Garlic and sapphires in the mud

why do we write when we can scream?

2011-07-27T13:40:00.000-07:00

I try to write but sometimes I cannot. When I can I feel myself locked up in a sense of language. What is sense and what is language I do not know. Why do I to write? There is no need to think of this as an exercise in my thoughts this song ended very abruptly but all that I know all that I feel sometimes is a need to go out of language and try to feel the way my perceptions turn into words or cannot. She tells me I should see patterns in things. I lie. She does not tell me so. Nobody tells me to see patterns in things in walls in the sweat I put on the walls of my little bathroom. I do not put sweat it is only water. But yesterday I saw a duck and a boy on the wall. I threw the water that ran down from the tap to my fingertips and then I saw them. The duck was behind the boy. Was it a boy? I cannot begin to look at this. Sometimes I try to read the way the fan moves above my head. And then I try looking at lizards. Lizards never scream they watch and they eat and sometimes they grow fat. She told me that she does not like homosexual hulos. But I do not know enough about them to comment. I look at cats and dogs and lizards and I try to see what they mean. I talk to dogs but then it frustrates me when they do not talk balk back. But when they do I know they are connected to me more than others. The pink elephant tries very hard to fit behind the sofa but it cannot. It is a balloon but it is still an elephant. And the sofa can never let anything hide behind. I still remember the day when he tried to kick her through the net. i wanted to kick him harm him tear his eyes out. I remember. But then I served him one fish and asked if he wanted more. I took my foot away I refused to kick I refused to put my stitched foot anywhere I refuse I refuse. She is still fat and she still calls me but I cannot forget the day she locked me out. Now she wants to be locked in but I do not want. I run. But even after she locked me out and locked that diary in I put my head on her shoulders when I was coming home. That night he put his hand under my head I do not remember very clearly how. I did not love him I cannot love him but I still love him. Sometimes I need to remember sometimes I force myself to remember sometimes I only nod and smile civil when I cannot remember but I try so hard to remember. I remember only one day when he took her out but they did not take me because I would ask for toys. i stood beside the door but I could not cry so I spit on my hand and rubbed that on my eyes I wanted to tell them that I was crying I wanted to and I was really crying but the tears refused they refused so much I used saliva. They saw me crying standing behind that door but still they would not take me but when they came back they had that toy I wanted for sometime. there was a girl she was thin and older and she told me that I must play cards with her. I told her a nasty thing to say but I do not remember anymore so she went away. She came back all the time. It was my birthday I gave him two cubes of the chocolate I had and at night he gave me something wrapped I knew it was a gift a very nice gift but not what. It was so well wrapped I started peeling it off peeling it off peeling it off till I saw two pieces. It was not broken but still it was two. I never felt sad when he died. But I rubbed talcum on his back and learnt stories. I sat beside the window and looked at them playing football I leaped on to the bed and leaped again to the chair and then it hurt so bad I was dying. Hospital but when I saw the doctor everything was fine no pain no pain anymore. That little room the size of a mattress and that woman who kept groaning cancer was eating her up and the man who reminded me of the hunchback of notre dame and how he looked at her when she took a bath she could not take her clothes off. One day I punched his back he said that he loves me so we walked in the rain we were soaking and we had some food and ran ran ran till we came home he was wet and he put out his wallet to dry all the money I looked and saw so much money but wet money. One day she came back home with many chocolates and a shirt I wore for many days till she took it away. When she wore my shirt the dog he barked and he was telling her to take off my shirt but nobody understood the dog and he kept barking and crying he wanted to see the shirt off her back but nothing happened. Finally she said that maybe it is the shirt she took it off and wore another shirt and he slept like an angel on the floor I patted him good dog but not so good he bit off some flesh he was sick and his intestines were coming out I cried under the shower. I cried under the shower. I cried under the shower.

On the table, and in it.

2011-01-29T09:46:00.000-08:00

So after experimenting with a whole range of new templates, I have settled for this basic black one. I am growing old, I think. In literature, music and art I am beginning to appreciate minimalism more and more.

Now with all that gah is this reluctance to write. Maybe it is because nobody reads this blog anymore. I seldom come back to it. When I started this blog, it was about writing what I felt like and suchlike. But somewhere down the line, this blog, too, has become a performance. I think I always look for an audience. No matter how much I value inwardness. One part of me longs to creep into myself and never look out. The other part wants to be looked at while creeping in. And to admit this has taken some time and a lot of hibernation.

But this rusty green iron table is not to be discarded, yet.

