Horrible horrible horrible Reading Disorder.

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

Nothing is being finished. Nothing is being digested.

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

Gnawing, scratchy, icky mind. Claustrophobic.

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

Pondscoldcream-patisapta-yellowsunshinewhichlookslikemeltedbutterontheuthon-blackforestfromFlurys-monkeytupisinBenares-bathsinscaldinghotwater-komolaleburjam-chocolatecakefromNahoum's-chappedlips-blanketsinsunshine-coldnose-dancerehearsalstillyoudropdead-kulerachaar-gorgeousbenarasis-weddinginvitations-bookfair-butterfryfromBenfish-angulkatamoja.

'Tis the Season to be Happy.

Till when I was around 5 or 6 years old, packing for Benares trips used to be huge fun.
For me, that is.
There was this red bag I had. With yellow embroidery and tiny mirrors on it.
I lugged it around whenever I went on long train journeys. And packing it for Benares used to be a ritual.
I used to clean my desk first. And everything which didn’t belong to the desk went into the bag.
Plastic bottles full of aam-chur, my tattered copies of Thakumar Jhuli and Mahabhrater Golpo, sketchpens to colour my nails with (not being allowed to wear nailpolish, this is what I used to do), this small marble statue of an elephant ( it was cold to touch, and I pretended that it was ice cream and I was eating it), blue inland letters which Baba wrote to me from Benares, small multicoloured hair-clips…etc..etc..
I don’t know exactly why I took all these with me to Benares. They were not particularly important stuff (well maybe except for the letters and the books).
I just did.
Sometimes, when you are that young, you do things without really thinking why.
It was probably the fun I had pretending that they were important stuff, and being very busy packing them all in.
Subconsciously I probably wanted to see if things which couldn’t find place in my Kolkata desk could find a nook in my Benares flat.
And some of them did, infact. The clips almost never returned. And twice the elephant didn’t. Once I even left some of letters there. On Baba's huge working desk beside the window.
But then, one day, I lost my bag.
I was around 8 or 9 then I think.
During the next trip, I got myself a backpack and crammed it full of Dairy Milks, Enid Blytons and Nancy Drews.
But it was not the same.
My old red bag, which always smelt of guavas was sorely missed.

Have been cleaning up the desk inside my head lately. Its in a mess. Full of stuff which doesn’t belong. Fragile and yellow and multicoloured and cold and marbled and tangy and sour and whatnot..
Goddammit, I need to find my red bag.
Soon.

Krrring…krrring.

Me: *half asleep * Hello?
S: Hi! I just called to say, that I am hanging up!!

*click *


With friends like this, no wonder I am so loopy myself.

And then, one of these days, you think it is over.
You poke.
You prod.
Satisfied, you take a deep breath.
‘Finally’, you say out loud, ‘its gone..caput…’
And you get a curious tangy feeling in your mouth.
You look up.
The stars must be a little brighter, you think.
The wind whips your face. Its cold.
But you don’t mind.
Because, you are happy, aren’t you?
Because, it is over, isn’t it??



And on other days, you desperately wait for his call.

The smell of paint has faded.

The final bow has been taken.

The props all put away.

People have applauded for a final time, and gone home.

The lights have dimmed.


Shit … shit …shit

…I never thought I would say this (especially not for this ..)….

but I miss it…..

I do..

Champagne with Garam masala.

Wine with biriyani.

A female pope who had a child.

And a modern executive who abandoned hers.



It's all about

Women on top............

14th November.
Evening.
Gyaan Manch.

Be excited. Be very excited.
(with due apologies to the rainbeau peep)

Whipping out the dusty quill spew out brilliance is not actually my cuppa tea.
So I will stick to doing my tag (I have been tagged by this funny and brilliant female) without any frills and thrills.
And that’s that.
Hmmmph.

10 simple pleasures:

1. Reading . (Well yes…call me an aantel, a snob and what-say-you…but I can’t imagine anything more simple…and more exhilaratingly pleasurable.)

