Thursday, 24 December 2009

Convocation 2009:memories.

Today is a holiday and my neighbour plays lovely music on holidays. I don't know what he looks like. He has a youngish looking silhouette and I feel very fond of him because I feel as if I'm living his life in proxy. When I was 17 I wanted to play the guitar and be a rockstar chick too. I felt it in spurts, because I am musically disabled, and because I...well, I have never felt very young.

Yesterday we graduated in orange robes. I felt even less young. Three and a half years jostled in my mind-I did not know which memory to select, I only had this overwhelming urge to cry. But instead we laughed, we laughed and smiled and posed for pictures. It was a beautiful day.

I hoped that some of my old friends whom I still love very much would forget differences for a day and come and well, talk. I wanted the old times, my heart and head throbbed with the old times. I remembered the first few months and then the friends I made, and I remembered that awful crush that I had and how even that faded, and how everything fades. I remembered the ganja and the smokes and how someone or the other always sings in front of Milonda's. Instead of crying, I laughed and posed for pictures.

I remembered how childish we were in those days. How Prayag completed Kubla Khan. How Nandita impressed me with her khistifying/bartending/writing skills. How Raju could decimate people with a few words, and love them with a hug. How Howlie baked cake and called a spade a spade and never inhaled a Classic. How Sreemoyee slapped my bum. How Suki called her boyfriend her baby. (And how Bandy was always dandy :P)How Sanjukta forgave me despite me not returning her french khata for days, and how awed I felt when she zoomed around in her "big cars." When she broke up, it became "big car"... :P Sion's red shirt, and Diyasreedi's li'l jaunts and Satra's amazing bari and string of ahem, well nevermind. And this and that and this and mostly...well now the important part...

Yesterday I received a medal which maybe I didn't even really deserve. This medal business is always dicey to begin with, and my friends-Nandita and Prayag-could easily have received it as well, and really, it didn't make much of a difference at all. My parents came in the morning and they were in a bit of a hurry and they went away after this, without even waiting to meet me and/or take a picture. I guess it didn't strike them that I have grown up and do not feel ashamed to meet my parents in the educational institute I study in. Anyway so they left, and I waited and waited to receive the degree scroll. We queued up in line. It was the fag end of the afternoon, who would even clap for us? So we decided to cheer ourselves. The entire class.

Amlanda, our beloved Head, came to call out our names. My name was announced. There was a cheer. OK, a resounding cheer. I was so amazed that I almost fell off the dias. Tears welled up in my eyes but of course, well, I laughed. Then Nandita's name was announced. I hadn't even left the stage yet but I turned around and started clapping. Amlanda gave me the closest thing to a glare and I hurriedly left the stage.

Then the fun began. We cheered as every name was announced, and it was the happiest moment of my life. We realized vaguely how significant it was for each of us-the closing of a decisive chapter in our lives. We respected that, we loved the memories we shared (even if those memories could never be relived again)... and every person received a standing ovation. Especially our football hero, Reuben. (Go Manchester United!) No other department had expected this, and by gad, everyone was surprised, and Amlanda laughingly asked us to chup!

We poured outside for the group photos. But I sneaked in to relive a little portion of my memories. N.D. was receiving his degree scroll. I missed quite a few of the group photos as a result. I remembered how we started going out after knowing each other for a week or so. It was a bit absurd, we must have been really desperate. We were nothing alike; he would spout philosophy like a most boring old man, and I would listen open-mouthed. And his sense of humour was non-existent while I thought I had a sense of humour. (I don't, I am terribly inane.) Nilanjan Das was rumoured to be sattvik and I was enamoured of him. I was ready to renounce mod, maagee and mangsho for him- but alas, I later discovered the fraud liked all three. :P Especially alcohol, which he strongly condemned. How much older and long-suffering you looked yesterday Baudolino. It was so strange to think: two years. I am proud of your many accomplishments. I know you will succeed in every philosophical pie that you put your finger in. It is one thing to command respect and awe, but isn't it a greater thing to command love?

I should not have given up poetry. This was my mistake. I must write, I am not an obscene machine. Yesterday as I felt the cold winter sun and the palpable love, as I looked for some people who eluded me and with whom I desperately wanted to take a few pictures, as N.D. and I stared unconvincingly into each other's eyes for Bandy's camera, I felt that I was neither penseur nor poser. I had become a posy in my own life, a wilting posy. I need control and decisiveness, and I think I need love, but you can't command love, can you? My parents would obviously clap for me, but when I heard the cheers and when I received the hugs and claps and whistles when we stood there-friends and non-friends - I realized that I am wrong.

Human attachment is far more complex, beautiful and spontaneous than one can ever possibly realize.

Tuesday, 22 December 2009

lo la lee

You know it's winterish in Cal when your feet are cold without socks. I have taken out my old muffler, you can't tell whether it's blue or green. My hair is in wintercut mode. And I am fatter also. So yes, 15 degrees celsius. I love you.

This, if you don't know, means that May is the cruellest month. My parents got married in May. Seven years later, I hated August-because I was born. Crueller than the cruellest month, summer and all. My mother gorged on strawberries and peaches, and yet I was a sick salmon colour when I was born. And now I am a sick darker salmon-gone-bad. That is perhaps because of the acne I have never much had.

And now, there isn't much to say. I've been 13 all my life, and never had much acne. There is a perpetual discontent-mingled-gruntlement that I suffer from. I do not blame it on my bowels. I blame it on your bowels. Were those pearls that are your teeth?(Bite me.) And I'll rip your teeth and make a lovely bracelet and wear it to supper when I am 91.

I have been 21 for some time. It could have been better, but then you could say it all the time. :)

Friday, 18 December 2009

la di da

I have painted my room
Shades of red and green
And

My heart is clean.

As for my head.
Along with my former bed
It is dead.

No! Non! I am attending many interesting seminars. Today I heard one Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak from Columbia University come to deliver a talk to The University of Jadavpur. Nobody was asking her a question. Do you wonder why? (She is rude.) She is also condescending. Something about "shivering with delight" at the mention of Foucault. We poor Jadavporeans. Alas, poor Yorick!

The subaltern cannot speak.

P.S. Now the nice things. She is really interesting to listen to, because she is funny and her cleverness sort of compensated for the fact that I will never understand terms like "reproductive heteronormativity". My limit is "organizing principle" or "hermeneutic loop". I wish myself a happy and prosperous life as an academic. :D

Thursday, 10 December 2009

abject

I am surprised

By the lies
Lying
In your truthful eyes.

and i forgot
about the snot
but who ever
forgotty
potty?

Sunday, 6 December 2009

------------

I have prided myself on my eloquence
eloquent ahona
aur kuchh kaho naa
but my body hates my mind

o what could be more kind?

my mind has drawn a blank
i wish a cheque would be as blank
so that i could fill it
then i would bill it
but my mind has played a prank

come back, my sweetest mind
knowledge let us together find
i think i could do it
body would boo it
body-i'll woo it

dear body please co-operate
don't hate me, i'm always late
so i've loved you before
and i'll love you some more
as for now, come back
marry my mind
i'm your progeny
illegitimate progeny
a daughter of hate
(please co-operate)


ahona's body really loves ahona's mind, where be you nice people? come back

Monday, 30 November 2009

This is going to be a strange post.