2010-10-21T11:34:00.000-07:00

2010. 2010. diabetes. no symptoms. something else?
everything sucks. i am singularly unfortunate. depression.

When all this ends.

2010-03-20T11:55:00.000-07:00

I return to the rusty green table whenever I am clueless. It is like the old ignored piece of soon-to-be junk that you are too fond of to throw away. The last week has been absolutely crazy. One birthday, one suicide and one exam. This highly incongruous combination kept me busy.

The birthday was very nice and how much. The suicide was unnecessary and disturbing. The exam was difficult and absurd.

Then sleep deprivation. Five nights straight very little sleep, bad throat and complete mind-fuck was unbearable. And then I got 14 hours of sleep which made things so much better. As I write, I am searching for a snazzy new template for my blog. Something that looks impressive and serious etc. :P

In other news, I think I am finally out of a love. And it must do me good. But life is not so easy. I was thinking about one thing the other day. It seemed kind of crooked and freaked me out, but it made sense. Why do people end their lives when they are miserable? I think it is a better bet to kill yourself when everything is perfect. I, for one, always feel this anxiety about whatever happiness I have. I fear that one day the people who love me will stop caring about me. I fear mortality. Not my own, but of those I love. So I was thinking that it is actually a good idea to end your life when everything is fine. You can die happy, knowing that people love you, that the little illusion of a perfect universe that you have created around your head is still there.

Let us face it, all of us know that happiness is some kind of an illusion. Our romances, our friendships, our witticisms, our fixations, our principles... all these build up a nice happy universe which is so fragile that it can go POOF! with one blow. I fear that Poof more than anything else.

I know that my world is fragile. I don't know about your one, I don't know whether you have these anxieties or not, but I feel a sense of desolation each time I am very happy. I learnt my lesson the hard way when I was a kid. But I don't want my bubble to burst so bad again. So I want to go away when I am still cared for as a child, when my romance hasn't lost its glow, when my friends still find my jokes funny, when I am still important in my puny little world.

But then again, I can't be so selfish. And of course, I need to check out what life has in store. And right now it has a snazzy new template. So there.

2010-02-10T10:27:00.000-08:00

Every time you say that you are scared, I feel a terrible, empty sadness and a sense of futility. You make a stranger of me. Would you do the same if I were your own?

ivory bridges.

2010-01-09T08:50:00.000-08:00

Hemen died yesterday. And with him died a generation, an institution and a kind of life that I can never relive again. Hemen was important in ways that most of the people today do not even know. In his little shop in Deshapriyo Park, he quietly practiced a craft that was perhaps destined to die.

It was his suggestion that made me include an extra string on my instruments for better resonance. He carried with him the aura of the lost world of sage musicians and winter evenings.

His ear for music was a famous one, yes. The first time I went to his shop was when I threw a fit for a Sarod. I wanted to play the instrument when I was three years old (that was when I started going to my Guruji’s place). I was too young to even hold a Sarod, so Hemen made me a little one. It is probably lying in some corner of a house. Instruments need regular playing to mature. I know it has lost its voice by now. I played that one for five or six years, until it became too small for me. Still, my toy sarod, which did not even have ivory bridges, I remember its characteristic sound. It was what I will now call ‘chapa’. I smile when I remember the mock serious tone of that instrument. Not being a full sized one, it did not have the characteristic ‘gambhirjyo’ of a Sarod. But it was my first instrument. With whose touch I learnt sa re ga ma pa.

And now, old Hemen is no more. And that world is no more.

The only world to which I feel I belong. That old world where people play Sarod for hours. Where music and whiskey flow with the ease of a maestro's meend. Where life is a celebration of sorrow. Where music is instilled within the nerves of people and bricks of houses. Where the sun rises only to the strains of Bhairav. That world where we do not run. Where people understand, from within, the true meaning of ‘thehrav’. Where mindless speed is considered to be as immature as the anxious expenditure of the nouveau riche. My obscene, elitist, decadent world. My delicate, inebriated, exquisite world.

I languish in this unreal space instead. Marveling at my mediocrity. I split into two.

But Hemen is dead. Ali Akbar is dead. That world is dead. My past is dead.

And I have a lute of wood at a corner of my room that sings no more.

:(

2009-12-11T09:00:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-11-19T07:07:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-18T09:51:00.000-08:00

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

2009-10-10T22:30:00.000-07:00

"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.

2009-08-23T13:45:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-07-20T10:13:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-07-07T11:18:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-28T23:33:00.000-07:00

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

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

Haqeeqat

2009-06-12T14:06:00.000-07:00

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

Oh, I so love! This is brilliant.

