Sunday, 14 December 2008

the end.

Today was one of the strangest days in my life, I was on the verge of tears thrice, I cried twice, I wailed once and laughed hysterically twice. Then I almost fell of the auto, and ate almost half a rooster. This was an eventful day, and thus I conclude, that my blogging days are over.

Which is to say, that I am completely incoherent now, I will never be back, mostly because I don't want to be back, I wish everyone who reads this much happiness and end-of-year mirth, I hope all are poetic, and if not poetic, happy. Those lately philosophical can go skinny dipping in the Ganges and get eaten (whole) by the rare and exotic Gangetic dolphin.

Please to realize, a chapter closes here, as it should have closed long ago, before we had to turn twenty and learn it the hard way, with knobs on.

Goonight, sweet ones- ladies, ladybirds, and lollies. This world is so beautiful that it makes one shiver with anticipation for the counterfactual.

Goonight, and gooluck.

Thursday, 11 December 2008

the essence.

You fool, they said.
As original as the moustache on Mephistopheles, as daring as the Falls behind which he disappeared, as existential as a piece of chocolate cake, as sad as a torn teddy bear...
You can be a piece of sadness, stupid, but you can't be sadness. I want to be sadness, I say, I want to be everything that I cannot be, and is that not being sadness? What qualifies, in that case... a further dazzling (bewildering) originality? How can I solve this problem, oh how can I, oh how.

Then she came, in a whirl of whiteness, chiffon and silks and satins rustled, but she was wearing cotton, the basest cotton; torn and limp and futile. The essence, of course, being the essence, as it were... and what is the essence?Is the cotton the essence, or is it her, or is it both? Is the presence the essence or the absence?
There being no answer, she shuddered, drooped, cried, and made a scene.

She was a fool, they said.

Saturday, 6 December 2008


When Angrez-log i.e., not the firang Angrez, but people who study the Angrez language, have crime fiction, they die. This death is called 'soocayde', as they told us in Sholay.

We did this to ourselves. We read books that are actually histories of the time-tables of trains in rural England. Thus the book is a red herring. It is not the real thing, Ms. Dorothy L. Sayers.

And the rest is silence.

P.S. If the Don doesn't offer History, Literature and Criticism then Nandita and I have planned to enact the famous scene on the ledge. We will call him Mausaji and shed gallons of genuine tears. His heart will melt and we will study Ideology. Life is such a bed of roses.

P.P.S. If the Don still doesn't agree, then I think it will be suicide. Not soocayde. And someone will have to do much chakki-peesing as divine retribution.

Thursday, 4 December 2008


Achha, tell me.
Sexpot; ki short for Sexy Potty noy?

Monday, 1 December 2008

sExy pOTty

When nothing made sense, when life seemed horror or ennui ad infinitum/ad eternatem, when I was sick of (in)comprehension, when I desired to be liberated, when everything piled up and up into this mountainous whole... Does the sum of the parts add up to something greater than the whole? Who knows. I would write on the last page of my notebook, feverishly scribbling away, as one almost in delirium...

Sexy Potty.

Saturday, 29 November 2008

the naught joke.

In the light of Godot and Borat, both of which are flashing through my mind in lurid images, I have come up with a variation of the NOT joke.

It's called the NAUGHT joke.


Godot is meaningful, Godot is lovely, Godot is wonderful, I am waiting for Godot.


Friday, 28 November 2008


The man who first introduced T.S.Eliot to me, as a poet who could use language and religion (religion?) as no other, was a great man. He had told me it was better to study Physics than Literature. And today, I don't know whether I half believe him or not.

There's no way to make sure, of course. He died in 2007. I miss him like anything. I miss his coarse jokes, I miss his obnoxious cigars, I miss his wheezy scoldings, I miss everything.
The strangest thing is, when he died, I was blank. He always liked my poetry, he liked even my worst poems, the ones I wrote when I was an overbearing horribly pretentious and precocious kid who read Bishnu Dey and Symbolist poetry. You know the type I'd not like so much now. Would I like a 13 year old who reads Joyce and Rimbaud? And thinks Shakti Chattopadhyay is best read at that age only?
Maybe that's because I don't like kids.
However, that is to say, as I was reading Eliot today, for a test, desperately cramming lines for Monday's test- to be able to quote and impress- of course, otherwise what's the point, eh? I remembered my dearest Arko Jethu, physicist and raconteur par excellence. He knew it all by heart and he would have thought studying for a Literature test quite boring and useless, for the test of Literature is not something that one sits for one winter morning. The best student of Literature, according to him, was one who lived it. A month before he died, he asked me to return his Collected Eliot.

And that is why, sometimes, when I try to make sense of things hurriedly before a test, I miss him horribly. Because for him, he of that honed memory and remarakable rigour, of record marks in Physics for more than a few generations, who could quote from his favouritest works of literature at will, literature was not dreary academia. For him, the mind it was that shone through the darkest days and the worst hours. This was a mind that grasped life in its entirety and that knew no pettiness. Which is why perhaps,nobody or nothing could really touch him.

Since Prufrock was one of his favourite poems, I read that at his memorial service. He had believed that I would do remarkably well when I chose to study English. Alas, the initial interest has worn off a bit, I know I am no great shakes really. Just as I failed him in Physics, I have failed him in this. I feel so awfully guilty. I am, as he once said, worse than a dhnyaarosh. All the champagne and ham gone to naught.

I have not been able to live literature.

And now as this sinks in, I wonder. What can I do? Is there anything I'd be good at? I wish I could act, or paint, or dance, or sing, or just solve sums. I can't do anything. The way I'd want to.

Frustrated, non-existent genius is a dangerous thing i.e., to rephrase, a little knowledge etc.

Tuesday, 25 November 2008

Who is afraid of Virginia Woolf?

erm, I am?

Though I have, dear reader, misled you. This post should actually have been titled Who is Godot?
The answer, being, of course, you, you and (don't panic or shirk responsibility) -you.
Please do not think I am joking. I have tried to read the play. The references to the vegetables are definitely more alluring than the allusions to the Second Coming. As Prayag had once said, "I have just realized that Jesus Christ is the most important person in human history." Which is wrong, because he is divinity now. But what complexities have arisen thus! I am much depressed. What if there was NO Christ? Is this blasphemy? Where would you and I be? Would we have ANY OF THESE TEXTS AS SYLLABI?

No, sir. I thus conclude that Godot has come for me. And precisely, Monday afternoon, Godot will come, consume me like a tasty turnip (that I am, or a crisp carrot) and then vanish, leaving Christendom scarred forever. I shall be a martyr, not in ecstasy, but still a martyr. All of you, and you, and you shall sing hymns in my name. I will hover around in white robes and silver slippers and radiant halo and say, "Haylo". All of you will then look upwards at my beatific mien. But you are stupid. For then Godot will come for you.

Hahahahahahahahaha. Don't you know? There's no point waiting. Would you wait for a dentist? No, then why wait for Godot? Why do that goddamned play? Why feel such existential dilemmas, the utter angst, the utter pain, the utter pangs of going round and round in eternal vegetabilia?

