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.

Scary.

Even though this is from across the border, the scarier part is, that I am not sure what the contents of our textbooks will be after the impending elections. Certain Indian political parties do not have a particularly good track record in this matter.

However the scariest part is how a 10 year old child is expected to visit police stations if he is to be promoted to the next class.

I mean, police station? REALLY?

Or am I missing something here?

Ae masakkali!

There is something very happy about masakkali. It compels you to place a pigeon on your head and dance away to drunken glory.

But as I was prancing back through dimly lit streets with the usual crowd, (after some great and some not-so-great songs by a blue capped Mohit Chauhan) I realized how utterly terrified I am of getting out of this entire set up. These, these buildings and classes and ledges and people and jheelpar and milan da and KMR and sanskriti. It is altogether too addictive. Too perfect. Too right.

We were laughing at a comparatively older woman in the concert today. But a few years down the line I could be that woman. Desperately trying to fit in; with a crowd of younger faces around me. Remembering the times when perfect happiness meant downing a few pegs and dancing to some hindi songs with a few chosen friends.

I don't want to leave. Ever. I refuse to leave. And until the time I am kicked or pulled out I will continue to try and dance on the rooftop with the pigeon on my head.

Tujhe kya gham tera rishta,
Gagan ke baansoori se hai,
Pawan ki guftagu se hai,
Suraj ki roshani se hai,

Udiyo na dariyo kar manmaani manmaani manmaani,
Badhiyo na mudiyo kar nadaani..

Ab thaan le muskan le,
Keh sana nana nana na hawa
Bas thaan le tu jaan le
Keh sana nana nana na hawa.

Heart break. Stay away.

A longtime friendship effectively ended today. So I banged down the phone and ranted and cried for sometime before settling down for the dull ache.

It is not a good feeling.

How tolerant am I...

...that I have a friend who thinks :

1. House is a mediocre series.

2. Masakkali is a horrible song with no tune whatsoever.

3. Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi is a very good movie with breathtaking acting by Shahrukh Khan.

4. Gunda is an infinitely better watch than certain Ray movies - say, for example, Agantuk.


...and I have still not physically harmed him in any way?

Season Finale.

My heart just BROKE for House.
Just. Plain. Broke.

Wilson should legitimately get sympathy. But I am sure he has more of that than he can handle.

House, on the other hand, had nothing except Cuddy's handholding while he slept.

Mediocrity sucks even more when you have no money.

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.

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, 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.

Finally!

High five!

Dear Mr. Subramaniam Iyer..

..or Jahangir Chaudhury. Whatever.




Will you please marry me?

Infatuation ta toh ultimately useless, na?

If you care.

Do check this out.

And contribute. If you can.

Because that's the only thing we can do right now.

God bless.

Ae dil, hai mushkil,
Jeena yahaan,
Zara hat ke,
Zara bach ke,
Yeh hai Bombay meri jaan.

Nothing other than very obvious rudeness ever makes me learn my lesson.

A friend said I was gullible. I think the right word would be stupid.

So I was in this cab. With Maa and Bhai. And I was, as usual, bickering away with my very pesky sibling for the window seat. (Do not ask me how two people can fight over two window-seats. We just were. So there.)

The fight is not the point here. The point is, suddenly, during the conversation I realized that Maa had been relinquishing her window seats to either one of us for the last 20 years.

Holy Shit! That's a LOT of time spent sitting in the middle.

I also realized that I have never seen her eat the chicken leg (it invariably goes to either me or bhai) OR that last piece of chocolate.

Poor Ma.

Sacrificing away since 1988.

This mothering thing is harder than I thought.

Hee.

So, these are some of the search-phrases which made Google direct people to my blog. Hilarious would be an understatement.

Bhenge mor ghorer chaabi niye jaabi - Understandable. One of my favourite songs. Seems I am not alone.

Geriartrophile - Err, I didn't really mean it THAT way.

Chotkabe - Ki? Kano? Were you trying to find squishy porn? Or just the recipe for aloo-bhaatey?

Harry potter magic words laviosa - Ooookay. Though I do not understand, with mugglenet and wikipedia, why MY blog would come up in the search. But then, I did mention these words some time back. And Google is nothing if not thorough.

