Rashika- Part 5 (The end)

The careful words woven in simplest of Bengali syllables by the doctor had cut through Rashika. She walked slowly up the stairs staring at the hallways, whose occupants ran in pandemonium. Patients were being brought in and taken out accompanied by anxious or hopeful relatives and escorted by expressionless wardens. The corners were filled with cobwebs and detached patches of white paint.  Once in a while the heavy sound of the lift would either seem to approach or fade away.

Death had come to him slow, just as it did to baba, until there was a moment when the earthly fastened soul tore apart itself for abode.  It wasn’t kind. It was just the end. Bashudha held the handles of her purse tightly as she moved forward. There was grief all over. Her swollen eyes were the reminiscent of the love she had for Ashok. The tiny kid held the end of her draped sari still unaware of the reaction he was supposed to render. He cried because his mother did so. Rashika went closer to the infant and fixed her gaze on his face. It was at this age when she had lost baba. The young infant freshly introduced in the world, would soon become foreign with the idea of his lost father. The certificates and books will be a reminder of his legacy in his small world. Perhaps someday someone would utter her name or her moments with the family.

(Image Source- https://www.gospelherald.com/articles/71188/20170731/billy-graham-reveals-one-thing-keeps-out-heaven.htm)

The muscle relaxation kept Ashok’s eyes half opened, it soon caught the attention of one of the nurses and she rushed to close it. It is painful to see the eyes of the departed. She stood beside the lifeless corpse when she heard someone utter in a feeble voice.

“It is good for him that it ended, it had been a painful battle for since long. Hope he finds peace.”

Rashika had seen him grow with the agonizing pain each day. At one point the painkillers were helpless to the inner afflictions. With each passing day the previous suffering went away and the new one took over. Ashok never seemed to sleep, not even after long hours of tirelessly reading the books at the hospital. He simply used to read his books or gaze at the visitors. At a point when their number increased, he hardly paid any attention to them and simply looked fixedly at the ceiling. Rashika knew that this was one thing Ashok avoided. He never loved too many people around him at celebrations and grief. He took fewer notes of sorrows and rejoices. He had seen the world through the pages of history and had traversed it all alone. He had been to the medieval ages, the dark ages, seen the empires built their foundations and the national movements.

(Image Source- https://www.jejamo.com/hanya-dua-menit-masyarakat-lampung-bisa-punya-kartu-member-perpusda-gratis.html)

However, it was never good. Death has nothing good in it. There was no hope, no tomorrow. It was a puzzle that missed its last piece just to remain incomplete forever.

As her numb hands touched his face, it felt as if spikes of a venomous plant had penetrated her heart. Ashok’s chapped lips were cold and broken. Unaware of the people present around, she took out the small tube of petroleum jelly and carefully applied on his lips rubbing them softly. His face was sunken deep with no signs of peace on it. The cancer cells had divided themselves continuously competing with the other ones leading to a gruesome fight that was destined to be lost. The half opened mouth might have been the desperation of body reflex to gasp the last breath until it could get no more. Mist descended over her eyes and cast a veil making her view translucent.

When still a child, her mother said that death had taken baba to an eternal paradise of clouds, feathers and of sweet caramel toffees which never ran out of supplies. The following year, she had seen one of the puja pandal resembling a crude replica of the paradise that maa had described. She asked her mother if baba was inside or not and hoped he would turn up from the crowd towards her. He never did. Rashika came home to change her dazzling new frock into an old one in case baba had failed to recognize her in the new dress. Baba did not come and maa never answered. That was the day when pujas ended forever for Rashika.

The continuous noise of people present did little to hinder her deep desire to gaze at Ashok. She recalled the day Ashok had called her at the ghat and said that he was fading away. He feared to discuss his pain with Basudha for she was too feeble and thus had chosen her to let his thoughts out. All the while he verbalized; Rashika simply looked at the turbulent river rebellious of its course throw its fury on the muddy banks. Ashok described dreaming of falling into an eternal abyss of darkness and clouded palaces with skeletal guards. She knew his imagination always found ways to express itself even in times of distress. He used to do the same in class. Rashika never thought death would be inevitable although at one point she considered that his demise was close.

She was thankful that for once Ashok had chosen her. May be it was never to share joy or peace. It was only agony and pain that connected him to her.