I am unhappy. Deeply unhappy. I wish this unhappiness never afflicts anyone. I don't know why I am writing a blogpost on this, but I've been thinking You Never Know.


There are more things in Heaven and Earth Horatio than can be dreamt of in your philosophy.

Friday, 20 November 2009

last november post.

What conversation can you have with a corpse? Averting eyes
from the dead. Thinking, I sit here speaking lies.
Not speaking at all. Why did you have to die? Thinking
how we noiselessly cry. Stare at her, the unblinking.

Why do they block your nose with cotton?
You smell sweet, yet are they scared of the rotten
aroma of death?
I still hear your breath.
It smells sweet.

Why do they wish to carry you away-
you, peacefully sleeping?
While the insipid throng is weeping
And those who love you
Stand above you
Smelling the incense and crying.

I wonder which of us is dying.

You always love the dead. They are beyond our hate.
I can't tell you how I feel, I guess it is too late.
I tell you I hear your breath.
It still smells as sweet.
Which of us is dying now?
I'll tell you when we meet.

That alone gives the dying peace and the living hope.
That we shall meet shortly
Even though only one of us is crying-
We never know who's dying.

Thursday, 19 November 2009

bloddddy

All Bengalis have bad stomachs. It's the way they are made, they can't help it-the poor gobets. Just as Punjabis reek of good health and butter masala, lobster in mustard sauce does the poor Bengali in. Why must the Bengalis cook all his dishes with mustard and the Punjabi dance in every Hindi film in vast stretches of mustard fields? I have no idea.

I was thinking of expressions like paagol na pet kharap and paagol chhagol and wondering would you really suffer if you ate a mad goat the way the British suffered when they ate mad cows? Then I think; how is this going to help me?

The point is that only eating chocolate cake can help. But that contains egg(mostly). Which is sort of dangerous because really...
I mean did the egg come first? A primordial egg, an egg that started it all, the first egg as the embodied First Cause. Or was it an insufferable, know-it-all, obese/stringy, clucking chicken that said "Howdy?We're gonna make the world rowdy. Now let's all come oudie, man!"

I want ham. Now! Glazed with honey and mustard. Otherwise I'll ham it up ad infinitum.
Bandy gave me oodles of cake. Now I want to be her poodle. Toodles. She's my favourite, just the way that wretched character (sickny) in Jab We Met goes "main apni favourite hoon"...arrey woh meri favourite hain, kyunki ushe pata hain ki bhukhi petni bahut badtameez ho sakti hain. Or sumfin, gott, amar khide paay ni bhogoban, ami bangali noi.

Disclaimer- I am a great Bengali. Good Bengalis are reborn as la parisiennes and bad bengalis are reborn as Bengali Americans. But great bengalis are reborn as tamils!
yum, i'll have rasam and finish a PhD in maths by age 13. Guru, aashche jonme jaa hobe na! I feel pleased right now. Mmmm, rasam.

No, I think Really Great Bengalis are reborn as Really Great Bengalis. It's a cycle of divine lobster malaikari blessing and maangsho bhaat blessing. In fact, I have an inkling that I was Bidhan Chandra Roy. Or Noti Binodini. Ginni, khete daao. uhhhhh.

Tuesday, 17 November 2009

Ten Great Truths.

1. You cannot make people like you, not even if you are me.

2. I cannot make people like me, precisely because I am me.

3.Life is weird. Especially if the first set of people you meet in the course of the day are stoned out of their wits. One of them claimed that his aunt has stopped drinking water. She is 60 and drinks only wine. She keeps a jug of wine next to her bed every night with a goblet. He also claimed that when he was five his father got an eagle home and the eagle lounged on the sofa,but his father denies this story.

4. Do not expect much from the State. The State is out to get you, even if you are not a Maoist. (Paanchu paach chhagoler maa, Paanchu hege chhonchaaye naa! i.e., Paanchu is the mother of five goats, Paanchu does not wipe her rectum after defecating!)

5. Don't trust this bitch of a month. November is Mata Hari, November is Cleopatra. November is the Black Widow. November is Aeneas who betrayed poor Dido.(Not that "widow"/"Dido" rhyme.)

6.Don't watch the dailies on Star Jalsa if you don't want to snigger all night. Today I stared open-mouthed at this guy who went to a shop to get himself a swanky new car and said to a dealer offset against this very corny set- I want to book a....cur.

7. The stoned friend from above with the famous aunt also reported that a crocodile once ate his shoes.(No, the shoes were not made of crocodile skin. That would have been grotesque.) I do not know how this point constitutes a great truth, but I suspect that it is still profound.

8. The centre of unity will inevitably disintegrate. It's called a minor gastric problem or simply put pet byatha. Some people (rude Bengalis) could also call you; paagol na pet kharap? -thus associating madness and insanity with aforementioned gastric problem. Indeed the medulla oblongata then, in the words of the famous Professor SwapanKumarChakravorty, requires some serious water.

9. The Butler did it. What? You don't have a butler? You don't know on whom to pinpoint the petty theft/major burglary/awesome murder? How do you solve the problem in the Indian context? The baai did it sounds wrong. As if you're accusing the poor maid of suspect liaisons. The problem might as well be scrapped altogether.

10. Don't read this blog. You will learn absolutely nothing. It's not going to help you. At all. It's going to screw you. I feel sorry for you. Bye.

Monday, 16 November 2009

This is not inane.

I love crossing the road like a madman. You know, when you sprint across a speeding road like a blind person, absolutely insane person, and everyone stares at you. Your friends shout out your name as if this is it. There is no more to be said, no more to be done. And then you think; what is this rushing adrenalin-is this how I felt last winter on the ferris wheel? Or is this really it? Or was that really it? And then you see the madly honking cars whizzing past. You think this is how life whizzes past too. A horrid smug grin that could be misinterpreted as suicidal mars your pretty face. Everyone hates you, indeed you are the outsider, for you could be killed.

But you are not doing it to be killed. You are doing it to show that traffic cannot slow you down. Besides the traffic in your mindscape is even worse, all those things overcrowding a brain! You shriek; I want this to get over! But the shriek drowns in a blare of horns. You simply stand in their way. They ask you to move aside.

Of course I managed to cross the road. And it was raining too. I had phuchhka and cha a little while back, the tamarind had curdled the tea, and my stomach was full of a fulsome yoghurt? chhaanaa? I wanted to puke. But I simply vented my rage on three friends. I sprinted across into the great ether of 8B where millions throng for sundry vehicles. Snort. And they stared at my disappearing back, wandering whether I had finally let the November sun kill me. (The November sun as we all know is detrimental to one's mental and physical health. It implies dissatisfaction with all things material, and beautiful pain in all things spiritual, and assures pots of snot in all things bronchial.)

Now of course, this is a brilliant analysis, but the sun was not up today after the first half and I am positively boring in the second half i.e., after the interval. Like all Bollywood movies, yawn. Now I keep thinking that if I lived in a larger cosmopolis I'd be dead by now. And I have this one friend who keeps cutting her hair these days. Like me, she now considers her hair to be The Abject. I, for example, adore my crap, my vomit, my snot etc etc but I cannot stand my hair sticking around on my scalp for too long. But she does a better job of abjecting it, I must say. I have another friend who has some sort of a bipolar disorder and either sulks until I feel like sprinting across the road like a madman, or laughs maniacally until I feel like sprinting across the road like a madman. Ahem.

