Magic Moments

Source Dear Binodini, When I first held the book ‘Chokher Bali’ I had no idea that knowing you would be such a task. Getting to know you was like deconstructing layers of a rose; I liked you, empathized with you, loved you, hated you, sympathized with you, was jealous of you, and yet finally missed you. I would say, I didn’t judge you, even when you were your worst possible version in the situation. I just read on and on, to find the reason. ‘Chokher Bali’ was the first full-fledged novel by Rabindranath Tagore that I read. My first impression of you was- shrewd, intellectual, well-read, and someone who has a way with words. Kind, gentle, caring at heart with an eye to detail. It was sad that you were a widow; someone who didn’t have much of a married life; someone who didn’t know how destructive and fatal amorous desires could be. And I pitied you when your repressed desire for love and romantic pleasures were brought back by witnessing the rendezvous of the newly mar

Source Talking about death and dying, more than my own I fear the death of my near and dear ones. The inevitability of it all hasn’t yet settled in. Acceptance hasn’t come to me, yet. There was a time during the early teenage years, I used to speculate life without my family, and plan my survival if such a mishap ever did happen. It was depressing, almost dysfunctional. I was going through a bitter phase, and such thoughts just heightened the melancholic feelings. But now, after years, these thoughts have become a part and parcel of life. Every time a kin doesn’t receive the phone call; every time a family member who isn’t home doesn’t respond to messages and calls; every time the friend is out on a drive and the phone’s unreachable, this creepy thought does peep from some corner of the mind. And it’s intimidating. I haven’t experienced death from close quarters. The demise of someone from the extended family, two suicides, and fatal accidents of certain college juniors- I

Source: Pixabay who are you when no one's around when the gazing eyes of the multitude see you not when the attention of the people scare you not who are you when no one cares about your identity when you have nothing to lose when you come out of your hiding who are you  when you can be a figment of imagination when you can be a make-believe when that name is not yours to take who are you?