REFLECTIONS....!

The Empty Song

2012-01-20T08:27:00.001+05:30

Do you remember the street bard at San Francisco, who wrote you a couplet, for a dollar... of meteorites and half dreamt dreams of cowboys at the break of twilight? Just when the rain came pouring like silver glitters and the darkness grew insanely thick, your fingers touched the lonely "santoor" and a blue-grey shadow kept crouching in the empty room, reminding you of a forgotten letter you never mailed to a long, lost friend.

2012-01-11T00:30:00.000+05:30

Wings and fire - I saw in your eyes. Wings to fly to a distant cloud in liberty and fire that evolves a phoenix out of anything you touch. We started well in the meandering streets, weaving tales of love and life, of men and more mundane things and laughed our sides to an ache on silly anecdotes and innocent rhymes.We dipped our ankles in dreamy blue and stuck to each other with a quick fix glue through all the times averse…

Your love for me or perhaps hate ;) - I figured the nebulae of emotions in the wilderness of your eyes.Indifference was a difficult battle with you.I mentioned some day, I liked the passionate forms that evaporated your body in cosmic clouds.That made everything light as a feather, even deceived time and age.I remember the ripples, we first saw in those dreamy blues between us and in spite of repeated warnings, you let them grow. Nothing could take those stones away from you and draw us near again.The camphor in your eyes were all set to fire.

Some name my passion insanity…some bohemian but like them,what fools you to see only one side of longing after all the way we came? Away, I had been wondering out of my time. Darling,that’s what made me match your time. The doubts in your mind about me, camouflaged my piece of mind.

It’s another light I did not know before. These two lights never meet, so they keep getting away…but my dear, don’t be back. Don’t let me be fool you. I’m pretty sure I won’t

On the way to Christmas...

2011-12-07T00:14:00.001+05:30

At the roads and cafes, American jazz and the strike of guitars keep filling me in with every ounce of the pumpkin spiced coffee I drink off the mug, flea market pedlars with colorful goodies are wanton with their words and gestures wooing passersby to their magical goods at sale; colorful orchids, tulips and daisies everywhere tell you romance is high in the air as the extra bit of chill casts a longing in one to snuggle under a warm, protective sheath...and as the sun sets, the reassuring lights on the christmas trees peeping out of all windows, come back to life, as more christmas trees and gifts make way to many more families. Children and adults give away merry cries and cheerfully drink their milk and chocolate cookies. The garage shutters are then raised and young and old industriously work on their christmas decor or packing gifts for friends and kins. The barbeque grills work their way steadily on turkeys and loins as neighbors knock at the door to share a bottle of their pinot noir or scotch, in the interludes. In short, life suddenly feels like a dream.

The Story Tellers

2011-11-30T21:32:00.008+05:30

The first story teller of my life remains Bonomali da, our gardener who weaved love for Nature in me and a want for stories in life, all the time. He was in his sixties, as I remember him. A tall man, with a chestnut brown complexion and the Independence Movement had strangely left behind marks on his face and body. I always found him in his starched white dhoti and orange kurta, a round shaped set of spectacles to support his weak vision and his steady hands that could feel the pulse of all the plants in our garden and fill them up with life and lustre.
When he found me, a little girl of three then, standing in a corner, staring at him with my keen eyes, he smiled and excused himself for not noting me before because he was busy listening to the plant right next to him. The plants and the trees supposedly told him stories of their lives. They told him what they wanted to eat, when they wanted to marry and then have children and Bonomali da as a dear friend helped them through their aspirations.
Then, there were occasional story tellers like the gypsy woman with her pair of monkeys. She danced, played her "daffli" (an Indian hand drum) and narrated strange yet interesting tales of her travels. Later on, an old almost blind man started accompanying her and told tales of the jungle. After they reached the climax of their tale, they'd ask for money and then finally conclude the story. In the interludes of their story telling sessions, these monkeys performed various tricks and the rupee we paid for the shows, were immensely satisfying.
I remember another Rahman chacha who would come to our town to all the fairs that we had. He had a big number of puppets and organized puppet shows. My first few tales of the 'Rajas' (kings) and 'Maharajas'(emperors), 'Ranis' (queens) and wars were all from him. His puppets wafted our imagination to the discreet world where horses had wings and devils had their lives locked in a bee that lived in a golden box.
And how can I forget grandmother who always knew my next favorite tale. She was a master in bedtime story telling. My mother was a sharp woman and she decided to immediately harness my appetite for stories to put me to read. She got me picturesque books and allured me to them and I happily sought retreat in them. Next was my grandfather's part as a story teller, who traveled enormously for his work and brought stories home for her grand child. Stories from the streets, Broadways, lands of unknown people, food and habits enchanting me more than any colorful flight of imagination or dreams.
Soon after I grew up and became a full bodied woman, men with tales or legacies always drew me to a coffee, at the least. A sudden surge to seek more stories drew me to travel across cities, villages, mountains and the seas. I started collecting stories from the piano woman, who sold musical instruments in a lonely corner of the city, the man who sold clocks and antique trinkets, the cowboy who played his flute and took me to deserted portions of the village and told me their stories or the man who kept yaks and narrated tales of the love between clouds and mountains and the fisherman who spoke with the seas, his boat and the fishes.
Off late, my camera has become one magical instrument weaving stories strangely out of my mundane life. Somehow memories always seem golden through its eyes and what my eyes so carelessly miss, it seems to manage holding back so carefully in the preserves of sprinkles of golden dust.
However, the greatest story teller of all times has remained life, who with its promise of inconsistencies brings in a different tale every moment and gives every day, a reason to look forward to.

Calender

2011-11-18T05:56:00.003+05:30

As a little girl, I looked forward to the start of winters all the time. Winters would always mean, yellow packets coming in the mailbox, that brought colorful calenders of various sizes and shapes for the oncoming year. My room would be filled with them, some on the walls, some on the table and some as book-markers tucked inside the pages of my books. The older calenders would not be discarded. The pictures would be neatly cut and filed and more importantly treasured like vital documents. The happy colors of the calender brought me a lot of sunshine and a lot of air in the gloomy room that my family could afford for their child's play and study space.
It was a little space beneath the staircase and my mother had put on an old, slightly worn-out tablecloth to separate my area from the entrance doorway. Naturally that space had no window but had a big sized picture of Rocky Mountains, out of a calender of course, just in the place where I would have wanted my window. I had also managed to pin enormous number of calenders on the table cloth. I enjoyed watching the dates graduating to the next. Cause each day, brought in a fresh dream. A dream of visiting one of those destinations in those pictures.
I do not quite remember, how and when these pictures ceased to have such a vital space in my life. Perhaps when the innocent optimism was killed and I stopped believing, I could ever be in those beautiful landscapes or own those wonderful things in the pictures.
...or was it because some strange desire took over like a momentary infidelity of looking into the eyes of a stranger, until met with a scowl by his escort. May be it was soccer with the local boys or was it swimming or books I can not say.
My mom had however preserved them all and now when I travel and click pictures and send them home, she diligently brings out a picture from that entire lot of old calenders, bearing close similarity with a recent shot of mine. Perhaps she does this to preserve her daughter's faith in dreams. It is her manner of saying that dreams turn real.
(S smiles, takes off her reading glasses and admires her table calender. Off late, the calenders have sprung back to her life again.)

So, people suffer, toil and dream
Hope this winter fills you upto the brim.
And when difficult times draw your breath
Remember, you have strong teeth ;)

Wake Up Call!

2011-11-16T21:34:00.007+05:30

Wake Up!

I agree with a good number of you, who've been sincerely writing to me that I must get back to my blogosphere and so here I come. The one obvious question which was put to me by some darling pals is what kept me from it all this awhile and the reason being my thought goblins. Writing allures these goblins to open up my eyes, clear all blockages of my ears, dilate the pores of my skin - in short carve me a world unto myself and thus engage my focus. For the world, I end up becoming, self-centered, opinionated and a ruthless hell. Trouble is in spite of living in an ecosphere preaching individualism in schools and eloquent speeches, all the while, what essentially keeps knocking back at you is communism as Thomas Friedman would have described with his wry smile,
"If we can't go richer together, we all go poorer together". So living in the matrix of the laid down formula of the world just makes things less cumbersome. It begins from the day we are set onto the world. By the manner of our wail and frequencies, we are known as good or bad, troublesome and irritating or wonderfully charming and then as we grow up, we have many more such familial formula hitting upon us. (S loosens herself on a bean bag now with a cup of strongly brewed Irish coffee and casts a look through the shut blinds of her room's window before she continued this real long list of instances.)
It begins with a wake up call one fine day, "Gosh! you're three plus already and time to frequent a kindergarten or pre-kinders now." No matter how much one doesn't want to go there leaving the safe haven of more acquainted surroundings, be it home or grandparent's countryside place, school is the place to be, is nailed firmer than a death sentance. I am still not sure what difference does it anyways make to get the child started a couple of years later, a little more comfortably. Now there goes, clear your boards by seventeen, hit college by eighteen, graduate and in the meanwhile fall in love or just figure out a someone and get married and settle down, have children and bring them up and grow old. Wow! and if you've done them all unquestionably and at all appropriate times and the appropriate ways, you've been the best man on earth. Here man is an abbreviated version of an earthly manual, unwritten and set to traverse generations with its principles of right and wrong, good or evil, assuming all human productions just equal and thus the old principles apply universally to every body.
Well, if you're someone like me who always sits right next to the driver's seat at the bus to catch a glimpse of the hanging clouds that take me to the little villages I discovered amidst the hills or never mend my chimney cause a sparrow keeps frequenting every now and then; if you hardly shop brands and prefer writing than calling people and every time the tangerine sky lends an uncomposed music, a nubile nymphet sways in you, well I'd say, "Good luck Bad soul, cause you have a real uneasy path to charter and real long way to go!" :)

Listen to the rhythm of the falling rain...

2011-06-25T09:18:00.000+05:30

After a thirsty stretch of summer, the rumbling clouds came pouring. They released that capturing fragrance of mud that charms us more deliciously than rich, dark chocolate. The dazzle of the distant setting sun behind the perforations of the plum or coconut tree leaves allure us like that yellow candy - the love of our childhood. The geese flap their wings in cheers to this setting sun as the horizon threw a riot of colors in their waters from the usual dirty greenish blue to a vermillion, purple,yellow and gray.
As the city romanced dripping and drenching under colorful brollies and parasols, doling out an extra helping of love and kisses for sultry flickers in the chilly air; the ladies bearing the fountains, sat white and cold, bristled by the showers.

Life's little joys

2011-06-07T09:19:00.010+05:30

There are certain things which still make me smile when I remember them.

One of them being riding an auto rickshaw in Varanasi and the rain swishing by. Envying the girl drenching herself on the bike right in front and later learning from a brawl she picks up with our driver that she hated getting wet. Strange humor of life! It offers one with a luxury one would not know to enjoy.

The extremely sugary tea my partner brought to bed on our first day together. One of his friends had mentioned to him, "Bed Tea" is a big way to a woman's heart. The color of the flower was his choice and the cover up of the slightly distorted half boiled eggs was not too bad either.

After a night of rain, a green leafy creature looking up from some nook of the brown muddy heap.

The frills of a sharpened pencil :)

White Flowers. They make my day!

...and many more. I'll keep coming back to this post for fresher updation.

Adoring a childhood favorite movie scene and a teen favorite song

2011-05-22T22:42:00.001+05:30

Adoring a childhood favorite movie scene and a teen favorite song. Somehow, they've both managed to last this long.

After all I've come to know me, and the ways of my heart,
And the young man that I once was would have torn our love apart.
When you're young and always looking at the far side of the hill
You might miss the fairest flower standing by you very still.

2011-05-20T11:00:00.000+05:30

A letter arrived from Dida (my grandmom). I've always looked forward to these little envelopes of magic since I was a little girl and even in my university days, these have remained more important to me than my then lover boy's mails. Quite queer of us, we have a whole set of differences betwixt us and we do not agree on most of the things, yet at the end of every month, both of us sit down pen and paper in hand writing out whatever comes to our mind. Sometimes, they are even little sketches that appear like emoticons and we keep gluing toffee wrappers, petals of the first flower that bloomed in our garden, tickets of a just watched movie or concert and many more and they all sail to the other part of the world...and for all this she would never sit in front of a computer and speak to me on a skype or g-talk. Neither would I :)

An old flavour

2011-05-13T00:49:00.000+05:30

An old friend's status message on facebook coupled with a lazy summer afternoon, chilled milk shake and the need to keep myself from dozing away slipped my fingers into the sepia pages of an old poetry book, that Father Brandon had sent me from the shores of Ireland in an attempt to kindle faith in an Almighty, if not a religion ;) The book had a poem that spoke with an unperturbed clarity that I've always adored. Its a poem composed by Christina Rossetti- a supposedly devout High Anglican to whom religion meant a world.

Promise me no promises,
So will I not promise you:
Keep we both our liberties,
Never false and never true:
Let us hold the die uncast,
Free to come as free to go:
For I cannot know your past,
And of mine what can you know?

You, so warm, may once have been
Warmer towards another one:
I, so cold, may once have seen
Sunlight, once have felt the sun:
Who shall show us if it was
Thus indeed in time of old?
Fades the image from the glass,
And the fortune is not told.

If you promised, you might grieve
For lost liberty again:
If I promised, I believe
I should fret to break the chain.
Let us be the friends we were,
Nothing more but nothing less:
Many thrive on frugal fare
Who would perish of excess

Me and my Dyslexia

2011-05-11T10:41:00.003+05:30

Dyslexia and I always have had a good time together. Till date, every game that takes to hit a target via another medium, namely a ball,an arrow takes me a lot more time to adapt myself to the game than an ordinary hence a smarter person would take, thus pushing me to play it harder, longer and giving me an addiction for it pretty soon. Writing was always difficult as a child - as difficult as reading.
Impatient mommie soon got me to a shrink, who mentioned there was a slight inappropriate co-ordination between my left and right lobe. A supposed underutilized left-hemisphere, and an almost out of service central canal of tissue in the brain, called corpus callosum.I use my right hemisphere instead of left to read and spell.
Now ordinarily when one reads,the left side of the brain matches a letter with its sound, handles information that comes into the brain in strings, like the sounds in a word: one letter after the other, rather than like a picture where you see it all at once, separate a word into its individual sounds and understand the syntax of it. The right hemisphere is different. It deals in areas and space and patterns. It doesn't understand parts of speech, and can't keep track of letter-order in spelling.
Thus, I was taught to draw externally because my brain could not and possibly can not handle information codes and one day, it opened the world of wonderful colors before me.I was taught to be patient with myself and take a longer time adapting and learning. Thus, I have few but a wonderful set of friends and we all try together when difficult times are around. I've also learnt the art of perseverance and to seek the deeper facts where my five senses coupled with my nervous system operate and when my brain fails me, they don't. It has helped me find a friend in me and I've always had a good time with myself whenever am with myself.

Life has not been easy but has always been fun and when I look back I've never suffered from a constant remorse. They keep changing from the remorse of a pot belly to forgoing an ice-cream and then in some time, they also sublime leaving behind powders that jolt a blast of laughter out of me and life again starts appearing as beautiful as ever.

Maa

2011-05-07T03:43:00.001+05:30

I am quite a hog when it comes to food and with cakes, my aptitude increases at least tenfold. Since my teens, I've baked all sorts of cakes for mommie on special days like this. The sorts being fully burnt, half burnt, bitter and later the more edible sorts. I have ended up extracting a piece from her cake, namely to taste and would alwaz give her one full cake, short of just a piece. Today, she insists she'd want a cake with that one lesser piece. Moms are these strange creatures, who make a world unto us and always insist on strange little things, they somehow pass on their mushy gene to us and like them we sometimes laugh and cry at the same time ;) Maa, our long verbal fights mean sooo much to me and only if you promise to continue those fights with me all my life, I shall get you your cake short of that one piece this time ;) Maa you're a little pest and inevitably the very BEST!!! Happy Mother's Day ;)

A Picture Speaks a thousand words...

2011-04-22T23:40:00.007+05:30

Starry Night by Vincent Van Gaugh

“I am with you always, even unto the end of the world.” If that sounds like a hackneyed line from a greeting card, know that is a line written by a Dutch painter to his brother in one of his last few letters from an asylum, where he was trying his best to fight his last battle with sanity. He painted a picture to reconcile with his little remnants of life and his oncoming, overpowering death. Starry Night - the painting has been a vanguard in the arena of post impressionism. This story dates itself back to June 1889.

