Blah.

Growing up is not all it is made out to be. For example, this weekend, I'm looking forward to:

1. Cleaning the bigger loo.
2. Getting the rice cooker fixed.
3. Cleaning the top of the fridge. (The red ants are killing us)
4. Pestering the plumber until he comes over to fix the leaky pipe and the broken washer.
5. Getting quilts down from the loft and sunning them.
6. Buying a nice overcoat for myself from Janpath before the temperature dips to single figure and the prices shoot up.
7. Cooking the leftover pork in the fridge.
8. Making the long overdue mutton curry for my roommates.
9. Finishing A Song of Ice and Fire.

Previous weekends usually involved extensive hours on the phone, obsessive texting, and mailing. But I've given up on the last two (because I figured there's only so much of one sided conversation one can take) and am slowly working on curtailing the first one. And therefore, I'm left with the list above.This isn't really how the life of a twenty three year old, living away from home, should be. Apart from finishing that strangely addictive book, I do not see a single thing that gets my adrenaline pumping. The future, my friend, is bleak.

Sotyi.

Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses, you build up a whole suit of armor, so that nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life...You give them a piece of you. They didn't ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like 'maybe we should be just friends' turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart... I hate love.

- Neil Gaiman

I like to look out of the office windows on days like these, when the sky decides to tear itself apart. Rain makes me want to write. It makes me want to purge. It makes me want to effortlessly string words together so that every bloody thing churning around inside would find a specific slot outside my head. Once, I would be able to do that. But writing has gone away from me. From my hands, my mind, my head. It is time I admitted that the half-baked whines I come up with are boring at best, and mindnumbing in their ordinariness at worst. For years, since I was a little kid, writing has been like the yellow brick road. Like the platform number nine and three quarters. It's been like Malory Towers and Kanasona and every fucking place I created in my mind to escape from the grinder that is reality. It's all I've ever known. And I don't know WHAT to do with my thoughts now that the words simply do not form.

I can cook now. I can manage cranky authors. I can pay my bills. I can even deal with long distance boyfriends. But I just. Cannot. Write. Hell, I cannot even compose a semi-decent paragraph on, say, cows. Or about how I am slowly slipping back into the void I tried so hard to get out of. Or about how I'm stuck in a rut of pretend-happiness and super-politeness and cannot make myself snap out of it and grab someone by his collar and SAY 'Hey you? That thing you said? That was kinda mean. And it hurt. And I don't like the fact that I have to TELL you that it hurt. You are supposed to KNOW. So, how about I punch your face instead?'

I read like a crazy maniac most of the days. And every time I read a beautiful paragraph or a particularly breathtaking string of words, I stop myself and try to think, honestly, whether I would be able to come up with anything like this. Ever. And I know that I can't. Especially now that the magic of words eludes me completely. And every bloody time I come to this conclusion, my heart breaks just a little.

Happy post.

For all my whining and existential angst, I'm not really unhappy here. No, really, I'm not. I revel in the anonymity that this city gives me, I like not bumping into known faces at every corner, I like the fact that I can order in Kababs at midnight. I have also decided that I love winter in this city. The bright colours, the morning misty breath, the need to wear three layers well into February gives me a high unlike any other. I like the independence. I bitch about my hardships, but there's a rather large bit of me that likes paying my own bills, cooking my own meals, deciding that I want momos for dinner today. I like coming home, fixing myself a stiff drink, and reading the newspaper. Knowing that, if push comes to shove, I can muddle along without anyone's help has calmed that part of my psyche which goes by the name of Marvin: The Paranoid Android. There are days I feel like shit, there are days I feel on top of the world. But at the back of my mind, I always know that there is no one else to blame for the shittiness.

Maybe this is what it feels like to be a grown-up, and I'm not half-bad at it.

Also? In case anyone was wondering, amar autobiographyr naam debo Noshto Meyer Upakhyan. Just so you know.

The city I want to go back to, only exists in my head. The sepia tinted images roll on like an old film and make me smile. It is, however, unfair of me to expect it to stand still, waiting to welcome me with open arms when I am, myself, a completely different person now. If I can change, why can't my home? Because people leave, people change, things blow up. The adage 'more things change, the more they remain the same'? That's bullshit. Because NOTHING remains the same. NOTHING. Not you, not me, not my room, not my streets, not my head, not my heart. Especially not my heart. Today it is almost full, tomorrow it might resemble one of those soggy Marie biscuits one finds at the bottom of the jar and throws away with a cringe. I don’t know. I can’t tell. No one can. This time when I go, there will probably be someone waiting for me at the airport. Last time when I went, there was no one waiting and I took the Volvo bus home, smiling at the unfamiliar billboards and nodding to the compulsory Chandrabindoo song in my head. Next time when I go, I might be alone again, but I might frown at the billboards instead. Every time the plane lands amidst the humid, sprawling sea of humanity I try to close my eyes and breathe in the smell and try, try, try HARD to go back to how it was. It fails, everytime. Because friends leave, and there are empty spaces inside, there are empty spaces outside, and it is strange, really, how a crowded city can give off a scent of utter, desolate loneliness. I try to hug it hard, whisper comforting words, tell it that it's going to be okay, that I'll come back, that my friends will come back, that the desolate stretches will fill with laughter again. It doesn't work. Because whatever else my city might be, stupid is not one of them. Writing about it has become more and more difficult. I struggle to find the right words, the exact phrases. I struggle to fit it with the picture city in my head, long after that photo has been torn, shredded and fed to the bugs. English is a goddamn frustrating language because it hasn't come up with a word for obhimaan. My city, I think, obhimaan korechhe amar opor. And I can't blame her for that.

Jokhon class eight e portam, tokhon ekbar Tasher Desh hoyechhilo schooler annual function e. Sekhane sobai miley cholo niyom motey gaantar sathe nechechhilam. Durey takio na ko, ghaar bnakiyo na ko, cholo somaan pothey, cholo niyom mote... Onek raat kore bari pherar swadhinota othoba boshar ghore beer crate othoba dupur ektay ghum theke otha othoba chocolate cake diye breakfast saratakei niyom bhanga bole na bodh hoy. Arekta, deeper niyom achhe. Chokhe dyakha jay na, kintu bnedhe rakhe bojro aantuni te. The soul, if I may be so cheesy as to use the word, chafes against it. But the more you chafe, the tighter it grips. School, college, chakri. Bas. Er bhetore theke ja korar koro. Baire berio na ek paa-o. Swadhinotar illusion ta niye khushi thako dinbhor, kintu jei bhabbe chakri chharbo, jei bhabbe McLeodgunjer kachhe ekta cafe te koyek mash kaaj kore dyakha jaak, jei bhabbe hothat ekdin beriye pori, tokkhuni sei odrishyo niyom ek hnyachka taaney namiye anbe maatitey. Bolbe, raat dutoy bari theke beriye drivey jete parchho...ARO swadhinota chai? Oto beshi chaite nei ma, soibe na.

Happiness er jonyo kono kichhur opor dependent hoye porlei problem. As long as your own mind and a good book are enough for exhilirating happiness, you are good. The moment an external factor slips in, unnoticed, despite a thousand precautions, tokkhoni tumi gachho. Ekkebare pa pichhle aloor dom. Tokhon tomay ulto gadhar pithe choriye, mathay ghol dhele, gram theke ber kore dewa uchit.

