Search Results

"In uncertainty, I find my freedom In the crowd, I find my voice My stories are the pieces of a game of puzzle that we essentially call Life." (by the protagonist) Clad in a saffron robe with a clean-shaven head, he would sit on a vast boulder adjacent to the river bed. He was just fifteen when he found this place while he had a fallout with his friend Raman one evening. Heartbroken, he arrived at this place aimlessly. He sat on that magnificent assemblage of earth and intently studied the river's flow, its gushing sound, the silver dancing of the moon, and the music of flying herons. He kept returning to this place time and again after that fateful evening. Six years had flowed with the river since that day. Several events followed and countless stories were being churned out. Agastya was a monk by then. He understood early on that life was full of mysteries to be unraveled, and he took it upon himself to solve them all. Every day, he would sit on a rock and write a story, drawing inspiration from his personal experiences. As a village boy who had never been to a town, his stories revolved around the people he encountered in his locality. But each one was replete with meanings he took up from his life: lessons he learned, hurts he endured, people he met, the ones he lost, and the friends who remained forever. Every story encapsulated strains of empathy he imbibed through his unique experiences. Agastya had been initiated into monkhood by his Guru who lived in his village Muktigram. Whenever he was in a dilemma or had a question, he would turn to him. But that year his guru was not in his village. He was in another village named Anandgao, far off from the one where he lived. And Agastya had an answer to seek. He needed guidance from his teacher. Now the main challenge for him was to travel that extra mile to reach there. He had never been anywhere outside his place. But getting the answer was equally crucial to his imminent journey. After much deliberation, he set his journey on foot. It was not easy on his part. He had no idea about the exact direction of his objective, the route that would lead him to his guru. But he knew he would have to undertake this journey to find his answer. He asked his villagers about that village and based on their information he undertook his mission. It took him one whole day to reach the village of Anandgao. En route, he met a young boy playing with a tyre of a four-wheeler deftly running it with a stick. It didn't lose its balance even for once. Even after such long years in spirituality, he was yet to master this level of focus and dedication. He understood he had a long way to go and continued his journey. After a while, he felt thirsty. His bottle was empty and the village being on the outskirts, didn't show any sign of a well or waterbody. He was thirsty and exasperated. The sun was on the top. He had traversed only half the distance. He couldn't drag his legs. They were swollen. He wondered how this could be. He was a monk, not an ordinary human being. After pulling through some more distance, he saw a tree. He sat underneath and fell asleep. When he woke up, it was already evening and he had a few more hours left to finish his journey. He quickly stood up and started walking fast. He must reach his destination before the end of the day. His legs ached, and his throat dried, yet he continued his walk. At about nine, in full darkness, he reached his destination, the beautiful village of Anandgao. He was indeed feeling happy and fulfilled. As he stretched out his hands, looking up in the sky, drops of rain fell on his face, then his lips and then he was entirely drenched. His thirst was quenched. He now knew his answer: the answer he had sought for such a long time. He quickly ran to his guru, fell to his feet, and started crying. "I always thought I was a monk, away from worldly desires and limitations. I thought all these years I had learned a lot. But today I realized I was distracted from my goal, the goal to serve people whole-heartedly, without any ego." "Go and share your stories with the world. They need to be shared and read and not treasured," his guru smiled. "the monk on the rock the rock is of the soil all stories reside there you pick the one of your choice..." By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life

I will meet you in a life hereafter in a different land away from this chaos where all barriers will cease to exist where all your lies will turn into golden truths where all your denials will evaporate into acceptance where my lovelorn hands will find thee in my embrace where your eyes will pierce through my heart and garlands of flower will emerge from my peals of laughter. I will meet you in a life hereafter where your invisible kisses will implant them on my lips where caressing your being will make me find myself which lost itself into invisible paths of darkness your hands touching my tresses will emanate a fragrance of love the infinite one safely locked in my treasure trove of madness. I will meet you in a life hereafter where this distance will cease to exist where all our misunderstandings will melt into nothingness where 'us' will exist neither 'you' nor 'me' where our souls will reflect our hearts borne of oneness. There shall I meet you where you will come as you and only you for me and for me alone... By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life

The grand perils of cooking the steaming hot khichdi in the making: to stir and when to stir the eternal dilemma while tasting. The proportion of spices is the door to its fame, if gone wrong, will make it lame. One pinch less or one pinch more that salt is the king to the core. To cook or not to cook? my mind approaches me every day the fork and the knife awaiting at the table answers without delay. To feed your mind and stomach of your dears a day off is always so rare. A mother must cook if not a wife a smile beams on your face when in a full stomach your child cheers in grace... By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life

