A tribute to a dead old tree....

On this World Environment Day

An endless yearning for a path so idly lying....there lies my delight!

In my neighbourhood

The tale of a mother !

I am floating on the sea today. For the first time in my life, I have boarded a ship. Yes, believe me, not a boat, not a yacht, not a cruise, but a real ship—just as we see in a picture book—a giant ship indeed. This time, I have decided to travel to Diglipur, the northern most point of Andaman and Nicobar Islands, following the sea route.

Well, let me come back to what I am truly eager to narrate. It’s been a pretty anxious waiting; have already reached the Haddo Port by an hour ahead.  After completion of formalities, I am granted the access to the boarding jetty. The dazzlingly illuminated ship awaits me with intense suspense. The silver rays—slipping down her milky-white satin skin—enhance her beauty to as immaculate as of the White Queen in my childhood book.  I gaze upon for countless moments---dreaming about her beauty and my first voyage, never perceiving which prevails what.

I am following the queue. The Inspector meets me and greets me smilingly at the boarding gate. And, for the first time in my life, I am stepping in a ship of my dream. The passage leads me to a large hall—full of luggage cages resting upon the walls from the floor to the ceiling—with stairs climbing up from one end. I leave my luggage there and take the stairs. In the first floor, another gentleman greets me. His smiling face inspires me to learn about a critical path leading finally to reach my space in the ship. “Please take the stairs up, cross the Hall diagonally, take the left exit, then you get another stairway, climb up, then you reach the deck, take the right narrow sideway, move to the front, turn left before the Captain’s cabin, your cabin should be there on the left first”, he completes as fluently as the ocean wave flow in a gentle summer noon. I thank him and proceed. The specious Dining Hall inspects me with much curiosity. I forget to greet her as I patiently continue to recite on the path explained by the gentlemen. I keep on climbing up through a slender stairway jutting out over the dancing waves of the ocean, some 40-50 meters below. The patience and endurance always pay and, within infinite time of life, I reach my home on the sea.

It is as neat as my own room at home and as cute as the one of my son. One wide window on the side reveals the world beyond the room. The golden rays of halogen lights of the port peep through. Two single beds are lying calmly with white sheets gracefully spread upon. The other passenger is yet to come, and, I’m not sure, if anyone would ever. Leaving my small luggage there, I come out on the deck—wide with cushioned chairs placed on the middle wall facing the front. I sit upon one.

I used to read lots of fables, like many other children of our time. The Prince crosses seven seas and thirteen rivers to rescue the Princess; the King of the land didn’t have ships, perhaps. So, the Prince had to fly, riding upon the birds, Byangoma Byangami. I used to ponder, if I hadn’t had the privilege of having those caring birds with me even, I would be sailing the course in a large ship—a shining sacred white ship with white sails fluttering.

It’s a dream come through. I am in a dilemma if it is a dream or a reality, and between the battle of dreaming and undreaming or the real and the unreal, I hear the cry of the siren of the ship. I stare on the illuminated jetty slowly drifting away and I find myself alone on the deck, on the sea, in a lone night with a lone moon only accompanying me. The port appears now like an elegant star subtly placed upon a darkened sky. It is almost 9.18 pm and ocean breeze is quite chilly in later half of January. I take the way back to my cabin.

My eyes get a surprised look of an idle bag lying upon the table in my cabin. Hesitatingly I think if I have entered into the right cabin. “Madam, can I come in?”, someone says from behind. I take an 180 degree turn to find a gentleman with two security personnel standing just outside the cabin door. One of his security explains, how urgent business his Sir has in compelling him to go for a hasty boarding onto the ship. It’s nothing for me to decide as the cabin is a two-bedded one and another person is supposed to be there, yet the gentleman’s fervent request appears as if his access to the cabin depends only upon my wishes.

He is undoubtedly a perfect gentleman. He apologetically conveys the compulsion of his sudden arrival owing to attending the mandatory Annual Medical Check up at Port Blair. So long I try to explain that there’s nothing to be sorry about, he continues to feel that he has caused much inconveniences for me. He works as a Pilot in Indian Navy. He is returning to Diglipur, his current official place of posting.

I wake up from a deep sleep as the shrill sound of siren tears apart the peace of the dawn. The light is yet faint; a cool ocean breeze surrounds me in the deck with utmost care. Holing the railing I look down. The Ship is moored to a huge jetty. I whisper to myself, “Oh I see, it’s Mayabundar!”