Dammit. I am also afraid of Virginia Woolf.

Friday, 21 November 2008

to sadness.

There is a strange sort of sadness in November, even when you are happy. It is something that is intrinsic to the month, a symptom perhaps, or a property. November for me is unbearably sad. Some would say it is hemonto. Those orange rays of sun, filtering through the leaves of trees, towards the fag end of the afternoon. That is inarticulate pain. That is a feeling that rivals no other.
Yes, being in love is painful too. As if life was perpetual November. We could promise to say nothing, promise to try to be apart, promise to think only of tomorrow and never today. Today we must work, and look ahead, and meet only on stray streets that are definitely not cul de sacs but fork into two roads, and two different roads we take. It becomes slightly easier.

But I can't...I have to be near. I have to see everything! Hear everything! Be there, and sing, and hear you sing, and cry and watch movies, and dream, and hug, and pinch cheek, and generally be happy. See, no more elaboration here. But these things are not happening... okie phine. So go away, become Ole Father November, or sumfin! I know it's not your fault, it's nobody's fault.

My heart would burt sometimes with music or mortality. In those days, when I did not know this sort of love. Life is very strange, and always deals us cruel blows. I want to cry sometimes, cry so much. Cry at my innate idiocy, cry at your innate idiocy, the innate idiocy of our mutual friends', acquaintances, and everybody else. But there's nothing to be done. Just nothing. Because tears are cheap and easy to come by.
This is not a little bit of a lovestory. Do not think this even a story. It is merely nothing. November, remember, is always full of nothings and nothingness. That feeling of futility and melancholic beauty is too cliched to merit much discussion. We could talk Shakespeare, or Keats. But we choose neither. We could mention Robi Thakur, but no thank you. There is no profundity left when even oblivion chooses to shun us. Hemonter roddur chokh dhnadhaye na... hemonter roddur ekta adbhut jinish. The sun's oblique rays remind us that between the cold beauty of winter and the humid love of monsoon, lies a strange twilight zone. It is that time of the year when things change. For the better, for the worse? I don't know. I am such an awful judge of these things.
I don't know what's worse. Love, or November. Or both.

Dur saalaa, bhaallaage naa.

dur saalaa! aar bhaallaage naa!

Sometimes one feels that inarticulate nagging discomfort that pokes and prods and just makes one feel sick. Like a physical ailment. For me, it's more like a terminal disease. Ma tells me that it's because my room is a mess and if I tidied up, I'd feel much better and promptly attain nirvana. Nilanjan tells me it's because I don't study consistently and if I just studied properly then I would feel much better and promptly attain moksha. (or nirvana, just didn't want to be repetitive, besides this is an ashikhhito post). Many bondhuwaas would tell me to listen to music. But it's NOT THAT! It isn't. You know woddimean?

It's that familiar feeling of dur saalaa, bhaallaage naaa....

I just want to be 14 again. For a bit. Dammeeeet.

And I get this horrible feeling I got last winter sem. Kichhu porini. Bhishon dube gechhilaam.

Nilaaaaaaaaaaaaanjaaaaaaaaaaaan. Huuuuuuuulp. Why are you not picking up yer phone? Talk to me, mother! Talk to me!!!!!!


For unenlightened hoi polloi/hai pilao. There was no Nilanjan Das in my life last winter sem. So there is still a straw of hope to clutch on to, fer dearlife.

Wednesday, 19 November 2008


I wasn't there yesterday.

It hurts. It hurts a lot. A strange sort of guilt, and a lot of disgust.

What is the use of art? Literature, drama, philosophy? What is the use? You sit there, listening to great ideas? Performing untruth? Enchanted by language?

What is the use? We suck.

I arrived just after the last man was extricated. I saw crowds gasping, gaping and obstructing the path of rescue operations. I saw people who felt useless even though they were there, bang on spot. They could have sone something. Anything.

This sort of helplessness and futility may I never feel again.

Monday, 17 November 2008

Drinking Coffee.

This life.It bores. When ennui comes swooping down in an avalanche of hatred and self-defeat...when the greatest and best ideas fail to enchant...when the aesthetes win every time over the idealists...
My life, it bores.

There was one, who tried to teach me. The meaning of life. He thought it was a realm of ideas, that life was fervent, and sweeping, and every moment was required to grasp ideas. That wretched word-idea. I positively hate it. All around me people discuss it. The State, and society, of love and the future. The Orient, the West, America.Che.Modernity.Oxbridge. Fiction.

It is then that my lungs and I cry. My lips curl into a sneer of utter disgust.Immediately I fancy that my throat is parched. For 'ideas'-and discussing 'ideas'- leaves me high and dry. Like a smoke, or the lack of one. Everyone around me smokes incessantly. The smoke curls up into the sky and disappears into the blue. Much like their ideas. Huh! I say. I must get a coffee.

Coffee? Coffee means a tequila-like shot of an awfully sweet liquid. It is so sweet that it gives one momentary migraine.Yet that it is a moment of relief. I am not that bored when I drink coffee. Except when I pay insane amounts for coffee in cafes.

Individuals are lonely. Which is why they spend a lot of their parents' hard earned money. On bad coffee. I fall in love with solitude so often. The problem is, not with lonely hearts, just with lonely hearts. It is all very complicated. Yawn.

I think I survived uni because of Milonda's coffee.

Thursday, 6 November 2008

Little Rant, Little Comment.

Since childhood, one book grasped my imagination completely. I learnt Bangla comparatively late. Realized what a void there was when I was around 8. Stupid childhood in England! Am so glad my parents decided to come back. Ma gave me Chander Pahar when I was in class 3. Also the year I finally learnt my mother tongue.Hope I did justice both to my language, as well as to the first novel that I read. I have obsessed over it for a long time.Felt Shankar's misery, was scared of the Black Mamba and the horrible desert.Cried when Alvarez died a heroic death.Then realized that he was always meant to die.I was in love with Shankar.Always wondered why his last name was never used.
I always knew that it was one of those books that defy genre, even before I knew what genre meant.I hope that all those who were there today and who have not read the book will.That's what I really want.Not praise.Sometimes I think I will never be an academic.I think I will write and translate.But I need money!Damn.

This paper is catharsis. For two years I have been trying to articulate everything that I said today. Today I felt satisfied. Happy. But I know this just the beginning.I have a plan. I do not know whether it is a bit ambitious, or a bit ludicrous, or what.
I wish to translate Bibhutibhushan, Tarashankar, Manik Bandyopadhyay.Today Tintinda asked me a question pertaining to Rabindranath(his Africa). I think the answer to that is:
1.Rabindranath is an isolated specimen. He was awfully rich to begin with. And they were very very cosmopolitan.
2. He was an international figure thanks to the shitty rendition of his Bengali poetry into a mystic English. God knows what he conveyed to the English speaking world. But he did hop about quite a bit, didn't he? And he established a world centre, at Shantiniketan. Nothing was really out of his reach.Much.