Day 30

Your favourite book of all time:

In the light of all that I've said earlier, I can't possibly answer this question without contradicting myself horribly. And thus, with a question I refuse to answer, I come to the end of this VERY demanding tag. I mean, do you people know how hard it is to write on books EVERYDAY when you have several deadlines to meet and bills to pay and dinners to cook and parties to attend and phones to make? Anyways, it's a been a good ride. I've re-read, remembered, and written more this past month than I've done in years. And that's all, folks.

Day 29

A book everybody hated, but you liked:

Sea of Poppies by Amitav Ghosh. However, everyone hated can be translated to a couple of my friends hated. But they did have pretty strong opinions about the book. And me...well...I didn't agree. I'm generally rather fond of the period this book talks about, and I've always found Amitav Ghosh rather readable. Granted, it wasn't my favourite book by Ghosh (that would be Shadow Lines), but I wasn't overtly disappointed with it either. But then, this might just be the Amitav Ghosh fangirl in me speaking. Ah well.

Day 28

Favourite title:

And here I thought that I was done with naamkoroner sarthokota... after Madhyamik. Apparently not. Well, just so that this gets over quickly, here's my answer.Gorom Bhaat O Nichhok Bhooter Golpo by Sunil Gangopadhyay. Even though technically it's not a book, but a short story, the name is kick-ass, the story gives me goosebumps, and it led me to other brilliant stuff by the same author. Gorom bhaat. Don't these words conjure up a most beautiful image?

Day 27

A book with the most surprising plot twist or ending:

This question made me realize, with a shock, that Agatha Christie has not been mentioned even once in this long and rambling book tag. (THE BOOK TAG WHICH REFUSES TO END, BY THE WAY!) This is really strange, partly because I love her and have read almost everything she has ever written and partly because, much to the chagrin of a lot of people, I think Hercule Poirot beats Sherlock Holmes any day. Christie is superb in the way her long and rambling narrative of the typically idle, upper-class English life lulls one into a false sense of security, before BAM! the second cousin is dead, the valuable necklace is missing, and you have a dangerous lunatic on the run. To make up for not writing about her before, I will mention TWO of my favourite Christie books as an answer to today's question. The Murder of Roger Ackroyd and Curtain: Poirot's Last Case. The latter is actually my most favourite Christie book of all time. (I cried at the end of the book. Yes, embarrassing, I know.) The plot twists in both the books made me gasp out loud. And it takes a lot to do that.

Day 26

A Book That Changed Your Opinion About Something:

Buro Angla by Abanindranath Tagore. Because before that, my tiny brain thought it ludicrous that good painters could be good writers as well. In my defence, I wasn't more than nine at that time.

Day 25

A character who you identify with the most:

Agness Nitt, or Perdita X Dream from the Discworld books. I'm not half as sensible, nor can I sing in harmony with myself. However, there are at least three people living inside my head at any given point of time, I used to love (still do) the stage, and chocolate always makes everything better.



Look at how annoyed she looks that the vampire is trying to get her throat! Vampires manage to annoy me too! Yes dear Twilight series, I'm talking about you.

Day 24

A book you wish more people had read:

When Daddy was a Little Boy, or Baba Jokhon Chhoto by Alexander Raskin. Because it had beautiful illustrations, because it had a brilliant storyline, and because it inspired in me the life long habit of sneakily reading books in bed at night.

I will get to visit Moscow one day.

Day 23

A book that you have wanted to read for a long time, but still haven't:

Being really under read makes answering this question rather difficult. But because I haven't got that much time, I'll just mention The Outsider by Albert Camus and get away with it for now.In my defence, I started reading it and then the universe conspired against me and the book got misplaced when we were shifting houses. What makes not reading this doubly distressing, is the fact that I apparently hold a Master's degree in literature. * cringes in shame *

Day 22

Favourite book that you own:


My issue of Femina with Kunal Kapoor and Neil Nitin Mukesh on the cover. Because I think these men are hot. And because the pages of Femina are so glossy and colourful and the magazine is always filled with pictures of very expoensive but useless trinkets (e.g., a bottle of dark green eye shadow worth INR 2000). Glossy pages and useless things make me happy!


p.s. Here you go. A stupid answer to a phenomenally stupid question.

Day 21

Your favourite book as a child:

My childhood was more or less spent with, around, and lost in books. My mother was able to make me perform many an unwelcome task(noticeably, pages of hateful sums) with the promise of a good book at the end of it all. I devoured anything and everything that I came across. As a result, I had done stupid things like reading almost all of Sharatchandra by the time I was eight.Predictably, it wasn't a very good experience.
Probably because of the global communist brotherhood, my steady supply of books as a child included a lot of Russian literature, and I loved all of it. However, my favourite, till date, remains this obscure book called Chuk ar Gek by Arkady Gaidar. I read it in a Bengali translation and my copy had a cloth cover and was filled with delightful black and white water colour illustrations. The book tells the story of two young boys called Chuk and Gek, who, along with their mother, go to visit their father in the remote Taiga. It is a beautiful beautiful book.

Onek onek durer ekta shohor. Bodh hoy sei shohorer naam Moscow. Duniyay tar theke bhalo shohor ar kotthao nei...

Day 20

Your favourite romance book:

Sharadindur pray protyekta oitihasik uponyas. Kaaler Mondira. Gour-Mollar. Tungobhodrar Teere. Karon romance bolte shudhu toh hero-heroine er bhalobasha noy, romance maane ei deshtar ashchorjo itihaas, romance maane Kanasona, romance maane Atish Dipankar, romance maane boi er pata theke uthe asha jeebonto sob choritro. Romance maane bola, 'amar sokol diya tomake apon koria loilam...'

Romance maane gaaye knaata dewa. Protibaar.

Day 19

Your favourite book that was made into a movie:

Karon unkel kothata shunle ekhono amar ga chhom chhom kore, keu rattirbela bnadur bole ore o bhai sojaru... bole uthlei ami ekbar edik odik takiye niyi, durga thakur dekhlei mone hoy asurer gaa diye kirom gyal gyal kore rokto berochche, captain spark er boi ami ekhono porte chai, africar rajar kotha bhablei mone hoy mukher bhitor nishchoi chewing gum diye bohumulyo murti atkano. Karon je kono din, je kono somoye ei cinema ebong boi ta obyartho anti-depressant er kaaj kore.

p.s. Er lekhok/porichalok ke ekhono ami biye korte chai.

Day 18

A book that disappointed you:

Because I love the Mahabharata. Because Karna is my favourite character. Because the blurb excited me greatly. Because I bunked a few classes to stay home and finish this book. Because a few pages down the line, it morphed into a Mills n Boons story. Because my favourite epic with its breathtaking complexities was reduced to the following song - Hum judaa, ho gaye, raaste kho gaye, magar hum milenge, yeh yaad rakhna, meri raah takna... One knows that a book is a disaster when it can be summed up by a song sung by Amisha Patel in a tight red lehenga.

