Once upon a time, in the streets of erstwhile Purulia, now an epitome of barbaric mayhem, a poor little kid found a pencil left astray. Elated at finding something he could, finally, scribble his thoughts, his ideas with, he picked it up and without losing a moment, started writing. Since the activity brought happiness and relief to his otherwise disturbed mutated soul (remember the mayhem!), he remained indulgent in writing for hours together everyday. No sooner he realized the lead of the pencil was getting exhausted with every passing day than he started writing as quickly as he possibly could for he deemed it criminal not to share the innumerable ideas that struck him on an every-moment basis that, he thought, required to be penned somewhere fearing loss in a maze of ideas that changed configuration every moment. But, the pity was the more he wrote, the more the lead greased against the paper, the faster it exhausted. He was often spotted worried thinking, ideating in a solitary place by the riverside. Finally he started praying to the almighty who, after the regular quota of prayers, duly obliged. The almighty told him, “My dear son, you called me and here I am. Every idea that you wanted humanity to benefit from, son, shall emanate from each person every moment across the perimeter of mother earth meaning someone somewhere shall pen them for you. So, think never [deliberately written in this order] your ideas shall vanish in thin air. No, they shall not. And, while I am busy awakening those lost souls, dormant spirits, you could, perhaps, do well to come up with an idea to find yourself a pencil again."
