hello hello... hello hello...
is andheri kaali raat mein koi
sune to sunaey haal-e-dil pe haal-e-zindagi
hello hello... hello hello...
koi jawaab do na
jeene ko khuwaab do na
ek dost ka hai chehra
ya phir naqaab do na
hello hello... hello hello...
telephone ki is dor se bandhi meri zindagi
koi khol do, bas torr do, mein choot jaaoun abhi
mujhe chorr do, mujhe thaam lo
kho jaane do, mera naam lo
sab theek hai, hojaeyga
is jhoot se ab kaam lo
hello hello... hello hello...
is andheri kaali raat mein koi
sune to sunaey haal-e-dil pe haal-e-zindagi
hello hello...
kaante ghari ke chubh rahe, aur dil hai yeh andhera
is se bachain to phir dikhe shaayad naya sawera
mujh se zara baatain karo
halke zara raatain karo
sooraj ki pehli kirnon se
meri zindagi ko bharo
hello hello... hello hello...
koi jawaab do na
jeene ko khuwaab do na
ek dost ka hai chehra
ya phir naqaab do na
hello hello... hello hello...
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
why should I go there?
I am here not to give any excuse, not to insult others, not to regain the faith. I am here to state some facts and to clear some doubts you may have about me and my family.
Its fact that I was the person who initiatated all these. Probably it was 19th or 20th August 2008 when I approached Sree. I approached her because I noticed some purity in her while I talked with her in different places at Malda and/or Faraka. She was lucid, intelligent and somehow intersting. I approached and she was surprised and advised to let these things upto our parents. I agreed. I asked my ma whether she would talked to you or not. She without thinking anything called you and the rest is known to every body.
Everything was perfectly right at its own place except some apparently annoying outside disturbances. In the mean time you were about to be transferred to other state and it was cancelled or otherwise settled. Good news!
I was the person who continuously argued to transfer Sree to Malda College. Every one was apparently or silently against me. I could not said loudly why I wanted her at Malda College. Because already I was aware about some thing which was totally against my belief and imagination.
( I could not complete this post due to some unknown reasons, probably I was emotionally broken, may be, may not be, however, I'm publishing this in anticipation that it will let me understand myself after a long time when nothing will be important... when I will become udaasin, in true sense...)
( I could not complete this post due to some unknown reasons, probably I was emotionally broken, may be, may not be, however, I'm publishing this in anticipation that it will let me understand myself after a long time when nothing will be important... when I will become udaasin, in true sense...)
Friday, August 27, 2010
Do I believe in “... words don’t have the power to hurt you… unless the person who said it means a lot to you.”?
Somehow J. Russel Lynes said “If someone insults you… just ignore it, if you can’t ignore it, laugh at it… if can’t laugh at it off… you probably deserve it.”
If I say, I like to be criticized, then it might be the half truth. Criticism hurts me a lot. But after being critically criticized by others, when I sit calmly in front of the quiet lawn or beneath the unruffled sky, I realized that this criticism is making me the person what I ever wanted to be. It is igniting the strength, it is rectifying me and it is triggering the desire to be complete.
“Any fool can criticize, condemn, and complain but it takes character and self control to be understanding and forgiving.”
Yes, I do believe that every person can criticize irrespective of how and what extent that person is really able and wise to criticize. Probably, to criticize anything is one’s fundamental right. But it doesn’t mean that we should always pay a good attention to that kind of unwanted criticism. It should depend upon our own verdict that what criticism we should accept, irrespective of the criticizer.
Little bit lucidly, as for example, my dearest sister can easily, annoyingly and definitely irritatingly criticize me if I forgot to give her the “welcome flower” at the airport. But should I be hurt, should I consider her child-like arguments as the great insult and curse myself till the day lost its last sun-beam? Would it be a great idea to consider and reconsider and mull over the single and unnecessary event of the day?