2. Remembering. ( It’s probably the masochist me speaking…because remembering certain conversations…random walks, sudden looks, touches…gives me the most excruciatingly painful pleasure ever.)

3. Watching people. ( It’s unnerving…sometimes strange people stare right back at you. But I love watching people. And if you are a JUDE student and have access to ZeLedge then oohhh lala…you’ve just booked yourself a front row ticket to the people watcher’s paradise…squealing females…jumping males…weird pink skirts…golden jholas…orange and green bras…hot professors… dreamy eyed geniuses…mushy couples..you get it all… right here..right now..)

4. Singing in the shower. (Nothing is more stress relieving than making John Lennon and Rabindranath turn in their graves while rinsing your hair.)

5. Washing my hand. (It’s probably weird. But I love to do this. I love the feeling of the dirt and grime peeling away…I love to see the grey water swirl and disappear…and I love the fresh feel and smell afterwards)

6. Being out in storms. ( No, not rains as much … but the stuff preceding it…the dust-getting-into-your-eyes-mouth-nose-the-umbrella-flying-right-off-the-tangy-smell-taking-over-your-lungs kind..)

7. Biting into a cheese cake/gorom topse maachh bhaja/ patisapta. (Do I really need to explain this one??)

8. Talking. (Pleases. Surprises. Dirties. Numbs. Hurts. Cleanses.)

9. Dancing. (I stumble. I falter. I fall. But I sway. I twirl. I laugh. I get away. I live.)

10. Sleeping. ( Shuts out the world. Let’s me be alone. And most importantly, provides the only place where I manage to get a date with Johnny Depp as well as a 100% scholarship to Oxford.)


p.s. Oh yes...and I tag (and I can't link..so I will just write their blogger user id's) aquilusaltus, phemonoe and scorpionragz.

I didn't want to come back.
I swear I didn't.
And even if I did, I wanted work. Work which choked, strangled. Work which soothed, lullabied. Work which made one forget.
But then the wind came...
through the narrow galis, past the old pan shop with its rows of shining silver jars full of zarda, past the oil stained walls of 'Khirod Kachori Bhandar' which smelt of ghee and smoke all day, past the shorts wearing and mineral water drinking foreigners who were disappointed with the University because, unlike the rest of the city, it was 'green, clean, vast and quiet'. It blew through the old haveli where a rickety old man sat smoking a hookah on his even ricketier old khatiya. It ruffled the leaves of the pipal tree, making the inhabitant monkeys chatter even more loudly.

And it brought with it the incense, the flowers, the gobar, the innumerable cows, the earthen diyas, the ash-smeared jatadhari sadhus, the brass trinkets, the glass bangles, the tinkleof the bells, the busy chant of the purohits, the trade-cry of the hawkers, the ever present gurgle of the river, the Gangarati, the colours, the faith, the courage - the sheer energy of moving, speking, throbbing humanity.



And I breathed it in. All of it.
And laughed.
I am back now. And the facade is safely back in its place again.
I am smiling.
See me smile.

I crave :
chocolate.
nonchalance.
intricacy.
moderation.
peace.
tanginess.
driftwood.
conversations.
sleep.
time.
a goddamn life!!!!


And not necessarily in that order.

Been hearing a lot about love lately. And seeing it too.
About how people fall in it.
Fall out of it.
Tiptoe around it. Apprehensively.
Circle it like a hunter circling its prey. And poke it. Tempt it to show its true self. Urge it to come out of its shell.
With words.
With actions.
With silence.
With inaction.
Am loving it. And laughing.
And remembering my first love.
And suddenly, the lanky, bespectacled, rather dumb young man is transformed into an unreal vision of unfulfilled dreams. Of hundreds of could-have-beens, should-have-beens and would-have-beens combined.

I put my crumbling, old, dusty unrealities away. Lock them up in that intricate curved box that somehow always smells of moth balls and guavas and push it back under the farthest recesses of my bed.

Now I am back.

I wish people luck.

