tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-85460960538774129512024-03-05T04:38:36.386-08:00Garlic and sapphires in the mudOshtorombhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02231129913834054258noreply@blogger.comBlogger42125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546096053877412951.post-1469648820989897122012-07-23T11:38:00.000-07:002012-07-23T11:38:01.101-07:00Bear<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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So I told him he is a bear. A grizzly bear. A chimpanzee. A moment metamorphosing into a memory. The mark on the wall. The you have made me happy but you still cannot save me. And he cried. Like confused urban rain in summer. Then he laughed. Like the waves hitting the rocks on the shore. A hearty laugh. A full laugh. A quietude which screamed. A very big toe and beautiful hands. Two tufts of hair sticking out awkwardly from the top of the temples. </div>
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He crouched in a corner under the bookshelf. You will get a bump on your head, I said. He did not move. Put his arms around his knees. And then he said he was old, old and dying. Old but full of wonder. Wonder which was always stumbling into befuddlement. The wonder of a chimpanzee still adapting to human ways - unable to distinguish between glass and air. Hurting a nose he loves. Learning, still, to open a door. </div>
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He sleeps under the stars and speaks poetry like a rhapsode. In the nightmares, they will break him. Turn him into a minotaur. But he will still crouch under the bookshelf. That is what minotaurs do when they fall in love. </div>
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<br /></div>Oshtorombhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02231129913834054258noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546096053877412951.post-41346699766131820942011-07-27T13:40:00.000-07:002011-07-27T13:40:26.754-07:00why do we write when we can scream?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b4a7d6;">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. </span></div></div>Oshtorombhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02231129913834054258noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546096053877412951.post-33445286594606876202011-01-29T09:46:00.000-08:002011-01-29T09:47:26.742-08:00On the table, and in it.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But this rusty green iron table is not to be discarded, yet. </span></div>Oshtorombhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02231129913834054258noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546096053877412951.post-87445655587613853592010-10-21T11:34:00.000-07:002010-10-21T11:34:09.146-07:002010. 2010. diabetes. no symptoms. something else?<br />
everything sucks. i am singularly unfortunate. depression.Oshtorombhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02231129913834054258noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546096053877412951.post-2664662222931635252010-03-20T11:55:00.000-07:002010-03-20T11:58:49.849-07:00When all this ends.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />The birthday was very nice and how much. The suicide was unnecessary and disturbing. The exam was difficult and absurd. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />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 </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; "><br />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. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">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 <b>POOF!</b> with one blow. I fear that Poof more than anything else. </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">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. </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />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.</span></span></div>Oshtorombhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02231129913834054258noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546096053877412951.post-35123257696204011492010-02-10T10:27:00.000-08:002010-02-10T11:17:13.909-08:00<div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">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? </span></div>Oshtorombhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02231129913834054258noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546096053877412951.post-75517681337823616232010-01-09T08:50:00.000-08:002010-01-11T04:10:30.761-08:00ivory bridges.<p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">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 </span><st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Deshapriyo Park</span></st1:placename><st1:placetype st="on"></st1:placetype></st1:place><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">, he quietly practiced a craft that was perhaps destined to die. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">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. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">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 ‘<i>gambhirjyo</i>’ of a Sarod. But it was my first instrument. With whose touch I learnt sa re ga ma pa.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">And now, old Hemen is no more. And that world is no more. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">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 <i>meend</i>. 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 ‘</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">thehrav</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">’. 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.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I languish in this unreal space instead. Marveling at my mediocrity. I split into two.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">But Hemen is dead. Ali Akbar is dead. That world is dead. My past is dead. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">And I have a lute of wood at a corner of my room that sings no more. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Oshtorombhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02231129913834054258noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546096053877412951.post-55152998445822714762009-12-11T09:00:00.000-08:002009-12-11T09:16:13.478-08:00:(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. <div><br /></div><div>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 <b>TWENTY FOUR </b>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>In a few days, I will feel suicidal. argh. </div>Oshtorombhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02231129913834054258noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546096053877412951.post-8665443290719442712009-11-19T07:07:00.000-08:002009-11-19T07:09:46.847-08:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; "><p>Yun toh har shaam ummido mein guzar jaati hai<br />aaj kuch baat hai jo shaam pe rona aya</p><p>kabhi taqdeer ka matam kabhi duniya ka gila<br />manzil-e-ishq mein har ghum pe rona aya</p></span>Oshtorombhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02231129913834054258noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546096053877412951.post-38020490421802107942009-11-18T09:51:00.000-08:002009-11-18T09:52:00.030-08:00chariots of bijoygarh<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">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.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">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.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">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.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Uff. I digress.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">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.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">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.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">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.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">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.)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">There is much much more I have to say. Maybe I will continue this post. :P</span></div>Oshtorombhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02231129913834054258noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546096053877412951.post-62908204381374604832009-10-10T22:30:00.000-07:002009-10-10T10:00:23.310-07:00<div><i>"kar raha tha gham-e-jahaan ka hisaab</i></div><div><i>aaj tum yaad behisaab aaye"</i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></i></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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 </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">meend, </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Then </span><a href="http://www.divshare.com/download/8823773-c87"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">this song</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> will end, I will stub out a cigarette, and finish my drink. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Adieu. </span></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div>Oshtorombhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02231129913834054258noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546096053877412951.post-78378657240945648002009-08-23T13:45:00.000-07:002009-08-23T14:13:57.498-07:00I 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. <div><br /></div><div>I am 22 now. Twenty Two. And guess what, I have a strand of grey hair growing on my <i>brohmotaalu</i>. 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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>For the first time, the roots of a grey hair has grown into my brain. </div><div><br /></div><div>I am growing old. </div>Oshtorombhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02231129913834054258noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546096053877412951.post-39472023944246158842009-07-20T10:13:00.000-07:002009-07-20T12:21:55.524-07:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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. </span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">but what nice sonnet of the mondal! with ophelia(5) in tow! oh so wow!</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">bestestest toppestest. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">neuralgia tablet make me speed oh so nice it feel. but so much missing of bangla do i. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">new eclairs by Cadbury taste better than old Eclairs by Cadbury. Many not spot difference so subtell it be. all non eaters(7). </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">i have many many thing more to say but cannot. because i believe in deferral(8). </span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">NOTES:</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">1) There can be two kinds of 'Motherchaandni', frontal and backkal. We live in times of Solar Eclipse, which increases Lunar importance. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">2)When you have to do two kinds of motherchaandni. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">3)The sasuraar evokes fear, the switty evokes pitty. So there you have tradegy. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">4)Plastic beads, yellow beads, blue beads, orange beads, crow beads...</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">5)Ophelia of Bardhaman fame who walked into Bintu Dey's </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">pukur </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">in white </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">thaan </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">singing lewd Bhojpuri songs. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">6)Salt and Pepper.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">7)Who will be deep fried in lard down down down below. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">8) Refer to next note. </span></div><div><br /></div>Oshtorombhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02231129913834054258noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546096053877412951.post-63186538832886724642009-07-07T11:18:00.000-07:002009-07-07T11:35:03.253-07:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">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. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">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. </span></span></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">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. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></span></div></div>Oshtorombhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02231129913834054258noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546096053877412951.post-84118741577602802842009-06-28T23:33:00.000-07:002009-06-29T00:34:04.025-07:00Puriya Dhanashree<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXpsNR0TxU-Un2uNBBiQqDlIDdq_40bMCAx2v4S8zfffq6F7MF1RJPUhfpoRDmKWD5iUcTGYXFms0iLUOdoDBHAnOR2kaWIT-5nbWmxt6mPFF7vWioYc-Mr_iFmJQZjcSz7rvskfF9g9-8/s1600-h/Photo+gallery+of+Ustad+Ali+Akbar+Khan.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 210px; height: 249px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXpsNR0TxU-Un2uNBBiQqDlIDdq_40bMCAx2v4S8zfffq6F7MF1RJPUhfpoRDmKWD5iUcTGYXFms0iLUOdoDBHAnOR2kaWIT-5nbWmxt6mPFF7vWioYc-Mr_iFmJQZjcSz7rvskfF9g9-8/s400/Photo+gallery+of+Ustad+Ali+Akbar+Khan.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352644731879466050" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'times new roman';"><pre style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">"'</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Ghalib'-e-Khasta ke bagair kaun se kaam band hain ? </span></span></pre><pre style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> roiye zaar-zaar kya, keejiye haay-haay kyon ?</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> "</span></span></pre><pre style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:7;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:48px;"><br /></span></span></pre><pre style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';font-size:130%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:16px;"><br /></span></span></pre></span>Oshtorombhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02231129913834054258noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546096053877412951.post-24097711790536780412009-06-12T14:06:00.000-07:002009-06-12T14:22:39.833-07:00HaqeeqatHave you heard this song? Have you seen this movie? <div><br /></div><div>Oh, I so love! This is brilliant. </div><div><br /></div><div>The song, the song. :) </div><div>Listen. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyXEVF5aJVqSGXbiNOMGftoxeAEtA_E2iuqpEoORKYrslXzJKOK_Bqjt2qpQZS_Lgrdh-98kDRaFvt3uQJ6QQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><div><br /></div>Oshtorombhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02231129913834054258noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546096053877412951.post-19882692821820254592009-06-06T12:32:00.000-07:002009-06-06T12:46:56.482-07:00everybody 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. <div><br /></div><div>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. <br /><div><br /></div><div>also, I want a holiday. everyone else has a holiday. I fuckin' don't. aaarrrggghhh. </div><div><br /></div><div>I need a good solid dvd ripper. One more external hard disk. I <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">must </span>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>I really want some good decent folks to get through to the department this time. please? I find this bunch sadder than ever. aaaaarrrrrggggghhhhh. </div><div><br /></div><div>Facebook is the new Orkut. with random people sending friend requests. aaaaaarrrrrrgggggghhhhhh. </div><div><br /></div><div>I never wanted to be a malcontent. </div><div>so fuck. </div></div>Oshtorombhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02231129913834054258noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546096053877412951.post-5286453799554640192009-05-21T13:00:00.000-07:002009-05-21T13:01:10.448-07:00speak.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; "><div style="border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 3px; padding-right: 3px; padding-bottom: 3px; padding-left: 3px; width: auto; font: normal normal normal 100%/normal Georgia, serif; text-align: left; ">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.<br /><br />But she loved conversation. With Wisdom. And a little folly.<br /><br />Ladies and Gentleman, if you have ever wanted to commit sooocaaide, remember that it is a constitutional offense. If you fail, that is. <br /><br />So, you better not.<br /><br />And if you have too many things made up in your head, try to shampoo twice a week.<br /><br />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.</div></span>Oshtorombhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02231129913834054258noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546096053877412951.post-6500511311482827612009-05-11T15:28:00.000-07:002009-05-11T17:09:46.139-07:00Iqbal Bano.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhScz7NZKpNaHi9D2nFsGVR1zTLhZqjqjsqghh1_6X5-W8C9yyfSq169Bv1xrsv0iSQSz-Jtck9EmVgt964OdcgDNswm9_0pJb082xZgSMHz_s6rGDVJ1TXX1ij3KILzrXQps2vdNfSMd4b/s1600-h/ib_608.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhScz7NZKpNaHi9D2nFsGVR1zTLhZqjqjsqghh1_6X5-W8C9yyfSq169Bv1xrsv0iSQSz-Jtck9EmVgt964OdcgDNswm9_0pJb082xZgSMHz_s6rGDVJ1TXX1ij3KILzrXQps2vdNfSMd4b/s400/ib_608.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334699559013412850" /></a><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0);"> 1935~2009<br /></span><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. '<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">mere dil, mere musafir' -- </span>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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 <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">aloneness. