Thursday, December 25, 2008
Merry Christmas
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Simple Interest
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
When I arrived in college, at around one fifteen, I saw that gate number four had crumbled down. One of my friends said, ironically, that she thought that the gate had been built and it was being opened ceremonially. At first I didn’t know what to do and went to the department, only to find people carrying on with their work and making yesterday’s biggest joke. Let me tell you the joke at first. There is this play being staged. It’s a big thing, you know. Every year the department puts up a play. Great academic and extra curricular enterprise. So one of the props in this play is an air gun. The joke is that just when this air gun was fired, the gate fell down. Funny, innit? I also saw a few of my professors in the department. There was a meeting, some moderation business and whatever shit I know not of. Everyone is busy. Very busy.
Once I got down, I gave Antoreep a call and he said that they needed people out there. After I went in, the worst day of my life had begun. What I saw yesterday cannot be described in words. When I went in, there was one more person trapped inside. There were not enough security guards. The workers out there, the security guards, the firebrigade…but there were not enough people. What surprised me was that there were very few students. I just want to know something. What if a student had been trapped inside? The boys we saw on television from the engineering faculty writing on posters… would they have come to help out? I couldn’t believe the curiosity of people. We were unable to remove them and had to shout and scream and push in order to ensure that the ambulance got in. None of the professors from our esteemed departments came down except for Amlanda and Manashda. Few were gawking from the ledges. Spectacle, it was.
Students like you and me stood there. Smiling and taking photographs on their cell phones. Let me not open my foul mouth regarding the press. What do we call this? Sadism? Apathy? Indifference? Bastardy? I have no fucking words.
How could people conduct a rehearsal when one person was buried a few meters away? One of them came and told me today that he was feeling useless. Indeed. That is what all of us are. Useless. If there had been more people, maybe one more life could be saved. But who gives a damn anyway, eh? The fourth labourer was inside the rubble for two and a half hours. I just pray that he died instantly.
I do not know what inhibitions, problems, instructions from authorities they had.
I have seen the way in which many students and teachers behave when there is a problem amongst students. Few go down and involve themselves and try to sort things out. Oddly enough, it is the same group of students and the same group of professors who actually go out and do something. Others just fucking don’t care. They give a rat’s ass about what happens to the students. And when it comes to labourers, it fucking doesn’t matter. Even death does not stir them one bit.
These people had also been employed by the university. These people were working in a five star university which is renowned for its engineering department. Nobody told them to wear helmets. Maybe they wouldn’t. But what about taking concrete actions and ensuring that these people take the precautionary measures? And what the hell happens to all the money that UGC gives us? Aritroda and I heard one of the officials saying that the same contractor had done the work for gate number three. The same materials had been used and so on. Well, if that is the case, it is mere luck that gate number three has not collapsed yet, as Sion said.
Give me answers, somebody. I cannot close my fucking eyes. Each time I do so, I see the face of that man who was trapped inside for two and a half hours.
We live in different worlds, all of us. Last evening, I was walking down to gate no. 5 with Antoreep and Paromitadi. Milonda was crowded, as usual. There was a gang of students in front of Worldview. Another group with one person singing Beatles and playing the guitar. Another group smoking up. Playing cards. How long will we pretend that nothing has happened? They say it hurts when its home. What about that? Has it stopped hurting even when it happens where you study? In your own university?
Carrying on as if nothing had happened just a few hours ago. As if gate number four had not fallen down. As if no one had died. I do not know how. None of us knows how. One of my friends said yesterday that all of us have blood on our conscience. Well, do we have a conscience at all?
Monday, November 10, 2008
Toy
One little toy telling stories of myself which are memories with no good use. My first teddy bear was a dog, ha ha. And I called it something I forget. Someone bought a G.I Joe for me and I tore out its head and hid it under the bed. Many toys, them with bright colours and batteries and clockwork ones also. Toys with lights and toys that could fly toys that I could build little houses with and toys that could blink and even the hideous ones that would cry when I flung them on the floor out of curiosity, anger, disgust, boredom and about twenty other feelings you can only feel when you are a child. Colours are very nice I had all kinds of colours to learn. I never called the blue one red or the red one blue when I had the freedom. I did not know yellow or black from red or purple. But then I had to learn the fine distinction between the colour of rust and the colour of bricks they build houses with and the colour of soil mingled with blood.
