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Posted on 11-18-12 10:18 PM     Reply [Subscribe]
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I would like to apologize for deleting my older posts, I shouldn't have done it. Anyways rectifying my act I am again posting them. And I would also like to say sorry for all those who liked and appreciated them. Your support and your words are always what I look for.

Disco 8th Avenue


All the things seem so perfect, running smoothly, working out the way you had always liked it to be, but a deviation and it all changes. The temple you are building collapses all of a sudden when you are just about to finish it. A pinnacle at the top of its roof, you think and the next moment it falls down in front of your eyes. And not only just leaving you in the position you had started to begin but also stacking up the pile of its ruins and debris that you have to take care of.

The mark of the long incision on the left side of my right leg is still prominent. I run my fingers along the almost straight line and beneath it I can feel the steel strip that is holding together my broken bone and bringing the splits back in the position. The incision begins exactly at the ankle and ends in the midway to my knee. In this condition a walking stick is a must for me. Wherever I go, to my work, for shopping, to visit my relatives or cinema with my friends for last two years it has always walked with me. I cannot walk without it and it cannot either. I don’t ride motorbike anymore, the doctor says my restrained leg cannot stand its weight. Now, I commute to my workplace in public vehicles and sometimes my colleagues are merciful enough to offer me a ride.

“How’s your leg now?” The first question Pawan asks as he opens the door for me.

It is his birthday today. He doesn’t fall in the category who wants to make their birthday parties crowded, full of people. Just a few nearest friends of his and he is satisfied in that. And to be the part of his celebration, he chooses two of us, me and Rohit.

“The X-ray reports are good, it’s improving the doctor said.” I say placing my stick leaning against a wooden table as I sink myself in the couch opposite to the table. “But a year more before they take the steel out of my leg.” I look at him and add.

“Want anything to drink?” Pawan asks.

“No, not now, let Rohit come.”

“Aahh, ok, he is on his way, just phoned me.”

It is an average sized room with light green paint on its wall and white on the ceiling. The floor is covered with a green nylon carpet. The rectangular table against which my stick is leaning stands surrounded by three couches. Two small couches facing its smaller sides and a long couch facing the larger one. Opposite to its free side, near the wall, there sits a television on a low table with cylindrical shiny metal legs and supporting a circular glass slab. The longer couch is empty, with Pawan and me opposite to each other sitting on the smaller ones.

“A year more, and this makes you 27, isn’t it?”

“Yes”, Pawan says and adds, “We all are getting old” accompanied by a brief smile and I too join him with a small twitch on my lips.

The sound of the motorbike’s engine ceases, the door creeks behind us and the entrance of Rohit makes us complete. He is not alone. Priya, his wife is with him. Last summer they got married, it makes exactly 5 months from now. They work for the same firm and that is how they got intimate. They make themselves comfortable sitting on the longer couch, facing the television. No wonder, Rohit’s welcoming question happens to be similar as Pawan’s and I with the same passion as before reply him.

Pawan pours down whiskey in my glass and pushes a bottle of coke towards me. I mix it with the whiskey, letting the coke to stain the whiskey black.

“Beer for me.” Rohit says before Pawan could fill up his glass.

“Responsible man now, huh?” I say to him.

Priya smiles listening to me and gives a short glance to Rohit sipping her coke.

“Pawan, don’t you think, it’s time to follow my path.” Rohit says.

“A couple of year more.” Pawan answers.

They both look at me expecting my view on that. For a while I say nothing. I guess, they understood my silence and this is the reason why they drift their vision from me to their glasses. The silence continues until I interrupt, “I need to smoke.”

I get up and Priya hands me my stick. I walk out to the balcony, holding the whiskey in my hand. I sit on a plastic chair, and through the closed glass window, I can still see three of them chatting but the low audible sound is difficult to understand. Another day is about to finish with the fading light and a chill breeze sweeps pass me disturbing my hair.

A lonely red shawl on the roof of the adjoining house floats in the air holding a rope to which it is clipped on. I push the smoke out of my lungs, for a while, it stays in front of me making the view of the red shawl foggy.

With each sip the whiskey dries out, every puff burns down the cigarette shorter and the passing moment invites the darkness adding up more chill to the air. I hobble back into the room carrying the empty glass.