Like any other post impressionist work of art, Starry Night seems to have a magical narrative quality that speaks vivid stories to different onlookers cause the painting seems infused with emotions at the dramatic usage of strokes and colors, pitting each color against another as if they are all antagonists up in a visual drama. Vincent Van Gaugh – the unfortunate artist who never was recognized until his death, painted out of pre-meditated visuals and when he created his paintings, his mind would seem pondering on forms and features, he had previously experienced. Here in Starry Night, he takes night as a distorting condition much like his own mental unfitness (some say it was an overborne dyslexia out of which he developed depression and some say he was schizophrenic)and he introduces brighter shades, namely light to fight this pitch darkness. He egged on their clashes with daubs of paint bringing backgrounds forward and giving life to every inch of his canvas.

There has been a fascinating perspective at play. The celestial elements – the eleven stars, moon – their manic, swirling coronas are depicted centrally, yet in subdued versions of colors striking a note of serenity emphasizing the metaphysical characteristic of the heavens pitched against and above the worldly, man made objects. The town seems from a distance, fitted in a surreal small segment in the painting and the cypress tree, a product of nature is takes a prominent space with the focal point of its head pointing the Heavens as the church spire in the town. The cypress trees were an icon of a bridge between earth and heaven in ancient Europe. Cemetries usually had cypress trees and so had the asylum where Van Gaugh painted his picture.

Perhaps the cypress tree in his asylum took him on a trip down memory lane, which brought him back memories of his visits to French art museums where he was deeply inspired by Buddhist paintings – the interdependency of Yin and Yang – light and dark, his own isolation from the world.
The words of Don Mc Lean seem so pertinent for a keen onlooker of his painting,

“Now I think I know what you tried to say to me,
How you suffered for your sanity,
How you tried to set them free.
They would not listen, they're not listening still.
Perhaps they never will...”
(I've attached a picture of the painting and the colors used in it for a clearer understanding.)

A Date...

2011-04-20T23:14:00.002+05:30

Today I shall date my love, Dreams. She comes in with a gentle tap at my kitchen window and I draw my linen curtains to make space for her to leap in. She hikes up her sepia skirt and the black of her eye seems asking for a hand. Her long traces of hair loosely hung appropriates a mysterious charm to her face. Behind her, rushes in some wanton sunlight through that window that play between her and me, all the time.
Oft we smoke pipes together and tune in the summer breeze to bring down chilled sprays to nurture our unwatered kisses. Its time to hunt newspapers then, with faded, old tales and yellowed with time. Elves have gotten dust to cast its magic aura on them. Together shall we brush our hands on them to bust the films of golden dust settled and carve little paper boats to float on waters collected in the lush green meadows and soft,brown earth. These waters show a little of the blues of skies and a little of those whites of clouds, as they nudge the paper boats to float across and reach the other edge.
Soon the breeze enters her hair, releasing the pink bow and raises it almost like a circular whirl wind as the skies blast with a scarlet streak...and then it all just comes back to us like the words of an old forgotten song, the notes erased yet the feet tap and bring back the forgotten words home. I smile and sing my love song.

-with love
http://youtu.be/wupToqz1e2g

What song shall I sing of you?

2011-04-05T11:06:00.000+05:30

All these days, after every win that India would slam, I would be eagerly waiting for the next morning editions to arrive where the entire first page would talk of the battle won, with a large flashy picture of the super XI and larger than life narration of the entire event garnered with stories of the big men and the not so big men and women and sometimes children too. These people put their little resources, emotions even life at stake to watch their favorite team win and celebrate the trophy they bring home. Unfortunately this year, those wonderful editions would not come to me namely, the Anandabazar Patrika, the Bartomaan, the Ganoshokti, The Statesman, The Telegraph and many nameless others. They all made me dream and delve in a psychedelic mysticism broken by a seemingly never ending bout of singing, dancing and heralding sportsmanship and nationalism with more often nameless faces than named and spurts of passionate discussions on the sport.

Guess staying away from one's homeland has many prices to pay and these come very handy.Yet the spirit seems unrelenting and I'm quite decided to give myself the story for this time where facts would carefully be alloyed with fiction to quench the thirst I've been rearing since the time I've been introduced to cricket.The stories of World Cup win 1983 partly read and heard about from various sources have intensified that.

So here goes my story:

It was one in the afternoon and there was an air of nervous aggression in the Indian dressing room, as Tendulkar sat chipping his nails down, Bhajji sending out his prayers to his Guruji, Sreesanth ringing his hair up, Kohli and Yuvraj talking balls, Dhoni sinking into the game strategies with occassional trunk twisting and stretches, Munaf rolled a ball in his hand, squatting in a corner as Gambhir set his thoughts carefully on his nose and his hands gently covered them.Sehwag, Zaheer and Raina stood with parted legs, passing balls and flexing muscles to wreak out their nervous energy.Bottles of chilled water and juices kept circulating as Kirsten cajoled around with each of them wishing luck and a great game. Occassionally there were interludes of humour, sarcasm and even neat swearing to summon the best of themselves for the day's battle.

...and then it was time for the toss when Sangakkara's stars decided to flicker real bright before dissappearing behind a thick snuff.The Lankans were determined to bat if they won the toss and our Vanar sena in blue seemed to have made up their mind about just one little thing- "to win, no matter what." A dream reared by all eleven in different shapes and sizes seeking body from Gary's eye for detail, Eric's way of getting the ball to talk and Paddy's directions of locking in a healthy mind in a healthy body. It started showing right from the first bowling, that this time Team India would be a tough nut yet the Sri Lankans would not let them get away easy. Inspite of slow runs in the first fifteen overs,some initial quick wicket falls, Jayawardena managed an unvanquished century with a good partnership with Samaraweera, Kulasekara and even Perera but history chose to be written differently this time. The chasing team cut in, the captain of the winning team, Dhoni made a man of the match with his timely smashing hits and some brilliant fielding plus overall game strategising. This man smiles and thanks his stars for his wins in the T20 World Cup and the World Cup Cricket 2011 that seemed some drops of humility to tone down his brags about certain key changes in the team that might have appeared indecisive before. Gambhir had an unfortunate knock off at 97. However his partnership with Kohli put roots to Indian innings of batting after two key players like Sehwag and Tendulkar lost their wickets pretty early.
Yuvraj later joined in to make India win by six wickets. The bowling of Sri Lanka seemed really strong and India tried keeping pace with them and managed fairly well. India came across outstanding in its fielding- quite unusual. They seemed tighter than the Sri Lankan team who have been known to be good there. The last six that Dhoni flicked up in the air to finish the match added a lot of drama to the already picturesque match...and then the screams and cheers of winning coupled with brilliant fireworks, news bytes, flashing cameras, flying flags all seemed very active.
Yuvraj was declared Man of the series and he and young cricketers like Kohli and Gambhir dedicated their win to Tendulkar- The God of Indian cricket who's waited twenty-five long years to kiss this golden cup. As these proud men in blue posed with their trophy drenched in champagne before the entire world media, there were honks of hundreds and thousands of cars blowing up in the roads, people took turns to sing,exchange greetings , dance with many unknown faces celebrating the historic victory. Bookies got busy distributing cash, fanatic fans from all parts of the world tried reaching Wankhade stadium or atleast the city Mumbai for its celebrations, liquor started pouring, processions to the tune of a ceremonius carnival could be seen all around as magic set in.A man in his mid-sixties shed tears like a child. He otherwise is known to be quite insensitive to all these. A son managed to speak to his father after six long years. What could be better than the country winning its 28 years later world cup to break the ice that stood between them. A paralysed lady regained her senses in her right hand as the added rush of adrenalin after the win drove her to raise her hands along with billions of other fans and many more miracles followed all around. This night was meant to "be a good night".

This story of mine shall always remain with me as an evidence of what a night it has been and an inspiration to weave in more such brilliant nights in the days to come.

2011-03-03T15:37:00.001+05:30

"So,how would you like to call your brother?",asked mother. I was busy turning the key of my drummer puppet and just then I figured, the spring linked to the key could no more take the force of my resolute mind of getting the puppet to beat its drum a little more than it had been programmed to. It wore off with a tinkle and I pushed myself against the wall and mentioned,"I'll call him Gogol." The reason behind his nomenclature was to have a sort of resemblance with my nick name, Golla.
I had figured this name out from a stamp one of my cousins had of Russia. So Gogol was named. We grew up little agreeing with each other and with a lot of matters that always needed to be settled if with nothing else then with effective vocabulary out of the devil's dictionary or resorting to our hands and feet. We've been mutually bruised but next day, we'd meet again over a something interesting to conclude with another fair duel for sure.
We've broken breads together and we've traversed the lessons of draught and famine together. "What's draught?", I asked. Gogol's mother, Mistu kaki(aunt)tried explaining about the climatic miseries bringing in scarcity of provisions. Being a part of an absolute fertile state, I could not quite get it. Gogol chose to explain, "Its like those days when our fathers do not get their salaries. We partake on boiled potatoes and rice and then when they have their salaries floating in again, we dine on rice and fish curry." I never misunderstood draught thereafter, could never disregard food and make a waste of them from the same day.
I was about twelve years old and he nine when Gogol and I were split. His father was transferred to a different city on a commission and mails were the only mode of contact for about six months after which I no more could hold onto writing to him.I was told,he'd be in tears, initially, when he'd received my letters.
Our interaction was at its bare minimum untill I reached college when I had access to a personal phone and we spoke; sometimes. We made some trips together where I was once again introduced to his the then friends and I quite loved the entire company.
I was in Delhi for my masters and it was then he'd often call me up to seek my news. Delhi was known to be an unsafe city for women. Thereafter, we were both working in different cities. He disagreed with his management on an issue and resigned to come back to the same city where I worked then. We've walked several miles together then, been to the planetorium to catch a glimpse of the stars, visited the children's museum which none of us ever visited before ;) and then he made a fantastic job and had to leave that city,a week before my wedding.
Our farewell was short- in a restaurant, over a couple of beers and some chinese lunch. He'd brought me a gift. My first wedding gift ;)Thereafter we've been dwelling in two different countries. We talk, we write to each other and I often suffer from a strange guilt feeling. I never quite cared for him the way I should have, I never quite could be the darling sister to him. Yes, but I miss him very much.

A walk by the river

2011-01-29T03:48:00.002+05:30

2011-01-26T14:37:00.002+05:30

A sunny morn after a wild night busted with thunderstorms looks like the coy girl after a fierce skirmish she has had with her lover, a night before...and I see her like the old admirer, who could never quite paint his love coz the canvass I owned would be a little too small for her. She would breathe yet would not be in a position to spread her wings there.
On mornings like these, I see her wings spread - throwing a riot of colors on the canvass of her lover, Sky. I smile with a cheerful glee.I named it, the rainbow.

I owe this to Sia

2011-01-25T10:54:00.004+05:30

Sometimes I feel damn lucky when I see myself being pampered by my social and biological parents and sometimes I feel so damn cheated to have lost my mother - the one who sheltered me in her womb. She called herself Sia. Am not sure what that means or if it has any Indian connect. Am told her mother was an Irish and she fell in love with her dad at a ball in Calcutta club and much against both their families, they tied the knot.
   Sia was raised in the heart of Kolkata and her parents made sure, she was not a mixed and confused generic product like we get to see in all families with cultural intersections. She read quite a bit of Tolstoy coupled with Bibhutibhusan from the archives of Bengal, played flute and performed ballets. Before long, she fell headlong in love with Roy, an ambitious military personnel. They had a sultry romance and had decided to marry when he was sent away to the Falkland's war.Days passed and there were no news of him. Some murmurs went around, advocating his death when she discovered, she had his seeds in her.
   In those days, single motherhood was not as easy as it is today. So, she retired to a village in Kaluk, West Sikkim and she gave birth to me. All those days, she taught children for a living. She suffered from an acute anemia and never quite recovered from the fatigues of her labor and delivery. Before passing away, she had written to my social dad, her friend and confidante about me. I lost her when I was barely a month old. So I have been told but I've always felt her deep inside me from the time I've come to know of her.
   Wish she could be with me like the rest of the world. My biological dad came back after many years. The war denied him the use of a limb. He looked for her and found out she was no more. How I wish her death was also a stupid rumour.
   I love you Maa not for all the courage and conviction you'd shown or for the elegance and charm you had in you, but for letting me into the world and fall in love with life, love and know some of the most wonderful people around . Thank You for making me believe in people and relationships, in life and love!

2011-01-24T10:39:00.002+05:30

Most men assert love for their women as close as one of their priciest possessions say their balls, bloated ego, private property and some more materialism their skewed mind can take them to. Some of them are also those who'd chuckle with some foolish gratification that my partner has finally screwed it up with me; big time.
des pensées heureuses et de baisers

Truth and Lie

2011-01-21T14:01:00.008+05:30

I've always been a very imaginative child and it was not long after I started going school, my parents were regularly called in for those long hours of conversation with my school authority. These were pretty unidirectional flow of words though, where the school authority spoke in a condescending mode, advocating I be reprimanded at home as well, matching the measures taken up by my school.

My dad invented a measure, quite unmatched though. He handed me a colorful little diary with colored pages and nice little hand painted images drawn in between. "Fill it up with all you can!",was all that he mentioned to me. With a lebensraum for my imagination now, my creative speaking toned down to a good extent.

I grew up to better myself with my lies. These lies helped me to carve a niche of a world for myself away from the terribly protective eyes of my mother. Further growing up exposed me to academic views that spoke of a well developed mind if it had capacity to lie enough convincingly. I had my laugh over it partly in satis-faction and partly being encouraged well.

Life went on and although I'd come across the maxim,"Truth is stranger than fiction", read and heard tales rather facts supporting them, I still did not have reasons enough to believe any of it. I remember mentioning that to dad while I started working in a business development team for a corporate company.The job required speaking through my hat and my ease with the world of lies came handy ;) My dad smiled and said that there would come a day when I'd want to speak the truth cause the truth would just seem more important to me.I shrugged and pushed off

Then it was yesterday, when my partner tried telling my mom-in-law, how supportive I'd been when he'd lost his job just before our wedding and she exclaimed at the thought of her daughter-in-law being extremely in love with her son,much before our wedding had happened. The feeling she had obtained had little or no manipulations from me but I protested and tried speaking the truth. In reality, I would have been with any person to the extent possible if he had lost his job. It was a beckon of principle and not singled out feelings for someone. She would not want to believe me but I kept pushing with the truth although the portrayed truth seemed helpful for me. Quite a difference this time. Perhaps the truth just seemed more important.

On marriage and divorce...

2011-01-21T09:57:00.004+05:30

Marriages and divorces have always harked two extreme polarities of emotions in me.I'm quite not sure yet of the entire process of moving in and moving on but somehow each time a kin or a friend decided to take the step, I've had a lot to say. Some stories told and some untold. I recently revisited all these little trysts with each of them since the time I were just a little girl to reconcile with a divorce of two very precious people I've always adored in my life.

   Disclaimer: Being in an exceptionally volatile emotional phase, I deem it appropriate to be biased in my own way.

As a little girl, marriage meant a celebration with lights that looked like a sprinkle of gold and believed it ushered in magic, ambrosial culinary, roars of laughter, meeting old friends and relations, so parents offered a bit of that extra liberty, wearing the kind of dresses that reminded me of those lightning bugs that adorned the scenery right through my window. I am not sure when I started being a part of these celebrations but this was an account I derived from a sketch book I maintained at the age of five.

   Then, it was divorce when my favorite aunt stopped adorning the lovely red bindi she'd wear and vermilion shine she'd put in between the parting of her hair. Somehow it felt like I lost the aunt I knew, although nothing else quite changed. I started noting a lack of something in her voice and in her gentle nudges. Perhaps it was a little bit of imagination. I, however failed to understand what abet them.This was little note in my diary when I was nine.

   Next was my eldest cousin's wedding with a German and my little crush on this German groom's brother - a multimedia person.With his looks, he was humble - quite unappealing I must say; much to my awe, his imagination ran wild. Together we'd organize the weirdest games for the groom and the bride. These were those games that were meant to bond them closer and somehow they managed to sprinkle some of its magic on us as well. After the wedding, there was some brilliant romantic exchanges between us until his letters started speaking of his weed and mine of chocolate and gradually we decided, we'd let each other be contented with our share of weed and cocoa. These were carefully accumulated from my diary at thirteen and our letters.

