Genius. Just.

A little sweet, a little sour,
A little close, not too far.
All I need, All I need,
All I need, is to be free.

Chhoo loo main, itna kareeb,
Chal paroon toh kitna door,
Sapna sa buna,
Sweater sa warm,
Safed badalon par,
Mera jahaan.

Let me in without a shout,
Let me in I have a doubt,
There are more, many more,
Many many many more like me.

:-)

Daddy's girl. :)

For some reason the stupid header has shrunk to half its size.
It doesn't look as good.

And I don't know how to repair it.

Oh, the drawbacks of being a tech-retard. :(

I studied Tragedy the whole night.
Macbeth, Hubris and Oedipus, as the city slept.
And all the time, the Godfather theme played in the background.

For some reason, I am utterly mindfucked

Rules:
1. Put your MP3 player on shuffle
2. For each question, press the next button to get your answer.
3. You must write the name of the song no matter what. No cheating!



I got this from Srin. It is rather fun to do. And the fact that I am utterly bored does not matter. A bit.

IF SOMEONE SAYS “IS THIS OKAY?” YOU SAY?
Amazing Grace (Joan Baez) – wow!

WHAT WOULD BEST DESCRIBE YOUR PERSONALITY?
Bakshe bakshe bondi bakso.. (Arnab) - Layered, huh?

WHAT DO YOU LIKE IN A GUY/GIRL?
In the mirror (Yanni) – pardon?

HOW DO YOU FEEL TODAY?
American Idiot (Green Day) – hahahahahahahahahahahaha!! :D

WHAT IS YOUR LIFE’S PURPOSE?
Tumse milke aisa lagaa (from the film 'Parinda') – erm? I am supposed to spend my life searching for true love? Or what?

WHAT IS YOUR MOTTO?
Desperado (Eagles) - :)

WHAT DO YOUR FRIENDS THINK OF YOU?
We’ve got a groovy thing goin’ (SnG) – YAY!!

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR PARENTS?
This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine (Lennon) – true.

WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT VERY OFTEN?
Coffee houser sei addata aj ar nei. (Manna dey) – This is uncanny! I was thinking about it right NOW!

WHAT IS 2+2?
Kar Salaam (from the film 'Metro – Life in a city') - :D

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR BEST FRIEND?
Let it rain (Tracy Chapman) – why?

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THE PERSON YOU LIKE?
Jeena yahaan, marna yahaan…(from the film 'Mera Naam Joker') - commitment, babeh!

WHAT IS YOUR LIFE STORY?
Only hope (Switchfoot) – love the song. If only.... :)

WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GROW UP?
Funeral March (Beethoven) - uh oh!

WHAT DO YOU THINK WHEN YOU SEE THE PERSON YOU LIKE?
The sound of silence (SnG) – yes. I AM shy.

WHAT DO YOUR PARENTS THINK OF YOU?
Hoshwaalon ko khabar kya (Jagjit Singh) – Awwww!

WHAT WILL YOU DANCE TO AT YOUR WEDDING?
O gaanwala, arekta gaan gao, amar ar kothao jawar nei, kichchu korar nei (Suman) – I might, just.

WHAT WILL THEY PLAY AT YOUR FUNERAL?
Diamonds and rust (Joan Baez) – I would like that. Really.

WHAT IS YOUR HOBBY/INTEREST?
Tomake chai (Suman) – like what?

WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST SECRET?
Humsafar saath apna chhod chale (Md. Rafi) – ow. That hurt.

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR FRIENDS?
Anji (SnG) – erm?

WHAT SHOULD YOU POST THIS AS?
So pure (Alanis Morissette) – Ok. If you insist.


And I tag mojo, heathcliff, ruby tuesday, double-dolphin , sonai and yippeehippie.
Go guys!

My city is burning.
And all I am doing right now is studying for my exams.

I wouldn't know what to do.

Also, I. am. too. effing. scared.

Oh, how I love the person I have grown up to be!

No crying baby. Just.no.tears.

There is no pain, you are receding
A distant ship smoke on the horizon
You are only coming through in waves
Your lips move but I can't hear what you're saying

When I was a child I had a fever
My hands felt just like two balloons
Now I've got that feeling once again
I can't explain, you would not understand
This is not how I am
I have become comfortably numb


Bloody stupid, complacent, moronic, indifferent, selfish me.

This just to let you know..

..that the blog has not been abandoned. Just temporarily put to sleep.
And in the meantime, I have been to Benares, gotten drunk, written a paper and puked on a train. Not necessarily in that order.

Benares trip was rather surreal but. Growing up in two completely different places is not easy. And I figured out that there will always be this part of me which would be forever sitting on the Ghaats and smelling the humanity hurrying by. And also breathing in the air. That air which reeks of dhoop, gobar, abir, ganga, sweat and life at any given point of the day.

I leave with some Sonai pictures of the trip-that-almost-never-was.

It was she who shot these beauties.

Cynicism finally packed it’s bags today.