Day 17

Favourite quote:

"Its a poor sort of memory that only works backwards', the Queen remarked.
'What sort of things do you remember best?' Alice ventured to ask.
...'Oh, things that happened a week after next', the Queen replied in a careless tone.'For instance, now,' she went on...'there's the King's messenger. He's in prison now, being punished; and the trial doesn't even begin till next Wednesday: and of course, the crime comes last of all.'
'Suppose he never commits the crime?' asked Alice
'That would be all the better, wouldn't it?'the Queen said...
Alice felt there was no denying THAT.'Of course it would be all the better', she said:'but it wouldn't be all the better his being punished.'
'You're wrong THERE, at any rate', said the Queen:'were YOU ever punished?'
'Only for faults', said Alice.
'And you were all the better for it, I know!' the Queen said triumphantly.
'Yes, but then I HAD done things I was punished for', said Alice,' and that makes all the difference.'
'But if you HADN'T done them', the Queen said, 'that would have been better still;better and better and better!'

Self explanatory.

Day 16

Your favourite female character:

Delirium. From Sandman. Because she doesn't do perfection. Because she is kick-ass in her own way. Because even her eyes are mismatched. Because, according to me, she is the most powerful Endless after Dream. And because she thinks that twinkle is a nice word and so is viridian and she once met a lady who had a fish.

Day 15

Your favourite male character:

Him. Because ...grown-ups never understand anything by themselves, and it is tiresome for children to be always and forever explaining things to them.

Day 14

Your favourite book by your favourite author:

My previous post makes this question null and void. Therefore, I get away with not writing anything today! Heehaw.

However, just for the greater good of humanity, I should possibly mention that I recently bought this book and everyone should basically do the same immediately. True decadence fascinates me like nothing else in this world. (I'm not kidding, people! One of these Maharajas had more than 600 dildos! And some of them were made of clay! And he married a penniless English porter's daughter within three weeks of meeting her! And...well I should probably stop now and you should probably go get your hands on this book.)

Day 13

Really? You sure I'm not eleven and this is not an Archies slam book I'm filling up? Who on earth thought that this would be an interesting question for a book tag? Exactly HOW am I supposed to pick my favourite writer? Do I pick Sharadindu, for his sheer lyrical confidence over the language, and leave out Shakti Chattopadhyay whose lines hit home like nothing else can? Do I pick Satyajit, if only because he gave me Bonkubabur Bondhu, and leave out Leela Majumder with her Bormibaksho, and Abanindranath Tagore with his Buro Angla and 'Kon thakur? Obin thakur. Chhobi lekhe...', and Poroshuram with his Goddolika Probaho and let me not even GET into Rabindranath. I ,also, cannot possibly leave out Terry Pratchett. If only because he gave me Lord Vetinari to crush upon. Nor can I ignore Neil Gaiman, with his dark, dark imagination and uncanny ability to balance delicately between the almost real and the almost unreal. Should I leave out Roald Dahl then and forego the countless hours of goosebumps as well as pleasure that his curiously intense works have given me? Do I exclude Somerset Maugham and the long school days reading 'Moon and Sixpence', sitting on the last bench? Should I leave out Pablo Neruda, even though some of his lines make me choke everytime I read it? Even J K Rowling jostles for attention. Her creation enthralled me for seven long years, and continues to do so.

This post can go on and on and I've not even mentioned one tenth of the writers I wanted to talk about.

Modda kotha holo je I refuse to answer this question.

Day 12

A book you used to love, but don't anymore:

The Fountainhead. Only proves how ridiculously strange I used to be as a teenager, that at one point of time this book caused a mini gushfest. Now I cringe when I realize that the book, effectively, glorified rape and that I, effectively, had a crush on the megalomaniac prick of a Howard Roarke. Also, the descriptions of the buildings? Erm, I will take my old fashioned Victorian mansions over the bizarre glass structures any day. Thank you.

Day 11

A book you hated:

Adam Bede. I just don't get it why people fuss over George Eliot. I just don't. I read the book once when I was around ten, and I read it again after it was part of the 'fallen women in the 20th century novel' optional in first year. And oh God, where do I even begin? Mysogyny. Argh. Too much mysogyny. Argh. Triumph of meek, wholesome, bland girl over interesting, rebellious one. Argh. An intensely uninteresting hero who does exactly what you expect him to do. Argh. Page after page after page of boredom as the author goes on and on about I don't even remember what. Argh. A truly predictable plotline. Biggest argh of all.

Day 10

Favourite classic book:

Because "Stand up Scout. Your father is passing..." still causes goosebumps. Because of (sigh) Atticus Finch. And because of the following lines:

I wanted you to see what real courage is, instead of getting the idea that courage is a man with a gun in his hand. It's when you know you're licked before you begin but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what. You rarely win, but sometimes you do.

Day 9

A book you thought you wouldn't like, but ended up loving:

I generally find it difficult to read non-fiction for long stretches of time. It's probably my short attention span and ostrich like ability to shut out the entire world, but essays and articles have always weighed heavily upon my reader's soul. Therefore, I approached George Orwell's Essays with a certain amount of hesitation. I was pretty sure that I would glance through the pages and move on to other books in a while. I didn't. I loved it. My favourite essay, predictably, is the one on Charles Dickens, but I have numerous other favourites too. Orwell is one author who always manages to get under my skin and this book wasn't an exception. It mindfucked me in all the right places and threatened to come at me with a sledgehammer if I didn't sit down. And THINK. About things. It's a pity that they just don't make authors like this anymore.

Day 8

An overrated book:

Oh boy. I find almost every other book to be overrated. I nitpick too much. I think too much. In this case, therefore, I'll write down the name of the last overrated book I read.

Eat, Pray, Love. Enthused by my love for Julia Roberts and because several of my colleagues recommended this book highly, I bought it. I read most of it sitting in the women's waiting room of the Lucknow railway station and the resultant reaction was a resounding meh. It was such a typically American view of the world around and I have been so thoroughly exposed to the American worldview through popular culture, that the book had absolutely nothing new to offer. Of course, there were other problems, but the book doesn't even rile me enough for them to be written down. Meh.

Day 7

An underrated book:

This gave me a bit of trouble as whenever I like something, I am so tremendously enthusiastic about it that (at least in my mind) it ceases to be underrated. But if I HAVE to choose, it'll probably be Moyna-Shalikh by Leela Majumdar.
Till date, Leela Majumdar remains one of my favourite authors. People tend to box her neatly in the children's author category, but I refuse to accept it. For example, every time I read Tong Ling, I find something new to think about and it took me a long time to figure out the underlying theme of intense loneliness that runs through the book. However, as I was saying, back to Moyna-Shalikh. It remains a particular favourite because as a child I have fantasized about running away from home at least twenty thousand times. I still do, in fact. Whenever people discuss Leela Majumdar, they get a nostalgic glint in their eyes and gush about Holde Pakhir Palok or Podi Pishir Bormibaksho and such like, which makes me even fonder of Moyna Shalikh. Yes, I've always had a soft spot for overlooked geniuses. I think everyone should read the book. Preferably on a hot summer afternoon when they have nothing else to do. The language is beautiful. The plot is happy-making. The descriptions of the hills are breathtaking. And the only comparable thing I can think of is cool watermelon on summer days - it soothes the mind so. Also, it has my favourite kind of central characters - two little girls!







p.s. I always thought that I had read far too many English books and not enough Bengali ones. But this tag makes me realize that perhaps those few Bengali books made a far greater impact on me than the numerous English ones. Rokter taan and all that I suppose. Also, the only Leela Majumdar book covers I can find online are (predictably) Holde Pakhir Palok and Podipishir Bormi Baksho. So (instead of the customary book cover), here's a picture of the author herself to make everyone happy.

p.p.s. I went through my last posts and GOOD LORD! THE SPELLING MISTAKES AND GRAMMATICAL ERRORS! The posts show that I wrote them in a hurry. I shall nitpick and edit them, I'll have to wait for the weekend to do that. Ah well.

