joie de l'écriture

For someone who has always dreamt of a knight in shining armour to come riding on a white stallion and taking her away into the ‘happily ever after time’ not much can be done to heal a heart break when the knight comes galloping on a stallion and just as she throws her arms open being sure of being lifted like a maple leaf by the summer breeze, he passes in front of her dreamy eyes over to the greener pastures while the stallion kicks dirt on her face. And like all heroines in the perfect love stories she believes in the power of true love and waits for him to return thinking he had a problem gauging the distance, or maybe the momentum wasn’t enough to carry her along, or maybe he had an alignment problem, and a million reasons women are capable of coming up with to complicate a simple explanation. Moreover, stallions do not have a reverse gear, and so it might take him a bit longer – the turnaround time is more…literally speaking!

What’s laid out here is my theory of expectations hypothesized by what life has offered me and more importantly what it has not offered me so far. The more you expect the greater are your chances of getting disappointed. Let’s say you are told by this friend of yours about this restaurant where they serve a scrumptious meal. Now, while the expectations would largely depend on the limits of your imagination, the ground reality would be what it is at the end of the day – ground reality! As much as we would want our expectations to converge with reality, facts and reality are stranger than fiction. People don’t turn out the way you thought they would, you feel betrayed and used like a tissue paper that’s popped into the dustbin the moment someone has wiped his face. You feel you have taken a wrong turn on your career path, to reach a point of no return. You had wanted to be at the other end of the pole, in some other city, on some other job, with someone else, looking different, living a different lifestyle, seeking answers to more important questions in life while you are reading this. Belied expectations and the best laid plans going waste, is something that all have the misfortune of experiencing. Why is it that some people seem happier than others? Did they get the larger share of the pie? Did they never fall prey to unmet expectations? Has WYSIWYG been truer in their case than that of others be it with people, career or even movies?

I believe everyone has a downfall of expectations. Everyone falls prey to it. But only a few get up and pretend as if nothing happened. Some take time to get back on their feet, others are quick and agile. That is what makes all the difference and if you were to ask me of the last time my expectations went for a toss I would say – here. This piece is nowhere to close to what I wanted it to be like. The least I expected it to be was a decent read for those who have been checking this space for updates and a compilation of thoughts that would a little sense to yours truly if not to those who would have the misfortune of reading this piece purely out of expectations of something worth reading.

Attribute this to my muliebrity or to some therapeutic property of its wavelength, but there is no denying the fact that for me, Pink is Evergreen. It has come a long way from being associated with the fairer gender to being an irreplaceable part of the name of a rock band. If numerology had any science behind it, Pink Floyd would be the last one to dismiss it. Pink was in when Orange was out. And we are not just talking about a colour here. We are talking about an aura; the aura that entailed customer loyalty; the aura which was passed on as a legacy to the world’s largest mobile phone company. Pink prevails.

If this world bathes in pink - candy floss clouds, raspberry seas, fuchsia flowers, pastel fields and magenta tree tops - it would still be as pretty as ever. If we had a pink flag it would match with the colour of our national flower. If we had pink eyes we would have seen the world through natural rose-tinted glasses. The positivity that is embodied in this gentle hue would not have been less significant even if history didn’t introduce us to the phrase 'in pink of health.’

While pink reminds me of everything that is remotely feminine, it also reminds me of anything that is dipped in honey-sweet innocence like cute dolls with pink frocks or cute frocks with pink dolls, of pink Barbie sets and pink purses, of pink slippers and pink hair-bands, of pink pearls and pink watch straps, of pink passion and pink shock (shades of nail enamels), of pink candies and pink gems, of pink night suites and pink floral bed-spreads.

Pink is the colour. Pink is the style. Pink is for every age, for the young and the senile.

Technology has engendered an endemic race of young adults labelled as the “GenX”, a race that has far surpassed the puerility that characterizes childhood. The Charles Darwin theory on the survival of the fittest was never so obvious than today. A whole generation is metamorphosed to the extent that yours truly, just a couple of years elder, feels like a living anachronism. Generation gap is no longer between kids and their parents. It is what surfaces between you, born in 1985, and your cousin, born in 1988. Like how a jeans-clad lady in a small town makes conservative women turn their heads followed by slurry of comments on the degradation of the Indian culture, a bunch of these mutants makes me stare at them obnoxiously while wondering if the world started spinning faster after 1985?

