Doctor Strange Full Movie 2016
It was a strange parade, I saw passing my THAKUMA's (Grandmother) house that summer of 1985 when I went to live with her at Manori beach. Each afternoon, from the front window, I watched a dozen teenagers, carrying beach balls and picnic baskets, walk gaily along the beach. The strange thing was that there was always a older man with them, a man they pushed in a wheel chair. His profile reminded me of a carved figurehead on an old sailing ship; his high forehead, prominent nose and rough-hewn haw were thrust forward as if to split the wind.
The young people swim, played ball on the sand s and at sunset lit a fire to roast fishes. Long after dark, I could see the motionless figure in the wheelchair silhouetted by the dancing flames. I made up a variety of stories about that man, but eventually I grew tired of guessing and asked my thakuma about him. "Oh, you mean Devasish Ganguly", she said. "The doctors don't seem to know exactly what's wrong with him. A couple of years ago he suddenly became paralyzed."
"Do those youngsters have to take him to beach every day?"
"No she answered. "They just want to see him cheerful.
One morning I saw him sitting alone on the beach, staring out at the sea. I wanted to talk to him, but when I was within a few yards of him my steps lagged. The fact that he was crippled made him seem so different that I lost my courage.
"su-probhat," (Good morning), he called out in a strong voice.
"Su-probhat," I found myself saying.
"You are Anu," (my granny use to call me) he said. I thought it curious that he didn't turn his head to look at me-then I remembered he couldn't. I walked round in front of him.
"How do you know who I am?"
"You 've been peeping at me all summer out of your grandmother's parlour window." I hung my head, but he laughed in such a way that I laughed, too. Then he said, "Would you like to know what happened to me?'
He told the facts briefly. Two years ago, he said, he had suddenly felt a chill and then had begun to run a high temperature. After the fever was gone, paralysis had taken over one leg, the other; it moved to his arms and his back. The doctors had done their best to stop his spread, but now he could move only his eyes and mouth and lift each hand about five inches above the arm of his chair.
"The doctors say I had a 'mixed virulent infection,' which is her way of telling me that they're not certain what it was. But one day they may find the answer."
"I mind for my life and little girl because they have to worry about me. But I look out at the world, and the fact that I'm In this chair hasn't changed the world a bit. It's as full of beauty and mystery as ever." In those few minutes, Devashish has not only removed his paralysis as a barrier between us, but had disposed of it as topic of interest.
Back a my Thakuma's, I burst out, "I've been talking to Mr. Devashish!"
"What did you talk about? " Grandmother asked.
"Everything . He's my friend."
"He's your acquaintance," She corrected me. "Friendship don't grow that fast."
"Ours did," I insisted. "He's my true friend."
"Perhaps, " she said, allowing herself to sound half-convinced.
"If so, you're a lucky young lady. Ask your uncle about him. They were at college together.
I learned that when Devashish arrived at university , he had been working two years in a steel factory to earn the money for his fees. He didn't have enough for four years, so he was determined to get his degree in three and he did. He worked on the college magazine and the weekly news paper, became editor of the college literary magazine and of the year-book. He also graduated with the honours. After university he became a reporter, then a feature writer. He had a gentle humour that attracted attention, and soon magazine and book editors were offering him assignments. One of these led to his travelling round the world for two years, writing a series of widely acclaimed magazine articles about people and places. He was ten 30 years old, reaching great success ad fame, when the mysterious illness struck. Though it was a tragic fate, no one who knew Devashish saw him as a tragic man. Even confined to a wheel chair Devashish found life exciting, and his attitude was contagious.
After that first meeting, I could hardly wait to see him again. Next morning he was on the beach waiting, I assume, for me. "Tell me a nice memory, Anu," he said, I hesitated, unsure of the rules of this new game.
"I'll tell you one first," he said. "It's chilly this morning, and so when you came along I was giving myself a warm memory. When I was a boy, I used to stand for hours in the summer sun with a friend, throwing a ball back and forth. The impact of the ball hitting my glove, the transfer of the ball from left hand to right hand, the slow wind up to throw and then the lazy follow through-each time I bring back that memory, I get the feel of it again- the taste of it!".
Now it was my turn, and the memory jumped up in my mind mad me blush. But I wanted to play the fame, so I said, "When I first move to Manori beach I was lonely and frightened. But one night when I was in bed, I overheard my Thakuma say to a friend that I am very bold girl. When I remember her saying that, I feel bold".
Devashish laughed and said, "And when you feel bold, you don't feel scared, do you?"
Ultimately during the next few years Devashish became a special friend of mine. Of course, I discovered that almost everybody who knew him thought of him as a special friend, but none of us was jealous- there was enough of Devashish for us all. Soon it was my generation of teenage boys and girls who wheeled him to the beach for picnics and long talks on the sands.