Correction; Madwoman. Sigh.

I am glad that I have ranted and disenchanted, once again. I have written too much poetry of late, both sad and funny. By the way, this is killer stuff:

Do I dare
to be; May Sinclair? (My sarcasm is on a different plane of reality altogether.)

Would I dare to do
Charlotte Mew? (She, as a closet lesbian, jumped on the rather unattractive May Sinclair.)

Would I dare to resort to frowning
To stop the prolific Mrs. Browning? (If only that could have made Aurora Leigh shorter.)

And what would have happened if I dared to smile
At Tennyson, Arnold and Carlyle? ( For the sake of poetic beauty I did not include Ruskin. I hope the Pre-Raphaelite brethren did not smile at Ruskin too often.)

Friday, 13 November 2009

Darkness III. (Not!)

[My tea rests near my elbow. I wish to knock it down.
Because my elbow cannot resist my frown. I wish I could
haiku; but I say kaiku? And that is because once more
I have too much inanity only in store. Frothy and light
is my cappuccino existence. (Will I go to Barista tonight?)
Indeed not. I am broke and my elbow hates my tea.
Coffee is rare, but hot chocolate is for me...]

My tea rests near my elbow. Not really, I just knocked it down.
I think I am a tragic hero, but mother calls me clown.
That is so unfair, like Prufrock, must I dare? To shake
the universe is such a jest. When I break
a leg after I shake a leg, mother calls me pest.
And you know what they say; mommy knows best.

Now whisky rests near my elbow. I will not knock it down.
I shall paint the city red while you confine yourself to town.
Scarlet is my choice of colour, euro or I want a dollar
Don't call me, don't holler. I see lipstick on your collar.
Oh you nasty horrid man, you call me frisky?
Of course not. I am sheepish. I think it is the whisky.

I know what you think of me. Delusions of grandeur.
But really, I am honest. I have such refreshing candour.
You look at my header and you see an ugly poach
Which I call "french omelette". (Must you see me as a roach?)
I wish you would rest near my elbow. What would I do?
Nothing really. Except poke you through and through.

[I am not deceived by Plath-itudes. I like my life happy.
Just don't give me a baby with a horrid dirty
nappy. Don't act so very shirty, and dare not call me flirty.
Don't take me out for coffee, don't look at me like that-
(I know I am fading funny like a whimsy Cheshire Cat)
It's not a beverage but it's the fact that I'm me
Such a sweet changeling addicted to black coffee...]

Wednesday, 11 November 2009

Darkness II.

Your face is consumed by darkness. Some use language
better than love. What love is this that
conceals hatred? Tell me, is it true that my alienation
is nothing but
your love's negation? Is it true that this
darkling plain
is dark, so dark, this dark
in vain?

For then this pure annihilation
and alienation
and love's negation
This darkness then,
is pristine pain.

Read out my poem; love qua love.
Some use language better than love. This love then
becomes only language. The language then
becomes sole love. But all else dissolves
into a rare nothingness, a dark void-
a pit of horror and bliss.
Language; my abyss.

Tell me why we must then know
The light on the bridge which burns just so
Tell me why I see it burn
Why I cry- but never learn
Never learn, in all it's starkness
Our horrid dissolving mutual darkness.

Tuesday, 10 November 2009

Darkness.

Dim the lights on the banks of the Ganges,
frown on your most ardent. I have realized that the pain in my most human heart
Cannot be represented by your meagre art.
Tomorrow smile at me, your devout admirer.
Today hold me close to your bosom. And then we shall listen
to the silent fireflies. Softly as they glisten.
Tomorrow the sun will set, today is forever.
I have learnt that we shall sail into our own minds
and then; dare call you me unkind?

Dim the lights on the bridges that span it
and hope for the eternal. I have realized that what we see
in finitude is nothing but.Me.
Tomorrow take me away, your eloquent antagonist.
Today hold me to your coherence, howsoever a lie
and then when we live, we learn how to die.
Tomorrow the sun will set, now we must know.
Knowledge of finitude that will teach
How we love each.

Dim the lights on the boats that we ride on
and curl up in love. I have realized that all else is untrue
Or so they said, except the sky and (perhaps) you.
Tomorrow I go away, your absolute enemy
Today I am your friend, though it is painful
It can yet be gainful.
I do not hope for justice, nor love, nor truth, nor knowledge.
I know that the world is not this embrace and
How can it be? Darkness consumes your face.

Monday, 9 November 2009

ranty and raunchy

Nobody writes their "What the fuck am I doing in academia?" posts anymore. No, I do not mean the good Elendil. He has figured it all out after OD-ing on coffee, the tall twit. I mean everybody.

Really, do I care if great writers screw up their lives of icy intellectualism by wanting to fuck a fourteen year ole Pole very very badly? He wanted a good fuck, he was gay, and he didn't know it. So he realizes his sexuality in shabby old Venice. HELLO! EVERYBODY KNOWS VENICE IS A CITY OF DEATH! Think of all that stagnant water in the canals and the ensuing mosquitoes. Aaaargh. If he didn't die of his erection he would have died of malaria! Duh!

Oh Mann. Ah Mann. Woe Mann.


Yes, yes, yes. I know, I know. I hate horndogs but clever horndogs are the limit! That raunchy old man, such depraved lust! A fourteen year old boy! sigh Even sixteen would have been tolerable...this story depresses me more than The Bell Jar. I do not wish to watch Visconti's film because the man is very ugly and the boy is very pretty. Now psychoanalyze me, I don't care. Your Eros may just be my Thanatos, huh!

Saturday, 7 November 2009

yaaaaaaaaah bleh

Oh, my god, there she goeth again, but also (thankfully) not Goethe again!

Why do I feel old? Why are people cold? Why is my life sad? What is in a rant? Why do you not have a polyester pant? bad, bad, bad, bad.

Things will become worse soon. The price of tobacco will increase. My asthma will become peenu-monia. Tonic will not be served with gin. Love will be banned from the frescoes of Florence. Or the fauna/flora of Ellora. Veronica will get Archie because a Yeti will get Betty.

OK, I think I must stop.

OK, just one more crucial point. Has anyone eaten a soup spiced with gloop? Or a pot of snot? Do parrots not eat carrots? Why not? Do they really eat chillies, the sillies? Do horses never lie down? I never want to be a horse. In my next life, I want to be an Egyptian God, but I do not want to be a naked Egyptian God. I don't want to be you. I don't want to be you either. I don't want to be a literary critic. I want to be Scheherazade. I want to be rich. Really rich.

I want to be meaningful and not at all funny. I want to burst with meaning. I want to help people. I want to bring about World Peace. Also greater multicultural understanding. I will never be depressed. No, I will, but only when I lose on the stock market. I want to play with bulls and bears and not with stupid hearts. I also want to play with the fates of many nations. I will only drink carrot juice and neem juice. I will eat neem begun and eat broccoli and ask "Who is Barbara Broccoli?"

I want to be overwhelmingly decent. Now give me the Nobel Prize. Quick!