I symbolize the taxonomy that had the fortune of being born in an era when communication wasn’t equivalent to an SMS. When my best friend left for another town, I remember the exuberance of sending and receiving handwritten letters. And we did that till college. Then technology came into our life. I don’t remember going for a movie in a theatre when in school. I trust my memory. The definition of ‘hanging out’ as a kid was to go the public park, or play zany games in the backyard and in the teens to go out and ride bicycles with funny baskets on an open road. Those were the days when entertainment on the television sets comprised of ‘Small Wonder’ or ‘I dream of Jeanie’ and we were happy living in this fantasy world. Looking back, it somehow seems more real than today’s Reality TV shows that the new generation follows so religiously. Those were the days when party wear clothes did not mean a size ‘S’ of the latest Kareena Kapoor outfit. They just meant more frills or more laces. Those were the days when birthdays were celebrated at home, when friends cramped into every corner of your living room decorated with festoons of crepe paper and balloons, over bunny faced cakes and Monginis wafers singing the birthday song to have a good time. They weren’t about going and ringing the bell at Pizza Hut.

The generation is moving ahead, full throttle. Their age is grappling to keep pace with their maturity levels. These mavericks worship a new Lord. Some may dismiss it as the generation gap. In my humble opinion they are just putting the cart before the horse. It’s a perfect case of the tail wagging the dog. This race against time would only mean losing out on the little pleasures that you and me have experienced as children, the ones which we yearn to live all over again. It would be trying to reinvent the definition of childhood and teenage. And anyone who has lived these phases of life the way I have or anyone born in early eighties has, would be unconvinced of any progressive ideas of having fun lest they would taint it all. It’s true that the best years of life are realized only in hindsight.

Will you remember me when I am gone?

That’s a tough question to ask someone. I mean what are the odds of a person giving you an honest answer to such euphemism? Either you’ll end up getting repartees that you would only consider it wise to dismiss them or you would inadvertently end up confronting the other extreme of responses which go on to dig into what is otherwise considered atypical of a person with no psychological imbalances. I believe life can be measured by the number of people who made a difference to your life. For the world you might be a single person, but if you could, in your entire lifetime, find even a single person to whom you mean the world then you can safely assume that you have led a life of meaning. It’s said people may forget you, but they will never forget how you made them feel. And if this adage carries any ounce of wisdom in it, it wouldn’t be difficult to conclude that the only people you would remember are the ones who made you feel special at least once, even if later, by fate or by choice, they digressed from being themselves.

“When X-mas bells are ringing
Over the fields of snow
I hear sweet voicing singing
From the lands of long ago
And etched on vacant spaces
Are half-forgotten faces
Of friends we used to cherish
And love we used to know…”

It’s tough for anyone to deny the significance that these simple lines find in our lives. As kids we have strong opinions, good, bad and ugly of things around us. We dread the unknown. We fear the dark. As we grow up this fear doesn’t die somehow, instead it grips us even more and extends beyond simple things. It extends to people whom we encounter in our walk of life. The idiosyncrasies of the human nature simmer under the actions of these men and women who by birth are not just considered the most rational example of any life form witnessed on the face of the earth but are also grossly over rated in terms of being able to make a conscious decision based on pure emotional logic. That’s the stuff that makes little sense, if at all, in books on cognitive science. There are models and theories and people that put their heart and soul and blood and brain into explaining the rationale that underlies the quintessential human absurdity in most of life’s situations.

Not wanting to digress beyond this point, let me reiterate the same question. “Will you remember me when I am gone?” I am not a father figure such that a mere mention of my name should arouse in the minds of people the sort of reverence that’s apt for these more noble souls. I am an ordinary person with all the flaws and incoherencies of an average individual susceptible to be driven largely by emotions and rarely by cognizance. And I realize so is every person around me. If some people like me, they just do. If they don’t, nothing that I say or do is going to change their opinion about me. The human mind is like porcelain. Once molded it stays. So you have just once chance to impress the people around you. The irony is that this opportunity always goes unseen. Have you ever noticed those folders with tiny little tags sticking out that allow you to conveniently organize your sheets and avoid the mess? The human mind is engineered to function that way. It labels people without second thoughts and what are born are preconceived notions about individuals that live and die with them.

