+1.36.12+PM.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
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And my eyes will always be mute while the train will always be whistling through its linear perspective. And there will always be rain to put bevel effects on the float glass of human eye.<br />
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Dibakar Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11461627971193736382noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2529910375336078574.post-45869547843304937662015-11-13T22:06:00.001+05:302016-08-02T21:30:31.242+05:30... where I was and where I am<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I'm about to take a walk on a road not taken...</div>
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Many lips weave many guesses, and those guesses are but a projection of uncertainty. Those lips may feel free to think that either they're conceptually mine or I'm conceptually theirs.</div>
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... But, I'm auctioned off to life which is a tangible mist of whims and a whimsical mist of touches and goes. And amid the whims, guesses choose words, and concepts, wordplay.</div>
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Let me cast off a word from our everyday life ~ "disappointment". We know that in our life, we often send an appointment letter to disappointment. However, a close look will reveal that we are not well-mixed in the word; we are actually destroyed by its meaning that has its sanctuary in an audacious dictionary. Had we not learnt this meaning before, what would have happened then?... We would have seen nothing beyond the lips from where the word had appeared.</div>
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Just say, "You look very disappointed", to a pigeon, she/he may react by choosing any one action or two or more from the ethnic alloy of activities - sitting at a safe distance, flapping wings, flipping her/his big-toe head, craving for food, flying away. Although she/he is offered a blow from human vocabulary, no injury is sunned to her/him through its meaning. The meaning falls flat and the word reduces to the ashes of meaninglessness.</div>
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Meaninglessness never hurts anyone. It never goes to battle with any guess.</div>
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Where was I? Was I together with myself? Or was I alone with myself? Or was I lost in the mist of whims? As far as remembrance is concerned, I was about to take a walk on a road not taken. So, come, dear reader, let us parallel our shadows.</div>
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My mother froze to death in the month of June this year, deserting me amidst a bunch of questions about life. Here, Ruth sought a soft touch from Truth. But, as usual, I sat on the chair of lies, straightened myself on fibs, shook hands with a skein of deceits. With respiratory trouble I remained a forlorn walking shadow on a road where trees are allowed to neither unfurl their cool umbrella nor brush an amount of frisky breeze on a sweltering neck. This way, I've learnt the cynic magic of ruthless truths.</div>
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They say, one today is worth two tomorrows. I'm often stone blind to too-much injury, too-much blood, just half-dried today. I'm often stone deaf to the cries of the passengers of the earth. I have just withdrawn myself from today's meetings, and I'm trying to keep far away from tomorrow's silent protest. I avoid fast living. Being a and m, I support the 43-year old word, "edutainment" in 2015. I do not like cloudy evenings, though get soaked in cloudy eyesight. I cry with my stone dry eyes when I auction my life to myself. I fly with my miserably burnt wings. I like supplying oxygen to my insecure pen everyday, every adhesive day, composing and tuning my words. I like breathing today, heaving today, sighing today, as and as, one today is worth, in real, thousand tomorrows.</div>
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But, thinking about writing makes me shudder. Writing attracts the eyes of terror. Bloodstained terror from all quarters! Though terror is just a t-distance off from error, today's pre-winter morning was not an error at all. My lips felt dry and pulled. Kriti, our daughter of one and a half years, spread a galaxy of smile to me and pointed to a pair of shoes. Hmm, the little pigeon was in a tottering mood. So, I took her out in the vanishing green of my treeless garden.</div>
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One day, she will also come to the grip of a pride of meanings, a dense growth of guesses, understanding and concepts, a board with end game, a bloodstained newspaper, and of course, terror. Won't she ask me that very tomorrow, "Why did you not force me to stay inside then?"</div>
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Dibakar Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11461627971193736382noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2529910375336078574.post-18287826177314061552012-09-18T09:46:00.000+05:302012-09-18T09:46:05.360+05:30... life and death and life<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Again after a terrible gap I have stumbled upon my own blog. My father is slowly ticking away to the depths of oblivion and his anguish, talking to the silence of the world. Life is so mysterious that much of its content has no definite answer. Struck with dementia, he plays with a few broken words in his own land, where we are trespassers, and as we all know, trespassers are always prosecuted. A few wounds, frowning to be bedsores, are billing his life.</div>
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Our evenings roll away stripping and cleaning him, helping him say something so that his tongue may move. Yesterday, I grabbed my parents in a frame. My mother, just assisting my father urinate, sits fagged-out in front of the TV. The TV set sweeps serials after serials, however, she hardly notices any sweep in her four-walled life. No word is enough for my mother, who has been involved helping her husband recuperate for the last couple of years, while she knows, dreadfully knows and helplessly admits that sunset has already kissed my father's forehead. It is the dark hours bordering on the time of twilight. Here goes a bow to my beautiful parents, their life and relationship.</div>
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Dibakar Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11461627971193736382noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2529910375336078574.post-6016394402814202302012-02-08T22:15:00.001+05:302012-02-08T22:15:37.915+05:30... a mobile child<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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During my journey to school, I see hundreds and multiply them into thousands at my every return. Today, I was going to school as usual and hundreds passed by me. However, in front of me was a child, whose face put languages of all nations to my heart to translate love and affection. There was no camera with me. The one I had was my mobile. Even the memory card was left home quite carelessly. So I had to delete some photos from the phone memory in order to take the child home.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAb2OZH1qdsksAglqJOMR0gnLNEmGehQgtClbJGw3CZ3s0vyFxPJF80bpvN7Nr9_qWyPWf55MIR_feoy9ly81r5DGctnGVSXF2twcEN3mNg34yp-OZqhMttfknv1O1Lz_KwNnZSf0buDbQ/s1600/Photo-0071.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAb2OZH1qdsksAglqJOMR0gnLNEmGehQgtClbJGw3CZ3s0vyFxPJF80bpvN7Nr9_qWyPWf55MIR_feoy9ly81r5DGctnGVSXF2twcEN3mNg34yp-OZqhMttfknv1O1Lz_KwNnZSf0buDbQ/s320/Photo-0071.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I have no end of family problems. But today I forgot all this when I began looking at this child - a unique embroidery of sunny beauty and moony innocence. </div>
</div>Dibakar Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11461627971193736382noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2529910375336078574.post-47871436096991279312012-01-29T22:22:00.001+05:302012-01-29T22:25:32.458+05:30... my father's day<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Yesterday, I celebrated My Father's Day. No, not with candles, palatable dishes, balloons and dusts of mica. The day went on with purgative torture, with almost no food and without hilarity.</div>
