At hospital, when I was trying to push open the door of the taxi, I was endeavouring at the last chance of life. I had purchased some new clothes and for about twenty days, I had done some cycling. In both the vicinities of the town, I had looked for “Life”. But suicidal tendencies were seeming to crawl in my being. Death was becoming apparent for me. I touched the harmonium but it had lost its tune. I beheld the sun, tried to mitigate the moon, voiced my opinion to the flowers, endeavoured to phone my beloved but failed. It was at this time that Nadeem, my friend informed me that I had major depressive illness.….. It is a story of a little child who centuries ago, in his village house in front of the small gate, in his knickers lay down. It was an afternoon of winter and he was asking his mother, Why this life was so difficult?…... The fact is that I was a born artist. Melody and poetry were present in my soul. Some books, some people, some faces gave symmetry to my pain which was very essential to give impulse to my expression. I, in my boyhood and early youth, tried to avoid expression. The moon, the sun, the clouds, rain, snow, the mountains and human beings were not dealt in by me honestly. I used to think that if I accept myself, I will scatter but after scattering myself, I unified into an entity...... They were giving me electro convulsive therapies to help me while I was craving for death. I did not wish to commit suicide. I wished to be destined for that death that was ordained from above but above was silence…… Prolonged silence stretching across a thousand years. I had to draw out life from this staticness. A life with poetry inducing life with music and love of music and love of those who weep. Life where mirth and tears, tears and mirth intermingle with each other in no time. Feelings unifying to give creation to an exquisite ecstasy. Sometimes music blends into words and sometimes verse turns to music. And if voice mixes, life seems to be a figment……. She was sitting neath a Eucalyptus tree, the bark of which was torn off from the lower stalk. She, in her black apparel, was sitting right in front of that place. She knew, I like black clothes. She often asked me, “ Why do you like black?” She did not know that something is associated with a person by birth…… She was lost in another way and I in another. Our needs had drawn us towards each other.…… She was weeping and from these droplets, I was inscribing life. Behind her words, there was an agony. I knew of pain and consequently fell in love with her ……… It was a season of roses. We, at a little distance from that very Eucalyptus tree, were looking into the future. That day she had brought something for me to eat. Roundabout, roses in their multitude stood but there was no black rose. I started to search for it and she disappeared…..… Darkness seemed to lower down. Darkness is always black except when the moon is up…….. But every one has his own moon, everyone’s own…… my moon went away……… You and me live in such an environment where tears fear to be shed. Innocent wayfarers are plundered by their own guardians. People distribute the vision. Life is got in a begging pot. One who has money is considered to possess acme of mind. How can an artist of such a locality stay excluded from the pain that resides here. With this faith and hope that the light of love will touch this place surely, we begin the event.