[M - Favourite English teacher from school.
P - Her son. A school senior.
We were talking about - M being partial towards me.
It was - A rainsoaked, gloomy Mahalaya morning.
I was - Bored. Stiff. With nothing else to do.]


P : Unhu unhu, biased teacher der motamot er kon daam nei.... motei cholbe na, cholbe na cholbe na[sloganer dhonge bolte hobe]...


Me : M ke biased bolo???? Sahos toh kom noy...Gantta khabe???


P : Nishchoi biased eksho-unoshottor bar biased.... aar gatta khabo na... khete bejaye baje.....


Me : M biased holey chaandtio sobuj cheese diye toiri. Ar gantta khawa na khawata tomar choice noy. Ota onekta castor oiler moto. Khetey baje...kintu khele akherey shorir sustho thake.


P : Castor oil ami motei khai na.... oshob na khelei shorir shushtho thake.... oguli sref shushtho shorik byasto korbar pontha.... btw, chand ta shobuj cheeze diye toiri hobar fundata bhalo..... eta quite possible....hotei pare....ar ganttata marbe ke ?? tuii ??


Me : Ami martei pari. Kintu tahole ekta moier dorkar hobe. Noile dhyanga dekhe kauke ekta jogar korey niye asbo khon. Ar chand moteo sobuj cheese diye toiri noy. Chandta asoley ek dola tulo..jar modhye buri bosey chorka katey. Eitukuo jano na???? Ar castor oil jodi na khao tahole gantta hochchhe neempata bata. Othoba chirotar jol. Dutoi boro baje khetey. Kintu shorirer pokkhe upokari.


P : Iyarki hochchhe??.... moi niye gatta marbar cheshta korle moi kede nebo.... chandta motei ek dola tulo noye.... tahole to brishtite bhije eituku hoye jeto.... ota ashole cheeze i.... tui thik janis na.... mohaloyar din shokal shokal rajyer baje jinisher naam bolchish kneo re ?? issh castor oil, chirotar jol, neempata bata... jottoshob, ontoto mukhshuddhir jonyo bhimnager shondesher kothatao bola uchit chilo...


Me : Tumi ekta ja ta...chaand toh thake megher uporey...brishtitey bheje koi???Ar cheese diye toiri hole atodiney poche durgondho beroto na???Achchha...ar chirotar jol ityadi bolbo na.Amar gantta = Banchharamer chitrokut.Eibarey sonamukh kore kheye nao dekhi!!


P : Dhet!! Tor GK ta joghonyo.... cosmic rain er naam shuinishni naki.... tae abar shunechi ontorikkhe khuuuuuub thanda.... tai poche ni.... khik khik egulo dhorte pare ni.....ei iye mane chitrokut mishti ta amar pochondo noye, naamta bichitro.... khele gola kutkut o korte pare... ke kothaye boddo mishti.... gatta khawate hole dariker rabri ba nidenpokkhe mohonlaler gujiya.


Me : Chitrokut bejay bhalo khetey.Khati gheeye bhaja.Kintu tumi jokhon bolchho...tokhon...umm..Mithaier mishti doi cholbe???Ar mohashoy...ontorikkhey jotoi thanda hok...koti koti bochhor dhorey cheese na pochey bosey achhe...mamdobaji????


P : Hmmm eta cholte pare.... kintu chandta poche je jayeni sheta to ratre akashj dekheli bujhte parbi.... Btw, yarki hocche, ontorikkhe jinish poche ki kore shuni ??? atmosphere nei kichu nie mae niden pokkhe hawao nei, shekahen emni emni poche jabe.... hobe na hoye na...


Me : Goley jabe na???? UV rays achhe toh!!!


P : Gole jaye to.... kintu ghore bole choriye jaye na... just despersed hoye jaye.... proti ponerodin ontor ontor dekhbi chandta gole jete jete aar nei.... tarpor dini abar ek thala dampulir moton ektu ektu kore gode othe....


Me : Liquid ghorey kikore???Adhar koi???