Then came the Rubik's Cube and the chess board and the pack of cards and that bonsai of the instrument I loved like a toy. New toys excite and thrill and fill you with intrigue and tension and a new kind of anxiety. That feeling of discovery which is equal to invention because for you its the first time. That wooden instrument with the old world charm and the feeling of growing up twang twang twang and music was made. Suddenly out of very fine strings I could hear the sound of a million years behind me and a million more. History and future and other things and all I needed was to touch the strings with my fingers and that triangular little thing made from coconut shell. Music fascinated, enticed, amused. Held me captivated for hours together. A music that was ancient and a music that was newborn and just created that followed no rhythm but was music nonetheless. That beauty and that charm of old and new and real and dreamlike in the toy went wrong. Music went wrong.
Tricycle and the fall. No one said Marie Marie hold on tight when I stepped out of the door and cycled down the stairs. Stitch Stitch Stitch back the skin. When the skin opens up to show the flesh and veins and many other parts of the inside a lot of pain is all you know and nothing can be done but stitch stitch stitch. We are the cloth toys they make when they stitch us up. Inside maybe we have sponge and cloth and scraps of cloth and maybe even thermocol and wires you never know for how many times have you opened up your toys?
Other toys also come. With new kinds of lights and some are robots that can walk on their own but when the batteries die down you have to push them all of a sudden they spring back to life. Old toys are swept away from under the bed suddenly someone holds it up in front of your face broomstick in hand and asks whether you still need it or not. You say no because you are doing something so very important and have no time for silly old things so you say no they are not what you call important and they go away forever leaving no trace. Little pieces of old toys not so precious because they are broken and old and you need them no more. Some are very expensive ones. Relatives from abroad bringing them or very special memories like a prize thing so them you never get to play with. Kept in glass showcases the pride of your house like a little museum of memories they stay all your life, maybe for your children or maybe just there without a function and a purpose. Stupid dumb toys all of them with nothing no soul no touch no life in them shut up from the outside those little pretty ones.
This new one blinks feebly and still has a name because I name them still. After years I have a toy. It goes up and down and up and down and it is so beautiful because it tells a story I had forgotten. That old story of things all of us you and I we know we may not remember but never forget.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Home
I was listening to Iqbal Bano the other day, and these lines whirled around my head for a long long time. “Har ek ajnabee se poochhein, jo pataa tha apne ghar ka…”
I moved into my locality about three years ago. Before that, I had no clue that such a place existed. I was not well acquainted with the entire area, like I am now. In fact, any place beyond Jadavpur seemed very unfamiliar and strange because I lived in
In my childhood, neither Ballygunge place nor Gangulibagan told me what it was like to have a home. None of them were my para. I never belonged to either place. And there was a strange sense of displacement working within me. I was like a refugee who belonged nowhere. This did not make me wallow in sorrow, no. I was, as a child, somewhat unable to register things. However, I distinctly remember that I had no sense of attachment to any of these places. The houses were just houses. Broken families are a queer thing. Families, in fact, are queer systems. They work fine like machines but when some dismantle, there are certain difficulties which cannot be explained. This sense of displacement might be something which might have nothing to do with family, but I think that somewhere down the line it does have a connection. On one hand, there was the posh neighbourhood of
A stark contrast was Gangulibagan. This housing complex was built up initially for refugees who made an appeal to the government for a place to stay. There was a series of four storied buildings where each floor had eight flats. There were Z shaped blocks and L shaped blocks. The folks who had some influence in the party office got hold of two flats in a floor and lived comfortably, paying a rent of fifteen rupees a month to the RR&R Department.
Truly, it turns out that I am still enamoured of
This shuttling between
What matters is that this incident resulted in my final exit from
My mother was also looking for a place to stay at this point. My grandfather tried his best to persuade a few residents of my block to stand up against this. However, although most of them were willing enough, they were not ready to risk it all. What if the government contractors actually came and demolished the buildings. This impending disaster was too much to bear for a group of seventy year olds who wanted nothing but a bit of peace. One of my mother’s friends assured her that he would find a place for us to stay. Many frantic rickshaw rides later, we finally found a house. This house, the one in which I live right now, is situated in Sree Colony. I did not like the para at first. In fact, I called it B Sree Colony. Bad pun, I know.