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div>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 <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">dasht - e - tanhai mein, </span>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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:</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); line-height: 16px; font-family:Arial;"><strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">'</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">uht rahi hai kahin qurbat se </span></span></strong><strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"></span></span></strong></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); line-height: 16px; font-family:Arial;font-size:12px;"><strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">teri saans ki aanch </span></span></strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">apani khushbuu mein sulagti hui </span></span></strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">maddham maddham' </span></span></strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">*pic courtesy </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); font-weight: bold; line-height: 16px;font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">www.dawn.com</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 16px; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">**I have uploaded two songs. Listen to <a href="http://www.divshare.com/download/7350504-db2">Dasht-e-tanhi mein</a> and <a href="http://www.divshare.com/download/7350534-d65">Payal mein geet hai</a>. If you want any other song, feel free to ask!</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-weight: bold; line-height: 16px;font-family:Arial;"><br /></span></div>Oshtorombhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02231129913834054258noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546096053877412951.post-51593185382904641452009-05-01T11:55:00.000-07:002009-05-07T13:34:22.448-07:00I feel awful, awful. And I feel good, good too.<br /><br />I feel awful because of whatever I have seen.<br />I feel awful because I can't do much about it.<br />I feel good because I will not let it be repeated.<br />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.<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">chosen </span>to forget so much. Whatever time he has left, we can try and make things better. <br /><br />And you! I will not <span style="font-style: italic;">let </span>you forget. You will be happy and yo when you are like him!<br /><br />Roger that, General!Oshtorombhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02231129913834054258noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546096053877412951.post-28982691303119884122009-04-28T09:43:00.000-07:002009-04-28T09:52:53.580-07:00I 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.<br /><br />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.Oshtorombhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02231129913834054258noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546096053877412951.post-50824430925336739242009-04-24T14:43:00.000-07:002009-04-24T14:45:56.370-07:00Meet M. :)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgityDyrDXi4mT4Pi9ih68XM1-Ft_l6jZWfkHofYFmNYHeSKERgYSDb9x1expXKy9RTWG0TAC8knp0nDehKsCL1Qzo28waTaqKLLHKNmtE6m4DGNQYarj1DORBTsp50482Sy42aVEFitYT-/s1600-h/a+new+pair+of+wings.bmp.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgityDyrDXi4mT4Pi9ih68XM1-Ft_l6jZWfkHofYFmNYHeSKERgYSDb9x1expXKy9RTWG0TAC8knp0nDehKsCL1Qzo28waTaqKLLHKNmtE6m4DGNQYarj1DORBTsp50482Sy42aVEFitYT-/s400/a+new+pair+of+wings.bmp.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328377362184960978" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6qMJ4t_4Vt0MCWlqTi0RrTMdmhg6NsxWMCt-uMjx9w4OkX1XGYqb4L0XYlsfN3QNKMWvs4h_fGP3DBrPbvaqmVhMqbeIvmMEGRQQFpR3Hu4X-UjP7KubmSlGyVwbB4zyxn_s48Dm83xZr/s1600-h/ice+cream.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6qMJ4t_4Vt0MCWlqTi0RrTMdmhg6NsxWMCt-uMjx9w4OkX1XGYqb4L0XYlsfN3QNKMWvs4h_fGP3DBrPbvaqmVhMqbeIvmMEGRQQFpR3Hu4X-UjP7KubmSlGyVwbB4zyxn_s48Dm83xZr/s400/ice+cream.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328377355046496434" border="0" /></a>Oshtorombhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02231129913834054258noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546096053877412951.post-58209793985060001172009-04-12T14:43:00.000-07:002009-04-12T14:59:02.392-07:00Sometimes 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".<br /><br />Today is one such day.<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">hitting </span>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'.<br /><br />and NO ALCOHOL for god knows how long!!!<br /><br />So, I want the tank and the Old Monk. Wisdom.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />P.S - I feel so much like Schrodinger's Cat. Both dead and alive. State depending on observer. Sigh.Oshtorombhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02231129913834054258noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546096053877412951.post-77207663126940010592009-04-06T12:27:00.000-07:002009-04-06T12:40:13.144-07:00<strong></strong><strong>"Dayaar- e - dil ki raat mein<br />chirag sa jala gaya<br />mila nahin toh kya hua<br />woh shakl toh dikha gaya..."<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span></strong><strong></strong><br />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.<br /><br />Faiz is sheer genius. Give him the Nobel Prize.<br /><br />Because these four lines say exactly what I feel! :)Oshtorombhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02231129913834054258noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546096053877412951.post-57304171242739823622009-04-05T11:06:00.000-07:002009-04-05T11:10:16.757-07:00I 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 <span style="font-style: italic;">anything</span>. If only I could stop this. ANYTHING.<br /><br />Aaaarrrggghhhh.<br /><br />At this rate, I will become a sociopath. Which FaceBook says I already am.Oshtorombhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02231129913834054258noreply@blogger.com7