An intriguing fiction by Lovita, for the Special Feature, exclusively for Different Truths.

Love is these rays of being,                               

Love is this readiness to begin.

Few to love in concrete time.

Please don’t hug! He would squeeze out his body from mine, defensively, protest like a coming of a revolution.

He silently gazed at the trees swing in the breeze. The high-rise building, the old and newly planted trees in the city look fresh, the short drizzle in the morning was like a breath of fresh air.

 The peace-lily in white, California Chrysanthemum in various colours of white, deep red, purple and violet and bougainvillaea made the look garden like a cat with nine lives surviving last nights and many nights of thunderstorms and bedlam of bad weather. Nine lives –three years to play, three years to stray and three years to stay.

The spectrum of the Visible Lights and Beyond

He lives two lives, life of his own which is not normal for us, and a life we try to make him live which is not at all a normal thing for him. A dawning curiosity as the weather outside warns of a downpour.

Normally, he won’t smile, but he looked at me and smiled defensively. The bright side of the shunned steering clear for another night of no stars in the sky. There will be no conversation on colours of the stars, tonight.

Last night it rained cats and dogs.  God knows how long and how dirtiest weather can play a dirty sport. People passing by and over the muddy pool that has formed in the lanes and bye-lanes. Out of the clamorous cry of nature, calm of season in silence play sonata.

The Vincent van Gogh painting loosely hung on the violet coloured wall that moved a bit in the passing breeze, the violet colour floor length curtains. The sun lights piercing through the violet colours are like the conflicting theories of 16^th and 17^th century regarding the light as a wave or particles. The visible lights through the violet curtains acted in the prism of imaginations as a burst of ultraviolet rays, only known part of electromagnetic spectrum.  That’s the interplay of scattering images in Mirdan’s imagination, introducing in that solitary moment to “Rayleigh scattering” all the red end of things in the violet end of the spectrum.  The only colour at the end of a visible spectrum of lights between her favourite colour blue and the invisible ultraviolet.  

How could Isaac Newton see no colours of purple in the rainbow apart from our obsession with the falling apple? And Leonardo da Vinci recognised the colour purple in the distant Blue Mountains. What a celestial play for a purpose to represent the harmony of the universe. And, it’s with her “neutron star” in her world of isolation and blessed solitude she found metaphysical matters intense and fascinating. Anything that impresses her out of all that sights in lights, she tries to understand and write and finds her space in the shape of the universe.

Random Harvest in Harmony

It was four in the evening. Mirdan took out the book from the heavy laden bookshelf the book titled “we were an ill-matched pair” an autobiography by Annie Besant, placed the book on the coffee table, that she got from Peling, Sikkim her favourite Tibetan table call Choktees with intricate multi-coloured floral and sacred animal designs and symbols of winter lions, dragons, prayer wheel with rich cultural significance called up lala chaha, who is stuck in the heavy flow of traffic at Annie Besant road, her driver to get fresh bread from Shaikh Brothers, her liking for the bread from this bakery is as old as the bakery shop itself, the oldest considered as best bakery since 1885 in Panbazaar, Guwahati.

After an hour, Lala with a strong sense of duty arrives with the bread in time.

What a wonderful world…the song plays in the home theatre

He switched off the music system that was playing. His irritation was as if a burst of the collapsed core of a large star, I daresay, things in him collapse-the feelings with a gulp of grieve in my gut.

The typical neutron star with ten to twenty-nine solar masses. I wonder if that’s true. Mostly, others will remain vaguely troubled.

The house is used to this ceremonial cacophony, the barometer of bare bones. The house runs in these luxuries of troubled adjustments with bare possibilities to recover from withdrawal symptoms, coping and bargaining of understandings and different perspective, that slightly disapproves the normal course. But there are lot many things, to be addressed waiting in a row.

A slim chance crops up to escape from exhaustion, often can relate to “Karoshi” the occupational sudden mortality that exhaustion can cause to immortal desire to dream for a life. Stress that causes stroke and heart attack.

Why has it become a worldwide phenomenon to overwork? But, the house with thousand stories is not less. As a caregiver with avuncular indulgences despite the fact that it is harming invisibly causing emptiness, the war within kind of thing hardly thaws.

 The cease in the sounds of “Un-huh”

Annoyance has subsided out of exhaustion. Naturally, time forced it to subside. He hardly wonders, hardly feels as if no love lost, he has a different way of reading things, different way of expressing pleasure.

Feelings are like visitors, it comes and goes.” Rumi said that.

But, without feelings human body would either be like a corpse or a coffin, equivalent to a loveless living. Is it that they don’t care about us? But, they need constant care. He is sweet, a good looking man in his calmest disposition a well-versed. As if begging, pleading, playing fair uproariously, to stay here with him forever, in his own different way, what may.

Endangered Goodwill in Extinct

“The remains of the day and Never let me go” by Kazuo Ishiguro won the 2017 Nobel Prize in literature was the breaking best news of the day. The books deals and uncovers the abyss beneath the human illusory sense of connection with the world, driven by the great emotional force.

I looked intensely at my “neutron star” like Ish’s reaction at Nobel winning moment, not expecting, being in absolute chaos, creating the childlike friction into his 62years old body experiencing delusion.

The whole world seemed to be a victim of “Fake News” like Ish who failed to escape from the thought the good news that hardly happens, the good news could be a fake news. Sad, this era everybody is losing faith in each other, on the system, on our leaders. Where do we point our fingers at, should we blame the technology or the digitally driven, robotic intrusion that has replaced human feelings? Have we become guinea pigs, not even funny?

Truly, a weird time in the world.

Aren’t love important? In the world of puzzlement

“How do you live with the man, who cannot emotionally connect with you? Arindam asked Chandrawali once.

It’s difficult for Chandrawali to explain each person, in a single sentence, the esoteric inner reality she encounters, its so deep, its so heavy the Delphic difficulties. Her incomprehensible complex understanding enchants her, under the spell of absorbing voices of vociferation within, the “Big and loud whys and What’s ” it’s difficult for her husband to connect emotionally.  She herself was not aware of spectrum disorder, and the struggling with issues it is beyond general people’s perspective, presumption and understandings.

Endure it All

She wants people to visit her, people only with good will. She wants people to be obedient, responsible and active. She doesn’t want people to bother and wrack their head thinking, why she married a person with a spectrum disorder. Rather, she would explain that’s their disorderliness in their own thought process.

A bend in the rainbow. When the colours of rainbow bend together, not breaking apart.

The day was born, the first cry, the first voice thrilled the family, brought light, happiness and joy

In each behaviour and childish spoof was punctuated as whim and remote with the strangeness of unfamiliarity. Chandrawali was used to this everyday foreignness, perhaps in silhouetted presumption but why dwell on perhaps, why uncertainty, why in polarity of presumption. Feel of foreignness has no uncertainty, no polarity of presumption. But, in perfect clarity, as clear as the midsummer sky. She was there with him.

Her interest in astrophysics and the theories created by the twentieth century NEW her acronym in short form of Newton, Einstein to Hawking. But, there was something mystery meanders in his mind that enabled Chandrawali to understand the universe-like elements playing and performing. She played a gig in this natural process of mystery play of maturation.

Is truly emotion and love missing in this vital centre of intrinsic reality?

Nobody argues, certainly everything cools down over time. The anger like the supernova explosion of a massive star with gravitational collapse, generating no heat, collapses, human waves of anger collapses, and evolve further through collision. It can be imagined.

What could be Brewing in the Brain?  

Chandrawali calls him “neutron star” the remnant star with a mass greater than about 3 solar masses which continues collapsing.  There must be black holes.

Imagine, neutron stars are very hot and typically have a surface temperature of around 600000 K.

If newly formed neutron stars rotate at up to several hundred times per second. Each thought, speed of thoughts must be rotating hundred times per second in his mind.

There are thought to be around 100 million neutron stars in the Milky Way, a figure obtained by estimating the number of stars that have undergone supernova explosions.

Out of 100 million neutron stars in the Milky Way, Chandrawali’s neutron star is her one and only Superman may differ from Jocelyn Bell Burnell in 1967 who was the first to observe and reveal that neutron stars exist.

And Chandrawali is a not a mere homemaker, a caretaker but comfortably, an inconvenient lover of an autistic life partner, her sunshine.

No matter, 8 times the mass of the sun (8 M☉) has the potential to produce a neutron star.

Collapse is Inevitable

The limit was first indicated in papers published by Wilhelm Anderson and E. C. Stoner in 1929. It was named after Subrahmanyan Chandrasekhar, the Indian astrophysicist who independently discovered and improved upon the accuracy of the calculation in 1930, at the age of 20, in India. The limit was initially ignored by the community of scientists because such a limit would logically require the existence of black holes, which were considered a scientific impossibility at the time.

Emotions Explode or collapse. Collapse is inevitable. His thoughts collapses centres around orbiting in his created space.

It was World Autism Day, social media is flooded with human concern right from celebrities to common (common sounds like people with common sense that not necessarily mean all five senses. It is beyond may be beyond extra sensory perception sometimes deprivation, deprivation because sometimes like the great dispersal of senses too occurs like the dandelion seeds, the burst of dandelion seeds that appear like the milky way in galaxy. The mystery is mathematical. )

It’s a good sign of the citizen of the country, they are opening up their perception to understand the spectrum.

What is Spectrum?

A spectrum is a condition that is not limited to a specific set of values but can vary without steps, across a continuum.

Scientifically, the word spectrum was used to describe the rainbow of colours in visible light after passing through the prism.

Now, spectrum disorder is another clinical term.

