Distinctiveness - Travel and Lifestyle Blog

This picture tells me impossible is nothing   Ah, December. Glorious December. What a beautiful month, right? There’s a chill in the air. The sun’s in a jovial mood, warm and cozy. After an excruciating year, everyone’s slowing down, taking a breather, reflecting on the past 11 months. What’s not to like about December? Yet, Lionel Messi just had to go and make it better. “Trust this team,” he promised, “we will not let you down.” And he embarked on a life-altering journey, immortalizing this last month of the year for millions of us across the globe. A year ago, today, Lionel Messi conquered the world and sparked off days of frenzied celebrations, from Buenos Aries to Mangaldoi. Tears. Cheers. Joy. We painted the world Albiceleste blue. And Peter Drury immortalized the moment with his iconic words: “But as he falls in love with the object in the world  that his heart most desired,  it is hard to escape the supposition  that he has rendered himself today the greatest of a

They are never gone as long as you never stop remembering. Is death really the end? The place of no return? Perhaps. Or maybe, there’s something worse than death. For instance, the end of remembrance. Perhaps forgetting someone is more painful than death.   I have often wondered how different people are afforded contrasting times in this world. We grow up immune to the notion of death until she hits us right where it hurts the most. We expect some special people in our lives to hold our hands forever, through the darkness and the light. But isn’t forever an illusion, a vague, misleading concept created by man? Because sometimes people are forced to abandon you in the middle of the road when you expect them to stay. Sometimes their journey ends abruptly when you were hoping to cross the bridge together. And you are left behind, at the edge of the river, all on your own. On this day, decades ago, my cousin sister was born. I remember her kindness and warmth. I remember meals sh

  Durga Ma is on her way, and Messi cannot contain his excitement. Sometimes, the wait for an event is almost as enticing as the actual occasion. The hours before a crucial football match. The final days ahead of a long-pending vacation. The morning of an eagerly awaited arrival. Quite similar to the drumroll - rapid beats on a drum, increasing in intensity by the second - before the extravagant ending. This drumroll is supposed to build up to the main event and often gets sidelined in the dazzling lights of the main event. However, I often find this anticipation, this wait, to be an endearing adventure as well.  I have been indulging in such thoughts of late. Perhaps there’s something in the air, or maybe it’s the season itself. Because, folks, it’s that time of the year again. The buildup to the grand occasion that gets Bengalis world over supercharged.  Durga Puja is less than a month away.  While others may indulge in the religious intricacies of the occasion, for me, and

  What's life without fun and games? “Are you joking?” Messi froze in his tracks and narrowed his eyes. Minute creases of worry formed on his little forehead. I had just told him that I was contemplating making an omelette on his head. It was a warm, humid noon; the sun was glaring down on us with vengeance. I was picking up my six-year-old son from school. As usual, Messi rushed out of the gate, handed me his bag and water bottle, and proceeded to play with his friends.  When the fun time finally ended, I got hold of my exhausted son, who was now sweating from head to toe.  “It’s so hot,” he declared.  “Shouldn’t have run so much,” I pointed out. He simply shrugged. On the way home, I suggested that since his head was so hot, I could crack an egg to get my protein intake for the day. “Are you joking?” My son has a very clear understanding of a proper joke, and the intricate details associated with it, and for that, perhaps, I should take full responsibility. Wh

Growing Old isn't bad when you have the right people for company Does anyone know of a man who forgot his wife’s birthday? No, because he didn’t survive to tell the tale. Birthdays are special, apart from the fact that they arrive every year to remind you that you are growing old. I don’t usually wait a year to enlighten Sumita, my wife, with this sombre news; I point it out to her every day! Especially on her birthday, which falls on the 12 th day of September. But then, there’s a charm in growing old together. There’s a wealth of experience to look back upon. Stories to retell over the dinner table. Subtle moments of déjà vu. Been there. Done that. Among all the things I recall and relive is a memory from exactly a decade ago. The first time Sumita and I celebrated this special day together. We were young, freshly in love, seeing the world in each other’s eyes. Girlfriend and boyfriend, yet to be knit together in social binding. I recall riding with my trusted Intrepid

  My father gave me a very special gift, a present handed down through the generations, and it took me years to realize it. My father had an enormous passion for writing. His works now lie scattered across Dooars, the place he loved with all his heart. He wrote of the blues hills and the pristine rivers. The carpet of tea plantations covering the land and the joys and sorrows of its people. He spoke of life, love, pains, and celebrations. I looked up to him when I wrote my first verse decades ago. My father’s words shaped lives yet managed to outlive the man himself. On this day, eleven years ago, he quietly slipped away, the notebook open and the pen sitting idly on his study desk. My father left behind a room full of books and unfinished works and a massive hole in our lives. I have long believed that everything I have written since has been meaningless. All my efforts, wasted, because he would never read them. My father would never let out a disappointed sigh upon identify