A few more hours to spend in the Coral Queen—a cute name of the ship. Being back to the cabin, I find the gentleman has also woken up. He greets me, so do I. He takes me to an unforgettable tour to each of the amazing places within the ship—the slender mast standing tall like the Ochterlony Monument of my lovely city, the giant anchors in the mooring cabin, the frontal deck in the uppermost layer for exclusive use of the crews, the front lights, the fog lights, the life jackets and boats hanging tenderly from the outer walls, the wheels of ropes—treasuring all so fascinatingly new experiences in my life as my dreams of childhood travel along. He explains how such are used and when, in such a well-articulated manner, that my ears can’t freeze for a moment.  Then we move to the space where the soul of the ship resides—the Pilot’s cabin. The semi-circular frontal side is glass-covered, wide enough to accommodate a dozen of people, seating side by side. The navigation wheel is just like as I saw in my childhood book. Through all modernity in saturating the era, it has maintained its ancestral stature and look. The large mechanical compass gently sleeps in the middle of the table—romantically hugged by two electronic compasses. The archaic machine still helps in the event of any system failure of the sophisticated ones or when power supply gets snapped. In the midst of seeing and learning, the Pilot Sir points to a faint line of land dancing upon the emerald waves of Andaman Sea. Does Diglipur await me so passionately? I keep on looking for another endless time, sailing through the moments, interwoven in dreams and reality. The Ross and Smith islands are still connected by the sandbar, the Saddle peak is still capped by a white feather of clouds, the hump of the rocky island is still wet by kisses of morning dew.

“Didi, please come this side”, someone calls me in pure Bengali. Yes, Dipankar has already reached the Ariel Bay port to receive me. Within half an hour, I find myself settled in cosiness of the Turtle House—my home for a four days’ vacation. I have come to meet those distant guests, who would be swimming past a few thousand miles to arrive the desolate shore of Diglipur only to glorify the paths of creations, perhaps. Why do they travel so long? Just to feel mirth in attaining the motherhood; so far in a place, with so much of struggle offered and with so much of determination demanded? I wonder if it’s an allurement of life or a harsh spell of destiny that drives a turtle mother to swim for months to reach here, lay eggs and then swim back for her remote home again.

There are a few species of turtles—green turtle, hawksbill, leatherback, loggerhead and olive ridley—that travel to Andaman for breeding the new generation; they ride over the high tide waves to reach the shore, spend just an hour to lay eggs, and riding over the same receding waves, they swim back to the sea for travelling another thousand miles of journey. The mothers never know if their babies will crawl back to the sea, and how many of them will survive the traps of life; the giant creatures in the sea, learning what to eat and what not, miles of travel through undersea water—somewhere hot, somewhere cold—and finding the home neither they have been to nor seen in life; how pawned is a life by such an inexplicable law of nature that neither liberates them from a longing for the unknown home nor severs the bond of life from the cycle of creations.  None knows who has scripted the commandments for them and why so, in such a crude betrayal of destiny. I bear a dream to meet them—those ill-fated mothers; and I have come only to meet them this time.

There is a strict emergency imposed on the beach. The tourists are not allowed to enter into a few specified beaches at night without explicit permission issued by the Forest officials. In that special moment, the mothers, if scared, shall neither venture into the shore to lay eggs nor be able to keep them alive too for long. I say it is a special moment as the process of laying of eggs depends on numerous laws of nature. It seldom takes place in daytime. There must be a high tide in the night to help the mothers to stride on a sandy beach just wet enough to hold the eggs, and there must be a suitable place for each mother to lay as many as 100 to 150 eggs in complete peace of mind. After laying eggs, they cover it with sand; then slowly grovel down to the sea without looking back even for a single moment. What a strange rule that dictates their fate to define itself? The purest bond has to be severed when the moist skin of the eggs is yet to harden up. The unborn child, shall have to traverse through an unknown meadow of events of life and to sacrifice the life to unfold itself in knowing it, fulfilling it, enriching it and defining it as it would swim though thousand miles of a journey and of dreams to meet their unseen mothers.

All these happen just in an hour or so as the high tide doesn’t last for a longer time. My voyage to this lesser known part of North Andaman is only to enrich myself with an experience of such unimaginable events of life. It’s been anxious waiting through the day, and through a stoic evening. Time flies stealthily as do my wishes incessantly breaking upon my soul. Only whispers flow from ears to ears; yes, they are coming.