It allowed me to see the bend in the rainbow

The united colours not breaking apart, never will break apart but bending together. It is like the logogram ampersand connecting earth and the sky, Latin may be the origin of the language but a brilliant connection. A conjunction.

A bend of the rainbow made the horizon beautiful. How far imagination and hopes can take you to the horizon.

A poetry is must here

I am an active user of social media. I was. 

Where does time go?

Postmodern sensibilities

Idiot.’

‘What!’ exclaimed Wangphoon Lowang.

‘Yes, that was an idiot,’ assured Arindam. I remember it’s the idiot. I would wait with the book. The book was not meant for her but the letter inscribed inside, hidden. I would go, almost one hour in advance, leaving the last music class.

Only, a person who is his confidante is Wangphoon. He would once in a month, make it a point to visit him. Arindam hurried home to change the dress. For a moment, he felt like fool’s day out, with a distinct sense of déjà vu. He dusts himself, to smell good, with his mother’s pond’s powder. I had to rush, in a single shot, along with the pleasant smell like the powder-actuated Ramset gun, propelling forward, without wasting a minute to reach to the point, at the end of the road. Crossing the cluster of Singpho houses. And the tart smell of tea from the tea garden on the hillocks. Unpleasant may be the fragrance of the tea garden but the taste of a good cup of tea is any day a tranquiliser.

“1823, Briton Robert Bruce discovered tea from the Singphos tribes living in areas straddling Assam and Arunachal Pradesh who cultivated and drank tea …as a herbal rejuvenator,” Arindam recalled his grandfather telling him.” “Do you know the world’s largest tea plantations with more than 800 major and 60,000 small tea garden/estates. His memory as sharp as the chemical in the tea has not only improved his memory but also his quality of life. The chemical compound called epigallocatechin gallate helped his cognitive connections.

“I wish I had this capacity to memorise, I would never have this examination fever out of fear.” My grandpa was the only person, with no mind of negation, who never forced me. His liberal minds and ways somewhere had allowed all my assorted dreams to spring,” Arindam would admit to Wong Phoon.

Arindam waited for hours. He knew Anung would be here, sharp at 4:30 PM near the wooden bridge, and watch the current of the river below the weak bridge. The river has no name. It actually is not a river, but a rivulet that has gushed down from the ranges of Patkai Mountain. He was seated on the beam on the bridge, checking the time from the wristwatch, like a restless vampire, slaying each wait. The HMT watch belonged to his father but it gave him a different feel. A feel of a man, grown up. But not yet a man.

Anung lives in Mpen. She would walk ten kilometres.  Then cross the ropeway over the Dihing River to visit his friend OlakMegu at Diyun.

She didn’t come that day.

He left displeased.

Next day, he went to the same point and waited for Anung at the last bus. He jumped from the beam of the wooden bridge, and rose to his feet, as he saw, from a distance of about a hundred meters, her veracious resplendent zaftig appearance. He is not used to such observation, which suddenly gleams and blushes in an effulgent flash of lights. He discovered a reason- a great spirit inside, relatively towards a closer reason.

She took the turn, towards the bridge, and could notice Arindam standing.

“Anung!” he addressed asserting her to take the book. “This is for you.” He raised his hand, to give the book. There was joy inside, but a jolt of fear, anxiousness, and rejection too.

 “Idiot!” she pronounced.

 “Fyodor Dostoyevsky!” she pronounced the name. That I could have never been able to.

The book belonged to my grandfather. He got it from the owner of the tea garden. Who loves to collect classic books? And would gift to people, he is fond of.

She was a Lover of Bard of Avon’s Sonnets

 “Shakespeare will tell you the plot where fools should be placed,” Anung paused looked at the book, grasping the book, said, then reluctantly, hurried homeward, petrified. She disappeared in the turn of the mountain road. Arindam turned back and started walking the mountain roads. The mountains looked beautiful suddenly, images of Anung appears everywhere. The flocks of parrots fly passed intersecting raven, hornbills and other wild birds.

The wait was wonderful too.

“I am in love,” he thought.

A relief. But love is the forbidden word, but hard to forbid. What is expected from us is study hard else it invite tragedies and disaster. So, to avert that I started creating strategies that would keep the love in me alive.

“Anung Loya, I wrote her name for the first time in the middle of the night. Its only in the night, I am free from the parents and all the things that irked and things that I am surrounded with. Why not fall in love. It was a great relief for me to escape from the pressures of studies. And the feelings are like poetry, poetry like fish in the frozen lake, demands nothing but in time, melts.”

Arindam was experiencing a disheartening feeling of rejection.

“What if Anung has no feeling for me,”   “She will not trust a stranger like me. It’s okay; I have two years in my hand. And a destiny that hangs in time for a king. Destiny like heretic’s fork” thought Arindam.

The night was most beautiful, with imaginations dangling like the dazzling lights from the crystal ball shine.

It was already 10 PM.

Tiredness knows of no catacombed depths of a dream, thoughts spew out like conflictual unrelenting venom in time’s spittle.

“Look at Dip Khura (Uncle), he is the Chief Justice. And your Ranjeebhindow (brother-in-law) he is the Deputy Commissioner, Diptiman dada is a doctor at a young age.”   

The constant chatter of Arindam’s mother woke him up. The degree of comparisons was outrageous. The perplexities of life-changing demands and expectation of the Father-son relationship somewhere was creating a vacuum and was causing a deficient of onslaught self-doubt, insane. Insanity and self-doubt are not crimes but may be a degenerative cosmetic. The more Arindam tries to internalise the understandings, the more he was entering into the unseen passage of time, into a critical pattern of imaginations, getting into confusion failing to observe the natural flow of life.

He took the jug and fills the empty glass with water. He gave an attentive look at the flow of water, absorbed. The flow of water, from jug to the empty glass, the water in between the jug and the glass forming a water-bridge in the space in between. A sense of fluid mechanic flowed in the thoughts that penetrate deep, imprisoning life like the particles of billions and billions of molecules of water that are made up of electrons, protons, and neutrons.

As a teenager, Arindam was influenced by Jimi Hendrix, the zeitgeist zeal of time. The Cafe Hendrix, the people treat that to be a happening place, what happened to Arindam started idealising and identifying himself with Hendrix’s idiosyncrasies-both intellect and idiotic, a false sense acquiring the great taste of the ideal man, confusing himself more; dwelling more on superior and gregarious attitudes of all unobjectionable conduct. Listening to Hendrix, against his mother’s wish, which, according to her is debauchery that becomes an audacious trick, is tools of foolhardy.

His mother tolerated the music, he would explain the quotes, to convince and calm her down but failed to get her to accept Hendrix, “All I’m gonna do is just go round and do what I feel. Even castle made of sand fall into the sea, eventually.” “Knowledge speaks and wisdom listens” that JH quotes.

“Will you take out the photo of Jimi Hendrix?” the echo of his mother bawls out.

“I cannot.” His reply, as an antsy and agitated edgy child. Chaotic.

“If you don’t change your habits, you will be in an unpleasant situation any day,” murmur of his mother, in incorrigible raucous tone, lurks in the silence of the room.

Mere discussions get diabetic transmitting simple talks to heated arguments and indifference.

 “Settle down early,” her voice doesn’t allow him to sleep beside the body that was disabling the thoughts.

Thought and voices.

“She means not marriage. But settle for a good job. Not in any MNC but proper government job or else forgo the chance of a perfect match, later on, she meant now of a life partner. I couldn’t ask Anung to wait. So, all the good things in life are falling apart. The pressure to be a perfectionist is not possible the way my father expected from me, hundred percent,” thought Arindam.

 “I had to apply for a government job as a statistical officer. And stop dreaming of Anung,” thought Arindam disheartened like a fallen man.

I had to quit everything. Dreams fade, life delves into preferences.

Thoughts of Anung were like a hebdomadal treat. A slice of solace at midnight of every Sunday. Sabbath to Sabbath. It was every Sunday Arindam would wait for her to stop by at the point, where he, usually wait for her. She comes or not. He would make it a point to be there, the road that leads to her haven. That was a heavenly heave!People called him insane. It was a one-sided love.

And her only focus was to, set herself free from her cruel Aunty, not Arindam. She may have sheltered her after she was orphaned. Anung could have come to his life but nothing was in his favour. Life, fate, and faith everything was drifting apart.

“Life is like all things to all people. It would have been like betting on the wrong horse to belt out a living,” Arindam scribbles in his diary. “It is difficult to change someone’s mind. When a question of survival arrives. Adjustment is the last resort, realistic approach to the limitations of living. In this limits, I kind of sank deeper into the abyss of psychological crisis. Everyone tries their best but frustrations hinder the emotional stability.

“Leave me alone,” he writes venting out his anger into the diary. It was with Anung, in his remote past, constantly ringing. This has snatched away from him, his present. Restrictions and pressures were weighing him down, it hindered the disciplined approach, it holds back from restructuring the spirits. If feelings of responsibilities were the priorities that were not free from artificialities, love for her was not artificial.

Neither has he had that wish to end life, at twenty-five like Wangphoon Lowang, his closest chum, who dared death. He would call up and share his ordeal but Arindam himself was helpless. Wangphoon could not bear the depression, Arindam came to know that he has succumbed to the excruciating pain from opium poisoning, was on morbidity. He was in abstinence but that did not help.

