The imagined 3-D Model of the #Big Bang.
MODEL OF THE UNIVERSE
I am just realizing that I’ve had a hole in my heart for a very long time. It didn’t fill up with the time that has passed, like I had thought earlier it would, and now i know it never will until I fill it myself. Stuff it with all the discarded waste in the world, from sawdust, rusk, vegetable peels, wasted bones from the butcher’s shop, dead bodies from wars, and all this will never have made any sense to me, how i’ll know, it will never be enough, and I will need to always press in more and more, if need be, barbarically jump on the filling and jump until everything is well in place until there is no more place for anymore stuffing, then pour cement over it. This hole i speak of, angry and obstinate, hungers for more, eats everything thrown in it, like a drainage basin, always empty. Sub holes, now, that i need to worry about. But can I? Don’t i already know where the holes all lead to? I need to die. Then the sea will finally fall quiet. And the howling beasts’ cries will begin to fade….
It’s been almost three years, since the first time my feet touched these peripheries, and it came to own me, even though to be bluntly honest, that first time, I didn’t dream I would be spending all this time here, in Kamala Nehru College. First off, I was so far off from home, and all this while I’ve had just so much going on, on my mind, that inadvertently I ended up not wholly appreciating the privilege I had been goaded with, to be forever, a part of and be one with all the past of KNC, my college, and its future as well.
To the common man or woman it’s just a college, another building in a lush sub-urban neighborhood, but for me, it’s my identity, my bridge towards reality. Every morning, walking through the front gate, out of time and breath, I step in and rush around the front porch and conveniently dash up the stairs in the search for my class. Well, it’s my fault, that I lead two very disjointed lives, that I appear like a lost lampoon at the beginning of every class, but then, that’s my story, and it’s entirely irrelevant here. This is the story of my college. So breathe, I’m almost there.
But I am an observer, I am at one with the human spirit as well as the spirit of all things on the earth and over my time at KNC, I’ve grown closer to nature than to my classmates. The lush campus of my college provided a very good setting for me to explore the minute things of life. The bustle that thrived all around the big college building, always instilled a kind of unusual feeling in my heart, that first year, that coming home for the vacations, I learnt was “homesickness” and my own house, seeming to feel smaller because unknowingly the place had come to own me, made me acknowledge it as my home. I knew I could never be at peace for the months I was away from college.
I am not a very studious person, but I read, oh I read…and reading I’ve spent hours reading, just curling up under the big willowy trees in the fields with yellowed collections of old, very old poetry, and lose track of time entirely. I, who’s usually very concerned about a low battery on my phone, could forget about my dead phone, and let it stay dead for forever, while I lay down on the soft greens of our playground and feel the sun warm my closed lids on a wintry afternoon. I admit it, I am lazy, and I love to waste time – specially, when I am witnessing, or while being a part of, something that with my soul, I wouldn’t hesitate calling beautiful.
The college grounds proved to be a great place for me to practise photography as well, since it was very convenient to carry along my camera for beginners. It was just ridiculous thought that I was found by people to be looking into every crevice, searching for treasure. Haha, that’s just me saying, because with every good shot, I’d be up there, beaming like Napoleon Bonaparte, as if I’d conquered a nation, bursting with glee. Even though I wasn’t really expecting a round of applause from people around, me, I was still a small town girl. But it didn’t take me long to realize there was no one with me in my bubble and I walk around, learning more with every step that took me away…
The canteen was where I always went in search for comfort. People have this strong notion that I eat a lot, and why shouldn’t that notion exist, I am a foodie, and I love good food. And especially it was the aroma circulating around our college canteen that drew me on like a moonstruck vagabond follows the moon goddess. My classmates would testify to the fact that I’m wholly addicted to our canteen, my favourite momos with the red sauce with the lemon iced tea, the chicken tikka rolls of the Coke Studio, the rajma rice, and the perfect combo of the samosa and coffee from the Nescafe stall, that we get after we exact it with the coins – those twelve, well spent rupees, are all the fuel we need to sit through the tiresome back-to-back classes on the late autumn afternoons when the rest of the world is cosily taking a nap in their warm beds…
Now my college days are drawing to a close, and it’s like a cold, harsh gust of wind whipping across my face. I would miss my college and I will miss the people of my class. But then life goes on…like time and tide waits for none. KNC will forever be the longest chapter in my life, my hard earned prized that I forgot to cherish while I had it… But then that’s my story, which is an entirely different one. KNC, will always stand, and I’ve loved it in so many other ways, it’ll always make me speechless; like right now, I don’t know how to conclude this…since the story hasn’t ended, nor, it ever will…
It’s been great, after all these months of painstaking juggling between college life and the hassles of getting published, that finally it’s all over and I’m past the phase I used to be a closet poet and novelist. The journey though has been filled with difficulties, I have no regrets, and it adds a little more credit to my patience that I didn’t give up halfway and back out of the deal I signed when I had dared to dream of reaching out to the masses with my thoughts, ideals, dreams and words in print. It makes me immensely happy that finally I’m almost there where I had envisioned myself to be, and exactly at the right time I had wished it to be.