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I had no school. My father's physical breakdown crippled my feet home. A week ago, he felt a severe cardiac pain, which was actually a depressing upshot of gas. A two-time cerebral haemorrhage winner as well as a bypass surgery conqueror had now lost all energies to fight with constipation. Constipation led to that point that laxative was used in his rectum for clearance of his bowels. A few days ago, he got rid of a severe difficulty with prostrate gland. The nebulous urine had made it in the limelight. The winner of yesterday is totally vanquished by tormenting today. The laxative worked on him. I cleaned him at first and then the waste matter, carefully, from the rubber cloth. He was more vehemently trembling due to neurological disorder than fighting shy of his nakedness. After half an hour, I helped him urinate. He can neither stand nor walk steadily due to his unresponsive left leg. I took hold of his hand firmly, as my mother, laden too by geezerhood, cannot maintain the balance. She endured much. Now, it's time for me to rearrange challenges of life and curb her endurance.</div>
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These days, I can't sit at my computer for hours together. I read much these days, riveting my eyes to the pages of Kundera and Eliot. I feel if I sweep thirty-six novels round a year, at least, for Learning's sake, a limited learning will be done. However, time thwarts time. I have stolen myself away from them at this juncture. Now, I was with my father. I saw him like I had seen him ever.</div>
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The day consumed much of him. The agonized groans died down slowly. He began falling asleep, tired and tortured by his illness. Commonly, I am mentally distanced from my father. But, yesterday, I sat for a length of hours, rubbernecking at his fuming face. He was sleeping, snoring, his face systematically ballooning upward, his exhausted body hidden inside a quilt, looking like a soldier with neither armour nor sword. Inside the mosquito net, inside the room closed and curtained, the hazy figure of my dear father was mantled in jade light. No candle was lit up, yet it was much better than a candlelight dinner. The distance between my father and me was just of a five-foot silence. Silence was that silent that even a deaf could hear the breathing of a bug.</div>
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This is my father, whose constant guidance has made me stand on this platform. I have seen none write English that excellently. None could bear a candle to his linguistic aroma. Only fluorescent words could tide over the distance between his pen and paper. Today, he is mute like a swan, almost blind like a Milton. Time has questioned on his adaptation to the cosmology, perhaps, because of his age, being two more than seventy. He has forgotten many words, but frankly saying, he has forgiven many words too. In my childhood, he constantly provoked me to make use of proper words, otherwise, breaking through the barriers of grammar can never ever be possible. He always said in his instructive panache – what to write about is known to everybody, but there is hardly a soul who knows how to write. I miss this teaching right now... a numbness, therefore, pains.</div>
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Pain relieves us greatly of our mental squalor and reduces any distance. The distance that was invested by both of us is having no worth to me today. What could be more delightful than this? The sudden failure of his health has triggered a reaction in me. I know – one day, one tragic day, with the flashing of the sun or with the rising of rainbow or with the waxing of a moon, he will receive a full stop to his life, and with this he will be atomized into the eternal sentience to plug into absolute freedom.</div>
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There will be another day calendared for me to celebrate a father's day once again...</div>
</div>Dibakar Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11461627971193736382noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2529910375336078574.post-36021285517585877152012-01-24T23:36:00.002+05:302012-01-29T22:10:34.952+05:30... when flowers make flowers<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Last year, we went to enjoy a three-day drama workshop. Away from our busy town, swinging on the laptop of Nature, we were in a festive mood to cleanse ourselves of the civic rubbish and know ourselves a little better. The workshop was replete with children of different ages. And if you find buddies like these little ones, your joy will know no bounds. Here is a day's evening activity, which was collaged with the spectacles of life and colourful origami. Photos were clicked by Arnab Sengupta, my friend.</div>
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This little girl was captured at her careful scissoring through a paper. She was too engrossed to towel the dust off her knee.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUo9xQ7690SY2VQ_rhiVVpiMFGPBrhIq9WiM2xaJqF2JMDkVrT03NTh5NN8y8rcrTvb-jOAW72RJKtvn-XuBaFZw-6ysSrhkpXujmDIICI6_ub3otD9AuGkhcMkmvWreWpFvSsp_m0vUfc/s1600/IMG_0631.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUo9xQ7690SY2VQ_rhiVVpiMFGPBrhIq9WiM2xaJqF2JMDkVrT03NTh5NN8y8rcrTvb-jOAW72RJKtvn-XuBaFZw-6ysSrhkpXujmDIICI6_ub3otD9AuGkhcMkmvWreWpFvSsp_m0vUfc/s320/IMG_0631.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Once made, nothing matters, but making matters a lot. The absorption is hinted at this fact that creation is just a victim of beauty. Slowly had they made the stem...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFTcUb7q7qicf8dUt2doJrgEVIPjjckp6OUA0zgb0Yezh-stiRavNXmINGS1pnsLrRHa8l8CNRrtSZEsIkNs6YHNy6Vnb1MRebcA_07AAF8pwtb54tQC67be2gZfzhUiqQgivT7bGkb8hy/s1600/IMG_0628.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFTcUb7q7qicf8dUt2doJrgEVIPjjckp6OUA0zgb0Yezh-stiRavNXmINGS1pnsLrRHa8l8CNRrtSZEsIkNs6YHNy6Vnb1MRebcA_07AAF8pwtb54tQC67be2gZfzhUiqQgivT7bGkb8hy/s320/IMG_0628.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Red flowers, blue stems, yellow sleeves and children at their deft hands...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzssr7CymQiYj53zOw2WbZBC2SVZziRDaDX6mWM214lCQYiTEiqHPMVxqKSkGiRj96hX3UjPjJxVjBCx8ZOIfTuYNtxkLAmMdpffaH-uxUaU5skaL7259v65EXWw9vCWfLPKuLADrj1FVK/s1600/IMG_0632.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzssr7CymQiYj53zOw2WbZBC2SVZziRDaDX6mWM214lCQYiTEiqHPMVxqKSkGiRj96hX3UjPjJxVjBCx8ZOIfTuYNtxkLAmMdpffaH-uxUaU5skaL7259v65EXWw9vCWfLPKuLADrj1FVK/s320/IMG_0632.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Look at the absorbed eyes and feel the density of her thinking! Who could excel her in terms of concentration?</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp_XIC7V28VclAUX3oFQbjGFRlZw49_4rhXolZjgBRYdQpKnA4Evn2384-rNZnZA3zoN0yrCHISUbNhxLjmMpepV2d-LKFZB3X-76g4vm9AA9_rRRzXYmU0Y3Wud9K7pWyLiwKID5GBp9r/s1600/IMG_0633.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp_XIC7V28VclAUX3oFQbjGFRlZw49_4rhXolZjgBRYdQpKnA4Evn2384-rNZnZA3zoN0yrCHISUbNhxLjmMpepV2d-LKFZB3X-76g4vm9AA9_rRRzXYmU0Y3Wud9K7pWyLiwKID5GBp9r/s320/IMG_0633.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Flowers are one of the soothing creations of the world. Children are no way less soothing. They are born to make the adult think of their inner impurities. When children smile, flowers bloom; when flowers bloom, the creation smiles. Here is a flower, whose smile after success, flowers.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjEK7gj7yBGUOvj7ySmwnodSmT8CmyW-XSsfqTzMWoUodbKVZoMWbo6DrTk6yNL9CLSn5xAf-o5bu_AHaI_6Py8g1M9_83rBnWns61G8LBYE07kZ6eeUOxDSlykdhctWl4sf6fQPYQOnwx/s1600/IMG_0630.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjEK7gj7yBGUOvj7ySmwnodSmT8CmyW-XSsfqTzMWoUodbKVZoMWbo6DrTk6yNL9CLSn5xAf-o5bu_AHaI_6Py8g1M9_83rBnWns61G8LBYE07kZ6eeUOxDSlykdhctWl4sf6fQPYQOnwx/s320/IMG_0630.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>
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Here we see, the flowers are kept in the vase, a toilet mug indeed. They did not drop their heads. The night, though thickened with swarthiness, was embalmed with red, bluey and purple aroma of flowery origami.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiML3tIQeMvBaWUB42WUvK2Xqqg8-m96dr_6_btjvrN22g28XdRZTKwpYZ_7Ty4jYlk1NYeGdGiPRqVG5qkaQkVG2zYWxloHMm2tRifVFjpdM1-3AyGJRKCN_aLeSuFSGjctKv78IN8syFK/s1600/IMG_0643.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiML3tIQeMvBaWUB42WUvK2Xqqg8-m96dr_6_btjvrN22g28XdRZTKwpYZ_7Ty4jYlk1NYeGdGiPRqVG5qkaQkVG2zYWxloHMm2tRifVFjpdM1-3AyGJRKCN_aLeSuFSGjctKv78IN8syFK/s320/IMG_0643.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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</div>Dibakar Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11461627971193736382noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2529910375336078574.post-34367910120335884192012-01-01T07:25:00.002+05:302012-01-29T22:11:14.123+05:30... 2012 ~ Nothing new * Everything anew<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b><span style="color: #cc0000;">Happy</span> <span style="color: #274e13;">New</span> <span style="color: blue;">Year</span></b></div>
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It's time for me to carry on mistakes like 01/01/11 for a number of days as it needs a few days more to adapt myself to the fresh fragrance of 2012.</div>
