Sritikotha

I don't know who can draw a picture of life in the memory. But whoever draws draws. That is, he did not sit with a brush in his hand to keep an exact copy of what was happening. He puts out how much you omit according to your preference. How big makes the small, makes the small big. He does not hesitate to sort out what is behind and what is behind. In fact, his work is painting, not writing history.

In this way, the stream of events is flowing on the outside of life, and the picture is being drawn on the inside immediately. There is yoga between the two but the two are not exactly one.

We don't have time to take a good look at this inner picture of us. Every now and then we look at one part of it. But most of it lies invisible in the dark. The painter who is constantly painting, why he is painting, when his painting is finished, who can tell which picture these pictures will be hung in?

One day a few years ago, I went to this photo booth to ask someone about my life. I thought I would stop by collecting two or four rough biographies. But when I opened the door, I saw that the memory of life is not the history of life — it is the handwriting of an invisible painter. The colors that fall in different places in it are not a reflection of the outside, that color is of its own store; That color has to be mixed with his own juice — so the impression left on the pot will not be of any use in testifying in court.

Attempts to compile a very accurate history in this repository may fail, but there is an addiction to looking at pictures, that addiction found me. When the traveler is walking on the path or living in the inn, that path or that inn is not a picture to him, then it is very necessary and very direct. When the need is met, when the passer-by has crossed it, then it becomes a picture. When one looks back at all the cities and fields, rivers and hills that one has to walk through in the morning of life, before entering the rest house in the afternoon, one becomes a picture in the light of the coming day. When I took a moment to look back at that picture, when I looked at it once, my mind was absorbed in it.

Is the curiosity that arises in the mind just a natural affection for one's past life? Of course, Mamata can't live without anything — but the picture also has an attraction because of the picture. In the first issue of Uttar-Ramcharita, the pictures that Lakshmana presented to Sita for her amusement were accompanied by Sita's life, saying that it was not entirely true that they were beautiful.

There is nothing in this memory that deserves to be remembered forever. But literature does not depend on the dignity of the subject; People have affection for him only if he can make what he has felt well. What has emerged in his memory in pictorial form deserves a place in literature only if he can express it in words.

These memoirs are similar literary materials. It would be a mistake to consider this as an attempt to write a biography. As such, this writing is very incomplete and unnecessary.