It had always been a cherished childhood desire to be like my grandfather, Tarini Kanta Bhattacharya, one of the most revered men in my life, a noted figure in the literary scene in Assam, where I come from. In my teenage and late adolescence I took up the pen to experiment with poetry, and failed a lot many times. And this year, 2013 being his 100th birth anniversary, I’m overjoyed to dedicate my book to the beloved legend, who never got to see the garden he had planted so long ago, flourishing so late, as me, a granddaughter he never got to lay eyes on, lives her life on principles he had once taught to his little children, which he himself believed in.
My wish to have a successful career in the world of science was in shatters, when I realized more than anything I’m an artist at heart. I was born to write, and I don’t know from where it just came to me, the desire to write about beauty, and love and anything that draws the soul to question monotony. Dreams, that’s where it all began. And harshness of the world, and still beauty that tore through all that. The complexities of human life, and the organism, that can think and yet with unthinking brutality, like just an animal indulges in savagery in the name of civility and all things holy.
By the time I reached my teenage, I’d seen enough, even at my home, the presence of a different kind of love other than the kind commercial Indian movies portray, but quite understandable by now, and petty squabbles. Even reading different story books and observing fellow friends in my school, made this desire grow, and gave me a silent voice that could be recorded only on paper. I wasn’t very good in my English lessons in school, and used to be despised by my teachers for tormenting them with my dullness and non-responsive behavior, and as you probably guessed, I was never a bright student; always average, at the corner, like a spectator than a participant.
In the romance department, I was worse than the advanced kind of disappointing. My fellow friends would be talking of their boyfriends and I would be pathetically eavesdropping on their chatter, creating in my mind, judging, contrasting, modifying on the basis of the existing kind, a new kind human being, who, as a lover would make up for anything anyone has suffered in their lives, the lack of adventure, the monotony of always doing the same thing, and following the same roads that lead to the grave, having no newness to the institution, and that guy, that kind of guy, I had in my mind, that I wanted for myself, actually never existed.
Then there’s a very famous writer, my idol, Joanne K. Rowling, who spoke through the fictitious Professor Albus Dumbledore, in her book, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, “Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?” and that just changed my life towards the path I finally decided to take. This moment that I took up writing seriously, the year, 2007 also being very significantly important in my life.
Fanciful were those days, and also so memorable!!! Naive as I was, and pure of my unadulterated heart, foolishly I happened to stumble into the student activity room in my new school, my eyes opened to a sight like I’d never seen in my life so far… In the far corner of the room there sat this young boy with funny hair and the most carefree laughter scribbling on a desk with a couple of his friends and that sight, and with a glimpse of his eyes and smile, and my heart hasn’t been whole ever since. He fitted the mental image of my perfect lover, that I’d had so early in my head, with whom I’d begun writing my first story…the image of Dusk, and ever since I’ve never seen any other sight lovelier than that stranger boy sitting there laughing off with his friends, his entire guard down.
I wished to know him better, but then I wan’t very good at making friends, and retaining them. Especially people, I’m drawn to so fatally. IT didn’t last, but over these past six years, I’d had enough, to know he wasn’t at all that much the hero I had in mind, because I wasn’t that image, he had in his. Nevertheless, that love in return blossomed me into a woman, enabling me to write of my passions, and desires, and of love, to the closest degree I can mimic. My book is complete, the first one that I wrote to describe that ideal boy and introduce the chief character of my very first story, that is still under construction.