Once again, slight imaginarily, suppose once upon a day I was traveling on my elder brother’s office car on the eve of the Durga Puja. The car had a “red light” blinking on its roof as my brother was the newly appointed District Magistrate of the district. The road was declared as “one way” to control the heavy traffic. My brother left us near his office and allowed us to get a view of the city. We, heavily enchanted, entered the wrong way. A Home-Guard stopped our car. I threatened the simple, unarmed and duty-bound Home-Guard by reminding him how he dared to stop a DM’s car! The simple man calmly said it is the rule which was settled and confirmed by the authority and law.
This was one of my greatest insults I have ever received in my life. I learned no one is above the law… I learned something about my faults… that’s why I termed it as an insult. This made me realized. Whenever I think about the incident, I feel ashamed. But, undoubtedly, I have great respect for the simple, unarmed and duty-bound Home-Guard.
The point, what I want to make here is that it doesn’t matter who the person is criticizing me… to me whether I am learning something about my faults from the criticism or not, it is the mantra.
And as all the poor, unwanted, unnecessary, idiotic, unwise, dull-headed criticism are concerned, I like to leave my forgiveness, pity and heart-felt compassion.
So, to me, neither the words nor the person can hurt me until and unless I really realize. This realization may come only by self-criticism. If I can’t criticize my self by my own then how will it be possible to make myself complete, errorless?
So, finally, however, this might sound as the “vicious cycle of criticism”, but I would like to say:
I want to be the ideal person in my own eyes. This will be possible only by continuous up-gradation of my thinking and self consciousness. Self consciousness will come from self criticism. I can criticize myself against the parameters of social laws, rituals, my own spirit and my education. And to be perfectly aware about these parameters I should pay attention to the all criticisms. But it doesn’t necessarily means I have to consider all of them. I have my own verdict and liberty to choose between the good and the bad, and definitely being truthful to my soul and spirit.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Friends...Amardeep Bassey and Nausad
The ochre hills are dry and bare. Swirling gusts of wind and dust chase each other around, like carefree urchins playing tag. Neither house nor tree as far as the eye can see, and a lonely road that stretches from horizon to horizon. And on that roadlurches and loiters a beat up Toyota Sedan, both diffident and determined in the same burst of combustion. And perhaps with good reason, for this car was passing through the Khyber, a region that has come to be known as the most dangerous place on the planet, between the lawless Federally Administered Tribal Areas (FATA) in Western Pakistan, and Afghanistan, a region at the forefront of the war of and on terror, a red-zone if there ever was one.
Inside, next to the driver sat a man whose modest salwar-kameez belied his aristocratic bearing. He turned oft en to speak to a man in a skull cap sitting at the back. Next to him sat a boy who was trying hard to look like a man. The one in the skull cap seemed nervous, constantly pulling his right sleeve, trying his best to cover the kada (a bracelet worn by Sikhs) on his wrist. The next moment, the image went off the screen and was replaced by a commercial… I was watching an episode of ‘Jailed Abroad’, a programme on National Geographic. And though I usually restrict myself to recounting first hand experiences on this page, what I saw last night was a story worth telling, and those of you who might have missed it, missed out an important lesson about the paradoxes and prejudices of our times.
In the May of 2002, Amardeep Bassey, a British Sikh of Indian origin, investigations editor with The Sunday Mercury, wanted to make his way into Afghanistan for a story about the common Afghan’s life after the war. He met a Pakistani human rights activist in Peshawar who asked him to meet a certain Naushad Afridi, son of a tribal chieftain from the Khyber. Bassey left Peshawar and reached FATA. The Pakistan administration had little control over the tribes and warlords operating in the region. Bassey was on his own. He reached a dilapidated building where he was told he’d find Naushad. He was asked to wait. While he waited, he must’ve been a very nervous man. Daniel Pearl had been murdered mere months ago. Western journalists were aware how dangerous missions to these regions crawling with al-Qaeda loyalists and sympathisers could be. This was as good a time as any for militants to get their hands on a western journalist, truss him up before a camera, make some demands and finally behead the poor chap like a sacrificial lamb. Bassey knew that even one wrong move could well be his last.
