Distinctiveness - Travel and Lifestyle Blog

  I recently completed 15 years on Blogger. 15 years ago, one fine morning, I suddenly had a brainwave. I wanted to have a blog of my own. I have no idea how such a thought corrupted my mind, or maybe, I do. The world was a different place then. We were young, still coming to terms with the immense potential of the World Wide Web. I had been stringing together words to form sentences of value for a while, but the audience was a limited few. When you create something, no matter how miniscule, no matter how insignificant it might be to the cause of the society, you often tend to be overprotective of it. So was I, writing in last pages of notebooks or on small diaries with black covers that were shielded from prying eyes. Verses, mostly, and occasional stories that usually ended up in crumpled papers in the dustbin at the corner of the room. 15 years ago, I shed my inhibitions and decided to open up to a wider audience. I forayed into blogging on a whim, simply to unleash my voice...

  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...

  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 oc...

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...

Laxmi Puja Prasad You might be tempted to question the source of motivation in a post about Festivals and Gorging, but in my opinion, there is no motivation greater than good food in this world. At least for me there isn't. I have gone to great lengths for good food in my life, but I shall not delve into that now. Let me start with a disclaimer: the rites and rituals of a traditional Puja has never interested me. But that doesn't mean I have never prayed in my life. Even though I embraced the ideologies of my strictly atheist Father at a very young age, I was taught the value of respecting others' views and opinions. And so, I remember praying when my first dog fell ill. Unfortunately, no one listened to a little boy crouching at a corner of his room, with tears in his eyes. From then on, the only times I prayed was to ask the Almighty not to take away a loved one, however, it seldom worked. Bitter and dejected, in my later years, I started praying to my own God...