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I could neither write anything nor post something memorable at regular intervals due to some unavoidable circumstances. Today, I have clicked a snap of a woollen seat for all my readers and co-bloggers.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoKUL3xX2jEJ7XNoQAhxquQU5WJ4fosAus_A-N6sr3UtVmX0TdKDICKs_gVwmSWskPoOmCrgpNpQLr7_IqktMuQ0-JxOALvMyuXRzqtJbfQVW9_1u3wLVBtEVkJ5DBRxND9bZKv0zAEj53/s1600/Seat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoKUL3xX2jEJ7XNoQAhxquQU5WJ4fosAus_A-N6sr3UtVmX0TdKDICKs_gVwmSWskPoOmCrgpNpQLr7_IqktMuQ0-JxOALvMyuXRzqtJbfQVW9_1u3wLVBtEVkJ5DBRxND9bZKv0zAEj53/s320/Seat.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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This soft seat was gently knitted by my mother river-long ago. I feel myself sanctified to have a seat on it and eat before going to my school. On this new year's day, I request my readers to have an imaginative seat on it. The woollen seat is theoretically mine, but practically the silent art belongs to everyone. Smell the past, sense the busy yarn ends and sing the paean of the all-time great womanhood ~ anew.</div>
</div>Dibakar Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11461627971193736382noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2529910375336078574.post-61251759808114126532011-11-16T22:22:00.001+05:302011-11-24T18:36:45.386+05:30... my novel<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: small;">[<a href="http://dibakar-sarkar.blogspot.com/p/my-novel.html" target="_blank">My Novel</a>: <a href="http://dibakar-sarkar.blogspot.com/p/my-novel.html" target="_blank"><b>FM</b></a>. </span><span style="font-size: small;"> For a bad writer, what can be of more value than a worse novel? </span><span style="font-size: small;">The novel began its journey almost five years ago. It's still being penned down. Cling to it and leave a flood of views.]</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="color: #990000;"><span style="color: red;">*</span>Attention:</span> The page </b></span><a href="http://dibakar-sarkar.blogspot.com/2011/11/my-novel.html" target="_blank"><b style="color: #3d85c6;">... my novel</b></a> <span style="font-size: small;"><b>has been shifted to a <a href="http://dibakar-sarkar.blogspot.com/p/my-novel.html" target="_blank">stand alone page</a>, where you can still flood comments. The next chapters of this novel will be published on the stand alone page from now on.</b> All others are as same as they were before.<b><br /></b></span></div>
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<b><span style="color: #a64d79; font-size: large;"> <span style="color: #c27ba0;"><span style="color: #741b47;">FM</span> <span style="color: #ead1dc;">~</span> Chapter 0</span></span></b><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>Yesterdays</i></span><br />
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In all my city-pent yesterdays I was a goofy victim who walked gently "With buds, and bells, and stars without a name".<br />
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I am the shadow of a goofy victim of life. “Hi, Mr Goofy!” one may call. During my college years, this Mr. Goofy was pressed to walk differently into politics, though not by entering it by any means. I was just a vision victim. I was without a name. It's not that thinking otherwise was my political view, it was rather a visionary glimpse. I was a captive lord of John Keats. I hummed lines like, “Forlorn! the very word is like a bell / To toll me back from thee to my sole self! / Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well / As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.” made me bleed occasionally. This occasional bleeding built up a house of hunger inside me and threw me into one hundred years of solitude. I got into a habit of risking my life into anything and began a fanatic search in quest of the horizon where the two ideas of what is good and what is bad touch. Then there was a one-sided war between a professor and me that touched down the academic grounds with a fantastic failure. So, this Mr. Goofy laughed to fail and failed to laugh.<br />
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Silence passed into me.<br />
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Everything went so much inspiring for me when I got the opportunity to mix with the mass and be forlorn. The effulgence of the dullness and the dry sunbeams of approaching winter used to give me a certain feeling of stupidity that I began comparing my years of writing and conflicting struggle of becoming a writer to the strange jollity of a humdrum human life.<br />
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In all my city-pent yesterdays I carried two genuine frames – one of my being, another of my becoming.<br />
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I passed into silence. Life appeared to be a gamble and a gambler appeared in me. A stupid gambler, who loved more to be ruled out of the team and watch it win than to be included in the team and watch it lose. One day, in front of our mirror, I looked at my declining body – a dilapidated house – an empty house to let – to whom to let was beyond my knowledge. My face was full of face fungus. There was a certain attraction that I felt toward me.<br />
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I asked my reflection, “What do you want?” The man standing in front of me husked his voice and blurted out, “I want to be a writer.” I approved of his wish, signed it carefully and then dived into his hungry eyes. Then, another day came. While combing I asked him, “OK, then you want to be a writer. What's there to write about?” He husked for the second time and blurted out, “There's nothing to write about.”</div>
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<li>Then? Then you still want to be a writer!</li>
<li>Yeah, of course!</li>
<li>What the hell is there to write about when there's nothing to write about...</li>
<li>There is only a feel of subjectlessness left...</li>
<li>Subjectlessness! What's that?</li>
<li>It's nothing but nothingness.</li>
<li><i>Nothingness.</i> Then, you're going to write about <i>Nothingness</i> – nothingness of life?</li>
<li>I didn't say so.</li>
<li>You said <i>Nothingness</i>.</li>
<li>... but not affixed by the stupidly related words, “of life”.</li>
<li>O, I am sorry then.<i> </i></li>
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<i>[Here he paused a little and went on murmuring at a slow pace...]</i><br />
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<li>Nothingness, but not the nothingness of life. <i>[He paused again and asked gently...]</i></li>
<li>Something on the subject, please?</li>
<li>It's not a subject; it's a situation.</li>
<li>Situation is also a subject.</li>
<li>No.</li>
<li>Then?</li>
<li>It's a way to subject.</li>
<li>Very sorry my dear! The way to subject may also be a subject, as it's here, in your writing.</li>
<li>Maybe, it may not always be.</li>
<li>Don't play with words pliizzz...</li>
<li>I am not exactly playing with words. I have just portrayed the situation.</li>
<li>Oho, then Maybe it may not always be is your situation</li>
<li>... and your subject</li>
<li>No, not my subject!</li>
<li>Why not yours? I suppose it's not mine.</li>
<li>It's not mine too as it's not a subject.</li>
<li>A situation, I said.</li>
<li>A situation, I say too.</li>
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<i>[Here I paused a little and went on murmuring at a slow pace...]</i></div>
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<li>A situation that I said is the situation that you say. A mutual say or a bifurcated one. <i>[I paused again and asked gently...] </i></li>
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<li>What should we call it? </li>
<li>A kind of... </li>
<li>A kind of what! Please, go on and be my inspiration...</li>
<li>A kind of a... </li>
<li>A kind of a WHAT!</li>
<li>A kind of an...</li>
<li>Please don't play with articles!</li>
<li>I am not playing with articles. I am in search of a phrase...</li>
<li>What the screw it is, pliizzz!</li>
<li>... an adjustment with truth</li>
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I played with my mirror image this word battle – word mirroring existence. And during this battle in those unfamiliar years, I lost everything and the most tragic loss of all, I lost my father. No, don't tear off any voucher of sympathy. It's not the losing synonymous to death. It's just a breakup of relationship; – once it was supposed to be as weak as the parting of hair, but, with the passage of time the parting of hair grew to be a defence to excuse the relations once happened to be in between the two opposite sides.</div>
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This losing was promoted by father himself and eventually ended up by me. The relationship went lingering and loitering in the dust of time, without a name... I gradually isolated my becoming from my being and my being from my father.</div>