I wished to do a lot of things, and I’ve tried a little bit of everything. And I have no regrets. I’ve got a life ahead and I will live it as long as my time permits, and will do everything that I’ve ever had a wish in my mind (well, not everything…specially not those which are illegal, haha) to do. Beauty has always been my companion and my strong belief is that it’ll always continue to be for me who is one Libra born, and I believe in myself above all else, that I’ll never change for me, for the world, maybe yes, I might seem, but for me, it’ll be just choices that I made, which in my heart I’ll always remember, what I went through to decide standing on a crossroad.
Watch a dream
Poisoned by a curse
Watch your broken song
And crumbled verse.
The city of your love
Captured by decay
A lifetime of hope
You were meant for such times
O’ Wise Fool, where
Tall dreams are not a crime
And treasured is your emerald tear.
Photo and verse: Afreen Hussain (http://www.facebook.com/songsoftheflute)
There in the outskirts of the the City of New Delhi lies a stretch of cursed land where the Sultan Ghiyasuddin Tughlaq (pronounced Ghiyath al-Din Tughlaq in Urdu) had built the fifth city of Delhi.
Curse of the Sufi Saint, Nizamuddin Auliya.
Ghiyas-ud-din, as an Emperor, is usually perceived as a liberal ruler. However, he was so passionate about his dream fort that he issued a dictate that all labourers in Delhi must work on his fort. The Saint [Nizamuddin Auliya], a Sufi mystic, got incensed as the work on his baoli (well) was stopped. The confrontation between the sufi saint and the royal emperor has become a legend in India. The saint uttered a curse which was to resonate throughout history right until today Ya rahey hissar, ya basey gujjar (may it [the fort] remain unoccupied/infertile, or else the herdsmen may live here).
And indeed to this day it has stood still, as the fort lies crumbling, hundreds of years later…in it’s solitude. miles stretch on and no sign of human habitation. It’s like this strategically important city is indeed forgotten by all of human race.
However the rustic beauty of the place and the resonating silence go together side by side like it was meant to be. A curse, so binding, it’s a fact, I do not wish to disturb the peace and serenity. It would feel like dropping an antique urn containing the ashes of a God, and weeping over the lost remains would be bitterly pathetic.
This is my advice to you as a friend, or you could call a person who knows her India well, visit this place. A chance like this comes once in a lifetime, and this is something you gotta see before you leave Delhi. Not very far from the city. It’s Tughlakabad. Subway available just nearby.
This is where you’ll find yourself at par with your soul…as you trying to listen to the drums beating as the emperor presides over his court, and then the saint walking in with his lute, and the words uttered, you already know.
Have a great time…:)
Here I tried writing something…so here it goes :-
My eyes wish to behold, again and yet again, the grace with which, thee, my sweet lordship, unfold thy deepest, most wondrous mysteries. My fingers wish to trace your fair skin, under which the blue veins snake their way through your flesh, more fragrant than all of Persephone’s grove, by far worth more than Hades’ treasure trove…
And it’s thy heart, made of the densest gold, harder than the hardest diamond, but it’s just that I wish to win. Thy lips, that speak so much, thy eyes, express. I wish to smoothe out that delicate tensed brow. I wish to sort through your beautiful long lashes and to fill thy sweet mouth with gentle kisses. And there lying around in some far away meadow, shall we have our sweet recess. We will share little sweet promises, sweet little breaths exchanged. How, lying there on the warm, moist grass we would make wagers on our lives.
It’s a sport of young lovers, such as ourselves to let Passion, Love’s hot headed brother override our sane rational minds. Take oblique decisions, the orders, our hearts fail to obey. I know this will someday end, the rat race of passion and morals clashing will end one day. Like thee, ever so gentle, so noble, may someday just walk away, for my goodness’ sake. But it’ll be me here, rooted to the scent of this meadow, and the lingering aftertaste of your kiss on my tongue.
I’ve really attempted to write prose after a really long time. Could use an opinion if anyone could offer any regarding the progress of the piece. Thanks.