A couple of rounds of whiskey, beer and coke mingle with us before Pawan proposes to go out to a disco. The primary thing for which the discos are meant for is of course to dance under the flashing lights and in the rhythm of thumping music. I know that my condition is against it. But I feel I need a change, something that would make me feel different. Also, it is his night, the night of Pawan and something he wishes today, I cannot step back from that. Beside these reasoning, there is alcohol running in my blood that is enough to produce a mood of titillation inside my brain.

The feeling is always good once you enter a somewhat crowded, laden with pubs, restaurants, and shops full of artifacts, soft and melancholic music buzzing out of music stores, natives and tourists sipping their alcoholic beverages beating the chill of Kathmandu and silently observing the commuters as they cross pass them. The never sleeping streets of Thamel fill every one with a passion to live inside oneself forgetting everything around.

We stop in front of a big closed wooden door. Just above the door there flashes a colourful neon light depicting a red glowing ‘8th’ and a smaller blue coloured ‘Avenue’. A man in a thick black jacket stands next to the door and lets the enthusiastic queue to enter in one by one. The four of us add up to the end of the queue.

We make our way through the crowd, pushing them, sometimes squeezing in between and sit on a couch near the bar where the two bartenders are busy making drinks in their own stylish way, rocking the bottles, spinning them high up in the air. It really needs a lot of practice and concentration for such an amazing performance. The beat of the music is high and loud, lights flashing all over scattering blue, green, red and yellow spots everywhere. The crowd, mostly youngsters in their early twenties are jumping and swirling their bodies trying to match their moves with the rhythm of the music.

For a while we all sit there on the couch talking nothing, and our eyes fixed on the boiling crowd. Rohit and Priya seem eager to get mixed up with the crowd, and their eagerness soon comes forth insisting the remaining two of us to come along with them. But rather we two opt for staying there a bit more assuring to join them in no time.


Pawan orders for a vodka. The cool vodka on ice with its bitter taste enters inside my gut producing a burning sensation.

“You should think for a new start.” Pawan says.

I stay quiet, pretending to hear nothing from him and making the loud music and cries as excuse to myself. But the spontaneous reply pops out, “Yes” accompanied by a long nod of my head.

Finishing two rounds of vodka with Pawan, my eyes drift towards the bar. A lady in black dress stands leaning against the bar. Light flashes over her changing the colour of her face every time. She seems tired and somewhat sad. “… a new start.” The words of Pawan begin to spin inside my head. Looking at her, I take a cigarette out and hold it between my lips. As I search for the lighter, I hear a voice almost buried inside the loud rattling music, “Sir, you cannot smoke here.” It is the bartender. I put the cigarette back inside my pocket.

Taking a couple of sips of vodka, I grab my walking stick. Pawan looks at me curiously but says nothing. Clutching my stick tight, I slowly take my steps and head towards the restroom.

I look myself in the mirror, take a cigarette out and begin to smoke. “I can do it” I say to myself, “I just have to go and talk to her.”

“But why does she look sad?” I begin to think trying to give myself reasons one after another, and the regular puffs of cigarette keep on following the reasoning.

A sound wakes me up from my deep thought. I look around and see the walking stick lying on the floor. Trying to convince myself that I am drunk, I pick it up cautiously, and carefully place it upright leaning against the wall as before. I splash cold water from tap on to my face and wipe the water off firmly with a handkerchief. Before leaving, I again look my image in the mirror and walk out.

Pawan is still on the couch waiting for me. But she is not at the bar. I look around, but don’t see her, she’s gone.

“Where is she?” I ask to Pawan.

“Who?”

“She was there at the bar, now she isn’t.”

“It’s been a while that the bar is empty, no body was here.”

“No, she was there in a black dress and looked sad.”

“Who are you talking about?” Pawan looks a bit tensed.

“Smriti” I answer.

“What? You are drunk.” He says with a surprised face.

“No, she was standing right there, I saw her.”

Pawan pulls up my jeans up to my knee. “Look at it.” He says pointing the long mark on my leg. “She is gone, she won’t come back again, why don’t you understand this?” Pawan cries out loud to me.

The music keeps on bursting, and it appears to me that the source is moving towards me increasing the intensity with the ticking time. The colourful crazy lights flash here and there, sometimes green, sometimes blue, sometimes red and sometimes yellow. The speeding truck honks from behind. In the rear view I see portion of Smriti’s black hair blowing in the wind and the truck getting closer. I swerve my bike left and just then a mighty thrust from behind, I lose control.