I heard that these species of turtles return to the place for laying eggs where they were once born. It is the tradition, and through ages, they stick to an unscripted rule of the Nature. The mother turtles come from Australia mainly. The forest officials stamp “Australia” on the back of the new-born turtles before their departure to the sea. The mothers who come now mostly carry the mark “Australia” on their back, only to confirm the fact that they indeed were born here. What a magical rule of Nature! Through endless span of time, the mothers make a strenuous journey of a few thousand miles to lay their eggs; only to leave seeds of their creations to prosper in utter nativity. And, they travel back with wet eyes; silently, yet in graceful, dignified and proud manner of attaining the bliss of the motherhood, in a rarest process of creativity. I wonder and between the flowing thoughts, something chokes my throat. Unknowingly, my eyes are filled with tears. I fail to perceive, is it for the pain they bear or the spirit of an infallible mother that outshines the pride of the mightiest lords of the Heaven.

At around 9.30 in the night, I fetch myself to the beach. I whisper in the ears of the Lord, “I shall have a tryst with a mother who bears a complete faith within to leave behind her unborn babies in the care of Mother Nature after a brief sojourn to this distant land.”

A gentle breeze is blowing from the east. The ringing tune of waves has turned into a gargling sound now. The Forest officials have all dispersed in a wide beach. In dim light of my cell phone, I glance upon the shore, and the clock, in one full swing. The voice trembles. Will they come? Will they? At around 11 in the night, I notice some restiveness in those silhouetted movements of the forest officials on the beach. One of them, requests everyone to retreat from the waterline. Are they coming? Yes, she is! Two strings of rays of cell phones are following her linear progress through the wet face of a sandy beach. Thousand miles she has travelled to leave her wishes to be fulfilled in this precious place of the world! After a while, her nervous steps take refuge to a long pause. Holding our breath, we allow our hearts to beat as faintly as it doesn’t break the silence. Only rays of two cell phones are visibly active on this wide beach. We wait patiently to witness an eternal truth so intensely secreted in the texture of creations. Then, the precious moment comes. She lays two eggs in her first release; yes, two together. The breathlessness is choking the flow of time in suspense of events. In a deserted beach, only a few people are witnessing the purest form of creation, while the ocean, the moon, the wind, and the dark sky shower their blessings upon her; to the indomitable spirit of a mother. Never ever have I felt such a purity of love expressed so soulfully for a mother in this heartless world.

The forest officials are progressively removing the gathered sand from the laying location. I can see her face now. The delight in offering her best creation upon the lap of the Nature and the modesty of pride in defeating all adversities have turned her face into an angelic one. The glimmers of a satisfying motherhood are emanating even in the darkest corner of the world. What are those sparkling dots in corner of those tiny eyes? I wonder and I stoop down. Is she crying? Is she crying in pain—of traversing a path of destiny, of orphaning the babies once born, of anxieties of their wellbeing—or in the divine pleasure of motherhood? I place my palm gently upon her wet sand-strewn back. Her angelic face bears the signature of delight—an elegant smile—while the teardrops are still dangling upon her half-closed eyes. I listen to her whispers, “Yes, I have become a mother!” A brief pause intervenes and she, perhaps, whispers again. Perhaps, she prays for the wellbeing of her babies; I don’t know, if it’s been an expression of unbearable pain too.

She has completed what she has to. She is returning; not to return again, without even looking behind. Slowly, she creeps on; towards those crashing waves, to an ocean full of contentment, to an abode that have nurtured her dreams to prosper. She proceeds on with her fatigued steps narrowing the distance between the land and the water, her dreams and, her existence and that of her children. She travels back along the path that her unborn babies will follow in a near future.

Close encounter of the third kind!

“Wash your hands, clean your feet, don’t touch your face, eye, mouth…. maintain social distance…stay far, keep safe…blah, blah, blah”; through day and night, only recurring prescriptions roam around with precise surveillance. The distress landed with no visible source, but fleeing from is far more challenging for rules coming up, shaping up, eating up and controlling the mind and soul. The freedom tricks are being advertised…how to sanitize hands, face, shoes, clothes…. mind, sorry sorry, nothing about mind so far. And, twenty-one days of lockdown has been promulgated to keep us safe and who knows who others. Shut your wings, clip it tight, stay inside, don’t sneeze, don’t let yourself at anyone’s breathing length, don’t come in touch with anyone, except pain and pleasure.

