:(

I like being busy. I find it difficult to deal with myself when I have a lot of free time. I don't understand myself as a person.

Right now, I don't feel good. I feel grumpy. I feel like a malcontent. And yes, all because I haven't had milk for the last TWENTY FOUR days. My liver, they say, has become a weakling. I have named her Lily, and I want her back. I miss milk. No one understands this, because most of the people around me feel like puking when they see milk. I respect that, but I cannot get it across to them.

Everyday, I have about two large glasses of milk. If I am under some kind of stress, I have four or five glasses. There is something infinitely comforting about milk. One glass of milk can help you get rid of cramps during periods, help you understand difficult stuff, make your bones so strong that you can knock out a person with one good punch.... Milk helps me survive. And it is not even an addiction. Milk drinking, for me, is not merely physiological. I am emotionally attached to milk. Every morning I wake up, I need a glass of milk to get my system working. It is like fuel. I can't function without milk. My brain is withering away. I feel weak.

In a few days, I will feel suicidal. argh.

Yun toh har shaam ummido mein guzar jaati hai
aaj kuch baat hai jo shaam pe rona aya

kabhi taqdeer ka matam kabhi duniya ka gila
manzil-e-ishq mein har ghum pe rona aya

chariots of bijoygarh

I am a rickshaw freak. I have almost given up on auto rides to college nowadays. There are many reasons behind my embracing this slightly more expensive way of getting to college. I have quite a few options. A 45seconds walk from my house lands me on the road connecting Baghajatin and Ranikuthi. This road is perpendicular to both the No. 5 and the No. 6 routes.

Now that I think of it, it is particularly difficult to draw a map of Bijoygarh. It has so many lanes connecting itself to Jadavpur, Golfgreen, Pallisri, Ranikuthi, Bikramgarh and Sree Colony, that it is still difficult for me to keep track of all these lanes and bylanes. Even though I hang out here in chayer dokaans. Jai hok. Apart from the perpendicular road, all other roads are very narrow. Well, even the perpendicular road is one third of something that even Howlie would be amazed at, and say "o baba, koto boro raasta" (Read Esplanade). This she said, by the way, and even did an impromptu dance on the very road mentioned.

JU is not very far away from my place. It is a 20 minutes walk, yes. No. 20 minutes only when you have a packet of chips, ice cream and a good buddy to walk with you. Otherwise it takes half an hour. Or maybe more.

Uff. I digress.

The perpendicular road has a lot of autos. Not many LPG ones because beyond Jadavpur, the old autos still reign supreme. The people of Bijoygarh are also slightly skeptical, often even suspicious about these new autos. I can take one of these autos to Baghajatin, which is the epicenter of all chaos of the traffic kind in the city, I believe. From Baghajatin I can take another auto (here the new LPG ones go all the way to Gariahat, while the old ones go till Jadavpur Thana). This will be two auto rides for Rs. 9.50. But there's a catch. I can get the auto to Bengal Lamp only after say, 12 noon, when there are not enough passengers to bully. Otherwise 8B is where you have to get off. Which is a waste of time and money.

Another option is the Bijoygarh - Howrah mini which traces a strange route. It comes from Bijoygarh College to the perpendicular road, gets to Baghajatin and then straight to Howrah. This bus can take me to Gate No. 4 for 4 bucks. Very naaice. But the problem is that they go really really slow till they reach 8B. Why? Because it is like the warm up lap. And they pick up even those who seem to be casually strolling from some random bylane towards the bus. This bus makes you feel like a king. It actually waits for you in the warm up lap. I like it when I am the one for whom the bus is waiting. I like to see the expectant faces staring at me from the window. But I also feel a little pressure when I cross the road. Christ. Everyone is gawking at me, waiting for me to get on the bus. I hate it when I have to wait for Bappa's sister who will go only till Lalka Pukur, or Shopu kaka who fucking stops the bus, walks to the mor, buys a paan, chews it for some time, smiles at the conductor (with whom he is on first name terms), gives money to the paanwala and what not. Grr. Even I know the conductors because if you hang out in Bijoygarh Maath you get to know them. They pay for my tea, I pay for their tea etc. But no, I haven't been able to build up the camaraderie that Shopu Kaka has with them. Sigh.