   Divorce came in again, when this cousin parted ways with her once beloved (German) apple of the eye. She'd declared she couldn't live without him when my uncle, her father had once opposed to her decision. The man she believed lacked vitality and she quickly divorced him to re-marry in a quarter of a year to be a mom to a bony baby. I was sad for a little while - a little bit for that man and a little bit for losing the last possible link to my first crush but when her baby was put to my arms, nothing else seemed important. I was overjoyed and till date she remains one of my dearest nieces. Together we've ran, flown kites, crafted toys and went wild on various things.

   Thereafter, marriages and divorces came easy with me coming of age. My peers took their leaps in both quite like the tempest. Some marriages I could help bond and some divorces I could prevent to save a disaster. However, what has remained with me is the magic I've believed in each of the marriages I've seen and the mellow that even a possibility of a divorce has ever brought to me.Even today, when two decide to part their ways, I engage myself in my little musings, in some lonely corner of my mind, what could have possibly saved the divorce. A lot of time, I try those little things to save the fractured relationship and some other time, I do not just get a chance. In those days, I remember my lucky gold fish that helped me to make friends when I were alone and iron out quarrels with my best friend, as a little girl. It now stays with Laachi, the little girl who got herself a home after loosing one and all in a riot. She needed the gold fish, most ;)

Another version of anonymity...

2011-01-09T20:54:00.001+05:30

I keep meeting so many of them everywhere and all the time they give me a terrible chill down my spine. I begin to think myself more of a molecule and less of a person. What and who are responsible for all of it? Those of you who'd like to discuss this could comment or email me and we could together try answering this question for ourselves just to prevent the generation of just another unknown citizen. The Unknown Citizen
by W. H. Auden

(To JS/07 M 378 This Marble Monument Is Erected by the State) He was found by the Bureau of Statistics to be One against whom there was no official complaint, And all the reports on his conduct agree That, in the modern sense of an old-fashioned word, he was a saint, For in everything he did he served the Greater Community. Except for the War till the day he retired He worked in a factory and never got fired, But satisfied his employers, Fudge Motors Inc. Yet he wasn't a scab or odd in his views, For his Union reports that he paid his dues, (Our report on his Union shows it was sound) And our Social Psychology workers found That he was popular with his mates and liked a drink. The Press are convinced that he bought a paper every day And that his reactions to advertisements were normal in every way. Policies taken out in his name prove that he was fully insured, And his Health-card shows he was once in hospital but left it cured. Both Producers Research and High-Grade Living declare He was fully sensible to the advantages of the Instalment Plan And had everything necessary to the Modern Man, A phonograph, a radio, a car and a frigidaire. Our researchers into Public Opinion are content That he held the proper opinions for the time of year; When there was peace, he was for peace: when there was war, he went. He was married and added five children to the population, Which our Eugenist says was the right number for a parent of his generation. And our teachers report that he never interfered with their education. Was he free? Was he happy? The question is absurd: Had anything been wrong, we should certainly have heard.

Gold fish

2011-01-07T12:53:00.001+05:30

It seems to be one of those days, when nothing seems right. A day when you seek mom's sylvan retreat and discover that she doesn't miss you. Another adopted daughter has taken your place. You love to see her happy and occupied but there's that yellow umbrella that does not open up amidst the grey, the blue butterfly in you does not show up and your red boat in the blue ocean just sinks beneath.

Its one of these days, an old friend never shows up and the world seems draining me. Just then, Mother Earth conspires me to sleep and my old pals, "Ghum parani mashi-pishi" (the twin aunts who bring in slumber) put me to profound sleep and cast a beautiful dream in my head,with her magic wand. A dream that eradicates the sad and the bad from my mind.

My old friend gets a faint idea of my blues and sends me a red gold fish for some color and some company. Shew went the blues...

The missing friend

2010-12-29T12:54:00.002+05:30

I was a little girl of half a score when I was confined to the peripheries of my room. I had always been quite an extrovert and boisterous little fellow so confinement was not an easy thing to deal with. The reason was an infectious disease. It was the end of June, when the scorching rays often brought with it the cloud bursts. The showers kept falling peter pater on the transparent panes and I sat up to watch the smaller drop being gulped in by its bigger brother.
  It was during one of these moments, that I caught hold of a something behind those transparent panes. Another girl, quite taken aback at being caught in the act of bringing the drops of water on the panes together, leaving behind nice little patterns on the glass, carefully with her tiny fingers. The marks of infection that I bore on my face then, made her withdraw herself to a distance, possibly a little scared of me then.
   Thereafter, we'd meet at the window every afternoon. She would maintain a little distance and would usually be the first person to lead a game. For instance, she'd often pick up a little stick and try drawing out a figure in the sand and I'd try reproducing either a similar thing or carve out something better on paper. When she would show me her earth baked toys, I'd proudly display whatever expensive little toys I had with me.
   I was jealous of her freedom in actuality and somehow deep inside I aspired her supposedly humble paraphernalia because they seem to bear the spell of unhindered freedom. From a day, it had been fifteen days of encounter with her and each day with her made it more difficult for me to remain confined in that room. I never entered into a conversation with her. We never had the time for those.
  On the sixteenth day, she came down with a little kite fluttering and I lost myself there and threw a paper weight to puncture that little flying saucer I believed she carried. She got nervous at that perhaps and disappeared behind the bushes. That was the last time I saw her. After I got back on my feet, I searched for her so many times but couldn't find her. I thought she lived behind the bushes but no, there was nobody in there.
   In my wait for her, I've collected her kind of toys, dressed myself like her but she never ever came back. However, mud, earth and dust grew fonder with days and yes I mastered the art of kite flying too. Even amidst so many friends that I have acquired in all these years that have passed in between, I wish, I could get her back for myself. She is about 4 ft tall and has short hair with soft curls, say uptill her neck and she has intense eyes that open wide and seem sparkling.She always wears a dirty white frock. Would you let me know, if you locate her?!

Letter from her daughter

2010-12-28T12:55:00.000+05:30

A lovely little lady in her silver,grey years had a strange yet strong revelation from her daughter's mail.

Dear Maa,

Me taking turns to the hospital every now and then, my daughter has never quite been my child. You brought her up with your own values and made her quite an alien to me. Unlike others she taught herself strange texts and I could never argue and cut my point across with her. She never looked for support in me. She spent time with me, ran errands for me and took so much care of me that they seemed like favours, sometimes because I could never quite own her, make her mine.Independent you would say she is. Now that she's gone away and set her abode up across seven oceans and thirteen rivers and I held my heart and my soul together with your dead son's baby, you thank me. Is that a way you tend to ward me off from Tupur and make her alien too? Then hear me, I shall not budge an inch.

Uma.

What would be my story?

2010-12-16T11:18:00.000+05:30

I often sit back in the darkness of the night and stare at the wall thinking what would be my story to the future generation? My grandparents spoke of a rebel against the foreign men, my parents and their contemporaries speak of revolutionizing the politico-economic system but I have sadly been a puppet of the system. I am sure my system needs amendments but people in our generation think it wiser to accept and move on.

Ah! Is it time to go to bed now...

2010-12-09T03:47:00.001+05:30

My darling,

Today is one of those nights when the white clouds and the dark sky remind me of your mystic eyes...when those absolute unimportant things I'd like to share with someone endlessly. You'd listen and smile and we'd drink to the night. You'd tell me these when I bore my mustaches for the first time and I remember hanging onto your weird discussions and your wretched self. However, you remained a dream not so much because I liked you but rather the other side of it. Perhaps it is your rebellious ways that remained in the head. I remember the ferry we'd taken to celebrate my first salary cheque and then that night when I closed my doors onto you and you knocked at my window, smiled and walked away.
These days, we do not meet, do not talk, exchange terribly brief messages and somehow I'm scared of loosing your world, you'd once shown me.Will you let me in once again, another time?

Nikhil kaka.

Some of my favorite quotes from Paulo Coelho's 11 mins

2010-12-07T09:55:00.000+05:30

"At every moment of our lives, we all have one foot in a fairy tale and the other in the abyss."

"While she was waiting for her Prince Charming to appear, all she could do was dream."

"She had to content herself with loving and suffering in silence until the end."

"When we meet someone and fall in love, we have a sense that the whole universe is on our side. And yet if something goes wrong, there is nothing left! How is it possible for the beauty that was there only minutes before to vanish so quickly? Life moves very fast. It rushes from heaven to hell in a matter of seconds."

"…but something always went wrong, and the relationship would end precisely at the moment when she was sure that this was the person with whom she wanted to spend the rest of her life. After a long time, she came to the conclusion that men brought only pain, frustration, suffering and a sense of time dragging."

"I can choose either to be a victim of the world or an adventurer in search of treasure. It’s all a question of how I view my life."

"(Don’t) listen to the malicious comments of those friends who, never taking any risks themselves, can only see other people’s failures."

"If I can walk on my own, I can go wherever I like."

"Life always waits for some crisis to occur before revealing itself at its most brilliant."

"Despite her apparent freedom, her life consisted of endless hours spent waiting for a miracle, for true love, for an adventure with the same romantic ending she had seen in films and read about in books. A writer once said that it is not time that changes a man, nor knowledge; the only thing that can change someone’s mind is love. What nonsense! The person who wrote that clearly knew only one side of the coin. Love was undoubtedly one of the things capable of changing a person’s whole life, from one moment to the next. But there was the other side of the coin, the second thing that could make a human being take a totally different course from the one he or she had planned; and that was called despair. Yes, perhaps love really could transform someone, but despair did the job more quickly."

"Beauty changes as swiftly as the wind."

"Humans can withstand a week without water, two weeks without food, many years of homelessness, but not loneliness. It is the worst of all tortures, the worst of all sufferings."

"In love, no one can harm anyone else; we are each of us responsible for our own feeling and cannot blame someone else for what we feel."

"As if everything had been ordained by fate, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if she had known this man all her life or had already lived this moment in dreams and now knew what to do in reality…"

"That’s my one great virtue: I refuse to deceive myself of you. Because it’s not worth it, because you don’t merit a lie."

"If he was the man she wanted him to be, he would not be intimidated by her silence."

"Considering the way the world is, one happy day is almost a miracle."

"…but he should understand my insecurities, because I’m a woman, I’m fragile, and when I’m in that place, I’m a different person."

"Love is not to be found in someone else, but in ourselves; we simply awaken it. But in order to do that, we need the other person. The universe only makes sense when we have someone to share our feelings with."

"I’ve learned that waiting is the most difficult bit, and I want to get used to the feeling, knowing that you’re with me, even when you’re not by my side."

"Profound desire, true desire is the desire to be close to someone. From that point onwards, things change, the man and the woman come into play, but what happens before–the attraction that brought them together–is impossible to explain. It is untouched desire in its purest state. When desire is still in this pure state, the man and the woman fall in love with life, they live each moment reverently, consciously, always ready to celebrate the next blessing. When people feel like this, they are not in a hurry, they do not precipitate events with unthinking actions. They know that the inevitable will happen, that what is real always finds a way of revealing itself. When the moment comes, they do not hesitate, they do not miss an opportunity, they do not let slip a single magic moment, because they respect the importance of each second."

"Now that she had nothing to lose, she was free."

"And that was now her great joy: to say to reality that she didn’t need it, that she was not longer dependent on what happened in order to be happy."

"Now she was searching once more for her reason for living, or, rather, for the kind of utter surrender by which a person offers his or her heart and asks for nothing in return."

"Anyone who is observant, who discovers the person they have always dreamed of, knows that sexual energy comes into play before sex even takes place. The greatest pleasure isn’t sex, but the passion with which it is practiced. When the passion is intense, then sex joins in to complete the dance, but it is never the principal aim."

"Anyone who is in love is making love the whole time, even when they’re not. When two bodies meet, it is just the cup overflowing. They can stay together for hours, even days. They begin the dance one day and finish it the next, or–such is the pleasure they experience–they may never finish it. No eleven minutes for them."

"Every human being experiences his or her own desire; it is part of our personal treasure and, although, as an emotion, it can drive people away, generally speaking, it brings those who are important to us closer. It is an emotion chosen by my soul, and it is so intense that it can infect everything and everyone around me. Each day I choose the truth by which I try to live. I try to be practical, efficient, professional. But I would like to be able always to choose desire as my compassion. Not out of obligation, not to lesson my loneliness, but because it is good. Yes, very good."

"The strongest love is the love that can demonstrate its fragility. Anyway, if my love is real (and not just a way of distracting myself, deceiving myself, and passing the time that never seems to pass in this city), freedom will conquer jealousy and any pain it causes me, since pain is also part of the natural process. Anyone who practices sport know of this: if you want to achieve your objectives, you have to be prepared for a daily dose of pain or discomfort. At first, it’s unpleasant and de motivating, but in time you’ll come to realize that it’s part of the process of feeling good, and the moment arrives when, if you don’t feel pain, you have a sense that the exercises aren’t having the desired effect."

"If you love another person, you don’t depend on the sex act in order to feel good."

"The world enjoys suffering and pain. There’s sadism in the way we look at these things, and masochism in our conclusion that we don’t need to know all this in order to be happy, and yet we watch other people’s tragedies and sometimes suffer along with them."

"As I say, it’s the human condition. Ever since we were expelled from paradise, we have either been suffering, making other people suffer or watching the suffering of others. It’s beyond our control."

"Why was it that in God’s holy world men were only interested in showing her pain. Sacred pain, pain with pleasure, pain with explanations or without, but always pain, pain, pain…"

"’I felt that pain is a woman’s friend.’ ‘That is the danger.’ ‘I also felt that pain has it’s limits.’ ‘That is the salvation. Don’t forget that.’"

"That’s why I’m telling you: don’t get used to it, because it’s very easy to become habituated; it’s a very powerful drug. It’s in our daily lives, in our hidden suffering, in the sacrifices we make, blaming love for the destruction of our dreams. Pain is frightening when it shows its real face, but it’s seductive when it comes disguised as sacrifice or self-denial. Or cowardice. However much we may reject it, we human being always find a way of being with pain, of flirting with it and making it part of our lives."

"Pain and suffering are used to justify the only thing that should bring only joy: love."

"I need to love–that’s all, I need to love. Life is too short, or too long, for me to allow myself the luxury of living it so badly."

"Original sin was not the apple that Eve ate, it was her belief that Adam needed to share precisely the thing she had tasted. Eve was afraid to follow her path without someone to help her, and so she wanted to share what she was feeling. Certain things cannot be shared. Nor can we be afraid of the oceans into which we plunge of our own free will; fear cramps everyone’s style. Man goes through hell in order to understand this. Love one another, but let’s not try to possess one another."

"Always making plans for the future, and always being surprised by the present."

"In all the languages in the world, there is the same proverb: ‘What the eyes don’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve over.’ Well, I say that there isn’t an ounce of truth in it. The further off they are, the closer to the heart are all those feelings that we try to repress and forget. If we’re in exile, we want to store away every tiny memory of our roots. If we’re far from the person we love, everyone we pass in the street reminds us of them."

"The only thing she could do now was to shed a few tears, feeling rather afraid of herself, an intelligent young woman, who had everything going for her, but who tended to make wrong decisions. She just hoped that this time she was right."

"She made this promise because she knew love’s traps all too well, and knew how easily they can change a woman’s mind."

Faint memoirs ....

2010-12-07T09:54:00.001+05:30

I lost thakur da (grandpa) when I was about three years old. Although I've grown to love him, it is because of the tales Ive heard of him from others. This is the only memoir I had managed to get from him before he left us.

তোমার ছুটি নীল আকাশে , তোমার ছুটি মাঠে , তোমার ছুটি থইহারা ওই দিঘির ঘাটে ঘাটে ।

তোমার ছুটি তেঁতুলতলায় , গোলাবাড়ির কোণে , তোমার ছুটি ঝোপেঝাপে পারুলডাঙার বনে ।

তোমার ছুটির আশা কাঁপে কাঁচা ধানের খেতে , তোমার ছুটির খুশি নাচে নদীর তরঙ্গেতে ।

আমি তোমার চশমা - পরা বুড়ো ঠাকুরদাদা , বিষয়-কাজের মাকড়সাটার বিষম জালে বাঁধা ।

আমার ছুটি সেজে বেড়ায় তোমার ছুটির সাজে , তোমার কণ্ঠে আমার ছুটির মধুর বাঁশি বাজে ।

আমার ছুটি তোমার ই ওই চপল চোখের নাচে , তোমার ছুটির মাঝখানেতেই আমার ছুটি আছে ।

তোমার ছুটির খেয়া বেয়ে শরৎ এল মাঝি । শিউলি-কানন সাজায় তোমার শুভ্র ছুটির সাজি

Three sets of coincidences

2010-12-03T04:30:00.002+05:30

Nathan is a man of 17 -thats what I've been strictly told - "a man and not a boy,huh!" ;) . This possibly throws a hint of the firm opinions that this man in question has of himself. Sounds interesting? Well let me elaborate a little on him. He has an Irish mother and a Canadian father. Both have parted ways when he was seven. His mother is a journalist in the western part of Ireland and his father works with a chase in the United States. Nathan takes turns to be with each of them. Well, I am told he's been quite a trouble child but I find him pretty alright. He had been quite a bright student when he decided to drop out from his high school. He has a small case filed against him with the cops, a couple of years back, when his parents bailed him out and put him to a shrink, rather several shrinks and without gathering much hope from any.