The rooftop is my favourite space. The dawn breaks over my orchard, birds flock around and fly from one branch to another, one tree to the other. Their sweet tune inspires the sun to rise. This is the most precious time in a day…the peace, the feeling of being in it pervades. What a blissful moment! And, I like the company of a stretched arm of the giant mango tree, my childhood friend, stooping over the roof. I rest upon it. I feel our breath and air mingling in the freshness of a gentle morn. Neither the infection nor the dread of it has yet to infect me in a way so feared.

Arey! What’s that? Staring straight at me. Camera still in my hand. As I set the lens on it, ho-ho, as if realizing the portrait being shot, it creeps closer almost to my lap. I can see now distinctly. Like a tiny ball adorned with thorns all around. Looks so familiar, yet cannot recall where I have seen it. Smiling face as if bullying me, “What happened? Click my photo.” Once setting it on focus, I instantaneously recognize. Arey, it’s corona! I am in awe; about to burst into tears. No, no, don’t cry, Lopa! Weeping results in catching cold…then sneezing…and then…. then…. I simple forget to cry in sheer panic choking my throat….my eyes. Hastily, I look for the sanitizer. Spray abundantly upon my frozen palms. Start rubbing it in complete showing off as if I have nothing to fear; the trepidations erasing the confidence inside although. Seeing my vigorous rubbing of palms, it jumps to a little far and whispers, “Scaring me? I am none but your well-wisher, am I not?”

“Is it so”, I almost mutedly utter, “See, what hell the fear has done to the world? Don’t you feel ashamed of your being and deeds? So many people have died and never know how many more await death!”

It again comes closer and asks me point blank, “You fear death too much, isn’t it true?”

“Yes, I fear it surely, tell me, who doesn’t. Don’t you?”

It chuckles briefly and says, “No, I don’t. We are immortal. None is so mighty in the world that can destroy us. Our death as you perceive is only when we sleep—in our latency. Listen, dear! Can I have some water, please?”

As soon as it concludes the request, it rolls down toward my water bottle.

“What are you doing? Don’t touch it, please.”

It looks so dry and pale. It again whispers, “Okay, can you allow me to sit here? Feeling too tired, dear.”

“Alright, stay a yard apart!”

It seems quite pleased. It sits upon the lone Petunia flower, the last of the season. Perhaps, a droplet of morning dew still dangles on its petal. It remains seated silently for a while. I continue to sanitize my hands and face for several times. Uh! Corona is just seated in front of me; calmly gazing at me.

“What have been saying?”, taking cue of the earlier one, it resurrects the conversations in a wilful question.

“Was just asking what makes you scare the world so shamelessly. The world has so many problems.”

“Hey, you yourself have spilled the beans. Look, when you kill your brothers and sisters in conflict of faith, caste, nation and even in name of patriotism, do you bear any remorse in your soul for that? Now, you are taking our name too; setting your trumpets loudest, you are screaming…. corona is the killer…it is responsible for deaths all around. When you do mischief, why do you hide it so craftily?”

What it says? How come it knows all such naked truths of mankind? Seeing me stunned, it continues to speak, now a little louder, “Should I bare the truth?”

I stop impatiently and say, “Listen, listen! Don’t like mud-slanging in such an elegant dawn. Don’t spoil the sacred moments when I can take the names of the gods.”

“Okay, okay, it fairly good. Trust me, listen the tales of the gods then. Look, you, the mortals! The Lord created all of you. He created all mortals too. But, still repents what a disaster was to create mankind. Fortunately, you are mortal, else what would have happened to the Lord! Another thing pricks me, why do you fear death so much? For a mortal being, one has to die, today or tomorrow, isn’t it? See, all other living beings accept the life as it is; they live merrily and leave merrily when turn comes. More so, what grace you do to the world by living a little longer? Can’t you perceive truly, how pervasively you have ravaged the beautiful expanse of creations—the nursery of love and delight. In your relentless excruciating misdeeds, the Lord even fails to keep the stability in the creative whole.”

“What’s in it?”

“Can’t you understand? It’s a pure and simple thing. Your soul has journeyed through millions of lives through uncountable ages to attain purity in reaching you. It has sharpened the consciousness and aligned to virtues through lives, where it has dwelt in. It will again travel back following the outcome of the deeds. The death has to occur to keep the coming and going, ascending and descending of souls from one layer to another. If the death is inevitable, a crude certainty, why should you delay its natural flow? The entire cycle of creations has been stalled for deaths not coming from your world on time. Is it a fair game?”