Another option I have is to walk till Pallisri. But that route means socializing with way too many people. And when I 'm getting late for class it is not a good idea. I take that route when I am coming back home. This is because I have to meet Gidduda, his father (who always gives me a toffee), Mukundo, Hubba, Dudhli, Nantu kaka, Banik, Rajesh and finally Mintuda's mother on the way. Mukundo gives me a khata or a pen (he has a bookshop). Hubba is the Cyber Cafe owning, ex AG dude who always wants to use my phone, Dudhli owns a paan-biri-doodh-bishkoot er dokaan and he always asks me about my mother (whom he refers to as 'Madam'), Nantu kaka is chickenshop owner who tells me if my mother has bought chicken for the day or not. If not, he sends some home, Banik is mudi'r dokaan er maalik who is slightly deaf. But he keeps ice cream for me, so all is fine, Rajesh is my cableman superman who plays the movie I want on Sunday and Mintuda's mother tells me how her son can get me a discount in anything I buy from LG Electronics. Oh. And Gidduda is Gidduda.

So I take the rickshaw. The rickshaw kakas do not ask me where I want to get. If it is around 11:30, they take me straight to Bengal Lamp via the 10 nombor pukur road, which is like a pastoral idyll. I listen to Begum Akhtar and reach college in 8 minutes. There are other advantages of this ride as well. The rickshaw kakas give me change, even if it is 100 taka. That is a BIG plus when you have no change and need to go from point A to point B very fast. This ride is also an environment friendly and pleasant one, with generous doses of mutual understanding. Also, these days, we have some really fancy snazzy red rickshaws in our stand. They look like Ferrari versions of rickshaws, and also have built in FM Radio (which, to the great disappointment of the rickshw kakas, I politely ask to turn off.)

There is much much more I have to say. Maybe I will continue this post. :P

"kar raha tha gham-e-jahaan ka hisaab

aaj tum yaad behisaab aaye"

There will be no phone calls, no children to teach, no yellow taxis, no faces waiting at home, no articles to submit, no meeting to attend, no time to think how time flies, no houses, no papers to write, no meend, no doors, no appetite, no rage, no silence, no music, no poetry, no chrome, no ink pens, no childhood, no age, no pores, no breath.

Then this song will end, I will stub out a cigarette, and finish my drink.

Adieu.

I am growing old. This is an odd feeling. When I was four, I never thought I'd ever be ten. When I was ten, I thought 20 is the time when you are at the peak of your life, with a job, a house and maybe even children. I still think life is over at forty, though there is plenty of evidence, plenty, that suggests the contrary.

I am 22 now. Twenty Two. And guess what, I have a strand of grey hair growing on my brohmotaalu. It is not alone. There are others that accompany it. But there is something different about this one. The silent resolve with which it refuses to settle with the other strands neatly... The fact that it seems to have a mind of its own... It is stubborn, irreversible. It has planted itself in my scalp for good, I tell you. And now it will tell others of its kind what a comfortable place my head is. Then there will be others.

I don't mind grey hair, it looks quite sexy. I don't mind age, too. But surely, there is something uncomfortable about this whole process. It has been abrupt, this growing up. Today, in front of the mirror, when I was thinking about winged purple hippos in electric blue top hats that throw red heart shaped potty on my enemies' buildings in Age of Mythology, I think I grew up.

For the first time, the roots of a grey hair has grown into my brain.

I am growing old.

so much motherchaandni(1) in front and many more on back. so much duty that duty double(2)! no sasuraar. But o mi switty no more pitty(3). and all effing graduate! but what sadness on graduate such fate hallam tenny date po-ma-ma mate on beady(4) plate. cannot take.

but what nice sonnet of the mondal! with ophelia(5) in tow! oh so wow!

bestestest toppestest.

also speaking of toppestest, my Head(6) best and strongest. Happy times here one more time and now see our jolly selves strut across corry corry doory.

neuralgia tablet make me speed oh so nice it feel. but so much missing of bangla do i.

new eclairs by Cadbury taste better than old Eclairs by Cadbury. Many not spot difference so subtell it be. all non eaters(7).

i have many many thing more to say but cannot. because i believe in deferral(8).

NOTES:

1) There can be two kinds of 'Motherchaandni', frontal and backkal. We live in times of Solar Eclipse, which increases Lunar importance.

2)When you have to do two kinds of motherchaandni.

3)The sasuraar evokes fear, the switty evokes pitty. So there you have tradegy.

4)Plastic beads, yellow beads, blue beads, orange beads, crow beads...

5)Ophelia of Bardhaman fame who walked into Bintu Dey's pukur in white thaan singing lewd Bhojpuri songs.

6)Salt and Pepper.

7)Who will be deep fried in lard down down down below.

8) Refer to next note.

But I hate you so much, it is just not funny. Strangely enough, I do not feel sad now. Nor angry. Just a deep deep sense of disgust. It is true that I feel bad. Feeling bad is ok, I know that. But I feel abandoned. Sad. Alone. And all because of a few scraps and a phone call. This is a strange thing. But I swear so bad that I am never never going to return. No.