Should you beg others for a chance to explain to them what you are and bridge the divide between you and their opinion about you? I strongly believe you shouldn’t. If they didn’t understand you the first time, there is a very high probability that attempting to do it by giving them a second chance will only make matters worse. They just lack the capacity and the astuteness to deal with certain kind of people, you being one of them. Accept it. Life is too short to be spent on correcting such maladies.

So while you keep musing over the possibility of someone being able to know you enough to remember you even when you are gone, it might happen that you would miss out on that little kid waving at you from the glass door of a school bus. A sight that could take you back to you kindergarten days and remind you of your favorite teacher who taught you the cooler way of learning the alphabet…someone who must have long gone, but for all that she was to you, you would miss that anonymous faceless enigma that has lived and grown with you in a way you will never forget. Strange as it may sound, you'll never know who was watching you while you were busy worrying about the other things… and secretly fell in love with you for the most inexplicable reasons…just to remember you…even when you are gone.

“One sweet thought my soul shall cherish
Till this fleeting life has flown
This sweet thought will cheer when I dying
Someone will miss me when I am gone…”

I picked up a book
From the olive shelf
And swept my hand
On the dust jacket
To reveal a blurb
Etched in gold
That spoke fancies
Of stories and tales
The book had to hold
Between its bound covers
Front and back, Yet
Very little was told
Of the hero
Who was born
Between its pages
As they unfold
Very little was spoken
Of the life he lived
And how he changed
From the start till the end
So I pray to thee
That upon my grave
Where I’d rest
In peace one day
To the traveller who sweeps
His wrinkled hand
Over the blanket
Of leaves
Yellow and green
May much be told
Of dreams I’d seen
And those
That came alive
In the dash that holds
Which in gold
He would find
Between the year
I was born
And the one
In which I died

This post is dedicated to those rare individuals who believe in the power of following their dreams. It is for those who have made their aspirations see the light of day. It is for those who have taken the road less traveled and are still going strong without a bit of remorse or regret. Not every man is born with a heart of steel. This is a salute to those who have had the courage to live off the track and know that there’s more to life than simply living it!

Taking that small step to follow your heart is like stepping under a cold shower. The hardest part is just before you allow the cold water to hit you on your bare body. The tickling fear that sends chills down your spine is something you cannot avoid, not as a child, not even as a grown up. It’s like living the fraction of that very second before the bomb bursts in Diwali while you, pursing your lips and looking meekly from the corner of the slit of your eyes, see the tip of the wick lighting up in bright orange until …wham its all up in smoke!

In the mosaic of the million possibilities that life offers, one can take years to know what truly inspires him and transcends the soul to a completely different untainted world and help it rise above the earthly desires of money and fame. Living a life less ordinary is a matter of choice than a matter of destiny. The finest things in life, God’s most beautiful creations, and the pleasure of living a life of choice always come without a price tag both monetary and emotional. No price is too heavy to pay to move from what the mind thinks to what the heart desires. Its never to late nor is it too early to know what gives you a high and what you would truly enjoy doing even in the middle of the night, on the highest mountain peak, on the remotest island and in your bedroom before you retire to bed.

There was a time when I jumped on the bandwagon of those who considered selling off one’s wealth to explore the world on foot as nothing more than a cheap gimmick to come under the spotlight for a jiffy only to disappear in the dark shadows of their own deeds. Today, if I were to imagine myself getting caught in the web of ordinary people with mediocre desires and commonplace ideas I would only curse myself for not looking beyond the obvious and not seeing the wood from the trees. I fear there’s lot one could miss out on if one is not sure what one is searching for.

I am blessed to have encountered people in this short span of my being, who have lent different strokes to their life and made it more meaningful than ever by listening to their heart’s desires rather than painting it in the dull shades of gray. I am lucky to have a few friends who have identified their passions and devote a serious amount of effort towards it. It’s difficult to rekindle the fire of passion if it dies out due to negligence. With this piece of scribbling and the hope to keep an iota of interest for writing alive in my own heart, here’s me paying a tribute to those who share the same opinion and honor the unbounded reach of free will.

The weavers in the valley are lost in their own cubicle of time and place. In the attempt to preserve a rich tradition and art they have missed out on a plethora of opportunities that are beckoning both in India and abroad. What hitherto remain untapped markets and unsought customers, can usher the industry into a new realm altogether.