You may never know whether it might come back tomorrow. Or probably an hour hence. But let’s just enjoy the fact that, for once, the throbbing, messy, heated mass of humanity that is Calcutta seems to be a little more kind.

The six odd hours or so I spent participating in a certain candle-light vigil today, were tinged with just that much ….erm, for the loss of a better word… goodness? The day was long. The warmth lasted longer.

An old lady stopped by. Not a particularly healthy sample of old age. Unsteadily, she walked towards the altar. With a huge bag full of incredible home-made stuff. She had got it for us, she said. Because we were not accepting anything else. Biscuits and jam came out. And dalmoot. And bread and butter. And umpteen number of candles. She lit a candle. Signed the poster. “Boro hoye ar jai hok, sahosi hoyo”, she said. And went away. And came back in 5 minutes.

“Jam ar makhon diyechi. Haat diye toh makhate parbe na. Tai plastic er chamuch diyechi. Dhuye kheo.”

And then she was off. Nodding her head. And muttering, to the companion, “suicide noy…suicide noy.” Leaning on a walking stick. A bit unsteady still.
For some unknown reason. Or perhaps some reasons not-so-unknown, speech was lost at the moment.

“Beware the fury of a patient man” – a poster proclaimed. Beware indeed.

A labourer stopped. And stared. And painstakingly read the urdu posters.

“Can I pray here?”, he asked falteringly.
Well of course he could!
And so he squatted on the pavement, just infront of those candles. Closed his eyes, and prayed. For the man who was dead. For the girl who was not. And for all those who could-have-been. The Allah, if there ever was one, could not have found a better place to be present.

There was a father and a daughter. The former being an ex-student of that college.
“Kichu lagbe? Kichu lagbe?”, he kept asking.

It was a hot day, and could he get us a bottle of water please, we asked.

And the man was off in a jiffy. He came back in half-an-hour. With a carton of mineral water bottles! Kindness comes in big packs these days.


And then there was the man in the shades. Visually impaired and led by a companion.
“Amio kichu korte chai”, he was adament. And would not move. So we held his hand and helped him kneel, while, with faltering hands and a grim set of jaws he went about successfully lighting a candle. And just at that moment, the world seemed to shine just that little bit brighter.

The steady stream of people broke all boundaries today. They were people bent with old age. And there was the 4 year old child who took off his chappals before lighting the candle – his face a picture of concentration as he tried to protect the flames from the wind. Religion did not exist. Or perhaps did. Overwhelmingly. If you call humanity a religion.
A traffic constable stopped. And signed. The press-photographer went crazy clicking. The constable lit the candle. And then came back and demanded that his photos be deleted. “Ami gorib manush bhai, photo dekhle ber kore debe”. The fear just refuses to go away sometimes.
There was a Canadian couple. And two Spanish ladies. The Canadians heard. And wanted to do something..anything. The Spanish people knew already. And cared. And had come to sign, light, pray.
Given half-a-chance, I could go on and on today. About how a ragpicker came and lit a candle. And was adament that he wanted to sign. He couldn’t. He was illiterate. So we signed for him instead. I can tell you about the young man with the Korpur sticks. Who burnt his hands, but was determined to light them nevertheless. The stories, once they start spilling out, could fill a book. And for today, I will overlook the fact that for every person who took time out to pray and light, 5 people walked by nonchalantly. And a few more vehemently refused to sign. For today, lets concentrate on the humanity instead.


“Love is asking the police for permission”, a poster proclaimed. It did. It still does. It will probably continue to do so.

But today, for those few hours, with the police station just a few feet away, it didn’t. Calcutta loved and cared. And while they were at it, permission was not asked for.

Baanwra ek ghunghta chahe, haule haule bin bataye, baanwre se mukhre se sadakna..

I am suddenly reminded of saattola, for some obvious and some not-so-obvious reasons.

Sometimes, when the rain gets into you, melting remains the only option.

Khattam Shud.

When I was very very young - smaller than even the smallest me you can picturise, Dhaka used to occupy the central place of my imagination.
More than tuntuni, more than red-riding-hood, heck, even more than random cat under the water tank.
My earliest memory of being told a Dhaka story is when we would all gather around the huge table at the boroghor, gulping down mounds of butter and rice. A dollop of salt, and a generous helping of incredible stories. Which would almost always be told by dadumoni.
It seemed a magical place. A place of less than perfect boundaries. With more than perfect people.
We were told of the steamers till Goalindo and the high-ceilinged musty smelling ancestral house where 35 people lived under the same roof. Scratching his throat, Dadumoni would recall how once he had gotten stuck in a Muslim mohalla during a riot, and how he had escaped with the help of the family dentist, who happened to be a Muslim. 35 people under the same roof, and not a single dent to show for it, he said. All of them having muri and batasa out of a single bowl and rushing off to school. Kilos of fish needed to feed the entire lot. And how my great- grandmother would cook, ghomta in place, throughout the day – huge pieces of ilish, gleaming with oil - and still have time to read the latest Sharatchandra. Dadumoni had come home from school one evening, he said, to find the house in an uproar. Because there were escaped freedom fighters in the chilekotha, and the police at the backdoor.
Each mouthful of rice I took would demand a story. The story of how 35 people slept together, for instance. All my grandfather’s cousins in the same room. All over one another. All around one another. And not one word of complaint.
Eggs being divided with a piece of string, he talked of. Because, heck, you can’t have whole eggs for all 35 people.
Dadumoni, white haired and scratchy bearded, eyes gleaming - would talk of my great grandfather. And how he would teach and look after all the cousins at one go. Correcting phrasal verbs and factorisations simultaneously. With equal elaan.
And then, there was the first journey to Kolkata. So many of them crammed into one space. Ans so much fun.
And then there was the last journey to Kolkata. So much space crammed into all of them. So much nothingness inside each when they came down to India. Leaving old houses behind. Leaving old lives behind. Leaving old blood behind.

