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My blog is infested with trashes. It has become a garbage area. And trashes are worthy of trashes. Jokes apart, today I have found an opportunity to pay a tribute to my parents. One may think that I would stress on the fact of their intense effort that had always been as a support behind my upbringing and... and... and.

No, I'm not at all in that mood.

Let me paste here some photographs that would speak volumes of what I wish to say today.

My father, 72 summers

Today, my father is a bag of ruined bones. He went through bypass surgery. He is suffering from diabetic retinopathy. He also struggles to sleep at night. Yes, he always battles with insomnia. He lives on medicines. Amidst this pile of despair, he goes to draw his pension, exercises and walks on a regular basis. No matter how he lives, he lives - and that's all.

My father is fond of old memories and articles related to old memories. Perhaps, every soul, in his retired leisure, is bound to think so. He always keeps the articles with care.

The radio is a 20-year old friend to him. The sound quality is still amazingly soothing.

Here is a hand-fan, used at sultry noons or in time of power-cuts. As you know, we are free to enjoy darkness at times.

He has become a little modern - used to the updated version of water purifier - a smart filter, offered by my elder brother.

What he really abhors is lagging behind time. If anybody neglects to keep promise on time, she/he has devil to see in front of her/him. We have 16 clocks in count. Here is shown the photograph of the veteran most time-teller, which he had bought with his first month's salary.

He connects with everybody with the assistance of this BSNL land-phone, which is connecting India.

Never mind fellows! He needs a round-faced mirror in the wash room, probably, having a wish to drench his reflection.

My Mother, 62 summers

Thrown in a large family of over 15 members, she became an idol of our family. Simply because of her virtue. It is virtue which needs no verification. I have seen such a virtuous human being hardly ever. My mother lost her mother at the age of six months. She rises very early, keeps the house meticulously clean. Though, on the discovery of dust and dirt anywhere, one should not blame her, instead, one need to understand that she ages every day.

No compromise with her kitchen, which she took as the ultimate fate of her life at her very tender age.

The skilful hands are at work. She prepares unforgettable dishes. The fat pitcher is there. The mad apple is waiting to be beheaded.

She worships with intense dignity of the word, worship. Look at this gorgeous throne of deities. The throne was carved by my grandfather (distaff side).

The sacred utensils used in holding offerings are at rest here. They are shining like drops of tears.

Here is her favourite Nayantara flower, basking alone in the sun.

Mini-cricket is forbidden here! The clay vases dislike any unprecedented care of any cricket ball. Their place, always sunned and mooned, should be cleared off any danger. The smaller vase has budged off a bit to one side and left a patch of the old green affair with the floor of the roof.

Well, I think you can well understand that my mother loves munching betel nuts with betel peppers at noon. They are sun-dried to get nutty.

The diary of the moth is breathing pride, useless pride, meaningless pride, which is all-classic all-modern to give any person the power to regain the spirit of life.