I think Tagore was great, but so were quite a few other Bangalis. If Bibhuti Babu had a good translator he would have won the Nobel. Maybe it's too late for that.But I think Bengalis need to stop obsessing about Tagore and thakurbari and look beyond. The cleverest literary minds need a bit of introspection methinks. Shall I incur the wrath of many at this point? Tell me what you will, but Tagore has become like mishti doi. Ah well.

Yes so he has done it all. I LOVE ROBI THAKUR. Nothing will ever change that. Kshudito Pashan, Gora,Lipika, Balaka,Jibonsmriti,Karna Kunti Sangbad... and Gitobitan. I don't think that without these I would be half as literary as I am today. Literary as in; lover-of-literature. Not academic thingums.

Just that...we take genre too seriously in literature. In vernacular literature, i.e., the only one I know :) I think it's a bit pointless. Here genre is a general consensus; between writer, publisher, and the bhadralok reader. The literature of the 20s, 30s, 40, 50s is very strange. Think Bonophool, Parashuram (both friends of my dadu), Premendra Mitra, Jagadish Gupta, Bibhutibhushan Mukhopadhyay, Saradindu, Narayan Gangopadhyay, Satinath Bhaduri...
These are of course, just some favourite authors. Maane many more famous ones. Many I miss. But whatever.

We English-speaking, new cosmopolitans... how easily we forget those who made that transition before-tried to bridge a gap...and we only remember the one we wish to emulate...the other day Tapandadu, Professor Emeritus at Oxford, Indian Civilization and History, was telling me how after Bangalnama he is flooded with offers to deliver lectures here, there and everywhere. Just like Amartya Sen, he grumbled. Muffasils and Town Hall. What are they looking for?

The next big icon, what else. Bankim, Michael, Tagore...then?then? Ah the polymath Satyajit Ray, winner at Cannes, etc. Shantiniketan link. Amartya Sen.NOBEL!Shantiniketan link. Blech.

Bengalis. BENGALIS!

Friday, 31 October 2008

Pain is alluring.

It was Kali Pujo, the night after the night ghosts return.

The spirits of our dead ancestors, do you think they care for us? Do you think that they come to caress our warm and throbbing cheeks, our soft and weeping hearts, as we feign death one night? Lighting candles, lighting candles to keep away these lost and forlorn spirits... do not touch me tonight, do not stroke the small of my back, look at me, but look from afar, return but do not haunt...

But they haunt.

That night as the last candle spluttered out, spluttered out like an oft-repeated cliche, spluttered out like a cancerous carbuncle saying, "Oh let me flicker out ease the pain, for see how I have suffered in life, death is a release, death is joy, death is sublime..."

Burke said the opposite of the beautiful was the sublime. And you say death is also beautiful,it has the beauty of silence, the beauty of infinite possibilities. And thus perhaps death is the highest aesthetic truth, and yet why why why look at a quack philosopher enunciating a pearl of wisdom this lost and forlorn night.

The next night worshipped power and was full of light. The third eye was inflamed, not rheumy like the eyes of the one we lost... She too was sublime and beautiful. Noise erupted in the skies, noise accompanied by a thousand sparkles.My heart contracted every time there was a sudden noise. One Diwali night I had spent in a hospital, thinking I was about to die, of pain. Drugged and thus apparently tranquil, away away away far away was illumination. Illumination. Hundreds of thousands of children celebrating...what?

"Aaj Kali Pujo?" I muttered.

An anxious mother nodded. I could see her praying. To whom? Me. Me, I would live.I knew it. The pain was alright. This is a pain we keep with us always. Just beneath the surface, Drugged, threatening to erupt. Sedated, waiting to seduce.

Pain is alluring.

So the next night is Kali Pujo. She is worshipped, she is worshipped, she is worshipped. All night the chants flow, the noise erupts, the light illuminates. The spirits of dead ancestors did not wish to share, but they do.

Share what? You ask; share what?

Perverted and perverse epiphany. Frigging.Pain.Is.Alluring.

Monday, 27 October 2008

Oh Look Ye and Admire.

His name is Plato. And he is MINE. I love him. Now scram!

Tuesday, 21 October 2008

Not quite bawd, oh gawd.

Dear Everyman,
What is your problem?
Must you gurgle at my akrasia?
Weak of will, strong of bum
I have only. Rum.

Dear Bawdolino,
Must you shrug?
Must you whisper?
Give me a hug.
And I will show you rum.

Dear Pig,
Are you willing
Bawd unwilling.
Cure thyself. Be ham.
And I will chuck. Lamb.

Dear Friends,
I love you all, I think.
Unless you have a Chevrolet,
BeeEmDubloo or Private Plane.
I am not vain. But I ain't jet.

Dear Love,
I don't eat chicks.
Chicken, never.
So, no fix.
I like dicks. i ain't no bi.
I ain't Freudian.
Don't wanna try.
Don't blame me. 'twas aesthetic.
not sexual. I love your prick.

-On admiring hot women.Clarifying confusion.

Friday, 17 October 2008

Change and Continuity...

I am in a very odd mood today.

I don't know what it is. His grandmother has left us, mine is suddenly aware of her own mortality. So am I. I shall miss her. So much. I cried a bit today.

I remembered my first real crush. Apollo looks like the golden ass now. Both he and his wife (then girlfriend) look as old as frogs. I sneakily checked their pictures. I had such a preference for slightly older chaps. Especially smart ones. And then kaput! Or caput! A genius, non smoker, non alcoholic, nine months older type! The irony.
Ah well. The latter had a crush on a girl who can't spell chicken, for obvious reasons. Very amusing. I am letting out this startling secret. All humans are human. And though Terence said that nothing human disgusted him or words to that effect, and if it wasn't Terence, I don't care, I wasn't digusted either.
Because now I will list some of my Bad Secrets.
#1. I once farted while I was coughing in Class 7. In class. It smelt too. The girl who sat next to me made an elaborate display of shrinking-like-violet, clean-handkerchief-to-nose-lifting, and other assorted I-so-wanna-have-you-regret-this activities. Twelve-Thirteen is a cruel age.
#2. I pronaamed my father once and he was confused and he pronaamed me. Yes, he touched my feet and collected the dust. The only explanation is; I am a Goddess and my progenitor realizes that the 33 crore Hindu Gods (gawds?) have smiled on him. But he is not religious and he throws hard-bound books at me when angry. So what is it? I am confused.
#3. I listened to Hey Jude to wallow in the glow and misery of my first crush. He was a Greek sculpture, nay, God even. Now Gawd. He looks like an elderly corporate. Which he is. Huh. His wife looks like she could be my mum. I feel terribly smug and conceited.
#4. My best friend's (N.R.) cousin brother had a crush on me. I gave him a lighter before I discovered that he did. And for once, I had the grace to blush.
#5. I love a certain someone very very very much. He had a thing for silly women. Before me, he says. So he says. I, on the other hand, am confused. Yet again. Could it be that I have misjudged myself?Old habits die hard, and all that. Maybe I am dumb. Maybe I too spell it CHICKAAAAN!Maybe I spell Chiffon SHEEEFAAAN!!!! Or maybe not. :(

BUT I am not the face(rather,body!) that launches a million sperms. So...I shall launch a million champagne bubbles, a fleet of yachts, a hundred paperbacks, and whatnot. I shall launch a clothing line, custom made perfume, and everything else.
What the fuck am I writing? It's been a loooong day.

