Profists

Perspective and real meaning of freedom by quest of life.

The life experience from my eyes

Hard to hold your tears.

She asked what she belongs to me ?

And I can't give it a name because I can't describe my dad in a single word. और मैं इस नज्म का कोई नाम रख नहीं पाया कि मैं बाप को एक लफ्ज़ में बता नहीं पाया।

Its all about not to give up on your dream to prevail your real potential. Life is tough but believe me you can be tougher than life.

Is it lie or anything else ? to understand Human phenomenon listen it till the end carefully.

Its all about helping your friends before anything bad happen. Related to depression, anxiety, suicide.

The way you can rule the world, it is all about your attitude

This is all about what to develop, where to develop so we and other species on earth doesn't have to suffer.

• Her miles of loneliness • "Chanda hai tu sooraj hai tu, O meri aankhon ka taara hai tu", her favourite song from 1960's, that she playfully sang for me, my Nani, in her batik print saree, during those humid days,"when the heatwaves last all summer" and she sliced the yellow, ripe mangoes with her monochrome beauty and meandering curls, and a stain of sweat on her creased forehead, of ages, ancient and revered. Her wooden almirah, carries reminiscences of Nana, letters, photographs and memories. She remembers and narrates her "working with men to challenge patriarchy", in the outskirts of Bihar, in a school, as a teacher. Her threads of memories rewind of her mellowed days, her eyes bulge with saltwater, she recalls her "Students' spirit held high", during the break of summer or Puja days. She sits by the window, awaiting, she rejoiced of the passage of nostalgia that took her to Nepal, her ancestral home, she smells the petrichor and the hilsa fish with mustard on the rainy days, her nerves thriving to get back and revisit her home, her homeland. The pensive loneliness rummaging her tears, I remember her face, watching daily soaps, yet a hollow that was set like an alarm. She was "seperated by geography, yet united by melody", her songs of India, her retro days, that has crossed borders and dared to seek a sanctuary in the corners of her heart. Her deserted life resembled cacophony of silence, her Gods visited her morn and eve and she prayed, selflessly for her children, grandchildren and wished an afterlife with Nana in a safer abode. I remember her joint pain, her constant companion that shrieked time and again. She retires to bed sulking into the pain, I remember to ease her with myolaxin, she always gave a smile with her newly braced teeth. Years passed by, in void, in looking for her grandchildren with her blurred cornea. Her anguished lament reverberated in her four walled room, eagerly waiting for her guest, me. Her mandir wih deities and the tulsi plant that Nana gifted still stands tall like Nana. But there is a void that she equates to and all the frolic of her marriage she boasts off in pride has an unfathomable emptiness now. Her soft voice remembering her love, weighs time and again. I remember how she narrated Nana's poetries to us and told tales and laughed around, camouflaging her long lost love and life. Love indeed, not 'a midsummer night's tale', but awaiting for a reunion, a unison amidst stars. My eyes scanned her tears, invisible, yet invincible, her memories spoke of times and she chose prosaic verses to store her loneliness, yet she was alive through her soft skin, a porcelain one. Her insomnia gave her enough thoughts, her own, a vacancy where she resides all alone, yet with living numbers. Now, she resides in the air I breathe, I sink, and her smell still lingers around my nose ~ lonely