THE END







 
Posted on 11-18-12 10:21 PM     Reply [Subscribe]
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A Microbus

A dirty looking boy with a pair of greased jeans, soiled shirt and an old stained white and black handkerchief tied around his neck shouts aloud standing near a microbus. His right hand full of cheap rubber bracelets that run from his wrist nearly up to his elbow bangs the exterior of the microbus. Sometimes in the middle he stops shouting to spit on the floor and then he again continues his shouting and banging. He puts his finger deep inside his hair, scrubs his scalp and then stares at his blackened nails. With not even a centimeter gap between any of the adjacent passengers, he declares it to be full and signals the driver to roll off.

The passengers in that microbus, whatever their destinations are, are heading towards the same direction. For another five, ten, twenty or any other counts of minutes they will be together. They all have their own lives and different stories to tell. But they are unaware of the fact that the world is a small place to live in. They will never know that although they have been passing their life in Kathmandu since their birth, their childhood photograph is hanging on the wall of a house in an island called New-Caledonia simply because their grand father had been a good friend to that New-Caledonian person when he visited Kathmandu. Restricting the observation only up to this microbus, among these sixteen or eighteen persons some of them might be related to one another and the beauty of this lies in the thoughts of these related persons. The thing one might be musing over can possibly be the subject matter of the others thought.

The last seat on the right has been occupied by a lady. Her attire suggests that she belongs to the majority which spends a long time in front of the mirror and is utmost concerned about every fringe and mark on the face. She carries a brown leather bag which is of course on her lap now and has a light shiny pink colouring on her lips. No doubt she is a good looking lady and it wouldn’t justify her attractive curves without calling her sexy. She was twenty one when she first came to Kathmandu. Four years passed and she has been struggling to make herself up to the big screen. Though she got small role breaks in a few television series her passion doesn’t let her stick to that but to climb up the next step.

That night she couldn’t sleep and hated herself to the level that she never did before. But later she did assuage herself realizing it to be the part of her profession and this would turn her more bold and confident. She still remembers her screening test for her debutant tv-series. The director of the series instructed her to sit on his lap. The bulky man with short grown white beard that covered his cheek then felt her breasts claiming it to be the part of screening. That night she also felt sorry for Bhusanraj back in her town. She didn’t like him much but for Bhusan she was the girl of his dream. She slapped him hard in the middle of the college ground when he was trying to catch her hand to stop her to express himself. But anyways her desire of becoming an actress is going to turn into reality very soon. Next year the same director is producing and directing a movie and she has a good chance for taking up the lead role. And she knows well that, for this she has to show best of her skills in both the acting and the ‘intimacy’ to convince the director.

A simple mathematics: the more the number of seats in the microbus, the more the number of passengers it can accommodate and consequently the more the earning for its owner. So due to this mathematical fact there is a strip of seat installed between the first row of the passengers seat and behind the driver’s cabin. Awkwardly, the people on this seat have to face the opposite direction looking straight to other passenger faces. And among these people is a woman in her early fourties and carrying a big plastic bag full of vegetables. There is no doubt in telling that she forms a typical house wife. But she is worried, the end of the month is approaching near and with it there comes the rent of the house, the college tuition fee of her daughter, the electricity and the telephone bill and the shopkeeper’s monthly payment. And it is difficult for her to manage with her husband’s salary who happens to be a high school teacher.

Most of her days are spent in the house doing the daily household chores, watering the flowers, watching the Indian tv-series and sometimes visiting the neighbouring Radhika didi for a little bit of chit chat. It’s been three years that she couldn’t pay a visit to her elder brother. Sometimes it would be her daughter’s exam and other time her husband’s never ceasing work at school. Though it’s a ten hours journey to her brother’s this Dashain she is fully determined to go there along with her daughter and her daughter’s father.

Now moving ahead and entering the driver’s cabin where leaving the driver four other people are squeezed together so that they can be well fitted in the space meant only for two. There is a boy, a teenage boy in his college uniform. He puts his right leg on the driver’s side nearly touching the clutch pedal and his left leg on the other side. And in between his legs there stands a long rod, a gear-lever of course, which the driver uses every now and then to change the gear. He has a black side bag and on that are pinned two buttons, one of them depicting Che Guevara and other Bob Marley. He has three months left to finish up his school and join the university.

