Friday, January 23, 2009

I effing loved all the Introduction to Renaissance painting classes that I attended last semester. And I am talking serious love here. The kind of love which made sure I didn't miss a class even though I wasn't officially a part of the course. The kind of love which made me trawl the internet incessantly - looking up random paintings from the age, and trying to figure out how Sukanta da would have interpreted them.

Plus, that was the first time I found out that I could actually frame and ask sensible, coherent questions to this man I am rather scared of, really.

Gah. I sound positively nostalgic here.

Beparta holo, bishoytar serious premey porechhilam. Ar ekhon sei prem khabo na mathay debo bujhte parchhi na. Bas.

Monday, January 19, 2009

I am a rather placid person in general. Opinions I don't care about, do not affect me at all. They might make me think, and a random, unnecessary, insensitive comment might even take me by surprise - but they fail to make me furious. Or really hurt me. Annoyance might happen. But never fury. Not very often, at least. I think my friends will agree.

Which is why I am rather shocked when I think about how bitter the battles with ma-baba have become nowadays. Do not get me wrong, they are not bad people. And I am NOT the oppressed one here. And I have had fights with them for as long as I can remember. It's just that the amount of impatience and disdain, and blind fury I feel during some of the fights now, would never have happened earlier. Also, the hurt. They are among the very few who have the power to really, really hurt me. The legendary thick skin does a no-show where my family is concerned, I guess.

My mother tells me that the kind of words I exchange with her, were never exchanged between her and my grandmother. If I believe that, am I also to believe that generation gap, in the last few years, has suddenly taken a frightening leap? Have my parents been left behind, or is it the other way around?

I thought teenage years were supposed to be the most turbulent. But when I think back, those fights seem puny compared to the intense, bitter, vitriolic battles I have regularly now. Is it because I am growing up? Is it because THEY are growing old? Is it MY patience which wears thin, or THEIRS'? Why is it, that the older I grow, the more difficult I find it to get my point across? What is it, I wonder, which makes me frequently want to slam doors and smash random things in fury?

, this uncontrollable, blind, frustrating rage is an alien emotion and I really don't quite know how to deal with it. Violent fits have never really been my forte, and I end up looking rather stupid and hating myself for it afterwards. But for those few moments, it is as if I can break down doors and tear down walls.

The Americans might, after all, have some logic behind insisting that their children get out of the house after they are 18. Constant demands for justification are rather claustrophobic after a point of time.

The 20s are not a good age I gather.

Thursday, January 08, 2009