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. :-(

Those were the days.

Jungle jungle pata chala hai,
pata chala hai,
chaddi pehen ke phool khila hai,
phool khila hai.


Mile sur mera tumhara,
toh sur bane hamara.


Adbhoot adam *something* ki paribhasha hai,
yeh *something* manavta ki asha hai,
yeh prithvi ke shakti ka vardaan hai,
yeh bhagwaan nahi hai, yeh insaan hai,
shaktimaan, shaktimaan, shaktimaan.


Yada yada hi dharmasya......
...........................................
sambhavami yuge yugeeeeeeeeeee

Mahaaaaaaaaaaaabharaaaaaaaat!
*ting*
Main Samay Hoon!
(or was it the other way round?)


Aaj kaal porshu ekdin,
somoyer somudre mishe jay,
it kaath pathorer shohore
itihaas phishphish kotha koy,
din bodlay,
raat bodlay,
bodlay na shudhu....
Jonmobhoomi!
Jonmobhoomi!


Books, books, books,
Babaroobaabaa,
books, books, books!
..................................
.................................
Its the Bournvita Quiz Contest!


Captain Planet,
he is a hero,
Gonna take pollution,
down to zero!
.........................
Go planet!
Earth! Fire! Wind! Water! Heart!
With your powers combined,
I am Captain Planet!


Its a small wonder!
That makes your heart go
Tum tum ta tum tum ta tum!


Yeh hai antakshari,
Close Up Antakshari!


Saaton suro ka hai yeh,
yeh milan,
Geeton se mehka hai sara chaman,
Apne hothon pe nagme sajaaye hue,
Aao sab mil gaaye,
SaReGaMa
TVS SaReGaMa!


Flintstones, meet the Flintstones,
...........................................
Wilmaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!

Scooby Dooby Doo,
Where Are You?
We've got some work to do now!
Scooby Dooby Doooooooooooooo!


Let's see how many more you remember.

(p.s. - ......... indicates where I have forgotten extensive portions of the jingle)

Stupid, conniving, irritating people.
Spineless, two-faced, disgusting.

Aaaaarrghh!

Genius. Just.

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

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

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

:-)

Daddy's girl. :)

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

And I don't know how to repair it.

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

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

For some reason, I am utterly mindfucked

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

I wouldn't know what to do.

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

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

No crying baby. Just.no.tears.

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

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


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

This just to let you know..

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

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

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

It was she who shot these beauties.

Cynicism finally packed it’s bags today.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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


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

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

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

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

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

Khattam Shud.

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

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

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


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

I miss you, dadumoni.