Arindam rushed to attend Wangphoon’s burial. He didn’t understand death. He has never seen close one dying, he had necrophobia-fear of death. This fear saved him from autophono-mania, he accepted defeats, failures, not blaming any. A sensible mind will never blame any. ”You shouldn’t have died,” murmured Arindam. “You are an idiot, my friend” looking at the cadaver wrapped in cerements being laid to the burial ground. “I don’t think loving life is selfishness and as because we fail, why that ought to be the reason to die,” Arindam’s understandings of life liberates him, from failing, from falling and to take life as it comes. Life is the most amazing gift, the earth has.” he thought.

The human took more than three billion years to become life, and in less than three seconds it takes to end everything. That’s sad. Why we dream of stars? Why grandfather and parents showed us the stars in the night but never the empty sky. Does emptiness scare everyone? Create a fear, fear like the bullet that blew the glass into flinders. I will not let death take over a beautiful life. I will rather live. I may not live with Anung but we will be there alive, a guilt feeling hurts him. That is so important.

Betrayals are like satanic cruelties like the tree that had been cut down, destined to be overthrown by an unknown force that challenge the authoritative desires. Committing is a daunting task, for all kinds of reasons. I am committed to living not in the thumb rule of failures. Everything is entwined in the impenetrable mystery that is insoluble in the process of senescence. Dark thing deteriorates, and in the process of deterioration, growth takes place. Everything grows to enable the inner clock to tick back. Anung shall remain my inner clock. What if Peer pressures affect the psychological pressure that obfuscates the unconscious conflicts?

Conflicts in the events may take place, but natural death is the true course of life. Failure is never the course. Love for life is like the natural pearl. Pearls like in each cell division that shortens the telomere of the cell’s DNA. Subsequently copying the cell, before dying the normal diploid cells divide in cell culture about 50 times, protecting the body from disease and death. Such is the power to relive the mystery of life.

And in the passage of time, this deterioration, in itself is the disposition-the natural leader- reforming spirit to praise, to replace that demands, compromise. Sometimes, we fail to handle a relation, we fail to compete with life, albeit, we are capable enough to forgive and forget. Until the amounts of errors reduced with subsequent test and trials, failure is not the option.

He had to put an effort to recall the labyrinthine two minutes of the steadfast decision in the eleventh hour of life.

What to do….? Failures….Is it call failure to give up. What do I give up?

Live….! Leave….! Live for whom? Prepare to fight. Prepare

Unfaltering, prepare to repair, unthinkably accept and gulp poison, the pressures of life, the natural course, free from the presumed perspectives to keep life, alive. But that may be difficult the emotional sensitivity doesn’t allow. But the need is to cut it all, the vortex of distress make everything simple and free, plumbing the distortion of triumphant misunderstandings. Life is the touchstone of responsibility and etcetera.    

It’s after a decade, Arindam on his way to Namdapha National Park, and thought of Wangphoon and just passed by Wangphoon’s house in Namchik. His old mother was there; she could recognise him and was happy that he remembered her. It was like meeting Wanphoon, an inert joy that they felt. She served him a cup of tea; and requested to join them for supper and serves him simple food. Rice, chicken curry boiled with herbs, and dry fried wild mushroom were laid on the table.

Arindam takes a seat at the dining table, and looked up at Wangphoon’s photo, on the wall, that was there hung along the mural masterpiece of Leonardo da Vinci’ Last Supper. He could feel the touching portraiture of friendship, coming to life, alive. The madness to live- to love again, and accept defeat and dance like leaves in the wind. The photo was badly in deterioration, dusty layers like the habiliments of the grave-lifeless; but the smile impressed in the photo, enlivens the humour and laughter still recklessly bold; ready to surf in a tropical storm.

The stormy thought cast anchor to the last meeting of three together. Him, Wangphoon and Anung. Life has its own natural rhythm if not tamed, later it is unfeasible to reverse the damages caused. Death is a natural like life, defeats and failure are a natural process of life. So, let the thing die to be natural. Arindam realised the value of living and dreams for him are antidepressant discovering dreams are virtues of life that cure all the bruised beauties in the spirit of the time,” he thought and thanked everything, cheering in the changing colours of life like the blushing mushroom.

Anung disappeared from life, it almost after two decades, he will meet her by the river Dihing-that still flowing, that the river had kept the memories flowing. They met but they had nothing left to talk and share, the time has numbed everything, words muted. “I want to live for you, now,” Arindam thought, merely staring at the river flow, “I am prepared”.

Anung reads the diary that Arindam forgot to take along. He might have left it intentionally, to relieve himself from regression that was enslaving him, she thought. But Anung too was never free from the roller coaster rides of life, that she buried the thing call love beneath some unknown bed of celestial chamber but she, will return someday, if she happens to meet Arindam again. Culpable but blaming failure is an err in itself. Success is the consequences of adequate preparations.

The diary in the empty chaste, filled the emptiness with fresh breath of air. She, mindfully puts the diary inside the empty chest, reads the title written on diary, a cut above all things, she acknowledged and fought for, while reading passionately, each  words ”The blushing Mushroom-All things to all people.”

Here to Eternity; War against False Time

“Conquer all; conquer the world! But, A May day cold is thirty day cold. Avoid months with ‘R’ and live in the open air,” seated in the open air roadside dhaba, at Silphukuri, Kimjilline suddenly shuck and jive, acting the monologue out, as if answering to reassure merry chase.

“Chasing the wind! You sound like Alexander in a quest, all set to conquer the world,” that’s ok. We need to get out of this place. Love conquers everything. But, a heart without love, you are assured of lividness of living, suffering helps, if you keep the love for life, alive” said Pumgum, deriding sure as hell, but suffused in inner thoughts; as if nothing had happened to her.

Wry warning lost to the dangers of all living vestigial benefits. Lost is caused, actually by stereotyping the imageries of woos and love-pleas. Whatever fleeting and whimsical may love to be, but need serious acceptance? Unintended consequences that act as an anodyne.

“What is anodyne?” Pumgum asked.

“Pain, pain, pain-reliever, for pain-receiver like us. Hilarious! What an unintended consequence, Pumgum?” replies Kimjilline.

“Perturbation has created no-man’s land kind of earth for us, never mind, that’s actually a better natural habitat. Not bad, it will metamorphose into a breeding ground for longings, Love will grow,” said Kimjiline, laughing out loud.

 ‘Love in action is a harsh and dreadful thing compared to love in dreams.” line from your favourite Fyodor Dostoevsky,” reminds Pumgum.”

“Call it as your mood swing. Its okay, you are angst-ridden! How shall we run away from brouhaha, this chaotic theory of life? Become Misogyny, Become Misandry. I call it a misnomer. Error in love.  Everything is a product of love. You are being too emotional, Pumgum that doesn’t work” comforts Kimjilline.

 “It works, if emotional sense remains non-dominant and dormant, life cannot be finely felt, nothing is magical – that’s the secret. Emotional sense stimulates and prevents memory loss too, though I don’t want to carry few undesired memories causes emotional bankruptcy. I suffered as a teenager, then as an adult. I wrote in my diary that I want to die. But, certain amiable acts and expectations of my father, then meeting June and his remediable warmth diagnosed the dilemmas, I would rather call it the perceived dilemma. It disturbs but reasonably it is fair to assume, dilemmas allow to animate the reason, the animating force to universalise the manifestation to attain love in philharmonic pitch.

“Remedy for me was to reconnect the anima mundi, without animadversion,” said Pumgum, clearing the disapproved lambaste.

 “Reconnect? You have always been and will remain the all-knowing omniscient narrator. That sometimes acts as toxic talk. Have fun….enjoy life, learn to rappel, palpate life. Tell me, are you in a relationship, again?”

 “Why are you silent, Pumgum?”

“Hello! Kimjilline Sagma, there is no difference between Nature and Human Nature. The only difference can be drawn is, that Nature is capable of being simple and Human nature simply denies simplicity. Undesired victim of complexities; hard to free them, trust me. To fill up the conceptual gap- my idea of reconnecting means being connected to nature, being here- the extinguishing tricks, the love philter.”

I am shattered!

“Shattered Love is like ether out of the phial, the residuum in the phial. Awful adjunct to acquaintances, rather alienate mutual affection.

Awful, exclaimed Pumgum. Nothing affects me now. So, you think I was the black sheep of the family and left my family, separated from the person I lived with for more than a decade, he would have killed me. Maybe it was not his intention to, his displeasure, his defeat, the adverse fate was causing the animadvert on anything he encountered in that extenuating circumstances.

I swallowed and smiled on, and stomach the things that cause digestive upset. You live on, cling on, wait for the thing to be okay, each day dawns like dying words, crowning the inglorious sublimity, I could count up, figure out the diminishing responsibility, the conflicting concern, with him was like dying each second….I was too young to understand life. I accept my fault and it took a decade to decide, to run away from all the incurable sufferings, his rambunctious, rages and resentments, which aggravated the hostility and indifference. Please don’t remind me of anything. I just want to disappear somewhere in Himalayan highs,” pleads Pumgum.

“Pumgum, Himalayas are no safer. Himalayan tsunami to earthquake to….effects of climate change. Nature is angry with us. Don’t you follow the news?

Anyday, kindness and good manners pay off. Someone who respects you a great deal might offer you an opportunity to advance, help you live a life. Life is simple. But, need tough it out.

“Where is June? You know him for a long time, and the two of you work well together. This opportunity should be welcomed and not intimidating. Go for it! If you do, the future will be rosy. Call up June. Remember the line “An inconstant affections; an inconstant lover, swear not by the inconstant moon,” Shakespeare was true approves Kimjilline and burst out into a laughter.