35 people! He insisted.
35 people and no dent to show for it. Eggs and ilish maachh. Maths and English. All devoured together. All together. Together.

The old man lives alone, with his wife, in a clingy, house now-a-days. 35 people at the beginning of his life, and 2 at the end of it. The sons and the daughters are scattered in snazzier flats all around the city. There is still a fat cat under the water tank. And the huge table. But no boroghor.
Dhaka still remains. As well as the white beard.


But it’s once again like when they left Dhaka. There is a huge, empty house. And so much emptiness within. So much emptiness without.

I miss you, dadumoni.

It's the middle of the term.
And suddenly I want to puke and throw it all away, and go buy flowers.
Not. Do. Anything. For. A. While.
For. A. LONG. While.

Mile Sur Mera Tumhara.

This gives me goosebumps.

And reminds me of trysts with destinies and bleary eyed tricolours. Tricolours, when the world was all black and white.

Especially today. :)

Priorities.
RearRangEd.*


*I shall never be able to trust certain people again. The masks hurt.

There has been a powercut in the locality for the last 3 hours. And all I am doing in this oppressive heat is helping myself to all the chocolate icecream there is in the refrigerator.

Chak De India! is good. In fact, it is so good that I want to watch it again. And perhaps one more time after that. .


Once upon a time, I went through a wannabe weird phase. But then I stopped when I realized that my demands from life were/are pitifully small. Give me pastries, a good movie and nice, musical walks by the lake, and I am very very happy.

Now-a-days, I marvel at how in-your-face commonplace I am.

"I WILL arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,

And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:

Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,

And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,

Dropping from the veils of the mourning to where the cricket sings;

There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,

And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day

I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;

While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,

I hear it in the deep heart's core."

"The Lake Isle of Innisfree" by William Butler Yeats.

This poem, strangely reminds me of random, breezy mornings on Benares Ghaats. And the strong smell of dhoop and gobar and ghee. And how, when I was tiny, I would sit on the steps, and wonder at the imagination that was humanity as it flowed past the Ganga.

Harry.

We’ve been together to many places. The road less travelled. The road more travelled. The mornings smelling of Chelpark Ink. And torchlights under the blanket.

Gulping down milk and rushing to school. Gulping down tears and ‘I will be fine’s.

There had been a link. Or an imagination maybe? Broken spines of books and yellowed pages. Inkblots on fingers and sometimes a bleeding knee?

But always, always, coming back to it. Desperately wanting a little, tiny bit of that nothingness, because magic is a powerful world. A powerful word.

Splashing through puddles, writing tutorials, burning fever and Wingardium Laviosa. Its always been like that. A big chunk of this world, and little bit of theirs. A dark, cruel, bright fascination.

I always knew this would end. It was altogether too fragile to last. Like a butterfly wing you so want to touch, but which tears under the slightest pressure? Too many question-marks, too many thoughts bordering on madness. Escapism.

It ended today. The boy didn’t die. But the magic did.

And somewhere within, the butterfly, which I had held on to, so tightly, yet so delicately..flapped its wings and escaped.

But it's okay though. I still have some of it’s colour on my fingers.

Elaan. Making it's presence felt.

While you are at it, do check out this, this and this.

And to all the people who were there for us, thank yous fall so short sometime. :)

Mania.

Disappointed. Muchly. :(

Since I have absolutely nothing to do. And like, you know, when you sit on the sofa watching nth reruns of SaReGaMaPa, and this huge tsunami wave of nothing-to-do-ness hits you? Well, yeah, that happened today. And so, I dug out a list. And that is my blogpost for the day. 7 things. And excuse me while I go and attach myself to the sofa again.

And here they are. 7 things I wish to do in my lifetime:
1.Go snorkelling around the great barrier reef.
2.Meet John Nash.
3.Watch a superhit movie being directed.
4.Give an eve-teaser a bloody nose.
5.Keep a pet pug and name it Hutch. (I read it somewhere, the pug-being-named-Hutch, that is.)
6.Experience Oxford. Real life.
7.Dance. At the Royal Albert Hall.