Day 6

A book that makes me sad:


Maybe it's because of the film, which has irrevocably altered my perception of the story. Maybe it's because even when I was young, my heart used to break over and over again for the fiesty Durga. I remember reading the scene where Apu goes to school for the first time and I kept wondering why Durga didn't accompany him too. And my heart broke a little more. I actually bawl for Durga every time I read the last chapter when Apu finally gets to board the train. Stupid, bloody train! Why couldn't the girl have boarded you just once? Gah.





p.s. Also? I hate this cover! I used to own the most wonderful edition of the book where all the illustrations were by Ray. But of course, they had to go change it to some hideous green thing instead!

Day 5

A book that makes you happy, i.e., a book you reach for when you are all alone in an unknown city, i.e., the literary equivalent of ghee-bhaat-dim seddho, i.e., total awesomeness.

Sharadindu Chhotogolpo Somogro. Because Bhollu Sardar. Because Pragjyotish. Because Haasi-Kanna. Because Kanu Kohe Rai. Because rarely does happiness come so neatly packed in a few pages.

Day 4

Favourite book of your favourite series:

The third one. No competition. For Sirius Black, if for nothing else. (Yes I am predictable like that.)

p.s. From the size of this post, can you tell that the weekend has effectively ended?

Day 3

Last night was a good one. For a brief twenty four hours, this arid desert like city had an identity crisis and transformed itself to a magical one. And while the storm was raging outside, and the rain was pouring down, we stepped out to watch a late night movie and jumped over sundry puddles, held on to our umbrellas with all our might and generally behaved like twelve year olds from Calcutta. And by God, it was worth it!
So when I came back from the movie and tried to settle down for the night while the wind was howling outside, the familiar weather made me reach for a familiar book. And because I would like to get back to it this morning, let's answer today's question and be done with it.

Your favourite series:

Was it just me, or were our school days dotted with ONLY books which came as part of a larger series? Enid Blyton is, of course, one prolific author in this regard. From Noddy to the Faraway Tree to the Famous Five and the Secret Seven, I loved them all and devoured them all and there was always the next book (with the same characters) to look forward to. Then there was, there has to be, the omnipresent tall man from Bishop Lefroy Road. I remember starting on Shonku when I was eight or nine and being inordinately delighted when my mother kept on producing books which featured my favourite bald scientist.
And even today, the reader's mind in me is always drawn to bigger series even today. (For example, recently I read all of the Percy Jackson books online.) Which brings me to today's answer. Frankly, when I read the question, the first name which popped into my head was this Bengali detective. The man I would've married if not for the small glitch of him being a fictional character. The man who taught me that kickass detectives could be home grown and even dhoti clad niriho bhodroloks can be rockstars inside.
However, the problem with this series is that, even though it is probably very close to my heart, I didn't grow up with it. I discovered the stories when I was twelve and went through all of them in about a week. And so, instinctively my mind turned to my favourite bespectacled teenage hero, and I knew I was home.
I've written about these books before. I've written about the hunger with which I waited for each new installment. I've written about how I begged, borrowed and stole, but made sure that I read them within a week of publication. I've written about how the impending movie version(which is the last of series) fills me with a sense of doom because that would mean that a perfect part of my childhood would permanently end. Riding through the roller coaster that my life is, I've always ALWAYS come back to this series. And even today, when heartbreak happens I curl myself into a little ball and reach for one of these books. Because, at the end of the day, magic is a powerful word. A powerful world.

Accio Harry Potter! And everything seems to be all right. :)

Day 2

This is where things get trickier. Propped up by an unlikely surge of adrenaline and the prospect of a perfect weekend looming ahead, protidin blog korbo likhe toh dilam. Kintu tahole ranna ta korbe ke, ar plumber ke phone kore pester korbe ke, ar Business Communication er boi ta thik somoye production editorial ke transmit korbe ke, ar majhrattirer interesting phone calls guloi ba attend korbe ke?

Jai howk. Because there is currently an electrician banging away at my bedroom wall while trying to install an AC, as well as a maid banging around pots and pans in the kitchen (and because both of them are emanating plaintive cries of 'didiiiii' at an interval of five minutes and because both my roommates have currently deserted this Saturday morning), I'll try and make this post as short as possible.

A book you've read more than three times:

My entire childhood was spent reading obsessively. Which meant that when new books were unavailable, I read and re-read the old ones till their pages fell apart and their covers came off and they literally cried for mercy. Books I've read more than three times range from strange Sidney Sheldon novels (specific parts of which were re-read during teenage years for anatomical...err...knowledge) to large the big fat Madhyamik text books (which were re-read under duress and peer pressure. Jeebon Mukherjee's history book, anyone?) Taking all of this into account, I'm interpreting this post to be about a book which I've read at least thirty times. A book I can quote in my sleep. A book I turn to for familiarity in a strange land. A book which goes with me wherever I go. A book which touches a chord every time. A book which defines my childhood. A book I've probably read three thousand times, and more. A book by a man who, if he hadn't died in his thirties, would've probably gone on to win the Nobel.

...ei chheleta bnachle pore tobe,
buddhi jore e sansare ekta kichhu hobe...






Hethay nishedh nai re dada,
Nai re badhon, nai re badha,
Hethay rongin akash tole,
Swopon dola haway dole,
Surer neshar jhorna chhote,
Akash kusum apni fote...

:)

Meme

I don't update this thing half as much as I should. That is ironical, because on an average day I have around five different half-written blog posts floating around inside my head. Since currently I have the attention span of a two year old on crack, and good, coherent writing has stopped happening ages ago, I thought I would do this book meme which has been going around. This would mean that I get to write at least a couple of sentences each day. Given the current circumstances, where my mind is constantly full of grocery lists and deadlines, two sentences are basically worth their weight in gold. Or rum. Whichever people prefer.

Anyways, before I digress and go on to talk about the comedy circus that my life is, let us answer today's question and put an end to this mindless banter.


Day 1

Best book(s) you read last year:

Last year was a year which shoved me down and pulled me up, kicked me away and pushed me back so many times that by the end of 2010, I was a little motion sick and had difficulty remembering if I was standing on my head or on my two feet. Needless to say, reading suffered quite a bit. I read a lot when I first moved to Delhi and moved to the PG and knew no one and was confined to one room. Then, as my workload and social circle grew, so did the pile of half-read and unread tomes in the cupboard. I started reading The Outsider (Yes, it took me this long. Yes I'm suitably ashamed.) but the book got misplaced when we changed houses last year. Therefore, alas, I've not finished the book. (Yes, I'm suitably ashamed again.)I've a sneaky suspicion that had I finished it, it would've been my favourite book by far.
Keeping all of this in mind, I think Jaya by Devdutt Patnaik was the best book I read last year. I've always been fascinated by the Mahabharata and I read Shashi Tharoor's The Great Indian Novel right before I read this book. The latter was an interesting take on the epic, but the former just blew me away. The illustrations, the pithy notes at the end of each section, the anthropological observations - everything was just about right. It is rare that all the elements of a book come together in perfect harmony. But when it does, what an unadulterated delight it is.