</div>Dibakar Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11461627971193736382noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2529910375336078574.post-88992456791920773842011-11-11T09:54:00.000+05:302011-11-11T09:54:34.420+05:30... a moan on National Education Day<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: justify;">In West Bengal, education has no other derivative but a division-making policy in society and has long played a role of drawing demarcation between social beings so far. The education inculcated in students of Bengali medium is just a shade of education, a melancholy of education, and often, a stale food of hypocrisy. To be fair or unfair, students go into the institutions with a view to learning something and pass out with and As a teacher, I can't find ways to rub off the layers of hypocrisy from this system.<br />
<br />
Today is National Education Day. We would gurgle with these three words as a supreme consolation to ourselves.<br />
<br />
We desire to hobnob with the elite of the society. Today some Rahul came in my sleep and I shuddered to rise. Who is this chap?</div><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>a weak fellow of Class V</li>
<li>does classwork carefully</li>
<li>does homework every day</li>
<li>a bruise on the left elbow, left long-untreated</li>
<li>one shirt washed at the weekend</li>
<li>deprived of father since childhood</li>
<li>his mother works as a scrubber</li>
<li>his brother battles to run a tea-stall</li>
</ul><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Rahul is part of the <a href="http://www.educationforallinindia.com/RighttoEducationBill2005.html" target="_blank">Right to Education</a> Act ~ THE GAZETTE OF INDIA EXTRAORDINARY, Page 2 / Part II: (e) "child belonging to weaker section".</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">On the last 5th September, Teachers' Day, this fellow came as early as possible with his dirt-soiled shirt and stood in front of a queue to take a look at <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sarvepalli_Radhakrishnan" target="_blank">Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan</a>. He was hauled by the hand to the end of the queue as his shirt dispersed no surf-excel whiteness.<br />
<br />
This Rahul, the target of our communist culture and culture-born education, has lost all strength to belt him up and to fight against his traumas. Had our country had any sanative education policy, we the teachers would have been wise and would have encouraged Rahul to follow the steps of education.<br />
<br />
Today is another day related to education and I am afraid, dismayed and hurt.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Abul_Kalam_Azad" target="_blank">Maulana Abul Kalam Azad</a> – the first Education Minister of our country! Please read this story, hear the groan of the little fellow and rise again as others are short of hearing the cry.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Should there be any significance of such day when the total education system is crippling the right of a child and brutal teachers go scot-free?</div></div>Dibakar Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11461627971193736382noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2529910375336078574.post-73075363891299814862011-11-10T10:53:00.000+05:302011-11-10T10:53:04.495+05:30... dynamic views and IndiBlogger<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: justify;">The 2011 October was a brilliant month for me as everything went against me and I also went against everything. To be precise, life was as same as it was in the October of the last year. This rolling of time has made my electrical pen go dry of thinking with threefold sledging. “The Sense of an Ending” by Julian Barnes has sledged – transported – my thinking into a no writer's land and again sledged – hammered – my arid brain.<br />
<br />
What's the third sledging?<br />
<br />
The Dynamic views of my blog has been a great experience for me. What can I have more than having such a rock-solid structure of a blog? It was so recherche that I became fixed to its depth for a number of days. But this new view became a hazard for some of my readers whose PC-s are lagging behind the march of time. Their Mozilla would either take a long time to show it or get the readers' patience frozen to time. It never happens with Linux for its upgrade is a demand child of open-source love. The widgets also went away with this new view. The Google Teams are working with this adventurous look too. We look forward to a great new beginning in front of me.<br />
<br />
When I was about to enlist the uniform resource locator (url) of any novel blog to my favourite blog-zone, <a href="http://www.indiblogger.in/" target="_blank">IndiBlogger</a>, the link was unexpectedly given a refusal. This problem persisted with a number of posts since then for it was an instance of broken rss feed. The monthly rank broke out N/A. No, I was not cast down at this ranking, but I was certainly disturbed with the technical problems that dazzled up with the new look.<br />
<br />
I sensed an ending to this endless embarrassment...<br />
<br />
Dismayed by this constant combat of viewing and getting viewed, posting and getting read, I teased and titivated my blog once again and the procedure of this new look is still going on.<br />
<br />
It's time to sledge down the sorrows of a blogizen! The sense of an ending has carried the ideas of promises of prospect beyond the end... Readers can read my blog without submitting to technical troubles from now on.</div></div>Dibakar Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11461627971193736382noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2529910375336078574.post-66554522418328834882011-11-05T19:01:00.001+05:302011-11-07T12:03:48.603+05:30... your footprint rank<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Thanks <a href="http://www.footprintnetwork.org/" target="_blank">Global Footprint Network</a>!<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">The world's population is expected to hit seven billion in the next few weeks, and I think it has almost reached, or it may spill over the expectation. After growing very slowly for most of human history, the number of people on Earth has more than doubled in the last 50 years.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">According to calculations, I was the 4,557,364,942nd human being born on earth! However it may sound illogical, stupid, the sensation is always on...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Fill in your date of birth <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-15391515" target="_blank">here</a> to find out your rank in this population queue.</div></div>Dibakar Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11461627971193736382noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2529910375336078574.post-91248170054895494662011-11-02T21:49:00.000+05:302011-11-02T21:49:24.491+05:30... the milkman's friend<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">The milkman's friend - all alone - basking in the sun<br />
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdQcsmixqCPIpGTt4lIsRJnl-ujgBzed0gFSWpi3ISyE2CRIo1yHIsVY1NgNuJTITAHx-K9O4Ozlb8Wopfh8YIioxQ3SvwG1aDorhA3Zb6D6_7mY8_1GGG-1lx8HZoR27CQDURsER3gW8y/s1600/Photo-0073.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdQcsmixqCPIpGTt4lIsRJnl-ujgBzed0gFSWpi3ISyE2CRIo1yHIsVY1NgNuJTITAHx-K9O4Ozlb8Wopfh8YIioxQ3SvwG1aDorhA3Zb6D6_7mY8_1GGG-1lx8HZoR27CQDURsER3gW8y/s320/Photo-0073.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Left apart from other friends...<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPSpRThCAvOJ4q_8BxxwyfUeHpIt67ObCB0E0He2JB9V5hUip6j3uenw9JL9GuCCWynRp-ZtOJTstIlGDcNUSvdGGMdB7YPiKC2jw15unvHUcoD98HwNMFFtYPbkkdCfbMTfkRVMmkMRE4/s1600/Photo-0079.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPSpRThCAvOJ4q_8BxxwyfUeHpIt67ObCB0E0He2JB9V5hUip6j3uenw9JL9GuCCWynRp-ZtOJTstIlGDcNUSvdGGMdB7YPiKC2jw15unvHUcoD98HwNMFFtYPbkkdCfbMTfkRVMmkMRE4/s320/Photo-0079.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Looking forward to be carried away like the distant fellow can...<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigCpRYQ872XwcsQdpwivdtdz5kpFJztUz1pTIrcmujRMMKhpgcL9BMGGhsyShxYSssvHlilhw0kxuwZwviwPMKxQo5AanrcUCu1tIiP8ImzcEQ_o4Nca1RyTOMW69RppUGGxa2uawH7slN/s1600/Photo-0080.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigCpRYQ872XwcsQdpwivdtdz5kpFJztUz1pTIrcmujRMMKhpgcL9BMGGhsyShxYSssvHlilhw0kxuwZwviwPMKxQo5AanrcUCu1tIiP8ImzcEQ_o4Nca1RyTOMW69RppUGGxa2uawH7slN/s320/Photo-0080.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
And, at last, taken off to a certain place...<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQhlwxHp9UwJfH-PQYTBD6QRuZp3_0M7IcghIDUa_RCvwEVD8n7E_GZEZkCOstNdlwGU3bEm4dzy46C73QL3qH7GYwM3eH29q-3tRugoAKEcR2mXqEDvsx_vSPvOc7hfLxqAMVxENuq6V6/s1600/Photo-0082.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQhlwxHp9UwJfH-PQYTBD6QRuZp3_0M7IcghIDUa_RCvwEVD8n7E_GZEZkCOstNdlwGU3bEm4dzy46C73QL3qH7GYwM3eH29q-3tRugoAKEcR2mXqEDvsx_vSPvOc7hfLxqAMVxENuq6V6/s320/Photo-0082.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