While Bassey waited, he thought of his friends and family back home and wondered if he would be able to see them again. Just then, a tall slim chap walked in with a group of people. Though dressed like the others, he stood out because of his demeanour. He looked like a man who knew his way around. “Salaam walaikum! I’m Naushad. What can I do for you?” said the man as he extended his hand. Bassey greeted him, gave him his references and asked if he could helphim get to Kabul and back for his story. After some deliberation, Naushad said, “You are a brave man to have come this far. I’ll be your guide.” While they were shaking hands, Naushad happened to see Bassey’s kada and warned him, “People here have been conditioned to believe that any one who isn’t a Muslim is actually an enemy. So be careful.” Naushad asked him to replace his western attire with a salwar-kameez and a skull cap. And to keep his kada hidden all the time. They partied a bit in the evening with a local sugarcane brew and next morning, the two of them, along with the much younger Khitab Shah headed off for the border. On the bus, grim thoughts accosted Bassey and he kept wondering how real the dangers of this mission might be. He turned to Naushad and shared his concerns. “We’ll see what happens,” said Naushad, “but whatever happens to you will happen to me first. We’ve had fun together, so when trouble comes, we’ll face it together”. Though it sounded like rhetoric, Bassey felt at ease.
There was a big crowd at the border gate. Incidentally, the Pashtun tribals who inhabit both sides of the Afghan-Pak border do not require a visa to cross the border. But unlike his guides, Bassey was no tribal and was feeling rather apprehensive since he only had a single entry visa for Pakistan. However he’d been told that they’d return through a different route used by opium smugglers, and that wouldn’t require ‘papers’. So he just “went with the flow”. Soon they were in a cab that was heading towards Kabul which is where the commercials interrupted the story.
In Kabul, Bassey interviewed everyday people about their life after the war while Naushad acted as interpreter. Next day, with his interviews done and notes in place, Bassey joined Naushad and Khitab in a taxi that was to take them to the Pakistan border. Halfway through the journey, Naushad and the driver had an altercation… apparently the Americans were scrutinising the check posts on the route used by the opium smugglers, anticipating the movement of a large number of jehadis. So they had no choice but to go back the way they’d come. Bassey was worried. He knew he would be in trouble if the authorities check his visa but Naushad told him that they didn’t have a choice and he would definitely know someone at the border who could get them through.
At the border though, Bassey’s British passport drew unnecessary attention and the duty officer at the border took him across to the Military Intelligence office. There, the officer-in-charge, after being apprised of his visa issues, lookedat Bassey’s name and his watch which also happened to have a camera, and concluded that he was an Indian spy. Bassey protested in vain. The officer was sending Bassey to jail. Then the officer turned towards the two Pathans and said they were free to go. Naushad stood up and said, “We’re not going anywhere. This man is our guest and is under our tribe’s protection. If he goes to jail, we go with him”.
Naushad had met Bassey less than 48 hours ago and knew practically nothing about him. As far as he knew, he could well have been an Indian spy. The maximum punishment for espionage in Pakistan is death. Naushad and Khitab knew what the consequences could be, and they knew little about the man they were standing by. And yet, without batting an eyelid, they went to jail for Bassey. Amardeep Bassey spent 28 days in jail, some of them in solitary confinement and others in squalid concrete cages packed with hardened jehadis and bandits. A Westerner and a non-Muslim, Bassey felt like a lamb trapped between a pack of wolves. Inside the cell, tall gaunt men with long fl owing beards and piercing eyes looked down their hawkish noses at Bassey. One look at them and you knew these men had known war, death and desperation, and they hadn’t tired of it yet. He was even asked to convert by an al-Qaeda operative who was a gang leader of sorts in one of the jails, but Bassey respectfully but firmly refused. His courage surprised both of them, but Bassey knew his strength stemmed from the presence of Naushad. The Pathan, son of a tribal leader, was suffering the ignominy and uncertainty of incarceration for the sake of Bassey, his guest. And he was doing that because of a centuries old, pre-Islamic code of honour – Pashtunwali, the code of the Pathans – which amongst other things, states that every Pathan should offer help and protection to those in need and especially to strangers and guests, and even die for them if need be.
Twenty eight days later Bassey, thanks to diplomatic maneuvers, was finally released and deported but the two Pathans were still in jail. “Turning my back on them is the hardest thing I ever did,” said Bassey. But he wasn’t given a choice. The two of them were released a week later.
