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

Stories.

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. Ooooo...you 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?
Nobody.
*broods*
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.

*yawn*

blink.blink.blink.
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.)
frown.frown.
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.