   The man has a fierce sense of determination. He says, he wants to continue his education but only when he is sure what he wants to head for. In the meanwhile, he attends workshops and seminars that appeal to him, works at motel receptions - when he needs to read long hours- especially at night and in restaurants and gas stations to make those "quick bucks". He is in a little workshop of ethics, at the moment and over lunch, we discussed a little paper,he plans to present tomorrow. The paper talks of decisions. He interestingly started with the concept of McDonaldization of the world. At a point of time, the early man would decide based on the scare and the non-scare which would be determined by the known and the unknown, soon that got transformed into a system of sacred and profane. The sacred were the do's and the profane the do nots. In no time, this awakened a system of rights and wrongs.Now, very few people would actually do the thinking associated with the determination of the system. Most people would just follow suit, thinking that more intelligent or at least as intelligent people have already done the thinking behind and would accept these bifurcations as norms.Mc Donalds perhaps picked this behavioral mark of people up for their own good. They set up a limited number of items on their menu and commercialized their product enough to make believe that all consumers have made the right choices. He then brought out a print of a published article by Thomas Barlow that stated how volatile relationships had become and how people were obsessed with self development, work and individualism. He went on chuckling at the last line of the article that in a way indicates how a world full of oppurtunities could prove fatal because today's professionals had a tough time to decide, what to go for and what not to so a lack of opportunities would possibly settle the case.("Eventually, they will be forced to realise that living is as much about closing possibilities as it is about creating them.")
   Nathan feels that every individual is unique and hence no single rule can be good for them all. So instead of establishing statements or norms like the Medieval church in Europe, what could possibly be encouraged is to have people to think and question every norm and derive an answer that best suited him/her. Keeping oneself away from a set of possibilities is like throwing oneself in a well like the frogs dwelling in there and thinking a world out of that dungeon.
   Needless to say, it was a powerful discussion and I loved to see so much of strong will in him. I came back to find a beautiful, old track shared by one of my biggest buddies. Its an old track from Chandrabindoo.
It talks of the volatility of relationships today. Here's the link for those who'd love to listen to it. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=84IOMi17Ens My line from it happens to be, "Jodi bolo aari, tomakeo chere jete pari". It means, if you hint,you are stressed with me, I'd leave you and go.

   Another acquaintance also happened to forward me the link of that much discussed article of Thomas Barlove. He had stated no opinions of him though with the link. I'd like to believe, he had a terrible open mind to let me take my stand on the article .

   Well, in case you are looking for the article, this is where you'd find it http://msittig.freeshell.org/articles/FinT_TribalWorkers.html

Someone who taught me to spell "life"

2010-12-02T04:11:00.002+05:30

Long, long ago, there lived a wonderful friend called Rishi da. When I was barely rattling my Jack and Jill, my A-B-C and my 1-2-3, he was in his teens. He and I go a long way tailing the donkeys in birthday parties, sketching the mustache above Piyali mashi's lips and photographing her. I can still hear her screams when she woke up and reached the mirror above the wash basin.
   Rishi da always believed in finding out his own answer for everything, be it a case of pronunciation of a word (I remember him teaching me linguistics then in a real interesting way, so interesting that I have never been dissuaded with any complicated term thereafter) or a quest of life. That reminds me of my teenage. I had a major crush on a boy, quite a charm then. Many had warned me to keep safe distance from him however I never cared and Rishi da supported me to the extent that he'd occupy a seat in the same coffee shop where my crush and I'd meet and after we had had our coffee and tit-bits, he'd foot the bill. Actually, my then crush would always fish out an excuse to leave immediately after we'd asked the waiter to bring in the bill. As a result of which, I'd be in a fix. I would not know how to foot it in entirety with my meagre means then. Rishi da like many others could have explained how that particular act of a boy does not speak well of his character and how it might be difficult for me to be with such a person, but he waited patiently for me to reach that deduction and all those days, he silently waited at another table and ordered coffee for himself and read one of my Calvin and Hobbes.
   Rishi da worked with the newspapers for a little while and won me as his dailies' voracious reader and then taught for a little while getting me jealous of all his students...then he fell in love with a beautiful girl. I used to call her Mermaid. My Mermaid was about to deliver another wonderful being like her when she just passed away....Rishi da was another man thereafter. I hadn't heard of him for long and then met him quite accidentally in a friend's nursing home. He had more wrinkles on him than his age could possibly bring him . We broke the ice with "Jack and Jill, went up the hill, To fetch a pail of water. Jack fell down and broke his crown and Jill came tumbling after".
   Rishi da has adopted a girl child and has named her Golla and now bantering with Golla every night has become a lovely part of my day, that I keep looking forward to.

and then perhaps Rishi da and Golla live happily ever after...

My "larger than life" crush list

2010-11-24T14:16:00.003+05:30

Right since early teenage, I've reared dreamy moments with them at various points of time. People have mentioned, they were "larger than life". However, I have loved them with all I had, have as the case may be. This will be an ever increasing list and I'd make sure I keep updating.

Christopher Nolan - Wish I had him in my class in the University
Chanakya - the historical author of Arthasastra - Wish I had him as an instructor in high school to fight/rebel against.
Behari from Tagore's book,Chokher Bali - Oh! well he should have been my first crush. I'd be struck with his determination, his sensitivity and the strength of his character.
Satyajit Ray - I'd want him to be one of Dad's friends. I'd love to eavesdrop on his acting workshops, his painting sessions. I'd have hung on his lips for another fascinating story every time.
Jimmy Valentine from O. Henry's collections - I'd definetely be the cop hunting him down in the story.
Pablo Neruda - Wish I had him in my Dram-soc (dramatics society). Every night, I'd be found with him under the stars, getting drunk over his poems.
Michael Douglas - "Marry me!" are the words. An adorable man and an excellent father.
Pablo Picasso - Wish I could sleep with him once to understand the frenzy and the eroticism behind the choice of his colors and strokes.
Frank Sinatra - My Telephone Pal
Oscar Wilde - He would be my soul mate. I have visions of him of a cross dresser. Together shall we find many walls to break.
Robin Williams - My teacher who'd nurture me and set me in the arms of literature, life and love.

Yours, Pupae didi.

2010-11-24T02:33:00.004+05:30

This is to a darling I made friends with, when I was still in my kindergartens and then it grew up to a wonderful thing that must me remembered, preserved and reflected upon. Here's to Madhu!!!

   I was still in my lower kindergarten school and I came back home to find, we have a new maid called Shanti - an aged brown lady ...torn down by life. Her not so smooth skin spoke of her tryst with the world in various forms, various ways. She seems to have borne many diseases, children and yes, hunger for food. So, her fifteen year old daughter would accompany her always to work. Though, the initial glimpse might speak of Shanti Mashi (meaning aunt, as I would call her) wanting help, a deeper view talks of no, not of her daughter's hands on training but a way of taking care of her day meal. In our place, the workers would inevitably get themselves good food after work.

   Her daughter, Madhu was a sharp little wench who picked up the art of housekeeping and then cooking quite meticulously and quick.I had to bribe her often to do a little room service for me, like bringing in those chocolate chip biscuits or pieces of mom's vanilla cake or the green mangoes to be squashed with green chillies, oil and her magic spice. The bribe would often be some hour of television. I found her sinking into the funny and almost nonsensical Hindi movies and transporting herself to a distant world. I have never been a fan of television and never of the genre of films she watched She could read and write though and she supposedly went to school uptill standard four and then her family could not sponsor her education.

   She was one of those who never quite missed school. However, my mom would often ask her to keep a watch on me, when I would be left behind with my home-work as she went out of home. She was a strict disciplinarian and she would not give in, if I told her I was done with a piece of an assignment until she verified herself. The next holidays brought with it books on various subjects and behind them my grand mother, my darling and my best friend.

   Soon she discovered our little wench, Madhu and her sharp head. So, with me she was also put to education, at home though. I remember how happy I was. Finally, I thought I had avenged myself on her. Now she perhaps got an idea how it felt to read a lot of those one'd never want to and read in a way and at the time one'd not want to. We read a lot together, discovered our passion for acting together and acted in numerous plays we could get ourselves to in and around the city then. She was brilliant and we struck a wonderful camaraderie. My grandmother almost forced her to take a private school final examination around the time I took my boards in school. She passed. Thereafter, she would not want to go to college and she had decided to marry and bear children. Not that she was seeing someone but just that was what she wanted. My family was after her life to get her to study more but she was determined to have a husband. Soon she got hold of a man from a nearby village, she'd met in one of her sister's weddings. This man was barely educated and he was barely handsome. So, I could not even say Madhu thought she'd got her Govinda (her favorite film actor).

   The marriage was brisk and I remember her only long speech to me before she took her plunge." Pupae didi, I choose to be married and have a home of myself cause all my life I haven't seen one. I have never ever seen my father as a man I would look upto but someone who returned home for money, to beat us all up and bruise my mother and curse her." Thus, quite unlike all my family members, I never could stop her since it seemed like her choice, her dream come true, no matter how insensible it might have appeared. All that I knew I would do with her was be with her whenever she needed me...and I also remember cornering her husband post wedding and warning him with a sweet smile, if he ever tried torturing Madhu, I'd break his bones and we all have a hearty laugh over it, now.

  I've been to her home in the village and broken chunks of coal into pieces to light the mud baked oven and then cut the hay stacks for her roof. She did not live there for long cause her man made a job at the middle-east and she flew away with him. She is happy now with two lovely daughters and I trust her on all her bollywood film reviews now. I adore her daughters and every time I meet her, she makes me believe in life and love.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rQjHDQVwhsQ&playnext=1&list=PL5CA2A88FA6EC450A&index=7

Stories from other nights as this...

2010-11-18T14:49:00.015+05:30

This is one of those nights, when I return to my unfinished song and try eking out a satisfying note from a dilapidated piano, much to my disdain and despair...a night when I try writing to a soul-mate and discover, I'd grown cold on the relationship...not blue. Its one of those nights, when a man I loved made sincere efforts to serenade me and I thrust the three fingers between my thumb and the little one,in my mouth to dish out a smile for him,as if a handsome tip cast to a bartender for his services.

   I remind myself of old moments spent in sultry afternoons amidst his smoke that felt like burnt cinnamon once. I'd try the same cigar and find the smell meek on one of such nights. I'd cluck the tongue and say, "Chcha, doesn't get to my head!".Old letters, old photographs and old wine all have their trysts with me but in vain. I flip through the pages of "The Master and Margarita" and I head for Chapter XIII.
   (the next two paragraphs, trust me, you can do widout them, they are just meant for some loosers like me.)
   For my readers who have not laid their hands on the book, The Master was an author of a novel that narrated how Yeshua Ha-Nozri (Jesus of Nazareth) met Pontius Pilate - the mythical Procurator of our Judea. The Master's mood is soured with the rejection of his novel by the literary mass and he goes to the extent of burning his manuscript and plunging himself in the world, distantly away from realities. His sudden frenzy includes selling his love Margarita to a brothel. Margarita however has contempt for neither - The Master or his work. Soon he lands himself into an asylum.While at the asylum, he meets a young poet,Ivan Ponyrev who writes with the pen name - Bezdomniy (meaning homeless). Here Master remembers his love, which has been narrated in these lines:

'Here his eyes opened wide, and as he whispered he gazed at the moon."She was carrying some of those repulsive yellow flowers. God knows what they're called, but they are somehow always the first to appear in spring. They stood out very sharply against her black coat. She was carrying yellow flowers! What an ugly color. She turned off Tverskaya into a side street and looked back. You know Tverskaya, there must have been a thousand people around, but I knew that she saw no one but me. And I was struck less by her beauty than by the extraordinary loneliness in her eyes." '

On one night as now, I deduced how loneliness could be enchanting, alluring and I took my lamp to my store room to bring out the old porcelain jar where I tucked away some coins to combat one of such fears as the darkness of this night set in. Twenty silver shillings bought me a grey parrot, a pet that I loved only because it spoke what I wanted to hear.

On a night as this, I turned your offer down only to let the clock beat my soul up and I'd run to take the shackles off my loyal, grey bird in the hope of liberating a part of me and break into droplets of tears and perspiration, all over. I realise again; am cold no more :)

Canvas of desire...

2010-11-16T01:51:00.002+05:30

I've managed to brew up a different kind of lentils today with a dash of the sunny egg yolk n was tasting that out of the little, blue vessel with a black spoon, just as the white swan fluttered its wings amidst the blue waters, in desperation to make it to the sky, hidden by a patch of greyish clouds ;)

I felt pretty amidst them and found a reason to look for the familiar honk again, when the shadows behind the weeping willows retreat, towards our home. Its time to see you,its time to love and its time to dip toes in the brook of dreams again endlessly, untill the darkness of the skies gave up another time and let the sun peep in again with its bright,sonny face to send us away from each other to weave our dreams, all day to a pool connecting each other's ; so that we can swim our ways back to each other ;), conspiring with the dark.

2010-11-15T08:59:00.005+05:30

Paromita is a lovely friend I acquired in the sunshine state. She reminds me of Nawshtoneer's Charulata. Here's one of her write-ups, she'd mailed me once.

Blue Upon Blue

by Paromita De

Grain by grain nature came about,

Grain by grain the world is what we see it to be today.

On non-solid ground I stand

grain upon grain softly

supporting my soles.

My eyes witness the line of truth,

or as geometry defines it,

a set of points of the truth.

The line at which sky and ocean,

air and water,

up and down seem to meet.

I know what Columbus proved.

But for a moment knowing truth

makes thinking about falsehood possible.

And yes, it looks to me,

your average needy person,

that appearances serve to make

ocean and sky to simply be blue upon blue.

In believing falsehood, it’s easy to think

they both originate from the same line of truth,

such beauty in this life.

Creating shooting blue, from single point.

Pickles...

2010-11-10T12:41:00.002+05:30

Its been seven full months of bottled life for the two green mangoes that were locked in pieces in a jar; lapped up in the golden hue of oil,seasoned with arrogant spices, on which sunlight coupled with a certain je nais sais quoi * have been sprinkling their magic fairy dust,creating the mayhem of a midsummer night's dream.

There has been the pours of rain,when the clouds would hang low and take the fairy godmother of light away. Yet,the esoteric have worked their way out infusing color and aroma to the greenish-yellow mass of those two yet to ripe mangoes of spring.The seven months have painted a fresh spring artistry to the otherwise grey canvass of November with increasing frost, diminishing bounties of nature,summoning weary beasts to hibernate in some warmth of their dens.

Let life in this golden jar be preserved with all the metamorphosis that various seasons might bring in.

*French: "I do not know what"

pickled to a different life and being...

2010-11-05T23:21:00.000+05:30

Its been three full moons now and most of my afternoons are spent in the old library next to the church. Pages from Ulysses combined with the hum of Catholic monks and the church organ takes me to the mists of the glaciers of Tibet.

I rush to a Utopia under the aroma of sepia pages and written words...forever "To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield."

2010-11-04T12:53:00.001+05:30

"Put on the light and shoo the demons away!" , says Grandmother to the apple of her eye, "Coz here we're at the festival of light."

...and then the world dips into the light of hope and believes,there shall be no darkness anymore.

(Now, let me say Amen before the Devil crossest thy prayer)

Find X? not again

2010-11-04T12:38:00.001+05:30

Dear linear equations and algebra, Stop making me find your "X" .....She's not coming back ;) :p

Cinderella could have been a woman of flesh and blood...

2010-11-02T14:11:00.006+05:30

I pity Cinderella so many times for being reduced to a fairy's tale. It is most misleading a stance for women who think the world out of being docile and mute to have a Prince Charming save her from her despair. Its time women knew its only their own hands that can be used for their life's repair. No fairy godmother turns up for an overnight makeover, no pumkins turn to a horse carriage and the dust and dirt and all the failures around do bring courage to withstand all, fight back and make it to the destination. No matter, if destiny stays or no.

