Pilgrim Shivam

-- “ke janto maa Durga r kathamo r upekkhito chheleti r eto mahatmyo?”(who knew, the most neglected boy of Durga-kathamo has such magnanimity?)         Thank you, dada. These words of yours set my path to another horizon. And I got out of me in search of Skanda. Kumar Kartikeya, the warlord of the Gods, a General with an invincible army of Gods, a face of bravery, an epitome of beauty. But what do we know about Him? Who is He? The son of Lord Shiva and brother of Lord Ganesha! Just another demi-god in the list of Indian mythology! Or He is too good to hide Himself deep within the unknown!         In this search we have nothing with us. We don’t know, where to or how to find Him. This journey runs with a heart full of love and questions at the same time. Who can describe or define Him better than himself? So we started our search. From the deepest forests to the pages of hidden ancient scriptures,...

We know what an epic is right? Like --- The hero is outstanding. ... The setting is large. ... The action is made of deeds of great valour or requiring superhuman courage. Supernatural forces—gods, angels, demons—insert themselves in the action. It is written in a very special style. The poet tries to remain objective. . . . . and ajsg$%$%$%#% . . . .(what?)  The poet is considered to be great, the creations are considered to be even greater. With such explanations we think of our Ramayana as the same -- a great epic from India. Valmiki was the poet. Is that it? Do you actually believe that? If yes then why? If no, question remains the same. Isn't it over-simplification of the truth? Except the hard-core non-believers, who by force remain ignorant though life and nature continue to surprise them every now and then, we all must admit that the world that is sensible through our senses is not the only one. Sometimes we feel, but ignore what always happen around ...

 THE LEGEND   O nce a man on a coffee shop told me, "India is not just a country, my friend. It is a cave, which hides the secrets to reveal the mysteries of the universe inside it". It looked like he is trying to stop himself from telling me all these but couldn't. "Thousands of guardians with their heavenly illusions guarding the cave", he continued,"Their illusions are of mane names. Some come in the form of scientific explanations, some as ignorance, and so many others you can't even imagine". More I visit the old temples around me, more I realize the truth of his words. Older the temple is, more hidden the truth will be. Every one of them are vibrant with energy and well guarded. In some of the places once in the history the mystery was unveiled for a time and then got covered again. Such a place is Asansol's Maa Ghagar Buri temple, where God unveiled himself in front of a poor priest named Kangalicharan Chakravarthy. The Temple ...

Anisha is my childhood friend. When I was in KG, we used to sat on the same bench, shared our lunch-boxes. Three days after I came back from Murguma, she called me. She and her friends of her college were organizing a picnic at Murguma. I still don't know why she invited me, because in that group I was just an outsider, a stranger from nowhere. I promptly agreed to join them, without even knowing anyone in the group except Anisha. Thus the great Hill called me again. In spite of being with a group of college students, I was alone, just as I wished it to be. Damn God! I don't wanna think about that picnic for a single moment. From the very beginning of the journey, it was horrible. Late arrival of our rented cab, too many people with all their picnic arrangements inside the car, their gossips and all created a real mess. So normal of that. One of the coldest and most misty morning it was. My another pilgrimage started after an hour of wait along the roadside. This time I was ...

"Symphony of breeze", my last feeling that I expressed in that hill. After that I felt much but could express a little. Because I lost there my words, my thoughts, my time, my pride of past, my worry of future. My senses were inert and I was just watching Him. More Subho da rode up more I amazed. I had never seen anything more beautiful before. Finally we reached the top of the hill. I wanted to bow down to that great hill, but my knees were far too weak. I wanted to scream out His glory, but my voice was chocked. Around me there He was. A yogi in His trance. A watchful guardian, a father watching the deeds of His children, a deity to pay homage. From that hill top one can see the complete Ayodhya hill range. More I watched the peaks around me, more they seemed to be some giant Shiva-lingas and the trees were like bloomed flowers, decorating the deity. The winter sun started to set and the darkness started to cover up the hill, in Her veil of Darkness. We came down ...

"Listen to the mountain wind, brother.", said Subho da, "Isn't it melodious"? "The Symphony of Breeze . . .!", I said. "Perfect wordings.", said Subho da, climbing on that hill top on his motorcycle. Subho da lives at Begunkodor, which is not so far away from Murguma. Well though Begunkodor is well known for its ghost stories, it has also a legacy of the Raas Mancha which contains 108 doors in total. Subho da, my elder brother was like my guide on my way to Murguma. In fact he was the one to introduce me to that abode of pristine Mother Nature. It was a Sunday. May be one of the craziest Sundays I have ever come across. I was sitting on my system at my home, trying to make a proper PPT Presentation for my group project in College. Within that storm of boredom Subho da's call rang on my phone like a iris of hope. He asked what the heck was I doing then. As I replied he said, "Drop those bullshits, take your camera, catch a bus for Be...

People have their own obsessions with weird stuffs like drinks, music, cigars, other people etc. There are also some type of people who love to travel. They pack their bags, make the bookings, depart on time for a well-planned journey and returns on schedule. Such people unfold their umbrellas in rain, carry drinking water for hygiene, uses camera to take selfies. Well we differ. We belong to the sect of people who just get out of our nests without planning. We don't get wet in the rain, we dance in it. We walk, we fall, we run behind a bus, we search. We are the explorers of the ever hidden mysteries beneath the protected veil of the angels. We live to set sails, we set sails to live. Even if we sit under a tree to rest, we still search for answers which hide within us. We live the risks to be lost, to endure hunger, to face insults as well as praises. We don't get out of our nests to return. We move into the forests to get lost with the trust that we won't be. We jum...