Bassey and Naushad met again in 2008 and embraced each other like brothers. Today, the two, a Pakistani Pathan and British-Indian Sikh, share a friendship that runs deeper and further than the Ganges. As the programme drew to a close I realised how recent lore has demonized these brave people from ‘the most dangerous place in the world.’ Perhaps it is the same code of honour that prevents a Pathan from giving up on another guest, even if did blow up a tower or two.
While drones rain down on their homes and their children toy with automatic rifles, the paradox of the proud Pathan chained to his code of honour lives and grows amidst the din of battle. Perhaps it is up to people like Bassey and Naushad to talk to their worlds and help them understand and appreciate the other and dispel the fears and prejudices that stoke the fires of hate on both sides of the divide.
(courtesy: PRASHANTO BANERJI AT 9:47 AM
LABELS: IIPM, PLANMAN, PRASHANTO BANERJI, THE SUNDAY INDIAN
Inside, next to the driver sat a man whose modest salwar-kameez belied his aristocratic bearing. He turned oft en to speak to a man in a skull cap sitting at the back. Next to him sat a boy who was trying hard to look like a man. The one in the skull cap seemed nervous, constantly pulling his right sleeve, trying his best to cover the kada (a bracelet worn by Sikhs) on his wrist. The next moment, the image went off the screen and was replaced by a commercial… I was watching an episode of ‘Jailed Abroad’, a programme on National Geographic. And though I usually restrict myself to recounting first hand experiences on this page, what I saw last night was a story worth telling, and those of you who might have missed it, missed out an important lesson about the paradoxes and prejudices of our times.
In the May of 2002, Amardeep Bassey, a British Sikh of Indian origin, investigations editor with The Sunday Mercury, wanted to make his way into Afghanistan for a story about the common Afghan’s life after the war. He met a Pakistani human rights activist in Peshawar who asked him to meet a certain Naushad Afridi, son of a tribal chieftain from the Khyber. Bassey left Peshawar and reached FATA. The Pakistan administration had little control over the tribes and warlords operating in the region. Bassey was on his own. He reached a dilapidated building where he was told he’d find Naushad. He was asked to wait. While he waited, he must’ve been a very nervous man. Daniel Pearl had been murdered mere months ago. Western journalists were aware how dangerous missions to these regions crawling with al-Qaeda loyalists and sympathisers could be. This was as good a time as any for militants to get their hands on a western journalist, truss him up before a camera, make some demands and finally behead the poor chap like a sacrificial lamb. Bassey knew that even one wrong move could well be his last.
While Bassey waited, he thought of his friends and family back home and wondered if he would be able to see them again. Just then, a tall slim chap walked in with a group of people. Though dressed like the others, he stood out because of his demeanour. He looked like a man who knew his way around. “Salaam walaikum! I’m Naushad. What can I do for you?” said the man as he extended his hand. Bassey greeted him, gave him his references and asked if he could helphim get to Kabul and back for his story. After some deliberation, Naushad said, “You are a brave man to have come this far. I’ll be your guide.” While they were shaking hands, Naushad happened to see Bassey’s kada and warned him, “People here have been conditioned to believe that any one who isn’t a Muslim is actually an enemy. So be careful.” Naushad asked him to replace his western attire with a salwar-kameez and a skull cap. And to keep his kada hidden all the time. They partied a bit in the evening with a local sugarcane brew and next morning, the two of them, along with the much younger Khitab Shah headed off for the border. On the bus, grim thoughts accosted Bassey and he kept wondering how real the dangers of this mission might be. He turned to Naushad and shared his concerns. “We’ll see what happens,” said Naushad, “but whatever happens to you will happen to me first. We’ve had fun together, so when trouble comes, we’ll face it together”. Though it sounded like rhetoric, Bassey felt at ease.
There was a big crowd at the border gate. Incidentally, the Pashtun tribals who inhabit both sides of the Afghan-Pak border do not require a visa to cross the border. But unlike his guides, Bassey was no tribal and was feeling rather apprehensive since he only had a single entry visa for Pakistan. However he’d been told that they’d return through a different route used by opium smugglers, and that wouldn’t require ‘papers’. So he just “went with the flow”. Soon they were in a cab that was heading towards Kabul which is where the commercials interrupted the story.