“Anyway, that was a good decision. Revengefulness is a bad chemistry, you left Inaudu for good, no point living at daggers drawn. Sweetness and kindness flash out the bad blood” upraises Kimjilline, looking into the cut mark on Pumgum’s forehead. “But your man was greatly admired. People can be really dangerous, and it’s not at all about style but unfits, amorphous demeanour of desires reminds of the 1778 English Beau Brummell, a single hair that annoyed him, quarrelsome and a gambler-leader of English fashion, who practice harmony of shape and contrast of colours, could be the reason it took five long hours to dress to attain harmony of shape. And name of the product after him, hybridised waxy, late flowering red with dark speckling called Beau Brummell Rhododendron in 1934, sounds elegant but quiet out of the ordinary.

“Inelegant! Love and war, hatred and bitterness, these impertinence of nonsensical things; why it’s hard for people to avoid these things that create voids in life?” “its continued relevance boost the misandric mojo too, in my fond hope. Maybe wool-gathering as a misogynist if they pretend to be but that’s quite a false sense of misadventurous achievement, that may not help to succeed and qualify to distinguish the real good self-care and the recognise the unconsummated virtue.

They still love women and especially their woman. Actually, you don’t become a hater of any kind, the nonsensical things and unpleasant situation, prepares closely you as a misogynist, precisely.

There are other good people in the row. You will get a better job. You can remain happy any day. It starts working negatively, affects yourself, don’t worry you will find your true love,” said Kimjilline in merciful tone expressing sympathy.

“I have to start all over again a life,” said Pumgum contemplatively.

“Forget all these businesses about Bill and kill, common ask the bell boy for the bill,” said Pumgum. “Kimjilline, enjoy your palak paneer and rumali roti, It’s tasty until its hot, that helps in digestion too.”

“We too are hot,” tearing the rumali roti, said Kimjilline, laughing out.

“Hope that helps, I have to start looking for Job, otherwise, I will have to go back to Majuli and start farming,” Pumgum said worriedly.

“On the sandy river island, you will start farming, where, on water?” exclaimed Kimjilline.

They call me Kangkan and that’s not my name. Its mean beautiful in their native dialect. The riverine people would call the Kangkan, to the river too. They love the river and each rivulet on the island. Most of the love- songs are based on the moods of river both calm and catastrophic moods. And, people of the island learn from the river to cope with adversities, happily.

 “Why the need to goad down to hard topics, you are hell bent on things that are hard to deal with, it’s all in people’s mind. What is this always repeating -Today’s newspaper, last year newspaper, 16th-century newspaper. It bugs,” said Kimjilline

But you are the one who gifted me that London Gazette, from your antique collection: the oldest surviving journal, first published in 1665, replies Pumgum.

“A copy of it. Because I cared about your interest, forget that and focus now,” said Kimjilline seriously tearing the rumali roti.

“Focus! When you focus on one thing, you miss other one hundred things, you know that. You need guts for a risky job like that. Jenny works for NGO in Mumbai, she goes to rescue girls, but hard to rescue herself from the targets of the traffickers. She won many awards too but that couldn’t ward off her own problems at home, too much focused that she failed to focus on what she was losing.”

Next day, Pumgum impromptu gets ready to go to Shillong.  

“Baad mey pay kijiye, didi, shillong pauchney par (pay the fare, sister, once you reach Shillong),” the cab driver denies. But she forced him to keep Rs.300, before getting inside the cab. It’s irksome for her to juggle the bag and grope, to fish in pockets for the pennies, once she reach Shillong, she tends to take, unknown routes, jump anytime out to reach for any smarter local cab, to escape the commotion, the traffic in Mawlai area, that usually inauspicious moment become ridiculous turning the appreciation incurred on smooth serpentine roads and serene Umiam lake.

The lake water was healing. Whenever Pumgum crosses Umiam, June would stop by, have a good cup of tea, in a tiny wooden sack, made by Kong. She loves that ever smiling Kong.

Itinad! Itinad!,” Kong would praise Pumgum. One more Khasi word she learnt from the tea seller Kong near Umiam Lake.

Itinad means beautiful. The way Kong explained her and taught her to spell in three syllables. Reverbs in the air. As she leaves her shop, smiling back at Kong.

The aquamarine colour of the Lake, where even the vastness of blue sky that reflects in the lake, would pacify her restless soul. That’s what June taught her to be, derive joy out of each thing that pass by and disappear in the air.

Suddenly, she misses June. Good moments become good memories. And, now in her memory the true love, she felt ever a man can bestow on an unruly girl like her, was haunting throughout the rest of the journey.

In utter restless, she just looked engrossed into the reflection of the clear blue sky in the lake, and see June’s reflection too, merging in the rippling effect of the water. She smiled and passed by the lake. The shared cab, sped off, beneath the canopy of pine trees.

She settled herself, next to, other three corporate guys, looks like in marketing, Bengali Babus, look focused with bespectacled eyes and skilled in marketing. She enjoyed their talks-million dollar talks. Money where their boss and company spend, they have all the data and secret dates too. One of them, looks like, newly in love, suspiciously following her newfound love’s whereabouts on phone, almost for ten times, in three hours of journey, in that 100 kilometres of the drive from Guwahati to Shillong.

Pumgum enters the gate, approach the pathless plain meadow, stands firm spreading arms, arms shedding off the artificialities like a mutilated body of a frozen statue of Quinn’s oeuvre- the Alison Lapper Pregnant- without arms, made and marked of blood-ice and faeces. What else can express better than this, the definition and dualisms in the natural inclinations and leanings, between earth and other planets it’s surface pleasure and in-depth poetry and psyche, its physicality and cerebrally, sexuality and sensuality. Everything comprehensibility defines the prominence of capabilities in the course of mutual manifestation.

Just sniff the difference in the air in the arboreous landscape, deep moss ridden forest, where hues of green dominate the denseness.

She subtly turns towards the sacred grove and walked in with deliberation. A thank –giving walk, liberating the moral scrutinises that deliberately malice the mala fide minds of philistinism, that hardly gravitate towards the significant labour pain to liberate the probable errors.

Scary yet svelte, cold yet warm, mysterious yet magical, seeds sprouting, branches spreading. The trees, one day old to forever standing five hundred years old forever growing trees; transmitting into each other the same air, unchanged, conforming, and corresponding, to changes of time. The same whisper to grow together, spying yet spacing in creative purposes of unspeakable dialects, unheard linguistics of being loved, these are the feelings filling up in her, feeding her hunger for life and feeding other lives.

She feels the fragrance of pine trees, tall pine trees touching the clouds. Escape, riding on horse-cloud, passing the torch to the lost wandering herds, come back instantly with that cloud power to untangle the stubborn knots; the fragrance of pine wipes out the brute forces. A self-correcting mechanism that nature can create, circling in the whirligig.

 “Another dish to avoid in months lacking ‘R’ is Pork. But the season is in the right place with no chance for the bouts of food poisoning. It’s cold here, nothing rots that easily. Like the Victorians, Pumgum is careful about her health.

She asked the guide for the best Jahdow and Dosnoyang, Khasi food. The intense desire for hunger is such a fathomless delusional force that can stop your plans, in that instance from prospering, but resumes.

“Jahdow! Dosnoyang!” thoughts run through her mind Pumgum, walked pass by Police Bazar, Shillong. Stopped for a while, and looked down, the Gothic structure of heritage house, Shillong Brahmo Samaj-ESTD-1894 written on the signboard. The security guard, standing near the gate, warned her that it’s closed today, come tomorrow.

Next day, the cab comes to pick her up. Ninety kilometres she travelled, the cab tearing through

 Mawlynnong!

A boy approached towards Pumgum.

 I am from Mawphalang. I am a student. My name is Baremdor Lyngdoh Mawphalang. It is long. Call me Lyngdoh in short. And, he almost laughed his head off.

Okay, I will call you, Lyngdoh, underpinning the laughter acceded Pumgum.

Lei Basa, he is the only deity here. This forest has three parts. Leit Tyrkhang is that first part,” pointing at the vanishing point of the forest.

It’s going to rain. Follow me. You have to enter from the middle part of the forest. The middle part of the forest is called Bi Phandi.

That part is Maw Nongkynrieh,” pointing at the last part of the forest, he explains the significance of the sacred grove.

Maw means the forest. Lyngdoh would explain. And, I ape him and attempt hard to pronounce holy.

And, there is a village behind the forest, call Nongkynrieh. Would you like to go?

In hallowed joyance, I affirmed him and said yes.

It’s only ten kilometres through the forest.

I reaffirmed him and said, no.

Four kilometres of walk inside the sacred groove is enough for today, and the drizzle drips from the canopy of the thicket of the leaves, hardly the sky is visible. An eerie feeling crawled over the mounds of goosebumps. Unearthly in appeal, we seek suitability. We appeal. Unfortunately, nothing appears, its terrible wastage of poetries- a dead heritage in human intellect: to suit poetic mind of aestheticism.

Taste it. Lyngdoh passed me the leaf. I smelled it. I crushed the leaf in between my thumb and index finger.

“Jajew” we call it Jajew. The name of the plant,” introducing the plant to Pumgum, he walked on the thick bed of leafy cushioned ground.

Jajew, repeats Pumgum. It smells good too and chewed the leaf.

Its smells and taste like lemon too, Pumgum affirms.

Yes, it is lemon. But, wild lemon grows in jungle warned Lyngdoh.

Lemon plant among these thick ancient trees.

Yes, these trees will die soon because of the negative creepers that appeared like not less than the elephantine anaconda. Once these ancient trees of almost thousand years old are covered up by the snake-like creepers. The trees will all be gone, like, the tales, Lyngdoh is narrating now of all that was, once upon a time, but carrying on the legacy being one member of the clan.