Basudha came closer and hugged her. It was like those numerous other times when Rashika had been a refuge for her. Tears rolled down Basudha’s cheeks and made way through Rashika’s neck eventually merging through the narrow gorge of her spine to be soaked by her clothes later.

“Take good care of your child. See that he carries the legacy of professor. You have been more than a sister to me.” Rashika uttered in a feeble voice and detached herself from Basudha.

“The exhausted stale light and air,

As souls rose to heaven, in despair.

A veil over the cosmos guard the view,

I have loved, but a few.

On the exposed walls of ruthless nights,

A flint of light, a desire to fight.

Butchered and mutilated hopes,

An illusion would call, we would elope.

On the swinging branches of life,

You would come to end this strife.

And I will wait for times to come,

Until end is cheated and we are done.

For once I need you on the hillside top,

Watching meadows and time would stop.

On this floor there will be a ground,

No fences or walls to keep us bound.”

Rashika. (Part 4)

The inner lanes of Garia were silent that afternoon. It was relatively quite in this elite colony during afternoons and late hours. His newly bought brogues had a coat of fine dust rendering a rusty texture to it. She walked alongside him. Her sling bag waved towards the sides in an orderly manner every time her feet touched the ground. He carried a toddler in his arms who was half asleep. The tiny hands had clenched his shoulders firmly. She watched him occasionally as he avoided pools of water on the road, cursing the municipality for the condition each time. 

The newly painted apartment with protruding balconies from which all sorts of clothes lay hung tied to a fastening pin stood in front of them. The vibrant colors were not always its identity. The old apartment had to be renovated after the inhabitants complained to the promoter. It had become a common affair of buildings collapsing due to old age. The apartment had fine marble furnishing on the inner side with smell of the newly applied plaster of Paris. He raced upstairs while she was too languid to keep up with him. A bundle of newspapers lay untouched on the front door. He bowed down releasing the toddler from his grip and collected the sheets in one hand. The interlocked hinges on the door made a squeaking noise when unlocked.

As the sunlight made its way inside the room, it illuminated the glass cabinet which housed pictures of their marriage and of their first child. The toddler rushed inside shouting with joy. His high spirits unfurled as he ran towards his wall canvas. Picking up the remnants of the fallen crayons, he was back to business.

She made her way inside happier than ever before. First thing she did was to unfurl the quilt and dust the bedsheets to make room for a much desired rest.

“Can you fetch some milk?” She said in a soft tone. Her pitch was lost from the screams and hoots made over the week.

He silently took to her command and made his way to the shop. The toddler had to be fed.

Night had fallen and Ashok was over checking the university answer sheets kept on the table. He put them aside and looked at his son who appeared to be in deep slumber. Rashika entered the room retiring from her daily business early. Soaked in the smoke of the cooking gas, she threw herself on the sofa.

She leaned towards Ashok. The air conditioner evaporated her fresh sweat. Rashika had always been alone after baba’s demise and Ashok was the only one who was near her since their marriage. It couldn’t have been closer. She recalled the complex labyrinth of the muddy creeks, rapids and Khadar soil atop the hills where she had conceived her son. They had been so high that the winters were freezing her soles and the glacial winds constricted her lungs. The permafrost had covered all vegetation and naked oak and figs were all that was in view. Ashok had never been so caring. He rubbed her hands every few minutes, drew his furry collared coat and covered her face to the extent where only her eyes were visible. As he applied lotion on his cracked skin, he drew Rashika closer to the window form where the village was visible. The rural folk were felling a large dying oak tearing the branches from the end of an axe. Some women collected the smaller chunks for firewood while the larger branches were to be used as hedges to constrict the movement of the mountain goats. It was then when Rashika became aware of necessity of preparedness from the adversities to come. She wanted to tell Ashok to never leave the place.

(Image source- https://pixabay.com/en/winter-snow-landscape-hut-shed-2080071/)

She snuggled up into his arms and attempted to spread her legs between the interstices of the wooden enclosure surrounding the sofa. Ashok obliged to everything she did. It was all she had wanted. The yellow neon street light made its way into the dark room casting an enormous hue on the wall enclosing their shadows. She felt no hesitation or rigidity in Ashok’s arms and he cuddled her in the same way Rashika always did. It was all accompanied by a smile, endless love in their eyes and the slow whispering of their names. This was when Rashika experienced as to how necessary possession was to express the desired love. Even when Ashok was at the university at late hours, she knew he was to return to her.