P.S.- I can't believe that you are reading this post. Suckers! Losers! Yaaah! Yaaah!
P.P.S.- I am growing really old and am neither-here-nor-there. Abandoned and decrepit. I feel like Perry Como staring at the Beatles and the Rolling Stones. And also, not quite Mahler and uh Mendelssohn?

Thursday, 5 November 2009

Customary November Post

She's such a hoax. She's the month of November.
Her smile is the bittersweet afternoon sun.
I think she's the most gingery chocolate
And when I see her I think she's not the one.

I am in love. She is my object.
Subject I cannot call her with due sorrow.
Her subjection may lead to my abjection
I want to see her now and forget tomorrow.

She is the last oblique rays falling through the leaves
When you see her once it is November that grieves
Her smile is so enchanting
That my love leaves me panting
And autumn seems to ask me; is it you who believes?

I stare at the fading sunshine. Cold twilight.
Where did it come from? Was it my light?
Is she mere distraction?
Or a terrible abstraction?
Will she never care? For my plight?

Then I think I know. I always knew!
Like Socrates said, we try remember
It's very very hard and we hate it so.
And then we call the month "Sweet November".

Monday, 2 November 2009

That many-splendoured thing.

Black rose, my most manly enemy, you terrify me. For you, I am condemned, I go to the gallows.
For you.

All my life, I bear your love as a cross. Your love crucifies me. Is it terror?
Or error?

A sudden gust of wind like hatred blows across. It falls evenly on the night.
And you, my black rose, my enemy.
I fade out of your sight.


Tell me, have I hurt you? Is love a wistful song no more?
How much poison in one night? How much lies in store?

You breathe my name. I am so tame.
Sport I'm not, but are you game?
Or is the joke a joke no more? Similar, but never same?

Go, my lost melody. Go into the night.
I don't think I can manage it. I am much fatigued.

(And yet the love returns, like Burton to Ms. Taylor.
I think I am no albatross, and you a crazy sailor.)

Come, black rose, I will water you and make you whole once more
How much poison in one night? How much lies in store?

There can only be a partial truth or a half-lie,
You, my eternal dream, my abstract enemy.
Then come, my diseased flower,
In abstraction must we try.

Sunday, 1 November 2009

on books and stuff

These Sunday afternoon posts (sounds like the name of a newspaper in Anglonama) are deadly things. They reflect our general disillusionment with our weekly languages and the disintegrating nature of human bonding. Or do I mean bondage? No idea. Some of my friends are happy, some of my friends are unhappy, (and mostly) some are not my friends.

I share the sense of humour that Julian Barnes seems to have but I do like a good story. I mean I wouldn't write a novel like Talking It Over even though it's really funny and the characters are these really neurotic half-grown individuals (slightly cultured and well-read) that half the world seems to be now. The other half comprises people who are smart, incisive, boring, can do arithmetic in their head and have clear views on Maoists as the Enemy of the State.

I am slightly feverish and irritated with everything. Today I wanted to destroy my charger. I felt like a character out of Virginia Woolf's fiction. Or even Anita Brookner. I could feel my consciousness oozing out of the pores of my skin and destroying the charger. By gad, I wish I could be less the protagonist of a Booker-nominated novel and more a 21 year old with mere issues. Why do I say Booker-nominated? Because these novels don't win anymore. They're all boring, all, all- even the ones that win. It was really funny that Kiran Desai called that horribly boring novel what she did. I mean, so apt. Her mother didn't win so she did. I'd call it the The Inheritance of Loss As Gain. Thankfully not in two volumes.

So I see my charger creeping into my phone, violating it, ravaging it, making it throb with current electricity. Everyday they do it. Excuse the sexual metaphor. I hated the charger. I felt like crushing it. (Don't psychoanalyze me this once.) Making it powder and then going out for fancy coffee. Alone, with P.G. Wodehouse in my bag for company. Or Wendy Cope who writes exquisite poems on hehe. Haha. Mwahahahahahaha. Find out for yourself.

I don't know why I can't be a fatally interesting novelist. I really don't know. I must try too. I am sure I could write about The Tiger that Ate My Libido In a Sea of Marijuana in three volumes. It will be about the depraved, wasted, stressed out youth in some century. A grand trilogy in all earnest. Well developed characters and global concerns. Horrendously subtly beautiful language.

Ooooh. I know why I can't.

*yawn*
I'm lazy.

P.S.
When I win the Bookers
I hope- them awful lookers-
I'll tell them a rather nasty truth
Them bitchy, filthy hookers!

~addressed to men and women who have been "nasty" to me all my life. :D and there have been plenty, plenty, plenty. Comes from being snotty, potty, and spotty. Perhaps also haughty.

Friday, 30 October 2009

nostalgia.sniff.

When I was a little girl of ten
I knew my mind
I was unkind
How I loved me then.

When thirteen struck my life
I was fat and spotty
And did very good potty
There really was no strife.

When I was slimmer fourteen
I looked angelic nice
Girls would look at me twice
And the boys found me most sportin'.

Sixteen was sweet enough
I grew breasts and my voice grew deeper
On trains I'd never go sleeper
Only trigonometry was tough.

Eighteen I was in uni
I would rant and cope
Even do dope
Smoke and drink like loony.

But shit I am now more than twenty
Women hate me
Men berate me
Worries I have a plenty.

All my life I will be plagued then
By my face and my mind
And always try to be kind
Oh I wish I could be ten again.

Tuesday, 27 October 2009

The Purpose of Life is to be Happy.

One day, in bright sparkling sunlight, when the rest of the busy cosmopolis passed her by, a girl walked alone in Bombay. She had an important interview the next day. She must be smart and go to Oxford. Perhaps she wasn't ready. She had a little impersonal hotel room where no sunlight ever came. Then she switched the AC off and opened the door. Crystals of sunlight flooded the room- dancing, crying, singing. Epiphany. Why did she once think that the room was so dark? No room can ever be so dark. And the slice of sunlight had first filtered in through that hidden window. No room can ever be so dark even with the door closed. When she opened the door, the room was the sun's playground. It was beautiful. It was divine.

She didn't get what she had gone for. Instead she saw a poster. A little blue poster in the middle of a cruel cosmopolis. The Arabian Sea- strong, serene, silent. The city-impersonal, European, Jai Maharashtra.

The poster- The purpose of life is to be happy.

Don't ask me why. I cried then. I cry now.

Thursday, 22 October 2009

Little Intellectual Droppings

There was a man called Happy
There really was a man called Happy
Whether he lived up to his name
Without an iota of shame
I don't know; I feel rather crappy.

There was a man called Witty
Whether he made people snigger
Without pulling the trigger
The fear! Oh it makes me feel shitty.

There was a man called Mr. Just
He drove people mad with lust
His sense of justice was sick
From four lines to limerick
Why? Oh because I must.

There was a cat called Rum Tum Tugger
Mr Eliot wrote about this bugger
Also Mac Cavity the candy store chain
That promised to give dentures pain
Oooh I feel the urgent need to mug 'er.

Go on, rebuke me, with your droppings of poo
The cat will always miaow, the cow forever moo.
But this beauty of a duty, I tell you true
Your snot I will recycle into excellent glue.

Hug Me. I Hug Goo.