I HAVE BEEN NOMINATED FOR MY FIRST “VERY INSPIRING BLOGGER AWARD” WENDELL A. BROWN a.k.a THE BROWN ONE POET, today. A VERY POPULAR AND EMINENT BLOGGER, Wendell Brown and I share a brother-sister bond, and he is a wonderful poet and writer, who has a very sincere humble spirit which never fails to uplift my spirit whenever I’m, let’s say not in the best of my temperaments. He communicates so well, and with his gift of compassion his gentle use of words never fail to touch the spot on the heart that it marks for an aim. He is one of those special people who can deliver their messages well, along with the heart felt grace and continues to inspire all who get one taste of his gift, at his blog, http://foreverpoetic.wordpress.com/. I am honored and humbled by his kind gesture. The special thing about our world’s blog awards is that we have to see each other through our words…and they reflect our hearts. That is what really makes this award and others so very special…they are real from our own peers! Thank you, Wendell A. Brown for the sunshine you mix into my world more and more, every day.
Being nominated for this award I must follow some rules that go with it! And here they are–
1. Thank the person who nominated me!
2. Share 7 things about myself
3. Pass the award to 7 nominees
Number 1. I have already taken care of .
1. By language and culture, I am Assamese. And I am proud of all things associated with my motherland, that is Assam, India.
2. I have never been average. Either very bright or very dull. In the matter of school, dull would fit in perfectly.
3. I used to stutter badly as a kid, since I had a hundred different opinions progressively forming in my mind in real time.
4. But then I stopped talking like that altogether. Through writing I found, stuttering turns into musings and comparisons.
5. I identify myself as just a little fragment of nature, and thus do not deserve to be treated anything that exceeds an ant’s expectation.
6. My life has been hard for me, but I take it as a challenge every morning as I wake up and try to blend into the average crowd.
7. I love the number seven, thirty three, the sun sign Sagitarius, date, 20th Dec, 2007, and as of recently I love the feeling of being in love…It makes you rhyme! 🙂
Here are my nominees whose sites are all very inspiriing! I like to congratulate all of them for their very individually unique abilities! No site is the same and I enjoy all of them immensely! Do not pass them by…its worth the visit;
1. http://foreverpoetic.wordpress.com/ (sorry, he is inspiring, I can’t help with that. so, congrats for your 3rd…:P )
Feels free like nothing can hold you back. Nothing upsets you, but everything pleases you. All your wrath and anger just vanishes, and you get this new insight that helps you let go of the past and take up this new attitude that nothing in this temporal world matters. Love the world and the world forgets you. It makes you stronger, you know…
Think of the ants, the animals, the birds. They live their lives and reproduce. Life goes on… Their likes and dislikes don’t intrigue anyone, nor does anyone care to see. In their quiet communities they exist peacefully.
I am just another living being too, so it shouldn’t mean anything different in my case.
Takes Two to Tango. So goes the same with the mouth watering, spicy, sultry Mexican recipes. It is a rich culture that Mexico has possession of, one that often lies embedded in the folds of the shadowy veils spread by its more dominating neighbours. Mexican food, a wonderful inheritance passed down to the present day Mexicans down their history, a blend of their European ancestors and natives of the red soil, do not deserve to share the same fate as everything else.
Mexican food is no longer a native word valid for use in Mexico only. Tex Mex has its influence on everything else, from burgers to fries, to pizzas to sandwiches. Nachos and Cheese is a favourite food everywhere in the world. Even those who are used to spice lemony pickles too can’t say no to fiery hot tabasco sauce, which of course is essentially named after the Mexican state of ‘Tabasco’. Tacos and burritos were too an instant favourite when the Mexican brands hit the international market. Tequila too is originally Mexican.
The common man would always confuse between a taco and a burrito, but ask a Mexican child, and he will point you out that the rough tortilla wraps made of wheat flour filled in with vegetables, cheese, seafood, meat or any other filling are the tacos, and the properly folded and enclosed cylindrical tortilla wrap with only meat or fried beans is the burrito.
Carne Asada or ‘grilled meat’ is a thin beaf steak marinated with olive oil and salt or spices like lemon and pepper or garlic salt or Worcestershire sauce before putting it in the grill. Recipes with meat vary across the whole of Mexico. In the Yucatan region, the food is known for sweetness instead of spiciness, while the Oaxacan region is famous for its savoury tamales and celebrated moles and simple tlayudas.