Bhalobassssssa!

Prem, preeti, kamona, basona, chumu, ityadi.

Roj roj

Dream a delicious dream involving nubile boys and old Calcutta lanes. Run around in that half-lit world till you feel something tugging at your consciousness. Toss and turn fifteen times before you realize that the insistent rickshaw bell is actually the maid ringing your doorbell with all her might.

Wake up with eyes still closed. Feel your way to the drawing room and groggily search for the keys while the maid rings away. Wince at the cigarette butts, the half folded laundry, the stash of books, the bottle of coke, the mess, the dusty papers, the dirty slippers. Search for the keys among them. Saroj is still ringing. Fail to locate keys and walk into the other bedroom. Trip over something in the dark. Remember that they are the quilts which haven’t been put away since winter. Stop for a moment and realize that the roommate is sleeping his way through the racket. Saroj rings away. Finally manage to locate the keys. Open the door. Collect the newspaper. Switch on the kitchen light. Go back to bed. But now, through half-lit Calcutta lanes, you can make out that the other roommate has gotten up. Saroj bangs pots and pans around in the kitchen insistently and you cannot keep Delhi at bay any longer. So you get up and brush your teeth. Pack your lunch with leftovers from last night's dinner. Two boxes - one for you two and one for the other curly haired roommate. Wonder idly what you'll cook for dinner tonight. Decide to pick up some chicken on your way home. Vegetarian food for three days on a row is getting to you. Suddenly remember that people might stay over tonight. Mentally add eggs and bread to that grocery list because you and your roommate always make breakfast for people who stay over. Decide to ask the curly haired roomie to pick up some sausages on his way home.

Sit in the little verandah and read the newspaper. First read the comic strips. And the bollywood gossip. And then glance through the headlines. Yes, you’re shallow like that. You don’t want to go to office today. But it can’t be helped. So drag yourself to the loo. Gt dressed. If you’re early, then put on a little kajal and a nice pair of earrings. If you’re late, then the shabby old t shirt will have to do by itself. It’s not like you could compete with the well turned out Delhi chicks anyways. Scarf down the breakfast that the curly haired roommate makes. The eggs are nice. You’d love to linger over them. But there’s no time. There never is.

The other roommate is ready to leave. But you don’t remember where you kept your purse. Or your phone. Finally locate it on the overflowing window sill. You’re running late now.

The Kura wala rings the bell. The curly haired roommate is taking a bath and you (or the other roommate) will have to take out the garbage. Damn, you’re really late. Calculate and decide that if you can manage to get the 8:47 metro (which is due in hree minutes), you’re safe. Put on your shoes and mentally run through the daily checklist. Metro card, check. Cell phone, check. Keys, check. Lunch bag, check. Sigh a little as you remember the amount of work waiting for you in that snazzy glass building you call your office. Wonder if you'll have to declare your yearly investments today and sigh some more.

You step out into the morning air. The roommate walks briskly ahead. Drag your feet a little and look up at the sky and wonder whether the Calcutta sky is as cloudless today, as brilliant a blue. Suddenly have an intense craving for some egg chops from Milon da. But then shake your head and start running towards the metro station, trying to catch up with your roommate.

You're an adult now, and a new day has started.

I'm slowly losing all my hair. Once upon a time, I had lots of it and now I'm almost bald. You can see my scalp if you look down on my head and because I'm very short, almost EVERYONE can see the sunlight glinting off my bald pate. I could shave all of the frizzy, curly mess but I'm afraid that would make me look like more of a freak than I already am. This is a vain and useless post. But I really don't care.

My blog is slowly dying. I cannot help it. It is bloody difficult to find something to write when all the days are endless repititions of themselves. There's only so much you can write about a new office, which, incidentally, is not exactly new anymore as I've been working here for SEVEN freakin' months. When I read my earlier posts, I well and truly want to delete them or cover them in a layer of slimy puke. The sheer volume of lovestruck, pining, badly written posts makes me wonder if life four years ago was really that overwhelming. It probably wasn't. I'm a drama queen like that.
Gah. I'll probably delete this entire thing one day.

Because I cannot let my blog die. And because Nicholas was.

The end of this year has been filled with new books, friends arriving in town, and some exceptionally good mutton stew.
This turbulent year has been surprisingly good to me. I hope it hasn't been bad to you either.

Phirbo bolle phera jay naki?

Jodi sotyi kotha boli, I'm not particularly unhappy here. Even though the days merge into one other and I wait for weekends with breathless anticipation, the office is nice and I’ve mostly gotten used to the vegetarian food. Occasionally, I even take a second helping of methi-aloo.
Pearson is very glass and steel and white lights and swipe cards. Very corporate. But the people are (mostly) nice. My immediate supervisor sits at the next desk and gets me Canadian dark chocolate. And if the sales guy on the other side is being very loud, I can always switch on my mp3 player and edit incredibly complicated manuscripts to the rhythm of Rahman. But then suddenly the stupid machine decides to play 'ghore pherar gaan' and I feel like taking the next flight home.

Adoration

I wish I could have been a fly in the wall when this Sushi date happened. Because if I were a human being I would probably be too tongue-tied to do anything even close to eavesdropping.

Just imagining the conversation they might have had boggles my mind.

Ah well. One day, one day.

Because I am hungry

Here, for lunch, we have a fixed menu. Twice a week, one of us gets up a little early and makes sandwiches. We are allowed to keep our meager supply of condiments in the upstairs refrigerator, and sandwich is mainly pieces of bread with a combination of cheese spread, pasta sauce or jam between them. Sometimes we might even have little pieces of capsicum to go with it. On other days of the week, we settle for carrying big packets of Top Ramen to work and making noodles in the office microwave while nudging away incredibly rude office people who glare if you hog the machine for more than a minute. And two days a week, we get glorious roadside Chinese food, which tastes uncannily like Milon da’s and even has orange pieces of chicken in the fried rice.

However, in Delhi, dinner is always over by 9 pm and there’s usually some inane hindi serial playing on the TV to accompany it. It’s mainly a vegetarian fare but it’s tasty except for the days when they decide to give us aloo and beans thrice a week or serve Curry chawal as a treat for a Saturday lunch. And on good days, we might even get chicken, which, for some strange reason is always laden with tomatoes.

Even if we do not get anything good for a particular meal, we always have the dal to fall back upon. The dal is always good. Always hot. And one can have as much as one likes. Both of us make it a point to have more than one bowl. I break little pieces of onion from the salad, and put it in the hot yellowness that is my bowl. And then I spoon it in hungrily while elaborately made up, chiffon clad women faint on screen.

I’m missing bangali khabar with a vengeance. But all in all, I’m not doing too badly.


p.s. However, that doesn’t mean that I don’t dream of Calcutta food at least thrice day. The next time I go home, these are the things I plan to have. (Even if I am in Cal for 1 day, I’ll make sure I have them all.)