Cinderella, am sure had other things to do beyond following orders of her step-mother, step-sisters,shed tears, pray and later look pretty and aspire the love of the Royal Court. For one who makes it to the Court in spite of situations like her's, must have had a mind of her own at the least of all. She might have been known to have lived with her Prince - Happily Ever After but the most important thing is she lived and with all her conditions, just against that.

Love and Hate

2010-11-02T08:49:00.001+05:30

Love and Hate are two passionate terms and I remember often having loved and hated the same thing or person more than once. How many times have I hated reading and then could give my life to read...then came stances of music,then friendship and love. All finally ended up in a passionate intercourse of love and growth,of beauty and nurture...

When I grew up, I learned to restrict my love and hate to a kind and extend my indifference to another.

The Other Side....

2010-11-01T07:32:00.008+05:30


Bicycle Thief

I want to ride my bicycle to the other side,
Where butterflies greet with their wings open wide,
The earth is wet and the grass is green;
Clouds hanging down the blue sky are lean.
My old friend would come looking for me
...Under the rainbow that touches the sea.
We'd laugh and banter for neither reason nor rhyme,
Over fudge brownies,warm coffee, gin and lime
To have the old dreams back again;

Unmask and let the anger and tears drain.

Wet under the twilight sky,we'd lie...

Inhaling the fresh jasmine,shedding by.

At mid-night, the sky would pour down its rain,

To take off our bodies, growing-ups' pain.

The Meeting

2010-10-20T08:30:00.001+05:30

A wrong cue from a co-actor and a friend or anybody else with whom you share a space of faith, can change the entire direction of the play or the relationship. So, in the Victorian era, two actors sharing the stage would meet in their skins (fully dressed to their characters), some hours before the play actually began. Once an actor found out, the other actor was not in shape, he/she would try coaxing the other actor to vent all he/she had inside.

To the day, this meeting helps save a great performance, a play, a relationship and hence a beautiful world with faith restored.

They talk...

2010-10-15T21:28:00.001+05:30

A man and woman meet at the window. The man, a charmer and a woman very shrewd and hence more vulnerable when weak - they talk of numbers and value, glory and ignominy, of world and outer world - quite the old, predictive way until the man notices her eyes coloring slightly. He smiles at his victory, knowing his another seemingly difficult feat has been achieved and the lady has her crimson heart sewn to his sleeves. Just then,

Man : We should meet some time again.

Woman : Nope :)

Man : And may I ask why is that?

Woman : (smiles - not one of those coy smiles)

Man: Okay, because your partner would not like that? or We'd be talked about for a scandal? or ....

Woman : smiles and nods her head in the negative. (after a brief pause, she continues...)
Well, I'd come back to love you again and again as now but you'd just romance me for you would not know how to love :) and just that.

His little woman

2010-10-15T19:38:00.004+05:30

This is a story of my first notable relationship with a man, would not just call him my lover boy cause that shrinks the entire canvas of a thing he has been and am sure if he found this well behaved little wife of me that I am today, he would break himself into laughter for the adult skin am pretending to carry on me.

    So, here I begin :-

   We were not meant to meet at Jhul's garage party. My gaggle and I were busy puffing fags to celebrate our new found independence from school on Anjan's "priyo bondhu" tracks when some crooked men walked in and one of them offered us his cigar. I tried being brave to pick one up and quite choked myself, much to make a laughing stock of myself with that handmade thing. I swore never to see that person anymore.

     We met again in our annual swimming gala. That much despised person was put to my team in the relay and I had to give him the pass. I longed to avenge him in the waters, a place I was good in but seemed like it could not be in the contest.The trophy would be an expensive bargain to loose. So we got the trophy and I managed to grab it and walk it home instead of him ;)

    Predictions kept me waiting for him to challenge me to a duel like a juvenile teenager ends up expecting with all mirth of being so good at one's predictions with the opposite sex but it was not meant to be. Instead I was sent a pink rose much to my dismay and contempt and I took no time to retaliate the act with a pink kerchief to the extent, much to my astonishment, I was thought to make advances wherein my intention was just a return of a favour. "You throw me a pink rose thinking me a sissy and I give it back to you."

However, it kinda stopped there and other than some tit-bit of a greeting exchanged here and there, we were busy with our own lives thereafter - he with his bevy of girls (little thought he did anything else) and I with my ongoing crush then and my career in a far away land.

   We were mid-way through our college, when we were both back to our hometown when all youngsters were summoned by a lovely lady in her silvery grey years with turquoise eyes and silver hair to host a christmas eve musical in her backyard. It was then that I heard him first on his guitar over Mrs. Brown's chocolate coffee and fresh home-baked cookies. I mentioned them because I believed for a long time that had it not been those intoxicants, nothing would make me like Rahul. Hmm! now the name. Well, Rahul happened to be a favorite name with a film maker in the Bollywood film industry, called Karan Johar and apparently most of his romantic films which I thought were damn pink and hence could not watch them had their protagonists named Rahul.

    Music and coffee got us talking about a lot of things, life, music, literature and soon we would be found walking in the woods, morning and evening. Me in my white summer frocks, long curly traces of hair and he in his shorts with his pen-knife with which, he'd magically manage a catapult out of a twig, a basket out of canes and many more such interesting things. In no time, I fell for him but never quite managed to convey them enough other than passionately singing to the passionless sky that set over us, one evening or reciting a Tagore's poem as best as I could then. He named me, "Shuo" - the caterpillar in bangla because I was still on my way to being a woman, a full adult and beautiful butterfly. He'd wait to see that out of this uncouth girl ;)

     Both of us would grow up to be where we wanted to. He in his army and me in my advertisements' world... and were engaged to marry, when he decided to be a martyr. He'd taught me to respect everybody's dreams and I did. I sum how chopped off my long traces of hair, sum how they looked impertinent any further... with nobody to pull them anymore.

     It wasn't very easy to overcome his sudden going away but gradually I discovered, I had imbibed him in me. To the date, he's always remembered as a beautiful poem of coffee and half burnt butts of fags...and under the shedding "krishnachura" tree as we'd walk past and I shook my hair loose to take the petals off, his eyes would gleam like light bugs intoxicating me with his boisterous dreams.Somehow words would always fall short between us and music would take its place, filling in the gaps between laughter and exchanges as if so much to be said and so few excuses to start ;) and then we just let ourselves forget all of them and drown ourselves in the moment. Guess poetry for him would just be white lilies and sweet nothings :)

After discovering Rahul in me, I smile and call myself a narcissist.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tKRh61f6gFs

BhaloBasha Tarpor By Arnob

2010-10-14T03:48:00.000+05:30

Puja

2010-10-13T20:07:00.000+05:30

For almost sixteen years of my life, I would have a full blossomed 'shiuli' tree within a hundred and fifty meters from the house. Every autumn that would tell me, Durga Pooja is here and thereafter I would find it difficult to look at the black board in my class. I would rather slant my head to look out of the window and try catching glimpses of the halcyon blue skies, the "kaansh phool".

After being out of the state, I never got to smell the 'shiuli' and its been almost ten years I never missed Poojas. Never got to feel Pooja's around.

2010-10-11T11:24:00.004+05:30

This is a story of me and 'my story' on a cold winter's night, when I get compulsively lazy over coffee and soupy Maggi with flotsam eggs with their dirty white and bright yellow faces looking back at me with arched brows and a mocking smile. My body absolutely choosing to overrule such silly, simpering lesser mortals decides to give my vertebral column an off for the night,So plump cushions take its place. The warmth and the softness of the quilt further gives out a happy delusion of life being good and everything around being taken care of.
The smell and the turn of a few pages of an old book then beckons our beloved,"Ghum parani Mashi Pishi" (the aunt who brings in slumber). Just then, behind the curtains, stands a coy little story, desiring to just run in my head and take control of me. Sometimes, it waits for me to wrap myself in slumber, sometimes for me to pick up a sheet of paper, some other time it waits for me to grab my overcoat to run out with it and some other times just for an audience, when I paint my face green and blue to be like one of those puppets I'd play in my childhood days, as if they were waiting for aeons to be free. Some of the times the story climbs down the chimney,creeps down the hall and tip-toes into my bed during snow storms to ambush you and me ;)

Memoirs of rainy days

2010-10-09T13:34:00.005+05:30

A little chit-chat with a friend on a cold rainy night.....

me: it was pouring 2day

out here

a: u did a rain dance ?

me: nah

unfortunately

the idea did nt strike then

a: u should do tht sometime.. wearing a yellow saree like raveena tandon did in tip tip barsa paani

me: hmm

instead i cooked sum khichri

which mom wud make at home

n i remember it had the capacity 2 take awe those rainy blues

a: with ghee and beguni and fried papad... yum yum !!

me: khichri wud b a cluster of sunshine

4 me

a: yeah true

me: and peyaji

sumtimes

where the crispy layers melt in ur mouth 2 reveal d juicy onion bulbs within

a: yeah.. anything fried does with it.. beguni or peyaji or some bora

me: hmm

and then a delicate season of green chilli and cilantro

a: hain ...brings back a lot of old memories

me:

u knw memories of even that

stupid condom ad

with the old filmy number

"pyar hua ikrar hua hai...'

a: ah yes.. tht was for nirodh.. quite tacky.. but then u cant expect anything better from a government owned company

me: hmm

jostle for space under a single, crooked umbrella. their shoulders brush against each other lightly, occasionally

n they sing

n they can b heard

a: have u tried tht in real life?

me: inspite of the deafenning thunderstorms

nope

never thot of

a: pune i could do tht often.. it used to rain a lot there.. here its a virtual desert.. though this time its been a good monsson here

me: hmm

i however had a diff experience once

a: like?

me: returning home frm the city, a woman in her labour resting her tired muscles on a footpath in between pregnant contractions...her amniotic waters leak in a frenzied gush... almost in unison, the sky which was breathless and silent till then, erupts in thunder, lightening and rain.

and then i decided 2 take her 2 the nearest hospital

she successfully delivered a lovely lil girl

a: wow.. tht sound quite an exciting day for u

me: hmm

came bak home dripping

n with a sense of fulfillment

a: im sure

me: such is a city -Calcutta - of bespoke romance...an oft-repeated event is customized to the individual skin. like walking in the rain.
this fading, gloriously old-fashioned city is frozen in time. its golden dust spread by a mischievous imp floats around on some rare, wet, sultry nights brewing trouble, bringing people together and spreading love.

Sent at 03:31 on Saturday

a: i never quite liked the city.. so i never had any such romantic nostalgic thoughts about it and neither could appreciate any

me: perhaps the lack of the magical strike of clock

n worthy company

a: could be

Sent at 03:33 on Saturday

me: i miss my old home made coffee sometimes

u knw

a: u used to buy coffee beans and then grind it?

me: hmm

but how did u knw

did i mention to u b4?

a: guessed.. being the kind of person u are

me: ha ha ha

n it wud be poured in my chipped mug

bcoz that happened 2 b my fav

a large multi-coloured thing

a: what was written on the mug?

me: giv me

coffee n nobody gets hurt

there were 3 such mugs

a muti-colored

a brown n a black one

a: i had one which said someday im gonna wash this mug

me: ha ha

the coffee warm enough to burn a chink into the gray armour clothing my heart.

Sent at 03:39 on Saturday

a: today no dabba coming for me.. so i decided to indulge.. getting some goan food

me: wow

see if u can get urself some chicken vindalu

a: im in fact having vindaloo.. the pork one..

me: wow

amazing it tastes

i make it at home

a: yes i have had the chicken one before.. never the pork..so i decided to try it out.. and then some cake which they call dodol or something.. cant wait for them to deliver it

me: hmm

dodol is awsum

a: i hope so

okhane pujo te ki korbi?

Sent at 03:44 on Saturday

me: k jaane

a: did any shopping and all?

me: i did nt

my partner got hold of sum things

for me

wen he was tired

a: okie dokie.. thts nice

me: aking me

out

4 shopping

asking

a: hmm

i wanted to be at home this time.. but then i wouldnt have got such a long leave

me: i knw

a: when are u coming home?

me: sumtime nxt yr

a: ok u shall treat me then. ;)

2010-10-08T08:15:00.000+05:30

Daughter: Baba, why do people wish someone on one's birthday?
Father: They wish one for themselves darling. A lot wish with an earnest expectation of being returned with such a wish on their birthdays and some wish to wash off their guilt for never caring in the days between. They flush away their guilt with goodies for the birthday baby showing all their love for a day. So you always have surplus cakes on birthdays and nothing on other days.
Daughter: But cant we refrigerate some for some more days to go?
Father: Of course darling for some more days only.
Daughter: Baba, will you order little pastries for me every week and not just one whole cake for my birthday this time please. I want to be loved every week - an insy winsy bit.
Father (laughs) : Sure darling!!!

2010-10-07T10:39:00.000+05:30

Somehow, men with a weird aesthetic sense have always seemed adorable (to me). They bring back mementos from the places they travel or after a tough win from a heated bargain with some obstinate shopkeeper and you'd never think of using them. They'd just remain in a corner of your closet and then one fine day when you're in your cleaning spree, you touch it and out springs a fresh bounty of memories. You smile....you can't stop yourself from that.

These men hardly tell you what to wear for an occasion and what not to wear. You always seem nicely dressed even in a "hawaii chappal" with an evening gown or a silk sari. My dad is such a man. However, most of my boy friends seemed to have rich tastes and unfortunately even my partner and I have hated going out with them on dinner and parties because of the entire dress code I've been expected to observe and the decorum I've had to maintain.

The entirely beautifully co-ordinated get up is so not me. I try telling myself, "Shweetie, behave like an actress!" and then I suddenly put on a skin which seems so different, not quite one that people who know me would identify with. Ultimately, we'd be back home with a sour taste. However things are different when we go out on an activity - say trail walking, hiking or even swimming. Those are the times when we have the time of our lives. A very dear friend of mine says, "Gay couple!". Perhaps...never mind since we have a gay time ;)

2010-10-07T04:41:00.000+05:30

I had a chat with a friend after many many days today and .....

S: So here are you online finally!!!
P: Arre tui. ye!!! just parcelled her to my in-laws and now its party time.
S: Whats so different with her man?
P: Everything...u hav 2 b a man, cant b myself
S: maane? :)))))))))
P: oi! help me at the kitchen darling!! plz stop reading (instead of saying cuddle up with me)
S: lol so cuddle up, where's the problem?
P: there is the problem, you have to make love, with principles in mind...well all women hav their own set of principles which doesn't sound whacky when you sleep with a lot of different women but one...
S: Shut up! Chi! Dint u hav a love marriage.
P: Oi love obdhi thik. Once u marry it gets over.
S: Baal!!
P: Ajkal wat new r u reading?
S: Noti binodini - second time.
P: Woman, shaala hingshey hoy mairi. tui maal rafting wafting, snorkelling...amar bou k bolle shaala bole, eki nyakamo . agey bawloni kano suicide korbe.
S: jah ta. bouthan amay bolle tumi khao dao mota hao..(but sis-in-law mentioned, you are putting on weight with extra helpings)
P: Oi weekend-r khelata-to tar jonnei tyag (had to forego my weekend game for her)...
S: so go gym - both of u or just run for an hour everyday.
P: Nope, I had 2 forgo all that game now i seek comfort in food and alcohol.
S: Cant both of u travel somewhere?
P: Ye to put up in posh hotels....no hiking, walking or trekking. Travel in plush cars...felt alright for 2 trips, now no more. Darling, kolkatay ay ma, ektu break de.
S: What ami ese kise break?
P: Tomar bouthan k tumi bhalo samlao, samlio ami jabo.... ;) (u take care of ur sis-in-law and i will....)
S: Jah ta! Ok shd see u then ;)
P: love u
S: hmm bujhlum...ghus!!! (so u bribing me)
P: nah! its easy to talk to a female friend for a man, u knw abt his probs, deep emotion, secrets. With a man friend difficult, u knw or perhaps its like that with just u...am happy anewaz. shon, will call u tomorrow...long call
S: long distance too ;)
cya

a bangla hue and cry....

2010-10-07T04:02:00.000+05:30

Uttap koto sundor, tui thermometer e maaple...

(fervor, wish I could measure you in thermometer)

Every monkey has its day

2010-10-06T09:15:00.000+05:30

A monkey came jostling in through our window and made a feast out of my little store by the kitchen and occupied me for a handful of hours today....really loved its company.