Baje sargam har taraf se - Aww. Nostalgia. I am assuming its not just me who loves this.

Batasa sweets - What about them? They are round, white, sweet. Found in abundance during any kind of pujo. Like, DUH!

Aguner poroshmoni words - Go buy yourself a Geetobitan.

Subhayu is useless - Hahahahahahahaha. This is one of my favourites. At least, someone ELSE thinks this is true too.

Amlan dasgupta birthday - Well. I won't tell you. Find it out yourself, if you like the man. Hmph.

Arunava learning - What? Learning to not-pat, not-freak-out-people, not-go-gaga-over-psychoanalysis? Someone is curious!

Patha bhaban school - Best school in the whole wide world. I hope your curiosity is satisfied?

Put your mp3 player on shuffle - You SERIOUSLY don't know how to do that?

Nobab kinle aram free - Kinchhe! Bolchhe! Dichchhe ki?

2008 madhyamik results of everybody - Yes. Well. Some passed. Some failed. Next question please.

Gangarati - Happens in Benares.

Mandira bedi doodh - Okay. Either I am a pervert, or this is really gross.

Geral durrell - The 'd' packed its bags and went to Hawaii, did it?

Kobi amar - Like, mine! All mine! My precious, types?

Bimboboti - Look at me! My name is misspelt! BUT, someone searches! I am famous! Oh the adulation!

Oly - Not so great anymore.

Pratyush da - What about him? Vague aquaintance. Son of a favourite teacher.

Rabindra rachanabali printed books - You get them at College street. At discount. Ask doyeeta.

Patisapta - Good to eat. I can make them. GAH.

Gulp it - What? Mod? Doodh? Jol?

Chirotar jol - Kano? Petroga?

Kubla kapoor - Either you forgot the Khan after. Or you forgot the Kunal before. Take your pick.

Prannoy roy - I worship. Any questions?

yarki English - I Seriously don't know man!

Bangal panu - Hahahahahaha. Khuje dyakho. Kotthao nei. Sorry.

Benares diwali descriptions - They are usually loud and bright. With loads of alcohol and cards.

Girls hostel dupurbela - Mone pore Ruby Roy?

Fivefindouters - And buster the dog! :D

Virgin emotions - What? Got dumped?

Shubhayu sen - Don't know any. Thank you.

Panu golpo - GAH. NEI. NEI. NEI.

Bolchhish? - Bolchhi. Sotti.

Wasim akram dress sense - Fantastic.

Mukhagni means - The exact english word eludes me.

Suddha bagchi - My friends are famous too!

Joker commitment - Is to put a smile on your face?

Panwallah - Sells paan?

Me and mandy - Know each other. WHAT is it exactly you want to find out?

Pip al pacino - The second and third words make up a delicious man. The first? Erm, Dickens?

Number of bookworms till date - Go on. I am curious to know.

Poulomi sardesai - Rajdeep has a sister? Or did my friend get married?

Puja alponas - Are hard. Can't do them.

Topshe maachh - Taste great!

Goopy gain bagha bain - Is childhood?

Mowas mean - Round sweet stuff you get during pujos.

Taking crap from people - Aha re. Ki koshto.

Pete seeger - Is fabulous?

Jignesh raja - Erm, you mean Altaaf?

Cute girl bedi young - Errrr..

Doyeeta - Okay, I have MANY famous friends.

Mamdobaji - Sotti. Mairi.

I can't go on any more. There were hundreds of them. Some obscene. Many about Ray. And SOME were plain ridiculous like, 'cute girls drinking milk'!

However, it is always nice to know it is not only me who thinks Subhayu is useless.

I am obsessively cleaning my room at 2 in the morning because I have a test in less than 12 hours.

Loop.

Mera kuch saamaan tumhare paas para hai 
Saawan ke kuch bheege bheege din rakkhe hai,
Aur mere ek khat mein lipti raat pari hai
Wo raat bhulaa do, mera wo saamaan lauta do.

Patjhar hai kuch ... hai na ?
Patjhar mein kuch patton ke girne ki aahat,
Kaano main ek baar pahan ke laut aai thi,
Patajhar ki wo shaakh abhi tak kaanp rahi hai - 
Wo shaakh gira do, mera wo saamaan lauta do.

