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.

18 comments:

Baudolino said...

How appropriate the name 'Plato' is! It means 'wide-browed' in Greek, and so is Apararko.

I reconsider. If you call him a 'philosopher-prince', you should call him Marcus Aurelius rather than Plato. But then I don't like Aurelius much. His name was too big to be a daaknaam, he despised literature, he never slept on mattresses and he was a bit like me--a nasty old conservative!

ahona said...

I am an Epicurean. Why on earth would I name him after a famous Stoic?
Baudolino, there's more to you than your assumed mantle of Stoicism; I have seen within you your hidden sensuous depths, your eyes light up at the mention of red meat.
Music, women, and (coming soon to theatres near you) wine; that's what you are all about.
But then, contrary to popular perception,overindulgence is NOT Epicureanism.
I shall call him Oscar and leave the rest to God.

hingshuti said...

Oscar sounds like a dog...so is this debate about Plato and Baudelaire..humans have fixed names, na?

Elendil said...

:) This is damn sweet. You are a mad aunt. The paagol sorts. :)

ahona said...

Ei je Hingshuti- fixed name abar ki? Half my relatives call me Michiko because my father liked Japanese Cinema and read the New York Times na wherever that Kakutani woman writes reviews, and because he sent a telegram back home that he named me Michiko Panda, much to the consternation of my extended family.The name reeks of inarticulate Orientalist aspirations.
I am also called Buria,Phulki, Bhnodor, Baboo, and all sorts of names that only Bangalis can devise, the devils. Nomenclature leaves the realm of the subjective to descend to the territory of the absurd. Etaa fer shore.
Plator jatra to shobe shuru.

ahona said...

Prayag; I shall teach you to hold a baby. It's an art.And also to sling him on the shoulder and pat him on the back gently but expertly until he expels gas and dribbles and pees on your horrible gaudy football garb.

ahona said...

MICHIKO PANDA= japanese name+ chinese animal of strange black and white colour, gentle disposition, eats bamboo and lurks about in the snow
ki absurd, ki hiji-biji Oriental byapar shyapar

blink said...

I can already imagine Plato's future! Mahua na bolle Plato nijei toke khoon korbe!

ahona said...

Mrinalini;
manush 20 hole mahua ta nijei shikhe jaay
maane nilanjan ba tui hole oboshyo jaani na
tobe tui toh VodkaaRani, Nilanjan shudhu delicately kaamraangar wine khhay
(Plator shobe 2 din boyosh, bechara ekhon maayer yummy doodh khaak)

nandita said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
ahona said...

MAA er cheye MUSHY der dorod beshi hoy.

etaa keu bojhe naa.

WHAT'S IN A NAME ? said...

'Plato' sounds good. Real good. :)

Elendil said...

Bechara kid. For all you know, he's not gonna be the 'Plato' sort at all? Maybe he'll be a great footballer and scorn his mad aunt's intellectual nothings :P Maybe you should have called him 'Pele' instead. If I have the pleasure of the fellow's company I shall ensure he is liberally educated.

ahona said...

Look. Plato is a better name than Pele. Pele? Maane "got?"
Mein Gott! Mon Dieu!
Bangalis are crazy. As it is, he is saddled with Apararko that can be bastardized into Apadartho any moment, and you insist on PELE!!!
And his parents call him Bhombol.

He kicks, I warn you. He kicks real hard.
And so do I. This has nothing to do with footer either. You be careful with your offers of liberal education and hasty and ill-advised nomenclature, youngman.

Elendil said...

Isn't bhombol a term for a short fat black idiot? :P

March Hare said...

Gooblet dibi? Daaknaam?

Amar ekta adorable bhai ache Gooblet bole.

Gooblet ra generally adorable hoy.

Dibi? Dibi?

Othoba Ghnetu dite pari. Ba oonchoo. Kintu oonchoo is too close to manchoo which is intoxicating.

Achcha, let's stick to Gooblet.

ahona said...

Has anyone heard this fanstastic song by Tommy James and the Shondells?
It's called, "My Baby Does the Hanky Panky" and consists of, more or less, only the refrain.

On this obscure note I wave like the late Queen Mother of Great Britannia, and insist (softly but firmly) on Plato.

Somewhere Circus said...

HO HO!
Ki coincidence!
I started calling him The Little Pamuk when he was still swimming in his ('lamentably old') mum's belly. Because, well, I am dead over Pamuk and 'pamuk' means 'cotton'.
Now Shukumari Mashi, who delights in cleaning his wraps, calls him something like the 'Leeteel Omuk'.