2010-10-05T11:54:00.001+05:30

Note: "Didiya" - my pretty maid in silver hair happens to be my surrogate who brought me up in a test tube to make me the Alice of her wonderland. She is four score now but still happens to be up on her feet, a tough opponent in most things I do and is my partner's sweetheart. Oh! she is still a flamboyant and a beauty :) and my partner calls her Miss Havisham in jest, who supposedly brought up an Estella to royally 'screw' some inscrutable men :)

She writes:

Darling,

              I am given to understand that you had a great time with 2pie :) . I loved the way you both caught butterflies and set the river water into ripples with all the pebbles you managed to throw at it much like past memories between you and him - eight years ago, came back to both of you. I noticed the same fervor in his voice that I had all those years ago and you know what he mentioned to me ;)....he said, after being able to talk on so many things after so many days with you, it feels younger, it feels like a mad rush to just elope with you. Am sure, he speaks of marrying the moments spent with you ...honestly, like a gleaming child. These are just little fragrant moments we all keep pressed between our heart and soul like old flora and fauna between the sepia pages of our diaries.
            These days you've been talking a lot about principles and conservatism, the right and the wrong,I think I know why ;) but remember when you have a lot of limits cast upon you and you still continue to be the one you want to be, thats character ;). I know you have your bones to pick with me, cause I brought you up unlike many and hence you have been the abnormal always but I always thought you have the courage to stand for what you reason and believe for the gene your mom passed onto you.
           I understand your grievances against her for leaving you behind and passing away - distancing your father from you as well but she had limited choices then. I would also say, selfishly, "Had she not left you behind, you and me would not meet and I would not get to meet my lovely little lover who flew you off to a land behind seven seas and thirteen rivers, would I?" :)

Lots of love and huggs,

Didiya.

(do not call me up. write to me, so that i can smell you even from a distance :) )

2010-09-30T11:07:00.001+05:30

Monsieur,

   It was sultry summers and every morning, afternoon and evening, it would be the same shadow sipping from her cup-pa.She would inevitably be found slouching against one of those trees around the canteen or J.P. tea stall in her sarongs in vociferous colors. At times, she would be found in her class only to grin and make questions none would be able to answer. In her body language, there would be a form of audacity that would set ripples even in a poikilothermos specie. The very sight of her seemed intolerable.

   I was a lecturer then in my mid forties. An age wherein all of us have our opinions made on most affairs on earth. We have an open mind, we profess because we still pretend we are growing and educating ourselves to be able to do our duties diligently as teachers but somewhere I must admit, we pretend. I was teaching social institutions in her class then. I would lecture on Erving Goffman's The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life.

   She never cared to listen, in fact she would read P.G. Wodehouse in my class, sketch and yes write limerics. I've tried avoiding her, when I couldn't talk her in, yet there was a wave of rebel in her - something which would make one feel uneasy, a wave of resentment that would just take away the ground beneath your feet, push one off one's status quo.

   Soon, the weekly unit tests began and this vagrant girl came in, wrote she had not studied and come, meticulously signed her statement and submitted her papers in every single test for six weeks. Much later, she had coolly mentioned to me, "The social beings act according to the stimuli they get from their settings is Goffman's doctrine. Life is potrayed to be very difficult outside the campus of our university. To survive there, one needed to score big, was what our university admin thought made a difference. I dont think these tests made any difference in the world other than making me a part of the Mc Donaldised world, where am expected not to think and be a part of just what am told to be."

   Since then I have been narrating this little story to a lot of my students when I teach them Goffman. I discovered later she was a voracious reader and a very keen observer. We hardly agreed on matters but somehow that never seemed important. I am sure, she is a passionate little lover cause she would not be with you today, if she did not choose to. I am sincerely waiting for her little one to arrive with whom she'd live her second childhood and I envy you cause you'd be the one who'd see her that wild and wanton again.

   This is all I know of your love, my boy and am sure this is just a portion of the entire canvas of herself. If you ever make it to Cuba, I'd love to share a drink and a moment with you.Am sure you have the best around you now, so wouldn't demean that wishing you my usual All the Best.

She's different and if you have the taste and the aptitude, you shall taste the difference.

Robi.

2010-09-28T12:19:00.000+05:30

As the soft notes of "Wake me up, when september ends" trickled into my room and a whiff of a vanquished, fresh hand made cigar, a thirst for some delirious recitation of Neruda parched in my throat and a wish to loose myself amidst the brown pages of sepia diaries with pressed,dried orchids and doodles on you, roads of Mandalay, where no one knows us and speaks a strange language that sounds like music . Aren't we missing something?! Yes,crude "Chan-pa" all around us ;)

2010-09-24T02:55:00.002+05:30

Lately, I have been very blue cause its autumn and the skies do not give up their grey. In the darkness, under the bewildered clouds, my scarlet violin creaked and so I sold it to the milky way, bought half a star and quarter of a moon to paste on my cheek for a happy smile and ran back home.

2010-09-22T08:36:00.000+05:30

I met an old friend at the window at twilight today. She was the Cinderella that lost her shoe and now she happens to be the princess that rears a frog prince in her arms, waiting to be kissed and unlocking his world of magic to the world.

on SEX....

2010-09-19T01:02:00.002+05:30

RIGHT ON ~

1.
When I was born, I was given a choice - a big pecker or a good
memory....I don't
remember what I chose.

2.
Your birth certificate is an apology letter from the condom
factory.

3.
A wife is a sex object. Every time you ask for sex, she
objects.

4.
Impotence: nature's way of saying, "No hard
feelings..."

5.
There are only two four letter words that are offensive to men - 'don't' and
'stop', unless they are used together.

6.
Panties: not the best thing on earth, but next to the best thing on
earth.

7.
There are three stages in a man's life: Tri-Weekly, Try Weekly and Try
Weakly.

8.
Virginity can be cured.

9.
Virginity is not dignity, it's lack of
opportunity.

10.
Having sex is like playing bridge - if you don't have a good partner,
you better
have a good hand.

11.
I tried phone sex once, but the holes in the dial were too
small.

12.
Marriage is the only war where you get to sleep with the
enemy.

13.
Question: What's an Australian kiss? Answer: The same thing as a French kiss,
only down under.

14. A couple
just married were happy with the whole thing. He was happy with the
Hole and she
was happy with the Thing.

15.
Question: What are the three biggest tragedies in a man's life? Answer: Life
sucks, job sucks and the wife doesn't.

16.
Question: Why do men find it difficult to make eye contact? Answer: Breasts
don't have eyes.

17. Despite the old saying, 'Don't take your
troubles to bed', many men still sleep with their
wives!

^ wanderlust

2010-09-17T13:53:00.003+05:30

^ wanderlust is a German romanticism to go wanton in the world. He is a dreamer. His thirst and curiosity to learn everything around is quite infectious. His enthusiasm for life and childlike innocence never fades even after he goes through many a trysts by fire.

The Runaway

2010-09-17T13:07:00.001+05:30

Long, long ago lived a girl called Annie and she had a wonderful dog who lived untill he was very old and wrinkled. One fine morning, she got up to see that the dog was missing. She started a fanatic search for him but alas he was nowhere to be found. A few months later, she came to know that her dog was a mile or so away in a washer-woman's backyard for a couple of nights untill he died.

Faithful dogs are sensitive too. When they understand their death would cause someone pain, they make sure, that person does not get to see their death.

Why I love travelling?

2010-09-16T05:09:00.003+05:30

I have been a voracious traveler all the time and I've been questioned why; many many times. So here I explain why and hopefully once and for all.

Love to try life a little differently - the long hours of walking, trekking or just sitting and gazing at the clouds from the port hole and imagining those innocent days when I'd insist sitting next to the bus driver's seat in my school bus because the front glass would make the clouds look terribly accessible like it happens from the mountains.
I hate partying. I somehow fail to understand how on earth,one can break free of their skins amidst loud music and often with people who expect a sort of decorum out of you - like you meet expectations in the corporate arena - a definite dress and behavioral code, definite things to say and do.So, traveling is a good way of throwing the reigns off for me.No explanations, no expectations involved.
Unlike most women, I do not quite enjoy shopping. I do not understand the concept of buying happiness,solace and so on. Having the most expensive apparel and accessories declares you're doing good...aint that too much of a principle to live upto.
I love knowing people and knowing places.Perhaps they help me understand where am going wrong when I see they are living a similar life....and when they live a different life, it inspires me to battle the mundanities of everyday life to an extent
I love loosing myself amidst strangers - the sense of anonymity ensued.They look at me like we see a fresh migratory bird and I look at them like the brown pebbles in the white pathway dropped by a little girl who wanted me to look for her.
Some how it has the flavor of starting things from scratch...gives me confidence in battling uncertainties and yet discovering what I want to know and reach.Reminds me of my struggle building plastic towns with blocks and the house of cards.
Then there's the lesson which my camera and a dear friend taught me long long ago. Loving life and taking pictures are both adorable because they both develop from negatives.

Four Dimensional

2010-09-16T02:56:00.001+05:30

Have you ever heard old songs - say music you heard and grew up. Whenever I do that, I go down memory lane and I also get strange smells around like the smell of snuff or molten candles, the smell of pollen grains in the air after a fierce thunderstorm and familiar perspiration of men I played soccer with.

Broke up with my partner

2010-09-14T14:38:00.000+05:30

...and then my partner and I decided we must break up. We went ahead. Somehow the sort of man and wife relationship calls in for a lot of balance and to seek this buoyancy, all of us speak and do what we are expected to do....not always honestly ;) and when our conscience pricks, we quote, "Everything's fair in love and war".
    We decided to play a different part this time. The part of trustworthy friends when we can honestly hold ourselves up before each other -including a lot of temptations - mostly unfulfilled ;) and a pinch of virtues - even the mere thought of it- if not converted to action.
    Life seems better this way somehow...more humane,more faulty hence less ideal, lesser image to keep upto,lesser expectation and better bonding.Seems am back to high school with the responsibility quotient suddenly gone so low.

We connected again after almost 15months

2010-09-02T09:48:00.002+05:30

We chanced upon each other at a coffee shop some time in the summers of 2005, when I was a fresh graduate with a job at some IT based company, which although seemed like a dream come true, I never happened to join. He was a lonely dreamer and a compulsive socialiser...As I pretended perusing my already finished novel once again, he came over and pushed his way through. Soon a wonderful banter and a conversation took off. We never met again although he'd drop in mails at certain points of time to me...when his mails would be least expected.

The mail I would now publish is a fifteen month old letter that he wrote to me when I asked him of his Bandra - the place of his dreams and his dwelling :) I loved it and I had mentioned it to him and later on it earned him some good money in a creative writing fest. I called him today only to interact with his answering machine but the feeling is euphoric.

Some find their Bandra in the rarefied, testosterone rich air of swank Gold’s Gym, where personal trainer sculpted bodies of celebrities rub shoulders with overweight wives of diamond merchants, huffing and puffing on the spinning machines. Where fitness is more of a fashion statement, liberally spiced with giggles, whispers and some overt attempt at catching the target’s eye, rather than just a boring work-out. Where every casual hello between strangers is laden with the unspoken promise for at least a coffee at Gloria Jeans, maybe a drink at Firangi Paani and a definite attempt at something more. After all, Bandra is as close to NY as we can get, right?

For some, Bandra is in the salwar kameez-ed, t-shirt-ed drove which descends on Almeida Park every Sunday afternoon. The small shy groups which turn bolder as time passes. Where the lucky maid always finds the romantic driver to run away with over a shared plate of sev puri. Where street sharp slum children always find some new rich kid to bully near the broken swings and slides. Where tired horses keep going around in circles to feed their owners. Where the street lights coming on in the evening leads to a collective sigh as participants in this strange courtship ritual resign themselves to another week of back-breaking work.

Some find their Bandra in the quaint little one-story bungalow sandwiched between glitzy glass facades of brand-new buildings on Turner Road. The one with the crumbling side wall, lingering smell of Goa sausages, the overgrown hedge and the scrupulously clean wooden cross at the corner. Where the old lady of the house wearing her faded burgundy dress walks haltingly, while the shaggy brown dog pulls at the frayed leash out of habit. Where the perpetually out-of-work son dozes on the front porch to cure last night’s hangover right next to the overflowing ashtray, his dreams rich with surreal promise of the next high.

For some, Bandra is as simple as finding the next place to park their car as they negotiate the small bye-lanes full of Honda Civics and Skoda Lauras. The monsoons bring their own flavour to this game, ensuring a slushy pitch where daily battles can be fought between paani-puri vendors, unconcerned cows, the neighbourhood druggie looking for a dry place and countless four wheel drives, breeding like cockroaches. The result is as always, a tense stalemate.

Some find their Bandra in that short stretch where the paved Carter Road promenade suddenly descends into the squalor of the koli fishing village. Where the stink of drying fish and unwashed bodies replaces the aroma of coffee and expensive anti-perspirants in an instant. Where similar groups of well-dressed teenagers hang out, mindlessly puffing their Davidoffs while wearing the same vacant expressions as the world walks past them. Where the weekend jogger juggling the IPod, IPhone and the Blackberry stops abruptly and hurriedly turns around maybe in fear of crossing that unseen line into the unknown.

For some, Bandra is the multitude crossing the Lucky signal, always running for the next Borivili or Virar local as they unconsciously try to flee the queen of the suburbs. Some glance at the kababs on display with barely concealed hunger. Others wonder at the utter futility of the spanking new Skywalk supposedly being built for their benefit. Most concentrate on simply avoiding getting run-over by irate drivers, desperate to reach home as the maximum city runs its daily instalment of the north-south marathon. Maybe some of them run after having glimpsed the rotting core underneath the flashy wrapper of Bandra. Or maybe they have other dreams to chase while nightmares chase them in turn.

Some rebel at Bandra in their own way, when their screeching bike tyres meet the burning road on a Friday night. The tattoos, the studs, the leather jackets all tell their own story. The story of the unaccountable rage, the steadfast refusal to be pigeon-holed, the failure to comprehend and to be understood. Maybe their only solace is writing “Knights Rulz” and “Kings Sux” in big bold red letters on school buildings as they create their own version of Harlem in their minds. Or maybe its just too boring to write “Bean Bags 2640 7383” over and over again.

So where is your Bandra tonight?

Is there any other place you would rather be?

I know … not really, dude.

EUNOIA

2010-09-02T08:30:00.002+05:30

A new inclusion in my word list - EUNOIA - all vowels together in it. It means beautiful thinking. Knowing the word feels sort of illusion-ed happiness dipped in golden drops of hues from the fairy tales and pretend games of the Montessori classes...cheerful as bubbles and so short livedhttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wtgklHQ52WE

Sudeshna means Eunoia :)

2010-09-01T14:18:00.001+05:30

On my 13th birthday, Dida gave me a little introduction before she handed me my birthday gift - Margaret Mitchell's Gone With The Wind.

"Sometimes our dreams are so powerful that we are capable of falling in love with the wonderful characters that our dream produces that has no or little resemblance with the person existing in reality. The choice remains yours. Would you love it to remain like a figment of imagination or would you rather remove the color and see through to save yourself from the pain like rationales do....coz not everyone is capable of continuing their dream to the end of their lives and when the dream shatters, reality seems terribly ugly not everyone can bear with.

So, choose what or who you decide to love carefully...."

Thought Provoking....

2010-09-01T13:20:00.002+05:30

14:57 Boy: ki?

ki babchili?

14:58 Girl: wish

u were here

14:59 Boy: some wishes remain unfulfilled

so that people keep wishing

Girl: see the brighter side

u atlst dont stop dreaming

n then one day

u become so desperate

that u

15:00 want 2 turn them 2 reality

;)

Boy: dont know re

15:01 some time when i see P with his limited wishes, and specific pre determined goals ... happy and content

and i am with some agony in me ..always wondering

i get confused

15:03 i question myself .. what ud have happened if i ud be like him ... or like S .. who had convinced himself that this is life and accepted it with all the limitations

or when i see some senior in B Company Ltd, from a very good place but in the course of 30 years corrupted to his soul

15:04 i become really afraid

Girl: :)

Boy: and i know that i cant speak of my fears to anybody

15:05 chol ja http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wRxmgHdpXYA

Annie

2010-08-28T10:30:00.000+05:30

At 12 tonight, the Annie's song http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ATZGBtkNryA played once again and the woods whistled once again for a mad run to the sleepy river,the hem of Annie's skirt loosenned and the yellow rose dropped off her hand....and her hair remained wanton with the wind as always.