Ek akeli chhatri mein jab aadhe aadhe bheeg rahe the,
Aadhe sookhe, aadhe geele, sukha to main le aayi thi,
Geela man shayad bistar ke paas para ho ;
Wo bhijwa do, mera wo saamaan lauta do.

Ek so sola chaand ki raatein, ek tumhare kaandhe ka til,
Geeli mehendi ki khushboo, jhooth mooth ke shikwe kuch -
Jhooth mooth ke wade bhi sab yaad karaa do,
Sab bhijwa do, mera wo saamaan lauta do.

Ek ijaazat de do bas,
Jab isako dafanaaungee
Main bhi wohi so jaungi.


Play this for me a hundred times, and I would request for another round.

So I was on a boat a couple of days ago, with the dark waters below me and the dark sky above. And the lamps at the ghaats winking from another life, maybe. When suddenly, I would have killed to hear a few strains of Bhatiyaali.

It was then that I realized that even though it hasn't even been a week, I am more than ready to go back home.

I feel alone.

I want Oscar Wilde and Cranberry Breezer.

And, I want people from Delhi and Hyderabad and New Jersey and Australia and Trivandrum and New York and Boston and Bangalore and other assorted places.


I demand that all of you come back. Each and everyone. Like, right now. And hang out in my room, and listen to music and watch movies and bitch and get drunk and talk and talk and talk until the yellow lamp glows dim, and then everyone can fall asleep. I will even cook breakfast. Luchi and aloor dom, and machher chop and cheesecake. I make a really mean cheesecake. Or else, if the weather permits, all of us can go for an early-morning tram ride. And have piping hot tea from the jhupri, with the 2 takar lero biscuit. Or we could make a stop at moharani for the kochuri and the jilipi. We can also have port-wine rattirbela. And I have a whole book full of cocktail recipes I want to try out. Anyways, I digress. I am rambling. I have not had an exhilirating conversation in AGES. Not with these people anyways.

I miss my friends.

Come back you. You, and you, and you.


Gah.

House of Cards.

Not really. Not at all. If you take into account the incredible, INCREDIBLE energy of the little Santhal kids dancing, singing and acting away to glory at Gyaan Manch yesterday. It was rivetting. It was humbling. Cynicism, at least temporarily, packed its bag and left.

I have been to this particular auditorium numerous times. Almost always to watch random intellectual plays, which did nothing for the pretentious soul that I am. This time, however, goosebumps did come.

As a teacher pointed out, amongst all the people around us, our ex-headmistress is probably leading the MOST meaningful life of all. I am just so incredibly glad that I know someone like her.

I will probably ( why probably? almost certainly.) go back to being the cynical, pretentious, empty-talking, card-playing no-gooder in a few days. Till that old self comes back, however, I shall quietly bask in the goodness all around.

There was a long patch of intense stupidity a couple of summers ago. And even through the regret, I am reading old mails and thinking whether second chances are valid.

"You either die a hero.....

....or you live long enough to see yourself become a villain. "

I guess he chose the former.

For once, let's just not talk. Useless words anyways.

Bhenge mor ghorer chaabi niye jaabi ke amare.

There was dust, and there was light. Moonbeams, yes. And lots of rain. Lots and lots of rain. Drenched clothes and drenched hair. And a soggy, clingy me. There was greyness. And blueness. And a general redness on the roads. There was candlelight like melted butter, groggy mornings and groggier car-rides. Drunken midnights and random, insane conversations. Rabindrasangeet had rarely made as much sense.

Shantiniketan was grey. Like Kopai. And Red. Like the roads. And Blue. Like the sky. And Yellow. Like the candles. And Black. Like the rickshaw-ride. And Fiery. Like the fireflies. And orange. Like the bauls. And heartwrenchingly, mesmerisingly beautiful.

Sometimes, you don't hanker for more,

You take what you can, and let the rest be. :)

Because, as there was shouting and singing, hugging and sleeping, eating and drinking, and generally breathtaking living - a tiny bit of magic floating aimlessly around the world finally found a foothold and settled down over eight motley people and a little, red-laned countryside.