</div></div>Dibakar Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11461627971193736382noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2529910375336078574.post-22760250787686462382011-10-26T21:11:00.000+05:302011-10-26T21:11:52.842+05:30... a bun as a boon<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: justify;">I was touched when on this 24th October I saw the humane face of law and order. One of the security personnel, on Dum Dum Cantonment railway platform, was seen tearing snaps from a bun and feeding a waif. I hooked myself on the spot and flicked a shot. This is the child whom I fed a number of times ago. I like him very much. He usually stands at the front end of the waiting lines and pulls edges of our colourful shirts. He is the only one who will give you a smile if you offer him food instead of coins, as others, bigger than him, always throws snow on his eyes. The picture clearly suggests that there is still somebody to stand by anybody and nobody is alone in the world.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiag6FEl5yNF_FFQi8AzNw42wkjJQ81Z6R2rrFInEVJsKYvjfjq039fNZBfXZqCqNgoqDV7t94BH0I8_k9E31R404cuuZuKayUDMSU4TwUhEDQzdMWbfyHbrsubWp1C9PpbO7i-z7sgHr2K/s1600/Photo-0046.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiag6FEl5yNF_FFQi8AzNw42wkjJQ81Z6R2rrFInEVJsKYvjfjq039fNZBfXZqCqNgoqDV7t94BH0I8_k9E31R404cuuZuKayUDMSU4TwUhEDQzdMWbfyHbrsubWp1C9PpbO7i-z7sgHr2K/s320/Photo-0046.jpg" width="320" /></a></div></div>Dibakar Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11461627971193736382noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2529910375336078574.post-44489947729746502032011-10-19T09:22:00.000+05:302011-10-19T09:22:43.069+05:30... snaps of life on the roof<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: justify;">I know that the following snaps have not touched the photographic height, still I feel you would enjoy the beating of life. I have to shoot down my passion with this 2-Mega Pixel camera till I can afford an SLR. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I went out into the roof to arrange the washed-and-cleaned articles of clothing. I had my mobile with me and therefore couldn't prohibit my passion from taking a few snaps. The blinding heat of the sun made my feet play a touch-and-lift game on the sunburnt roof. I had no footwear and therefore I continued to jib wildly.</div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">These beautiful yellow marigolds, the four sisters, get my mother's fond splashes at everyday evening. She applies no manure to the soil and takes no technical care to grow them. The moment she caresses the saplings, they spring into blossoms of life.</div><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWmpljh5rJWrYQx30Ey4MO_TLolyA6GYCmV12Ckg0z0y5D0zgt7b0BfK5uS6nhUPrcO4EZlhUf1g7rPY6aIxF-3Hms02tTJJeHHmwGLAd78QF5sf2VUq__t_flgOYZx1irN8saXgz_WHQq/s1600/Photo-0043.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWmpljh5rJWrYQx30Ey4MO_TLolyA6GYCmV12Ckg0z0y5D0zgt7b0BfK5uS6nhUPrcO4EZlhUf1g7rPY6aIxF-3Hms02tTJJeHHmwGLAd78QF5sf2VUq__t_flgOYZx1irN8saXgz_WHQq/s320/Photo-0043.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">Have a look on Catharanthus roseus, the dancing queens in white apron. They seem to be very much annoyed nowadays at the mischievous climbing of the nectar-greedy ants.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij-AdbEfzRiNomh9MyVsD5Rs82OO_B4Tn1g1ighCJVP_88Slx7n2ZRcvHpgBe9Z-Dftdlg2tdewFm3Qr0dkSDfyfADowHrBEE8w7HwsID6Dnsub5UXNVhng4AiddTSsj1_qCTVFHaQvmQM/s1600/Photo-0045.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij-AdbEfzRiNomh9MyVsD5Rs82OO_B4Tn1g1ighCJVP_88Slx7n2ZRcvHpgBe9Z-Dftdlg2tdewFm3Qr0dkSDfyfADowHrBEE8w7HwsID6Dnsub5UXNVhng4AiddTSsj1_qCTVFHaQvmQM/s320/Photo-0045.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">My mother's saris - resting with the warmth of peace. Far away are seen the marigolds - diminishing the glory of the melting yellow of the sun.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLhLU7J4BEzFGTu3be68h-sdFNB1lQBJvRsrC5CGfaVWRy0oWhOy6tuq9R9ntacVH1w-BWoMnVdXxuRBqmU515b7gUwC7e-7YXbGrDq_FXa5iiBIRpWAoqIgfFfIEGt6LW8T0m92YBeg78/s1600/Photo-0046.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLhLU7J4BEzFGTu3be68h-sdFNB1lQBJvRsrC5CGfaVWRy0oWhOy6tuq9R9ntacVH1w-BWoMnVdXxuRBqmU515b7gUwC7e-7YXbGrDq_FXa5iiBIRpWAoqIgfFfIEGt6LW8T0m92YBeg78/s320/Photo-0046.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">This bird, who started to flutter toward her nest, seems to have forgotten either the atlas or the flight of flying pilgrims. I framed her flight while she was broadcasting the bulletin of her helplessness.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFutdsXrL0ttyhIbivMNWFVPkMQFBPJUds-qa8rbSEptMdoXe69j07M9k41T_bijrozLGUIQZ-NuD8UIHNQKofMyMLI9cxJO5A1ynMLMZEOaBx0p2kPMxRbSL8RGzJ3hwJ3DEwMDgPXSXF/s1600/Photo-0050.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFutdsXrL0ttyhIbivMNWFVPkMQFBPJUds-qa8rbSEptMdoXe69j07M9k41T_bijrozLGUIQZ-NuD8UIHNQKofMyMLI9cxJO5A1ynMLMZEOaBx0p2kPMxRbSL8RGzJ3hwJ3DEwMDgPXSXF/s320/Photo-0050.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">I won't request you to have a look on the tousled hair of the coconut tree. Rather, I would pull your attention to the life at stake. A kite has been stuck there since 15th August. She not only lost her tropical independence to the coconut branches but also lost her life.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPTAFID5vU_vERcWv0oaqnklZivpqqBtXYfgSa26lh3lUnhDqanHNRl_7WMrXz1A_Qok6za95A53iLGM1wHydQm8EdoYotad59AvepB8PQtO63S_Pe7xWvuY7ZPXCriFkxqeuUF1ccURQN/s1600/Photo-0051.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPTAFID5vU_vERcWv0oaqnklZivpqqBtXYfgSa26lh3lUnhDqanHNRl_7WMrXz1A_Qok6za95A53iLGM1wHydQm8EdoYotad59AvepB8PQtO63S_Pe7xWvuY7ZPXCriFkxqeuUF1ccURQN/s320/Photo-0051.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
</div></div>Dibakar Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11461627971193736382noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2529910375336078574.post-49477092288561591702011-10-18T22:58:00.003+05:302011-10-18T23:13:29.051+05:30... caught in sleep<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: justify;">I was so tired today... and as a result... sleep spread a net over me. I was too tired to remove my spectacles. It's my phone who took snaps of me:</div><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0QJKUxyZVQYSMOMT0QJR4VvNQC64C3iRvXda1OMdhtFYtai1VM28gPB4vyOTaG3VFooV0oGHySX2cdph19_Uw9w5Qp-EdqnXZrEpoJhZc1ceqEl8ThXllweEDWyCkkO7PNtRqYKAuyRPd/s1600/Photo-0045.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0QJKUxyZVQYSMOMT0QJR4VvNQC64C3iRvXda1OMdhtFYtai1VM28gPB4vyOTaG3VFooV0oGHySX2cdph19_Uw9w5Qp-EdqnXZrEpoJhZc1ceqEl8ThXllweEDWyCkkO7PNtRqYKAuyRPd/s320/Photo-0045.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">Dalai Lama once said, <i>Sleep is the best meditation</i>. I can't even remember how long did I meditate today.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx-P0mKdxiTug8wYbKxvfUUkIGD9rSP_lXAloGwbXJDXnMmezLO2PmFrXSDOjDqumK4Mu5nbdR2C8H5zehrh_EDplAiQairdyqtsQOT_rXRuN_i1norxxA-GjECifbvV9YVd9BXp9WY9aI/s1600/Photo-0046.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx-P0mKdxiTug8wYbKxvfUUkIGD9rSP_lXAloGwbXJDXnMmezLO2PmFrXSDOjDqumK4Mu5nbdR2C8H5zehrh_EDplAiQairdyqtsQOT_rXRuN_i1norxxA-GjECifbvV9YVd9BXp9WY9aI/s320/Photo-0046.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">Though sleep was tired of me a few days ago, she caught me yet again in my extreme fatigue.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA57Ubsb-HeomB-FmS7DkLslY69lmRn-J9uXP6uSwC4gptYJ1j08wktBMKl_sfIcL3PkqgnO75c5piL9V6Xqa3SAM57veCwslY_WqhFA02CbjyxtUx-iSITGyHpMchMezLzsVWToonQVk6/s1600/Photo-0044.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA57Ubsb-HeomB-FmS7DkLslY69lmRn-J9uXP6uSwC4gptYJ1j08wktBMKl_sfIcL3PkqgnO75c5piL9V6Xqa3SAM57veCwslY_WqhFA02CbjyxtUx-iSITGyHpMchMezLzsVWToonQVk6/s320/Photo-0044.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><i><br />
</i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">[<b>Photo courtesy</b>: Samsung Ch@t527]</span></i></div></div>Dibakar Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11461627971193736382noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2529910375336078574.post-23066204943260386162011-10-17T10:42:00.001+05:302011-10-17T11:12:39.647+05:30... about the cry of a little soul<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: justify;">My depression always allows a provoking conclusion that any space is filled with emptiness.<br />
<br />
A baby of a little over four months, my littlest niece, had to go through an inoculation yesterday. It was a natural event in the baby's days-out and pursuing the natural event travelled a gnawing pain in her right thigh. There was a purple swelling. She could not move her leg fast and failing to do so out of pain she could not drop to sleep also. The acrobatics she usually shows to draw attention was missing in her face. Tired – singed with untold pain and trilling under a mild temperature, the little eyes, quite blank, filled only with crimson pain, could easily draw tears from her mother's eyes. My mother, her grandma, was restless at her suffering that she could not put into language. Only the hoary wisdom and experience, spread like the greenwoods, of how to bring up children, moved her into ease and her ease into reminiscence of her struggle against the odds of life and insurance of safety to the two kids that have died in us ~ the two brothers.<br />