They define poignancy thus.

I say, it is simply, this.

Hori din toh galo, sondhya holo, paar koro amare..

The Sen person.
Taking random shit from people (and generally displaying no backbone whatsoever)

since 1988.

Just.

Barely there. :)

Realisation that my road to nowhere starts from Malory Towers and goes up to Jaisalmer (NOT the city, just hypnotism and globetrotters and Mukul), wounds through Blandings and meets up with the muddy pathways of Nishchindipur.

Yellow-brick-roads need to be found. Quick.

Sometimes I wonder at how pat I have my childhood down. Books and songs and certain conversations. And 12 years giftwrapped and delivered at your doorstep. Just like that.

Geromeet.

The curious tangy taste of vodka mixed with chicken and beef and fish and cheese.
And there was smoke in my eyes, and smoke in my lungs and a general smokiness inside the head.
Certain comfortable shoulders and conversations provided nice places to retreat from time to time, just as the little bit of Neverland left in this world shook itself and settled down over rickety tables and drunken souls.


A small bit of lost-lost magic, floating aimlessly about this world for so long, finally found a tiny foothold. :)

Oly.

This is to beef steaks, rugged carpets, and overflowing pegs of Fuel.
This is also to SPE next door, graffiti laden toilet walls, queasy stomachs, torn sofas and stoic faces.
To spinning rooms, blunt knives, scurrying rats and tumble-down ceilings.
And to countless, timeless, hurrying, whispering, nudges of time, and secrets as they poured out.

Kobi Guru.

"...Bosiya achho kano apono money,
Swartho nimogono, ki kaaroney.
Charidikey dekho chahi hridoyo prosaari,
Khudro dukkho sobo, tuchchho maani..."

This helps. A lot.


Thank you. :)


And happy birthday, by the way.

I was seven-years old at the time, when love, in all its glory and fury, jumped out from behind a musty bookshelf and bonked me hard on the head.
It smelled a little like Chelpark Royal Blue ink, and also a bit like the breathless-escapades-on-steamers-during-partition-stories which dadumoni used to narrate, before he went all wrinkled and quiet. It reminded me of 7o’clock dashes to the building which is 103 A&C Ballygunge Place, and the sour taste in mouth when the milk would just not finish and the clock would just not slow down. I touched it gingerly, and it was soft. Like mamma’s cotton saree-aanchals when I would wipe my hand on them after lunch.
I talked to it. It smiled back.
It took my breath away. And I have been lost ever since.
When heartbreak happened, and loneliness happened. And people just went on pretending and wouldn’t stop, I would randomly shut myself up, and wander off.

There.

And just sit there, in this random rajasthan fortress, besides the road in this strange kingdom far away, on the steps of this normal benares ghaat or in this half-forgotten village at the end of nowhere, until all the broken me-pieces were collected and glued back together.
And when pisemoshai just went away, (I refuse to say that he died), and everything just went freaky inside my head, I went and huddled up next to her.
And listened to her sing : "Hori din toh galo, sondhya holo, paar koro amarey..."
And cried, like I needed to.

Its been a fabulous 10 years of unwavering, intense love. And worship. And a way of life which just refuses to die.
Every single day, I am newly bonked-on-the-head, and every new facet I discover, settles itself inside, like this old and ragged quilt, which never fails to provide comfort, no matter HOW zonked I am.

Pardon my unashamed gushing. I adore, worship, love this man.

Smitten, badly, since 1995.

Happy Birthday. (Tad belated)

MOHARAJA, TOMAREY SELAAM.

You know there is something horribly wrong with the education system OR me (with emphasis on the latter) when, less than 12 hours away from my end semester examinations, I spend the last 3 hours reading 5 pages of Pope, and ingesting :

1. Cadbury Dairy Milk - Three-fourth of a bar.
2. Shukno Bournvita - Copious amount.
3. 7-Up - Almost an entire half litre bottle.
4. Lays Wafer Style Chips - Half a packet.

I then proceed to think of curly hair, Danny Dengzappa and nail cutters in precisely that order. (Don't even begin to demand an explanation of the chain of thought.)

And then, I blog about it, in meticulous detail.

Sometimes, if it is really hot and still outside, didimoni takes an afternoon nap. The halud-jirey-amsotto smell clings to her, and if it is after-shower, mysore sandal soap wafts in as well. The cotton saree is neatly tucked all about, as she snores gently with her hands splayed wide. Arm skin sags, and makes a nice, soft place to tickle, if I am bored.
And if mindfuck happens, and I tiptoe in to snatch a cuddle, she always knows. Opens her eyes a teeny bit, and I go and curl up besides. Face down on the soft arm-skin. A toothless half-grin later, she drowsily retrieves her arm and starts whispering

‘Megh mulukey, jhapsa raatey, ramdhonuker abchhayate…’

I turn over, and go to sleep. And if luck permits, dream of random boys climbing over clouds.