But he is troubled and desperate, not by the long chained organic compounds and their bizarre reactions or by the smell of the formalin dipped rat’s carcass. What else it could be? – The poor guy is in love. He doesn’t want to leave the city but his father wants him to go abroad and continue his studies. And it’s not only his father, he himself has a desire to go abroad and study. The dilemma is: he cannot have both the sweet ‘[Disallowed String for - bad word]os’ that are in either of his hands, he has to make a choice and all by himself. Two years of love and he doesn’t want to risk it. Once he has gone abroad anything can happen; she might get married or he might find someone else out there. There is nothing called ‘safe-landing’ for him and in this case he has to take his chances.

The microbus advances forward stopping at certain places and the dirty looking boy keeps himself busy collecting the fare, dropping off and taking in the passengers. He has no concerns about the lives of all these people. If he is concerned about anything then it would be getting in passengers and reaching the destination as quickly as possible so that he can make more number of trips till the end of the day. And it is for sure that he won’t be interested in knowing that Bhusanraj whom the lady in the last seat slapped is actually the son of the woman’s elder brother, the woman’s daughter has been the girl friend of the teenage boy for two years and the teenage boy himself is the director’s son. The microbus halts at the last stop and within seconds all the seats are left vacant. Giving a brisk count to the collected fare the dirty looking boy then stands near the microbus and starts his shouting and banging.

The End

 
Posted on 11-18-12 10:23 PM     [Snapshot: 9]     Reply [Subscribe]
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The Other Side

Blood all over, I am covered in blood. My hands are red, my clothes wet with blood. I look my image in the pond, blood runs down the cheeks and drips off my chin. I wash my hands and face with the water. I again look at my image. The colour doesn’t fade away. I rub hard, very hard with a stone. It doesn’t work either. I jump into the pond to wash myself. At an instance the water turns red, a pool of blood, I want to get out of it but something pulls me inside. I struggle, the thing pulls me more and more. I swallow blood, I choke and suddenly I wake up.

I am sweating, sweating a lot. I reach for the lighter under my pillow, light the tuki on the table. Beside me, my wife is in deep sleep. Not disturbing her, I quietly slip out of the bed, unlock the door and feel the cool outside air on my face and chest. The silver moon light spreads over the place; the chicken coop stands opposite to the hay stack and the buffalo with its large belly sleeps silently under the shed. I smoke a cigarette. The distant barking of dogs and the constant buzzing of bugs, I take a long breath and go back to bed.

With the morning the long night passes away but still most of the light behind the hill. I don’t let Kalpana work much. She is pregnant, 6 months. I chop some woods and heat up slurry for the buffalo. Its size suggests that it’s giving birth this week. The dry woods burn rapidly, crackling, sometimes giving out blaze. The slurry boils inside the black bottomed aluminum pot. Bubbles form and pop off, I keep looking at them. I feed the buffalo and then my wife calls me with a tea glass in her hand. Sitting on a straw mattress and sipping the tea I watch the buffalo lick the pot clean. She appears again. I look at her face she is beautiful, more beautiful than I first saw on the 13th day ritual of Sahila baje, my neighbour. It was three years ago. She puts a bronze plate full of pop corn and roasted soya-bean in front of me and vanishes inside the door. I can still hear her bangles tingling. I am going to be a father very soon. This thought makes me excited and adds a pressure, a pressure of responsibility.

I let the chickens out of the coop and call her to bring the key. For 15 minutes I walk down to my shop. It is a small tea shop along with some regular house hold commodities. As I open it, the first thing I smell is the strong odour of washing soap. It is made from animal fat so it stinks. Behind my shop there is an old Durga temple and aside there is a big Peepal tree. They all prefer to sit under this tree, drink tea and chat. Yesterday, they talked about Bishnu, he is going to die soon they said. The fear of Maoists made him flee to India. Four years he spent in Delhi, first at a restaurant and then in some garage. He returned back black and thin with AIDS. Last I saw him he was skeleton covered only with skin. Counting his breath he is in hospital in Pokhara.

With the midday sun and my shadow underneath my feet, I climb up to my house for the meal. I pass rest of the day in the shop; making tea, selling things, listening talks and sometimes in middle adding my own. The birds start to fly to their nests, the Peepal tree reflects the reddish-orange shade of the drowning sun and I return back to my home with a cigarette between my fingers.

