Distinctiveness - Travel and Lifestyle Blog

  It's not always that you find a book that mixes sadness and humor to good effect. However, Gail Honeyman's work - 'Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine' is that rare exception that fits the mold. It's has a very unglamorous take on depression, but that is what makes it so real. Sadness isn't fashionable, despite what the movies might suggest. It's not beautiful, it's not charming. Its bittersweet image is a fraud; sadness is entirely bitter and not even remotely sweet. Eleanor Oliphant, as you might have guessed, is not at all fine, even though that is what she claims to be. Isn't that how we all face sadness? We completely deny its existence, we fight the tears when they need to be shed. We often refuse to deal with the darkness, seeking momentary distraction instead. We often fight a lonely battle in the confines of our hearts, gasping for air even as we sink deeper and deeper. Sadly, the journey from sadness to normal isn't a simple a...

  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...

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 meal...

  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...

  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 dre...