But sometimes, just sometimes, I feel that things would have been great if it had not turned out this bad. And if I had a loud/ obnoxious/ insane/ quirky or whatever family. Maybe. I did not will it this way. This wretched feeling of weakness strengthens me.

When I miss somethings, I turn to other things. And therefore, like always, I am going to convince myself that I am fine. Only that the trick gets cheaper everyday. And I am running out of distractions.

Puriya Dhanashree

"'Ghalib'-e-Khasta ke bagair kaun se kaam band hain ?  

 roiye zaar-zaar  kya, keejiye haay-haay  kyon ? "

Haqeeqat

Have you heard this song? Have you seen this movie? 

Oh, I so love! This is brilliant. 

The song, the song. :) 

Listen. 

everybody has a digital camera. everybody has a computer. everybody has picasa 3. so everybody will edit pictures wihtout knowing head or tail about things. picasa has turned photography into a sad little joke. I hate picasa. Photoshop is better. Yes, because it is more complicated and most people don't know how to use it. I am an elitist. an awful one who wants some things to be only for certain kind of people. ok? this is an argh moment. 

just now, I have seen stupid pictures, warmified, film grained, sepia-ed and hue changed. overdone. also, people go oohs and aahs over such pictures. aarrgghh. 

also, I want a holiday. everyone else has a holiday. I fuckin' don't. aaarrrggghhh. 

I need a good solid dvd ripper. One more external hard disk. I must keep a back-up of the geebees. But now, I think, I have TOO MUCH stuff. And with magpie tendencies, it is difficult to hit Shift+Del. aaaarrrrgggghhhh. 

I really want some good decent folks to get through to the department this time. please? I find this bunch sadder than ever. aaaaarrrrrggggghhhhh. 

Facebook is the new Orkut. with random people sending friend requests. aaaaaarrrrrrgggggghhhhhh. 

I never wanted to be a malcontent. 

so fuck. 

speak.

Tired of endless conversation, she took the left turn. What was there, eh? A big blue monster with three heads. The first head was red, the second green and the third orange. The monster was called G. The monster fed on Time. But when the monster threw up, there was a strange gooey green thing. The thing was nice. Still, it was not named. It was green, and gooey. It was the greenness of the goo which made it nice.

But she loved conversation. With Wisdom. And a little folly.

Ladies and Gentleman, if you have ever wanted to commit sooocaaide, remember that it is a constitutional offense. If you fail, that is. 

So, you better not.

And if you have too many things made up in your head, try to shampoo twice a week.

This does not mean a thing. But I never wanted to make meaning. Maybe I just want to say aboo times and syar may I please talk and excoos me. The point I am trying to make is, I need a little break. Or I am heading for a breakdown.

Iqbal Bano.

    1935~2009

The death of Iqbal Bano is being referred to as the death of Ghazal in Pakistan. It is, to a great extent. But the death of Iqbal Bano means much more than just the death of a voice. It is the death of an era. The death of a sensibility. 

I encountered the music of Iqbal Bano when I was too young to understand the meaning of the poetry she sang. I was introduced to her by a man I have now disowned. Years later, when I was 17, I heard her again. 'mere dil, mere musafir' -- a song that perfectly described all that I had felt ever since I was a child. I had myself not recognised these thoughts, feelings. This is the magic of music, this is the magic of poetry. It heralds recognition. The magic in Iqbal Bano's voice is such. It can articulate things that you feel, but feelings that you will never be able to translate into words. Often, when we talk, we misrepresent our feelings. At least, I do. But certain songs, they say everything that I would want to tell myself. 

Iqbal Bano has always been a special presence in my life. Many times in great despair have I turned to Iqbal. The voice has consoled me, soothed me and often given birth to a new kind of despair that is deep like water, a melancholic sense of aloneness. 

The music of Iqbal Bano has been a strange kind of company for me. Her voice always leaves me in anticipation. No matter how many times I listen to dasht - e - tanhai mein, I cannot overcome that ache lying deep within. Although I know the poem by heart, there is a sense of restlessness, unease and suspense with each couplet. There is wonder.  And there is the magic of a voice that can never, never die. 

The knowledge that the body behind the voice is dead leaves the songs stranded in a newfound profundity. I have found another meaning in these words:

'uht rahi hai kahin qurbat se 

teri saans ki aanch 
apani khushbuu mein sulagti hui 
maddham maddham' 

*pic courtesy www.dawn.com

**I have uploaded two songs. Listen to Dasht-e-tanhi mein and Payal mein geet hai. If you want any other song, feel free to ask!

I feel awful, awful. And I feel good, good too.

