Prashant's Solace

On a dull Leicester street, a group of men have been congregating since morning. The sentiments were sombre although mingled with some respite and a lot of confusion. Someone was lost but someone survived. Hundreds of miles across the globe, curfew was relaxed in Thoubal town, a sharp feature in the bend of the Himalayas. A group of women in distress, frantically searched the family albums for what has been lost for ever. The thread connecting the two events – a tragic plane crash. Source: Getty Images A curious if not voyeuristic reaction is to demand more of the above scenes. But there are more such events unravelling every passing second. Only, sometimes has become often. You work towards a certain goal, an aspiration, an idea of happiness, a pursuit of excellence or a unity of souls, as in the case of a couple about to restart a life of togetherness with their kids after an enforced separation. But calamity strikes, strikes the good and the bad equally. You walk out in the mo...

(This is a humble attempt to mimic my childhood hero's writing style. Guess who?) I can smell the earth. The breeze is gentle and soothing this afternoon. The wind chimes from Bindra’s fuels the composing environment. The tropical quartet of the warbler, the ashy prinia, a koel & magpies out on the neem tree are all clamour today.  Many years ago, Kausalya, our former maid, had planted it as a house-warming gift. It still remains the best gift we have ever received.  In stark contrast to this is the environment this side of my French window. The rain clouds have dimmed the lights in the room. My book shelf, which usually holds my eyes up, fails to cheer me up. The books look like they need rest from resting.  Back outdoors, the weight of grey sky seems too heavy on earth. My sleepy street, in my not so sleepy town, is quieter than usual. Rarely a vehicle goes by to evidence any human presence. The birds, wind chimes, the breeze and the neem tree render the atmo...