Nonsense Thinking

French Open 2012 match of round 4 . Novak Djokovic is two sets down against Seppi , but hardly any sign of stress could be seen on his face.  The almost invincible challenge brings out the best in a fighter , every time , like a lion waken up from slumber. He  had done it several times earlier, like any other fighting legend , rising from the ashes , returning from the abyss , again and again . Seppi hardly got a chance in the next three sets to close the match that looked so much of him , just remained a spectator of the greatness of a fighter , risen to the best to come back as strong as one could imagine. Quarter Final . Djokovic against Tsonga. Tsonga two sets up against Novak and the fourth set into the tie breaks , an all time great match in the waiting. Novak denied Tsonga four match points to clinch away the Set. Tsonga could hardly believe it . It was as much a mental game as of the techniques and power, and Novak overpowered the opponent denying a victory th...

The rain was pouring yellow. Standing in the middle of the field the little boy was watching the fast movement of the clouds..fast..fast..fast..they moved..constantly changing the tattoos on the skin of the sky... There was a hut on the hills , around which the rocks were yellow..yellow were the trees..the river where the sun went to sleep. Yellow was his bicycle , his football , the road on which he ran , the faces of the people he passed by... Time changes season, time changes colour ! Suddenly the yellows decided to go on a vacation in a winter. Time decided to appoint a new painter who painted only blue...light blue , dark blue , navy blue... He slept in the blues of the brush of the painter. When he woke up , it was blue all around…the walls were blue , the air was blue , the cigarettes smoked blue , the radio sang blue, the pine trees turned blue... Two years passed by... One day... A car suddenly stopped by him. Opening the door came out the beautiful daughter of a nobleman..her...

Bristi...a dream in a name...Don’t remember where did I first meet her...may be outside the window in the very early ages of childhood...may be in a radio program I have long forgotten. "Bristi" means rain in Bengoli and Assamese.Don’t know how many lengths of song I spent searching the cause behind the irregistible pull towards her...how many lengths of cigarettes stretching the hands through narrow grills of the window… feeling the touch of the wintry little drops of rain tutoring my sensation..... I could never resist her invariant calm approach . I could visualize her invading me from very far, sometimes while coming back from school , sometimes while playing football and sometimes when I stood by river side. Might be desire of getting mild gentle touch prevented me from searching a safe place to hide...A drenched smile always used to pass through the core everytime she painted her color on me...... I expected Brishti on that day. I was leaving home to join the college fa...

Like never before, when I have visited home this time after almost one and half years, the small and otherwise ignored objects have started disturbing me bringing back the old sweet fragrances of the golden childhood. My home, my small beautiful town, my old friends, my teachers ,the lake, the field, the pond, the hill ,the river...most of them have changed as I have...and some of them are lost forever... like my wonderful childhood. This is the place where I have grown up, my sweet home. The garden is empty now because it is summer. But trust me, if you visit me in winter, you will be welcomed by the colors and aromas of dozens of beautiful flowers whose names are only known to my mom and sis. I bet, if you can walk by ignoring, you must be a devil ;) Even in this summer, I could see this beauty eagerly waiting for me to ask about my girlfriends in Bangalore ;) ...how can’t I capture you dear!!! This is the veranda of my home...the place I preferred to my study room. Reading in op...