Stop using metaphors, they are lies. Use similes, they are true. Life is embarrassing and bewildering. It comes back at various junctures, like nausea, in anti-peristaltic movements. Sudden, sudden, hitting like a gush of realization, like the size of my bum, like the warmth of a mum, like the efficacy of rum, etc. But damn, love and lust and realization all in a day?
I hate you R.V. I do.

But I hate death more. The only thing to do is to follow my father's example and throw hardbound books at it. With great vehemence and anger. And then sing
Sweetie Pie, Sweetie Pie
Cholo naa paachhaa dolaai.
(trans. Let's shake ass, man!)

Sunday, 12 October 2008

The Premise.

Once upon a time there were two sets of stories. Both were horrid, and both concerned cannibals the most cannibalistic. There was of course, the heroine, she was She-Cannibal, and the hero (a hero of the most Byronic mould, I tell you, a Sade case indeed) was obviously, called a He-Cannibal. And there the story just began.

Now he was of the opponent tribe and he noticed her and she noticed him, but of course, it all came to naught as well it may. We might even call this ill fated couple, star crossed as they seem to be, Romeo and Juliet, except that could make them really angry, and they could eat us in a jiffy. That wouldn’t do at all. So before tumbling headlong into such insipid specificities, we shall proceed to the real story.

i.e., Dinner.

The She-Cannibal’s Story.

Ah, you shudder. A cannibal story and dinner? Isn’t that a tad too much? Well, in the first version of the story She ate Him. And so well might you shudder, for she didn’t know that she had done so, of course. It was truly Oreistian, the stuff tragedies are made of. Like an Amazonian, albeit with two breasts (and what magnificent breasts these were! But we digress…) she pounced into the fray, or should we say bounced? And vicious she was, all the while looking out for the man she fancied, the man with whom never a word had she exchanged, but through that natural intuition with which all women in fiction are truly blessed, she knew… this was He.

The two tribes were battling it out, battling and battling, for the tribe which won would have a better dinner. Which is always a better alternative than being dinner, and this is something that we must all keep in mind. For this is what modern society teaches us. But we digress. We also begin our sentence with but. It’s wrong.

Right. So the two tribes were engaged in fearsome battle, slaying and killing and much honour-begetting. She was right in the thickest of action. Trying to catch a glimpse of her love, she neglected to see the faces of those she killed. In an egalitarian setup that’s alright, because the women are fighting with the men. Of course she wasn’t shy of blood. She drank blood for Chrissake. For her, there was nothing like a skull of stewed blood.

They lay out the bodies of the men and women they killed of the opposing tribe. Many escaped. None was taken prisoner. She did not catch a glimpse of him. She was disappointed in him. She was also slightly glad. Was he worthy of being a Man and a Cannibal? What a sad creature. Yet, maybe this too was valiance… maybe he was saving himself for her. Maybe, if they weren’t eaten first for treachery, they could go away and be happy. If that was to be.

They sat for dinner. She, who had killed five men and three women in honourable co-educational battle, was given her choice of meat. She chose the leanest and most beautiful and was about to truss him and pop him into the community cauldron. Which she did. Then she discovered something vaguely familiar about those spare ribs served to her and shuddered.

She let out a wail of despair and ran away, away to the forest nearby and vomited out the human flesh. Out of the lowermost abysses of her guts, came the freshly dead love, out and out. In the phantasmagoria of love combined hatred she vaguely felt that humans shouldn’t kill one another, she wanted world peace. Make sex, not steak. She kept vomiting all this while. She was vomiting out her entire existence in these few moments of nausea. She wanted to wrench herself out of her surroundings. She wondered whether this was predetermined. She prayed to some Pagan gods who she knew probably did not understand. Or did they?

After half an hour, she walked back to the scene of the feast and rejoined her friends. In some strange heathen language, she wryly commented to her neighbours,
“My meat has grown cold. What a pity.”

The He-Cannibal’s Story.

And now we come to the second story, which is about the same situation-two tribes of opposing camps, and cannibalistic. Two star crossed lovers. Or would be lovers who merely saw and loved but never a word exchanged.

The women were either captured and ravaged and eaten or captured and eaten. They did not fight because the one who weaves this fiction is a man, I tell you, though cannibal he claims not to be. He would know. But we digress.

Run, he told her. But she would not run. She gaped at him. Her eyes pleaded with him. She was mute, a dumb witness to the forces she could neither grasp nor appreciate. Run-he told her again. Her eyes invited caress, even rape, but he could not. He just could not. And then there could be others, and she was so silent and so beautiful. Many years later, a poet would write “Some infinitely gentle…infinitely suffering thing…” but he did not know, did he?

He looked sternly at her. He came forward. She did not flinch from that gaze or from his outstretched arm. Of course she did not wish to die, who does? She knew her fate, for was not that the fate of all humans? Were they not all eaten up for dinner sooner or later?
She was not a stoic, but she was a nice philosophical girl who knew her place in the world. She was also a virgin. How almost-Christian she was. But we digress.

He killed her and then tore her into pieces. He hacked her into millions of fragments, made mincemeat of her, as it were. Following this he made her into an elaborate seven course meal, including stewed blood, roast meat with salt, fried fingernails, a kidney concoction, boiled liver and an assortment of other offal. Her heart he ate for dessert, or rather, he ate it last which qualifies it for dessert. It was yum. But his insides hurt as he was doing this.

When his friends saw him cook this elaborate meal, they hung around-hoping for a sip or a bite, but nothing doing. They cursed him and went away, but he was cursed anyway. She was his, and he ate her, to the very last toenail and hair. He ate her hair! Even her coarse and obnoxious pubic hair! So you can imagine how much he loved her.

He thought he could survive this dinner and survive he did. He lived till he was eighty, great patriarch he became, and had innumerable wives and concubines. He even saw many of his great grandchildren eaten.

But he remembered, always, that one delicious meal, when he ate seven courses, and wished that not even one course needed to be served. He wished she was with him, he wished she could be his First Wife, the Wife he loves best.

He wished he wasn’t so lame. But we digress…

The Omniscient Narrator’s Story.

The Narrator always has a moral to the story (stories). And I too shall not be denied my share.
Moral: *munch munch*
*smacks lips*

Thursday, 7 August 2008

ahonaa, teeth, and madness.