“This is the crowning place, the first spot. Where the king is dressed up in the Dhara, the traditional attire by a sister, who approach the ceremonial ground, from a different route as a ritual.

13^th King Kerious Lyngdoh is crowned the ministers of four families: The Kharshiing, The Sohliya, The Blah and The Kharhunai, rest twelve families cheer the ceremonial events.

Masi-Kyrtong the bull or Blang, the goats sacrificed here. Lyngdoh from the clan itself pointed at the Monolith. A pang of pain creeps all over, seeping into the pores on her skin. As she followed Lyngdoh, felt something creepy following too.

 Maybe the fear inside is lurked, awakened. She overtook Lyngdoh. Pumgum thought this time, she will take the lead. The crackling sound from the thick bed of dry leaves, as both walk over was creating an onomatopoeia sound, unnatural and imitative that emanate out from each steps taken. Just to kill the feel of something invisible following.

That’s Paitpuraw, the blackbird. Invisible but and the chirping of the birds, audible and the sharp shrill cry calmed the eerie feeling. A touch of soothing feel, slowly the fear was responsive, wind the apprehension down.

Both walked down, the feasting ground, the only place, surrounded by forest but not covered by its thicket, half of the clear sky is visible, were the sunlight fall in abundance. Their prayers for well-being are answered, they believed it so, and Pumgum felt relieved too.

She walked out of the forest, looked back, standing outside. Four kilometres walk inside and more than three hours, just shrunk into a dot. It’s gone. The fear to enter the forest too was gone.

The night in the La-chaumiere house, the charm of the passage of passing periods of time, seem embedded in the heritage building, was restorative. The house once belonged to the Nawab of Dacca, meeting place for European community, in days of the Raj, pointing at the old photo hung on the wall, explained the bell boy. He left the hot bowl of chicken hot and sour clear soup for her, on the side table made of pine that merged complimenting the wall covered with pine wood, beneath the photo hung on the wall. She relished each gulp of the soup, that was soothing the stressed body, and in no time she slept off like a log. But, to wake up early, continuously, rumbled in her subconsciousness.   

Bah arrived at four early in the morning, almost dawn. The dawn chorus began serenading. The birds, few half-opened eyes, flutter their wing ready to fly. But, most of the early birds gone catching worms.

In the warmth of cosy feel of the cottage, she was finding it hard to even stretch out. But, she jumped out of the bed, as if attacked by a guerrilla warfare.

The thick fog. All the cabs, keep their lights on, the fog lights too, nothing is visible in the foggy terrain, least to avert accidents, and the fogs are that thicker than the sharper fog lights of the other vehicle taking the sharp turn of the smooth mountain roads. Zero visibility but the drivers are expert to negotiate with the fogs, Music is must for them, and the drivers subtly jerk their head in the beats of reggae, blues and hip-hop. I could sense, that jerks off the fear out of their minds.

Ninety-five kilometres away, piercing through the foggy terrain of clouded mountains. Finally, she is here.

Pumgum looked around, seated on the grassy meadow, near the Monolith….calm and composed. The turbulent mind subsides submissively before the power of nature. She entered the deep forest, wanders around and quiet impressed by the cleanliness of the village, the tiny traditional Khasi huts. She sits in a shack, in front of the school building, selling tea.

The girl looked at Pumgum and asked her to be seated on the flat big rock. That’s the balancing-rock.  

Pumgum sits quiet, looking around. After some time, she asks her, Kuwai?

“What?” exclaimed Pumgum?

Kuwai”, repeats the girl. And gives her the most famous betel nut wrapped in Kau paat, a hard leaf that hardly can be torn off.

“OK, you call betel-nut, Kuwai,” said Pumgum.

“Khublei,” thanked Pumgum. The only Khasi word Pumgum knows. Whenever she feels like thanking anyone here. Khublei is written everywhere, hotels, schools, office, on trees, parks, riverside, even on every vehicle. Everybody says Khublei here if everybody is happy.

 She asked her name.

“Evenda.” She said.

Pumgum spent the day with Evenda-The Kuwai seller’s daughter.

She has never seen the sun. But she knows the sun rises in the east. For her east could be in any direction, wherever her fragile finger points at. Pumgum, saunter around the village. Then peeped into a school.

1962 Riwai L.P. written in thick black colour, the signboard is hung on the roof of the building, in between the planks of wood, is almost not visible.

“The only school building in the village,” said Notila Khongmawloh, Evenda’s mother, she had never been to the school, though it is adjacent to her home she used to sell Kuwai, seated outside the school in a sack, then she was only seventeen, then. Now, Evenda is seventeen years old.

Notila is a cleanliness freak. Not only her home but the forest has to be clean. The gushing silvery River Riwai has to be clean. The bamboo baskets hung on the branch of the trees, if anyone misses and doesn’t use, she would clean it, uncomplaining, with a hope that they learn to take care of nature.

Evenda Khongmawloh is excited to see people be it foreign, native and stranger; she waits for the people from the world to taste her tea. The silver kettle shine.

Pumgum puts her cold hands in the hot steam, gushing out from the mouth of the kettle. Her clothes are all wet. She is drenched in the shower of droplets, that drips like chaplets of divine mercy, presage an emeute that glittered down in the lights of the day, though sunlight is a rare occurrence. It amused her, felt touched by nature an uprising-an act of beginning, in the riot of rains-It’s not exactly the rain from the sky. The dripping water droplets from the dense canopy of tall trees-the magic!

There is kind of thrill in identifying this silent presence of strength in her, the simplicity not yet instructed and abrasion caused by the friction of spiteful forces; her strength to live in a world, the world yet to enter into Evenda’s Eden. Pumgum felt the end of the war in her mind. Talk to Evenda that’s restorative. And, the scared trees absorbed it all.

Evenda tells her that she wants to come down to Guwahati to see the sun. She goes till Police Bazaar, sees the beautiful fashionable people, not to buy any, and returns. For her the Jainsem, and the tap-mohkhlieh. She indeed looked beautiful wrapped traditionally, in her simple chequered piece of cloth. But it really enhances the feminine charm of Khasi girls, that what I felt.

Pumgum returned the same day, in the evening, reached home late. It was already 11 p.m. in the night. But sleeplessness is another foe that robs wellness away, and breaks the circadian rhythms and takes away our melatonin, the natural sleep-promoting hormone in the body. Nobody can help you sleep.  The next day she was heartbroken to see, President of India, Dr Kalam on television. The man, she adored died the day she was in Shillong.

Next following month, drizzling. September sunlight perching through the drizzle Pumgum’s face, lighting up her resilience. Rhythm restored.

Next day, Pumgum gets ready for the interview as a public relation officer in an NGO. But, what disrupts her is Notila’s happiness derived from keeping Mawlynnong clean. It’s this cleanliness that has earned Mawlynnong as the cleanest village in Asia. The world comes to Evenda Khongmawloh’s Mawlynnong like the onomatopoeically echoes of Nature-God. They are the guardian. They seek nothing from the world but it’s the world that seeks everything from them. The strength she gathered in the meantime; exalt to start her own, back to Majuli. Heavy erosion has submerged the largest freshwater River Island. It’s in the year 1952, Pumgum’s grandparent’s home got submerged in water.

Except for Pumgum, her grandparents and their children, her relatives, natives, the boats- the angst-ridden river had washed away everything, the herds of elephants, the first Murphy radio, the bell-metal utensils, cattle, buffaloes, and sadly the granaries, rendering them foodless and homeless. The best of natural ability to cope with the angry river but the inbuilt mechanism to swim in the madness of the raging river rendered no help, the swimming ability saved their fates and fortunes to see the lights of the day.  Subansiri River too finally finds its solace here, the Mising people call it Obonori River. But, once the river is calm, everything calms down, back to normality- into mutuality. The river and the people- cognitive companions. Their mutual respect for each other has earned them the title as River-People or Riverine People.

And they wouldn’t leave this sinking island for better place or pasture. Pumgum sees, her relatives spend months on boats and embankments. Majuli around 452 sq. km is India’s largest river island in the world, cuddled up in the mighty river the Brahmaputra, is the largest freshwater mid-river deltaic island in the world.2015, two lakhs people have been hit by flood in Brahmaputra and Subansiri rivers. 

As Evenda’s smile swipe through her unquiet mind. Pumgum changed her mind. She opened the closet, that’s her mother’s closet. Her clothes inlay in layers in a hue of all colours. She thought of the man, who left her once he found out that she is pregnant. These two men in her life loved her very much, but two of them were not there when she needed them most. They are there invisible like a void in a void, voices in a void. More than giving birth to an orphan, what orphaned her thoughts, that don’t make sense now? Her love child is a good doctor, now in Great Britain, looked after her well. She died in peace, what is solace to the solitude is the poetry, Pumgum found like the residual fragrance from the ether of the obsolete phial, but with stronger fragrance in the fold of wedding dress, that she could never wear. The dress, she asked the weaver from Sualkuchi to weave this silk wedding dress for her.

In her thirties, the poetry she wrote, love thrives in this poetry….still embedded in the folds of the silk wedding dress, waiting to be loved.

How can I love you?

When you make me dance,

In the darkness of broken rhythms;

In the thwarted existence of-My untraveled life. 

When the journey has just began, you standstill tall …

Barricaded Like the buffeting bane that befall;

Mighty might be you mastering-so you love me? 

And your love entices like the mirage,

 

Then how can love be so blind and bolshie to envisage. 

When the ugly shadow of yours, 

Besieged the sense of divinity that pours; 

When the whole universe is, gliding over to a new day without confinement stalk.