In Kabul, Bassey interviewed everyday people about their life after the war while Naushad acted as interpreter. Next day, with his interviews done and notes in place, Bassey joined Naushad and Khitab in a taxi that was to take them to the Pakistan border. Halfway through the journey, Naushad and the driver had an altercation… apparently the Americans were scrutinising the check posts on the route used by the opium smugglers, anticipating the movement of a large number of jehadis. So they had no choice but to go back the way they’d come. Bassey was worried. He knew he would be in trouble if the authorities check his visa but Naushad told him that they didn’t have a choice and he would definitely know someone at the border who could get them through.
At the border though, Bassey’s British passport drew unnecessary attention and the duty officer at the border took him across to the Military Intelligence office. There, the officer-in-charge, after being apprised of his visa issues, lookedat Bassey’s name and his watch which also happened to have a camera, and concluded that he was an Indian spy. Bassey protested in vain. The officer was sending Bassey to jail. Then the officer turned towards the two Pathans and said they were free to go. Naushad stood up and said, “We’re not going anywhere. This man is our guest and is under our tribe’s protection. If he goes to jail, we go with him”.
Naushad had met Bassey less than 48 hours ago and knew practically nothing about him. As far as he knew, he could well have been an Indian spy. The maximum punishment for espionage in Pakistan is death. Naushad and Khitab knew what the consequences could be, and they knew little about the man they were standing by. And yet, without batting an eyelid, they went to jail for Bassey. Amardeep Bassey spent 28 days in jail, some of them in solitary confinement and others in squalid concrete cages packed with hardened jehadis and bandits. A Westerner and a non-Muslim, Bassey felt like a lamb trapped between a pack of wolves. Inside the cell, tall gaunt men with long fl owing beards and piercing eyes looked down their hawkish noses at Bassey. One look at them and you knew these men had known war, death and desperation, and they hadn’t tired of it yet. He was even asked to convert by an al-Qaeda operative who was a gang leader of sorts in one of the jails, but Bassey respectfully but firmly refused. His courage surprised both of them, but Bassey knew his strength stemmed from the presence of Naushad. The Pathan, son of a tribal leader, was suffering the ignominy and uncertainty of incarceration for the sake of Bassey, his guest. And he was doing that because of a centuries old, pre-Islamic code of honour – Pashtunwali, the code of the Pathans – which amongst other things, states that every Pathan should offer help and protection to those in need and especially to strangers and guests, and even die for them if need be.
Twenty eight days later Bassey, thanks to diplomatic maneuvers, was finally released and deported but the two Pathans were still in jail. “Turning my back on them is the hardest thing I ever did,” said Bassey. But he wasn’t given a choice. The two of them were released a week later.
Bassey and Naushad met again in 2008 and embraced each other like brothers. Today, the two, a Pakistani Pathan and British-Indian Sikh, share a friendship that runs deeper and further than the Ganges. As the programme drew to a close I realised how recent lore has demonized these brave people from ‘the most dangerous place in the world.’ Perhaps it is the same code of honour that prevents a Pathan from giving up on another guest, even if did blow up a tower or two.
While drones rain down on their homes and their children toy with automatic rifles, the paradox of the proud Pathan chained to his code of honour lives and grows amidst the din of battle. Perhaps it is up to people like Bassey and Naushad to talk to their worlds and help them understand and appreciate the other and dispel the fears and prejudices that stoke the fires of hate on both sides of the divide.
(courtesy: PRASHANTO BANERJI AT 9:47 AM
LABELS: IIPM, PLANMAN, PRASHANTO BANERJI, THE SUNDAY INDIAN
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
I cant help but reading again...
1. Sail Away
2. Salutation
3. Senses
4. She
5. Silent Steps
6. Sit Smiling
7. Still Heart
8. The Gardener XLIII: No, My Friends
9.