The song, the song. :)

Listen.

2009-06-06T12:32:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-05-21T13:00:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-05-11T15:28:00.000-07:00

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!

2009-05-01T11:55:00.000-07:00

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!

2009-04-28T09:43:00.000-07:00

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. :)

2009-04-24T14:43:00.000-07:00

2009-04-12T14:43:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-04-06T12:27:00.000-07:00

"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! :)

2009-04-05T11:06:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-03-25T04:53:00.000-07:00

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

ki apt.

2009-02-07T05:31:00.000-08:00

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*

2009-01-08T11:28:00.000-08:00

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.

Merry Christmas

2008-12-25T08:43:00.000-08:00

Heh. Merry Christmas. I mistyped Christmas as 'Christmans' and Crisstmas'. But that is because I am slightly drunk. I generally don't get drunk on three large pegs, but with the festive spirit and all the laughing with Raju and Rupesh, in the name of Christ, I am drunk. Slightly. But I have been acting quite stupid. Tee Hee. The Fantastic Mother thinks I have had whiskey. I refute. I have had rum.

Another year is almost over. Time is slippery. It is like biulir daal. So damn funny man. It seems like yesterday when I ran after my friends for something as stupid as a tie pin or a refill. Gawd. And now my good friends, the Bhringi, the Bimbo, the Bhnodu... all of them are fucking graduates!!!

Realization. I have friends who are graduates and in all probability, I will be one soon. (Although MadMad will beg to differ)

Right now, at this very moment, I feel quite happy. That is because my mother has had a good birthday, my good buddy is back in town and we will party like crazy and whatever. Actually, I feel quite good about life. Somehow, I want music on my fingertips. Once again. I want to caress the strings. I want it all back. I was thinking about music today. Somehow, I feel that it is the fear of not being as good as before that holds me back. Maybe it is not anger or whatever shit it was at all. I am scared, slightly. What if I am unable to play? I am rusty. But I have to admit, there is nothing, absolutely nothing in the world that thrills me more than weaving music out of thin air. The making of a brand new alaap, now cautious, like treading on sand, and then flippant, almost cavalier in spirit. And then the tehai, the energy that can drive you crazy. The crescendo. The gentle yet firm cajoling of the strings for the meend...

I want it back. I will be back. Someday soon.

I have made new friends. I have lost old friends. I have cared about people. I have loved people.I have bitched my heart out I have smoked my lungs off I have hated my guts out I have shouted I have screamed I have fought I have hugged...

All of us. All of us do all these things. It is nothing special. But it is so very human.

I like this little life of mine. Although stupid Facebook says I will die when I am twenty and one old holy man said I will die young, I show my middle finger and my left butt and my big toe in my right foot to them. I give a damn. I will live and live fine till the time I stop living. I don't want to write that word here. Just.

I love my friends and whatever family I have.

Tonight, I drank to absent friends. I miss you all.

Tonight, I want my music back.

Tonight, mother, I am home.

Tonight, I want to tell you that I will always take care. Yes, when you are old.

Tonight, I want to tell all my friends, you who jump all the time like a monkey and you the giraffe and you who are the pink pig and you the moody mother like and you the thin dog and you the Dodo and you the Seventh Rhino and you the Birsa Munda and you the wannabe rockstar with long hair and you the one in trouble now and you the one with nine stitches in your left armpit and you the little one who takes taxi rides back home and you and you and you... I love you all.

Tonight, I will talk to you, the wise one. :)

Tonight, I hold no grudges.

Merry Christmas, one and all. Merry Christmas.

P.S: I wrote this last night. Read it once again now. Ki nyaka saala. Now that I am sober, I guess I take back all my words! Go suck! :P

Simple Interest

2008-12-20T11:00:00.000-08:00

S.I = (P*R*T) / 100

God I have said this so many times today evening. Strangely enough, I have also realised how simple interests are when it comes to the principal / principle, the rate and the time. What one cannot place is just the 100. Maybe it is the constant reminder of division. Strange are the ways of mathematical formulae.

2008-12-02T21:52:00.000-08:00

After reading a forty page tenure in 17th Century English for hours last night, marking out important bits and figuring out what the implication of each word could be, I have discovered one thing.

What Milton says in all these pages, backing up his argument with citations from Classical literature, the Bible and the works of political writers and the Divines, is actually summed up by Akshay Kumar in the movie Singh is Kinng. He says, "Asli king wohi hota hai jo apne liye nahin, doosron ke liye raj kare."

Milton says the same in the Tenure, mamu. What will ADG do if I quote Akshay Kumar in my end semester paper? I will, though.

