ఎన్నో....
సూర్యోదయాలు...
ఎన్నో....
సూర్యాస్తమయాలు....
జరిగిపోతున్నాయి...!
కానీ...,
నీడలు మాత్రం అలాగే....,
మిగిలే ఉన్నాయి.....!
శ్రీను.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Monday, May 19, 2008
Sunday, May 18, 2008
parvati
The Cabuliwallah
Say this, he put his hand inside his big loose robe, and brought out a small and dirty piece of paper.Unfolding it with great care, he smoothed it out with both hands on my table. It bore the impression of little hand. Not a photograph. Not a drawing. Merely the impression of an ink_smeared hand laid flat on the paper. This touch of the hand of his own little daugter he had carried always next to his heart, as he had come year after year to Calcutta to sell his wares in the streets.
Tears came to my eyes. I forgot that he was a poor Cabuliwallah fruit
-seller, while I was_but no, what was I more than he? He also was a father.
That impression of the hand of his little Parvati in her distant mountain home reminded me of my own little Mini.
Viswa kavi...Sri Rabindranath Tagore.
Say this, he put his hand inside his big loose robe, and brought out a small and dirty piece of paper.Unfolding it with great care, he smoothed it out with both hands on my table. It bore the impression of little hand. Not a photograph. Not a drawing. Merely the impression of an ink_smeared hand laid flat on the paper. This touch of the hand of his own little daugter he had carried always next to his heart, as he had come year after year to Calcutta to sell his wares in the streets.
Tears came to my eyes. I forgot that he was a poor Cabuliwallah fruit
-seller, while I was_but no, what was I more than he? He also was a father.
That impression of the hand of his little Parvati in her distant mountain home reminded me of my own little Mini.
Viswa kavi...Sri Rabindranath Tagore.
ratan
The post master
When he got in and the boat was under way, and the rain_swollen river, like a stream of tears welling up from the earth, swirled and sobbed at her bows, then he felt a sort of pain at heart; the grief_stricken face of a village girl seemed to represent for him the great unspoken pervading grief of Mother Earth herself. At one time he had an impulse to go back and bring away along with him that lonesome waif, forsaken of the world. But the wind had just filled the sails, the boat had got well into the middle of the wind of the turbulent current, and already the village was left behind, and its outlying burning ground came in sight.
So the traveller, borne on the breast of the swift flowing river, consoled himself with philosophical reflections on the numberless meetings and partings going on in the world_on death, the great parting, from which none returns.
But Ratan had no philosophy. She was wandering about the post office in a flood of tears. It may be that she had still a lurking hope in some corner of heart that her Dada would return, and that is why she could not tear herself away. Alas for the foolish human heart.
Viswa kavi...Sri Rabindranath Tagore.
When he got in and the boat was under way, and the rain_swollen river, like a stream of tears welling up from the earth, swirled and sobbed at her bows, then he felt a sort of pain at heart; the grief_stricken face of a village girl seemed to represent for him the great unspoken pervading grief of Mother Earth herself. At one time he had an impulse to go back and bring away along with him that lonesome waif, forsaken of the world. But the wind had just filled the sails, the boat had got well into the middle of the wind of the turbulent current, and already the village was left behind, and its outlying burning ground came in sight.
So the traveller, borne on the breast of the swift flowing river, consoled himself with philosophical reflections on the numberless meetings and partings going on in the world_on death, the great parting, from which none returns.
But Ratan had no philosophy. She was wandering about the post office in a flood of tears. It may be that she had still a lurking hope in some corner of heart that her Dada would return, and that is why she could not tear herself away. Alas for the foolish human heart.
Viswa kavi...Sri Rabindranath Tagore.
గులేరి_manek
Guleri and Manek
" I will come with you a part of the way," said Manek.
Guleri was happy as they set out. Under her dupatta she hid Manek's flute.
After the village of Khajapur, the road descended steeply to Chamba. There Guleri took out the flute from beneath the dupatta and gave it to Manek. She took Manek's hand in hers and said "Come now, play your flute." But Manek, lost in thought, paid no heed. "Why don't you play your flute?" asked Guleri, coaxingly. Manek looked at her sadly. Then, putting the flute to his lips, he blew a strange anguished wail of sound.
"Guleri, do not go away," he begged her. "I asked you again, do not go this time." he handed her back the flute, unable to continue.
"But why?" she asked. "You come over on the day of the fair and we will return together. I promise you, I will not stay behind."
Manek didnot ask her again.
"It seems to me as if you had passed the blue bell wood. You do not hear anything that I say."
