Distinctiveness - Travel and Lifestyle Blog

  We were a gang, a tribe before this day arrived 24 years ago Few dates have a sense of grief attached to them. They arrive every year, a new day, a new morning, yet the old sadness that lingers in their window curtains never ceases to exist. Time is but a spectator at their doorstep, incapable of exercising her power of regeneration. Unable to heal. Unable to cure. Unable to dismiss tragedies in her waves. I often think about how all of us know of such dates in our lives. Some old, some raw. Days when the lights went out, darkness prevailed and hope seemed like a distant dream. Days when life came to a stuttering stop, time slowed down and the rain refused to end. All that remained was grief. This 10th day of January is one such date. A day from a distant past, yet one which reminds me of an ageless pain. This day whispers to me in a slow sad tone now, speaking of the one who left us more than two decades ago. Reminding me of all the conversations we never had, the movies a...

  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 iden...