Swings of a rhapsodic mind

I love crayons. There can be no other way if I am to picturize my childhood without my odd crayon filled sketch. I had invented a theory as an introvert, which was to quietly escape the wrath of meeting people over my scholarly devotion at recreating crayon-artworks. I liked being that way: focused-contented-solitary. Saturdays and Sundays meant story books and crayon art works. And then I lost track of time, my crayons got replaced by poster colours. I began fancying painting with art brushes. Not that I marveled in it but somehow crayons stopped fiting into the larger picture of growing up. I had this tin geometry box with a picture of the globe in it, it was there where I stuffed my crayons for good. Metaphorically, by then my globe had shifted to other dimensions. As life happened, I found myself struggling with dull coloured pens trying to earn degrees. My class notes would be filled with flowcharts about 'who-did-what' stuff. Now, that I have misplaced my tin geome...

Some journeys don't take you to places, these are journeys that take you closer to your inner self. A self which has been there waiting for you since always, a self that is there to hold you after you bring home pain . This is where the journey leads you to. You meet people in this journey, people who would walk in, stay and leave and in between you would have no consideration for your inner self, you get caught by the ways of the world. You get swayed with the idea of being a metaphor in someone else's life. Until one fine day, as you wake up you find your long forgotten inner soul triumphing over the return of its native: bruised and shaken to the core. It tries to bring you back to who you used to be. But, there is a but to all of these, how meaningful is life without people who shake you to your core? Even if it means death, we must meet people who carry a key to our locked soul. People who make you aware of the possibilities, the threshold where you survive without exp...

This post would take your precious eleven minutes to read, stay rooted please! Yes, this is one of Coelho's leading novels which has redefined set definitions of sexuality. I can't do justice to neither Coelho nor his revolutionary approach to life and this definitely is not a book review. This post is about what the book did to me as a reader. I had this dull life as I was growing up amidst the traditional air of a Brahmin family. I was never encouraged to challenge or to be rude to people who were mean to me. My mother had this belief, "the world may forget humanity but you must never cease being humane".  I kept those words with me as I grew. I had to be humane to be a human, I kept on telling myself. I never challenged myself enough until I left home for higher studies. I was thrown into a new world of deceit, shallowness where what was good never stayed good and what seemed bad seemed true later. I developed a new idea with time, that life wasn't utter...

Ever been caught by the sight of a hundred kohuas swaying by the blue Brahmaputra? If your answer is a yes, probably you would understand what makes me vouch for them while mother Nature has a thousand more marvels to be admired. I have grown associating the kohuas with the onset of Durga Puja. The kohuas have been my constant. I may completely forget about their existence but they return each year to make me believe in the power of hope. I have always admired them in their full bloom from a distance. I realise, whenever I try to step into a story as it's character, I ruin the magic of the story. Probably that is why, kohuas still fascinate me for I have always admired them from the periphery of my story. I have been through cold rough seasons. I have felt hopeless at times and my heart has known what it takes to be through losses, but between seasons of hope and seasons of despair I have shed parts of who I used to be. I have learnt to be a kohua, flimsy yet tough! ...