"Betrayals in war are childlike compared with the betrayals during peace. New lovers are nervous and tender, but smash everything. For their heart is an organ of fire".

- The English Patient.

Mone holo tai.

1. LAST MOVIE YOU SAW IN A THEATER?
Bhoothnaath. Mediocrity is even worse than being out and out trashy.

2. WHAT BOOK ARE YOU READING?
The Light Fantastic - Terry Pratchett.
Reading Lolita in Teheran - Azhar Nafisi.

3. FAVORITE BOARD GAME?
Scrabble, Ludo, Snakes and Ladders. I am basically a board game person. Come play.

4. FAVORITE MAGAZINE?
Reader's Digest, Desh. Once, when angels sprouted wings, it used to be Anandamela.

5. FAVORITE SMELLS?
The usual ones - air before storm, air after storm, topshe maachh bhaja, biriyani, new books. And certain people.

6. FAVORITE SOUND?
Generally all the sounds I produce. From screeches to thumpings. And the Pother Panchali soundtrack.

7.WORST FEELING IN THE WORLD?
Betrayal. Have had it too often. *shudders*

8.FIRST THING YOU THINK OF WHEN YOU WAKE UP?
Another half-an-hour? Please?

9. FAVORITE FAST FOOD PLACE?
Tibetan Delights, the Chhole-bhature place near New Empire, Cakes.

10. FUTURE CHILD'S NAME?
Nokuldana.

11. FINISH THIS STATEMENT.
If I had a lot of money I would....daydream less about 'ungettable' objects.

12.DO YOU DRIVE FAST?
Can't. Pity though.


13. DO YOU SLEEP WITH A STUFFED ANIMAL?
Kolbalish counts?

14. STORMS-COOL OR SCARY?
Cool! Obviously!

15. WHAT WAS YOUR FIRST CAR?
Can't drive a car. Can't ride a bicycle. Was not a toy-car person as a kid. Complete transport-retard.

16. FAVORITE DRINK?
Screwdriver, Jaljeera.

17. FINISH THIS STATEMENT,"IF I HAD THE TIME I WOULD...
Heal.

18. DO YOU EAT THE STEMS ON BROCCOLI?
No broccoli for me, thank you.

19. IF YOU COULD DYE YOUR HAIR ANY COLOR, WHAT WOULD BE YOUR CHOICE?
Pink? For the shock value?

20. NAME ALL THE DIFFERENT CITIES/TOWNS YOU HAVE LIVED IN.
Benares, Kolkata.

21. FAVORITE SPORTS TO WATCH?
Cricket when it's not being stuck-up and boring. Football, when underrated teams fight it out.

22. ONE NICE THING ABOUT THE PERSON WHO SENT THIS TO YOU.
We have had our tiffs. But amazingly, have always ended up as friends. :P

23. WHAT'S UNDER YOUR BED?
Dust. A cricket bat.

24. WOULD YOU LIKE TO BE BORN AS YOURSELF AGAIN?
Yes. But taller. And bolder.

25. MORNING PERSON, OR NIGHT OWL?
Night owl. Night owl. Night owl.

26. OVER EASY, OR SUNNY SIDE UP?
Sunny side up.

27. FAVORITE PLACE TO RELAX?
The Ledge, The bed, The head.

28. FAVORITE PIE?
Chocolate.

29.FAVORITE ICE CREAM FLAVOR?
Cookies and cream. Also, butterscotch, and the weird orange, fruity thingy I had once.

Kotoi rongo dekhi duniyay.

The ridiculousness and deceit of it all is making me sick now.

Because it is raining cats and dogs at 2 in the morning, and because Joan Baez chooses this moment to talk about rust and diamonds.

With rain on my face and rain on my bed, I need just one phone call to melt myself.

I know I shall repent, resent this post tomorrow morning. However, for tonight, let me pretend that the girl on the lampshade will keep you unharmed.

Random mushy-angsty-pretentious half-tag I did because this is my blog and I can. Ok?

10 things you wish you could say to people. (Don't take names)

1. Now that I have realized that the numerous conversations were completely meaningless and pointless, would you mind explaining why you had them in the first place?
p.s. And please do get an eyesight soon. Blind so young is not an option.