Okay, ahem..disclaimer.
The last post was NOT about me going bonkers or me having a drug overdose or me wallowing in self-pity.
It was loneliness. And about somebody passing away. And certain other stuff which do not include the ones mentioned above.
On second thoughts, I was rash. And a tad hurried. The last post was DEFINITELY not blog-worthy. More of a private-journal-entry perhaps.
But it felt nice, this. I didn’t know so many people cared. :)
Anyways..

On other things,
My body clock has finally kicked the bucket and gone for a long overdue, all-expenses paid trip to Hawaii. Or so it seems. These days, 4 in the morning is the regular time for going to sleep. And eyelids don’t open until 10. It was enjoyable, in the beginning. The drip-drip-drip of the tap, the Isaac Asimovs, the rats scurrying by, the chocolate biscuits at night and the drip-drip again. But now-a-days, it sucks. Enough of it already. Sweaty, sleepy, cranky and with a sour taste in the mouth. Definitely not the way to be at 11 every morning.
However, this is where I roam about every night, when sleep refuses to come..


On moon day the dream king gave an audience to five small children who had traveled a long way, seeking their lost mother. He met them in a hall filled with scarecrows who whispered among themselves in the voices of the stars of the silent screen.
Dancing salamanders brought the children silver plates piled with exotic ice creams of various flavours, and with fruits they had never seen before and would never see again….although they would dream of them in rare occasions, until they died.
Gravely the lord of dreams listened to each child plead and beg, and then at the end, he drew a door in the air with his finger, and the children walked through it, into the rest of their story.
And on moon day he arbitrated in a dispute between the knight of clouds and the body politic. He awarded the magic lantern show to the knight of clouds, although he permitted the body politic to retain custody of the six screaming stones and the snows of yesterday.
He walked from his castle to the dreams of a small boy in Hong Kong. He remained there for some minutes, observing quietly. Then he left.
He ate in the dream of the head-chef in the best hotel in Sri Lanka, a dream of a certain meal described to the chef by his grandfather. The meal consisted of almost fifty separate courses, and over two hundred dishes. The king of dreams tasted sparingly of a vegetable dish, and a little plain rice, and was contented by the perfection of each.
He had been asked to permit the sending of a dream of warning to a teenaged girl in South Africa. With this dream to drive her, the girl would grow up to take charge of her country, to unite all the dividing factions. Without it, she would become a nurse.
He came to his own decision, and relayed it to the Tribal Gods from whom the request had come. His decision brooked no argument, had no appeal.
And then, to conclude the day’s work, he gave an elderly tortoise, alone on her island these past two centuries, a dream of her love, roasted by passing sailors long since, for his rich, green flesh.

On Truesday, the Prince of Stories listened to the tale of a nightmare it had created a handful of years before and sent out into the world. The nightmare brought gifts: a photograph of a smile, a handful of dried thyme and a clammy, fat, silver-and-red clown toy made of something not unlike rubber. He gave it words of approval in return and it blushed black with pleasure.
Then the prince of Stories walked the bounds of the dreaming, beginning with the shores of night, and from there to the borders of the shifting places. He took ship in the archipelago and inspected the skerries, tallying each one, no matter how insignificant.
He rode a black horse across the lake of dawn, and rode a white horse through the mandrake wood, and rode a screech owl over the via lacrimae.
He walked through the love fields, and from there he walked on into nightmare.



On Wodensday he walked the castle. The heart of the dreaming is as large as the dreaming itself. He began in the cellars beneath the castle where once many wines and jars and distillates were stored. He took counsels with the great spiders and exchanged quiet words with many-legged scuttling things, who viewed him as one of themselves.
In the afternoon the Lord Shaper walked through the rooms of the castle above the ground, talking to each of the staff in turn, hearing their grievances, acknowledging their service and their work.
He spoke to the scar-dancers, to the straw-dust-women, to the old man with the swan’s arm who tends back stairs, to the three children of the autopsy, to the painters and the scriveners and the walls.
He spoke to people made of thin twigs, and to the dream ghosts who left glowing footprints as the only evidence of their passage.
He spoke to the embryonic silicon dreams who clustered in the far ballroom, and whispered to them, briefly, about the other machines that had dreamed in the distant past.
When this day was almost over, he went into the throne room, and took stock of certain items there, including those things he keeps in that room, behind coloured glass: the raw stuff, untamed, that is central to the dreaming.



On Thirstday, the King Of Dreams walked in the waking world. He stood briefly at the side of the hall watching a young woman with a guitar, tell an audience of a dream she had had, in song.
He stood infront of a painting spray-painted on a wall soon to be demolished, and after staring for some time, he nodded, as if in approval.
In a small park in Central Europe, he stopped to feed the pigeons, because it gave him pleasure so to do, although he stopped when it was pointed out to him that a sign said “Do not feed the pigeons.”
He walked across the park, and watched an open-air performance of ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’. He was mildly disappointed by the translation. He was, however, extraordinarily amused by the performance of the actor playing the part of Bottom.
Later that day, he visited each of his properties in the waking world, checking the upkeep and the condition of each; and then he returned to the dreaming.



