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The debacle we confronted last time taught my friend and me to make sure that we keep our debit and credit cards in place for our current sojourn. As winter was approaching the mountains, at the beginning of November, we planned for a short trip of three days to Mussoorie, famously known as the 'Queen of the Hills'. The place derives its name from the word Masur or Masuriya, a shrub fast disappearing from the landscape due to the encroachment of the human species in every nook and corner of nature's pristine beauty. The main purpose of this trip was to harvest some mental peace and quietude, away from our grinding routine life. We boarded the train from Old Delhi for Dehradun at night. The train pulled off the station on time and reached its destination the morning after. We hired a cab for Mussoorie. The journey in the four-wheeler was no less than a treat. The verdant mountains on one side and deep valleys on the other make for a memorable trip in itself. As we were approaching our resort, the solemn dark leaves of Deodar and Pine welcomed us in full mirth alongside Fir and Oak. The cobbled path leading to the reception desk, bordered by Orchids, Petunia, and Poppies seemed to narrate sweet little tales of their own. Two of us went to the receptionist who greeted us with a warm smile- a young boy in his early twenties, handsomely dressed with spikey hair and amicable countenance. He was overtly courteous in his behavior as he thought of showing some chivalry(my thought) when approached by two naive ladies(maybe he thought so). "The porter will show your room and here are the keys to your cottage," he handed the keys to me "and if you face any inconvenience please feel free to share with us," he bloated with a sense of pride. "We have booked for two days' meditation classes arranged at your resort. Can you please tell us the timings?" I implored in a rather haughty note "Well...take this leaflet. Everything is written here, ma'am," he said humbly, quick enough to understand my dislike for him. As we went to our cottage, my friend made a call at her home to enquire if her husband was taking meals on time. I somehow overheard their conversation since the range of her voice gave me no other option. Later she complained to me, "He is saying it's not even twenty-four hours and I have started my interrogation. Is this the way he should talk to me?" I was in a quandary since my views matched with her husband's. But still, I nodded in acquiescence. The perils of friendship! After having lunch we went for the ropeway ride to the Gunhill point to manage a better view of the mountains and surrounding areas. A number of colorful shops and restaurants adorned the place, selling a motley of colorful items, enticing to the eyes. We bought a few titbits and then went back to our cottage. We had to wake up early the next morning. The meditation class was starting at 6 am. It was boldly written on the leaflet that mobile phones should not be brought to the venue. The next morning we went for the meditation, leaving our mobiles back in the room. My friend was in a pesky mood, quite bothered about not being able to take a selfie with the spiritual master. We took our respective places on the rug stretched across the floor. The master entered the room with an air of dignity, though he appeared quite ordinary to us. He started the class with a small prayer. We all folded our palms with utmost reverence followed by several rounds of deep breathing. As all of us were focusing on our breath, a phone rang. And it kept ringing as we glanced around the room for that coveted object. And then did it come out of the bearer's pocket. The master passed a disconcerting look towards us as he silenced his mobile. But the caller was adamant enough and it rang again. He quickly left the room to attend to the call. Everyone looked at each other in utter dismay. After some time, a boy appeared in the room with the message that the class had been postponed for the evening. We all went outside in a thoroughly dejected mood. On being coerced by my friend, the young messenger told us: "Sir has gone home. He had a fight with his wife." "As elusive as peace is hard to seek without within lies all the secret the road to a blissful core a state of absolute joy" By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life