As of today, very few societies have the muscle to cater to the foreign markets. The trade currently occurs with foreign customers by means of international exhibitions that are held in countries like Germany, Singapore, UK, US etc. The government provides assistance in this regard by reimbursing 50% of the expenses incurred. The society equipped with sample pieces and having hired a professional designer awaits bulk orders. Once an order is procured, a number of challenges loom large before the society ranging from availability of enough workforce to meet the demand on time, availability of raw material from Ludhiana that matches the required specification and adhering to the design requirements. One should not assess the quality of a handcrafted shawl and a machine made one under the same lens. There is a need to position handloom in the minds of the foreign customers in a way that would help them appreciate the subtle imperfections inherent in the products. The cost for procuring an order, the risk of being unable to cater to it and the fear of rejection makes exports an expensive affair for the societies causing them to shy away from it. A conglomerate of weavers from across a wide cross section of the industry could be formed that could focus solely on foreign markets. This body will act as a facilitator by procuring raw material, providing information on the latest trends in design and colours in foreign markets, ensuring quality standard of the consignment and distributing the order amongst smaller groups as per their capacity.

As far as urban markets within the country are concerned, they too have different tastes and trends. A better way to reach these consumers would be by opening the industry to privatisation and inviting well established stores like Fab India, the Bombay Store etc. to assist the industry. This would not only help organize the sector to a large extent but also bring the industry under the purview of entrepreneurs and add a new dimension to it. These initiatives at a macro level can help pump life into the industry that’s has been experiencing a silent stifled death in the valley.

Join the campaign at : http://himachal.us/category/save-the-weaver

Is Ignorance Bliss?:: SAVE THE WEAVER

The folks in this valley are just plain contented. Either they have very less aspirations or very high levels of self satisfaction. Either ways it is indubitable that they are not harnessing their true potential. You never know what you have been missing until it arrives. This adage can’t be more apt than for the weavers here.

According to the 1995 census, Kullu district has 28,500 weavers. 12 years since, there has been no track record about these weavers. Officials can only approximate the number to have plummeted to 11,000. Is the industry dying? The bitter truth is that people have begun to opt out of what has always been their part time occupation as other sources of livelihood are found to be more lucrative. The wages paid to the workers on a piece wise basis are meagre. The irony of the situation is that there has been an exodus of weavers from Kullu to Ludhiana which is posing a threat to the handloom industry on the home turf. Little do these weavers realise that the wages are no better in Ludhiana than they are in Kullu. The only difference is the work culture that prevails in the two regions. Those at Ludhiana follow a strict regime of 8 hours of work per weaver per day while in Kullu it is left to the weaver to decide his work hours. As the weavers exercise their right to free will they put at stake their earnings and end up with a measly sum of Rs. 105 per day at the rate of Rs 15 per basic shawl woven. The low turnout of workers makes it cumbersome for the society to cater to the demand in the market, resulting in low profits, which in turn results in low wages and few incentives for people to be associated with this profession. The vicious circle continues.

While some associate the inherent lassitude among Himachalis to the climate here, some others believe that for a state which thrives on tourism, quick alternative sources of income prove to be more attractive to the locals. A basket of fresh handpicked apples can fetch them more money than can a day’s work on the handloom. The face of the industry changes with the turn of the season. The maximum production happens in the winter when other avenues of income slow down. Moreover, the hilly terrain in itself poses hindrances for the weaver to reach the work place. The state government could be forthcoming in this regard by providing concessional passes to the weavers for commuting from the nearest bus stop to the work place. A scheme on the line of Mid-day meals can be designed for these weavers that would help them devote more time to weaving.

In spite of the multitude of schemes that have been introduced by the government for those organized as societies and self help groups, how well have the benefits been percolating to the grass root level is still a matter of concern. The awareness level about the welfare schemes is low among the weavers themselves. There is a dire need to disseminate information about the schemes and the local melas, festivals and the traditional street plays could be used as effective channels. The exploitation of the weavers by the defunct societies by confiscating their handlooms, delay in payment of wages etc. can be curbed by unionising the weavers and by making the existing Weavers’ Association more active.

The future would continue to seem bleak until the concerns of the weavers who happen to be the lifeblood of the industry are addressed and they are given a fair chance that they duly deserve.