Wednesday, 21 October 2009

Happy Panda

Strange moments of illuminated sky sparkling
with the heart's desire. Sire,
I must tell you. It is not the darkling
plain outside. As is the inner fire.

The tears are crystal drops of longing
and they fall. I don't know why
But they too think of belonging
and fall while I slowly die.

And when my fears and troubles
Stop. Then will I smile and cry
And may little crystal bubbles
Form and never burst and die.

On the darkest night of the year
You must see sparkles across the sky
You must, and you must never fear
That for your crystals, I must die.

I shall never fade like that fading star
Or a waning moon, or a sorry Venus.
And now my thoughts go astray and far
For with Venus I can only rhyme penis!

:P
In 15 years' time, what will I be? Pretty I am, vain too, rich (I'll marry a rich man)- so yes I'm going to be happy of course!

Friday, 16 October 2009

Letter to God.

Dear God,

The nice neo-liberal bourgeois modern mind, bless it. I hope it prospers along with our nation of smart semi-literate (rather cruel) but young and vibrant nation. These nice young people look so nice, but in your eyes God, I hope to God that they don't look so attractive as they look to us. I know God that you may be a solicitor, but you are no lawyer, for you are just. You know that wrongs aren't always crimes. You know that this uncivil society is a sham and a shame. For that, I am greatly thankful. As I was telling myself yesterday, God is a poet though they do not know it. God is a marvellous poet and therefore I hope that I can take this slight poetic liberty...of hoping for poetic justice. Eventually.

God is also a doctor, but he is not doctored like the society we live in. Neither does God have a deep and dashing cleft on the chin. God is supreme where the law is rather depressing or in a State of Anarchy where there is no law. Oh, I dislike West Bengal so much. When is it going to make some development in the right direction? Everyone knows that the Left is Godless, by God, I hate the Left, to repeat an old joke, there is nothing Right about it. In fact, everything is all Wrong. That is to say, if everything is not all Crime. Crime and chaos can at times be synonymous, at least for one who likes to see The Order of Things. And for dear life, who is being Foucauldian? I am just being clever. I am sure there is a difference. In that case, all our politicians would be Foucault and what a disaster would that be. For our clever historian was quite gay, and where would our politicians be without offspring? The horror of leaving behind a legacy to nobody in particular! The ties of blood are thicker than water, I don't know about Hooghly water. That is rather dirty, muddy and thick. In a democracy, everybody gets water to drink. It's a fundamental right, I believe. But that water can kill you. Nevertheless it's water.

God, o God, my dear God, I wish I could believe in you more, then I would write you letters everyday. For example, when Gate #4 collapsed in JU killing those labourers. We walk through that gate every single day God, and we find it disturbing only very rarely. Only after watching disturbing things on CNN about war in Iraq and stuff. Such a lot of innocent people dying every day, and those wretched Maoists...what are they thinking of? Oh what a stupid question to ask. I am sure they are only thinking evil things. I am sure they have no grievances, and I am definitely sure that they can never be rehabilitated. We have no idea of justice, God. You must not teach us. I am afraid that would make us less modern, less interesting and definitely less attractive. I am sure our smiles would not be so dazzling if we knew justice, I am sure our eyes would sparkle less.

Meanwhile I am sure God that NDTV just does a magnificent job, and here we are reading Eliot the banker-turned-poet even as all our poets turn bankers and all our bulls and bears have the most charming Viagra to boost their libido. The champagne is pouring, the guardians of our collective consciences are snoring, and the loins and the lions are roaring. The world is just perfect, and will increasingly grow more perfect.

We are perfectly happy, God. Perfectly happy.

Tuesday, 6 October 2009

a sudden, warm post.

There are times when one is personal without wanting to be; those are the most personal times of one's brief life. A life lived out publicly for mostly others...society is a dangerous necessity, a bad habit that grows on one, until the habit becomes a compulsion and then bang!poof! you realize it, you call it alienation, you feel like an outsider and you read Camus or Kafka.

Tonight however, I do not feel like an insect. I do not feel like Beckett's ugly tramp who could only hope of an erection on the gallows, I do not feel like a man who caused his favourite forest to be decimated, or like an unnamed protagonist who inhabited, for a night, an enchanted haunted castle...translated the hungry stone.

I feel like a young boy who will see a train for the first time. This, my friends, is not a metaphor for modernity, this is my favouritest writer Bibhutibhushan Bandopadhyay encapsulating the spirit of adventure in a single defining image, and Satyajit Ray captured it. He did.

I have also realized that life is a lovely meandering path and I am a lovely meandering train belonging to the Indian Railways pre-Rajdhani and definitely pre-Duronto Express ( and in Hindi is it called the Turant Express?) Of course trains don't have friends (they have ministers but no friends :( ...alas) but this train does. I am like Thomas the Tank Engine, a lovely fictional anthropomorphic steam locomotive created by the Rev. W. V. Awdry as one of a number of characters in his Railway Series books, first published in the 1940s. Check this-

The above being a childhood addiction, before Pogo came onto the scene with bad Hindi dubbing. Stop me if I bore you. Actually you can't, this is my blog. Muhahahaha. And so, today I also realized that while some attachments are lost, nothing ends, as long as memories remain, as long as people remain, love lingers. And love, to put it mildly, is a very powerful thing. It breaks nations and hearts, so think of the scope, dear reader.

You may cringe at the cliches raining upon you. But my heart is warm, my intentions are good, my teeth are white, and underarms don't stink. Life could get worse than this. I could bore you with details of Woody Allen's sex life. Actually I couldn't, I don't know myself.

If you hate me, then I don't care. Some people do love me. One day I will stop causing them pain and buy them champagne. (OK this didn't quite sound right.)

Ore baba, to Colaba!

Friday, 2 October 2009

old times

Immersed in a slight fever certain days and evenings and nights and mornings come back... how relentless time can be is only witnessed in college years and all (for some reason time never passed in school or only too too slowly) and now everything has changed. While I was sleeping I remembered the exact same breeze-from-ceiling-fan way back in 2006? Strange that it has been more than 3 years now. I am so tired.

The weather must have been quite similar but they seem tinged in a different kind of sunlight for some reason- the shorot more golden and the hemonto more orange and the summers more dazzlingly hot and the winters so pleasant so coffee I don't know how to explain it? There we used to sit at the old Milonda's and smoke and drink coffee before winter-morning-tests and it was so pleasant...and the rather smoky days...and I made Supriyoda read this particularly bad poem of mine (18 is a dangerous age) and he was dazed&doped as usual and he said "Ei meyetar modhye kichhu alada achhe" and then You should write. Isn't that what everyone in JUDE inevitably does?-Write?- the ones who are never happy, the ones who seek Solace when Dasgupta's is closed, the ones who smoke and who smoke pot or sit near the ones who smoke and who smoke pot....and suddenly in my tandra (how do you translate that? Reverie? Half-sleep?) I shuddered with this inarticulate sort of nostalgia-mingled-horror! When does one get out of it? When exactly does one fall out? Fall out of love? Fall out of habit? Fall out?