It was the month of March, almost three years back. The pandemic had not yet created havoc in the otherwise placid life of the people. My dear friend called me up one morning while I was having my breakfast. She was utterly disappointed with her prosaic life and desperate for a much-needed break. We were on two minds, whether to go to beaches or mountains. The next day, while I was surfing through the internet, a pop-up became visible on the mobile screen. It was about a homestay in Kerala. The homestay was not what drew my attention but rather the destination. I decided upon going to the backwaters instead of hills or beaches. The tranquil panoramic view of the Kumarakom district felt the most befitting place to anchor for a short trip of four days. Soon, I called up my friend and we decided to book the flight to Cochin. In a fortnight we planned our trip. Soon, we packed our bags and were headed for the airport. We were sitting on the flight. And I prefer to read over talking during such journeys. I had hardly opened the first page of Reader's Digest when my friend nudged me. "The child behind my back is continuously kicking the back of my seat," told my friend as she raised her eyebrows, feeling quite irritated. I advised her to report the child's parents. She acted verbatim. The result was that the kid threw himself up and started shouting at the top of his voice. Unable to bear the noise, we recommended that the child be allowed to do whatever he wanted. After the fiasco in the flight, we somehow reached our resort. We had booked a cottage for ourselves nearby the backwaters of Vembanad lake. The ethereal view soothed our wretched souls after the troublesome experience. The sparkling lake, the sun playing with the water before it retired for the day, was a delight to a nature lover's eyes(it's me). A moment to behold forever. We were sitting at a table before the waterbody when my friend came up with an unexpected question. My wanderer's soul received a temporary shock. "Why do you think men marry? "Maybe for a life partner," I replied her, as I shifted my gaze from the drowning sun to her face. The approaching darkness accorded a sort of gravity to her plight. "Oh really?" she said, totally unsatisfied with my answer. Blindfolded, I didn't know how to react. I kept staring at her, expecting some more to come from her end. And the same happened. "You know, when I was dating my husband, I was the most beautiful woman on this earth. Even my reproaches were melodies to his ears. He would call me umpteenth times just to hear my voice and would proclaim promises of undying love for me," her voice gradually sinking as she kept talking. "So, that's great. You should be happy about it," I retorted. "What is there to be happy about? Now, after being married for five years my voice seems like a magpie to him. The songs on his mobile are more enticing to his ears. One day, as my phone's battery, was down, I took his mobile to call my mother. And you know what I saw? "What?" I asked her. Entirely hooked to her conversation by then, I forgot about the setting sun and the sparkling lake. Even their play seemed like a clash of swords to me. "He has a friends' group on Whatsapp. Only males. They share all kinds of awful jokes and most of them are about wives. And my husband steals the show every day," "Oh! Don't worry. They keep doing this every time," I said, trying to pacify her. The pakodas on the plate turned cold. I desperately wanted to have them. But I didn't. I thought this might infuriate my friend even more. Her question was obvious and I felt she was absolutely right. The grass always seems greener on the other side. The very person rides over the moon and planets before marriage and the girl becomes his muse. But as soon as the honeymoon gets over, the very girl resembles a sour grape. The next day, we went for a ride on the shikara. There was drizzling rain, dripping against the outer periphery of the boat's rooftop. I was thoroughly engrossed in capturing this work of nature when I heard a voice coming from my friend's direction. I had accidentally come across her private conversation with her husband. ".....but I miss you so much," "Marriage is like the setting sun and the rising moon, a tricky riddle and unsolicited boon; if you can dare solve do let me know soon..." By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life

The day I took her in my folded arms, The moment I set my gaze on hers, The magical fairy took my breath away- Forever and ever and ever... Her twinkling eyes, her captivating smile, Kept me going all the while. Her bawling, sometimes, made me uneasy- For countless sleepless nights... Loving and forgiving have never been so easy, Unless her clamor throws you dizzy. Her doe eyes- alluring and innocent, Keep staring at you in awe and astonishment... Her lips, reminisce me of strawberries- Freshly plucked from the greeneries... On her nose, resides huge displeasure, Calmed with the warmth of embrace in full measure.. God has been ever kind and benevolent, When he laid his hands on me, I became a mother And she the Princess of my dreams... By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life

As I intend to write- I falter for the right words, Some pertinent phrases, Which might delineate her forthright. Longing for me to return, My appearance would dislodge her fear, And brighten up her eyes, I could discern. Her love is ever forgiving and dear. I feel her touch, hear her voice, Caressing me in pain and Calling me for lunch, Indelible memories to rejoice. Every tale has to be narrated- Not a drop to be left. Even her rebukes reflect the love In all its hues. Her smile emanates her inner strength- She is my loving mother Her love and warmth are Forever intense and pure. By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life

