Life and Lies of M R Maiti

Gaumukh Tapovan Trek -  Part 1 of 3 I was crossing the bridge when Alok asked me, pointing to the river flowing below, "Do you know which river it is?" Very sure of myself, I replied, "Of course, Bhagirathi." My pride was hurt when he smiled and said, "No this is Kedar Ganga, a tributary of Bhagirathi. It originates from Kedartal and joins the Bhagirathi River here, in Gangotri." I had heard about Kedartal. It was a difficult trek. But right now I was undertaking a different one: Gaumukh Tapovan. I was part of a group of 22 people, led by the Trek Leader, Hemant Bisht and Trek Guides, KP Da and Alok. Starting from Gangotri (10,050 feet), we were supposed to reach Chirbasa (11,630 feet) today after covering 10 kilometres. Soon, we came across another bridge and I heard Alok say, "This one is Bhagirathi." From there, it didn't take us long to reach Gangotri temple. We didn’t go inside, but I sought blessings for the journey upward while making

Impervious to words of encouragement I shouted from the opposite side, Fearful and indecisive, To and fro she went, Looking for a point where the stream Was narrow enough to jump across; But there wasn't one. To get to the other side, Just like me and everyone else, She had to walk barefoot Through the shallow muddy water, Icy cold and riddled with boulders. The summit fever Or some moral conscience, I don't know what triggered me, But I got back on my feet That was still numb from before, And went back the way I came. The water didn't affect me this time. Retracing my footsteps And words of a poem I had written long back, I reached her to find her eyes Wide open with surprise. One after another, I sent her shoes flying across, Which probably hit someone. Then without losing a moment, I took her hand and asked her To count with me... 1, 2, 3 and go! The water welcomed me this time, Sending a flash of inspiration. And when we reached the other side, We were welcomed with che

 A long time ago, In the flickering light of the lantern, Sat the weaver’s boy. While his father spun the strands, He heard him say, "Son, keep studying, And life will be plain sailing." Young, naive and eager to please, He set on a pursuit to prove his worth By devouring every book he could find. And with every page he consumed, The light inside him Burned brighter and brighter. Ages and ages hence, In the piercing light of the laptop, Sat the weaver's boy, Almost as old as his father was back then. While his ancestors kept a vigil to honour him For discontinuing their family occupation, He struggled with the words In order to weave them together. Not everything seemed to be smooth sailing. His father had become old and frail. The light inside him Burned dimmer every day. *** Liked what you read? Leave a comment! Painting - "Weaver at the Loom" by Vincent van Gogh.

Every saint has a past, And every sinner, a future. But neither we live in the past, Nor the future. Therefore, for the greater good, The saint and the sinner Reside inside all of us In the actual present, Playing a game of Quidditch To pass the time. The saint sweeps across the field, Escaping bludgers aimed at him, And shoots the Quaffle Into the hoops, Earning ten points At each successful attempt. But then the sinner emerges Out of nowhere, Chasing a tiny blur At a tremendous speed, And captures the Snitch, Overshadowing the hard labour  Of the saint in a single go. *** Liked what you read? Leave a comment!

No matter the intervening gap, The urge always finds you  And tempted by it, You rekindle the fire, But the lips trigger The countdown of regret, Developing a bad taste Halfway through. Take a call, Quit then, Clench your teeth And abide by it. Fight against the entropy, Keep the chaos at bay, Don't let it burn you  All the way through. *** Liked what you read? Leave a comment.

Though we went different ways And fought different wars, My friend and I were plagued  By two facets of the same coin. The Inner turmoil That I had in abundance, He suffered from a lack thereof. Still, once in a while, We returned to the same bar To compare our scars. All poets drink, He said, offering me a glass. A little amused by the remark, Just to humour him, I gulped it down, Then took a long hard look at him  and replied, Oh what a waste, The Converse is not true, Not all drunks are poets. We are one and the same, He said, offering me a cigarette. I took a drag and replied, No, we are not, Your addictions are Cigarettes and alcohol. Mine is a person. We are not the same. You are a human roadkill On the way to the hospital And I'm the EMT Keeping you alive. We are not the same. *** Liked what you read? Leave a comment!

When we are young, the world is full of possibilities. We can do anything, and become anything. We antagonise anyone who even hints at thinking otherwise about us. It's probably why most of us have a story to tell where the villain was a school teacher. Even I do. I don’t remember exactly how I ended up in the Headmaster’s cabin that day. All I remember is that back then I blamed my House Master for it. It wasn’t just me who had bunked the STD XII Pre-Board exams. There were many. But he made a scapegoat out of me. And the moment, I set foot inside the cabin, I received a big slap from the Headmaster. My ears rang. But that wasn’t the worst thing that happened that day. The Headmaster instructed him to call my father. Tell him to come or his son would be rusticated. I wasn’t a notorious student. I was good in my studies and had no disciplinary complaints against me. Had this incident not occurred, I would have completed my schooling in a few months with a clean record. My fat