Street Mexican is however gaining popularity the fastest, since it’s the easiest access a common outsider as well as a native has to native food. The tacos, tortas, quesadillas, tamales, elotes, abulon, guacamole and chips, camotes, water-based ice cream, and candy; and drinks such as aguas frescas, tejuino, enchiladas, tepache, and atole are common delicacies for the insider; for an outsider it’s sheer heaven.
Once you capture the differences like a native does, you are free to let your senses run wild through the alluring platter of rich Mexican food lying before you. The fragrances of the spices are unbelievably sensual and yet down to earth, like the soil itself.
Mexico is the only descendent of Spain, which inherits its legacy in the matter of food. The raw sensuality of the Spanish rodeo arenas, the matador waving his red cape at the brazen, spitting bull razing the ground, its angry breath hissing through its nostrils, everything is brought to the mind, with one bite of the spicy Mexican food lying before you.
The points to be noted are many. Mexican food found in USA, is not real Mexican. Check. Mexico is not Spain. Check. Trip to Mexico successful to a little extent, at least you got a new insight. I at least guarantee you after you capture the spirit of Mexican cuisine, you will keep wishing you extended your stay. Probably you would come back some other time. This time, come at leisure. It is worth it.
O weary hearts! O slumbering eyes!
O drooping souls whose destinies
Are fraught with fear and pain,
Ye shall be loved again.
No one is so accursed by fate,
No one is so utterly desolate,
But some heart, though unknown,
Responds unto his own.
Responds–as if with unseen wings,
An Angel touched its quivering strings;
And whispers, in its song,
“Where hast thou stayed so long?”
—An Extract from ENDYMION, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
There are great sayings with love, LOVE, as in the four lettered, much abused, much disputed, and yet, the most desperately sought for divine phenomenon in all of human history, takes quite a different course of action than most of us humans expect, like LOVE has been predestined to just magically come to us when we are actually ready for it, no matter, how hard we may need it, or how badly we have been doing in our lives for the lack of it, our one soul mate would never come to us, not even to lend a comforting hand, or shoulder to pull us back to our feet, and all that other person might know is that, they might be thinking the same thing, they don’t know their soul mate exist!
We live our lives, struggle, struggle, from the moment we open our eyes into this world, a world which seems to be ready to gobble us up and digest our entities first hand. From the moment we enter this world, we are already expected to be able to survive all the hatred, all the envy, all the hostility of a world, which had already turned bitter and indifferent towards everything beautiful and lovely. This world, where every person born is taught nothing but to suspect and hate anything different than themselves, where they too have grown up suppressing the rebellious, pure human sentiments, they had been taught to slaughter every time one resurrects to be strong enough to raise a head, where does a little babe, a foundling with absolutely no idea but to primordially crave acceptance in the society, find a chance of being any different? Where does, in a world as such, LOVE, as in the four lettered word, not in the much abused, much disputed, and yet the most sought for divine phenomenon, but in the purest, soulful and easier-than-finding-firewood-and-lighting-a-fire emotion as a chance to survive, for one to find?
The talk about soul mates is vain, since LOVE itself is not allowed a chance to survive. Soul mates may exist, but where are they when one person is dying, starving from the lack of love…? Destiny might have stored it as a happy ending for some much later time, that somehow, someday, the soul mates would stumble upon each other and happen to strike up a conversation that heals them both up, for a, perhaps, even more desperate life situation, maybe to spectate a grand entree, a grand finesse, but for some people, the present may hurt so bad, that it crosses the point of their forbearance, and drive them past the point they decide to quit. Then again, some would argue, quitting is a choice, and well, that was their destiny…they probably didn’t have a much professed soul mate, and their life was destined to end that way. Those who say this are mere puppets reared by society to mime the utilitarian mentality everyone else around them already possesses, who cannot see past the amount of courage a person required to kill himself, their state of mind infested by desperation their loneliness gave them, the futile results of all their hopes and waiting…
I would, too, probably fret, but it wouldn’t be at the person who quit, I would fret at you, DESTINY, because you are a bitch!!!