2. Twirled me around your pretty little finger and made me dance, didn't you? I admit I was young and exceedingly stupid, but at the end of the day, you turned out to be one of the biggest jerks I have ever met.

3. Stop with the wise retorts. How insecure do you have to be to come up with this as a defence mechanism?

4. The days of self-induced martyrdom are SOOOO over. Are you angry because people are not falling at your feet or are you angry because people saw through your veneer? I mean, how mean do you have to be to do what you did?

5. I really like you. I wish I had the balls to pursue the gut feeling. But because I can't, I won't whine. And by the way, do sort out the mess that is your (non!?) relationship.

6. I admire you and love you. But sometimes, you scare the s*** out of me.

7. I think you are extremely intelligent. But I also think you are easily flattered and misguided. Your coldness terrifies me. There's no life in those eyes, if you know what I mean.

8. You are a nice guy. Why are you best friends with such stupid and messy people?

9. Don't try to act snooty. I can see right through the act that is you and your fake intellect. You are stupid. Really. And please DO NOT try to imitate me. It is scary and I don't like it. And after a point of time it gets irritating.
p.s. And while I am at it, if you are really such a big Potter-Pratchett fan, why do you shy away from any discussion I try to have about them? Go on, tell me who Lord Vetinari is. Do!
p.p.s. And please don't google.

10. You are so frustrated that it's not funny. (Not the sexual kind of frustration though). You are also pretentious AND backboneless. I have a bad hunch that you are gonna die unhappy.

Writing stupid articles means a little self-sufficiency during the beginning of each month. And sometimes, that random book for bhai or that pretty little cell-phone-pouch for didimoni.

The old house, however, is practically coming apart at the seams. The two old people cling to each other, and cling to the house, and cling to the past which is so dead, that it crumbles if you touch. And steadfastly, they refuse to move. So they get to see bhai and maa and me a few times a week. And the days we don't go, they get to see the past which comes for a quick visit and a cup of tea, but stays forever as an unwelcome guest.

So, this week, I get them icecream. One snowy haired face grins in toothless glee, while another pair of short sighted eyes gleam at the butterscotch. And so they smile, and they eat. And I sit there, as they gulp it down. Ask if they want second helpings. And didimoni, at last, manages to convey that she hadn't had icecream in over a year. The children provide the fish and the rice. And the medicines and the daily routine phonecalls. And the sarees and the vests. And the fridges and the airconditioners. And the caretakers and the drivers. But no one remembers the Banchharamer lyangcha or the piping hot Amriti which came in their dreams. There is no one to read aloud Sharatchandra to dadumoni any more. People don't care. Or remember. And I am being completely hypocritical here because for a few days, neither did I.

I give her the second scoop of icecream and watch her gulp it down as if it would disappear. And as I see her scrape in the last spoonful in a shadowy room with 3 people and 300 ghosts from the past, the bloody lump-in-throat wouldn't go away.

Screw the snazzy lights. I am going back home.

How many you have?

1. Satyajit Ray.
2. Satyajit Ray.
3.Marlon Brando.
4. Johnny Cash.
5. Che Guevera.
6. Al Pacino.
7. Bob Dylan.
8. Wasim Akram.
9. Pablo Neruda.
10. Gregory Peck.
11. Did I mention Ray?
12. Roger Federer.
13. Denzel Washington.
14. Neil Gaiman.
15. Rahul Khanna.
16. Rahul Bose.
17. Zaheer Khan.
18. Neil Nitin Mukesh.
19. Kunal Kapoor.
20. Hrithik Roshan.
21. Hugh Laurie.
22. Matthew Perry.
23. George Clooney.
24. Steve Waugh.
25. Gael Garcia Bernal.
26. Antonio Banderas.
27. Anthony Hopkins.
28. Siddharth Suryanarayan.
29. Tom Hanks.
30. I didn't forget Ray, right?

It is a long list. But the longer the wishlist, the larger the possibility of at least one coming true! :P

Pnochishe boishakh.

Thank you. For this.

Happy Birthday.

To the love of my life.

Wistful.

"And what did the Princess do after the Knight rescued her from the tower?