At least two are needed to make a chicken catch easy. But I have to do it on my own. The water is already set on the fire and I am after the red one. It is big than others and more quick and fast. It stretches its long neck, flaps its wings and makes alarming noise out of its throat. It slows down near the hay stack but still cautious. I grab a short, heavy, cylindrical wooden chunk and project at it with all my strength. It lies unconscious on the ground. It makes slight effort as I drag its neck against the blade of chulesi. The blood drops fall on the floor and soon disappear leaving red stains on the soil surface.

Kalpana is fast asleep. It is a crucial time and she needs a lot of rest and nutrition. She doesn’t like see me drinking. But the day long harsh training and running in the woods, at least a glass was necessary to comfort the pain and for a good sleep. I am not alcoholic but I am habituated. I sit out on the straw mattress, pour a glass full from the gallon, light a cigarette, take a sip and a puff. Running up the hills with stones in the back pack, crawling under the barbed wires carrying a fake wooden gun and learning the guerrilla skills in the forest full of long, sharp wild thorns with a pair of Goldstar. The five months long training that never seemed to cease. Then I was 21, two years befor I met Kalpana.

I fill up the glass for second time. I hear loud and continuous huffing from the shed. Flash light batteries, I kept them this morning on the roof to dry up. The buffalo looks restless. The dim glow of the flash light shows fluid mixed in blood on the old straw saddle near its hind legs. The time has come for it. To make it comfortable, I loose its rope, spread a layer of hay and give some water to drink. Thirty minutes pass, the flash light gives up and I light a lantern. In the flickering yellow light, it gives birth. The young calf lies flat on the straw. The buffalo makes strange movements, smells it, licks it on the neck but the calf does not stand. Early in the morning I call Juthe Sarki. Kalpana stands outside the door leaning on the wall, says nothing just observes silently Juthe walking away carrying the dead calf on his shoulders.

Walking down to the shop and up to the home, few weeks are left behind. The naked dead tree with its roots out positions itself horizontal in the middle of the forest. I hit its trunk with an axe, the sound echoes back. I hit it again and echo follows it. I hit it third time, this time I hear no echo. The fourth one doesn’t produce it either. The forest dies; the air gives out no sound as it strikes the branches and leaves of the pine trees, the birds, bugs all go silent. I am afraid; I want to get out of here. I walk, increase my pace. Something is following me but I cannot see it. I run, the fallen pine leaves make it difficult. It keeps on following me. I fall on the ground. It grabs my shoulder and shakes me. I hear the voice of Kalpana. I open my eyes and find myself in the bed and Kalpana’s hand pushing my shoulder. She seems to be in pain. She breathes at quicker rate than normal.

“Call Sabitri didi.” She says.

The rain is pouring down heavily and is still dark outside. I push a pillow under her back to make her comfortable. The umbrella hangs from the wooden beam of the ceiling. The illuminance of the flash light shows big drops of rain falling down. I put my legs cautiously on the slippery ground and move them as fast as I can. It takes more time to reach her home than usual. I call her. She opens the door.

“Kalpana….” I try to explain.

“Wait.” She says interrupting me and moves back into the room.

She is a mid-wife, actually a health worker working for some project and came last week to check Kalpana. Her face is always glum and she rarely smiles. She brings her things and we walk together.

She examines her, turns at me and says, “She is in labour, it’s only 7 months. This is a rare case.”

I don’t know what to do and what does the rare case means.

“She needs hospital.” She says with her glum looking face.

But it is almost impossible to carry her to the hospital in this condition. Walking down for one hour in this rain and dark, too much risk.

“No, you have to do it here.” I look at her and say.

She tries to say something, stops and says, “Ok.”

The water begins to boil. I carry it to the room. Kalpana looks blushed and in great pain. Sabitri didi gestures me to go. I walk out and she closes the door.

I sit outside, light a cigarette and smoke. The sound of rain hitting the sheeted roof makes it impossible to hear anything from inside. I am scared. The lightning constantly reveals the orange tree behind the shed and the occasional breeze sprays water on my face and arms.

The first mission assignment after the months training. They are planning to attack the Baglung Police Headquarter and the Rastriya Banijya Bank, simultaneously. I have to use real gun to kill some real and alive people. We are 67 on our battalion. As per the plan 43 will be charging the headquarter and others breaking in the bank. Rifles, small hand guns, some semi automatic machine guns, plastic grenades, socket bombs, rods, knifes, khukuries, the sun begins to set down and the battalion is ready to move.