The toddler slept between them and she stretched her hands to cover both of them. Caressing his hairs softly, she thought what life would have been if Ashok was never there for her.

The day dream of her association with Ashok increased once she found that everything was to end soon.

A loud thump on the back brought her back from the dream which always sent her in a different dimension of having everything she never actually did.

She knew everything was over. At a distance the glass door opened and the news was out. Ashok was no more. She did not move on hearing it. With a heavy weight on her heart, she let the emptiness sink engulfing her. She was prepared. She was best prepared, better than Basudha for she knew the storm was coming long back when Ashok sat on the ghat with her. That was when he was diagnosed with second stage of colon cancer. The heavy medical terms were all Hebrew to her. She only understood that he had a bad stomach ache frequently coupled with excessive weight loss and abdominal cramps. Every day she had seen him suffer and get worse to the stage when there was nothing left to actually do. Even when Basudha had said that the best way to end his suffering was death, she believed there was much to live and see. It wasn’t Basudha’s fault. She gave up early on many things. When her son once fell sick with fever; she collapsed on the floor. She was a fervent lady. Rashika had seen worse. While still young to differentiate between life and death, she had seen baba’s corpse travel the streets carried by able bodied men never to return again. 

(Image source- https://pixabay.com/en/candle-light-candlelight-flame-2038736/)

Her preparation came well all the way since the day when Ashok leaned on his arm chair few days back and tried to whisper something to her. She never knew what he had to say but all she knew was if there was even a tiny chance to catch his lost breathe from the thin air, she would have grabbed it to put him back to life and hear it.

Her dreams were more possession than that of actual unconditional love. But then possession was necessary to feel the value of owning someone, the feeling of having someone near, dependent and happy. She loved baba for he was there with her. Every time she had been afraid, baba’s hand was always there to hold. Every time she wanted something, her demands were satisfied by baba with his limited resources. Baba had loved her, baba was near her. But the same conflict was never tested with Ashok. Mere finding Ashok nearer to her gave her much of happiness even though he was married and committed to Basudha. Rashika was simply happy and fulfilled seeing the happiness that inhabited Ashok. All her closeness to Basudha was a way of thanking her for being the legally and ritually wed wife of Ashok. For the first time when the object of a permanent loss came to light, she began developing thoughts of possession. She began questioning herself that when everything was to end, it was possession that could have made the difference. Possession would even have yield the same results but that it would have made Ashok nearer to her when he was prepared to leave. They could have had a family, a legal status and a social engagement and most importantly, she would have had him.

Rashika. (Part 3)

Ashok sat there silently staring at the dark sky imprecise to the hue of the morning shade. The sun was hidden and the clouds raged in utter chaos crossing long distances in an ordained manner. The cemented seats now lay bare as all people fled under the big banyan tree nearby. They stayed. Ashok’s face had turned yellow. His little wrinkles had spread over the cheeks and his eyes had merged within the sockets. Rashika knew about the storm that lay within. She was conscious of the fact that this inner storm will soon consume him. All that had existed would soon be immersed in the placid waters that razed in turbulence today.

(Image source- wikipedia)

 Rashika had once completed her doctorate under Ashok’s guidance. In the course of her dissertation, an unspoken bond had developed. It slowly converted her visits, to him, into a daily routine. The times when there was no lecture, she silently walked through the corridors passing the janitor’s room, the music auditorium, the dilapidated classrooms and finally crossing the narrow hallway that led to the central library. Ashok was there, as always, preoccupied in books about World History. His neck drooped down staring at the lifeless pages that spoke of centuries and of civilizations. Every once in a while he lifted his face to wipe his eyes and polish the ends of his spectacles.

Her thesis had been on the Battle of Salamis. The only object common to the battle and her personal life was the fact that in both cases, the outnumbered ones quashed down heavy-handedly upon the ones in minority.

She slowly became a subject of ridicule when she began visiting Ashok’s home. Considering the fact that Ashok had been married for a decade, her visits were often a subject of suspicion except for Basudha, Ashok’s wife. Every other member of the family repeatedly warned her not to return back but all the more she did. She never replied anyone as to why she had come nor did she pay a heed to any of the allegations. The homecomings slowly grew. Every other evening Rashika arrived at Ashok’s home carrying some freshly picked green Jujube for Basudha.

“This is so good. Back at home we ate these with mustard paste and rock salt, while the one's that were ripe were left for pickles.” Basudha always told her this line as she bit one end of the Jujube and spat out the seed.  