And the tutorials and the fun times and the ledge times and the times we got to know seniors and the first few seminars and volunteering and the sense of community...if you don't want to be like that there is no problem being like this...but then not being able to figure out where and what you want to be? It's sort of difficult trying to encapsulate the sitting-on-the-Comp.Lit.stairs and the creeping out for GFK&chloromint between classes...(Howlie never inhaled a Classic, Pragsie never read a classic....muhahahaha)...and the time Pragsie puked and puked after doing his first joint and the heartbreak I suffered after doing my last...(which is also aeons ago!) And sitting with Srin for a lit-quiz and then the horror of qualifying for a tie-breaker? I wanted to call us "Hot Coffee With Chocolate In It"(that is what we were drinking right then) but those nincompoops of organizers never noticed. And the first play I went to with some seniors and that included Maddy-oh so cute Maddy who had just quit smoking- Raisin in the Sun- Momo was the brother of a childhood friend- when I saw him in the play-looking a bit strange with the paint on his face...I thought, "Gosh! He has changed."Smelly shoes and chocolate cakes. And a best-est friend. And the Barkestra, Alal thinking "Who let the dogs out?" and looking a wee bit surprised that the KMC could not take us away. And then Bapi Keno Papi? wherein my name was NeelAkasheEktiTara De! Life has become tamer, nest-ce-pas? *Sigh*

I accept change, as we all do, but sometimes the crowd of new faces and new people, it is so difficult. Sometimes seeing a familiar face-anything which makes one recollect those days(pleasant as they were)- and how can they not be? Everything tinged in sepia-light, brighter and lighter than what they actually were. Attachments made and lost, loves no more than ghosts, dreams- some not even remembered. That is what scares me most. Not remembering.

Sunday, 27 September 2009

it is a lie?

Here I am an old
and young person looking
for some (what do they call it?)
children have a word for
it. Or maybe not? What indeed
she says, what indeed is that
is that
is
that.

On nights of many
yesteryears when the nights
full of fumes and smoke and pulsating
dreams, I danced insanely
These have waned, we were
pained, I am drained. And now
and now, and now
ashes are all that are left, and sometimes
the embers stir, but leave me
unmoved. But some beats
some melodies some dreams
seem
vaguely familiar.

With age love withers.
A strange senescent senility has set
in, and the heart never skips a beat
for anything. And yet one (what
do you call it?)...
Hope? Maybe that-
and I do it, an old and young person
who detests and yet savours
what is that cruel thing they call?
Error? Hatred? Weakness?
Savoir faire? Don't nod, don't say, don't whisper
that it's... experience?

With age the mind wanders.
Into and through strange alleys
and by-lanes. Then a strange cul-de-sac wherein
no truth whaddyacallit resides. Hides a lost
whisper, hides a strange dream. The heavy, rather
unpleasant hangover. After drinking, in the
Dark. For; do we know? Who is it, I ask?
Or perhaps, it only wanders and never
questions. That is the sign.
Of age.

With youth, however, is associated that callousness
I talk of. It is a strange coldness. Another
hangover, from childhood.
I daresay children can be nice, it is a cliche
that they are cruel. Different from adults
inasmuch they do not pretend.
Youth; inevitable pretentious
(now impostor!)
In the afternoons
I feel youthful and cruel.

At night old cold
I stay awake
and break
my heart, thinking
of what never was
and could not be.

It is a lie if I say that ashes are all that are
left, with an occasional ember. For with
age, when the passion dies out
a new sense emerges. It is not that
dreams are our only company.
It is an understanding.

(Of the birth that was death
and the death that was birth.
And the life that was breath
And the reconciliatory mirth.)

And an understanding.
So much understanding.

It is a lie.

Wednesday, 23 September 2009

do you call it dead.

Staring at the edge of a precipice, only a terrace with plants in pots, and the finite sky beyond, staring and staring until the prophecy becomes an unmentionable poem, and an unthinkable thought....why must we always think that which should not must not be thought?

I hate poetry, you shout to the finite sky, a mute agonized shriek, and who can prophesy that which cannot happen? Or that cannot be spoken? Then you sigh and the gathering clouds make the finitude more emphatic and unbearable.

Then a flash of lightning ends it all. Against the stark heavy sky a lonely tree stands charred. A mere silhouette, an aesthetic oddity, a lost dream. You turn your eyes away as they were always meant to be turned away. Your heart skips a beat and then returns to normal. Away in the horizon it rains in torrents. But you can only feel it in the distance, it may never come at all.

You turn away as you were always meant to. Away from the terrace and the sooty sad figure and the heavy greyness. Into the room you walk alone. Warm with artificial lighting and with wooden countenance you survey the mahogany and teak. They called it comfortable.

Do you call it dead?

Wednesday, 16 September 2009

wherein she laments for the lost touch

the city
cloys on the senses
like an old
whore with cheap
perfume
crying
as a beggar does for alms
for intercourse

and then
she dies
near the nostrils
and cries
her last cry
don't leave

but leave we must
as the incense makes us sick
incense is also offered to
gods
lost gods


Monday, 14 September 2009

if only the butler did it

Well, what can I say? I am an oaf though not obnoxious. Hardly endeared myself to the Rhodes Committee by refusing to answer the first question. Which was, "Why do you think you should get this scholarship? Why not someone else?" So I said, "I don't think that I can answer this question." And today, two people refused to have coffee with me in BCl. Everybody hates me. I need another haircut if I am to succeed in life.

Righto. Right ho. Today I went to Milonda's 4 times! To faff around i.e., where I met my dear friend Batman. Whose batman? For shame, he is no valid valet, he is a superhero, a Lennon shenanigan, while he (you know who!) is Rainman! Hee hee. Oh stupid! So then dear stoner-loner told me about how kinky Goblin Market is...how utterly twisted...woe for the little girls corrupted so early by their ahem!

OK. I am so sleepy only, but about to defrost my mind with Arnoldian prose. When he began the dialogue with his own mind, why did he not stop to consider whether he was really spreading sweetness and light or some mildewed (sticky) raspberry jam that stinks miles and miles until all the Margarets and Marguerites and Margrits and Margots run...you get the drift, eh?

I am sick of literary allusions. I realize this post sucks. (d)Over Beach i.e., I am not over Beach. If only the butler did it!

You can see how excaaite I am. What can I say? Spenser, Sophocles, Seneca, the Rossettis. Read the last of the lot. After them three with names beginning with S-es. Why do I exist?

My laptop just answered the question.
His name is Lenovo Thinkpad.

Friday, 21 August 2009

to whomever it may concern

What song do you sing for the pain that refuses to go even after the song itself becomes a loop from which there is no escaping? And then there is a piece of chocolate with an almond inside it that sticks in that particular corner of your throat? Then nothing can resolve that lump, for nobody knows whether the lump is piece of chogletty nut (like yourself) or genuine unshed tears. Then it doesn't matter for the hurt is where the heart is and the wreath is where the breath is, and the breath was where the death is.


I am helpless for I am 21 and I do not know. Nobody who is 21 knows. Even if they manage to look 16 and feel 36 by peculiar tricks of light. Is your life, like mine, an optical illusion? I want to be a bit of a kaleidoscope, and bits and pieces of colour. So exciting, but I may also be like you...colourblind...in a way. You know what I mean. But thank you.


Your beautiful heart is a delicious sundae.

PS- It's not about what you think it is, I think.