But the armies ambush us in the middle of the way. Firing starts from behind the trees. We cannot see them. We fire randomly at the trees. Some grenades explode, many fall down. The bullet penetrates someone’s neck, someone’s eye, someone’s thigh. They all cry in fear and begin to run helplessly without any directions in the mind. Our rifles cannot stand long facing the automatic machine guns. Many die, some manage to escape.

I lie on the ground not moving a bit and without knowing if I am well intact or not. They tie my hands and take me a few meters away. I see a man of our battalion, I don’t remember his name. His hands are tied back. Two other men and a woman beside him are already dead with gun shots on their heads. I am afraid, I wish to live. One of them tells me to kneel down and the other kicks my back from behind. I feel the barrel of rifle which is still hot pushing the back of my neck.

“The bastard killed two of my men.” The first one screams looking at the man.

“You want to live.” He screams again looking at me.

I nod my head. He unties me and hands me a knife.

“Kill him.” He says to me. I don’t understand.

“Stab him, you bastard.” He cries this time.
I move towards the man, he is nervous. One of the armies hit him hard on the forehead with the butt of his rifle. He falls on the ground on his back. I raise the knife with both of my hands, he closes his eyes. I feel the knife touching his rib as I push it deep inside him. I stab him four times. Dark red blood oozes out of the hole in his chest.

“Run.”, the first one screams.

I throw the knife and run into the trees. I don’t know why he let me go. I don’t look behind and I am afraid to hear the sounds of gun shots. They may shoot me from behind but I keep on running. I run for my life.

Sabitri didi stands in front of me. “Come inside.” She says. Amazingly, the small tuki makes the room bright. Kalpana looks exhausted.

“She has your face.” Sabitri didi says carrying the baby towards the glow of tuki.

The End






 
Posted on 11-18-12 10:31 PM     [Snapshot: 13]     Reply [Subscribe]
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Looking Through the Window

 I sat to write a story. But nothing was coming in my mind. I scratched my head with my fingers but it didn’t work. Neither did the restless short walk along the length of my room that I usually prefer while I try to concentrate. At last, I sat again. I turned my head right, with my index finger between the gap of my upper lip and nose, and clutching a pen between middle and index finger. I looked out of the window, with only one wooden-pane open. I could see the blue sky with not even a dot of cloud. I couldn’t think of anything I could write of. It was like my brain was jammed and I wasn’t able to move my plot, characters, feelings, sentiments and all others towards a common destination that would make up a story. But, the instant glance though the window drifted my mind from my ‘to be written’ story to something else. I felt that the one feet wide and three feet long opening was trying to tell me something; probably a story. But, not of the kind that I write or other fiction writers do. But rather, a different one – a story of existence, survival and realization.

 Once upon a time there used to be nothing and suddenly at some point of time the things began to appear. The sudden appearance in itself was a mysterious phenomenon that created all the things out of nothing or in other words it brought the meaning of existence in light. The phenomenon was not only the key to the creation but also raised a major question concerning the need for the existence. But, if it were to be up to existence only then certainly the question itself wouldn’t have existed either. Unfortunately, existence was not the ultimate thing to happen. The happenings or the series of events that followed the existence not only made the question to exist but also made it to seem more and more prominent. Existence only was not sufficient for the completeness of existence itself. Rather, it needed something that could realize it and give a meaning to whole of the creation. So, the need then created such an environment wherein the existence could be realized and explored. Such an environment was only possible through survival. Survival traced a path that could lead towards the ultimate realization of the existence. In a way, survival made the perception of various components of the creation possible. Without survival nothing would have existed. On the long run, realization started to breed along and within the survival. Different sort of realizations began to appear varying among various kinds of surviving components. Among the diversity, the significant thing that happened was the maturity, that is, the broadening of the extent of the realization. The increasing maturity hinted towards a pin point – that the creation wants something to be realized. 

How near the quest reached the final realization? And what if the ultimate thing that needs to be realized is finally realized? Would it mean the end of this creation and beginning of a new phase, or something else? I never realized these things before and now leaving apart the characters, plot, sentiments, feelings and whatever, I continually looked through the window and asked myself – being one of the most intelligent surviving components how far have I realized myself or the things around me? And most of all, how much do I know about the whole of this creation? 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


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