Why, she rescued him right back."

I'll be there for you.

They were there for me all right. Because this was what kept me sane all through the hell that was last week. This, and the prospect of certain binges at saat-tola once the ordeal got over.

I would study for an hour, feel all moronic and give myself a little treat in the form of one episode. And then I would get all happy because I was DEFINITELY smarter than the Tribbiani guy.

My greatest fear is desertion.

Realisation: Post SKC

Welcome to the land of the stupid and ignorant.
Inhabitant number: 1.
Me.

Lala.

Of all the things I have given up half-way through, I miss this the most.
Shit. Sometimes, you just have to be that much stronger to hold on to love.

This is it, though. After semesters I am joining classes again.
It's time to go back home.

When the quill stops spinning words, tags are a certain path to mindless blabberings. Therefore, thankee Suddha, and a resounding * ruffle ruffle ruffle ruffle *.
It is technical, really. Answering a few mindless questions can be startling in their revelations. Anyways, here goes -

Life ten years ago....
.....was simple. That's it, really. It more or less sums up my entire 10 year old existence then. It is amazing that if I look hard, I can still find pretty much the same girl staring at me from the mirror now.Life, apart from the humongous mamar biye which happened that year, consisted of books and dance. And endless conversations with erstwhile best friend. It was insane, the number of books I devoured. I was reading while I ate, I was reading while I was supposed to study - heck, I was even reading in dance class one day. Lonely afternoons took on a magical quality as I embarked upon my quest of books. Dusty bookshelves in dim corridors were finally reachable (because I had figured out where the keys were kept). Jane Austen and Walter Scott. Jawaharlal Nehru and Charlie Chaplin. Sharadindu and Bonophool. I was encountering all. And though I didn't know then, the habit which I cultivated at that time, has saved me a LOT of sadness these 10 years. Give me a good book, and even today, heartbreak and disillutionment can go take a hike while I switch off reality at my own free will.
I was discovering Agatha Christie, Mikhail Sholokov, Mohasthobir Jatok, Bibhutibhushan Mukhopadhyay (Ponur Chithi, Borjatri anyone?) and loving it. I was learning Bharatnatyam, and hating it (the teacher beat me up one day, and I never quite got over the trauma. Even today, when Manipuri finally offers the much-needed solace, Bharatnatyam still haunts). My road to nowhere was beginning to get away from Malory Towers and winding through St. Mary's Mead. There was a 3 year old brother who had just started on his lifelong journey of B-torturing. There was a brand new mamima to talk to and gaze at. Captain Planet was of course the person whom everybody wanted. The three fingered Fred and his Wilma occupied many a solitary afternoon. And, being the class monitor was the greatest ambition in life. Titanic happened. And with it, the falling in love with Leonardo DiCaprio. For more than a month, I breathed Jack Dawson in everything I did. Scrapbooks were made and bizarre phone bills notched up while talking about this blond-haired, blue eyed dessert of a man. The quickening of pulse, the rush of blood. Ah, the first love is always always special. And then, of course, there was Benares. Lonely evenings spent listening to the gurgling of humanity on the Ghaat steps. And the winding gullees of Godhulia. And the BHU campus on Baba's scooter. Oh, and if you are interested, the growing realization about the birds and the bees.
But then, one ripe morning of 1998, I watched this. And discovered that there was more to a certain tall man than Feluda, Shonku and GuGaBaBa. Life, as I knew it, would never be the same again.


Life five years ago.....
....was good. It was the year of the dreaded Madhyamik. The birthday sucked. Because I celebrated my turning 15 by writing a maths exam. 2003 was the year of the renewal of the first crush. This was way more serious than the first love, because the crush actually existed. It was the year when P got herself a boyfriend, and I finally thought myself to be grown-up enough. 2003 was the year of turbulance. Board results were good. And I wanted to study Arts. The thumbrule of "good results = science" was ruthlessly ignored. Thus, angering most. Finally, a compromise was reached. Statistics and Mathematics were taken up - to harrass me throughout the next 2 years. I got an 88% in my first boards, and promptly flunked the first mathematics exam in class 11. CLT was happening. And dance was making a lot of sense. There were a newer set of friends, and endless rehearsals. Sweaty, itchy, thirsty twirls on stage. The pen flowed freely. And Statesman was a big thing. There was the coordinators card which opened the gates to freedom. Sunil Ganguly and Sandip Ray, and an endless stream of write-ups which, strangely enough got published. Ganguly didn't offer us tea and Sandip ( I refuse to refer to him as only Ray. He is too short for the title) was rather curt. But does that really matter, when you know that perhaps the idea for Maganlal came while someone stared at these very ceilings? The best friend and I were still going strong. Economics was being loved. Rhett Butler was discovered. And Atticus Finch. And Holden Caulfield. Prothom Alo was read. And dissected. And then, one started on Rabindranath. Eagles was encountered. And beatles.
Lennon 'imagined'. And so did I.