Institutionalised Training

The only thing that is permanent in today’s world is change. We need to move with time if not ahead of it and that calls for a new entrepreneurial outlook, a zest to explore foreign markets, the gen about how technology can complement traditional skills, the vision to undertake initiatives and up and above all the drive to think big and execute ideas whose time has come. While most business today are engulfed in thinking about the ‘Next Big Thing’, the handloom industry in Kullu lacks the much required technical knowhow that can alleviate the ailing industry of its problems.

The art of weaving is something everyone in the valley masters at a very early age. Each family has a handloom in their home and traditionally they have been involved in weaving shawls at home for the winter. Presently, the weavers who are associated with societies can avail training facilities through government schemes. The Human Resource Development (HRD) Ministry has initiated the STEP (Support to Training and Employment Program) project for training women. Weaving is an activity mainly carried out by the fairer gender here. Some major societies take assistance from institutes like National Institute of Fashion Technology (NIFT) and National Institute of Design (NID) to keep abreast with trends in the urban and foreign markets. However, such vital information that offers competitive advantage is beyond the ken of the local players due to the associated costs. The Integrated Cluster Development Project has been instrumental in providing technical assistance to the weavers registered under it as Self Help Groups (SHGs). On the flip side with little vigilance on the authenticity of the SHGs formed there is scepticism that the benefits of the government schemes are enjoyed by power looms. With 50 self help groups registered every year, each comprising of 12 members on an average, the scheme has its own limitations of reaching the weavers at the grass root levels. The government training workshops too draw interest only due to the stipend that the weavers receive on attending these. The training provided is substandard and the inclination to learn is at the minimum.

The industry needs to adopt a model that emphasises on bringing about an educational renaissance. Sustaining the weaving industry does not imply that it constitutes solely of weavers who sit and weave shawls on the handlooms every day. This tunnelled vision needs to change and one needs to look at the broader horizon. The government can be forthcoming in this regard by establishing an Indian Institute of Handloom Technology (IIHT) in the district that could play a pivotal role in changing the face of the industry. It could give a fresh impetus to talent in the associated fields of textile design and structure, fabric analysis, laboratory testing, history of costumes in the country and abroad, apparel production techniques, merchandising and marketing, fashion photography, event management, computer design systems, wardrobe planning, technical writing, workshop training etc. giving a holistic thrust to the industry for it sustenance. It would also make the industry lucrative to the next generation which is moving to greener pastures due to increased education levels. To bring about an inclusive development, primary schools imparting practical knowledge on weaving could be started for the kids of the weavers. Different aspects of weaving could be inculcated in the course structure for different grades. Such an educational model can be expected to be sustainable as opposed to the one-time training workshops for a handful of weavers that neither instigates in them the willingness to learn nor propagates the necessity to be educated in this field.

To be a part of the campaign or to know about it visit us at http://himachal.us/category/save-the-weaver

For tourists from across the globe, the hilly terrain of Manali-Shimla is a shoppers’ paradise for woollens. Little are these tourists aware that the heart of the weaving industry is in the small town of Kullu, 40Kms away from Manali. As one enters this scenic valley, colourful traditional Kullu shawls dot the sideways of every market street and huge signboards on tiny shops flash ‘Traditional Kullu Shawls.’ This is bait to the blind crocodile. Many of these shawls are not even handcrafted let alone the fact that these are sourced from other towns in the country.

Is it that one doesn’t care enough to make an informed decision while buying or is it that one fails to see the value in a handcrafted product? I am afraid it’s both. On the one hand the tourists have little or no time on their itinerary to walk to a local store and are always directed by their travel guides or the local rickshaw drivers and cabbies to one of the numerous bogus shops that sell machine made shawls at hefty discounts that are as high as 50%. A setup of a few handlooms in the periphery of the store serve as perfect alibi to sell the machine made shawls. While the tourist walks out of the store with discounted shawls, the local guide walks away with his share of commission, thus making this whole act of money making a farce in the name of tourism.

On the other hand, as consumers we fail to recognize the value of a handcrafted product. The value of art does not reside in the price we pay for it but in the efforts that have gone into making that masterpiece; that masterpiece which is born out of the dexterity of the weaver, his eye for weaving an intricate design from his own palette of colours, the long hours of adeptly crossing the warp and woof to create kaleidoscopic patterns on the fabric, and create designs which by no means can be replicated on a programmed machine that churns out a batch of immaculate shawls at the press of a machine in a couple of minutes while the weaver spends on an average four days to weave an elaborate design on his handloom. We must learn to appreciate the beauty of inherent imperfections in a handcrafted product that renders it its exclusivity. No price is too high to pay for unadulterated art, be it for the purity of the wool, the sanctity of the natural organic dyes or the simplicity and genuineness of the heart of the person who is making it.

