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.