She never brought anything for Ashok, for she was not aware of anything he liked. Neither Basudha was.

In the chilly month of November when Ashok developed pneumonia, Bashudha had been to her parent’s home. Rashika made every effort to bring him back to strength, for he lay fragile with the increasing infection. This was the only time when Rashika came in close proximity with Ashok. She changed the sheets, warmed the water and even wiped off the excessive sweat from his forehead. Everytime Ashoka developed breathing difficulty, Rashika grabbed the inhaler. The infection stayed for a week and made him weary and restless. A man who admired silence would get on his nerves on trivial issues. Once he shouted at Rashika for he felt the food was pale and unpalatable while some hours later she was again upbraided for misplacing the newspaper. All she did was to remain silent and nurture him. As Ashok recuperated, Basudha had returned. He never thanked Rashika for what she had done but Bashuda ensured she got due credit.

“Here…have this”. Basudha said as she handed over a bowl of vermicelli cooked in milk.

“Thank you didi”. She replied.

It was a mark of companionship that was to develop in due course. Bashuda was entirely the one who received intimacy, love, stability and fellowship from Ashok. That day, Rashika got her share too. She was welcome. That was all she needed.

(Image source- https://www.rvcj.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/03/sad-woman-silhouette.jpg)

Rashika stayed even when Ashok was at the university. She pointed towards the framed certificates, hung medals and other academic accolades well decorated inside a wooden shelf, and described each of them to Basudha, who on her part was ignorant of their existence. All Basudha could tell her was about her childhood back in Murshidabad and how her parents found the most educated person in Kolkata to marry her. She herself had never studied more than elementary. As time passed, the family became accommodative with her presence and she earned her own designation. She was now Rashika masi as the children called her.

Rashika was aware that nothing could ever happen between her and Ashok. She even never wanted to make any move on her part. Her association with Ashok was saintly. She simply felt alive when he was near. At an early stage she had been deprived of baba and Ashok was the one whose mere presence gave her sense of totality. This was the reason she never wanted to earn his affection, to tag herself with a social nickname, explore her lust or to exchange religious vows. Basudha was more than a sister for her. On weekends she roamed around the streets with Basudha. She told her the stories of the narrow lanes of the city. She described the petrichor after the rains, the maps of the world, the men at her university, and about the locker-room talks she had back as a teenager.

Six years later, Basudha conceived a baby girl. Rashika carried the news herself to Ashok at the university. While returning from the hospital Ashok fetched some orange toffees for Rashika. The ones which baba used to buy her.

Rashika. (Part 2)

The soft breeze carried an awful odor. It was sickening, damping and distressing for Rashika. She knew separation is essential. How funny it was! The very fact the separation tears apart the most fundamental essentiality of life, yet is becomes essential. Rashika never carried a watch. The time was however fleeing for Ashok. The repeated glances at his watch made the atmosphere tenser. Seeing him do this, she smiled for a second recalling how important it was for baba to carry the watch each day to his shop. She knew the golden dial HMT was the best thing to hide and bargain for a small prize. Rashika has always observed little things within Ashok. She never drew a parallel between him and baba, but his little habits always reminded her of him. The most fervent being her love for both of them. Unconditional it was.

The winds gained speed gradually; it shook the most profound roots from its very foundations. There was no one around. Shelter was the common search to shield against the flowing dust and upcoming storm. Here, the storm lied within and shelter too, lied within. There was no running from here. Neither of them wanted to confront the very nature of separation to each other. The existence of togetherness was the best thing to happen, and for now the only way out was to feel this warm fellowship as long as they could.

Baba too never wanted to confront detachment, for he silently left for heavenly abode quietly on his bed. That was years ago. Rashika had gown tough since then. She never turned a rebel or a nonconformist, but lived on her own terms. The very lane her mother avoided, she explored more and more of it. She explored Shyambazar though the streets and through the books from library at the university.

(pic- https://www.oldindianphotos.in/2011/04/netaji-subhas-chandra-bose-statue-in.html)

She traveled through the lanes which were built on recommendation by the Lottery commission back in 1817 when the British decided to explore the native areas of old Kolkata. She imagined falling into the Maratha Ditch, which was dug up back in the 18^th century to trap the Maratha soldiers. The ditch gave an identity to the city as it journeyed through Barabazar to the outskirts of Maidan. The five-point crossing where she walked up to everyday reminded her as how the lifeline of the city was linked through this pivotal point. No wonder baba was equally fascinated by this crossing.

