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.

9 comments:

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

For greatness, the mind needs a home.

There is no Archimedean point. Our visions are shaped by what we are, what we have and where we belong.The desultory flamboyance of a mind without a home might be impressive, but its charm is fragile. Our homes make us human. They sow dogmas in us, it is true. But they also point out a path to doxastic freedom, to greatness, to moral worth. It is impossible to do something great without living a good life, because living is the first thing we do. Perhaps, that is why Kant, who was so much in love with his town that he never left it, who consistently ignored offers from other universities across Germany, could talk about morality with such glorious fervour.

ahona said...

Quiet.
But remembering that blogpost of yours, darling, one recollects the thanklessness of milking a he-goat (and the grotesquerie too).
The domesticated Capra hircus; seemingly provider of smelly milk and cheese and meat; actually a male kicker with smelly balls,a vicious temper and a dishonest temperament.

ahona said...

I meant quite.

panu said...

Trust me this will pass. Baba and I were in a conversation about this thing and Baba was outraged. I am sorry it is affecting you so badly, and I hope your dad comes out of this trumps. Please ask police people politely to go fornicate with their selves. I dont think that will earn you brownie points with them, but you will feel much better.

ahona said...

I would rather not talk the police people. They don't have a flair for conversation.Their dialogues are not Platonic, neither are their monologues suffieciently dramatic.

And erm, yes, it would affect anyone badly.

ahona said...

sufficiently*

Elendil said...

My dad also came back. God alone knows why. He had such a hot girlfriend in the USA. I would have been so much better looking. *sigh*

littleblackstar said...

ami tor thakurmar shathey. ready steady go, anytime you need people for the 'jhaataa petano' action.