Messi listens to music while working on his next sketch. I have prepared a playlist for my five-year-old son. Whenever he falls in love with a song and declares it his favorite, I add it to ‘ Messi’s Favs ’. I have been on it for ages and it’s turning out to be quite the ensemble. He constantly discovers new songs that tug at his heart. And I silently add them to the playlist. Then, in the middle of the evening, when he comes to my desk to play, I subtly switch from my playlist to his, and watch his face glow. “This is not a good song,” I say, just to tease him. “No,” He screams. “It’s my favorite!” He proceeds to hum the tune and runs his toy cars on imaginary roads across my table. Over my half-read book. Through my open notebook. Some days, when he’s in a good mood, he also sings along, quite often improvising the lyrics. I often join him in a duet, because a few of his favorite songs are also close to my heart. We sway together to the tune, father and son, united by music.

  Lionel Messi created history three months ago on this day Is it three months already, Lionel? Seems just like yesterday, that my heart felt full And my life, complete. When we shed happy tears You and Me and millions of us And the night had no end.   I have lived that day over and over and over again. I am sure you have too The excitement, the tension stifling the air Agonies and ecstasies intertwined The elation of that final kick The realization of a lifelong dream.   I have lived that day from three months ago over and over again Well aware of the glorious end. And I have revelled in that excitement, that watershed moment. When the world bowed to your genius. I have bathed in that pure joy just like it was yesterday.   Is it three months already, Lionel? Perhaps Or perhaps I haven't aged a day, still living each moment, in fond remembrance, Of the greatest night of my life. Our lives.

Two Friends united by their love for Argentina, Manchester United and East Bengal This is a story of friendship and football. Or football and friendship. Or perhaps it's not a story at all. On the occasion of two months of Argentina's historic triumph at the 2022 FIFA World Cup, I ask you to accompany me for a trip down the memory lane, to an entirely different era.  The year is 1998. Argentina are preparing to run riot at the World Cup in France. We have Roberto 'El Raton' Ayala in defense. Ariel Ortega is the new Diego Maradona. Juan Sebastian Veron is pulling the strings in midfield. What could go wrong? Well, everything, it turns out.  The dream crashes against the Dutch in the quarterfinals. Ortega receives his marching order after head butting Edwin van der Saar. Dennis Bergkamp toys with Ayala and scores a typical worldie in the 90th minute.  Following the defeat, thousands of miles away, two Ninth Standard boys sit dejected at the Caesar School Assembly Hall. Tw

  Mesut Hancer clings on to Irmak I don’t know you, Mesut Hancer Sir, but my heart goes out to you. How painful it must have been to hold Irmak’s cold, lifeless hand through the wreckage. How heavy her little fingers must have felt. How you must have yearned for one little sign of hope. To hear her voice again. To feel her palm wrap around your index finger one last time. 15 years of her life you held her close, protecting her, guiding her, ushering her through the crazy, cruel world. And yet on this day, this dreaded sense of helplessness creeping in through the corner of the door…. This is a moment every parent dreads, and it is a nightmare you are having to live. There are no words to console, nothing can be said to make things right. To make the day a tad brighter. To numb the pain. To stop that hollow feeling in your chest. Time? Time’s healing power is overrated. We look through the window and find our eyes moist. But you, my poor Sir, you are living that terrible dream t

My Five-Year-Old Proudly flaunts our jersey collection on the eve of the 2022 FIFA World Cup Have you ever been so happy that you began crying? So content that you sensed a hollow deep inside your chest? That you couldn't differentiate between sadness and joy? A month ago, I experienced such bliss, sitting in front of the TV. It was the final of the 2022 FIFA World Cup. Argentina were battling France for the Holy Grail of Football at the Lusail Stadium. Millions of miles away, I was living every second as if my last All of a sudden there was a big void inside my chest. I could no longer feel the ground beneath me. Gonzalo Montiel had just converted his penalty kick. Argentina had won the game. Lionel Messi. World Cup. My head was spinning. I was struggling to breathe. It was as if I was dropping down an exceptionally deep gorge. Clad in the sky-blue and white stripes, I couldn't hold back my emotions. It had been a draining game, with Messi and Kylian Mbappe taking us all for a