The statue of Bose symbolized the connection of citizenry, brought together for revolt to throw off foreign yoke. She began complaining about the dust on the statue herself just like baba did.

 Every day she travelled to the university in a tram. She loved to see how tram made its way through the busy lanes linking Shyambazar to college square. For two decades this tram had been the lifeline of the city only to be later replaced by motor vehicles in the late 1920s. Development had reached this place and so it served as the pivotal point for spreading of revolutionary ideas for it brought far off minds to this place and again dispersed them. 

(pic-https://phototravelings.blogspot.in/2015/10/trams-in-kolkata-india.html)

The city was her identity, her symbol and her heritage. It represented rebellion, chaos and placidity too, all the emotions that webbed her at times.

The shop back in Kolkata had turned into a gleaming readymade garment shop after being sold off to some rich merchant who once wandered around the streets selling clothes. He had saved enough to afford the shabby shop and turn it into a modern store with enormous decorated hoardings displaying its identity. The glass panes were removed and replaced by new translucent gates made of thick glass embodied by steel fittings. Rashika passed several times from there but never cared to glance through the entrance. The security guard at the entrance was vigilant about every passer-by. He welcomed customers with a smile. The customers had now changed with the city and the times. There was a ‘no bargaining’ sign outside the store. The customers never complained of exorbitant charges by the shop. They happily paid what was asked for.

Rashika was 13 when baba left. She remembers baba being carried on the fragile wooden bed, roughly made. His body crossed through the cinema halls which were once a hub for women from all around the city to come and watch Bengali movies. It was taken through the narrow lanes to Nimtala Ghat where the funeral pyre was lighted reducing his existence to ashes only later to be dissolved in the river.

(pic- https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Nimtala_Ghat_Street_-_Kolkata_2016-10-11_0780.JPG)

 That day was profound in her memories for it was that one single day when she did not visit the temple with her mother other than the days of sickness. Her mother stopped praying. Her sorrow was released through the channels of blame. A few idols would be blamed for lifetime. Rashika never blamed those figures. She simply stopped going because her mother didn’t go and later because she never developed immense devotion towards anything as such. Her adherence was for the person who cared to place some lozenges in her hand. She still carried that devotion.

Life had its own way of turning things. Time is perhaps not always responsible for it. The changes that are accompanied by time are responsible. Rashika took to reading newspapers. She read how Kolkata was changing and how she was a part of that change every day. The city was now being refurbished; torn between the narrow walls of heritage and modernity. Yellow taxis had declined replacing modern white cars. The street lights gleamed turning night into day. It hardly made anyone realize that darkness had fallen upon. The terracotta design architecture was lost between high rise buildings. 

The fluctuations of monsoons either delayed the rains or poured heavily at times. She knew it was EL-Nino. The newspapers described it. She even knew how the political dynamics were changing. Violence was heating the atmosphere. He right as a citizen was in regular question. She knew of the war in Yemen, the floods in Sumatra and the end of dictator regimes replaced by placid democracy. She could locate places and capitals on maps. She knew how satellites and launchers traversed the farthest of stars.

Every now and then the house was cleaned and the sight of tailoring machines brought moisture to her eyes. She had never been able to detach herself from memories irrespective of the tenderness of her age when the tragedy struck. Mother was adamant to move back to their native village but Talib uncle’s request had never let that happen.   

Rashika. (Part-1)

Rashika spent her childhood days strolling around the streets of her locality. Every now and then baba arrived with a packet of orange flavored lozenges which were then not available in sealed wrappers. Baba owned a tailor shop nearby. He loved to stitch but Rashika was never happy that his profession was that of a tailor. Rashika had always seen him talk about trams more than of clothes. Since 20 years, the tiny tailor shop standing amidst the busy lanes of Shyambazar had always seen flocks of customers coming in and out. The opening pavement on the opposite side was flocked with bus commuters. The tram depot was nearby and every time Talib uncle passed round the corner, he used to ring his bell and wave at Baba from the driver’s cabin.

There was a small road on the immediate left of the shop that divided the lane into two halves. Rashika always took the right lane with her mother everyday to arrive at the small temple situated at the old junction where buses came to halt. The other lane was always a mystery for her. Mother had strictly warned her not to venture there.