Biriyani from Arsalan
Arsalani Kabab with cheese
Chicken chaanp from Bawarchi
Devilled crabs from Mocambo
Steak from Oly
Mutton curry by didimoni
Phuchka from 4 nombor gate
Sorbhaja from Banchharam
Mishti doi from Mithai
Shorshe ilish by Ma
Bhetki machh bhaja by Ma.
Shukto by Champa Mashi
Pan fried momo from Tibetan Delights
Pork roast from Tibetan Delights
Pork Thukpa from Tibetan Delights
Chocolate ganache pastry from Cakes
Luchi-chholar dal from Pnutiram
Kochuri-torkari-jilipi-cha from Moharani
Cocoa malai sharbat from Paramount
Mutton roll from Zeeshan
Kosha mangsho from Golbari
Yam min from Cheeni's
Biriyani-chnaap from Aasma
The buffet meal from Flame and Grill
Certain...erm...stuff at Saat tola

Okay. That’s it for now. But I might just add stuff later.

Another place.

Delhi is a city out of books and movies. Connaught place and Sarojini Nagar. Chandni Chowk and Meena Bazar. Lajpath Nagar and Janpath. Familiar, known names which offer a strange sort of comfort in an unfamilar stranger of a city.

Delhi has been kind to me though. I’ve walked its winding streets of Chandni Chowk and stopped dead in my tracks when a sudden turn has brought me face to face with the Red Fort. I’ve gazed at the Jama Masjid and the fascinating mix of people pouring out of its majestic structure and have eventually ended up stuffing my face at Karim’s. I’ve taken long auto rides through the heart of the city and have had the sudden, almost cheesy urge to stand up in attention when the wide, lush green roads have led me to the Parliament House. I’ve been to C R Park, and felt strangely disoriented as I’ve fought with shop keepers in Bengali and tried to remember where I am. I’ve travelled alone through the city. I’ve travelled alone after dark. I’ve travelled alone in a shared auto in Noida, where three people have almost perched themselves on my lap. And yet I’ve survived, with almost no scratches to show for it.

Living alone provides one with a distinct adrenaline rush of its own, and as I’ve tried to adjust to a life which still feels like one long (albeit slightly surreal and very hard working) holiday, Delhi hasn’t yet tripped me up and made me fall.

And yet, at the end of the day, I find myself missing one sprawling, humid city hundreds of miles away, because Delhi, with its wide green roads and swanky cars isn’t home.

And the roads do not have bits and pieces of twenty two years worth of memory attached to every one of them.

This is

just to say goodbye.

A rather dramatic ending to my life in Calcutta - but then I am a rather dramatic person.

Happy birthday.

Even though I have a badly sprained ankle, I will gladly dance bharatnatyam if that's what it takes for you to marry me, dear hypothetical husband.
Have a good birthday, have fun, but when it is over, come back to me. Ok?
Much love.
Your hypothetical wife.

JUDE

I have sat up half the night - listening to the incessant rain, watching the lonesome dog - and trying to sum up five years in a few pretty sentences. I don't know why TODAY, when I have two more days left. I don't know why AT ALL, because now there is facebook and gmail and a hundred different ways to fool myself into believing that I haven't really left. That this isn't really true. That I still belong.

I guess it's because when I was sitting on the comp.lit. stairs today, being the usual passive smoker and contemptuous git, I tried to remember one thing from each month that I spent in JUDE. And I couldn't. It was then that I realized that I fear the forgetting even more than I fear the leaving. And maybe that's when my subconscious (or as Arunava would point out, unconscious) decided to write everything down - so that when I am eighty, I can read these lines and dance a little arthritic jig, laughing at other lesser mortals - poor sods who hadn't ever experienced JUDE. Forgive the snootiness, but I DO think I had the best.

I remember the day I walked in for the entrance test. I remember what I wore that day. I remember meeting Arnab on the stairs , and I remember him giving me a superior smile and wishing me luck. He was a coordinator with me before, and I remembered him telling us how they had Beatles in their syllabus. i was awestruck. I was nervous. And as I walked into my allotted classroom (the current UG 2 room), I was taken aback by the intensity with which I wanted to be part of this - THIS place for the next five years. I remember amrita and zainab and NG being the invigilators. I remember someone asking if by 'black' she was meant to write a short note on the colour or the movie. I remember Amrita smirking and saying, 'well, you know. tall guy. deewar. amitabh? write on that.'

This post will have the word 'remember' at least a hundred times. Because, memory will be my best friend these coming days. And well, pretty sentences have never been my forte.

First year was spent trying to get my bearing.I remember speaking to Uttaran on the day of my admission and I remember Swapan da smiling nicely at me and trying to convince me to give up English and study Geography for some strange reason. On the first day of class the UG2's came charging in and demanded that we introduce ourselves. Then Surjo stood up on a bench and announced the ending of the latest Harry Potter book. It was worse than any ragging we could ever have faced. Then I went home with Doyeeta and we spent some time in a random cyber cafe in Gol Park, trying to set up a blog. Rafat Ali took our first class, I think. And said many big words. And recommended we read 'The Mirror and the Lamp'. And I wrote everything down in my copy and thought he was a nice guy. I think so still.

First semester was spent hanging out on the bridge. With some known and some strange engineering people. First year was the year of slippery journeys from the bridge to Moni da's. First year was the time Suchismita insisted on wearing sneakers to college everyday. Even in unbearable heat. First year was the time Arunava poked everyone with his umbrella and insisted that he didn't ever smile. First year was the time I went to watch 'Salaam Namaste' with a huge bunch of random people, most of whom don't even talk to each other nowadays. First year was when we became friends with Ragini. And Guppy. And sometimes we would all go to CCD and play weird games of 'truth and dare'. First year was also, admittedly, the time I hung out with the weirdest of people I don't have any contact with now. I guess I needed to try out several things before finding my niche. First year was when we wondered whether Tess was raped or seduced. First year was when we studied Sandman. First year was the time when PG2 seemed indecently far away.

I would go to Presidency often enough those days. Not as often as Doyeeta, but at least once a week. But JUDE has a way of claiming you. It needn't be a quick love at first sight. But once you've grown into it, you are gone. Fallen. Hook, line and sinker.

Second year was when I finally got into the groove of things, I think. Because during the admission madness, Tintin da assigned me to be in the same room as a certain prof., smiled and said "that should make her day". And that pretty much broke all the ice there was to be broken. I remember Pradipta's strange bonnet on the day of admission, and T'da's green hat. I remember borrowing a denim hat type thingy (was it a bandana?) from Srin on that day, running around like a mad man and stealing frooti from the departmental fridge. Second year was also the time I acted in the only JUDE production I have ever been a part of. At the cast party, I remember drinking the punch and grinning at people and making small talk with rohini. And then I remember tasting the garlic bread and dying and going to heaven.

Second year was the year we started on Renaissance. Second year was the year I got a 4 in an Old English internal. Second year was when I did 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' and fell in love with good ol' Will. Second year was the year when I finally grew up.

Things got into a steady routine after this. And the years that followed were pretty much the same. We just shifted from the English ledge to the back stairs, and finally to that place infront of Anita Banerjee hall. Third year was the time we played incessant 29 and made friends with Nandita and the lot. PB would try to force us to go to class and we would beg for one last game of cards. Third year was the time of the epic Tempest classes. It was also the year I graduated.