Food

2010-08-28T00:58:00.005+05:30

Noodles with ground turkey and some eggs,a hint of onion,some garlic in olive oil,ginger paste,capsicum diced, herbs in some good white wine - pan fried, dished out warm and smoking.
The voracious spirit inside the body resonated with the pouring rain pattering at the window, decides to smother the glottis with an extra input of noodles ...and every time, the walls of the glottis rebel to let the crawly,creepy dysfunction to pass,some red wine is put down to smoothen the rebellion, like taming a wild horse with the pat of its harness and then warm strokes of the rider's hands to pamper it or perhaps that wild eyed girl from the hills who decides to come to bed with you and would still not give herself in without that fight where she is completely overpowered by your love and your capacity to hold onto her.

My friend from the vines had sent me a box of flora along with a set of wine bottles. The flora consisted of some dried mushroom roots,some lavender flowers,some other such produces often found on the lines of the vineyards. The trick is to taste the wine and then smell each of these flora and then taste the wine back again. Each time you did this, you'd get a hint of the character of the wine. Some felt like the lavender,some of mushroom and some of some citrus fruit.
Wine as they say are like people and like us,vines absorb influences from lives around them and assumes their personality. Hmmm! such food - quite appetite quenching I must say. ;)

Vikram and Betal and Doordarshan

2010-08-19T14:00:00.001+05:30

She was a boisterous little girl then...sometime in the 80s and saturday afternoons would be immensely looked forward. Thirty minutes of a telecast would be watched with utmost attention. Out of these thirty minutes,there would be a minimum of three sets of commercial break of a total of 12minutes. Thereafter, a two minutes length of title song and a possible one minute of recapitulation of the continuing narrative.Thus, diluting the content to eternity. However, inspite of having read the entire book of Vikram and Betaal stories, she would still insist on watching this lousily crafted serial by Ramanand Sagar.

   What would she want to watch all week was a pertinent question, put to her by many people in many different ways and she would answer them saying that she wanted to watch what made Vikram (King Vikramaditya) open his mouth to answer the question of Betaal and let his body escape from his hands that he'd have to go back to the same tree, he had managed to pick up the corpse of Betaal from and begin his journey once again with Betaal. Everyday she'd so badly want Betaal to stay with Vikram but in vain. So, she'd curse Vikram for openning his mouth to answer Betaal all the time.

   For those of you, who are not acquainted to these popular set of Indian fables' characters:-

As the legend runs,King Vikramaditya promises a brahmachari (a tantric sorcerer) that he will capture Betaal, a vampire spirit who hangs from a tree and inhabits and animates dead bodies.Each time he succeeded in trapping him,he has to listen to a story on his way back to eke the time. Now,there is an impending set of conditions set by Betaal :-
1) He would accompany Vikram as long as he kept his vow of silence, never uttering a word. (These narratives were day to day tales which had a moral, and a question at the end posed by Betaal to Vikram.)
2) Betaal would also warn the king that if he knew the answer and did not answer it, he (Betaal) would have Vikram's head. The cunning Betaal knew that the king was too clever not to know the answer, and each time Vikram fell for the trap followed by the inevitable ...tu bola aur main chala...voooooo.(You said it so am gone)

   Everytime she'd hope the King would manage to hold on to Betaal but in vain. At the end of every tale, Betaal would get back to his tree top and Vikram would again have to come all the way back to take Betaal on his shoulders and start his journey with him afresh.She'd keep musing within herself, how could life be so unfair to Vikram. Little did she know that relationships in the real world were always that way. Two people start a journey with two different thoughts on their commitment towards each other. One with an assumption, this journey would not last for long and another hoping they would make it to the end. None of these happen to be important in a relationship. What matters is the staying together part and the spirit of knowing and discovering in the course of the journey that makes each and every moment more and more worthy and a joy to live.

   The lesson remained with her.

Girl talk on matters of the heart,aging and other things...

2010-08-16T13:39:00.001+05:30

A moment ago, two women were on their favorite pass time - shooting messages at each other on facebook. They lived next door a decade ago and then they met each other again on cyberspace... dwelling in two different worlds. They talk:

(there are certain colloqials used. Have tried explaining them in brackets)

Girl 1: na, na...baje hobe keno?
  (nope, why would that be bad?) it was gud & yes...'m glad u hav a husband who participates n ths madness ;) :D

Girl 2 :agey agey dekhte hain hota hai kya! :) :P
   (lets see what the future has in store)

Girl 1:until thn...carry on. 'm all 4 goofiness. i thnk it's imp 2 postpone aging! lol!

Girl 2:true...i dont think, i'll ever give up on my spontaneous crushes, loves and fight 2 stay young ;)

Girl 1:lol! i knw wht u meant since tht's hw i feel too :)

Girl 2: hmm! jano ei chotobela theke ei prem-tem-e badha porei amra jawto amanush toiri hoyechi. khuchro prem,khejure prem sawb ekbar antoto kora uchit
  (we mustn't have bothered about social control and prevented ourselves from giving into rushes of love spontaneously,since our childhood)

Girl 1: albat uchit! noile life-e aar thaklo ta ki! :) (ofcourse or else wat do we have in life!)

Girl 2: thik bolecho! agey bes aneker sei biyer poreo kato interesting pen pals ba emni keo thakto...jaar sathey hoyto surreal state-i bishaal prem cholche kintu tatey ki....jibone ekta bes lok-r uddesho thakto kihu korar, kao k kichu bolar. ;)
  (those were the days, wen ppl had strong bonds even beyond wedding vows like say pen pals,far away,who would be intimate associates- perhaps in surreal states yet there was that sense of purpose to do things,beyond regular.)

Girl 1: 'ofc-spouse' term ta shunechish nishchoi? oirokom kotobar biye aar kotobar divorce hoye gelo re...aar ki bolbo. hehehehe!
  (you must have heard about the term office spouse? so many such marriages and divorces in my my life! she chuckles...)

Girl 2: besh to! ei bhalo...dekhbe jawkhon really biye korbe tawkhon r ota mene nitey osubidhe hoche na...karon u've lived that life so many times in so many different ways r tarpor ekdin tomar chele hobe...tar sathey intimately,humourously discuss korte parbe...matters of the heart r tarpor shey jawkhon r ek mohilla k prioritise korbe tawkhon abar hanshi mukhe ta meneo nitey parbe. Isn't all of it for a purpose and doesn't the entire picture make it beautiful?! ;)
  (Ye! its wonderful. One fine day, when you atually manage to get married, you'd see, things aint very unfamiliar coz you've lived that life already in so many different forms.One day, when you hav your own son, you'd be able to discuss matters of the heart with a light heart and grow really intimate a relationship with him untill one day, he brings back his woman to prioritise her perhaps before you and then you'd again smile and make way for her.Isn't all of it for a purpose and doesn't the entire picture make it beautiful?! ;) )

Girl 1: lol! yes...agreed.

2010-08-16T11:19:00.004+05:30

The one thing that fascinates me in this land far away from the known, is my strange sense of anonymity even in a crowd. My partner and I have developed a strange and fun pass time and that is to put words into people's mouths. Let me explain. Say, we are in the community swimming pool or a coffee shop and we can see another couple or a set of people from a distance talking to each other giving strange sorts of looks at each other. Often some of these expressions look familiar and some not so familiar. Instead of just eavesdropping at people's words and being an unwanted party to their entire conversation, we play a game of just guessing what the person talking could possibly be talking about and we run a game of (pretend) conversation between the two loosers of ourselves :P and in a jiffy, we are different selves then. It has most of the time been very entertaining and often we end up laughing our arses off on this silly game.

   Another little independence is discussing people around vociferously...as in commenting on their looks, behaviour and so on because they do not understand our language ;) Ye, it is rude but cant take off the spice of spontaneity from here. Its even fun to just throw ourselves in a fit of quarell with each other or have a heated discussion in public. Not only does our strange, foreign language help us to be ourselves and given the cultural difference here in the west, slacken social control on the emotional outbursts of two people. Nobody looks around when we kind of hit each other,nudge each other or even kinda push each other.

   I love the way, no one knew any of us when we first moved in and how over the gradual passage of time, the need to make ourselves familiar to a new place made us interact and know all sorts of people starting from the store assistant of a grocery store, the part time worker of the radio-shack, numerous students and professors from the university and even a medical practitioner.Not to forget, a set of wonderful children who got me back to kite flying, cycling, running around, prancing in the waters and mud and lots of smiles and bubbly moments, I lived almost two decades ago.

   Ye, life wasn't very easy when we started. Be it between us, be it the place and situation but somehow, there was a will to hold everything together and then it felt like the bottled up wishes which were thrown away somewhere, thinking they'd never succeed, suddenly were set free.First, came the white flowers in a nice Turkish vase, then came the bean bag at the french window that overlooked the river and then it was another saturday afternoon...my appointment with Luda, a Russian ballet dancer and she declaring she had found a partner for me. I was flabbergasted to see it was my husband advancing towards me... but he seemed to have three legs all these days....how did he manage to pick up steps of waltz? ;) Am not sure how good he was at it...not important. All that mattered was his old line that seems to be the only stock line of his, for me, "Let me be a part of your madness...just that!". Shit! did I say I enjoy my anonymity here ;)

Toy Store

2010-07-29T05:18:00.001+05:30

One of my very dear person has just had a baby and they live seven seas and thirteen rivers away from me. I thought I'd be able to see them some day and carry with me my browned wishes and fantasies down memory lane. All I had left uncared there had been picked up again to be brazen and packed for a gift to someone I love from his inception.
Now it so appears I'd never get to see them anymore. :) So I still visit a toy store no more to anticipate what to carry with me next time for the baby but to imagine the baby growing....

Maa

2010-07-24T11:53:00.002+05:30

Maa!

Today makes it ten months....ten months of therapies and immense research to get Sashu to pronounce his first word for a sensible form of human speech. His first word was, "Maa" and I was paid to bring this out of him. I smiled with shimmery eyes and directed him to his mother as he pranced around with his word as we all do with a freshly acquired knowledge and also with the shower of kisses and huggs his mother and all my colleagues would give the four year old with a delayed speech issue.

I usually feel happy at the end of my labour with my patients to get them to; where I dreamt of putting them to. Today was unfortunately not one of those days.I felt, I had to part with something... so mine.

Loved you

2010-07-24T10:07:00.000+05:30

Girl love : Please tell me, "I love you"
Boy love : Hmm, I loved you.
Girl love : I'm sorry, I didn't know love had an expiration date.

with love only...

2010-07-23T10:56:00.004+05:30

My dear little pal,
Lives in the isle.
There dwells the Queen
And the city mouse lean;
Going hickory dickory dock
Did the mouse run up the clock?!
This clock marks the time
And the world runs in its rhyme...

A friend of mine had a chat with me at yahoo msn this afternoon and time just flew...nothing really different...we've been doing this for the past few months now...me- his free fm and he my ladybird...you know the kinds that look creepy and yet are beautiful little creatures,are infectious and just makes your day lazier and yet the slow time does not tick in your head,does not make you sad,bad and mad. It makes you a dreamer in the elusive rays of the sun and helps you loose your assumed skin to go play with your hidden self,the shy, naive one we keep buried deep inside away and far away.....

Good-bye my trusted friend!

2010-07-23T01:16:00.001+05:30

Good-byes are never comfortable and never with a loved one yet as they say every good thing must come to an end.

Rain

2010-07-16T06:02:00.004+05:30

Its rainy months again...those wonderful months when I long to capture the depressing stretch marks on the greying sky before the clouds whisk for a downpour...and mom clucks her tongue for her pickles having to wait for sometime then to mature and so would her washed,wet clothes to smell sunny and fresh.
   I love the smell of mud as the rain make its way to its pores. I often thought the sticky,brown earth to be as greedy as me...like I saved coins for my chocolates as a little girl in my piggy bank, the earth save the raindrops in its bank called the water table and later on relish it even after the rain was gone leaving many parts obviously dry...like I relished gorging on my Cadbury's as a little girl with two disproportionately hung pony tails beside my ears and the muddy chocolate all over my face, shirt and hands.I wouldn't say those were the days because they remain with me :) Just that the ponies have been done away with, the fingers are longer now and the teeth nibble away the chocolate faster than the licking tongue,saving the melting drops of the dark chocolate in the tropical heat from being all over. The brown debris of the earth almost looked like chocolate and I loved to see them cling on to my feet, end of my trousers,shoes and now the hem of my saris.
   ...and then the decision to pick up the right shed for my guard from the rains. Raincoats never appealed to me. My mom says, I'd call them 'burqas of rubber' as a little girl and would throw a tantrum if I were to wear them. I open my closet and look at the wonderfully colourful mushrooms that look at me...waiting to be picked up. I soooo debate whether to pick up the old and long brolly for myself that keep getting into the ways of people, hooking their shirts,bags and poking their skin or just the elegant japanese parasol or the little blue umbrella that has been with me since my Ruskin Bond days :)
   The devilish thunder inciting a rogue in each of those auto rickshaw drivers and rickshaw pullers, who'd quickly slurp the extra fare from our pockets and I'd prance around the waters pretending I were a big vehicle splashing waters off the road, wetting myself if not people around :)
   Hmm and there lay the desperation,the delinquency, the defiance and the delight of dipping oneself to ecstacy,loosing oneself to the soothing wetness discovered in the hands of lovers in sultry afternoons or newly born baby's warm body lined with amniotic fluid in its mother's hands....so much and so hard to believe and just that!!! ;)

2010-07-03T12:07:00.002+05:30

Moms are never tired.For them their daughters seldom grow up...quite unlike them.Naturally,they remain overtly protective of their child. I remember,when I first took my flight with my partner,I was even then instructed not to speak to any stranger or partake with them and I had to check on my tickets and passports a 101 times just to assure her that all things were in place ;)

Scary feeling! Hope I never have to anticipate so much for my child whenever I manage to have one.

2010-07-03T02:56:00.004+05:30

Spices tell me a whole lot of secrets about me...spices tell me what to cook and feed someone who takes shelter in my kitchen...spices engage my senses when they are in search of something...they would not know.

2010-07-03T01:28:00.003+05:30

Tick tick one, tick tick two, tick tick three...I've been waiting for so long...When would you come to play?!

Sakhir Patra (letter from your sweetheart)

2010-05-25T05:08:00.003+05:30

A supposed bachelor, Sahir was in love with a Pakistani author Amrita Pritam , a relationship that never fructified in the conventional sense and left him mad in his own nebulous way. Quite expectant of the times, her father wouldn't accept Sahir, an atheist, because of his perceived religion. Had he seen the iconoclast in him, that would have been worse; being an atheist was worse than belonging to the 'other' religion. Sahir, perhaps, had an answer to such artificial barriers in these lines written for Naya Raasta :

Nafraton k jahan mein humko pyaar ki bastiyaan basaani hain
Door rehna koi kamaal nahin, paas aao to koi baat bane :)

A young Amrita Pritam, madly in love with Sahir, wrote his name hundreds of times on a sheet of paper while addressing a press conference. They would meet without exchanging a word, Sahir would puff away; after Sahir's departure, Amrita would smoke the cigarette butts left behind by him. After his death, Amrita said she hoped the air mixed with the smoke of the butts would travel to the other world and meet Sahir! Such was their obsession and intensity. :)Not many dare to share such intensities...not many care, not many can.

It reminds me of an old Punjabi couplet

'kisse ne paanja paaniya vich dittii zaahir raala!
te unhaa paaniyaa dharat noo dittaa paanii laa!'.

It means, someone filled the water in the five rivers with poison and that irrigates our lands today...so, my dear, when people in the world fail to understand what love is all about, I can understand :)

An ode to letter writing

2010-04-30T02:32:00.012+05:30

Its been about a month now and I've been expecting a letter from a friend of mine or possibly an email but in a world of smses and chats, am not sure how many of us actually remember to write letters or draft full bodied emails.This occurred to me when little Nayona ran down to me, the other day and asked me to help her with letter writing for her tests, next week. I will pen down as much as I have in mind and see if this were all preventing him from writing to me and also for more Nayonas :).

Dear Mr. Andrews to begin with... incase I do not know you but I'd have to cast quite an impression on you atleast to get the better of you in future.So I'd seal it with "Best Wishes".

Ayaan. Now you better pay attention cause you report to me or its one of those clouds with a silver lining today that you've got my mail. So I'd throw a statement or two at you and sign off with my full signature - my name, surname and my designation.