Why we stymie the decorative wide-lipped thirst of love, in this endurance of a seeker’s walk…

How can I love you!

But the poetry did make sense; it could stultify nothing that belonged her. She lived in the elegance of beliefs that not love but hyper sceptic hatred was the poison. Pumgum, with a fine mind, an Olympian calm, accepts the finest of all realities, in two minds; all things happened it’s alright. All rights, immortalised, distasteful may be. But ready to leave. Welcoming challenges.

Pumgum is ready now; she will find her refuge in a natural setting. Naturally, she will start from somewhere, a purposive action with the sure-fire proposition, the entourage she needs, is possible singularly, amidst the nature worshippers.

She repeatedly read the poetry. And, wrote “Welcome challenges”

There are solutions to every challenge. And, answers lay undisturbed in nature’s love nest. Conquer all, Conquer the world….the animated monologue, Kimnijiline posing as Alexander, ignite the dormant spirit to conquer, as if written by sunbeam in each tree, trees that secrete happy hormone, the secret ways to smile, the happiest way the trees thrive in a sacred groove in Evenda’s Eden. What flashed before Pumgum is, Evenda’s simple way of dealing with destiny, undisturbed as the Kuwai seller’s daughter.

“Good Morning, Madam! Bed tea.”

The faded tones outside the door couldn’t attenuate her stolid thoughts of the night, lost in the freshness of the balmy morning breeze that brought a dissimilar pleasant feel, never felt before, ennobling the night of a pronounced holy union. At the same time, she held a silent combat inward, with the ferocious stare of agony and sympathy for herself.

Entering into each other, each move into an aureate realm not to return. An important manifestation to acknowledge the union of two bodies.

Aching bodies!

“Open the door, Mirdan!”

The bang in the door obstructed the firm countenance of imaginations to fall. The sun rays, melted on the stillness of her face formed different patterns, different shapes, weave pattern adorned by the leaves and twigs of azalea and pine trees. A visible shadow play of stirred spring air.

The distorted voice sounds familiar, breaks the silence. The bell boy would have addressed her as a madam, not Mirdan, by name.

Mirdan hurried, to open the pine-scented pine door, saw no bell boy or butler, with the tea.

“Madam, tea”, suddenly the bell boy appears, with a cup of tea, laid in cane tray. He pronounced as Madam, not exactly Mirdan and he shall dare not belly up, it’s out of courtesy, otherwise, there’s no reason.

Ah! Polsky” exclaimed Mirdan.

The glow on her face caused by the rise of mortal dopamine and the joy of seeing Polsky aureate like the fragrance of pine in the air. Dopamines are mortal, mortal because it fails to peak in the kraurotic moment. Things do turn to the tide, causes surreal distortions, all washed up.

“Hey, what’s up?

“I thought you will be late from your morning walk by the Lady Hydari Park.

“I hark back to the same place, to harvest golden hours, Dear Goddess Cera so that I don’t have to chase cereals, and all roads may not lead to Rome, kay sera-sera, whatever will be, will be,” replied Polsky in tasteful tones.

“We shall walk together, again in the evening beneath the tall pine trees; thence I shall walk into the thorny bushes of the rose garden, and rhyme a rune, and lay you in the bed of roses hahaha,” animates Polsky and muttered as Mirdan looks on quietly, and listening politely.

“Let all the hundred eye toothed reptiles, watch us politely, from beneath the mirror-like primaeval water of the lake, that in thousand days gathered in quieter epochs of ancient time, that heals and that lacks nothing,” nags Polsky and gags at her in intimate intelligence.

Lady Hydari Park comes alive, the well-ordered Japanese style landscape, in Scotland of North-East India. It’s a great object of final product of manicured nature, synthesis of all occasion of people and children gleefully chasing the butterflies and birds that orbs around hither thither, in confusion, on lesser-known flowers, to famous orchids like lady slipper and foxtail that clung to the old gigantic pine trees, suck the nectarine water perched on the blossoms,” he continues to animate in his usual acts in poetic monologues. As if Macbeth comes alive, Macbeth that Mirdan sees in theatres, and in each pleasant word, he utters pains her, as painful as the Shakespearean tragedy.

“Hahahaha! So walk the whole night,” exclaimed Mirdan serenading along in the sound of laughter.

What stopped the laughter was Polsky’s expiring visa, that won’t allow him to stay long in India.

But he walked freely. Look at this man, gleefully stepped out of Lachumiere House, all the way walking, from the undulating roads of Lachumiere towards Dhankheti then taking the turn towards Laitumkhrah then to Police Bazar.

But he enjoys his own company most, hassle-free, like the mountain river flowing down torrentially, he would appear like a magic and would ask to be ready.

He needs a company now, he is ready to walk with her. He had explored the roads, he knows the road. He won’t stumble. He didn’t want her to stumble.

“I have hardly seen a man so happy, so full of life, after emerging out of tragic deadly events of life, not complaining, no bitterness, so full of grace and manner, chivalric,” thought Mirdan with a whiff of a smile.

“I love this man,” she whispered to herself.

“Will you forget me,” whispered Mirdan into Polsky’s ears.

“Will you leave me,” whispered back Polsky, looking sharp, and look scorching deep into her eyes.

Both nod, unflinchingly.

The last night and togetherness were solely theirs like the Quadrantids peak –the most intense of the year’s meteor shower.

“Come dance, let’s dance,” pleads Polsky extending his hand.

“I didn’t know how to dance,” said Mirdan turning to Polsky.

“Come,” he insists. “Just free your body, yes, swing subtly,” said Polsky holding her and swinging along.

Mirdan makes an awkward move, makes an attempt to pace up with the moves of Polsky’s body and the anytime song ”I can tell by your eyes, that you’ve probably been crying forever, and stars in the sky don’t mean nothing to you,” that plays in the phone.

She struggled but the way Polsky comforted her, she could feel the presence of dancing goddess in her. She felt the rhythm in the body transcending through Polsky’s body.

She danced. Her body is free, flowing. Bodies are in sync with the rhythm, with the music.

“Move like the flowers that open up its petals, subtly, feel the fall of dew drops on it, yet won’t hold water on it, blow along the winds, breath slow,” he instructs her like an archangel.

She felt the changes in the body. Splash of colours in gestural abstraction, she looked arduously at him, loosening the hard put kinesics.

“There you are, alive,” relieving her doubts, Polsky praising her darnedest pursuit.

“Flatter me not.” It’s you, who danced, and it’s you who made me danced too,” replied Mirdan, swinging finely her body cling like ivy conveniently to Polsky, like a tree that swing, bowing to the blow of the unruffled breeze, both in sync devoted to symphonic sense of search high heaven, in hypnotic pace.

There they both danced, unbaffled. Bodies twirl like a whirlpool, water merging into water….gyrating. Mirdan felt liberating.

Mistrial, deadpan expression of blank verse, allowing a free passage of unmistaken language of poetry, rejection controlled by rationality, by wonders and by beauty.

***
Poetic licence to thrill and abolish the ridiculous custom. “The language of poetry follows intuition, it is a customary fire-dance in final minutes, time’s deep aesthetic appreciation, an odyssey through appealing thoughts, architectural ornament, the organic evolution, emotionality of organisms, that’s what I could annotate, the meanings I could sense,” Polsky puts in plain English.

“Keep dancing, love, bone up,” said Polsky, closing eyes and continued swinging his body.

They had the premonition that at one point of life they will meet. They met like the forceful primordial wind that gushed out from aboriginal forests forming life-all new. Why can they not be together? There was nothing and none to oppose their love affair.  What exactly is that maligning curvature, which cannot hold them together? Yet, they are together. They want to be with each other. They cannot. Yet, they do not want to know. Like poetry, unwilling to answer, moan in melancholy. The elemental truth.

 Great things of creations had to flow through rugged regions of imagination, finally, not disallowing the primality of all matter to gravitate towards the essence of love. Universe gliding through the dark holes, freeing the lights, governed by nothing.  The first day, both headed for Mawsynram, to enter into the, inside dark of the rocky Mawjymbuin cave.

Mirdan has some kind of phobia, claustrophobic. Once she came to this cave with school friends from Diphu, but she stayed outside and waited for her friends to come out of the cave and tell her about their claustrophobic feeling.

“Feelings are solely yours, we didn’t feel anything,” replied one of the mates. Mirdan was not willing to experiment it.

After ten years, Mirdan, entered the dark cave, darker inside, deeper. Holding Polsky’s hand. Her love for him was so much that the unknown force freed her, she saw lights even in the pitched dark cave.

“Look at the Shivalinga shaped Stalagmite outside the cave and speleothems-breast shaped stalagmite inside the cave,” Polsky said in reverence for the creative force. “Freeze!” exclaimed Polsky like a magician. “Sit here,” he made her sit on a huge rock.

“Close your eyes,” she would follow his commands.

She closed her eyes and waited for him to say open but there was no voice, total silence. The onomatopoeically sound of water drops trickling down, enticed her.

She opened her eyes looked at the water drops fall from the stalactite and stalagmite, that looked like jaws of a deadly dragon on the wet stone walls of the cave. The pattern of the rocks evokes the feel of an instant thaumaturgical teleportation to caves of Ajanta to Michelangelo’s fresco paintings to the fresco of Sappho from Pompeii emerges from unknown times of c.50 CE comes alive in the eerie feel, inside this cave.

She turned to see Polsky. She could see him, seated like a maverick monk in a meditative state. Concentrated mind, like the concentration of lights falling on him from top of the opening creek. Mirdan goes back to her trance poise, closed her eyes, not to offend Polsky.