When I brought the potted plant home Only its hypnotic aroma was known. I never knew it blooms in dark When other flowers leave off their mark. For months several branches grew Now it's a climber, along with the crew. Through my glass door, I behold The white flowers, at night, unfold. Their unalloyed beauty if you glance Revives the old-world romance. Images of women adorning these flowers Surface my mind charming their lovers. Its destination is still unforeseen But the magical journey makes me keen. Their nectars make butterflies swoon They smile bright under the moon. As you keep the flowers on your palm Draw in their scent in a state of full calm, They cast a spell on your olfactory sense And transport you to a realm intense. By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life

One listless and long afternoon When eyelids refused to doze off, A crow cawed in a shrill voice, A black dog with white patches Stealing a respite on the lap of earth. The iron railings with straight spikes Is colored chalky; Few bricks by the roadside Waiting to be assigned For some tasks undisclosed. The newly leveled lane Stands empty and desolate; A biker with a mask on At once darts by Leaving a trail of smoke. A maid draped in a cotton saree Clipping clothes at a stretch As she wrings them for a while; A white fleecy cat creepily searches For food or maybe some mischief. Chunks of paints, peeling off Narrating worn-out tales; Drops of newly painted windows Still visible on sunsets Draws my attention, as I ruminate. Afternoons pass by in indolent ways I mostly manage to sleep through While sometimes wide awake I meditate upon the workings From my half-opened window. #This poem has been inspired by one afternoon spent in Kolkata while I lay awake in bed. As I stared through the window, I observed these activities as they went on... By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life

It's an oft-used term by poets and writers alike when they are in a dearth of ideas and creative impulses. I often find this in journals and videos where they discuss extensively on this topic and pass varied vantage points. I never knew about this until I actually took my writing on a daily basis. I wrote in bits and pieces, whenever I felt like it. Poetry came naturally to me, prose followed thereafter. I feel poetry as my very being--they encircle me like an aura, always guiding and enlivening me. Prose takes a bit of my patience and time. I feel our lives are borne out of poetry--if there's love, if there is rain, if there are flowers and leaves, where can poetry escape...songs spring out of them only, the whole nature rejoices in glorifying the rhythm that poetry brings with it. That block I was talking about, I feel crops out of our lack of imaginary ideas at a given point in time and even if they wait behind the door, they refuse to creep in. When our mind is so full, we are overwhelmed by our immediate circumstances and get flustered about where to take respite, this BLOCK appears like a genie who refuse to dodge and act against our command. When I read about Ruskin Bond, I found that he never went through such a crisis--always inundated with ideas and stories alike. He would maintain a small diary and note everything around him-every small detail. If I carry such a diary, it would even refuse to come out of my bag, let alone write down anything in it. Sometimes, when my mind is so full and clogged, I feel like pouring them down on paper...but then refute it altogether. I don't want people to read them, even if by accident...they would make me more vulnerable. There is enough chaos in their life already. Why should I inflate it? So, basically, blockages are of numerous types. And I actually don't know much about it...I prefer reading about freedom--freedom of thought, words, speech--freedom to write without being judged, freedom to write whatever we feel, freedom to fly where even our imagination gets finite---freedom to live as we have never lived before... "ITSY BITSY SPIDER ON THE CRAWL, IF I FOLLOW IT I MIGHT GET A PLOT" By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of life