Masters was not the same as undergraduate years. There were many new faces.
It was a time of brilliant classes. It was a time of some serious bonding. It was the time I finally realized that I would have to go out into the world that day. JUDE would probably never be an end in itself again.

I was watching 'An Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind' today, and I realized that if somehow all memories of JUDE were to be erased from my brain, and I could get to keep only one, it would probably be Amlan da teaching Milton in PG1. In this long, rambling barrage of words, I have consciously not spoken about the faculty, because, well...what would I say that has not been said a thousand times before? It just surprises me everyday that these incredible INCREDIBLE scholars chose to stay back and teach US, when they could really have gone and taught anywhere they wanted. Seventy years down the line, if I can remember the goosebumps when Supriya di talked about Rabindranath and Tempest, when PC blew us away with the Shakespeare and the Plath, when Swapan da smirked and proceeded to take a Renaissance drama class full of sexual innuendos, when Sukanta da told us about humanism in the renaissance - then I would really have nothing to complain about. Hell, I was taught Bakhtin on my first tutorial class with Amlan da. I didn't understand a thing, but grasped that I was probably in the presence of some serious greatness. Forgive the gushing, but on his day, that man can actually take my breath away the way no one can.

These people have given us a freedom unheard of anywhere else. Not only a freedom of action, but a freedom of imagination. And as I go out into the real world, I realize that is the greatest lesson I could ever have had.

As I write this, I realize one strange thing. That a couple of years later, if I want to walk in to attend a class in the department, there is no one who could legitimately tell me that I shouldn't be there. That I don't belong. Because I will never NOT belong.
Because once you have been a part of JUDE, you can never fully leave. These past five years have changed me the way nothing else ever has. And even if I am thousands of miles away, there will always be a part of me bumming around the corridors, gushing about ADG classes, having the spicy thai fried rice at Moni da's, having rooti-torka from Milon da's, drinking endless cups of coffee, singing the 'shibani' song, volunteering for the admissions, shouting 'whose Kubla it is?'... because THAT jheel, and THOSE stairs, and THESE classrooms and THAT corridor and THESE professors and THESE seniors and THIS batch and THOSE juniors and THAT bench and THIS place is MINE. And will be. Always.

Thank you Jadavpur University Department of English. It's been an honour.

Just saying.

Always forgive your enemies. Nothing annoys them so much.

- Oscar Wilde

I could be the woman next door tonight. I could rave and rant and clean my house twenty times a day.
I could be a friend. Nice and pretty, with my life all in order.
I could be Boudi-dida. And stay alone for years on end in a tumbledown house, cooking rooti-aloobhaja when the owners visit the village twice a year.
I could be that man around the corner. The one who feeds all the stray cats with the money he gets from Guiness book of World Records by letting his nails grow all the way to the ground.
I could be the other man. The man just across the street. The random one you see walking down the road. Smoking a cigarette and vaguely muttering to himself.
I could be someone I know. A confused boy with Multiple Personality Disorder. I could be hard to figure out.
I could be my dance teacher. And always cloak my talent with a rich layer of innate hot temper.
I could be a professor. The nice one who looks frail. The mad one. The kind one. The arrogant one. The stupid one.
I could be you.

I could be anyone. If I could say the words.
Because, feeling and NOT saying is the hardest part, no? Sitting and letting time do it's work. Never taking the initiative because you would die of embarrassment in case you got rejected.

I have not felt like this in the longest time.
Tobe amar mone hoy, at the end of the day, sob-i bodh hoy hormone er khela. Tai eto bhebe kono laabh-i nei.

Aman ki asha.

The day India and Pakistan sort out their problems once and for all, pigs will start flying and I will turn into a 6 feet tall man.
That, however, does not change the fact that when Amitabh Bachchan sat on a railway platform and recited this poem by Gulzar, it still managed to blow me away. There is nothing quite as mellifluous as the sound that Urdu makes, when Gulzar coaxes it with his pen.

Dikhayi dete hain duur tak ab bhi saaye koi
Magar bulaane se waqt lautey na aaye koi,
Chalo na phir se bichhayein dariyaan bajayein dholak
Lagake mehendi sureeley tappe sunayein koi,
Patang udayein chhatton pe chadh ke muhalley waaley
Falak to saanjha hai us mein penche ladayein koi,
Utho kabaddi kabbadi khelenge sarhadon par
Jo aye abke to laut kar phir na jaye koi,
Nazar mein rehtey ho jab tum nazar nahin aatey
Yeh sur milaatey hain jab tum idhar nahin aatey,
Nazar mein rehtey ho jab tum nazar nahin aatey
Yeh sur bulaatey hain jab tum idhar nahin aatey.
.

This reduced my grandmother to tears. She said they reminded her of her old house and old school and how all her prizer boi got lost when they dashed for safety to a country on the other side of the barbed wire.

Nazar mein rehtey ho jab tum nazar nahin aatey...

Shit. This line manages to turn me inside-out every time I read it.

So what exactly makes me a freak, I wonder.

Rudderless.

JUDE, to me, has always been an end in itself. So when people started drifting away after Masters, I squeezed my eyes and held tight. Because letting go of this place was impossible. Not because of mushy nostalgia, but because I had really not thought anything beyond this place. Ever.
Most of my friends know what they want to do after the next six months. I swing between incredible options and lame excuses for not letting anything materialize. I spend hours on net looking up bizarre facts and watching youtube videos. I read aloud Ruskin Bond to myself. I wake up, take a shower and go back to sleep again. I write one horrible exam after the other, and my results suffer terribly. And yet I come back home and read yet another Swedish short story, procrastinate and make random STD calls to dispel the sudden chill. I take forty five minute bus journeys for some cups of tea and good conversation. I dream of dancing every other day, and never get around to making that call and asking my teacher to take me back again.
I try to learn a new language, and cannot get beyond the first few sentences. Instead of learning French verbs, I watch the news and try to memorise the Sri Lankan batting order. Just for fun.
I make up my mind to take a competitive exam. I get hold of some materials. I study for a month. And then I procrastinate and tell myself there's still time.
And thus I write an incredibly rambling blogpost, turn over and go to sleep.

Because Ghalib said it much better than I ever could.

Dil hi toh hai na sang-o-khisht,
Dard se bhar na aye kyun?
Royenge hum hazaar baar,
Koi hamey sataayen kyun?

Why I want to marry Oscar Wilde (Reason # 572)

"There is a luxury in self reproach. When we blame ourselves we feel that no one else has a right to blame us. It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution."


"Modern morality consisting in accepting the standard of one's age. I consider that for any man of culture to accept the standard of his age is a form of the grossest immorality."


"You come down here to console me. That is charming of you. You find me consoled and you are furious.How like a sympathetic person!"


"One can always be kind to people about whom one cares nothing."


The last one, especially, kills me everytime I read it.