"When I first went to California I fell in love with a girl from the top down , Devashish once said. I wasn't certain what he meant. "She worked in the book Library and had enormous brown eyes. From time to time she gave me a book to review, along with a smile. She was both critical and encouraging about my work, and she gave me self confidence when I dearly needed it. I made all sorts of excuses just to see her. Then one day I realized that, because of the piles of books and papers on her desk, I had seen nothing of her but her head. I was in love with a disembodied head!
"Soon afterwards, I met her walking along the street. "Wowee!" I said to myself. 'All that goes with the head?' I immediately fell in love with the whole girl. I really laughed at his story.
As I grew older, I began to look at Devashsih with more measuring eyes. This did not diminish him; rather I found him even more stronger than earlier. I learnt that he was supporting his family by his writing. He had published one book before he fell ill, and he was to write even more, as well as innumerable magazine articles, stories, essays and poems.
His method of writing was marvelous. He could no longer use a typewriter , so all day long he composed in his head-revising, polishing and memorizing the words. "Then, in the one hour, he had several hundred words on paper.
I once tried to commiserate with him, but he said, "Suppose I had been carpenter or a surgeon? How could I make a living now? No, Anu, I'am a lucky man."
Time was passing, I suddenly realized that all my my dreams of adventure and success had not begun to come true. Ultimately I expressed to Devashish, "I deserve better than this dull existence."
"What do you want to happen?" he asked.
"If you'll settle for anything, you won't get much," he said, and for the first time I heard impatience in his voice. "Good things don't happen to us because we deserve them, Anu. They happen only if we make them happen." There was silence, then he said, "You've decided that Manori Beach is too small for you."
"It makes me sound snobbish, I suppose."
"Not at all. The time may come when Manori Beach is exactly the right size for you, but not until you've seen some of the rest of the world. Just now you want to go to a big city and get a job, and I think you should."
When I hesitated, he said, more gently, "Everyone is a little frightened at the beginning of a journey. But if the project doesn't entail a little risk, doesn't demand some courage , it's not worth much."
I left Manori Beach that week end, and within a month I had a job in a distant city. Shortly afterward I moved to Australia and lost touch with Devashish. A few years later, I picked up an issue of The Illustrator to find an article written by Devashish. It was a terrible shock to discover from a footnote that he had died a few months previously.
In his article he wrote of a "secret helper" he had in time of adversity. "mine came to me 13 years ago. I was very ill. In mind and spirit I was desolate."
As I finished reading, my mind went back to Manori beach and on my first meeting with Devashish Ganguly. It must have been just after this experience that he had taught me the game, "Tell me a memory." Now I understood why.
ananya1971@gmail.com
Article Source: http://EzineArticles.com/expert/Sriparna_Chakraborty/200151
The young people swim, played ball on the sand s and at sunset lit a fire to roast fishes. Long after dark, I could see the motionless figure in the wheelchair silhouetted by the dancing flames. I made up a variety of stories about that man, but eventually I grew tired of guessing and asked my thakuma about him. "Oh, you mean Devasish Ganguly", she said. "The doctors don't seem to know exactly what's wrong with him. A couple of years ago he suddenly became paralyzed."
"Do those youngsters have to take him to beach every day?"
"No she answered. "They just want to see him cheerful.
One morning I saw him sitting alone on the beach, staring out at the sea. I wanted to talk to him, but when I was within a few yards of him my steps lagged. The fact that he was crippled made him seem so different that I lost my courage.
"su-probhat," (Good morning), he called out in a strong voice.
"Su-probhat," I found myself saying.
"You are Anu," (my granny use to call me) he said. I thought it curious that he didn't turn his head to look at me-then I remembered he couldn't. I walked round in front of him.
"How do you know who I am?"
"You 've been peeping at me all summer out of your grandmother's parlour window." I hung my head, but he laughed in such a way that I laughed, too. Then he said, "Would you like to know what happened to me?'
He told the facts briefly. Two years ago, he said, he had suddenly felt a chill and then had begun to run a high temperature. After the fever was gone, paralysis had taken over one leg, the other; it moved to his arms and his back. The doctors had done their best to stop his spread, but now he could move only his eyes and mouth and lift each hand about five inches above the arm of his chair.
"The doctors say I had a 'mixed virulent infection,' which is her way of telling me that they're not certain what it was. But one day they may find the answer."
"I mind for my life and little girl because they have to worry about me. But I look out at the world, and the fact that I'm In this chair hasn't changed the world a bit. It's as full of beauty and mystery as ever." In those few minutes, Devashish has not only removed his paralysis as a barrier between us, but had disposed of it as topic of interest.
Back a my Thakuma's, I burst out, "I've been talking to Mr. Devashish!"
"What did you talk about? " Grandmother asked.
"Everything . He's my friend."
"He's your acquaintance," She corrected me. "Friendship don't grow that fast."
"Ours did," I insisted. "He's my true friend."