I hate my teeth. Always did. I sucked my thumb till I was 6. When I ate, when I saw TV, when I napped, when I crapped, when I read, mostly when I read, and I read a lot. I had sort of a lonely early childhood in England. My mother was then very busy with her D.Phil thesis so she probably overlooked the terrible propensity to suck thumb.When she finally noticed she hated it-she bandaged my thumb once. I tore off the bandage and started all over again.Shit, do I regret it.
My thumbs grew thinner and nobody noticed all that much.Then we were back in Calcutta.On weekdays I was alone mostly, at home with Enid Blytons and Richmal Cromptons and Aban Thakur sucking thumb.Ah the familiarity of that flesh.In constant touch with the saliva and the tongue.I should have paid less attention to the tactile, had more tact instead.
Then I had a new set of teeth. Rodent-like.Nobody got them fixed initially. The first dentist that I went to, in Class 8, discouraged me. He fixed my cavities instead. The next dentist I went to was crazy. He gave me retainers which made me mispronounce such vital words as 'Mississippi'. I was in Class 12, I wore them for two whole months. Wish I wore them longer. I had a gall bladder operation at the time, and a fit of metaphysical madness coincided with a sorry state of sadness. They didn't seem to be of much use, the dentist was a lunatic and 'arf, so I took them off and never wore them again.
Now the teeth be the bone of contention. I hate them, I really do. I hate the fact that two-just two-like a rabbit-dammit, protrude ever so slightly and then sometimes, more deviously, a lot! Now my mother says it serves me right for having that obnoxious habit as a child, but it's just not fair. Everyone gets a second shot, except I. I just get shit. Shit happens to me.Dentists aren't human.They are avatars of Mephistopheles.
But still, they help other people.
Plus nobody understands. I am camera-shy/stiff/sick. I shudder when I see cameras. I clam up. I pout.I do anything to avoid what other people do as naturally as a flower blooming in spring; they smile. I never do. At least not a genuine smile. I do not want those front teeth falling all over each other to dominate the frame. Just so.
It's not about other people; it really isn't. I don't want to look really nice or whatever.I just want my teeth to look different. They are instruments of alienation, for some reason. I know they look perfectly alright. That's OK.
I don't like them.
Won't that ever count? I guess it never does. I guess we live. Never with empathy, but always with half-baked sympathy.Come,give. I can see the comments also.Asking me to not be silly, telling me how nice(or not) I look. It's not about the look. It's about the feel.
Now fuck off.

P.S.-The picture is a rare snap where I'm smiling with the teeth and all.I know it's sort of nice.I don't care. I hate it.Fuck off.

Sunday, 6 July 2008

Bad Ancestors and Goodness.

These bad ancestors, I tell you, returning to us in the guise of ugly and inconsiderate crows. Not only do they caw obnoxiously but they use my head as a public toilet very often. And every time, without fail, my doting grandmother informs me how lucky I am to have this wonderful service done to me. Ah the blessings of the ancestors- how nicely must they occur, how finely smelling, how... how...semi-solid.

Yes, I know you have been pottied upon as well, but have you seen my shock of hair? It is not that fine curtain you flaunt-all of you- or as the case may be not. Anyway, I am a more inviting Makeshift-Loo-of-Nasty-Ancestor-Masquerading-As-Harmless-Calcutta-Crow. By the way, what are suburban crow-cum-ancestors like? The rural ones must be absolute brutes or charmers. These are darker, for one. And bigger. And louder?

Speaking of ancestors and such things, I am siezed by a terrible spirit of profundity and realization. I cannot, of course, specify or elaborate further. One thing I always hoped I had, in some measure, was sincerity. Is sincerity an attribute of the weak? I was told this by somebody whose opinion ceased to matter a very long time ago merely because the insincere, strong or otherwise, bore/irritate/annoy/repulse me. Even if they excel at vaudeville or...anything really. Sincerity is the strongest weapon of the good. Does goodness matter? Why on earth am I-who am by turns struck by acute neurosis or awful lethargy-talking about morality? Because I am. Because I must salute goodness. Because I must.

I had this Baudelaire phase a while back. Don't we all, you might add. (Huh!I had it in French!)and then I started re-reading Oscar Wilde on a sudden whim. All of him. And every work appeared different. Everything became invested with a new meaning that encompassed pain and suffering but in anticipation. When I read the fairy tales I cried like I had never cried before. And every brilliant little epigram meant much much more. Than it did.
Just quoting a leeetle beeet from De Profundis;

The gods had given me almost everything. But I let myself be lured into long spells of senseless and sensual ease. I amused myself with being a FLANEUR, a dandy, a man of fashion. I surrounded myself with the smaller natures and the meaner minds. I became the spendthrift of my own genius, and to waste an eternal youth gave me a curious joy. Tired of being on the heights, I deliberately went to the depths in the search for new sensation. What the paradox was to me in the sphere of thought, perversity became to me in the sphere of passion. Desire, at the end, was a malady, or a madness, or both. I grew careless of the lives of others. I took pleasure where it pleased me, and passed on. I forgot that every little action of the common day makes or unmakes character, and that therefore what one has done in the secret chamber one has some day to cry aloud on the housetop. I ceased to be lord over myself. I was no longer the captain of my soul, and did not know it. I allowed pleasure to dominate me. I ended in horrible disgrace. There is only one thing for me now, absolute humility.

I think I agree. Because in the end lies the beginning and in the truism lies...truth.

Thursday, 3 July 2008

Balls of China/Balls from China/Chine -daanaa.

It was a magical evening; sweaty and humid and drunk. I was swaying(drunk). It was in a crowded bus after a bout at Floor7. Hmmm. Then this man comes and pushes his way through many foul smelling people and seems to take out something from his butt. Like a magician and mutters something like Chine dana...

And then I see shrivelled Balls (ostensibly from China?) and I wonder how cruel they are to Tibetans and why these are sold like everything else Chinese. Then the man says that if one soaks them in water(not gin alas!)they become nice glorious gloating balls... balloons perhaps-or maybe marbles?

They will puff up, he says, they will look comfortable. One was easily convinced after he showed a Before/After demonstration. I was clutching my wallet. The night was magical despite the humidity. N would call in a bit and I could brag to Baudolino about my recent acquisition. So should I chuck 5 bucks?

Then it is too late. He disappears, or I have reached my destination and the bus stops and I hop down and I have nothing except an odious odour wafting from my person.The scent of an unfulfilled evening and disappointed magic.

Monday, 9 June 2008

Eternal sunset.

This is a poem I wrote when I was in Class X. It was after a bout of euphoria which was followed by a nasty sinking feeling in stomach, possibly the beginnings of the stones-in-gall-bladder, possibly the awful periodic depression we all face, now and then.

Eternal sunset, orange and red-
The colourless life, a colourful head.
So many sparkling rainbow-like dreams.

Exquisite gardens of blossoming flowers-
Grown over centuries, dead in an hour.
A flickering firefly gleams.

Twilight approaching, sunset shall go-
All of eternity in a singular flow,
The gloaming heralds a darker age.

Darkness forever in the fairyland-
Castles built in the pristine white sand,
Broken and shattered in a fit of rage.