To be a part of the campaign or to know about it visit us at http://himachal.us/category/save-the-weaver

There is a reason for each of us to exist. I am not sure if I have found my reason and even if I have, if it is a good enough reason to be. But I am sure, whatever be my raison d'être, I have lived for someone and that someone is none other than me. I am not trying to paint a self obsessed disposition, but in my opinion every person has the reins of his life in his hands unless by will or otherwise he decides to ‘outsource’ it to someone else. How many of us can define what our hobbies are? How many can distinguish our hobbies from our interests? Moreover, how many can separate it from our profession, from our education and from our routine. I strongly disagree with people who try and mould their profession around their hobbies for the belief that you can be good at something only when you like it. You think my mom loves cooking? Yet she makes the best cottage cheese vegetable in town that could send all the eateries on a run for their money. Hobbies, interests and professions are three completely different things although there does exist a grey area between them. They form what the economists call the impossible trinity. Before I mess economics with philosophy and create unintended humour on paper, let me KISS. That’s the shortest way to glory. It adds that much needed geeky touch to your persona when you want to cast yourself as a high-flier, jet-setter, sophisticated high profile guy who has everything in the world from a swimming pool in his bedroom to a limousine in his backyard but falls short of time to talk. And for those who are still a little alien to this make believe world of ‘un’professional banter here’s a little secret; KISS stands for Keep It Simple Stupid! As you can see I am not so good at it myself.

Sometimes I wonder if profession is a conscious decision or some just make it appear to be such. Wouldn’t that mean they could be better actors and therefore are themselves in the wrong profession? One of the most powerful ads that hit me in the face read ‘Almost followed her friend to an MBA’ with a ravishing supermodel in a jade green gown walking on the ramp. That’s what good marketing can do. Make you think. Think about the larger issues in life although you are as much a part of the rat race as anyone around you. Do you realise that even if you come first in a rat race at the end of the day you would still be a rat? The way I see it, profession is something you would ‘not hate doing’ for a livelihood. So after the elimination of some of the infinite possibilities one is left with what he might pursue as a profession to earn his bread and butter. Something that is dignified enough for that person to put on his business card, something that is considered distinguished enough to introduce himself to a group of strangers, something that is the profession of the decade – it’s like the colour of the season. Soon the fairer sex might be subjected to the vulnerability of the disclosure of age through profession. Office politics, long work hours, demanding boss, work load, work pressures are all different ways of stating the one prevailing fact of life. At the end of the day work sucks! It does as much for a supermodel as much for an executive. That is where the boundary of ‘profession’ slowly dissolves and ‘interest’ comes under the spotlight. You very strongly believe that you were born to be nothing but a photographer. You think about this while in your clinic looking at the X-ray of one of the remotest organs of the anatomy. You are left with no choice but to thrive on the faint remains of the resemblances between the two professions. An interest however is like a mirage. You are pretty sure of its existence until you reach there. It’s also so much like a balloon. You blow too much into it and it flies off. It’s like a piece of gum. You chew too much into it and it saps the flavour out of it. Interest is something that comes to birth and dies by the whims and fancies of the verdant human mind. It is like the sunset, a different hue by every passing hour. The pleasure lies in toying with different ideas that seem impossible, things you couldn’t, shouldn’t or wouldn’t but always wanted to do.

But something that really reflects the kind of person that you are is the hobby that you pursue because hobbies cannot be forced, they cannot be compelled, and they cannot be thrust upon an individual against his freewill. It is like the eternal sunshine of the spotless mind. It is like the first droplet of the rain in the summer sun. Refreshing and relieving. It’s the feeling that a claustrophobic gets when he is out of a dungeon. A few strokes on the canvass, a few twirls on the tip of the toe, a sonnet written on hand made paper, a charcoal sketch of the winter landscape, the city skyline captured on a Polaroid…the countless possibilities for a human mind when it seeks solace from a materialistic profession and from the maddening and flickering interests, to reach the fossiled remains of innocence in the deepest corners of the human heart!