 Baba had a thing with excessive brightness. He never liked the government install large helium bulbs across the street that divulged into four wide roads. He never complained about it but it was just that his face showed a gloom every time he watched the light flash across the streets turning the colorful scenario into deep white texture. Perhaps baba liked the yellow ones more. Baba was always concerned about the dirt on the statue of Bose riding his horse erected at the junction of the four way intersection. When Rashika said her Baba to clean it himself, baba smiled at the child and handed her another toffee. It was his own way of answering Rashika. Everytime.

(pic-http://swarnalidreams.blogspot.in/2012/03/guest-3-meet-swastik.html)

The three attendants at baba’s shop never complained no matter how busy it got especially during the festive season. Readymade garments were already making a mark but the shop managed well with passing years. The tiny shed over the shop needed urgent repair. The entrance however was well maintained with glass cabinets displaying the finest fabric in the market. The entrance had a glass panel door so as to avoid overcrowding during peak seasons. Baba thought it wasn’t needed anymore. There was hardly any crowd like before. Rashika however loved the glass panel for she always used to peep inside before entering the shop. Whenever baba noticed her glancing through the translucent pane, he rendered a smile.

Customers now had different preferences. The old folks were busy crossing fingers over the cotton roll to check the quality, some people on the counter were bargaining for a deal, then there were college teens who had applied for some job and were searching formals. Kids were less in number now. The new attractive market that had developed over the walking lane flashed big fluorescent white lights over shinning, colorful garments of kids. Parents preferred those shops now. When baba took Rashika to buy a frock on her birthday, she refused to buy from those shops and told baba to stitch one for her. Baba again smiled with the toffee in hand. She was gifted with a red frock draped with ribbons on the sides which she always held between her fingers while walking. Her mother had warned her not to use the frock everyday for it would get smeared in dirt. Rashika never cared. Baba had gifted her that frock. Let alone baba decide!

Entangled Little Beliefs

My chance encounters with outspoken people have been like a deportation trail. The foreign country freshness has done no good and the fear of being in exile in an alien land arrests my freedom opposite of which was the primary reason of my travel. I have a general regard for people who leave me utterly confused. It is simply fascinating to feel that the other person feels my inner turmoil and inability to reach a decision when there was a crowd outside waiting to pass. My partner panics and holds me.

I remember some great man say not so grateful things about life. He rendered opinions of simplicity, coherence and adherence to institutionalized values of life. My confusion lied as to what happened when the norms deviated? When the norms broke and were not able to find their way back? On my question the man pointed- “Change is the way of life”.

Indeed change is the way but not the change that is desired on the premise of calculative efforts and setbacks. The change can only become a change when the deviation is clearly understood. My change is subjective to the fact that those incorporations are something which I demand and not what the world pronounces. I never believe in this change.

Friendship lies in the richness of character and not in terms of monetary calculations. I was utterly confused when again some great men wrote on friendships, those existing between the walls of lavishness. Even the tragic stories of friendships were found in intellectual spheres and their reference was drawn from after-thoughts when the tragedy had occurred. Why give a sad ending to everything? Is it not unfair that mere knowledge of an existing phenomenon gives one the authority to exercise it in their words and writings?

My house is getting a renovation. There are three daily wage workers who adhere to their religious duty of shifting goods from one place to another. It is such monotony to execute the same thing over and over again.  Brick by brick is laid on the cemented spreads. The bond is to be ensured strong and so has to be the foundation. The wage workers spend a significant time of their day at my home. I deliver them cold water every few hours on demand. I have never seen them together except when they sit for food. The food is simple yet shared. The food lacks nutrients but is wholesome. The entire break is filled with smiles and exchanges of laughter. This is how they work. Their intellectual sphere is limited yet this feeling is so well developed. Neither knows of values, principles and socio economic criterion to judge the basic premise of life written by those great people, but simplicity and affection is well developed in them. This is also not an intellectual disability, for it hardly takes the mind to evaluate affections; love develops simply and so does respect.

Such confusion is rendered to me by people whom I encounter on a daily basis. I do not stand here to evaluate their learning’s however I do so when I am perplexed and diverted. It is simply fascinating to think of those grounds where I can challenge their convictions. However my respect towards them is in the regard that their knowledge is profound and subtle and also for the fact that their contribution to my perplexity completes my thought processes. I simply love the fact that my turmoil and panic at times involves introspection of simple things.