I feel awful because of whatever I have seen.
I feel awful because I can't do much about it.
I feel good because I will not let it be repeated.
I also feel good because somewhere deep inside, I know I wouldn't have let things be like this years from now even if I hadn't seen this.

I do not know whether memory defeated him or he chose to be defeated by memory. I do not know him either. But something about him is so much like a kid. I have an inkling that he has chosen to forget so much. Whatever time he has left, we can try and make things better. 

And you! I will not let you forget. You will be happy and yo when you are like him!

Roger that, General!

I hate this semester. Everything about this semester is weird and horrid. This is the finishing line. But I do not have that fantastic feeling about completing graduation etc etc. I feel bored. This is a sustained kind of boredom. I don't feel like hanging out in the department these days. I don't feel like attending classes, taking tests etc. Graduation was very important for me. It was supposed to be a kind of victory. Some achievement. It meant a lot, precisely because I did it all on my own and stuff like that. But now that it is about to end, I feel stupid. The world that I had created has sort of broken down. There is nothing in it except compulsion. Drudgery. Boredom. Disillusionment. Meaninglessness.

This is not about my future. And what I want to do. This is entirely about my present, which is some kind of a void.

Meet M. :)

Sometimes I want to get up a tank, preferably chrome yellow in colour and about 200 feet high, with a bottle of Old Monk (750 ml, no less) and scream "soocaaaaaaide".

Today is one such day.

No cigarette for two days, not one. No term papering yet. No clue about Prosody. Blood pressure all time low like the Sensex. Neighbour being particularly cheerful at dinner, saying once you fall (not metaphorically like Ruth, but really, like hitting the ground, get it?) with this kind of pressure you go straight into coma. Mother being when it comes to drinking water, might hit the streets with 'Water for my Daughter' campaign anyday now. Going tap tap tap at the keyboard but writing stuff like "herbal treatment for colon disorders' or 'acne and hygiene'.

and NO ALCOHOL for god knows how long!!!

So, I want the tank and the Old Monk. Wisdom.

The mausiji may or may not be present; lest I give the impression that I have a 'bhabhi' or 'mausi' fetish, which is so a rage in Indian porn comics. Refer to something hillarious called Savitha Bhabi, you will know.

P.S - I feel so much like Schrodinger's Cat. Both dead and alive. State depending on observer. Sigh.

"Dayaar- e - dil ki raat mein
chirag sa jala gaya
mila nahin toh kya hua
woh shakl toh dikha gaya..."

Few things are as refined as Urdu poetry. There is a touch of great sophistication in sorrow, a great dignity in sadness that this language can express. Of the many things that I wish for, I wish I could write something like this. Two lines that have a perfect balance of expression. A couplet that says all you would want to say in two hundred pages! The economy of this poetry overwhelms.

Faiz is sheer genius. Give him the Nobel Prize.

Because these four lines say exactly what I feel! :)

I have hit the ceiling. I cannot do one more bit of intellectual prostitution. Not one word more. This is the limit. This is drudgery of the highest order. I really cannot take it anymore. Mechanically writing fucking articles. I'd give anything. If only I could stop this. ANYTHING.

Aaaarrrggghhhh.

At this rate, I will become a sociopath. Which FaceBook says I already am.

"woh dosti toh khyaer ab naseeb - e - dushmana hui
woh chhoti chhoti ranjishon ka lutf bhi chala gaya"

ki apt.

1. This blog is not dead.
2. This blog has not smoked itself to non existence.
3. This blog has a middle finger which it is pointing at you right now.
4. My laptop is a piece of junk.
5. My laptop's motherboard is a piece of junk.
6. Never buy HCL laptops.
7. I do not have Rs. 17, 000/-
8. And I don't even friggin' care.
9. If you do not have a spine / I could lend you mine.
10. Samuel Beckett was a very strange man.
11. Wulfgar is a very nice dog.
12. This blog also has a butt.
*jiggle jiggle*

The last time I read Animal Farm, I was little more than a kid. I remembered today that I had cried for Boxer. Boxer, the old fool. Strong and limited to the notion of just working harder and harder. Perhaps my pity for Boxer was largely due to the fact that he never slept enough. Things have changed. I almost feel like I read another text today.        

The tears for Boxer seem to have dried out. And what remains is the deep disgust for Napoleon. The right word, however, is not disgust. There is something else.    

Boxer was not just a foolish horse working his lungs to death. He represents that part of us which wants to believe in the integrity of things, only to be deceived time and again.  

 

In the last few days, I have seen faces oddly resembling pigs. Faces indulging in an ugly transformation..."From pig to man, and from man to pig, and from pig to man again."

I could still cry for Boxer. But Napoleon demands nothing but pity.