After an hour, Mirdan felt a kiss on her lips. She breathes deeper and smiles. Opened her eyes and said, “Thank you Polsky!” in her heart. She knew what he had gifted her. She received it from the giver- who desire hardly for any external armour.

“Look up,” Polsky tilts her head horizontal up, with his agile hands.

The dark cave has a huge hole on top.  Polsky made her sit on a flat huge rock, right beneath the hole and he seated himself in the adjacent rock. These rock slabs might have fallen down, killing so many ants and animals beneath. The crack opening up to the sky and the intensity of lights had the intensity of 1.3 billion light years that powerfully descends down falling on the meditating lost lovers. Miraculous feel runs down the spine. It was like the doors wide open to heaven of lights.

A gift that sages and saints seek throughout.

A gift that a human seeks in god, in themselves.

Both of them were like the two essential postulations, waiting for a special relativity of being, gravitates towards newer lights, newer love in the universal constancy of the speed of lights filling up the vacuum of the cave and the void in their visible expanding distances.

Being with each other was the gravitational waves intensifying this moment, setting the love free to merge, in the secrets of the universe. This highest dimension of life lifts one from the approaching fear of separation-fear for this sudden end of everything, that’s going to happen in a while.

There still is the man she loves holding her, near her, but it’s illusionary.

Decline and the fall of foreign feel and the peace talks.

Next day, she let him go alone. She knew if he wanted anyone to accompany him; he would kneel down and plead. Interferences were never on their platter, they could understand each other, even without meeting for thousand days, except by e-mails. But few things in life are so precious, one set them free and let them go, uncomplaining, un-intruding and thus, letting Polsky go out to an unfamiliar hill station, that bothered Mirdan bit.

Polsky is a charmer, he has that knack the trait to tackle the climate change in people’s capricious behaviour, and his first attempt is to make them smile.

If they don’t smile means he is alerted to carry on the beautiful evening walk. He knows the roads of the world- the smooth curves, rugged ridges; any road may not act wild on him. Rather his pleasant presence would invite anyone to be with him. He would ask the strangers, passer-by, to tea seller, whoever gets engaged to him, to sit around him and listen. And he would egg on them to talk. He has the felicity of faith in people.

He would explain about unwanted wars in different sorts of explanations, explaining love as single spirit. And the body, without love, is an empty vessel. He points at the empty kettle. All the fellows look at the empty kettle.

“No tea,” jestfully said Polsky.

The sound of laughter warming up the circle of people, gathered there, engrossed listening to Polsky.

“No empty, I will make tea,” said Kong sweetly.

Polsky smiles at Kong. Everybody smiles.

His love is felt by everyone, without knowing him, judging him, and where he belonged, is forgotten at that instance. But considering him as a beautiful foreigner.

“Where do you belong?” asked Polsky, reluctantly to the group of people, Khasi, Jaintia, Garo, Bengali, Bihari, Assamese, Bangladeshi, mostly identifiable there, standing, sitting and most of them surrounding him. The wind blows descending down the clouds subtly here, has a magnificent moisture content in this altitude, even in the deadly heat of summer, the indescribable leather jackets are people’s any day favourite.

They would tell the name of the places they belong.

“I belong to this earth,” defining explicitly, Polsky would answer in enlightening tone, drawing not any sympathy but understanding.

Mirdan knew and could sense the angst; the most awkward thing Polsky find in people is when they ask him, whereabouts of his country or home.

“Home to home!” The fixed phrase vibrates in her nerve. She is so much accustomed to listening to him rhyming, home to home.

Apparently, people would fail to understand and get addlepated, sometimes, mostly the educated, find him funny, insane. His candid forthright approach to clear up the confusion is, he would ask his stranger turned friendly fellow to look up and see like he would do to Mirdan.

“What did you see?” Polsky would ask like a likeable cuss.

“Nothing,” most of them would reply.

“That’s the problem, my dear brother, you do not try to see the sky, empty yet so beautiful, full of lights” was his friendly answer, and would laugh and made them laugh too, pointing at the sky.

“You are from the sky,” was the candid question from the fellows seated on the wooden bench of tiny wooden hut selling and happily serving the tea and most exquisite Jadoh, the Khasi ethnic food.

“No, my country has the same sky. I have come from a home to a home. So home to home. Now, we together are in the abode of clouds, riding on rain-Meghalaya, hahahaha….,” laughter burst out from every passer-by gathered there surrounding Polsky, as he explains, like an actor in a street play.

“Khublei,” was the last greeting they wished to each other as Polsky leaves the place.  He never wanted to feel like life in self-exile, nowhereness isolated, different from anything and anyone.

“…I have met them at the close of day, coming in vivid faces, from counter or desk among grey eighteenth-century houses. I have passed with a nod of the head or polite meaningless words, or have lingered awhile, and thought before I had done of a mocking tale or a gibe to please a companion around the fire at the club….all changed, changed utterly…a terrible beauty is born.…” bow to my beautiful Butler, Polsky whispered to the wind.

As he passed by lanes and roads of Shillong. He stopped and paid attention awestruck to find the feel of Scandinavian to Gothic to Byzantine to Lombardic architectural structure in the beautiful pseudo-heritage houses. He walked down the Cleve Colony and was mesmerised by the landscape.

He could feel and think of Gurudev Tagore Shesher Kobita that lingers in this cloud-wind,” he was quietly lost in thoughts. He headed towards Laban, where Tagore stayed. He was saddened to see the house where Tagore lived, dismantled. Bits and pieces of the name on marble lay scattered. “Ta” in one piece of a marble slab, then “Gore” on another piece half buried in the dust, “Lived here” on another piece of broken slab lay in the corner of hundred years old tin trunk.

Polsky returned, helplessly. Feeling stupid about himself, and about the people, who failed to value the treasure?

His love for the universe was enormous that Mirdan would feel that enormity of presence stimulating in her too.

This man she loves will disappear in a moment in the force of the gravitational waves, creating supermassive black holes. The time of the universe is such it takes away everything, the lights shall break up and disperse.

They will depart.

A sudden emptiness- so dark, Mirdan experiences the atonement, as the departure time of the flight to Pune then further to Russia, shrinks.

Inconstancy of the speed of lights, the little time left was slipping away, he vowed that he will come back like these lights.

The calmness of the daylight was penetrating, complimenting each other’s delightful presence. The last minutes of togetherness.

They were in complete freedom, this time, away from shackles of time itself. It took a decade to decide and finally, they are here.

The last night was toughest, most aching but most beautiful. Precious union of time, so short. Bodies merge into each other united, limiting their hopes.

“A feel of a man, Soulful!” she thinks to feel complete.

Mirdan looked out of the window, eyes fixed on the numerous houses on the landscape tiny to huge. Polsky holds her from the back. She felt the intensity of the touch.

“I shall come back like the ocean, whispers Polsky holding her firm.

“Big opportunities are here,” Mirdan whispered back.

He didn’t quite get that. And reacts.

“Nonetheless, Davit Scott and the British realised the potential of this paradise and got indulged in the beauty and the big opportunities in the abode of clouds, I know a little bit of history too,” reacts Polsky, feeling amusing.

“Look down, that hoarding,” points Mirdan towards the hordes of houses.

He peeps out the wooden window.

“Where?” he enquired.

“Big opportunities are here, hahaha, big enough, look at that half a meter big words in blue,” laughing and reading out the signboard of a management institute, Lachumiere.

“Opportunities like this tempts too,” he continued giggling.

Both smiles, looking still outside and the sun shedding all shades of colours, red to crimson red to yellow to golden and disappear into the dark.  

“Once we leave, our distance will be like the distance between the earth and sun. Only thoughts will reach us, like these rays that travel,” said Mirdan.

“Sir Soup!” said the Kong.

Both turn to look.

The Kong gets them two bowls of steaming vegetable soup. Polsky loves vegetables, also the different colours in the vegetables.

“Look at the rainbow,” he would point at the chunks of vegetables in the soup, and call it rainbow.

We waited for the hot soup to get little less hot. Suddenly, a fly fell into Polsky’s soup.

I was about to request Kong to change it. Polsky started relishing the soup.

“How is the soup?” asked Kong, the beautiful Khasi girl.

“Veg to Non-veg soup, not bad. Good, good, very good,” replied Polsky smiling at the girl, without complaining.

“Fly is tastier,” the girl didn’t quite get, what it all meant.

The last man on earth, she knows, complains about nothing, loving everything.

“Beautiful!” “Beautiful!” is the mantra he would chant to people, animals, insects, mountains, rivers, waters anything he encounters.

And finally turning to Mirdan to say: “You are beautiful too.”

Rain rattled on the tin-roof was soothing. It rained the whole night. Windy, the wind roared loud. The night was spent talking. The rattle of the windy night couldn’t disrupt their deep sleep.

They were in love, conspicuously in a relation. A serious approach to life but love comes with its own terms and troubles. Like the quiet night was experiencing the windy blows, blowing off the lights from the hurricane lamp.

Blood-red Azalea bloom covered the grass, blown over by the mad winds of the night. The night rain gifted the morning a different make-over, brighter and fresh, vivifying the windy night had disrobed the tree off most of its flowers. Winter shifting to vernal equinox has shifted the desires too, to self-indulge. Desires sometimes so deadly, sometimes so dutiful.

Mirdan seated near the stair stares at hundreds of Azalea. These Azaleas bloomed, fell, lay on grass shall disappear too, but where,” she exclaimed contemplating.

He left in me, a love that’s hard to find. He rendered in me the courage to dream, desires to love, and to live. Dysfunctional life, need intervention. That’s not a watchword.