Friday, 7 August 2009

X, X but not one more X

i have maistrie o'er pastry
my mother calls me "nasty"
i am hasty, you are tasty?

you're a zonkie i am a poodle
you're a cubicle, may i canoodle?
dream dahling and do not doodle.

you're a chicklet i am a chickie
you're hentai without a hickie?
sickie, sickie yo aren't you picky?

pickles, pickles, fickles, druids and sickles, death and scythe
me is a swit myth, bend to my legend, be my friend
acknowledge i'm funny, and say "hey, wise wit!"

oh my cool canoodling poodle, i be a nosy li'l noodle
we're so hottie
we're so cool
(alas poor yorick!)
modern X-tian fool.

Monday, 3 August 2009

you, not you

Sometimes I feel like a wayside beggar asking for alms except the alms are charms that nobody can conjure up at any notice whatsoever. Then you fall in love with the dreams that other people saw, oh so many nights back...centuries of nights...millennia of magic...but tell me, what more can one live for than those moments?

A few hours of stolen joy, secret happiness denied, unaccounted for... day after day...and then three minutes of paid purgatory.

Tell me that you lied. Or at least you (you, not you) are not telling the truth.

Humans need chances, and roadside dances. And lances? :(
OK I am not one for romances. Not romance, romances. Tell me. You, not you.

Sunday, 12 July 2009

Not dull, Dahl-ish eve

This is one of those entertaining posts for which I have made a dashing name, you will now smile and shudder alternately. You will wonder whether I am grotesque or charming or both. You will like me a little bit and hate me a little bit more. But you have to agree that things happen to me- I am an adventurous li'l hobgoblin with lucky friends. Yippee. Jack went Rippee!

Now listen. Yesterday was one of those days when everything was a little rainy and odd. It was a damp Saturday evening when three people had nuffin to do, no muffins to eat. They took a bus ride to 8B to eat a chocolate tart, only to discover a dead fly in it. And there the story just began. I wonder whether any of you unlucky souls have drunk tea at the shabbier shanty in 8B? There are two; one proudly claims that he makes a fine blend of Assamese and Darjeeling- and by Jupiter! He is right! But this is not he. This is the other one. The one who looks slightly smug and well-contented. But beware, he is lean. And he is mean.

Why? We were sitting in his shanty (since the other better option was closed.) And the story does not end here either. It hasn't even begun. For then...then the thing fell on Nilanjan. From the ceiling. He jumped up and a squeaky squeal emanated from his throat.

Nilanjan: Eeeks!
Dibbo: Eeeeeks! It's a lizard!
Ahona: OK!I want to see it!
Nilanjan: Let me brush it off.
Ahona: *Looks at ceiling. Sees a tail. Through a hole.*
Erm. Let us look at this closely.

Ahona, Dibbo, Nilanjan (in unison): Aaaaaargh! It's a baby-rat!

Nilanjan(horrified): What if BabyRat had fallen into cauldron of tea, now merrily boiling? What then?

Dibbo(loud and sarcastic): Rat-flavoured tea. Rats should fall in tea. Makes it infinitely better. Zing, zest. Where else should rats fall? On heads? No! On feet?No! On floor? No way! From the ceiling into tea! Perfectly normal. Perfectly proteinaceous.

TeaMan: No. Lizards should fall into tea, makes the whole thing better for you!

Of course we think he's joking, dear reader. Lizards are poisonous. Heaven forbid we take him seriously. We have drunk that tea on quite a few occasions and we grin with slight hesitation until.....

*CRUNCH*

Suddenly we find that the TeaMan had assiduously found the Rat Baby which was now in its death throes. And he was grinding it with his foot to a pulp. Grind, grind, grind; he went. With that same smug and smooth expression on his face.

My heart lurched unpleasantly. I saw Nilanjan flying out like a ballerina from the shack. One moment he was there, the next moment he was neatly outside with nausea written all over his face. And Dibbo I heard pleading with the man.

Dibbo: Can't you do this later? Can't you do this later? Can't you...
BOKACHODA SAALA!

And out he stumbled too. But what I kept noticing was the man's face. And the MotherRat squeaking somewhere. And the BabyRat emitting its final and fatal cheeee. Shit. The entire thing was most Roald-Dahlish, only far more unpleasant. And real.

One last observation. 8B is not for the squeamish. Also I hope that that TeaMan has not had family planning problems with his wife. He gives infanticide a whole new dimension; sinister, smug and self-effacing.

P.S. : I am glad I was not born a rat. I am also glad that my mother didn't build her nest on top of a tea-shanty the owner of which was a raving lunatic with distinct homicidal and infanticidal instincts. I am glad I am Ahona Panda. Or maybe not? *sigh*

Monday, 6 July 2009

Wherein subject changes midway

The title sounds La Grande Panda, nest ce pas? But it is not. This is reflection (partly) on why pictures make people look terrible. No, I don't want to talk about that now. Cripes! In which case, let us talk about colds. Or maybe not. Oh what the effing fuck. I am bored&boring. *yawn*

I am in MA class now. It is singularly uninspiring. I am often bored out of my wits trying to escape the lethal effects of extreme air-conditioning. How does one condition oneself to air-conditioning? Why must I pose this question like this? I want to sound grander and sadder but alas! Alas, poor Yorick! Today we just cannot inspire, concentrate and... and... blimey! What were we talking about again?

OK, this is the general predicament that I lately find myself, La Grande Panda (how delightfully obscene that sounds, to be sure), in. In a way it is horrifying. I cannot concentrate on a thing. I feel vague and there's this general feeling that everything is over, and yet I know nothing. Whereas one shouldn't feel this when something new is beginning. Or should they?

Ahona Panda looks like Ahona Panther-a in her new passport-sized photos. (This joke has been cracked by Lord Panda, otherwise also known as Daddy Panda/Baba Panda. He is not a spiritual guru, nor is he a rapper. He is simply and stupidly my father.) I hate my hair. I hate it. It makes me look like a panther (when angry) or a spaniel (when rheumy and mild).

Isn't angst productive? *glee*

I am hungry. I want chocolate. I love poetry. Also, I may or may not adore you. Now bubbye, dear reader. I hope this greatly improves the moral tone of your filthy mind. I am a misanthrope. I want to hate you, you and you. But I can't.

I am a swit one, fer shore. With a swit tooth and swit readers.

P.S.- Classroom is full of unknown, unfamilar, gloating? faces. Grrrhhh.

Thursday, 2 July 2009

I nOt smart, eye smart

fuzzy deluded feeling of deadness
light headed but still well-bredness
cleopatra reclining
health so declining
blog's for bloody whining
such such such sedness.

is this pome?
oh no
is this tome?
oh blow
is this rome
of course not
am i home?
maybe not

or perhaps, fuckitall- my chest hurts
EYES SMART
I NOT SMART.

Tuesday, 30 June 2009

not.

Sometimes words are not enough
Love is not enough
Faith is a gaff
My heart is chaff
Vot a laff.
Indisposition over a subtle miaow. Why did you step aside?
When you mew better and drew better (more than inference)
Was it intemperance? What a wench I was, what a wrench it was.

Do I know what I write? No, dear reader.

NOT.

P.S. Thanks to Auroboros. (Auro boro hosh.)

And then, in her love, I became a cow from a cat.

The mew became moo. And that was that.

