We strive for happiness in every possible way except one. We miss the morning dew. Yes, the tiniest droplet of a compound of two parts of hydrogen and one part of oxygen ushers in a new beginning, a new world. It says that the world has gone round 360 degrees. All the happiness are bestowed at our feet every morning. But alas! we dump them every time. Happiness, indeed, comes in tiny particles rather than in one bucket.

The blog...

...strives to express the basic feelings of life, in a humble way; with certain diversion, of course.. [:D]

Yes, we can.. If we want 2

>> Thursday, April 30, 2009

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The value of Rs. 500



Worth giving a thought, isnt it?

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Elegy Written In A Country Churchyard

>> Tuesday, April 28, 2009

A masterpiece by Thomas Grey

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinkling lull the distant folds:

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a moldering heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share,

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the Poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike th' inevitable hour:-
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre:

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast
The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.

Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their history in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbad: nor circumscribed alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;
Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.

Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply:
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing lingering look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, --

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn;

"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high.
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove;
Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

"One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,
Along the heath, and near his favourite tree;
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

"The next with dirges due in sad array
Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne,-
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."

The Epitaph

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth
A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown.
Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth,
And Melacholy marked him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heaven did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to Misery all he had, a tear,
He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode
(There they alike in trembling hope repose),
The bosom of his Father and his God.

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We, the people... have forgot to love our nation!!!

>> Sunday, April 26, 2009

Selfishness, delusion, hallucination, reverie and hatred has become the spinal cord of our lovely nation.. Where ever u we want to see happiness, we find grief.. We search for success, we find failures.. We search for solace, we find hatred.. Oh my lord!! Save thy people.. We have forgot to love, to share, to care.. We have been engulfed by some unknown giant, who seeks to meet their selfish needs.. I wish to jot down a poem which i had read in my skul days.. Maybe that will help to make some room for reconciliation..

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high..
Where knowledge is free...
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls...
Where words come out from the depth of truth..
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection...
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit..
Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action--
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake..

Bless us, my LORD !!!

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Of times; then and now...

>> Friday, April 10, 2009

COLLEGE

Life dat was.... College life is one of those periods where we either make or break.. Whatever we may become, it is surely a golden period..



DAT SMALL LITTLE GROUP

Then i found that small little group.. We shared and cared, laughed and cried, ran and walked.. We found solace among ourselves..



MOMENTS OF MIRTHFULNESS

Few moments leave ever lasting impressions.. I just pray to return at dose times, only to be denied by shrewd and harsh reality..



THEN THAT MEMORABLE EXCURSION

Call it an excursion or an "arranged by the students" college trip, i take it as u say.. Coz no other memory in the world makes me more nostalgic than this one.. I miss the trip a hell lot..



PLACES I LIKE TO GO, AGAIN AND AGAIN

Digha is the place i love to go again and again.. For those who dont know, this place is a sea side town, on the coast of Bay of Bengal, in West Bengal.. Its feels great to spend a weekend over here, and let the breeze run through your hair.. Amen..








































WITH FRIENDS OF TIME UNKNOWN

Very few people have their childhood friends, still with them.. I am a damn lucky one..



WHEN NATURE SPEAKS

Just shut up and listen !!!!!

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OnePlusYou Quizzes and Widgets


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