"Perhaps, " she said, allowing herself to sound half-convinced.
"If so, you're a lucky young lady. Ask your uncle about him. They were at college together.
I learned that when Devashish arrived at university , he had been working two years in a steel factory to earn the money for his fees. He didn't have enough for four years, so he was determined to get his degree in three and he did. He worked on the college magazine and the weekly news paper, became editor of the college literary magazine and of the year-book. He also graduated with the honours. After university he became a reporter, then a feature writer. He had a gentle humour that attracted attention, and soon magazine and book editors were offering him assignments. One of these led to his travelling round the world for two years, writing a series of widely acclaimed magazine articles about people and places. He was ten 30 years old, reaching great success ad fame, when the mysterious illness struck. Though it was a tragic fate, no one who knew Devashish saw him as a tragic man. Even confined to a wheel chair Devashish found life exciting, and his attitude was contagious.
After that first meeting, I could hardly wait to see him again. Next morning he was on the beach waiting, I assume, for me. "Tell me a nice memory, Anu," he said, I hesitated, unsure of the rules of this new game.
"I'll tell you one first," he said. "It's chilly this morning, and so when you came along I was giving myself a warm memory. When I was a boy, I used to stand for hours in the summer sun with a friend, throwing a ball back and forth. The impact of the ball hitting my glove, the transfer of the ball from left hand to right hand, the slow wind up to throw and then the lazy follow through-each time I bring back that memory, I get the feel of it again- the taste of it!".
Now it was my turn, and the memory jumped up in my mind mad me blush. But I wanted to play the fame, so I said, "When I first move to Manori beach I was lonely and frightened. But one night when I was in bed, I overheard my Thakuma say to a friend that I am very bold girl. When I remember her saying that, I feel bold".
Devashish laughed and said, "And when you feel bold, you don't feel scared, do you?"
Ultimately during the next few years Devashish became a special friend of mine. Of course, I discovered that almost everybody who knew him thought of him as a special friend, but none of us was jealous- there was enough of Devashish for us all. Soon it was my generation of teenage boys and girls who wheeled him to the beach for picnics and long talks on the sands.
"When I first went to California I fell in love with a girl from the top down , Devashish once said. I wasn't certain what he meant. "She worked in the book Library and had enormous brown eyes. From time to time she gave me a book to review, along with a smile. She was both critical and encouraging about my work, and she gave me self confidence when I dearly needed it. I made all sorts of excuses just to see her. Then one day I realized that, because of the piles of books and papers on her desk, I had seen nothing of her but her head. I was in love with a disembodied head!
"Soon afterwards, I met her walking along the street. "Wowee!" I said to myself. 'All that goes with the head?' I immediately fell in love with the whole girl. I really laughed at his story.
As I grew older, I began to look at Devashsih with more measuring eyes. This did not diminish him; rather I found him even more stronger than earlier. I learnt that he was supporting his family by his writing. He had published one book before he fell ill, and he was to write even more, as well as innumerable magazine articles, stories, essays and poems.
His method of writing was marvelous. He could no longer use a typewriter , so all day long he composed in his head-revising, polishing and memorizing the words. "Then, in the one hour, he had several hundred words on paper.
I once tried to commiserate with him, but he said, "Suppose I had been carpenter or a surgeon? How could I make a living now? No, Anu, I'am a lucky man."
Time was passing, I suddenly realized that all my my dreams of adventure and success had not begun to come true. Ultimately I expressed to Devashish, "I deserve better than this dull existence."
"What do you want to happen?" he asked.
"If you'll settle for anything, you won't get much," he said, and for the first time I heard impatience in his voice. "Good things don't happen to us because we deserve them, Anu. They happen only if we make them happen." There was silence, then he said, "You've decided that Manori Beach is too small for you."
"It makes me sound snobbish, I suppose."
"Not at all. The time may come when Manori Beach is exactly the right size for you, but not until you've seen some of the rest of the world. Just now you want to go to a big city and get a job, and I think you should."
When I hesitated, he said, more gently, "Everyone is a little frightened at the beginning of a journey. But if the project doesn't entail a little risk, doesn't demand some courage , it's not worth much."
I left Manori Beach that week end, and within a month I had a job in a distant city. Shortly afterward I moved to Australia and lost touch with Devashish. A few years later, I picked up an issue of The Illustrator to find an article written by Devashish. It was a terrible shock to discover from a footnote that he had died a few months previously.
In his article he wrote of a "secret helper" he had in time of adversity. "mine came to me 13 years ago. I was very ill. In mind and spirit I was desolate."
As I finished reading, my mind went back to Manori beach and on my first meeting with Devashish Ganguly. It must have been just after this experience that he had taught me the game, "Tell me a memory." Now I understood why.
ananya1971@gmail.com
Article Source: http://EzineArticles.com/expert/Sriparna_Chakraborty/200151
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