The most wonderful ones

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The most wonderful ones

brotee mukhopadhyay

The most wonderful ones that I have ever experienced are human beings.

I was a sick child at the beginning of the journey and my parents had to devote enough of their invaluable time to look after me. Those were the days when the grand and wide world of the Indian Epics were opened to me as my parents used to tell me tales from the past, the tales that contained ventures and adventures of the varieties of people who had lived enviable lives in muscles and also in excellent cardiac-cerebral contributions.

I began to identify the magic of life what had been termed as love. Yes, I was really loved by my parents when I was badly in need of it.

Long before I chanced to hear Pete Segar sing ” I think as I please and this gives me pleasure” I was fortunate to have a teacher, a teacher of Mathematics, who had taught me to learn to the terms of my pleasure and never to be tied to the painful compulsion of the system that always had its own specific requirement constrained by the time and territory. Hence, in my school days when Geometry became elixir to me I could hardly rot the facts and the data of History and Geography and in spite of such a shortcoming, as one of my school-teachers used to remark, I had lived a happy life with points and straight lines and curves and rectangles and circles and their marvelous inter-relations.

In the days of my wild adolescence I was mistaken by the approach of one dark-eyed girl who had one day tore me to pieces prior to leaving me for another choice. By this time I was taught how to withstand the wound, but she left with a curse hurled towards me that contained that I would never be loved by any fair sex. Things did not happen to satisfy her. Rather, one enigmatic person in whose eyes I experienced a stretch of a horizon encompassed me with what men had ever known as love only.

As I love to read I have tried a little bit of Tagore Rabindranath (the Nobel laureate in literature from Bengal in India) and a little bit of Shakespeare, and of Whitman and of the Indian Epics and of course bits from the never-ending treasure of literature of the world where endeavors of human beings have been stored with tears and care as if for me.

Likewise, I can cite happenings of my life when I was not deprived by the warm touch of my friends’ hands. It is needless to illustrate how much I do owe to my friends who had helped and saved me on innumerable occasions.

To conclude this text I must mention how I had once returned just from the cave of death when I was a student in the University of Calcutta. Calcutta was seized by mindless and meaningless violence for some years when I was a student. It was an autumn evening. I just got down from a shuttle bus near my dwelling with five or six books on D.H.Lawrence in my hand. I was returning from the National Library. I found all the shops were closed and central polices had occupied the street. I apprehended that something had happened, something very serious although there was nobody to tell me. Just one hundred yards from my dwelling I was suddenly surrounded by a gang of political hooligans who were not fewer in those days.

It was dark everywhere and the silver of the arms they did hold were speaking silently. Someone shouted: Start! With cold ice in my spine I requested them: Be quick, please! To my utter surprise, a young guy came forward and identified me and stood like a block and explained that I was none of their political adversaries. Yes, it was sometimes in those days political settlement was done by annihilation of the opponents. Thus, I was rescued by a man who was a man like me only.

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