Something called a throb in the blood-smeared flesh of mother is what makes the nursing hand know of life's arrival from nowhere.... The water, air and feedings nourish the infants to grow like a plant with tender branches of swinging hands as if trying to catch the falling sky. Homely soil spreads its carpet on ground for them to stand up to their feet to step into the lap of mother to smother the suffocating puff of the tornado of hard times with a pail of labour pain; invigorating words of father whip them all along to step out further and farther to scale some distances of mountainous mounds of familial burden. They make castles in childhood to translate collective dreams into a reality to get just a soothing shade in the towny dusk of a gleaming city. Bread and butter is simply the bait that draws them closer to a melange of mixed experiences from the heavenly haven of impeccable innocence. The divinity in them gets eluded as soul gets entrapped into the mortal, mundane dungeon where they are unable to see the brighter lights. Troubles keep pouring in bringing rains flooding in their eyes only to wash heart, clean and pure carrying away the dirt of stubborn urges and dormant impulses...