Of kings and dragon tales, Of mysteries and fables in place, Of lobsters and fishmonger, The night sky deals in all. Have you ever gazed at the sky? The old woman still spins in spite. Have you noticed the polar bear? At times it turns into a deer. Just close your eyes underneath the vast starry dark sky, You can listen to the tales of Rumpelstiltskin and Snow White. Not all dark is fearsome, Not all mysteries are unsolved, Not all tales told yet, Some are buried withal. The night sky stitches a hundred tiny tales of hopes and pleasure, wrapped in boxes of treasure. By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life

An excerpt from a letter written for her love with love: The moment you smeared me with your colors of love, I was no more me. As your lips rubbed against my naked vulnerable frame, my water-blurred vision rolled down into my ears. The nameless soul that looked for you so long, couldn't believe your presence. All my life I have kept loving you and you. So many complaints, unfinished disputes, and every thought spent accusing you, melted into that moment when I looked into your eyes so full of love and numbing pain. May this night never end, may the scent of my tresses falling on your face, make you forget the passing time; the hand touching the edge of my lips and neck, keep caressing me forever. Let me tell you how I spent the days without you, how I have missed your deep loving voice, your words seeping into my very being, kept reverberating in your absence, how annoyed I was with you for leaving me, how I wanted to hold you so tight. I wish I could pause this moment forever, eternally in your embrace, where all my aches will dissolve into nothingness... {She left this letter on his table while he was still asleep.} *An imaginary piece borne out of momentary trance. Stay tuned for the remaining letters. By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life

The human forms were not visible clearly as the sandstorm blew its part over the rolling desert land. It was a tiny village set in the northwest of Rajasthan. The gypsies set their caravans on the outskirts of that village. Their camels stood nearby. No one ever cared about the name of the place. Bela was preoccupied with her doll: wrapping a red dupatta around it, putting it to sleep, and bathing it the very next moment. She never played with other children of the entourage. Walking with her feet delicately placed on the sand, she intently gazed at her footprints. The sand would blow them away. The village had sparse grasses and few Khejri trees. Bela chose one and sat beneath it. The tree was almost barren. Few leaves hung on its branches. The fruits have all dried up, making them useless for human consumption. The lore had it that the tree was once an abode of an ascetic. The ascetic left and the tree was left with few leaves. She studied the leaves with utmost dedication. After a while, she questioned her mother who was working nearby. "Ma, why are there so few leaves on this tree? "I don't know beta. Maybe it's dying." "How come? See the barks are still strong. I think the tree is unhappy." Her mother smiled back at her. "Then what will you do now?" "Nothing. I will play with it and it will become happy," assured Bela. Her mother knew that Bela had always been a playful and kind child. She would often find her nurturing small birds and feeding tiny ants. The next morning she brought her doll with her and sat underneath the tree. She would talk to the tree and sing songs to her doll. Then she started bringing other toys as well: a handmade boat, a string-drawn cart, and a few wooden utensils. She cooked for the tree and fed her doll. A gust of wind blew, and the leaves fluttered, nodding in acquiescence. New leaves started sprouting in a few days. Other children joined Bela in her play. Initially, she disapproved. But with time she learned the joys of the company as well. The children made a circle around the tree and sang folk songs they heard from their grandparents and parents. It's been two months: the time for the gypsies to leave this place and move to a new one. The head of the group had decided to move to a happening place where their business would flourish. The village hardly had money to buy their camels or goods. The tree was verdant with leaves and fruits. It had fodder for the animals and food for the gypsies. But Bela had to bid adieu to the tree. She hugged it and cried. Years passed on. Bela grew up to be a beautiful woman. But she could never forget that Khejri tree. She decided to visit that place with her father since she didn't remember much about it. Only the calming breeze of the leaves was etched in her memory. As she reached that village, she couldn't find that tree. She had forgotten the exact place. There were numerous such trees though their numbers have dwindled over time. After a prolonged search, her eyes fell on the broken branches of an old Khejri tree. Only a few leaves remained of it. The branches were weak. She went towards it. "Pappa, I am not sure if this is the tree." "It doesn't matter. This place and memory do," her father said. Bela hugged the tree and smiled. She remembered her friend: the days she played with it, the nights she slept under its shade. The wind blew. The leaves danced in happiness... "I am a gypsy, you are a tree with roots drawn deep within: My wanderer's heart seeks respite beneath your caring retreat. The earth that holds you bear me as well, the hands that made you fashioned me as well. You are a tree, I am a gypsy the incongruity doesn't matter anyway..." By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life