<br />
My niece was airing all her grievance and ailment that took flight from the ground floor due the second floor and rocketed through my solitary sitting. In my study, I could not focus on trimming and titivating my blog as the breeze playing inside due to open windows was transporting the passionate cry of the little girl that I took for a piece of <i>Ahir Bhairav</i>.<br />
<br />
I could have hurried downstairs. But, I sternly nailed my self to the bed rested in the first floor. Had I been down there, I would have to face her unconditional approach of life, “I always give you a smile, and in return you always give me pain.”<br />
<br />
I stayed pasted on bed at 2:50 AM and thought for almost half an hour that this acute pain would inspire her to deflect diseases and the endurance of pain justify her strength for confronting more pain in life.<br />
<br />
This pain-into-tears motion picture has carried the simplest of simple realizations regarding the day's duty discharged by the trio – the little girl, her mother and her grandma. It is the joy of life that the only inheritance of life is pain, which stitches the relationships in a splendid needlework. <br />
<br />
Something worked inside me and hummed into my ears that the space is not always filled with emptiness.</div></div>Dibakar Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11461627971193736382noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2529910375336078574.post-18698841353299387902011-10-12T07:43:00.003+05:302011-10-12T07:51:22.979+05:30... a writer after illness<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
i came out of my room<br />
on gentle footsteps<br />
and heard the fragments of me<br />
making noises inside<br />
<br />
a strange curiosity shoved me back into the room<br />
<br />
silence fell<br />
<br />
the legs were found inside the trousers<br />
hung despondently from the hanger<br />
<br />
the left hand was set tight on the forehead<br />
and right hand pressing a motionless pen<br />
<br />
i had left my eyes months ago<br />
in the half-open pages of <i>Waiting for Godot</i><br />
i glimpsed at them and their tired eyelids<br />
dropped<br />
<br />
quite amazed<br />
<br />
to find my stomach begging morsels of air<br />
from the dust-dotted ceiling fan<br />
<br />
and silence laid on the medicines<br />
squeezed foil<br />
and the finished disc inside CPU<br />
power rolled on its mercy<br />
<br />
i shuffled myself once again,<br />
collected all cut-outs<br />
and came out<br />
<br />
only what i left without, within,<br />
only what i forgot to take with me<br />
was some raw flesh that echoed my Mind<br />
as remnant<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNJg2C9hAKtbMOICOy1PzJYNAEyqWNxyocwHXtB1G6F_EeFivqD8FRKElMrsqHt7H6_spvUbnlivPKjG6qaABj7WFmqjcjYBWDKu-esuFj_Lfmzkcg9OBjcl0Qw1cRXF-6NW_uNV0CiJB8/s1600/signature.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNJg2C9hAKtbMOICOy1PzJYNAEyqWNxyocwHXtB1G6F_EeFivqD8FRKElMrsqHt7H6_spvUbnlivPKjG6qaABj7WFmqjcjYBWDKu-esuFj_Lfmzkcg9OBjcl0Qw1cRXF-6NW_uNV0CiJB8/s1600/signature.png" /></a></div></div>Dibakar Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11461627971193736382noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2529910375336078574.post-36573190772981915952011-09-05T18:28:00.000+05:302011-09-05T18:28:19.877+05:305th September, Teachers' Day<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Happy Teachers' Day to all Indian Teachers<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw2LEHjYfIgUP_2rOXBfKdD5RRCAXuAp8yKxr-zNX3bXtGdA-_yDfWyuLQMESDisqHUbgZPYm-pn773HjbplMpcwHpMiPpz5JipyMW18gJvccLQMHr5Sm6XJRvlHiCEascp-gQnsfTcqw_/s1600/poet.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw2LEHjYfIgUP_2rOXBfKdD5RRCAXuAp8yKxr-zNX3bXtGdA-_yDfWyuLQMESDisqHUbgZPYm-pn773HjbplMpcwHpMiPpz5JipyMW18gJvccLQMHr5Sm6XJRvlHiCEascp-gQnsfTcqw_/s640/poet.png" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNJg2C9hAKtbMOICOy1PzJYNAEyqWNxyocwHXtB1G6F_EeFivqD8FRKElMrsqHt7H6_spvUbnlivPKjG6qaABj7WFmqjcjYBWDKu-esuFj_Lfmzkcg9OBjcl0Qw1cRXF-6NW_uNV0CiJB8/s1600/signature.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNJg2C9hAKtbMOICOy1PzJYNAEyqWNxyocwHXtB1G6F_EeFivqD8FRKElMrsqHt7H6_spvUbnlivPKjG6qaABj7WFmqjcjYBWDKu-esuFj_Lfmzkcg9OBjcl0Qw1cRXF-6NW_uNV0CiJB8/s1600/signature.png" /></a></div></div>Dibakar Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11461627971193736382noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2529910375336078574.post-9244160732059985452011-09-04T13:55:00.000+05:302011-09-04T13:55:27.851+05:30... my two nieces...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">The little ones, the natty-naughty nieces of mine, are captured in my webcam. Hope you enjoy the bit...<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzHrYEIAadpXTunWZ0YukavdXTL-Xjap6p5N_XWw4PqwNas2e4e2tl2EtVwEyWR8PgaZbdsMO6_UHpwQU0Z' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiwLEfAEffXSG4I2AFr40ckcYsaZULTZMkgBBb-ploIRRaZ8t3vKXZtMJ-5V9qyq7F3eGmAUTCwMEEX5pL8ndKYkMiF477JK8AIIahoYP_Q1NENLDzxnUi5e_sUuj4DX_KNcVQp1__shph/s1600/signature.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiwLEfAEffXSG4I2AFr40ckcYsaZULTZMkgBBb-ploIRRaZ8t3vKXZtMJ-5V9qyq7F3eGmAUTCwMEEX5pL8ndKYkMiF477JK8AIIahoYP_Q1NENLDzxnUi5e_sUuj4DX_KNcVQp1__shph/s1600/signature.png" /></a></div></div>Dibakar Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11461627971193736382noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2529910375336078574.post-15242084430542534042011-08-25T08:55:00.000+05:302011-08-25T08:55:32.620+05:30... corruption floats, India sinks<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: justify;">A Bernard Shaw say begins this way... "Liberty means responsibility..." I say, sadly, too much liberty means irresponsibility and leads to a state of brinkmanship...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Democratic India has so much freedom of choice that she allows a family of Prime Ministers to run a monarchy. Should we not consider it to be an inheritance of corruption?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Around and about whom the popcorn talk is hung to sensationalize the morning hours at the tonsorial parlour, inside the local trains, staff room and through lanes is none other than the social activist Anna Hazare. We only cheer for the day's opening hours to pass in furies of laughter, then slowly walk into our job arenas, have a brisk sophisticated browse through the newspaper and carefully carry out the day's corruption... ourselves... at our every footprint. We the demoralized have just turned Anna Hazare as part of our run-of-the-mill tidings.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>Support <a href="http://www.isupportlokpal.com/">JanLokpal Bill 2011</a>.</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The average life expectancy figure of Indians is 63.7 years. Nobody knows why we find such a terrible pleasure in thickening the political grime and doing nothing literally. In our lifespan, we are more close to churn money at any sector and make pinpricks into others than to drink the natural beauty of the folded sea waves, the bohemian aviation of birds, the dewy-eyed smile of waifs and sweet relationships that go along with our everyday life. Only for our sector-wise toadying to the authority to gain vested interests, Kisan Baburao Hazare, the 74-year old youth, has to fight for a great cause.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>Support <a href="http://www.isupportlokpal.com/">JanLokpal Bill 2011</a>.</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The <a href="http://www.annahazare.org/">message</a> of Anna, "The dream of India as a strong nation will not be realised without self-reliant, self-sufficient villages, this can be achieved only through social commitment & involvement of the common man."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b> </b></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Who is the common man? The first half of the Shavian say is followed by, "That’s why most men dread it."