THE FORGOTTEN STORIES

When you have that urge, do it. I mean when you have that urge to write, write it down. Do not hold back. Paper, back of note books, mobile, let it be anything. Do not hold back. If you do not do it, there is no assurance for the return of that urge. This only occurs sometimes, or in some cases once in a blue moon. Artist for this matter, need to sharpen their ears to listen to the voice. The voice of hungry soul. The artistic pleasure that you get when you put it down in paper is really an outcome of intrinsic and extrinsic factors. The euphoria that you produce through the very act belongs only to you. Nothing can stop a determined artist and the song of imagination on loop in your head. Be it five minutes or ten seconds, once it's gone, it's hard to get it back. It would sometimes take until the cows come home, so better grab it when it comes. Because your instincts and your heart are snollygosters. Even now the urgency that i experienced at the beginning of this write u

I see coloured faces, happy faces. The faces that told the happiness of completing the school, the studies, the tiresome exams, the weekend exams, homeworks, of escaping the angry eyes of teachers. The happiness of knowing the truth that they have grown up, that they are matured enough to handle things, that they are stepping into another beautiful phase of life. This unbridled enthusiasm is a trap. The great maturing trap! Because after three or five years you will know that it was this phase, that was beautiful, less burdensome, lighter. The coloured faces and scribbled uniforms have many stories to say that the letters pop out or peep through the threads of uniform after many years. The nostalgic element is very high in this case. But the only profit that you get is the acknowledgement of what you wanted to become, that revelation you get from the tree of enlightenment made of life experiences and people. You have come all the way leaving your colourful life, to get this revelat

They say some people come to your life for special purpose. When I take into account my two years journey in Devagiri, 3 people, namely Resmi, Benat and Ansu played an indelible role. I don't actually remember how the four of us came together and became the birds of a feather.But it was an ultimate entertainer.There were hard times for us which made us feel like 'climbing the Everest' was much better option , but there was that cliche mantra deep inside each of us that said' this too shall pass' which made everything much lighter. We are bit problematic, dramatic weirdo group glued together with dollops of love under the spell of some unknown powers.We may be fallible, frolicsome and bothersome which we would rather take as a compliment.And this proved me that cultural variations doesn't matter when you maintain a special boundless culture in friendship. Love always.❤️ A.C

Dear Nagesh Sir, You are a legend who taught me to fight to bring honor to our family even by rejecting man's law like Antigone, who taught me that like Lysistrata, the very effort of women can put an end to great wars, to face the existential crisis with Berenger, to forsee how I will be remembered  after my death through Elegy, to visit the Renaissance Italy with Andrea del sarto and Fra Lippo Lippi, to be in gay and keep moving on with Gunn's motorcyclists and to ride the waves with the surfers. Sir, you are the one who took me to the very beginning of the evolution of the language of cinema with Bazin ,who helped me to know the third cinema , to experience a chill down my spine with Marion Crane, to go in search of the stolen bicycle with Antonio Ricci and Bruno to prevent poverty in the family. The Sage who taught us to look into the thoughts of others with Saleem Sinai, to be compassionate to the 'other' with Gustad, to break the silence with Marikatani'

20 january 2019 Get me that old house of spring. Anyone who is as rich as my memories can get that. Fifty years! I longed for that. That place of happy giggles and peaceful hibernations. Sitting in this dilapidated house of winter, my thoughts get into that fifty year old vintage bus. Caught in the web of wedding pain, I traveled to this unknown land. But I was still dreaming in that house of spring, unable to wake up. Fifty years ago,the fallen gulmohars whispered while I swung. The walls of the house treasured my unheard stories. Every time I entered it, I used to smell happiness and peace. And then,time flew away to nowhere. Fifty years later,my septuagenarian eyes visualise it. I see the web of spiders hanging in silence, the aged ghosts wandering and whizzing,unable to catch hold of a pillar. It's threshold still seems to beckon me longing for a home. Children of mine loved and looked after then, live in their happiness and business now. Why at this a