10. The Gardener XLVIII: Free Me
11. The Gardener XX: Day After Day He Comes
12. The Gardener XXIV: Do Not Keep to Yourself
13. The Gardener XXVII: Trust Love
14. The Gardener XXVIII: Your Questioning Eyes
15. The Gardener XXXIV: Do Not Go, My Love
16. The Gardener XXXVIII: My Love, Once upon a Time
17. The Gift
18.
19. The Lotus
20. Threshold
21. Where Shadow Chases Light
22. The Source
2. Salutation
3. Senses
4. She
5. Silent Steps
6. Sit Smiling
7. Still Heart
8. The Gardener XLIII: No, My Friends
9.
The Gardener XLVI: You Left Me
10. The Gardener XLVIII: Free Me
11. The Gardener XX: Day After Day He Comes
12. The Gardener XXIV: Do Not Keep to Yourself
13. The Gardener XXVII: Trust Love
14. The Gardener XXVIII: Your Questioning Eyes
15. The Gardener XXXIV: Do Not Go, My Love
16. The Gardener XXXVIII: My Love, Once upon a Time
17. The Gift
18.
The Last Bargain
19. The Lotus
20. Threshold
21. Where Shadow Chases Light
22. The Source
Monday, October 12, 2009
I just love to read these...
By Rabindranath Tagore
1. Defamation
2. Clouds and Waves
3. Endless Time
4. Dungeon
5. Face to Face
6. Fool
7. Give Me Strength
8. Let Me Not Forget
9. Little Of Me
10. Lost Time
11. Lover's Gifts LIV: In the Beginning of Time
12. Lover's Gifts LII: Tired of Waiting
13. Lover's Gifts LXX: Take Back Your Coins
14. Lover's Gifts V: I Would Ask For Still More
15. Lover's Gifts VIII: There Is Room for You
16. Lover's Gifts XIX: It Is Written in the Book
17. Lover's Gifts XLII: Are You a Mere Picture
18. Lover's Gifts XLVIII: I Travelled the Old Road
19. Lover's Gifts XLIII: Dying, You Have Left Behind
20. Lover's Gifts XXVIII: I Dreamt
21. Moment's Indulgence
22. Paper Boats
23. Parting Words
24. Patience
25. Playthings
26. Prisoner
( source: http://www.poemhunter.com/poem)
1. Defamation
2. Clouds and Waves
3. Endless Time
4. Dungeon
5. Face to Face
6. Fool
7. Give Me Strength
8. Let Me Not Forget
9. Little Of Me
10. Lost Time
11. Lover's Gifts LIV: In the Beginning of Time
12. Lover's Gifts LII: Tired of Waiting
13. Lover's Gifts LXX: Take Back Your Coins
14. Lover's Gifts V: I Would Ask For Still More
15. Lover's Gifts VIII: There Is Room for You
16. Lover's Gifts XIX: It Is Written in the Book
17. Lover's Gifts XLII: Are You a Mere Picture
18. Lover's Gifts XLVIII: I Travelled the Old Road
19. Lover's Gifts XLIII: Dying, You Have Left Behind
20. Lover's Gifts XXVIII: I Dreamt
21. Moment's Indulgence
22. Paper Boats
23. Parting Words
24. Patience
25. Playthings
26. Prisoner
( source: http://www.poemhunter.com/poem)
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Keep t Up!I
I used to call my pals when I became frustrated or in a catch20 situation… but recently I understood that I should not do it. In spite feeling my feelings most of the time they think myself a spineless character. And who wants to see him/herself as spineless. I am not. Now I try to face / fix all my problems by myself. And I think, it is making me professional with my feelings, too.
Probably this is a curse than a gift… but the world demand this… I never thought that I would be able to sort out my heart’s feeling by my brain.
However, keep it up as at least people will not bored by you!
But one thing… do not forget those people who really want to by your side always… without any intention or vested interest… we should properly differentiate them at the crowd!
Probably this is a curse than a gift… but the world demand this… I never thought that I would be able to sort out my heart’s feeling by my brain.
However, keep it up as at least people will not bored by you!
But one thing… do not forget those people who really want to by your side always… without any intention or vested interest… we should properly differentiate them at the crowd!
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