“What all nonsense you are telling?”

“Nothing nonsense, dear. The Lord himself has said it. We heard it through our own ears.”

“Is it so? Stop fancying! Whom did the Lord tell all these?”

“He told his commandants. He created us immortal in ecstatic pleasure of creation. We are His wishes, dreams and deeds. We all reside in His abode; do His household work. Only in springtime, when the Earth creeps out of the wintry veil and drapes herself in colourful attire, we cannot resist us from being enamoured of her immaculate beauty. We get a month’s leave to be here, every year.”

Its childish dialogue makes me laugh, although softly, and I say, “Fine, dear, but your long absence must have caused Him quite inconveniences and loneliness too, no? Who works for Him when you all are away?”

So many! Draught is there, flood is there too; cyclone, hurricane, tornado all are there, many more are there to take care of Him. Everyone is available and does its duty. Once in a year each get leave to spend a few days here in earth. Understand?”

I truly understand now what it says. Oh! Forget to clean my hands for long! Who knows what happens from nowhere? After comforting the panic with smell of sanitizer, I start again the conversation.

“Okay, what’s the plan in this vacation? To kill us silently?”

“No, no; have just come to spend some pleasurable moments here on this ever-pretty earth. What ill reputation you have ascribed to us for choosing it to be holidaying? Is it fair enough to do so with guests?”, voice has almost choked while it concludes a long dialogue. Perhaps, a few droplets of water ooze out of the tips of those slender thorns. After a brief pause, it starts again, “A few years back, one of my elder brothers narrated me that people here had no faith in the Lord”

I retort, “Why so? Everyday we perform Pujas, go for fasting, pray and chant; do it all mean nothing?”

It takes on quickly, “Have you not gone to any temple? People have put a stone there and say it is their god. That god has lots of money, gold, silver and what not! Everyone offers him money and expects his blessings will usher in wealth in no time. The gods in those temples love those who are opulent and listen to only their opinions and appeals. Neither rich people nor their gods think about poor people. Tell me, what do those stones, sorry gods, do with money and wealth?”

A critical question indeed, it also wanders in the cells of my soul. To steer away from such uncomfortable query, I raise a new topic to continue, “Okay, what have you seen here on earth this time?”

“So much! Have plunged into the deepest depth of the sea; everyone gathered, some danced around me, those beautiful fishes, some enormous creatures—some even were about to guzzle. In euphoric spree, they bathed me in blue waters bubbling out of those colourful fountains. Some were scared too for the thorns I bear. Elders asked me where I had come from. One giant fish carried me to the shore. I could see that dense forest, huge trees, vibrantly adorned with so many unknown beautiful flowers. They invited me to be with them, fed me and comforted me to relax. I moved on and saw huge elephants with some new-borns, in leisurely mood, over the vast pasture, tigers, lions, untamed horses; so many other beasts too. None took any notice of me. Once I crossed the jungle. Then crossed the snowy mountains. Then reached a small town having fair number of people. A few initial days were fine. Then I don’t know what happed. They started calling me “Corona” and whispers of my name travelled alleyways of human life. Everyone began to believe and tell that one gets infected with a fatal disease once I touch. Why did you do so to me? It pained me a lot for what had ensued thereafter. I saw people mercilessly beating others, who had to walk back home after losing work and piece of sustenance. When you die of a disease it causes distress, but doesn’t it pain you when you kill another for no reason; don’t your hands tremble in committing a sin, doesn’t you heart break in seeing a crime in naked eye? We all live in harmony, none is more equal than others, together we work and play; we never cause pain to others. Then, I heard, all had been confined to home to prevent from my touching anyone. I couldn’t resist bursting into laughter even encountering such a disgraceful infamy attributed to me. I thought, you could flee from me, but how could you escape the inevitable onslaught of the diseases that you had infected yourself with for so long? In midst of all such deadly infections, why are you scared from a tiny one like me? I also heard, you have numerous gods, some to protect you from measles and pox; why is such a complexity in creating so many gods when the Lord is one? What tempts you to see the Lord riven up in many gods, with no purpose except to take care of those who feed them? The Lord—the Supreme Creator—always thinks how to take care of His creations, but your gods only dream to usurp His chair befooling you all! Like you they also don’t have faith in the Lord, they don’t bear any love for the creative world.”

