Poetic and Prosaic Writeups

Reunion Once upon a time, there was a little boy named Hans. He was ten years old. Hans was the only child of his parents who loved him a lot. Hans was a very cheerful boy. He was just like a pure flower. No matter what happened, the boy used to be in a joyous mood each moment. Sometimes, he used to whistle like the twittering birds. Sometimes, the boy used to sing with an open heart. Moreover, he was really very fond of the glimpses of fairs where he could have lots of amusement. On such a day, he went to visit the fairground with his parents. It was an excellent time for all of them. The roller-coaster was the main attraction there. Everything was going on smoothly and happily. But such things did not last long. Suddenly, Hans’ father could feel that his son’s fingers slipped away from his hands. Out of nervousness, Hans’ father looked for him all around himself. Alas! He could not even hear the voice of Hans. Hans’ father told his mother everything that had happened. Both the ...

Thoughts behind the poem We visited Abanindranath Tagore's farmhouse this afternoon. The serene atmosphere, the tranquil river, the paintings -- all created a Paradise on earth. It was an excellent experience indeed. This poem was composed right there in the lap of nature. The place was full of ethereal bliss as if I was dreaming. Right then, I got wonder-struck that it was a real feeling. The spot bears the witness of the Indian legend. Such a dear delight is indeed required in the humdrum daily life. I captured a few photos of the spot that are shared herewith. Hope, you have the identical experience through and through. The poem-- "In the Legend's Farmhouse" What an awesome aura! Abanindranath Tagore's Farmhouse, full of beauty, Full of integrity,  Full of Nature's purity, Full of Gangetic chastity. Suffused with the richness Of Eastern culture and heritage, Of "sunny spots of greenery", The heaven on earth revives The divinity of the ancient Ance...

  The story-- "The Efficient Journalist" "Go, Amanda, and cover the event of Will's criminality. And one more thing. Keep in mind that the news will be published in the Morning Herald  tomorrow," Mr. Dawson, the Managing Director of the leading daily newspaper. "Of course, sir, I'll abide by the deadline," answered Amanda.   She was a veteran journalist having lots of sources. For a long time, she had been working with the Morning Herald , and so, she was a reliable employee of the publication house.   Still, such an endeavour was for the first time in her life, since Will was a hardened criminal. His criminality knew no bounds. He was missing, yet every murder and every criminal offence was performed with his razor-sharp intellect and his age-old experience. Every crime was committed in the wink of an eye in utter silence.   "I've got to do this," Amanda motivated herself. But how would she perform the duty in time? There was no trac...

  The poem in a nutshell In this world of variety, we are assigned a number of works. We need to play different roles in this drama called Life. What is more, in the midst of various roles and responsibilities allotted to us, we hardly get a chance to meet ourselves, to have a talk with our within, our inner voice. We are prone to, or should we say, we are burdened to hide our actual selves. Time has come when we should act positive. Our positivism and the revelation of our actual identity can transform us from the core. Yes, surely, we require self-transformation. Identityless In the midst of a thousand works, Full of empty and juggling jerks, I fear to forget who I am; Am I pure or am I sham? “Who’s this?” I sometimes wonder; Amidst manifold tasks, I squander. I lose my identity; Amidst pressure and gravity, I lose my spirit, I lose life’s tidbit; Where is life, for sure? Do I care? Do I cure? I lose my entity, my entity In the midst of millions of ...

The poem in a nutshell This poem has been composed in a trance of recollection. We all are learners throughout our entire life, no matter whoever we are and how old we are. Life itself is nothing but a book. We all are learners as well as teachers. Hence, we should have an obedient heart to learn from all and sundry.   The poem – “The Memory” The azure vernal sky Is now cloud-laden. O hear! The roar of The thunder stirs me up With the sudden memory Of the tête-à-tête Between last evening’s Bus-conductor and me.   I boarded the running bus; He took me up into the vehicle; Right then, the earthen cup Overbrimm’d with tea, Hot tea with sugar Got spilt onto his hand.   “Sorry, Uncle,” I said, “Are you hurt?” He shook his hand. The matter was dropped.   A little while after, He came to me for Taking the fare; I was a bit scared. Then he looked up With a pair of Glistening eyes, and said, “Why do you take such...

The poem – “In the Age of Sophistication”   O, free me up, free me up – I can no more stay fettered; With the cute avian club, I want the chains to get battered.   Poetry, my only means of communication, Gifts me love and liberty; Society’s full of every instigation; Satan tries to confine me.   The most pathetic music Does sound the most melodious; This life, though tragic, Gifts me my pain, familiar and joyous.   Love comes more naturally than Hate To each one of us, humankind; Why then do we sophisticate Our life that turns us blind?   Don’t you smile in joy? Don’t you weep in pain? Why then hide, my boy? Why do people call us insane?   To bring the true feeling and Act accordingly is sheer honesty; Why do we then reprimand? Why do we lose our modesty?   We belittle people; But why? Why? Why? Does that rumour ripple Our hearts with joy, Or do we have to sigh?   Can sadi...

  The poem “Precious Shelter” in a nutshell   We take shelter when we are in need. To give the shelter to someone in need, one requires possessing a good and sound heart and conscience. Nothing other than human love can give birth to such feelings. We all have love or passion for someone or something. In our melancholy moments, they provide us with glee. This poem is placed at the vantage point of such a deserted soul who seeks shelter and gets it in the loving cottage of his/her love or passion. It may be a love for a person; it may be a love for a particular arena or domain, for say, poetry, fine arts, sports, music, books, and dance and so on and so forth. This poem has been given the pattern of a small hut, a dwelling place or a shelter. That is to say, the place may not be well furnished, but it requires love from the core.   The poem – “Precious Shelter” – a pattern poem     A Love That girds Me like a guard, A love that holds me Tigh...