Three years have passed since the day I moved into this house. Somehow, things have changed a lot. With one phone call, my neighbourhood chicken seller drops in one kilogram of chicken at my door. Same with milk, eggs, potatoes and everything under the sun. This transition took some time, but it has been one of the most beautiful experiences of my little life. What makes my locality special is the warmth that is within each and every individual here. I feel respected and loved. I believe that you can understand the true character of a locality by looking at the strays that live there. Come to my para, and you will see Dhenu, who is a healthy and completely crazy dog. His friend is Khnora, a dog who lost his forelegs in an accident when he was six months old. Look into his eyes and you will know how happy he is. And how loved. There are many cats that laze around all day and scream their little lungs out if their boiled fish arrives fifteen minutes after the scheduled time. So spoilt rotten they are.
But I have to move away from this place as well. Circumstances are wicked. They tweak things in such a manner that you are left with no alternative but to do what you fear most. I have feared many things. I fear displacement, still. The day I stop fearing this feeling, this nightmare will stop. And I will have a home.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Monday, September 29, 2008
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Come, let's all be mad together---- W. Erbery, The Mad Man's Plea
I never have anything to say. I can only stare at hands and teeth and feet rustling by. There are many things that we can never articulate. If only, articulation was easier. Somewhere, now, there is a man on an operation table. Those big yellow lights over his almost lifeless body. That red light telling others to steer clear of the area. That hospital smell makes me sick. I am not a flower person, I'd rather smell kerosene. Or burnt matchsticks. Not hospital, no.
But I should have been right outside that door, counting my steps and biding my time. Should. Really? A violent past is something that you can seldom avoid. And when everything is over, you are left with nothing but the strange uneasiness. There is a little fatigue and a little guilt, but there is never a going back.
Maybe a part of me is glad to imagine you like this. Helpless, sir. And scaringly alone. I am not alone, do you see? I can scream and tell you this. You are alone. Remember our last deal? You would not touch me and I would not look behind. I won. I won. I am the winner. You are dying to touch me. Literally. And I have not looked behind.
I will not look behind. You can die.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Cigarette smoking is injurious to health
I love to see smoke. When it comes out of my nostril, I get that elevated feeling of being a dragon. I feel like a dragon, just about to breathe fire. Yes, I fancy myself as a dragon. I also want little scaly wings to grow from the posterior region of my body. Green and tough. In fact, every night I dream of my flights over medieval hills and vales. No, I am not yet another Middle Ages freak. I just fancy myself as a dragon. I wet myself with excitement each time I light a cigarette. It is one of those queer sexual perversions. Dragon fetish and all that blah.
Well, I digress.
I also happen to like ash. Paper and tobacco giving way to ash is like a rehearsal of everything. Just like we go to bed every night and indulge in a meek rehearsal of our death. Life is a very cheap play. Shoddy production, bad lights, fake script, underpaid actors and a tin orchestra. High farce, however, is what saves it all. Ash is like a divine prop. Whenever you run out of fire, put some ash, the bastards will understand. When you run out of water, pour out some ash, they will know. When you run out of make - up, smear some over your forehead.
Well, come to think of it, ash is bio-degradable, too.
I digress, again.
I am just bored, and I need a smoke.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Things fall apart
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world"
- W. B Yeats.
Amidst sunrise and powercuts; premature monsoon and immature drainage systems; Gorkhaland blues and deforestation greens; inflation and banned smoke rings and etc., the government is falling apart. One must applaud them, however, for all the great things that they have bestowed upon the nation.
Always give these honest men their due.
A dog, residing within a 500 m radius of yours truly, has bitten his canine mate. The dog is dead. Well, both are dead. One, because the bite was deep and bloody. The other, because people trying to save the other dog hit him with bricks and one hit his head. Both, I repeat, are dead.
There is a place yours truly goes to. The place is quite nice with many trees and a couple of ponds. There were bridges, they say, but someone burnt them down. There are dogs and birds and fishes and windmills. All of these merge together and make the place a nice place. But the nice place is also aflame. There are a few very intelligent men and women who want certain things. They want it so badly that they are throwing tantrums. They are shouting so loud that the nice place is noisy and uncomfortable. They are not just loud, they are black and blue and red and they want to break break break break things down. Sadly is a terrible adverb. It has a sour taste and never looks good when put together with things you love. But sadly, you are they. Yours truly is they too. We are they. In this loop of incomprehensible pronouns, I am getting lost somewhere.
Did I tell you that the dogs died? Both?