2008-11-19T02:56:00.000-08:00

"Run to your houses, fall upon your knees,

Pray to the gods to intermit the plague

That needs must light on this ingratitude"

Trust me, this is one thing I did not want to blog about. However, I had a talk with Antoreep and he said that there is only one way of letting people know and telling them on their faces what kinds of bastards they are. We decided that the only way to let more people know was to write.

Go read this.

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 detest myself for being part of an institution which merely tries to disavow responsibility. I detest myself for calling these people my friends. I detest myself for having sat in a class taken by many of these professors who do not come down to help people when they are dying.

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?

Toy

2008-11-10T12:15:00.000-08:00

Little things like smell of sweat and leather from wrist watch or rare concentric smoke rings or one little toy after ten odd years tell that long forgotten story of one old battery driven car from long long time ago.

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.

Home

2008-10-31T08:24:00.000-07:00

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…”

This is a not a song about being homeless. This is a song about the pain of having a home and then being forced to abandon it. I find the feeling familiar. I have felt this kind of pain, this kind of desperation, this kind of futile longing for a home. My mind has looked for a home and my body has begged for familiarity. Each day I push the feeble old gate to enter my house, I feel impatient. I have to leave this house too. It is not my house, but it has been good to me.

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 Ballygunge Place. After my parents called it quits, I had to go and spend half the week with my mother at Gangulibagan. Interestingly, this was also a place beyond Jadavpur, but I never knew much about this place because it was a housing complex consisting of many government quarters. Every Monday I entered this complex in a car and every Friday I left in a similar manner. The school bus took me to school from the gate of the complex and dropped me exactly there. I had no chance whatsoever of actually knowing the place.

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 Ballygunge Place. Where the bathrooms have geysers and the living rooms have great mahogany chairs. The house was a beautiful one, yes. Beautiful, and imposing. With old furniture and many old instruments, there was a charm about it. The charm of a lost world of immense grandeur, perhaps. But then, I never thought that it was my house because I had to move away from it every Friday.

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.

Gangulibagan is turning out to be a great digression, albeit an interesting one. I fear that the detachment from my maternal and paternal neighbourhoods that I was brooding about just a paragraph ago is beginning to break down.

Truly, it turns out that I am still enamoured of Ballygunge Place and intrigued by Gangulibagan. Still, I cannot call them home.

This shuttling between Ballygunge Place and Gangulibagan continued for a freaky seven years. There were many incidents in between, but let me not digress again into them. After these seven years this little incident occured. Some say it was a grand bit of bravado while some cannot get over my stupidity. I cannot decide what it was. Maybe it was a fit of rage, maybe I had seen far too many Hindi movies in my childhood. Whatever it was is not of the slightest importance.

What matters is that this incident resulted in my final exit from Ballygunge Place. I could finally settle down. However, Gangulibagan was not destined to be my place either. The government suddenly decided that the quarters were ‘bipodjonok’. Which means, yes, dangerous. Sounds quite funny in retrospect but at that time, for six hundred refugee families it did not sound remotely funny. There were heart attacks and suicides. The bokultala where a few old men gathered every evening soon withered into wilderness. People were moving out. Although many families had initially decided that they would stand against this decision of the government because it was nothing but a political ploy, each letter from the RR&R Department meant that more and more doors were being sealed. The threat of your family being bulldozed is something which I have seen. It is terrifying. It is terrifying to think that your kid will not be able to go to school the next day, terrifying to try and find a rented house where you will be able to stay and sustain your family. Some took the easy way out. They died. Leaving their families behind. Some went out every evening to look for a rented house. All, however, left. Leaving behind all the Z shaped and the L shaped blocks, the maath, the bokultala… everything.

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.

2008-10-27T11:09:00.000-07:00

"dil hii to hai na sang-o-Khisht dard se bhar na aaye kyuu.N

roye.nge ham hazaar baar ko_ii hame.n sataaye kyuu.N

dair nahii.n haram nahii.n dar nahii.n aastaa.N nahii.n

baiThe hai.n rah_guzar pe ham Gair hame.n uThaaye kyuu.N

qaid-e-hayaat-o-band-e-Gam asl me.n dono ek hai.n

maut se pahale aadamii Gam se nijaat paaye kyuu.N

'Ghalib'-e-Khastaa ke baGair kaun se kaam band hai.n

royiye zaar zaar kyaa kiijiye haaye haaye kyuu.N"

Everyone must listen to Begum Akhtar sing this one. Brilliant is an understatement.

