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.
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?