That night has arrived, after a prolonged and agonizing wait: he would embrace her in his arms while her bangles would make a jingling dance into his maze- a passage, never trodden before the core only touched once a haven etched with her name for all the lives to ever come... With dewy eyes, enmeshed in kohl her tresses touching her anklets, bridled with the aroma of jasmine they accompany her in her wait- in ardour and pure ecstasy her eyes refused to close since the day before, lest he arrives at her abode premature... Impassioned in the fire of love for her beloved, she dreams of his approaching footsteps, narrating their tales to the village belles carrying pots of water and hay... The dusk arrives as the sun merges with the ocean, He comes and passes by her while She falls asleep at the steps of her doorway for just a brief moment... By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life {*Inspired by raag Jaya Jayanti. The raag narrates the story of Radha and Krishna. Radha waits for her beloved Krishna. She feels guilty for having closed her eyes at that very moment while he had arrived at her doorstep...}

Dear D, Last night I couldn't sleep properly. I tossed around with the blanket, not able to register how should I place it to feel comfortable. Sometimes, I was feeling cold and then within minutes, I felt like sweating. I was unable to dislodge those conversations from my mind. It kept coming back to me in hours of silence and shadows. In broad daylight, when there is so much clamor, I somehow sweep them away to that dusty corner of my memory bank. But with time they show up with cumulative interest. I had almost successfully placed them, covered within a soundproof cubicle. But yesterday, as I was dusting my almirah, that book fell down from the top. Those pages, almost turning yellow, were fluttering in the wind. It rained yesterday. The window was left open as I was watering my plants. As I bowed down to pick up the book, a red rose, now turned brown came out of it. With time, its petals have lost their softness. Now they have crumpled up. With a mere touch, they got detached from the fragile stem. It was a poetry book by my favorite poet. I had almost forgotten its presence. With time, the poet remains no more my chosen one. I have abandoned it long back. Those poems remind me of days spent with a dear one-- reading them together, laughing, going to places I never knew existed...I didn't know it would later become only a memory-- images that would take me years to dissolve in the water. The water is now puddled. I don't drink it anymore. From there rise wisps of unfulfilled promises, still lingering around those pages... Once I thought of throwing it into the bin. But then, I couldn't. I kept it back to its own place... Next time, while I dust that place, I would be careful enough not to touch it...Some memories and bruises are best kept untouched... "I look back and laugh In mirth, I shed my sorrow, Every tear has some purpose We learn tomorrow" (This diary entry is a figment of my imagination.) By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life

Dear D, I have often come across a thought, a particular one in fact. With age, this thought is gradually turning into a realization. During my childhood, I was never confident about myself. As I grew up, I always knew in my heart that I was capable of doing certain things, but never had the courage to do them. I was not matured enough to understand my thought, the reason behind this lack. That thought was SELF-BELIEF. I never believed myself enough to be capable of doing things I ever wanted to, never loved myself enough to have belief in my self-worth, never respected myself to receive that respect from others. They say everything starts from us, within us, to perceive them in the real world. With time I have realized it, felt it, and now try my best to allow it. Innumerable questions hovered my mind ever since this illumination dawned on me. What is my purpose? What is the purpose of my living? What am I supposed to do? How should I start? In fact from where exactly? Will I be able to start all over again? As I was struggling with these dilemmas, I decided to start from the start. To begin from where I left. When people should be quite comfortable with their lives and jobs, I am going through the initial teething problems. But I take it as a challenge, not a struggle, rather an opportunity, not a loss of time. And I am enjoying it to the full. At least now I know my worth, am capable of loving myself unconditionally, respect my values and integrity. I no longer listen to outside chaos, but my inner voices. I actually feel alive rather than being just living. Now I have a purpose to live for, a dream to fulfill, and roads to travel by. What more shall I ask for? That's all for today. Now I must go and have my dinner. "circling around the tree in an aimless vision I forgot to look up, the sky was not far- but I was busy tending the grass..." By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life

My dear D, Today I don't know what I should write. As I sit down to jot my thoughts, I stare at your page blankly. I feel like holding this moment forever, a state of total blankness-a state when thoughts bother you least, when nothing absolutely matters to you--you enjoy this bliss in a state of foreverness. But then arrows of impermanence find their way into that state and you are again drawn back to reality. Quite early enough I found myself enjoying this blankness. While I would sit down to study in front of the window, I stared at that pink flower, its olive-green leaf, eaten from the edges by an insect. I don't remember the name of the flower, several summers have passed since then. Sometimes, a bee would come and nestle there. A passer-by, holding a plastic net bag would hurry for the fish market. Sounds of crying would travel from the neighboring house where a schoolboy was admonished for not preparing for exams...I would sit still, with my chemistry book gaping at me, almost pleading me to read a page or two. Once, I was standing at the bus stop with my family. After some time, I heard a voice, probably calling out my name. I turned back and found my mother waving at me, calling out at the top of her voice. It took me some time to register that the bus had come. I didn't notice. I was looking at a man carrying two large tins of water on his shoulder. I was perhaps lost navigating his footsteps as they curved to alternate sides. Such a weird task I was involved in! In another instance, I went to the largest museum, located in Hyderabad, with my cousins. It was huge and numerous artifacts from earlier times adorned the glass cubicles. I was so engrossed in their intricate works in a state of absolute wonder that when I looked around, no one from my family was visible nearby. I somehow ran, looking for them. It was reality escaping me or the other way round, I don't know. But with time and age, this innocent and dream-like existence found its way out...the childlike mind gave way to adult realism...Still, at times, it tries to peep out from nowhere, reminding you of the person you were... Taking your leave for today. "the insect still eats the leaf the man still cycles to the market the museum still stands there the bus stop still awaits only the child is lost somewhere in the jungle..." By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life