Life tomorrow....
.....will be hectic. Didir biye happening. Plethora of visitors. Saree and jewellery. Food, adda, tearful fairwells will certainly take up a lot of time. I also need to sort out some stuff, and start working on something. Really work, I mean.


Five locations I would love to run away to -
1. Nischchindipur.
2. Europe (Venice, Florence, Paris, London..you get the basic idea.)
3. Hogwarts.
4. Yellow Brick Road.
5. Someone's arms. :P


Five bad habits I have -
1. Procrastination.
2. Dreaming. About the unreachable, mostly.
3. I have major issues with trust.
4. I distinctly lack a backbone. Sometimes.
5. Did I mention procrastination?


Five things I would never wear -
1. Rani coloured anything. I bloody HATE it.
2. Lip stud.
3. Ankle length boots. I am short. Therefore, the boots would be like a one-way ticket to stumpydom.
4. Glittery, sequined flashy ANYTHING. I hate flashy. I detest flashy. I would rather be underdressed than overdressed. Get me a weird stone-studded top, and I shall puke on you. No, really.
5. Pink eyeshadow.


Five biggest joys at the moment.......
1. Earning. For the first time.
2. Certain newfound friends.
3. Fragile things.
4. Starmark next door.
5. Our Films, their Films.


Something to achieve by next year -
Love. Stability. A scholarship to Ox-bridge maybe? (Okay, that's seriously overdoing it.)


Something that impacted me last year -
Backstabbing. Let's not get into the gory details.


What I will miss about 2007 -
Literature of the English Revolution by Amlan Dasgupta.
Oly meets.
Late night conferences.
Her.


Five things I want to do before I die -
1. Experience Ox-bridge/ Harvard. Real life. And probably meet John Nash.
2. Dance. At the Royal Albert Hall.
3. Go snorkelling on the Great Barrier Reef. Hitchhike across Europe.
4. Work for BBC.
5. Find love. Bothsided. For good, this time.


I tag Sonai and Ugi. Go figure!

The Flat seems scarily like home now.

It still has a long way to go to come even close to the Old One. But someday, perhaps 10 years down the line, I see a faint possibility that it might.

That would be a day of much heartbreak, though. I am sure I shall end up feeling like a rootless idiot.

The 20th.

Picture courtesy: Saptarshi.

Mush.

Alexander Andrews: Oh, er, do you mind if I ask you a question, frankly? Do you love my daughter?

Peter Warne: Any guy that'd fall in love with your daughter ought to have his head examined.

Alexander Andrews: Now that's an evasion!

Peter Warne: She picked herself a perfect running mate - King Westley - the pill of the century! What she needs is a guy that'd take a sock at her once a day, whether it's coming to her or not. If you had half the brains you're supposed to have, you'd done it yourself, long ago.

Alexander Andrews: Do you love her?

Peter Warne: A normal human being couldn't live under the same roof with her without going nutty! She's my idea of nothing!

Alexander Andrews: I asked you a simple question! Do you love her?

Peter Warne: YES! But don't hold that against me, I'm a little screwy myself!




Tottttal awwwww-inducing. Ami puro sucker for mush types. Pink fluffy ball at heart.
Oh, for Clark Gable's unrumpled suit!
They don't make them like this anymore. :-(

Dhutteri shala.

Erpor theke sob cryptic likhbo. Two word posts.

One word too many, for a non-happening life.

Nyaka.

Premey porte chai. :-(