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">A few days ago, on the dusty floor of our school, we three friends were having a teatime talk, and the topic of corruption intruded into our discussion at a breakneck speed. Naturally came the "man behind RTI revolution". Almost at the end of our discussion, when the little triangle that we three had made slowly broke, I began musing over our working hours and the scenario I am forced to watch and watch over every day. We come to school, teach almost nothing, harvest leisure in maximally allotted five classes and idle away the rest of the time. We open our mouths like sharks when a new month begins ~ and a new layer of monetary medication sellotapes the damages done to our country by us ~ the irresponsible teachers. Since we are irresponsible we besmirch our faces with different political colours (making the whole of the administration that robs us of the ability to think for ourselves and be independent) only to become dependent and irresponsible. We, like unscrupulous mountebanks, show thumbs up to our faineant souls after creating a series of illusory feats in the name of teaching. We, the common, propitiate corruption, and therefore, it seems to be our birthright to get into the progressive putrefaction. Corrupt is our administration, as we, due to our acute accidie and misanthropy, love to enthrone them who bring peaceful laziness. And in this peaceful laziness, peace is nowhere.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>Support <a href="http://www.isupportlokpal.com/">JanLokpal Bill 2011</a>.</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Politicians always dread this peaceful bullet; even we too; we dread the bullet as well. Our politics is independent, however, we have no political independence. We, the small-corrupt humans support Anna and anchor faith in his messiah-like image, an image that reflects his dream aim of India filtered of corruption. We must not forget that the corrupt are always united; but the incorruptible are dispelled from one another.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Sonia Gandhi, another common, is admitted at <i>Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Centre</i> (MSKCC), New York, hope she pull through soon and have her royal seat of the Congress chairperson. Even a well-fed Indian will dread the cost, that is at least Rs. 760,112.50 ($16,660) per procedure. We cannot and should not compare her with Vidyasagar's mother, Prabhabati Devi, who could not put on a new woollen shawl only because that the villagers she lived among and loved had nothing to keep themselves warm in the biting cold. Had Sonia Gandhi been our mother or we been her imaginative children, she would have thought to get admitted to a country hospital or asked Rahul to recover the money from the Swiss Bank and make necessary arrangements to distribute provisions among the wretched Indians. India may be considered a shard of a global village; however, we are not villagers. If we glue our hopes to the TRP-raising TV-telecast of Anna Hazare, these layers of moral putridness will not even come within the purview of our mass-media-manipulated thinking.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But our thinking should have been ours ~ modelled on the basis of the folded sea waves, the bohemian aviation of birds, the dewy-eyed smile of waifs and sweet relationships.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://www.livemint.com/2011/08/22220243/Demystifying-brand-Anna-Hazare.html">While the activist’s critics may keep guessing about his ultimate aspiration, he has achieved what politicians couldn’t: bringing the privileged middle class to the street.</a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The common, the derivatives of the common, are divided into three groups. The first one raises one's voice like that of Anna; the second one waits for Anna's help to raise his voice. The third one, waits for the hand, which would hold the baton. The common are forced to stay brainless and colonized by the corrupt administration.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>Support <a href="http://www.isupportlokpal.com/">JanLokpal Bill 2011</a>.</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Nothing is wrong if Anna claims the removal of the rotten apples from his country. It is his profession to filter out impurities. However, only a mug of water will be lifted from the Pacific of corruption in a certain period of time, which will be enough to encourage hundred mugs of water to mix with the Pacific. We must admit that some other's profession is to fill in the gaps with polished impurities coated with polished griefs.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">My discomfort has risen high and I have started to feel a sense of malaise within me. I think that I have to clean my mouth with unclean water. Up to 63.7 years ~ if not less, if not more ~ I have to live with the Janus-faced monarchical-democratic satisfaction and write a few good lines like... bullets are useless if peace is the trigger... or...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>Support <a href="http://www.isupportlokpal.com/">JanLokpal Bill 2011</a>.</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMThJDdZ5dorzW3IvxWuBiLuQJoBKc7ADNjBABvKzICS7kbBc71JW_3IQfZUZxZiHB5EZ9_lbx6Vx-MTpEkjojtKvHpJMFPw3EvmDM_BU6H1dLi0cw71ibsQ8d2fbRssURpvQxKhJ37NSS/s1600/signature.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMThJDdZ5dorzW3IvxWuBiLuQJoBKc7ADNjBABvKzICS7kbBc71JW_3IQfZUZxZiHB5EZ9_lbx6Vx-MTpEkjojtKvHpJMFPw3EvmDM_BU6H1dLi0cw71ibsQ8d2fbRssURpvQxKhJ37NSS/s1600/signature.png" /></a></div></div>Dibakar Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11461627971193736382noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2529910375336078574.post-76324961486938655812011-08-16T19:11:00.000+05:302011-08-16T19:11:07.315+05:30... silence, students and teachers<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: justify;">At least 150 familiar faces chirrup and twitter, cheep and peep, every day, in this corridor. Yesterday, just before the observance of our Independence Day, I went upstairs, took a somnolent picture of the passageway and dived for a heartbeat to hear the cemented silence on the parapet.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0MGlC-FIg7C5biW3MNlshlDGs-8u5nqBxiwu8daZann5v8xr-xRiel3jIE3PE1GIfa9ayCdb0PnjbEIW4Ml2DfBs6K8eXnkGV9FqhnzT8tWDiXx5cPwKOKJ_UFklaUkNlccFSaMDxusXE/s1600/2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="601" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0MGlC-FIg7C5biW3MNlshlDGs-8u5nqBxiwu8daZann5v8xr-xRiel3jIE3PE1GIfa9ayCdb0PnjbEIW4Ml2DfBs6K8eXnkGV9FqhnzT8tWDiXx5cPwKOKJ_UFklaUkNlccFSaMDxusXE/s640/2.png" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The balcony-cum-corridor reflects a walkway into their future. To the left, three sections of two classes each are filled with plethora of angelic faces. In spite of inharmonious clashes inside the staff room, the dirty political <i>actus reus</i>, it is the only passage where I heave a sigh of relief, spread dried seeds of pangs on the floating dust and look voiceless deep into the speaking silence. My heart goes on reciting the lines that I have abducted here also from Derozio's Sonnet to the Pupils of Hindu College,</div><div style="text-align: center;">"Expanding like the petals of young flowers,</div><div style="text-align: center;">I watch the gentle opening of your mind,..."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
I had to hurry downstairs...<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">... Then I moved back a little and pressed the button once more to get the front view of our school. Look at the students, hear their planning for translating the day's modus operandi into reality...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW3VwZtmkl-L6yOcZe7GzRsAPScA0yIbu8wmaabflxRy42r982VMnt00wabnYGzFV4NNyPHvVqMk1OALQZ4OmFfhinkhyphenhyphenum58bRvd6zkiuzirFLI9_gbwz2dwIvlkdIrTVw9teyaYtQqPz/s1600/3.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="476" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW3VwZtmkl-L6yOcZe7GzRsAPScA0yIbu8wmaabflxRy42r982VMnt00wabnYGzFV4NNyPHvVqMk1OALQZ4OmFfhinkhyphenhyphenum58bRvd6zkiuzirFLI9_gbwz2dwIvlkdIrTVw9teyaYtQqPz/s640/3.png" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">For students, celebration never stops. They are like a jocund band of flowers. To them, martyrdom and history of bloodshed and blood-throbbing British intimidation have less importance than the about-to-soar flag resembling their about-to-soar aspirations. It is due to their age when spell binds more than rationality. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7RJCWgfsBAArc36PHrKAXMye2REGHAQrJUhHsarlp94_iN-JaBV5YfKnpmUmbZCgnstDPvCJtb2l8U3iP-jRlsTUfryKYrTSnInQiC1S2665rorWLd1Uc_tURFre1EO8GecIGK615-8V5/s1600/4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7RJCWgfsBAArc36PHrKAXMye2REGHAQrJUhHsarlp94_iN-JaBV5YfKnpmUmbZCgnstDPvCJtb2l8U3iP-jRlsTUfryKYrTSnInQiC1S2665rorWLd1Uc_tURFre1EO8GecIGK615-8V5/s640/4.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">We should respect this spell also and learn from our mistakes we commit in the historical present. Even as teachers, what we do round the year no way send a message of true independence and democracy, and the simplest and strongest of all, brotherhood. The students are not freedom fighters, however, under the weight of uninteresting heaps of teaching harangues, they always fight for freedom.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheFH4ZicNfwyDyBqEx0rvt2OBlBYoWHQszwsflOjix3D8TNCIhyWiN-rRfj_dK-AZUej_sUJBTjBqQt3OlYHBP6frCvwg_Viq4vkUBZ1SQ7e9KenF97z3Pd5oIpzgCqjBzWdDimGZ9PA9X/s1600/6.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheFH4ZicNfwyDyBqEx0rvt2OBlBYoWHQszwsflOjix3D8TNCIhyWiN-rRfj_dK-AZUej_sUJBTjBqQt3OlYHBP6frCvwg_Viq4vkUBZ1SQ7e9KenF97z3Pd5oIpzgCqjBzWdDimGZ9PA9X/s640/6.png" width="306" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">A nation only knows the pain of climbing heaven and gazing on the doomed earth which rotates in the soul of every student and often makes them or some one of them turn back, look back in anger and reduce to weak despondency...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxY0LRYu4wwejBEMZRUWGS7HkpYoPWhKhuaE5APVcxnYeEmJlhpV0isPuf1qZDLVFZRrVE_9XJK1pbsrdrREXJH3TbU_bOi0Qrv8wxPYy1NUngih8sCqNwwMve-suMUHiTWgQDW0kZVbSq/s1600/5.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxY0LRYu4wwejBEMZRUWGS7HkpYoPWhKhuaE5APVcxnYeEmJlhpV0isPuf1qZDLVFZRrVE_9XJK1pbsrdrREXJH3TbU_bOi0Qrv8wxPYy1NUngih8sCqNwwMve-suMUHiTWgQDW0kZVbSq/s640/5.png" width="634" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Still we say, we the rational Indians, Happy Independence Day!<br />