Castles in sand, castles in air-
Illusion here yet delusion there!
How words do change....

Eternal sunshine, orange and red-
Beautiful flowers destined to be dead
Of what variety and range.

Saturday, 7 June 2008

All Along The Watchtower.

There's too much confusion, and there isn't much relief.

Reporters don't deserve their daily bread. They should become novelists, every one of them. I am going to open a publishing house for frustrated reporters. I'd call it Cock&Bull&Co. or how about Poppycock House? Boca & Choda is also an option we could explore.

The latest is that Dimma has a bank account at London, and Ma fixes up deals with art dealers. Sure, whynot? We go for vacations to Innsbruck and dine at the Savoy every weekend. Or was it Claridge's? We have three houses across three continents... I buy every book that my heart desires...I wear YSL and Christian Dior... I am sick...and tired.

The point is, with Bengali families stolidly middle class (income doesn't matter, it's the sensibility, the refusal to give up chaa and muri, or the inability to call biscuit anything but biskoot)... these things are earth-shattering. All we had was our dignity, Baba always insisted on being called Professor Panda, because that's what he always was, is. These allegations we laugh off now, one has sort of become desensitised. Thakurma was all for some jhyaata-petaano action and I wish my father had some of her bloodthirsty instincts. It skipped a generation but I... I am really angry. I want an axe or a sickle or a sword and I want it pronto. I wish I had been trained in a martial arts of the most vicious and lethal variety. I want to shout at them to leave us alone.

Well, all I can say is, before Baba and Ma came back, relocated, when they were pursuing academic careers in Europe, as doctoral students and post-doctoral scholars, the huge amount of scholarships received actually allowed them to eat out at a Savoy's. Afternoon tea, no less. They chose to come back, giving up on such fascinating affectations.
Not that they regret it, even now. No, John. I salute them for it. I asked Baba that day after dinner, when he was saying all sorts of sorry and silly things to clear the inevitable tension in the air, now a staple in the household...

Me: So, so why did you come back? And why Calcutta, and why this chumpy lumpy bumpy job?
He: Well. Your mind needed a home, didn't it? Even the true bohemians, you know, the globetrotters, the ones that are great... for greatness, the mind needs a home.

And for peace too. I don't need YSL, and what are libraries and quaint second-hand bookstores for? But the reporters, for the reporters, and the ones responsible for the mess today, the corrupt ones sitting pretty (not so pretty you'll be soon, ugly dishonest corrupt morons)...
Cafe Bocha is too polite, as Mike Teevee said, DIE!DIE!DIE!

The Joker and the Thief are conversing, and the Businessmen...
Outside in the cold distance
A wild cat did growl
Two riders were approachin
And the wind began to howl...

Let it. I can always howl better. So there. That's it, folks.

Wednesday, 4 June 2008

To Baba, the black sheep.

Sometimes words slip out of the mouth like scars or platitudes that cannot heal. At times I wondered at those closest to me, sometimes distances grow like craters. And then dormant volcanoes erupt suddenly without meaning, without utility.
Where does integrity stand at the end of the day?
Square meals or salmon, the last paise spent on a delicious mango, I cry at a life that deserts me, I cry at the desserts they hand out, I cry out for the God who forsakes me.
I am not a philosopher, not even a quack philosopher; I am not a poet either for aspiring to be one can never be the same thing. Language abandons me time and again, images I love elude me for a reason unknown, and all the senses- the senses we take for granted or exalt beyond all measure- seem so often to be so vastly exaggerated.

It is nearing 4 am, and I am still awake. The storm raging within has translated itself into a tangible entity outside my window but all I can think of is how pathetic my fallacies have been. The sky isn’t crying for me, the sky is slipping away, away into a darkness that taught me that wistfulness is passé. The mango was eaten yesterday, and the pickle made last year has developed into what you may call Fungal Delights.

Why pickle in the first place? Why are the best things in life-like sake, wine, yogurt, and bread- fermented? Maybe bread isn’t, but don’t interrupt. Too long have we been interrupted, too long have we not realized that the snot is not a disease, it’s a symptom of a malaise that’s greener and murkier than one can envisage.

Why not religion? Why that half-baked attempt at a secular ethic that means even less than… I don’t know. Why does thakurma still sweat it out in the tiny pujor ghar chanting shlokas in a singsong monotone? I don’t know. I lurk about for the banana and nakuldana. I like to listen to her, listen to her sing honestly, as honest as you, perhaps even less so…but you don’t believe in religion.

Maybe we could have sat and discussed Raymond Williams, but you wouldn’t, I wanted to tell you about faking to have read Lyotard, but you never had the time to listen, never had time to talk, only indulge me with chocolate and more chocolate. Where do we stand today? What must we understand today… where did the craters lie? How did the magma die?

Today as we stand at a helpless crossroad, less helpless than the crossroad, as we look back at a life spent in deprivation and honesty, with occasional treats and unbelievable loneliness, I admire you. I dislike you too. But mostly, I love you.

In a society which has lost it’s human element, I am proud to be your daughter and at what better time can this affirmation come? The horror, the horror? That too shall pass as we transcend. Remember one of your favourite poems- Larkin's The Arundel Tomb? That collection of poems you got for me, like every other book that adorns my bookshelf, thank you for being the Best Baba in the world, The Chitta Baba who used to say that my potty looked like the best Dutch Cheese in the market. Thank you for filling my childhood with inanities that nobody understood, thank you for making me the person I am, warts and all. Well, maybe you're not the Best Baba in the world, but for me, you are the Only Baba in the world. Other than Meher Baba, i.e.

Anyway. I shall end with this-

Washing at their identity.
Now, helpless in the hollow of
An unarmorial age, a trough
Of smoke in slow suspended skeins
Above their scrap of history,
Only an attitude remains:

Time has transfigured them into Untruth.
The stone fidelity
They hardly meant has come to be
Their final blazon, and to prove
Our almost-instinct almost true:
What will survive of us is love.

It's been a good rollercoaster ride, thank Gawd we didn't go to Disneyworld, and I loved it all, including the randomness in front of friends. Thank you for ignoring it when I raided the Vat 69, and you'd be glad to know that I seem to be drinking only orange squash and tea these days. And no smoking.( But the 'exclusive' tea that you think nobody's drinking, the special one you hid from ma, that's the one I'm addicted to.)

Tuesday, 3 June 2008

A Dialogue On Plato and a Few Other Things.

She: The name Plato is unbelievably pretentious. My friend had a baby the other day. We call him Hnaariram.
Me: But...
She: Plato. But why?
Me: (fumbles) He is wide-browed.
She: Hoom.
Me: Well, I couldn't allow him to be called Bhombol all his life without a mew of protest, could I?
She: Why couldn't you?
Me: I like Europiyo names.
She: It is intolerably pretentious.
Me: It's because they think I am a scholar (and indeed now you shall protest) but that is how they regard me ever since they caught me reading Horace's Odes at the little pre-wedding party that they had. Of course it was a Penguin Classic, the full scholarly value of which impressed upon the mind.
She: Mind?
Be good. And do all your work.
Me: I read pulp fiction.
She: Well.
Me: OK. I am off.