While we often speak of the deadly virus and its demonic repercussions on the world level, we overlook its tertiary impact on children at large. As soon as the virus seeped in, schools were shut down keeping their safety in mind. It was obviously an imminent requisite per se. Initially, it was thought of as a temporary phase that will pass off after a finite period and life will bounce back to normal. But gradually reality became an apparition whose actual countenance was quite brutal and deadly. Children stopped going out and started having online classes, which became an absolutely life-changing experience for them. Parents got involved in the process as well. While knowledge about technical nitty-gritty was learned, but it turned out to be a daunting experience for both the child and the parent along the way. Sometimes there are electricity issues, whereas other times net is slow or not working at all. Some acclimatized themselves with this current set-up, but most of them showed psychological symptoms after a prolonged stay at home. Their inability to go out, real talks with friends, frolicking in green parks, touching the sky in swings were all missing. Their life got caged within the four boundaries of their house. The detrimental effect slowly surfaced with time. Their screen time escalated-- not only their online sessions at school; they now spend more time browsing the net, playing games on their mobiles and tabs. They are even spending unending periods in front of the television. Serious anger issues have cropped up, they have become restive and get agitated at a trifle. They hardly lend an ear to the bickering and monitoring of the elder members of the family and are lost in their own virtual world. This present scenario has not left any alternative to them. Their inability to interact in person has left them with little or no options. Long presence in front of the screen is amplifying eye-sight complications and headaches. Obesity is another botheration to take note of. Children are binge-watching with little or no exercise. There is hardly any real movement of the anatomy. They have become torpid. It might not be such a serious issue as compared to the global pandemic that has swept the world off its feet, but its underlying implications are far-reaching and worrisome. The missing link in the growing up years is there to stay for a long time in the future. The behavioral changes behind the mask might remain hidden temporarily, but the child within will always anchor for a normal life. Parents need to be more cooperative and understanding without being critical all the time. If it is a challenging situation for adults; it is far more miserable for children. They are missing out on a part of their childhood as they are growing... When shall I play in the green meadows? When shall I stretch my hands in the air? When shall I catch the butterfly as it sits on a flower? The muddy puddle is missing the naughty shoes, The drizzling rain is missing the colorful umbrella, Long chats among the friends are all but virtual, Holding hands has now become a tale of the distant future. Let's wait for a better tomorrow When we shall sit in the classroom and Stare at the blackboard with renewed Enthusiasm and dreams, as they unfold... @Nandini Sengupta

Clouded grey sky, Soft breezes touching the petals, vulnerable to breakage. The pollens running away in escapades, to places undisclosed, to narrate tales of faraway places, of secrets long kept hidden and closed. The raindrops kissing your lips, soothing your eyelids as you close them. Feathers of birds drenched and cold, scurrying for shelter; they sing the song of rain and cold. The pelting sound on the terrace, leads to interrupted sleep and dreams, in sheets wrapped around you. Hectic schedule, hurrying off to bus stops and auto-stands; the soft breeze is turning to a swishing sound, there might be a thunderstorm and lightning shaped like a Z. The blue tarpaulin flips up in the wind, and then stretches down, making a flapping sound. The airplane emitting buzzing sound, leaving behind a trail of smoke and memories alike. Tapping sound of rain on car windows permeates clouded view of denizens, walking along the pavement with faces hidden under their umbrellas; Facades of human nature revealing in time when the cloud disappears from the sky. I want to be lost in places, faraway, where dreams are woven and fairies appear even when Pandora opens up her box. @Nandini Sengupta

A yellow variegated leaf settles on the corrugated tin roof where dust is old and sticky; finds shelter nearby a dried coconut shell whose hair has shriveled up with time, the tough exterior has turned brittle. The leaf was once green with life and promise, was born beside a budding flower, is now old and alone darting for refuge. Torn off the plant during one cold wintry night in pesky mood; Shattered and somber, it lamented the days spent in youth and vigor; Feeble with time, its role is done. God has his ways indistinct to mankind, His presence is revealed in all forms dead and alive. The leaf is composed for its days are counted, will now merge in soil with Time- to be one with God Forever... By Nandini Sengupta @Metaphors_of_life

As nights give way to days, Darkness translates into the sunlight, Despair radiates into rays of hope, Frosty winter precedes joyful spring. Beds of tulips unrolled beyond eyes' reach. The chattering of happy birds Perched on delicate twigs; Exchanging glances of relief. Where verdant meadows meet The joyful azure sky, The vastness of divinity Spells boundless magic on our eyes. Butterflies romancing the flowers Infusing nectar of life. Soft breeze twirling a lass' tress Gently passes by. Children engross in flying kites In full fervor and excitement. Festive zeal enraptures The entire ambience. As days grow long, nights shorten New leaves spurt in deserted branches. Netizens revive from induced dormancy Into frolic and renewed enthusiasm. By Nandini Sengupta @Metaphors_of_life

The little black boat was there for long ferrying commuters to and fro; The oars were used by familiar cold hands, The boat made of wood and nails was rugged and firm; Pilgrims sat on it, leaving behind trails of memories- the incessant talks echoing in the river. The wooden deck trampled by soiled and hurried feet. The boat while anchored ashore waits for the next voyage; Solitary, it stands strong tethered yet resolute for it must carry on; For years it has done so, the little black boat was there for long ferrying to and fro. By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life