My loving D, You are the repertoire of all my thoughts and delicately captured moments of my ever-growing life. As I sit down to write, you become my sole listener and me, the speaker or writer. A narrator of sorts, dolling out monologues with no pauses per se. Time flies, sometimes really fast, and at times not so. When we are over and done with an episode of our life and look back on it years later, we perceive it in ways, entirely different from what we did then. Today, while cleaning up my shelf, I accidentally came across one school book of mine. Every time I clean the shelf, that book keeps popping up and I shove it aside. It's an essay book which I used during my school days. It's hardbound, with a cover in pink floral patterns. That pattern used to be quite popular during my school days. I don't require that book anymore. But today, I felt like opening that book again, a sort of deja vu feeling swept across my mind. But the most surprising part of opening that book was that, I found a letter, folded into two parts. Out of sheer curiosity, I opened it. The letter had been sent by a dear friend of mine when I was in high school. I had almost forgotten about the existence of this letter. And with time, her memories resided only in my subconscious regime. We were not best friends, yet we connected so well. She had left the school when we were in 12th grade. She went to London as her father got posted there. The letter, which she had sent me from there, was full of her experience and feelings. How she missed me, about her admission into a new school, the subjects she chose and that she had to repeat a year. Her house was in the outskirts of London city, a very long drive from Heathrow airport. She had described her house in the letter. It was on two floors. The ground floor had a living area, kitchen, washroom, and storeroom. The first floor had two bedrooms, a study room, and a washroom. That time we used the word toilet in place of the washroom. With time, diction has changed but the function of the place still remains the same. She had asked me to reply to her. "Please do write to me. I miss you." Her last words in the letter. But I never replied to her, though I missed her as well. Now, when so many years have passed on, I wonder why I did so. As I reread the letter several times, I felt like replying to her. But a huge time has lapsed and it's too late now. Her father must have been retired by now and she must be married with kids. I don't know where she is but I bless her with lots of love and a fulfilled life. We cannot undo our life backward. Yet, if my writing ever reaches her heart, she would know, I still miss her somewhere down the memory lane, in a small corner of my heart. I must stop here. Ample works piled up for today. Adios!! "you dwell in my heart in that very space in those loving moments we shared together those peals of laughter in our Hindi class horrible solutions spilling in the chemistry lab and then you were gone leaving behind, a void forever ..." By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life

Dear D, For a long time, I couldn't open your pages, lest I fill them with unpleasant memories. I want your pages to be filled with hope and love. So that when I open you in my awaiting days, days when my feet feel like dragging in discomfort, you appear as pleasant memories, reminding me of days passed in joy and not just in hopelessness. While I was a child I always aspired to have a house of my own since we lived in a rented one. Alongside this dream, I also nurtured a fancy of having my own garden too. I would observe my landlady plucking flowers as an offering during her prayers. The curve and swiftness of her dainty fingers while she collected them, accorded an aura to the entire activity. She would carry a small netted cane basket hanging from her left hand while plucking flowers from the other. I would sit near the barred windows lost in my own wonderland. Years later when I was reading Naipaul's A House for Mr. Biswas, I was in my own beautiful house, happy with the thought that I need not go through the same trials for long. Speaking of the garden, I make do with my own small one. Cocooned in the small area of my balcony, the garden feels quite a happy place to be in. When planting a new sapling or adding manure, the soiled hands have a surreal earthy experience that can only be lived, not explained. This tactile experience makes your senses alive to the small, delicate workings of nature. I particularly love the climbers, holding onto but still rising, lending a vintage look to the balcony. The blushed flowers of bougainvillea dangling from a branch remind me of days that can't be revisited again. They seem cheerful in the morning and gloomy in the afternoon sun. Nature has its own way of healing your shortcomings and gaping bruises. It seems to own your silence, words that never took flight from your mouth, understand meanings which you never meant, a mirror to your true self-- whole and enough... Jasmines were never more persuasive than the last night when the windy rain showered its long camouflaged love on them. In fulfillment, they danced the night away... It's still raining outside, nature in its creative bloom. I want to pause this moment and get lost in this process. Meet you in a while... "the arid land in my recess drenched in the water of love sing the melody of the piper from the town of Hamelin afar" By Nandin Sengupta @metaphors_of_life