Righto, that was the dialogue. Now let us dwell on other things. When will the rains come? My heart cries out for some healthy hilsa. Oh, before I forget. My readership consists of some non-Bengali speaking people, chief among whom is the good Elendil, who is improving much in recent time, but for his benefit I translate Hnaariram. It means, in a literal sense, Ram of the Pot/ Cooking Vessel of Quirky Shape. Anyway...I am sure the good Elendil will not take offence. And if he does, then I must remind him of the time when he identified khoi as a sort of muri, which is actually not as wrong as it sounds, except of course, that it is wrong and appalling too.
However, I forgive him because he is in Bombay and is engaged in all sorts of fascinating exercises like IPL final-watching and Naseeruddin Shah-in-Antigone-viewing. That apart, Colaba has some exciting trinkets that he will, no doubt, pick up for the beautiful N. which will put her in a lovely mood and she will immediately bake me the nicest cake in Calcuttadom. Or take me out for ham sandwiches sans kasundi.

Yesterday we went for monthly shopping to Spencers' where I ooh-ed and aah-ed at the preserved olives and gherkins. And the fancy cheese. I remember the childhood outings with ma to Gariahat maashkaabari dokaan. Those days! The fish market was just next to the grocery store. Then came Food Bazaar. Gosh! And now we even have Marks and Spencers'. The thrill has gone from the sudden smoked salmon and cold cuts that visiting relatives/parents get from foreign first world climes. Even though my mother steadfastly refuses to buy them here because of the pricing. So we settle for Meatzza (she doesn't even let me buy piggy) chicken sausages, the most inedible sausages of chicken or any other meat that you may ever come across.

Anyway, the next time any of you have roast suckling with a well placed apple in the mouth of the Baby Piggy, call me over. I shall warble in my best Bard-like tones, deliver a discourse on the beauty of memory and the art of the ancients, slice modernity into two and fart on the larger slice, and blow my nose and bid you a teary farewell.
Thank you for a good time.

Saturday, 31 May 2008

The Birth of My Philosopher Prince.

Blogger Question:
For your birthday, your aunt gave you a maple syrup dispenser shaped like a rooster. Please write her a thank-you note.

Ahona Panda's witty response;
Dear Aunt, Wodehouse was wrong. Your cock was lovely. Doodle Do. (Goonight, sweet lady.)

MORAL: I have a Philosopher Prince (Brother). For some strange reason I call him Plato. He is the most handsome thing you will never see. I keep him in a sunny dungeon, away from the nasty nasty world. The world bores him anyway. He's been around for a day, and he thinks I'm his aunt. And he knows I'm not a gentleman.
I will never give him strange innuendoes for gifts. Despite the fact that I have a gift for strange innuendoes.
Blogger is screwed up. Very.

He is a Gemini. The day he was born he was scarlet, angry and all excited. The next day he was serene and bored, overcome by lethargy, with the glint of ennui in his eyes. He has beautiful eyes. He has a hawk nose. His chin recedes slightly into a superb cleft. The lower lip region on the whole looks like an accomplishment. He looks like his great-grandfather who lived with diabetes for forty years and wrote limericks to relieve himself of the tedium and uncertainty of high blood sugar. Dada-Dadu also apprehended two dacoits, became a jurist at Alipore Court, and played the Pakhawaj at Jorasanko. He displayed two rifles and a sitar in the baithak-khana.
And had the loveliest collection of encyclopaediae.

Now my great-grandfather was awfully handsome, even when he was senile and suffered from dementia at the age of 90. He redefined 'demented'. I am nothing in comparison, but then nobody can dare to clinically diagnose me. (I shall sink my teeth into them.)

Apararko, the Other Sun, no pun intended, is like him when it comes to high ideals of serenity, of duty and (un)truth. His daaknaam is Bhombol (but why?) and yet I shall call him Plato. I would have loved to have called him Erasmus, but he, poor soul, is only a day old and Plato is well, Plato. If he ever grows up to be a sorry sod (no he won't!!!) well then, he might fleetingly hear of Plato even if he never hears of Erasmus. He might not like me for calling him Plato, but my 20 years' seniority will ensure that in true Dickensian fashion I shall "box his ears".

That reminds me; I could also call him something tritely literary. Or maybe seriously literary. I would have called him Baudelaire, Bawdy for short, if the latter had a less colourful life. Or maybe "Felu" provided that he passes his Mathematics and Literature papers with great gusto and elan. However I have a feeling that I am getting all conservative these days. You know what happens when Radicals start Converting?
(Answer: Roots.)

My dear dear Baby, and no this baby is not my boyfriend, I hope you never NEVER read this blogpost. I hope you never read my Blog. I hope I grow up (grow up some more? how amusing to be sure) to be eminently respectable with a great and boring body of significant literature behind me. I even hope that I become a smug and conceited literary critic with more jargon at the tips of my fingers than bells on my toes.
So that you are proud of me. So that you can say, "Yes, this grey-haired woman who is so so so sane is my sister, she treats me like an aunt would, she is old and she's a regular sport and never never indulges me beyond a point. Oh she is a strict disciplinarian and she has a CLEAN sense of humour. You know these elderly types, ya know?"

And I will nod, and smile indulgently, and pop your dirty tee shirt into a washing machine and bake you a cake pronto, and we will smile and nod and be unbelievably bhadro.

I would ask you to brush your teeth and I would never ever tell you how nice mahua is and of course, what it is. I shall ask you to avoid the Carry On series. Imagine a sister doing all this. Oh, I will. And when you're twenty and I'm forty and I would be like a friggin' mum, and now the mind boggles...
But I will and we'll have tea in the evening and did I tell you about the cake I shall bake that you shall enjoy in the quiet domesticity of your sister's suburban and sprawling bungalow filled with organized chic bric-a-brac and other assorted nephews and nieces just ten years younger than you.
And old grey haired me; sturdy, respectable and well-intentioned, slightly dulled with the passage of years, a very responsible domesticated animal, almost a human, very human, no longer the lazy lion or crazy dog of yesteryears...

And pigs have wings, and I can fly, Apararko.
But I shall love you, nevertheless.
Ahona has loved as she has never loved before.

(P.S. You could say Maa er cheye maashir dorod beshi. And I would say Huh! Luke, I am your father. OK, maybe not. But Luke...Well, chuck it Luke. All I can say is; I Luked before I leaped.)

I repeat: Ahona has loved as she has never loved before.

Saturday, 24 May 2008

It was a film in colour that I saw today
It had pathos, loss, love and grief
It is obscure, neglected, outdated, you say
And your obituary is brief.

The movie wasn't all that sad
Maybe it was me I think
I am sick and tired of trend and fad
I tire of speed and drink.

I tire of rings of smoke and bling
Kitsch, Pop, the occasional fling
With ideas. And then wonder how
I liked those all but I'm tired now.