On Fire’s day, dream was reviewing certain of the various treaties and agreements, between the dreaming and other states and boundaries and entities, when he was disturbed….’
- Neil Gaiman.

It's like you are outside your body, and looking down on it. And inside it, at the same time. And it feels as if the you've just had 1 joint all to yourself. All zonked and dry-mouthed and you desperately want to puke. And there's a lump in your throat and you can't breathe? And it's like the 55 year old man who died suddenly this morning, and the 15 year old stepping forward for Mukhagni just don't exist any longer. Never did. Never will.
You know, like Neil Gaiman talking about 'parallel Americas' and how dream defines reality and destiny defines freedom? And suddenly I think of aunt Teleute. Pale and shimmering, weird eye-shadow and desperately cool. And Morpheus, with his Matthew and Lucien and all. It's funny, how I am thinking of Sandman, continuously, since I heard the news.

Suddenly, all of them make frightening sense.
Khider thekeo sposhto.

Coherence is not happening. Just. Not. Happening. No. Expectations. Happening. No. NO.

Comfortably Numb was CREATED to soothe claustrophobic, troubled, hurting souls. Listening to it in an endless loop since this afternoon. The sweat has dried, and it feels like sleeping on cold cement floors when you are burning up with fever.
Want to ESCAPE, dammit!! No crying baby. Just. No. Tears.

Hello.
Is there anybody in there?
Just nod if you can hear me.
Is there anyone home?

Come on, now.
I hear youre feeling down.
Well I can ease your pain,
Get you on your feet again.

Relax.
I need some information first.
Just the basic facts:
Can you show me where it hurts?

Nothing-else-to-do post. *grin*

Read my VisualDNA™ Get your own VisualDNA™

It was a nice house.
Softspoken, and clingy in some ways, but nice, if you know what I mean.
It was ancient too. The cracks showed. And so did the soft moss which grew at an alarming rate.
Previously, the front part consisted of one huge room which had wooden sofas and an old divan and arched windows, with green , wooden windowpanes. And an old, noisy refrigerator which was perennially grumpy. It had a television set too, which dutifully aired Mahabharata and Chitrahar every Sunday and Wednesday respectively. (But then of course, times, they changed and so did the TV. And now, every night, it beams coloured pictures and spins stories about the extra-marital affairs of ridiculously rich women.) The huge room had an adjoining chhotoghor which held old, rusty complan tins full of marbles, and one half of a broken carom board. And of course the mandatory, very old alna, with soft and reassuring housecoats and sarees and cotton shirts smelling of rin detergent bars. The verandah infront of the old house had a pillar painted blue. And then 3 steps. Down and straight if you wanted to get to the rannaghor, which was huge. With oil stained yellow walls, cement sinks and rows of jars full of ghorey pesha gorom moshla, 2 gas ovens, and an all-pervading smell of tej pata.
Down the 3 steps and left, and you came to the garden. Shiuli and joba. And mango and guava, batabi lebu, neem and coconut trees.
Down 3 steps and right, and there was the uthon. And the rooms surrounding it. Old rooms with kulungis and high four-posters and cool red cement floors which were heavenly and addictive on hot summer afternoons. The uthon though, was nicest during the winter. The sunlight which managed to strain in through the thick, double layers of mango and neem leaves was pleasantly hot and exactly the colour of melted butter. And you could get yourself a madur and a pillow, a Ruskin Bond and a small, paper packet of achaar and create your own little piece of heaven. The iron, spiral staircase at one end of the uthon was forbidden land till you attained a certain age. After that you could cling on to the railings and get to the chhat, which was silent and frightening and almost white with pigeon droppings or green with kancha aam, depending on the season.
The old rooms downstairs, had corridors too. Old corridors - my favouritest part of the whispering house. High ceilings, grills and chiks, and iron and wooden book cases. It was heavenly if you didn’t fear the occasional spider and the even more rare rat or two. Newspaper wrapped, crumbly, yellowed treasures were routinely discovered. 'Mohabharoter Golpo', and a hard bound, cloth covered Bengali translation of a Russian story called ‘Chuk ar Gek’, ‘Five have a Mystery to solve’ and ‘Leela Majumderer Sreshtho Golpo’, ‘Vivekanander Vedanta Chinta’, ‘Byakoron Koumudi’ and the complete annotated ‘Merchant of Venice’ (year of publication:1938) were all unearthed here once upon a time.


I will be moving away soon. To a flat, with snazzy lighting, snazzier furniture, French windows and a room of my own. The flat doesn’t whisper. Nor does it sigh when it’s sad. It is healthy, with no rats, no spiders and no random plump cat taking a nap on the panchil.

It is a nice flat. I like it.


It was a nicer house. I loved it.