"You are right, Guleri. I cannot hear any thing that you are saying to me," replied Manek with a deep sigh.
Both of them looked at each other. Neither understood the other's thoughts.
"I will go now. you had better return home. You have come a long way," said Guleri gently.
"You have walked all this distance. Better get on the mare," replied Manek.
"Here take your flute."
"You take it with you."
"Will you come and play it on the day of the fair?"asked Guleri with a smile. The Sun shone in her eyes. Manek turned his face away. Guleri perplexed, shrugged her shoulders and took the road to Chamba. Manek returned to his home.
Amrita Pritam.
" I will come with you a part of the way," said Manek.
Guleri was happy as they set out. Under her dupatta she hid Manek's flute.
After the village of Khajapur, the road descended steeply to Chamba. There Guleri took out the flute from beneath the dupatta and gave it to Manek. She took Manek's hand in hers and said "Come now, play your flute." But Manek, lost in thought, paid no heed. "Why don't you play your flute?" asked Guleri, coaxingly. Manek looked at her sadly. Then, putting the flute to his lips, he blew a strange anguished wail of sound.
"Guleri, do not go away," he begged her. "I asked you again, do not go this time." he handed her back the flute, unable to continue.
"But why?" she asked. "You come over on the day of the fair and we will return together. I promise you, I will not stay behind."
Manek didnot ask her again.
"It seems to me as if you had passed the blue bell wood. You do not hear anything that I say."
"You are right, Guleri. I cannot hear any thing that you are saying to me," replied Manek with a deep sigh.
Both of them looked at each other. Neither understood the other's thoughts.
"I will go now. you had better return home. You have come a long way," said Guleri gently.
"You have walked all this distance. Better get on the mare," replied Manek.
"Here take your flute."
"You take it with you."
"Will you come and play it on the day of the fair?"asked Guleri with a smile. The Sun shone in her eyes. Manek turned his face away. Guleri perplexed, shrugged her shoulders and took the road to Chamba. Manek returned to his home.
Amrita Pritam.
subhashini
Subha
When the girl was give the name of Subhashini, who could have guessed that she would prove dumb?
If Subha lacked speech, she didnot lack a pair of large dark eyes, shaded with long lashes; and her lips trembled like a leaf in response to any thought that rose in her mind.
When we express our thought in words, the medium is not found easily. There must be a process of traslation, which is often inexact, and then we fail into error. But black eyes need no translating; the mind itself throws a shadow upon them. In them thought opens or shuts, shines forth; or goes out in darkness, hangs steadfast like the setting moon, or like swift and restless lighting, illumines all quarters of the sky. They who from birth have had no other speech than the trembling of their lips learn a language of the eyes, endless in expression, deep as the sea, clear as the heavens , where in play dawn and sunset, light and shadow. The dumb have a lonley grandeur like Nature's own. Therefore the other children almost dreaded Subha and never played with her. She was silent and companionless as noontide.
In less than ten days every one knew that the bride was dumb ! Atleast, if any one didnot, it was not her fault, for she deceived no one. Her eyes told them everything, though no one understood her. She looked on every hand; she found no speech; she missed the faces, familiar from birth, of those who had understood a dumb girl's language. In her silent heart there sounded an endless, vioceless weeping, which only the Searcher of Hearts could hear.
Viswa kavi...Sri Rabindranath Tagore.
When the girl was give the name of Subhashini, who could have guessed that she would prove dumb?
If Subha lacked speech, she didnot lack a pair of large dark eyes, shaded with long lashes; and her lips trembled like a leaf in response to any thought that rose in her mind.
When we express our thought in words, the medium is not found easily. There must be a process of traslation, which is often inexact, and then we fail into error. But black eyes need no translating; the mind itself throws a shadow upon them. In them thought opens or shuts, shines forth; or goes out in darkness, hangs steadfast like the setting moon, or like swift and restless lighting, illumines all quarters of the sky. They who from birth have had no other speech than the trembling of their lips learn a language of the eyes, endless in expression, deep as the sea, clear as the heavens , where in play dawn and sunset, light and shadow. The dumb have a lonley grandeur like Nature's own. Therefore the other children almost dreaded Subha and never played with her. She was silent and companionless as noontide.
In less than ten days every one knew that the bride was dumb ! Atleast, if any one didnot, it was not her fault, for she deceived no one. Her eyes told them everything, though no one understood her. She looked on every hand; she found no speech; she missed the faces, familiar from birth, of those who had understood a dumb girl's language. In her silent heart there sounded an endless, vioceless weeping, which only the Searcher of Hearts could hear.
Viswa kavi...Sri Rabindranath Tagore.
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