A soppy film with a Baul track
I cried and howled and blew my nose
This life, what might it lack?
One shrugs and says; who knows?

We often escape the pace of modern life
Wth quick planned trips to hill or beach
Alone, with kids, with friends or wife
To try and dare devour that peach.

I know my enemy lies within
Language is my enemy; word and pen.
Articulation being my only sin
Duality of purpose; indifference of men.

What do you want, the Benign one asks.
A meandering river of the infinite mind
To negotiate distances,unpeel the masks
And then that sunset I'd find.

Thursday, 22 May 2008

On Bovinity.

Ek je chhilo gaai
taar khnoj je ami paai
naam chhilo taar chaaru
kheto na shey daaru
dosh kono taar naai

taar chokh chhilo taana
taar aaphing khete maanaa
shei je chhilo goru
taar mon chhilo na shoru
taar shob kichhu toh jaana

goru gelo bon e
eklaa nirjoney
eikhane taar lokhhi
eklaa boy je jhokki
kebol din goney.

Sunday, 18 May 2008


Ei remember.
Remember that story about that little boy who came from nowhere and spoke simple French and charmed everybody's heart and all that? Then this man wrote it down into a book called The Little Prince. Which was a wise and wonderful thing to do and I have two copies of the book( one I filched, one I bought) but that's not the story I wanted to share today.

Ummmm. No,no.Not that jazz story either. Yes that adorable little cafe(oh how do you do the accent!?) and the conducive lighting and the oh-most-suitable music and the wood panelling and the bitter bitter coffee which was milky and frothy too. And the improvised ham sandwiches touched up with ketchup, coleslaw, chips and kasundi. But no that's not the story.

This is 678 AD story. Don't stare at me like that. I will shoot you where your eyebrows meet.( I did not take that line from a DGradeWestern.) Hmmm. So basically this story is about this little girl with big eyes and long black silky hair and slanty eyes. Shytes, I mean big, slanty eyes. Big,slanty, exotic. dunno repetition is a technique?I merely wished to rub it into you.You think I'm stoopid? Heh. Yes, 678AD. China.The dynasty eludes me, as does the province. But this girl was very pretty and very wise and very nice too. And she was single and liked it. Then, one day, she had enough of alone-ness. She thought;let me now explore. Go out. Drink wine in these native porcelain antiques. Eat rice with these long chopsticks with a nice boy, or nice boys. Or maybe a NiceMan. Exciting. And one bound foot forward, she set out.
They Called Her MingLing Because She Did.

Saturday, 17 May 2008

An Aesthetic Of Weakness.

Because ugliness has its own aesthetics
But weakness doesn't.

I am sorry.

Saturday, 10 May 2008

To Have And Have Not.

When I stopped blogging 'twas for a number of reasons. One was an empty sense of futility and an overwhelming loneliness. Mistake not these moments for urban ennui, my friends. Or for the wretched outcome that the hectic pace of modern life inevitably begets. This routine practice with language bored me. Why should I put up my feelings thus anyway? How does it matter in the cosmic scheme of things?And at the end of the frigging day who the fuck cares?
They smile senilely, or snigger cleverly, or maybe just nod wisely. You type away your frustrations, inhibitions, constipation, etcetera. And then you gaze lovingly at your template and change a few page elements. Voila! Life is just so exciting, innit.
Sometimes you can fall in love.With green frogs of childhood, with placid cows who aren't so placid after all what with those horns and everything. Please do not read sexual innuendoes into these few lines that I happen to type on a languid Saturday afternoon. This has nothing to do with real events. These are extended metaphors. Do not ask me for what, I have no clue. I say this because it sounds nice and also because. Well, as one dandy once remarked to another dandy, Just so.
*broods again*
As I was telling both Baba and N. the other day, I would really like to write something on Bengali identity one day, Bengali-hood as it were. I have a few ideas which I shall not share at the present moment. But if you have ever felt a bit caught between the antithetical forces of an inexplicable binary that you cannot explain, there was Bankim and Bibhuti before you. And a host of others, I shan't even mention that splendid mimic-man. (Bollam toh, bolbo naa!)
Why do we need to share our thoughts eh?On a blog? It baffles me at times. It baffles me all the time. Whenever I read a blog, well designed, well written, a sudden intimate glimpse into an immortal soul...or even a mortal one... did I tell any of you that I was once a published poet in Bangla and shall shortly be published once more...?
*broods once more*
Right, I take back that confidence. And do stop lapping up my stream of consciousness. It is an ungainly sight. I have an examination on Monday. It is on two movies that are quirky and charming and well quirky and charming and a bit aantel too but oh well. Whenever you feel a bit uneasy during film studies examinations start quoting Baudelaire. In French, if possible. I do it all the time.
Ah well. This was the type of post that I had vowed never to write again. But I did it. Because humans are perverse, nasty creatures. They don't know what they need,but what's even worse, they don't know what they want.

C'est l'Ennui! —l'œil chargé d'un pleur involontaire,
Il rêve d'échafauds en fumant son houka.
Tu le connais, lecteur, ce monstre délicat,—
Hypocrite lecteur,—mon semblable,—mon frère!

(It's Ennui! — his eye brimming with spontaneous tear
He dreams of the gallows in the haze of his hookah.
You know him, reader, this delicate monster,
Hypocritical reader, my likeness, my brother!)

Footnote; Yes, we still live in a veritable wasteland, don't we?

Thursday, 8 May 2008

I am not back.

Possibly many of you have not missed my blog. I flatter myself thus. The thing is, I no longer had the zing, yang, ying, yen, zen... to write. My readership largely consisted of a few friends who obscenely threatened me to write again. The point is, I was going through a dry stretch of no broadband and obsessive dial-up involving some hasty google talk and orkut.Then I deleted my Facebook Profile. Now I want to spend the rest of my life in a quiet anonymity, sinking into wretched obscurity and finally blissful oblivion.


In medieval times, they tortured heretics, liars and writers(who were both and then some). They put them on racks and in fires. They sliced them open and prodded out their livers. They did unbelievable grotesqueries in the name of retribution. Now this sort of thing no longer happens. Destiny is an indistinct entity that does strange things in the name of globalization. However, my life has taken a strange Oriental pattern after a crucial paradigm shift. I see my ancestors in the form of crows. They haunt me.They die in front of my house and lie dead and baked in the merciless afternoon sun.Whenever I leave my house I see them dead and alive hopping about. I mean the crows that are alive hop, the dead ones of course don't. (I am not sure of this.Don't challenge me. I am very confused after watching movies like Blow Up, Rashomon and you know them rest all propagating multiple realities and many perceptions and crime and such post modern, decadent, kitschy things.)
Returning to the crows. The shastras say that our ancestral spirits return as crows. So well.

You know what I say? I say the crow always shits on me.Always.Without fail. And so it just shows, doesn't it?
Man is man's worst enemy. Or as we Bangalis say; Meyerai meyeder shobcheye boro shatru.