"...Tora juddho kore korbi ki ta bol..
Mithye ostro shostro dhorey, praanta kano jay beghorey..
Rajye rajye porosporey dwondey omongol,
Tora juddho kore korbi ki ta bol.
Raja koren tombi tomba.
Montri moshai kisey kom ba..
Proja peye oshtorombha, holo heenobol.
Tora juddho kore korbi ki ta bol.."


Much thanks to her for the coming up with this in the first place. I added bits to it though.
Apt. Very.

She was the daughter of the nth cousin of the nth cousin of my father. And she studied in my school. And also in 2E. Same class. Same section. And so, of course, I just had to go and be all sickly sweet and ask her how she was and did she know x person? And of course then, she must be knowing all about y and all that blah.

‘No’, she replied, coldly. ‘I am sorry, you must be mistaken’.

What a stupid girl!!!!

And then, 3 days later, ‘Ohhh..you meant x person? Well, of course, I call her z, and that’s why I didn’t recognize it!’ And so all is good, and yayyay!! And also, ‘Ramgorurer chhana is just yum! Don’t you think?’ (Well, not exactly that. But words to that effect)

And of course, you have to launch into an animated conversation after that!

Class 3 was spent wincing. Homeworks copied for me when I fractured my collar bone. And poring over Pagla Dashu together.

Class 4 was Enid Blyton. Joint discovery. ‘Shadow The Sheepdog’ read out aloud in class by B Miss. And we were hooked. Both of us. Malory Towers and St.Clares and oh! Midnight Treats and riding lessons! FiveFindOuters and Famous Five and how we both wanted to disguise ourselves and get a dog. 4 was also the time of house-visits. Mutual. It meant tape frocks and sharing cool slices of mango and orange fish cut outs, and marble paper ice cream cones with cotton as icecream, for show-and-tell.

Then high school happened. And class 5 was
'Captain Planet he is a hero,
Gonna take pollution down to zero’….all the way.

So things proceeded. Six was pretty tame. Only Titanic took our breath away. Long conversations dominated by the words Leonardo, sexy (newly acquired) and huge sighs happened pretty frequently.

Agatha Christie and first menstrual cramps, we dissected them all. Anonymous flowers left for her on the school desk in class 8. (she was , and still is, breathtakingly beautiful :) ) and I was the one who went to investigate the source. First crush ( a humongous one, might I say) when I was 12, and she was the one at the receiving end of my lovesick swoons and very very bad poetry. Sandwiches wrapped in silver foil in a plastic box wrapped in a checkered napkin, which were dutifully exchanged with cold and soggy French toasts dunked in ketchup.
‘Day spendings’ at each other’s houses when much time would be spent drooling over Hrithik Roshan and dancing to ‘Ek pal ka jeena’. Detailed exchange of Bangkok and Benares adventures and attentive story telling/listening sessions featuring ‘Anna and the King’, ‘Ever After’, ‘Jumanjee’ et al.
Sharing orange sticks during sports practice, and feeling a tinge of pride (amidst a lot of disappointment) when her house won the march past competition (well our house won the house championship and so there!!). And yes, still drooling over Hrithik Roshan. All night ‘addas’ under the blanket during the school excursion in class 11, and getting to know all about steroids and constant reminders to keep inhalers within reach. (she had chronic asthma..)
Frantic late night calls during class 12 and she would patiently explain theories of probability and the Gross Net Product and suchlike things.
Gravely advising her on her then-would-be-now-steady boyfriend. Bad attempts at learning badminton. And feeding the kittens smuggled in and kept in a wooden box under her stairs. Much beauty tips and yoga snippets shared and the first shoulder to cry on when heartbreak happened. Lots of serious decision making and grave nodding of heads over cold coffee.

Its been almost 13 years since I first met her. Conversations happen. But not long-drawn-out-soul-bearing-types. Busy-schedule-and-respective-colleges-eating-up-time excuses given. Most frequently. Starting where we left off, but the zing is amiss, many a time.



I totally heart you T. I miss you.

I have just realized that I will have to settle for being the second fiddle. At least in this case.

Ah well, life, you know.

I should have guessed much earlier.

This one is for JUDE.

It is OUR KUBLA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

YO!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Due to certain legal procedures involved, my previous post has been temporarily removed.
Please do keep checking back.
Thank you.

9th March, Evening, OAT Stadium, Jadavpur University, Kolkata.

Hille le jhakjhor duniya,
Hille le jhakjhor...

Gush, gush, gush, gush, gush, gush, gush, gush, gush...............
Starry eyed. Period.

(The picture is not of that day's performance though)

read ur profile (timepass karna tha)....
found it quite interesting (maskaa maar raha hoon)....
u look a good in tis pic(yaar ab jhooth bhi bolna pad raha hai iske liye)....
will u like to b my frnd plzz (chalo tu nahi to koi aur mil jaayegi teri frndlist mein)....
i hope u wont mind me adding u (plz bhaav mat khana, add me )....
just check out my profile (kuchh likha nahi waise maine)...
u'l find we hav lots of things common (teri profile padh ke hi add ki hai maine)...
bye n take care ( mere bolne se jaise firk pad jaayega )hahahaaaa just kidding ,
dont mind.....can v be frnds




hi . .i m Manjeet............an unknown person for u but i think at some point in life each and every person is unknown to other..So i wanna know u u wud b ma frnd...what u say???



hi my self maddy.........
wana be ur friend
accutually dear ur sweet face has attracted me in making friendship with u..........
plzzz aceept my friendship....
waiting for ur sweet reply..........