<br />
Forgetting ourselves, let us unite, once more, like the gurus we read about in the wrinkled pages, to help them learn and create a world of learners.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">[Camera courtesy: My elder brother]</span></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiwLEfAEffXSG4I2AFr40ckcYsaZULTZMkgBBb-ploIRRaZ8t3vKXZtMJ-5V9qyq7F3eGmAUTCwMEEX5pL8ndKYkMiF477JK8AIIahoYP_Q1NENLDzxnUi5e_sUuj4DX_KNcVQp1__shph/s1600/signature.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiwLEfAEffXSG4I2AFr40ckcYsaZULTZMkgBBb-ploIRRaZ8t3vKXZtMJ-5V9qyq7F3eGmAUTCwMEEX5pL8ndKYkMiF477JK8AIIahoYP_Q1NENLDzxnUi5e_sUuj4DX_KNcVQp1__shph/s1600/signature.png" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div></div>Dibakar Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11461627971193736382noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2529910375336078574.post-71989250499064589072011-08-14T01:10:00.004+05:302011-08-14T01:23:11.662+05:30... she and her independence days!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: justify;">Look at my little mother ~ <b style="color: blue;">The Future of Mother India</b> ~ <b><span style="color: blue;">The Mother of Future India</span></b>.<br />
<br />
My smallest cutest niece, <b style="color: #274e13;">Kaveri</b>, the cynosure of all eyes, has one day still to go to fill a whole of two months. Yesterday, it was just a few seconds away before her falling asleep when I took a few <i>mobile snaps</i> of hers...</div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">The movements were indescribable... absolutely stunning! She was drooping, dropping, dreaming, dozing, dilly-dallying, all eyes, all glares - and then, sank herself into sleep. I had been the worst photographer ever in my life. I was busy drinking her placid and ineffable beauty.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Her entry into the dreamland tinctured me with a little amount of awareness that I have engraved below...</div><br />
<div style="color: #4c1130;"><b>Picture 1</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6B2iv5YTr-yXoNTeBeFLkIQOr-yZkPIwxbGEmkSVcb9seFBvvWXDd4in42dcEpkDx4lf36xx-Tc9tlKIXABHX0Tq8J89wXCW66Gwl2rhUfMDlltQ1vFNWFbyA7BIurEx1xMs45Qi6fwad/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6B2iv5YTr-yXoNTeBeFLkIQOr-yZkPIwxbGEmkSVcb9seFBvvWXDd4in42dcEpkDx4lf36xx-Tc9tlKIXABHX0Tq8J89wXCW66Gwl2rhUfMDlltQ1vFNWFbyA7BIurEx1xMs45Qi6fwad/s400/1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<b><span style="color: #4c1130;">Picture 2</span></b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtHNkK_G8wtcVQNOKJecLuizslror_NSgSeIn-cl9NdEZqGilMWVmIJIdHFtrAWEZ_qR6heIgyWhwU9iTjIZAykYWWQxfAeWj6I39E0wP4K_JON7neeVskuW4y3lME6Rnu3FK1Q4SQQsJo/s1600/2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtHNkK_G8wtcVQNOKJecLuizslror_NSgSeIn-cl9NdEZqGilMWVmIJIdHFtrAWEZ_qR6heIgyWhwU9iTjIZAykYWWQxfAeWj6I39E0wP4K_JON7neeVskuW4y3lME6Rnu3FK1Q4SQQsJo/s400/2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<b><span style="color: #4c1130;">Picture 3</span></b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjICxalsFTlJpWlAN6KRNX0Mqj1HPVA9LyMRt-Ma0qcR4cyrTRoMVBXSjvuLMiwv4xmar4gGePv3GPcFRWx8Sp7YOY85DgySXgWReoEkPT7PzhRTvgKlVFx3k5QjTNWGjISkSbJ7n60F_5x/s1600/3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjICxalsFTlJpWlAN6KRNX0Mqj1HPVA9LyMRt-Ma0qcR4cyrTRoMVBXSjvuLMiwv4xmar4gGePv3GPcFRWx8Sp7YOY85DgySXgWReoEkPT7PzhRTvgKlVFx3k5QjTNWGjISkSbJ7n60F_5x/s400/3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<b><span style="color: #4c1130;">Picture 4</span></b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdRiNZBDWI5cALz5LBwk1kJFmWrZVS4X4hAUgtn3xqS7z-EBh6_j-cMVgLrm8G5CvmJPnLMUYzXlxDNFT87a8ibh-zsAaUf1uUieLap9teXZpM5lVIrBqzjqnj_lAwxaIZ0BnQt2as7a8a/s1600/4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdRiNZBDWI5cALz5LBwk1kJFmWrZVS4X4hAUgtn3xqS7z-EBh6_j-cMVgLrm8G5CvmJPnLMUYzXlxDNFT87a8ibh-zsAaUf1uUieLap9teXZpM5lVIrBqzjqnj_lAwxaIZ0BnQt2as7a8a/s400/4.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<b style="color: #4c1130;">Picture 5</b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglA32H3jeXGYK_CIslCfGHpEsmpWZ1SundappXlxWeESOIkwLyQMh8QZ09sN9N74sHZRNgfqEzWpYbC_9JCG6Gv7fY-exSoGj8fTwtfjy-OFGop_s4jdOS9Tw9WoelU-g6lEslW09b23BN/s1600/5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglA32H3jeXGYK_CIslCfGHpEsmpWZ1SundappXlxWeESOIkwLyQMh8QZ09sN9N74sHZRNgfqEzWpYbC_9JCG6Gv7fY-exSoGj8fTwtfjy-OFGop_s4jdOS9Tw9WoelU-g6lEslW09b23BN/s400/5.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div style="color: #4c1130;"><b>Picture 6</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPAhTgXaGDFkz-Vy4TFhd7tRZKBwaWlW-hLTdhyphenhyphen0Qu1TtvwH2AQ6FWYvp9agUb08nrov6D1_8hgjA9r7qBlOURC8TycPC4Wh814_Jd3BQrlSC9vT2Wv-fm32rA06uu73irCuldQZcIP9Iu/s1600/6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPAhTgXaGDFkz-Vy4TFhd7tRZKBwaWlW-hLTdhyphenhyphen0Qu1TtvwH2AQ6FWYvp9agUb08nrov6D1_8hgjA9r7qBlOURC8TycPC4Wh814_Jd3BQrlSC9vT2Wv-fm32rA06uu73irCuldQZcIP9Iu/s400/6.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div style="color: #4c1130;"><b>Picture 7</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNyI9MbDncSJ9lo0FEriTiILw4fbqE7Vo5aUZaL3gSXX7-vxauNdTo-zYcNmmcVSEFMvgYXpxfEaHTj9Ov2oDE0yUz1DJAon1gDJx8RHEj5b_sgRxyiwMT1h7GqN7HxtPEIO-6-IGSYQBa/s1600/7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNyI9MbDncSJ9lo0FEriTiILw4fbqE7Vo5aUZaL3gSXX7-vxauNdTo-zYcNmmcVSEFMvgYXpxfEaHTj9Ov2oDE0yUz1DJAon1gDJx8RHEj5b_sgRxyiwMT1h7GqN7HxtPEIO-6-IGSYQBa/s400/7.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div style="color: #4c1130;"><b>Picture 8</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVr_AQTTO5bE5FWR2XBVYhAf1kTRBKGP3ifZQaVc7BhD1fLJpDWnm9ZMJv26lc2ThpIga9xOmbykq-cGbFocIi09TaqkyNcspPLvCVbgbRmr3pAL4MoMLZp9JgD7legCBG_YCwjcNl1Cv1/s1600/8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVr_AQTTO5bE5FWR2XBVYhAf1kTRBKGP3ifZQaVc7BhD1fLJpDWnm9ZMJv26lc2ThpIga9xOmbykq-cGbFocIi09TaqkyNcspPLvCVbgbRmr3pAL4MoMLZp9JgD7legCBG_YCwjcNl1Cv1/s400/8.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div style="color: #4c1130;"><b>Picture 9</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmQy25orSJ_UaaH-hvwXaBZaj6FnCYkRLqoyodN-fYhdirAqlLtI_MtJXZdTMKdIMezlqWOeOrs_EMViemCNM46HS94aChBUClaoXJU0TRfyD-84H6GONXPAFyDP_NxSwyghqcq4rzapRd/s1600/9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmQy25orSJ_UaaH-hvwXaBZaj6FnCYkRLqoyodN-fYhdirAqlLtI_MtJXZdTMKdIMezlqWOeOrs_EMViemCNM46HS94aChBUClaoXJU0TRfyD-84H6GONXPAFyDP_NxSwyghqcq4rzapRd/s400/9.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div style="color: #4c1130;"><b>Picture 10</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyzM-foXtr6gE8IfGoKCcm5Mzp8n1BCdNlRmrXZBN_EWhuBnmoretNOi_klr5iizdvCngDFRBIL823PacgWdB5kBOcEoWq2vpNT76gfRiZa7uNZStjqZwOo-dOYRnDCBnMAZRO-QJvC85V/s1600/10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyzM-foXtr6gE8IfGoKCcm5Mzp8n1BCdNlRmrXZBN_EWhuBnmoretNOi_klr5iizdvCngDFRBIL823PacgWdB5kBOcEoWq2vpNT76gfRiZa7uNZStjqZwOo-dOYRnDCBnMAZRO-QJvC85V/s400/10.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">.................</div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">The <i>cutie pie</i> is swimming in her independence days in India, our motherland, where thousands of girl-children are killed in their foetuses. Kaveri flows through her parents. As a daughter, she is respectfully theirs. Let us not forget... <b style="color: blue;">A child sleeps this way... A Nation rises this way...</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMThJDdZ5dorzW3IvxWuBiLuQJoBKc7ADNjBABvKzICS7kbBc71JW_3IQfZUZxZiHB5EZ9_lbx6Vx-MTpEkjojtKvHpJMFPw3EvmDM_BU6H1dLi0cw71ibsQ8d2fbRssURpvQxKhJ37NSS/s1600/signature.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMThJDdZ5dorzW3IvxWuBiLuQJoBKc7ADNjBABvKzICS7kbBc71JW_3IQfZUZxZiHB5EZ9_lbx6Vx-MTpEkjojtKvHpJMFPw3EvmDM_BU6H1dLi0cw71ibsQ8d2fbRssURpvQxKhJ37NSS/s1600/signature.png" /></a></div><br />
</div>Dibakar Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11461627971193736382noreply@blogger.com8