The morning sun cast it golden lights that seep through the thick leaves of Azalea shrub.

“Love is this light that glows inside, love is these rays of being, love is these readiness to begin,” she thought that runs in the stream of consciousness.

She gazes at the leaves falling from the tall eucalyptus tree, gyrates gracefully before its fall. The leaves were performing acrobatic arts. The leaves are ready to evolve. The earth was ready to embrace the leaves. Each day thousands of golden-yellow leaves formed a thick carpet on the surface of the lane.  She doesn’t like the cleaner, who comes every day and burns the mound of leaves. They hardly are aware of the acts of nature’s process. They disrupt the leaves to decompose and fertile the soil. Do anyone bother to know that the growing plants and trees suck the nectar of the dead leaves. Mirdan would gather the leaves and keep beneath the trees. She would wait for the rebirth of the dead leaves and re-enter into the body of the tree, nurturing the tree. Nature knows better than human how to grow in greater interdependence. City of the awakened and smart people.

Beautiful city, sin city, crime city. Rape, murder, prostitution, trafficking are part of living. But this city still has a soul, it offers great temptations and triumphs too. There are still few fireflies and butterflies chasing the fragrance of flowers from terrace gardens to park and old trees and newly planted trees all growing together. Everybody dreams of love. Each one wants to fall in love. Talk of love, hide love. Scandalising thoughts. There is kind of a confusion grows in the minds. Whether to love or not to love.

“Love keeps you glowing and young, but you need honey and apple too, the Potassium in it is the secret mineral of youthfulness,” said Polsky and asked her, “Have you ever tried Apple cider vinegar?”

“Food for the fountain of youth, yes I know that as an ancient remedy,” Mirdan affirms, sipping special masala chai.

“Apple! Apple! Apple! What if there were no apples, apple of my eye, Miss Mirdan,” said Polsky, looking into her eyes, indulgently.

“An apple a day keeps the doctor begging for bread? Open a bread factory, I will bake the bread,” replies Mirdan, kissing Polsky lightly on his lips, gulping the last sip of masala tea.

“I thought you would say, there would have been no Eden’s crush, no rising pop stars,” said Polsky with a firm look then laughs.

“Apple is forbidden, not when I am hungry, my beloved I am not brute do not walk the forbidden bridge, remain, my love, love is the parents of creation-Big Bang,” Polsky enacted out, impressing Mirdan, with his king- like gait and grace.  

Time was running out. Five hours left to reach the airport.

It was 4 PM three hours left.

The immediacy of an intimate kiss was felt. Time is like werewolves, changing its appearance. They kissed each other like hungry wolves, easing away recessing inward pain.

They kissed, harder, calming the distorted contemplations. Deeper the thoughts of departure, deeper the pain that slit through benumbing the veins, deeper the kisses. For the tragedians, it was a festival of being in joy. That joy inside, zestful- a glow opening up to the universe.

Then they disappear into their own presumed directions of the parallel universe. She cringed over compressing the challenges of life and the words he said before he was gone “I love you, for everything.” was like a kiss of death.

That haunts for years. Like words from Athenaeum,

Mirdan opened the book by Virginia Woolf’s “Between the acts” and “The waves” gifted by Polsky to be opened strictly after he leaves. She did that and on the second page of the book, she reads, what he wrote. A poem dedicated to her…

I shall wait, for Audubon’s birds to aureate;

Auburn wind to create, I shall sip waters; from creeks of rocky mountain openings, when in the gold carpet of sun’s burrow, I shall wait, beneath each wailing tree, for each grass to regrow.

For

 MIRDAN RONHANGPI

From

OLEG 

The ringing bell in the temple diverts Mirdan’s mind from the brief pang of pain caused.

She peeps into the temple. Gods and Goddesses holding each other, with smug faces, smiling. Gods are happily in love. Gods are worshipped.

Love stories of Gods amuse Mirdan, it relieves her. Have we seen any god without love? Each god in love, is an accepted myth. The myth is tradition to be trusted. The psyche of the geography one belongs. The illusionary presence of realities, so painful yet mouthful reminds her, of his favourite Butler’s verse “….too long a sacrifice, can make a stone of the heart. O when may it suffice….?”

Where do we see God, in terrors of endless interrogations? Disorienting, yet haunts the smooth and white innocence, in fair aliveness, in al dente. Firm finally in faith.

Love is God, suddenly, in unrealistic expectations appear, and then disappears. Keep worshipping everything in ivory translucent glory. In poetry’s plea, in prayer’s Alakazam.

“The language of poetry is dance. Keep dancing, love!”  Reverbs.

His voices reverb in her continuous wait, appears in mazes of distorted surreal, in verses of karma and in kamikaze of Kafkaesque tales of love is God, and if God is love.

Escape to Calm

Being with neutron star cast me away from many interferences, like him this taste of solitude I acquired sorted out to travel light on earth.  What this reclusive mind is filled with is a beautiful mind of celestial play. I now understand why the colour of my sky is blue, and why seven visible colours of the rainbow may be more invisible spectrum of colours appear, appealing us.

But, I will not blame any general people for not understanding which they call the spectrum a disorder. However, our understandings may fail, our attempts to reconnect to beautify human love never fails “US”

In my nothingness, in my unknowingness, I didn’t want to suffer from ignis fatuus. Deception is dangerous.

I tried hard to know, what autism is. Wanted to travel with my neutron star.

But, the colours of the spectrum are a wonderful thing. My spectrum would be a perpetual search…. how Autism augurs aesthetics in beautiful minds of, Right from the genius Isaac Newton to Albert Einstein.

Einstein saw lights bending in the middle, he had his own theory in understanding the lights, in his own both visible and invisible spectrum of lights.

But, I fail it declines it falls, it fails to explain. But, there is always a room with a view for myself, which Virginia Woolf desired. I set my ball rolling here and my universe, here till Sunday like a cold day in July. July the month I was born, hot. Heretofore, never as a heretic, I believed in something supernatural force, forces of nature. Not even as a hemic hermit in the arcs of a circle. But, half circle a believer. It’s like hermeticism. The great dispersal of dandelion seeds in the air.

An Inherited Will

Today (April 2), the world celebrates World Autism Day enabling and empowering us to understand through the colours of blue why the colour of the sky is not only blue, it has all colours of red, blue, violet, purple, green, crimson paint on…

I watched the flick, Barfi. Hum the song, Kyon.

Kyon is not a question actually. Question is the caretakers, who equally suffer. Coping with suffering too is a sort of Great War. Each day is a wait to end this war, cynically, optimistically both.

But, the suffering too shall remain a mysterial. A convenient difficulty, unreadable.

I don’t know, in this perpetual search, I set my ball rolling, cruising through cinema. It’s so far, far interesting.

Mercury Rising, this Hollywood movie about a 9-year-old boy, who has a knack for breaking codes, breaks a top government code. Why he becomes a target of assassins. A must watch.

Talking and understanding through cinema like A brilliant young mind, Fly Away, our own Barfi is sweet too “The boy who could fly” the other way of making living an emotionally challenged blissful life.

Then, where are we? It would be a real tragedy for general people to realise and understand, but I trust, let be optimistic about each people on earth, they will understand and I hope they comprehend.

A random check on social media. What’s pops out from personalities I often do share my view.

Patricia Maukhim: #UnderstandingAutism – Why aren’t media channels discussing this issue which many live in denial with. Why must discussions be only about inflammatory subjects where politicians are called in to give their banal views and to shout each other down? We must be the worst country in terms of our ability to shut down anyone with a different viewpoint. It looks like a new form of cultural terrorism. Media channels stop the dramatics and let’s look at real issues we need to be dealing with and allocating resources for. And I don’t mean just financial resources but the human resources required to understand the challenges of the human mind…There is still so much we don’t know about ourselves and why we behave a certain way. And no, none of us is quite “normal” in case we go around sniffing with our noses in the air…

Next

Jarjum Ete: How an autistic personality could complete his law studies and fought back the justice he deserved.

Good News from Bangalore was Karmaveer Juhi Ramani, who shared pictures of the grand opening of the restaurant with a signboard written Chaatpatta India, “We are autistic-friendly”.

I anyhow washed off my hair to be there for the day at Shi

Neurodiversity: Aspect of splinter intelligence

The Intense interest versus an increased incidence of neuropsychiatric problems, problem area has not been specifically identified.

The neuropsychological make-up.

Interventions and therapeutic strategies.

Symptomology appears to be a chain reaction of biological to neuropsychological development.

Best treatment modalities are the bio-socio-medical approach.

Autism as a global health crisis.

Understanding Autism

I picked the best quote by Poet William Blake, “To see a world in a grain of sand and heaven in a wild flower, Hold infinity in the palm of your hand and eternity in an hour.”

And found poetry so a powerful medium, a catharsis, a way, a medium, an outlet to rant out my angst, my understanding too, and to fill up the gaps of understandings.

I signed off with a sign. A deep sigh before I travel back to the colours of my own structured spectrum and be with my neutron star throughout my life’s sojourn, where my life originates, now. As this world is my oyster.

With a hashtag # let everyone know, let the world understand. Because the world is your lobster, without not even an air of outrage or wounding dignity slightly or mightily to any.

#WorldAutismDay

God too falls in love. God of everything falls.

©Lovita J R Morang

Photos from the Internet

#ShortStory #Fiction #Autism #AutismStory #UnderstandingAutism #AutismAnAdvocacyInitiative #TheNuancesOfAutism #SpecialIssue #SpecialNeeds #DifferentTruths