2008-10-21T13:54:00.000-07:00

It is almost three o' clock at night and there is definitely something creepy in the air. I am writing because I am very scared. I was doing my content writing work and talking to folks online. After a while, most of them went away. I finished my work about half an hour ago. After sending it over, I had to go the bathroom. My room opens into my grandmother's space. At one thirty in the morning, she looks hardly alive. Her frail body looks pale in the dim light. I have to walk a bit in order to reach the bathroom. the bathroom door stares straight at the gate. Well, it is not much of a gate. And the lock we put on it is a joke of a lock because I can snap it in two any moment. Its weak. And it serves no purpose. This gate is directly opposite the door to my neighbour's home. Its real close. The gate and the door must be at a distance of about one and a half metres. I do not know why I am describing all this but right now I just need to keep on writing. The door opens into a two room flat which houses a ninety something retired physics professor, his son in law, a sixty something man who is immensely curious about everything, his wife and their pet, a spitz, who, unlike those of the same breed, is quite well behaved.

They are quite a strange family, as all families are. Man and wife have no child. As far as the story goes, each have accused the other of infertility. But I think that the spitz does a good job. She is quite a nice child.

The woman, as far as I know, had a tough life. She studied for sometime, but something snapped somewhere after she married this man. She learnt music. Purabi Dutta. Good old days, I guess. It is slightly eerie how the stories of many women are the same. How many of them have sacrificed all that they love and all that they like. But then, I know not whether 'sacrifice' is a right word. Just because I have heard it so often does not mean I can use it often. I digress.

I had no time to know them well. The woman, she behaved very badly with us, for no reason whatsoever. As I said earlier, something had snapped somewhere. An incident about a month or two ago proves just that. A student of mine was going back home after class. Since we live in the second floor, my students get out of my room, switch on the lights and go home. That day, instead of switching on our lights, he switched on the other lights, unfortunately their's. He didn't even understand that it was a problem, because he had done it many times. I couldn't believe it was a problem either, but she actually put out the lights midway. The boy fell down and hurt himself badly. The stairs are dangerous and rough and almost unnavigable. I was startled when I heard the scream and went out. I saw her standing by the door. She looked mortified. And yet she was smiling. My student had hurt himself badly. I couldn't say a word. I dropped him home. Often, we are unaware of the things we do. Often, we have no reason for violence. Often, we want to hurt others just because we are hurt deep inside. There is a part within us which relishes inflicting physical violence. We keep it tucked away but it exists within all of us, I guess.

I do not know much about her. And after this incident, I felt nothing but a twisted sense of pity and fear.

She died last week. She suffered a lot. Her husband refused to take her to a doctor. She cried at times. She also came to see my mother when she had fever. She became almost blind. She screamed and said that her insides hurt. And still no doctor. My mother intervened. So did other neighbours. The man just said that she pretended to be ill. And it was all nyakami.

When she was dying, the man went to fetch a doctor. Her old father did not even understand that she passed away. Lying there on the bed beside his. Groaning and crying and looking desperate. Even after an hour, when indifferent relatives started pouring in and smearing vermillion on her forehead, he kept asking us, "Aar nei na?"

With age, I believe, the ability to register emotions fades. The dimming eyesight, perhaps, has something to do with it. He did not cry. He was well acquainted with death. His wife, his son, his parents. And now, his daughter. He understood, perhaps, that death is just about not being.

But I feel a strange kind of fear. I am not afraid of death. I am not afraid of the dead. Maybe I am afraid of life. I do not know what death will be like. I do not want it to be like this woman's. I will never miss her, because I did not know her. However, I feel happy for her because death is often better than a horrid life.

It is late at night. I hear a voice. "Aar nei na?"

PS: Forgive the writing. Fear does not bring out the best in me.

2008-10-11T13:34:00.000-07:00

moo.

Yes, moo. Any problem?

*Funny Feeling*

Tera husn dast-e-isaa / Teri aag rooh-e-mariam

2008-10-05T12:39:00.000-07:00

2008-09-29T03:28:00.000-07:00

joto mot toto poth
joto poth toto roth
joto baap toto chaap
joto chaap toto thaap

Come, let's all be mad together---- W. Erbery, The Mad Man's Plea

2008-08-10T13:17:00.003-07:00

There is a revolution around me. And I have nothing to say.
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.

Cigarette smoking is injurious to health

2008-07-26T11:46:00.000-07:00

I buy my cancer everyday. It costs a lot. And yes, I am an idiot to do so.
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.

Things fall apart

2008-07-23T11:46:00.000-07:00

"Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold

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?