“Oh ho! Why are you advancing towards me? That’s a nice place, sit there!”, I mutter in a scared tone. Quickly, I pour sanitizer upon my shaken palms and start rubbing vigorously.

It continues, “I don’t want to return with so much of disrepute. How can I explain the Lord that His own creations do not carry any faith in Him? How can I bear the pain in telling Him that the mankind is being ruled by an inanimate entity availing all dubious means of greed and retribution? I should die, a death that I only control to happen. I should die, dear!”

“Arey? Please don’t move closer!”, I frantically direct. “Look!”, I say while rubbing sanitizer in intense fright.

Without allowing any chance to recoil, it takes a sudden jump and lands straight upon my right palm. Sweetly, smilingly, although saddened deeply with agony in experiencing both the strong reaction of sanitizer and what it has learnt about mankind during its sojourn to the earth, it declares, “I shall die. I need to die, my friend!”

Upon the flowing smoothness of sanitizer, it drowns and shrinks in pain. In harshness of alcohol, it shrinks, crumbles. Tears fill my eyes; why I don’t know.

It leaves silently while telling a simple truth; to attain a greater cause, offering life is more important than saving it.

In the neighbourhood...my lockdown freedom

Amphan !!

The day that cute green caterpillar stopped eating, the news arrived; the earth was pregnant. From that day, over the vastness of nature the enthusiasm has been abundant. The mother earth had herself written a letter to her midwife –the mother Nature—to take care of her. That missive travelled so many distant paths in the hand of supreme Time.  Nature—the Nursing maid—jubilantly has brought the mother Earth to the birthing-room with due care and caution. It has been quite hot and humid since a few days. Gradually, Nature has chilled the care-room to comfort by spreading layers of clouds above. The divine water showers from the sky. Mother Gaia awaits with impatient fervour for the arrival of a healthy child brightening her lap.

Oh, how peaceably pretty caterpillar is sleeping inside the cocoon it has woven around. Will it not to transform into a beautiful butterfly some day? Maybe, it has chosen complete renunciation of material desires with such deep longing within. Neither any urge for food not showing any evidence of life is perceptible; as if confining the essence of all five divine air it prefers to embrace asceticism. Perhaps, the mission will only be attained with liberation of a mirthful butterfly fluttering out to the sky upon its colourful wings.

There has been just a single note of whispers here and there; the expectancy of mother Earth. Suspense of the birth of a healthy child hovers in the air. Following the schedule of time, the ache has begun to escalate. Everyone is utterly busy in Nature; everyone is ready to serve. The agony of the labour has become intense. The expressions of the pain have sketched the face of the fermented environment; everyone is shivering in crude suspense of the sweeping fury of liberation. As if entire world of creations has shut the doors and anxiously await the assault of the final moment.

Then the special moment appears. Nature breathes heavily in all trepidations within. The vastness of creations has become intensely enthused and fretfully tempestuous. The strong wind inspires trees to dance in mysterious twists and turns. The oceans and seas are impatient in prospect of the good news to reach soon. Again, and again, they ask the shore, “Has he arrived?”

Then, after ripping apart endless string of patience and endurance, piercing through the soul of the universe, evoking the world in muted reverence, stunning the core of creations, drenching all senses in fear and delight in unison, the deafening cry of the new-born is heard. The Supreme Time himself baptized him with a name of his own wishes. Ocean bathed him in her own blue water.

And, his mother? Immense, bountiful, sagacious, ever-young mother Earth is too tired after setting free an enormously vibrant form into being. She kisses her child and takes him in her lap. Nature mother sings lullaby to let both the mother and her child sleep…a little longer…after a strenuous battle.

The dawn breaks. Yet, the Sun hides himself. The mother Earth is yet to rise. The expanse of creations has gradually begun to arise and look around. The entire arena stands ravaged; almost destroyed. People, in their usual noise and voice, are engaged in assessing the quantum of loss and prospect of revival.

Oh my god! that green caterpillar has emerged as a colourful butterfly! Another child of mother Earth—able, complete, vibrant, beautiful, colourful, delightful expression of life—has blessed the world with the dreams of becoming. After a while, it shall carry the eternal message of delight of the Supreme Time fluttering over the vast expanse of destruction. With the name of the new-born of yesternight, the name of today’s new life is uttered in perfect harmony; “Amphan”