Hi Nita! You and I are peers or possibly share a work desk and possibly dine or drink together, at times.So, I close the note with "Cheers!"

Hello Pundorikakkho Purokayasthya. I would not know if you are a man or a woman or...whether you would really take an offence if I called you by either of your name or surname so let me play safe.I will pay you my "Regards" whatsoever at the closing of the mail.

Dearest Rajat.I have great affection for you and know this far before you get my "Love" right at the bottom with the unique name with which only you hark me.

Good Afternoon Lolita. I'd love to be a little conservative or lets say classical with you but would not quite want to sound obsolete though. So here I seal with "Warm regards".

Sweetheart. You and I are bosom buddies and share our worlds with each other. So "Ciao" untill next.

Darling Anna. You are the love of my life so all of my heart goes out on the first and then I mean it untill the end of the world with a "Sincerely" once again.

Anybody Home! A possible exclaimation just to try my luck the second, third or further down incase I get a reply.

Greetings! Am anyways sending it out in bundles. I don't have the time to care much but anyways make the best of the "Best wishes" I send you, if you manage to reach the bottomline of the mail.

Emoticons usually meant for personal and informal emails to help you substitute words often or multi-task and make it fast and convenient.

So,here you go... Now you can hardly get it wrong :)

Shona replies...

2010-04-20T21:00:00.006+05:30

Shona,

You know what I felt right after reading your mail,don't you?

I know you would still want me to tell you all of it. So, I will.

I wanted to bring you up right here with me so that we could see the stars and moon together like we used to and dont forget, you got me into this :) Just that when I miss your eyes, I try seeking them in the stars...and more I try holding onto the moments we spent together.In all your mails, I live moments with you and I realised I love company as well.

Yours,

Shona.

2010-04-19T18:23:00.015+05:30

My Shona,

Before your fertile mind and your skepticism start getting awakenned at quick deductions, let me tell you for once, I remain an atheist :)

That was another sunday and the only unusual thing about it, perhaps would be the pour. I stood at the patio noting the rhythm of the falling rain...the sound it made as they dropped on the river, the rhythm of them along the window panes and the way they smoothened the leaves of the water lillies.I moved out in the mud and waters to hear the sound of crackling nachos as I walked by...A nearby tree breaking itself into full bloom and going all red, its tempered new petals being caressed by the raindrops :),the birds with spiked feathers,busy flapping to dry themselves up, in vain.

Amidst them,the smell and smudge of old letters,cards and photographs seemed like the best time to be out of their caskets to drown us into sepia memories of long ago. Soon it was late afternoon and going downtown in the rain did not seem like a good idea. My partner missed a temple around. He had not been to one for a long time,so we found out from the internet that we had a temple within five miles from our place.Well, my interest in visiting the temple ofcourse was to slip into the red bordered white 'taanter' sari 'Dida'(grandmother) sent me.

It was a quiet little temple at some "bhakta's" (disciple)backyard. A quaint 500-600 sq.ft,neat wooden development with handicrafts,musical instruments,flower arrangements all creatively scattered around to make your mind and eyes wander. There was a little gathering of not more than ten people. It began with the 'jaap' - 'hare krishna' in that small,closed room and the chant together with the rain outside created a wonderful sensation. I looked out through the coloured panes and loved the yellow and then purple and finally green skies.

I was lost in my own world, when there was a lot of din suddenly. It was the beat of "kashor ghanta"(a kind of gong) ...Had begun to forget that after school actually.Ofcourse the way it would sound then would be very different from now,yet I couldn't help myself salvaging the memories of me rushing out as soon as the gong would declare the school over and Buju and Tupai would be at the gate waiting and then, we had some more joining us on our way to the woods- our paradise where we'd sit on arched branches and play with white rabbits and pick on the fresh deserted nests, see little birds being fed by their mothers and ofcourse pluck wild fruits.

Soon the "sandhey arati" was over and then it was the time of 'kirtan' (devotional song)and I found various people picking up various instruments from various corners of the room.Even a little child sometimes beating the drum and sometimes clumsily on the "beena".Yet there was something blissful about it. There was a korean girl playing the ukulele as well.It really felt nice in that wet evening with the rains.My toes almost swayed. I seriously envied them. An exposure to so many musical instruments... would mean so much fun.

Next, a flower would be passed down to all of us present and we would be expected to smell it. I realised, it had been days together and I hadn't smelt the jasmines that would lie on my balcony in kolkata, wanton for many days now, the wet muddy smell when it would rain or Bonomali da would water the plants had not reached my nose buds for long.It was one of these wet mornings, after a long and beautifully painful night when you had told me the five little words I longed to hear, I remembered,just then. "Will you marry me, Sudeshna!". As if you did not know,"I will" :)

I keep wondering why I tell you all these when you never have the time out of your telescope...beyond the world of stars and moon.All that I know is, "I always will". :)

2010-04-15T20:44:00.005+05:30

It was just another day, not so sunny yet a summer's day, when the horizon looked a deep purple and I madly wanted to arch about the meandering stream like the concrete, proud bridge that stands above it through the abyss of time.

Rendition

2010-04-13T21:31:00.004+05:30

My first stint with Music was in our local chapel which I would frequent with Jeremy and her family on their usual Sunday services. Initially, I would want to accompany them out of curiosity...thought I would get to see something close to a musical or an opera there. Later, when I grew up and pondered on this piece of a history, I figured it was possibly the piano, its fine notes dancing in my head like raindrops that drove me to go to the chapel again and again.
The extrovert little pest that I were soon got me the stares of Father Brandon, then the clergy.Soon I was detected of a lot of energy and hence that needed to be chanelised. The verdict came off soon and I was put to the choir.Inspite of my tight schedule of soccer in the mud,pranks with one and all,my pet squirrel,sneaking for another fresh nest,stealing from my neighbour's orchards and a zillion more, I would just be in time for my rehearsals all evenings :)
Just that my presence would make a lot of people around me not so comfortable, with the collar of my shirt often ruptured in the little skirmishes I would have with some low lying branches in the woods, my skin wrapped in fresh mud, even cow dung at times ...all put together releasing a wonderful aroma to the world.Aunt Tina, an amicable lady in her thirties would carefully wipe off the ethereals off my hands so that I could sit at the piano strings to learn to blend my voice with the seven notes. Doe re me faa so la ti and then back to doe ;)After the initial few days, I stopped coming in for the rehearsals because my curiosity was quenched and I did not want to shut myself up in gay evenings. It was then that my father intruded in his own soft way.
We were on our dinner one night with some friends and acquaintances visiting us, when he put on an old record where my grandmom was singing. I some how loved it. Post dinner, while helping me with my sketch for the day, he mentioned,he would love to record my voice some day and play it over dinner time. Some how, it worked. I went back to my rehearsals.

An ode to my life!

2010-04-13T18:15:00.008+05:30

About 26 years ago, there was an urgent product delivery to be made but there was that limited stock of raw materials to meet the specifications. However, to meet the deadline, the product was made with the stock available & delivered to…Earth. Yes, the production in charge was the guy upstairs (is there one?) :) & the weird product is I. No surprise, he went low on quantity & high on quality (pardon these small pleasures of self appreciation). A little more than 5ft and an absolute mirror cracking material. Ah! my complicated personality... People perceive me in different ways. Some find me intelligent, some dumb,some intense, some nonsense, some likable, some abhorrent-whatever be the adjectives people unanimously attribute to me ‘weird’. I have grey material which never rests, which is eternally bubblin' with weird thoughts & ideas. So here I am, to save the human race from my live intellectual(so I say) torture & save myself from everyone's brickbats.
WARNING: This is the last person on earth, you should seek sense from.

Cheers!

2010-04-12T10:36:00.005+05:30

*Shona!

Lets begin with a happy note ;)Am still on my sunday night as you are set to open your eyes to begin the mad chase for the week in just a little while.

Your last letter had a lot of questions, as usual. So, to begin with I am doing fine. I live by a river, where the first rays of the sun kiss the ever moving waters at seven quite in sync with the beep of my microwave declaring,"Breakfast is ready!" Hereafter, my partner and I have eleven minutes and thirty seconds to gobble down a couple of toasts, flushed with some juice or milk even water at uncertain times, then a quick fleet of steps to run down and then he jumps into the car; with his fast flying kisses, he moves away.

Ah! that seems quite an end of an act and thereafter the tempo of the day takes a back seat. The lil mistress returns and dips herself instantly in the game of light and shadows with the water in motion catalysed by the sound of cumin seeds in canola oil, white fumes, aroma of olives, black beans and chicken nuggets. In the afternoon time, the ducks come n waddle around the river. Sharing hard crusts and some of my lunch with them takes away the weary shades off my solitude..."Ah! am the monarch of all I survey". The fishes, ducks,boats, tall trees and the endless waters seem all mine.

I miss you in my celebration of life ... ;)

The evenings are gay again over the long walks I take to explore the vicinity with my frenz. None are beyond six as of now ;)We climb trees, fly kites and go cycling and yes run, run, run, sometimes to catch the rainbow , sometimes to catch a squirrel and sometimes not knowing why. Often have they asked me of you and I told them about your house at the planetorium, the stories you told me from east n west. They say, they miss you with me :) then.

Later in the dusk as the lights twinkle at the banks, and the fountain at the head of my stairs gushes out and he makes me my drink, I miss you ;)

As I sit at the mirror posing myself in the Elizabethan gown (only to change in a sari, a moment later), I blush for once. Wish you were here! :)

Trapped!!!

2010-02-09T11:41:00.003+05:30

Jane - the geek looked out of her window. All these days, the strange pschological theories she has been practising over line diagrams and calculations working her way through patients and others who would be brought in her laboratory.
Her eyes fell upon Adonis and instantly her eyes coloured. She had not interacted with many out of her laboratory before. They started talking and the talk grew intense and Jane started applying her tools of particiapant observation to scan the mind of Adonis. Little did she know that this time the experiment was more challenging. She herself was also in the experiment - trapped! Her tools however with practice were intensive and although hypnotising and manipuating the mind of Adonis was difficult yet it was done... but the powerful tools hypnotised her as well. In the profound slumber, both of them spoke of life, leisure and yes of love.
After the sleep, both shook hands and left with a promise to meet again some time. Jane was in love but then she is not supposed to be so. She thought for a while and then wrote to Adonis about all of the experiment not because she was guilty but to ratify if the results of the experiment which was a scan of his mind were true and also because she loved him.
Adonis sent her a purse of money, Jane's usual service charges at the laboratory :)

2010-01-06T00:48:00.002+05:30

After seventy days of rigourous chatting on the phone and internet, she met him. Both were in love with each other - yes n yet both had their own sets of priorities and committments so no they couldn't tie the knot. Little did the man know that the fit as a fiddle lady sitting right before him with those unusual short hair was even denied the rights to reveal her true identity. She was an expert in American law and an FBI. Her current job was a mask off. She kept wondering if she must take her shades off her eyes. They say, people who love , read eyes...

She remembered the time when the first bullet shot her shoulders in Afghan, her body all bruised after being molested and beaten up by 11 people. Yet all of it seemed so simple than all the pain now.

I just wanna feel...

2009-12-01T16:51:00.005+05:30

Another lousy winter afternoon on the terrace, when the clear sky with sunshine on my shoulders did not quite make sense. My heart seemed sinking right into my dangling feet. The sky stared back like a void nothing. The supposedly wonderful cityscape appeared like another regular google map feature. Beef sandwiches were swallowed like dry crumbs to put away the extra pain and irritation for a growing want, then in my body. Yet there would be that overpowering thing on me which kept deactivating my faculties and declaring, "Nothing seems fine!" In a stoned state, I picked up a few stone chips and threw them down with all the exasperation in me. A mocking bird of a crow appeared to jest at my state and I flew a stone at it. Yeah, the stone came flying back to me. I collapsed with a little ribaldry towards a someone in my mind :) "Will you never leave me alone!"

2009-10-27T17:18:00.003+05:30

It was just another day in my corporate house. Strangers around me all day- exchanging glances, an occasional smile n biz talk smoothly done under bated breath, grind of the teeth, softened with resisted parting of the upper and lower lips interrupted by clinches of the photocopy machines, clatter of keyboards and the very uncontrollable tones beeping their way to calls and sms.

Worth mentioning, interludes would be captured by my blonde boss with her spray of “Velvet Rope” and directing us how to cope with situations. She’s alwaz had a clean table . The work of a manager as she would say would be to delegate. So she wipes off her table and “delegates” them to people. One brief interaction with her would be just enough to walk you back home with enough fret. Needless to say, I had quite a bit of her. I was busy debating within if I should just smash her nose or her head and then suddenly it was sunset time. Nah! Let not the sun set on an argument. Not worth it.

Then….picked up my satchel and pushed out. Called up a number, a someone to understand if we could call shots on the rocks that evening with Floyd, Bob and Lynrd. He quickly made himself available. We hadn’t spoken or met for a long time. With both of our time really running out, we would have a lot of space between us coming in, cupping for some communication which could not happen. Over Dylan and Savage Garden, words set a flowing. Some good “ilish maach” (hilsa) and bhaat (steamed rice) set in some fresh oxygen in our brains in a small shack and we loved our small talks, laughs at our limitations and whiling away time. As we drove back home, we figured a lot of things which had been in the locality but we could not have noticed all this awhile.

The grey clouds in my mind had cleared and as the streak of light penetrated, I twinkled at an idea, as I set a couple of Breaking Benjamin tracks for a mood buster. Wrote out the wonderfully interesting day I’d spent and then quickly took a print out. As the clock-a-doodle do woke me up in the morning, I grabbed a plump rose from the garden.

Its 10 in the morning next. The elevator doors pushed apart as my blonde boss stepped out of it in sizzling blue tunics. Her fragrance seemed loud enough to repel people to declare her a class apart. She moved in on her tick-toeing stilettos. Clinched the door of her chamber open and located a surprise on her table. Some quick screams followed thereafter.

Note for readers: The surprise consisted of a red rose and a printed sheet of paper.

I'm a Liar

2009-08-11T00:36:00.001+05:30

Lyrics

Dreams come true...

2009-08-08T18:31:00.012+05:30

It was a dreamy dusk... when the vermillion gave way to the dark purple of the skies behind the lush green mountains. As the purple haze reflected in the clear river, our Jack slouched at the river bank with a nebulae of flies above his head; against his fishing paraphernalia -forgetting his little strife with the Tenth Commandment (THE 10th COMMANDMENT-(coveting)Exodus 20:17 "Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's house, thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's wife, nor his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor any thing that [is] thy neighbour's."), for the evening;) .
Sang a boy, strolling down the valley, molesting his guitar, "Its a long long walk to dreamlands. Held and bound and tied and cast, to this painfully sadistic craft." As i looked at him intently, said his guitar to me, "This way, he strums and drums and humps all his problems far far away ;-) ".
In the old tavern, the greying bricks lined with dark soot sat the heavy drunkard at his usual seat beside the fire place. The bard's singing tickled his ears and he raised his glass to inquire of the brewer ,then caressing his notes (currencies) with care utmost, "Do dreams come true?", with an obvious sarcasm in his voice and face. Hearing this,the young lady dressed in lilac smiled. She was still in her early stage of romance. Had not seen the world fully through but posed to believe, "Dreams come true; without that possibility, nature would not incite us to have them".The drunkard seemed unwittingly unconconvinced. The brewer came to his rescue, lest the bastard left unfilled for the day (unfilling his pocket too), "Unfortunately, the balance of nature decrees that a superabundance of dreams is paid for by a growing potential for nightmares." Silence barged in the brewery again.
The words of our bard echoed in reassuringly with his flat pick and downstrokes on the guitar,"But they'll be back, give it a day. As time goes by and words let sigh, the dreams are still dreams and, the days are as ever, long. We take our place in the rat race all for its sake. It draws and it claws and it calls, us down, us back;-)".
It was then that the postman arrived with a tinkle on his cycle's bell, "Mail for you" , said he to the dreamer.Half amused and half surprised, the dreamer tore open the letter that said a relative bequeathed 6000 pounds for a flying lesson, he aspired. He leaped and skipped and whirled around the tables and people in the tavern.Then climbed the nearest cliff to finally get the feel of "Learning to fly". Felt I heard some distant murmurs, "The dreamer's loose on the head, it seems."
As he spread his arms,standing at the edge of the cliff to summon the winds for his wings, he could feel a force pushing him against the gravity and then whoooshh.....h! he was gone;-)