Sheesh. It seems nice. The world being full of such friendly people. Oh my!! Be still my heart!

Ar sadsod hotey bhallagchhe na.
Dhyattor.
End of chapter. Closed book. Finish. Khattam shud.

And on that note,
Bookfair booty.
Birthday booty.
Books and movies. And then some more.
Back to dance classes again. Losing it in twirls and baghleis.
Regular work-outs.
Vigorous, stimulating, exciting, brilliant classes. Shakespeare and Bernini. And Gauhar Bai and Bauls and Gandhigiri.

Whee..breathlessness...here I come. :)

*fingers crossed*
Ahem.

Should I go ahead and go all longingmushysadandoverwhelmed?



Or should I go about things just as I have been in the past?



All nice and childish and stupid and laughing and distant and fake and nyaka and masquerading?

Horrible horrible horrible Reading Disorder.

Piles of books all around. Nice, juicy, interesting, fabulous books.

Nothing is being finished. Nothing is being digested.

Have not had the light headed-immersed in fiction-lost to the world feeling for so long.

Gnawing, scratchy, icky mind. Claustrophobic.

"Aguner poroshmoni chhnoyao praaney,
E jeebon punyo koro dohono-daaney.
Amar ei dehokhani tuley dhoro,
Tomar oi debaloyer prodeep koro -
Nishidin alok-shikha joluk gaaney.
Aandharer gaaye gaaye porosho tobo,
Sara raat photak tara nobo nobo.
Noyoner drishti hotey ghuchbe kalo,
Jekhane porbe setha dekhbe aalo -
Byatha mor uthbe jwoley urdho-paaney."

Sejodadu died today. Within 3 weeks of Sejodida's (his wife's) death.
For once, a song says it all.

For months, I would be excited about ‘the-night-before’.
And for one night, the big four poster bed I slept in, would smell of Topa-Kul and jaggery instead of Pond’s talcum powder and Ma.
The blanket that I snuggled under, would become this separate island, a parallel universe, from where I defied the norms of logic and peeped out through a cranny. And observed.
Observed liquid gur along with khoi and coconut disappear into big kadais over kerosene stoves, and come out as scrumptious mowas and nadus…which would, then, be left on newspapers to cool.
Observed sugary kadma and batasa and nokuldana unearthed from paper packets and spread out on brass plates as offerings.
Observed sandalwood-paste being made, and flowers being garlanded and fruits being sliced into neat, clean cubes.
Observed rice paste and water serving as the raw materials for some of the most astonishing art works – alponas, ever seen.
And then, suddenly, it would be time to wake up and take the ritual holud snaan before the Puja.
The Puja would be nice, no doubt. The early morning chill would give me goose-bumps and I would feel all grown-up and important when asked to fetch a plate from the next room.

Many Pujas have passed since then. I have transformed from an observer to an active worker. Dida has lost even more teeth. And now-a-days, mowas and nadus come from plastic packets. The Pujo, though, is intrinsically, still the same.
It is only the night-before that has lost it’s sheen.
The essence of that half-asleep, shadowy world where didas would seem immortal and Narkoli Kuls would be even more tempting than the forbidden fruit, is simply there no more.
I miss it sorely.
I do.

Nostalgic.
Happy.
Puzzling.
Boring.
Trippy.
Bad.
Confusing.
Crappy.
Shiny.
Pompous.
Reluctant.



HAPPY 1ST BIRTHDAY BLOG!!!!!!!

Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called honah lee,
Little jackie paper loved that rascal puff,
And brought him strings and sealing wax and other fancy stuff.

Together they would travel on a boat with billowed sail
Jackie kept a lookout perched on puffs gigantic tail,
Noble kings and princes would bow wheneer they came,
Pirate ships would lower their flag when puff roared out his name.

A dragon lives forever but not so little boys
Painted wings and giant rings make way for other toys.
One grey night it happened, jackie paper came no more
And puff that mighty dragon, he ceased his fearless roar.

His head was bent in sorrow, green scales fell like rain,
Puff no longer went to play along the cherry lane.
Without his life-long friend, puff could not be brave,
So puff that mighty dragon sadly slipped into his cave.

Oh! Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called honah lee.


This song reminds me of half eaten biscuits and Kisholoy on a drowsy Monday morning. And breathless, blue-schoolbag-lugging runs down Ballygunge Place footpaths.
It still smells of surf-excel, bournvita and chelpark royal blue ink.

For me, Puff never stopped roaring. He had just gone for a walk down the yellow brick road.