P : Liquid kotha theke holo? semisolid ba plasma r moton bolte parsih.... ghurle ota ekta shape hold kore thake.... aar gravity ache bole chhitke beroye na....


(Sorry. But, couldn't be bothered to translate the entire thing into English.)

Bhubono miley jay surero rononey,
Gaanero bedonay jai je haraye.....

This is what we do till the wee hours of morning when sleep refuses to entertain.


Me: Tomar khobor ki?? (Whatsup???)

J: Aar amar khobor aar ki... (What can be my news)
Making love to a rugged man called life...the bastard that he is

Me: And life has not been treating me well too...sometimes I wonder...does he take bribes??? I would be more than happy to pay up then...

J:He is a nasty bastard.Wont accept bribe too. .And in any case I am bankrupt.How do I pay him?

Me: I don't know..does he accept chocolate icecreams????

J: Would he now?I dont think.
He prefers wine.
Not chocolate ice cream.
Wine is stronger,red like blood and makes his blood warmer,
his ruthlessness murkier.
He wouldn't accept it.
And if you do offer him wine...he'll just want your blood....
Salty like tears...

Me: Tears are cliched....
blood then, yes....
red and warm and thick...he might accept...
or lets say,
musty, old, yellowing, crumbling dreams????

J: Dreams?Well lets just say I have come face to face with them.
And I have learnt to accept that they closely resemble illusions....
Lets say they are as useless as garbage!
Dreams are just what we believe would be absence of tears.
Active and passive nourishment for him..life's madness and badness....dreams in the passive form and tears in the active
Or lets just say the negative and positive sides to it--
his hunger,his thirst,his wants,his desire...

Me:Illusions they are, yes,
But madness they are not..no
vividly coloured swirls perhaps...
or soft balls of nothingness...

J: Madness,illusion,dream--all are stringed.All are thirsty.All are crippled.And all are parasites.Sucking peace,love,empathy.

Me: Illusions...madness not...
unreal visions maybe...
a bit blurred at the edges..
crisp and crumbly to touch, musty to smell...

J: All blurred...all hazy..all insanely fuzzy.
One can never see through any of them ever.
Illusion is darkness and the copulating ground of madness.What is more unreal than darkness.....than believing something to be true when it is not? Isn't it but madness?
Insane desire to see what is not, to hear what is not...without light, without resonance we build world - a colourful and chirpy world.
Call it unreal.
I call it illusions..yes...
of a lunatic!

Me: Blurred and hazy are but intrinsic characters of illusions...of dreams....
And madness, woman???
What are dreams without madness??
Without that tangy taste of lunacy...
The jagged edges of unreal-unknown-hood???

J: When I say madness I don't mean the sweet twitter of whims and fancies and fascination.I mean the ruthless waves of obsession,pride,ego of a sadist as well as a masochist.It's eccentric, it's weird..and it's scary.It curls my blood.My feet turn cold.
Lunacy is different.It's sweet and it's also bittersweet.
Madness is frequently salty, randomly bitter.Dangerous!It is!
Unreals taste yummy with a pinch of crazyness.
Reality tastes well...INSIPID!

Books half-read/lying around unread -
1. A Suitable Boy - Vikram Seth
2. Life of Pi - Yann Martel
3. The Native Speaker - Chang-Rae Lee
4. The black Tower - PD James
5. 100 short stories - O.Henry
6. Kim - Rudyard Kipling
7. The Last Man - Mary Shelley
8. Three Men in a Boat - Jerome K. Jerome (yes..yes..I haven't read it yet...shameful...yes I know)
9. Sankalito Bhromonkahini - Shankar
10. Purba-Poshchim (dwitiyo khondo) - Sunil Ganguly
11. Rijuda Somogro (5th part) - Buddhadeb Basu

And I have to sit and read up stuff like 'Anglo Saxon Poetry' and 'Beowulf'.....

Dammit.
Life sucks.
Big time.

"Whenever I am sad, Himesh Reshmiyya and Rabindranath come and stand before me...I find such solace in both of them..."




For once in my life, I was speechless.