Ajke kotthao jabo na.
Chayer dokan giye mishti cha ar bishkoot kheye, ek-i kotha pnaachbaar bole, ek-i hindi gaan doshbaar geye pagoler moto hashbo na.
Pray 9ta bajle dhormor kore uthe Deshopriyo Park obdhi hnete, bhir bus e bari phirbo na.
Ajke Coffee House jabo na. Kalo coffee kheye poroninda porochorcha korbo na. Nun na dewa gravy chowmein khabo na. Coffee house expedition er jonyo necessary lokera keu ekhane nei. Kintu seta porer kotha. Thakleo, jabo na.
Ajke Park Street jabo na. Flury's, McDonalds, Oly - kotthao jabo na. Oly'r durwan ajkal amake selam thoke. Kintu tao jabo na.
Ajke BCL jabo na. Metro kore onek dur giye, ekta porar boi ar duto Terry Pratchett borrow korbo na.
Ajke Saat-tolay party nei. Kintu seta kotha noy. Party thakleo jabo na. Ondhokar ghore Beatles ar Anjan Dutta shunbo na. Vodkar peg haate Kolkatar skyline dekhe melancholic hobo na. Matal hoye nach kore, tarahuroy taxi kore bari phirbo na.
Ajke JU jabo na. Milon da theke torka-rooti ar frooti khabo na. Ek tolar ekta ghore boshe ghontar por ghonta adda marbo na. Backstabber der kotha bhebe dukkho korbo na. Brilliant lokjoner class attend korbo na. Ekti bishesh loker proti letch korbo na.

Ajke kotthao jabo na.

Admiration.

My heart bursts with love for someone as I realize that there is still goodness in the world.

Desh Raag.

This is what I am watching on a loop today.
Because long years ago we made a tryst with destiny. And maybe we are fulfilling it still.
And also because, everytime I see this, I cannot help the goosebumps.

Shadebagan Lane.

I do not wish to be condescending. I do not even wish to be filmy. I just wish to say that the last few days have been unusual. Each day has brought with it incredible stories of personal courage and personal squalor. And as I have come back to my clean home, with an AC and a tiled bathroom; a colour TV and concerned parents, I have realized, perhaps more than ever, how utterly stupid my fights about curfew hours and clean rooms really are. And how incredibly, incredibly lucky I have been in some ways.

I only wish my companion would not reserve all her emotions for 2 litre bottles of Pepsi.

Favourite.

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.....

....

- Pablo Neruda

Updates ityadi.

The last few weeks have been a blur. Hot and humid and punctuated by incredibly deep sleep. But a blur nonetheless. My favourite part of the day is when I walk into the air conditioned office after an hour of sweaty auto and metro rides. Which says a lot about the changed sort of life I have been leading lately.

I don't get much time to think. And ponder. Which is good, because many things have kind of taken off, and then fizzled out. And if I actually took time out and thought about all of them, I might just come down with the mother of all headaches.

Dadumoni, on the other hand, is deteriorating daily. A couple of days ago he insisted that he would be sitting for his school final examinations soon. A few hours after that he was ranting against his father who allegedly beat him up for no specific reason. The old man has slowly started shrivelling up. Everyday he resolutely reaches out for the past. Everyday he resolutely lets go of the present. And that is probably how things should be, because, dammit, shouldn't the old always make room for the new?

My social life has been rather strange. I have been frequenting Oly and taking weekend trips and making the right noises so that people who have neatly slotted me into a category might not get too uncomfortable. Yes, I am considerate that way.

I miss certain people as they are now. I miss certain people as they used to be. There is just so much of condescension you can take before you snap. Because, sometimes, you are just too tired for snarky retorts and just fervently wish for a patient ear and a comforting shoulder. Almost all my comforting shoulders live a separate life these days. There are a couple in the US. One in Hyderabad. And one in Delhi. There used to be a few others too. But sometimes one cold shoulder leads to many others and slowly empty places creep in where conversations used to be. There are very few people I instinctively think of, when I suddenly have the urge to bawl my eyes out in the middle of a busy working day.

This hasn't been a very coherent post. But then, I am not a very coherent sort of person.

Calling?

I spent 4 hours in the editing room today. And when everything was done, the rush of adrenaline was just.Too.Much.

I wouldn't mind doing this for the rest of my life. Really.

The question, however, is how.

Probably fiction.

I kept staring at the fingers. Long graceful fingers. Pretty fingers. A little bended at the top. In the light. Across the light. In the shadows. Expressing, resting, just being plain nervous.
Good hands. Nice hands.

I have stubby ugly fingers myself. And I am a sucker for pretty hands. I kept staring at them, and I think I fell in infatuation. A little.

Because it is hard work being a democracy.

In my constituency, I had a choice between

a. A communal and misogynist party.
b. A corrupt and complacent party.
c. A stupid and 'subidhebadi' party.
d. Certain non-entities.

It was not an easy choice to make. But I did vote.

Dhin chak.

Pnochishe Boishakh.

Rabindrasangeet always reminds me of drowsy school mornings when we would belt out incredible lyrics without a clue as to their actual meanings.

Considering the circus that has been the last 4 years, these memories are always, always rather special.:)

Jonmodin, etc.

One of these days, I will invent a time machine, go back in time and marry this man. Until then, I will fantasize.

I deleted the last post because it was too repetitive.
I am sick of the same old, same old.
Fuckitall.

Post it.

And it was at that age...Poetry arrived

in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where

it came from, from winter or a river.

I don't know how or when,

no, they were not voices, they were not

words, nor silence,

but from a street I was summoned,

from the branches of night,

abruptly from the others,

among violent fires

or returning alone,

there I was without a face

and it touched me.

- Pablo Neruda.

Mithye kotha bolbo na. Cinema ta dekhe uthe majhraate ektu kanna pay ar kobita likhte ichche kore. Bhari bhalo cinema.

Thoda sa dard tu, thoda sukoon.

Rehna tu
Hai Jaise tu
Thoda sa dard tu
Thoda Sukoon

Rehna tu
Hai Jaise tu
Dheema Dheema jhonka
Ya phir junoon

Thoda sa resham
Tu humdam
Thoda sa khurdura
Kabhi daud ja
Ya lad ja
Ya khushboo se bhara

Tujhe badalna na chahoon
Ratti bhar bhi sanam
Bina sajawat milawat
Na jyaada na hi kam
Tuhje chaahon jaisa hai tu

Mujhe teri barish mein beegna hai ghul jana hai
Tujhe chaahon jaisa hai tu
Mujhe tere lapat mein jalna, rakh ho jana hai.

Tu zakham de agar
Marham bhi aakar tu lagaaye
Zakham mein bhi mujhko pyaar aaye
Dariya o dariya
Doobne de mujhe dariya
Doobne de mujhe dariya

Rehna tu
Hai Jaise tu
Thoda sa dard tu
Thoda sukoon

Rehna tu
Hai Jaisa tu
Dheema Dheema jhonka
Ya phir junoon


Haath tham chalna hi
To dono ke daye haath sang kaise
Ek daaya hoga ek baaiya hoga
Tham le haath yeh thaam le
Chalna hai sang tham le

Rehna tu
Hai Jaisa tU
Thoda sa dard tu
Thoda Sukoon

So Prasoon Joshi summed up all that I felt for my city. And then wrapped it up in a package called Rahman.

A little bit of pain. And some comfort. And I do not think I will ever be able to live, really live anywhere else. The city has devoured a part of me long since.

Also, THIS. I was directed to this by a friend. And as I was flipping through the magically still lives, I realized, once again, exactly why I am passionately, frighteningly, sickeningly in love with this polluted and congested piece of land near where the river meets the sea.