Monday, 29 June 2009

I don't want to die but I don't want to feel.

Friday, 19 June 2009

wine/tea/yawn

I want to overflow with ideas but usually burden myself with abstractions. I will grimace if you ask me to explain myself- so:

1.> The heart is a desert of many conceits and much deceit.
2.> Monotony has a strange grating sound of its own. Like a machine. Where are you, o li'l un of glitter and dream?
3.> The drama excited me, the farce fascinated. What drama and farce? Oh the everyday one of course. The cat in the hat, the cat out of the bag. That kittenish feline everyday purring. And those eyes! Green;wide-eyed. Wonder and hatred. Wondrous hatred. O miaow again.
4.> There are no more chocolates in the fridge now.
5.> I am going out for a kebab dinner. I wish I could go out for a boat-ride. Again. But this time almost-alone, a sort of dirge-ride... a swan-song to that which could never be. Incoherence for me always disguises a mind curiously alert and attuned. I know that which I am, inarticulately & beautifully coherent. A mirage of meaning.

Hyphenated words have almost fascinated me. What makes a pair? Why can't a red sock go with a yellow sock, or a pearl with a diamond? Hyphenated words mark a strange juncture of new meaning, a meaning that one must find (amidst much adversity). Beauty is a curious thing. I hyphenate compulsively. But I hate crosswords and sudoku. And all such compulsive activities, but that does not include heterosexual pairing.

I am afraid I have grown up too much now. I am afraid I see things too clearly. I wish I did not. For this renewed clarity is an indication of singularity( and no, not to be confused with being single in the city, which is also, of course, very appealing and charming)- and a mind that is sort of grasping. And when I grasp more than kebab, I feel that I am biting off more than I can chew.

Do you think I could ever read Symposium again without feeling pain? Or without feeling? Or do you think Plato never meant it that way? Or did he? Or did he not?

Wine or tea? I am afraid that I am a tea-totaller. And now, admit that that's a good one.

Tuesday, 16 June 2009

guilt, sob, milk chocolate

I feel very guilty.

I ate the last chocolate in my fridge in a moment of depression and weakness. It was meant for an elderly couple, the Maharaja and Maharani of Burdwan, who live on Burdwan Road (Alipore). I give details only to specify that these regal-sounding people are not figments of my imagination. I feel very guilty.

Why did I eat the chocolate? Why else. Not only was it from the house of Lindt & Sprüngli, but moreover- milk chocolate. Darn.

I am almost 21, and my parents will kill me and strum my pain not very softly with more than their fingers. They will grate me and feed me to the nice looking kitty who comes for fishy every afternoon.

I will be purée of panda. Yum.

OK now bye.

Saturday, 13 June 2009

what is beauty, saith my sufferings, then?

In 2007 there was an evening. An evening when I went to the Burning Ghat for the first time and saw my favourite jethu in the world turn into dust and ashes. I wanted to uncork champagne and spray it wildly for the hour that ticked by. The pungent smell of death vis-à-vis bubbles.

Could I ever quote Eliot again? Are we those who suffer the ecstasy of animals? Did I know what I was thinking? What do people think when it is sunset? Or was it early morning? Nevertheless, desolation. Like some cheerful fairy whose wings were cut off. Tinkerbell! Tinkerbell? A futile sort of emptiness and imagined music. The breeze was blowing most hard, that day in 2007. My father was crying, was that it? The strange but not jarring music?

Eloquence is often a misguided act. Literature is a sham. Coherence is a con-man. Articulation is a hoax. Dupe me not, stranger- and I shall regard thee all the more. Where is thy sickle, o fickle god of retribution? I only see the moon. It cannot be.

And then, ~The End~

Postscript- What is beauty, saith my sufferings, then?
If all the pens that ever poets held
Had fed the feeling of their masters' thoughts,
And every sweetness that inspir'd their hearts,
Their minds, and muses on admired themes;
If all the heavenly quintessence they still
From their immortal flowers of poesy,
Wherein, as in a mirror, we perceive
The highest reaches of a human wit;
If these had made one poem's period,
And all combin'd in beauty's worthiness,
Yet should their hover in their restless heads
One thought, one grace, one wonder, at the least,
Which into words no virtue can digest.
(from Marlowe's Tamburlaine)

Friday, 12 June 2009

I have been tired.
Every poetic thought I have had was rendered into untruth.
Where starving thousands abound
The waters do not recede
The foodgrains do not come
What should I write?

I wish I could ask for help directly on my blog- would it be of any use? Then please help us. Whoever you are, however you read this, even if you contribute a rupee or ten rupees- help us rehabilitate lives that are devastated beyond measure.

I wish I could be more coherent and articulate but I can't. I haven't been able to post angsty nothings because now I know what pain is, what grief is, what hunger can be.

We must help. Please help us. Please care. PLEASE?!

Thank you.
Okay, I assumed you know what I was talking about. Aila. We're working in a few villages in the Sunderbans. Please help.

Sunday, 24 May 2009

À la recherche du temps perdu

The passing moment that eludes and freezes, that strange passing moment. On the Ganges a little rickety boat that rocked and swayed, with the tide and with elusive human emotions. Somewhere six hearts met at a single vantage point, six strange hearts that would find it hard to seek common ground. But the eternal swirling water; what did it care for these transient fleeting differences?

The passing moment that swayed and swirled, little whirlpools of water. Half an hour of paid bliss, of paid danger and glamour. The river meanders like our moody minds; what does it care for how we think? These thoughts elude the muddy water, the boatman asks for a cigarette, the glowing embers sway and flicker out in the water. We have only that eternal passing moment.

Two boys strike a strange Titanic pose, we have not yet grown up. We will probably never, one of us might, who will it be? The boy in the light mauve teeshirt with nervous witticisms...the girl whose serene beauty is nothing like her cubist paintings...the boy with sparse white hair who can't swim...the boy with the camera...the girl with a hurt toenail dipping her toes into the Ganges hoping to be tickled by the Gangetic dolphin...the boy who is 6 feet tall and doesn't know the Bengali name of the Gangetic dolphin...

Or could it the other girl wanting the boatride to finish and not to finish...There is a strange frown on her brow. The brow is creased in hateful thought. Strange how relaxing and taut our lives can be(at the very same time)...Is it because we miss out on such a lot at any given second? And then suddenly it strikes us- the time that cannot be undone? We can never undo the past! There is no respite, no respite from that motion, that motion that ebbs and flows, that comes and goes, that bestows and holds back...

The motion was in the head. That eternal passing moment.

Friday, 22 May 2009

miaow

My Little Skinny Poofy

When I see you I go woofy

My li'l soul canine

Goes whine, whine, and wine.

Oh my li'l sexy trauma

Steaming in a sauna

My little doggie delighting

You are so barkingly exciting.

Now FUCK OFF! I HATE CATS!

Wednesday, 13 May 2009

Am plunged into a parched primeval sadness. Desert of dreariness is back with a renewed horror of alone-ness. Am also looking forward to it. For that is how we are constituted in essence. The heart can seek for much, but the mind protests. The mind shouts out its solitude. My heart is a joke, I don't know even now-why it beats so hard and so much. But lately, it's almost stopped. Veins running dry. Horror. Renewed horror of that essential aloneness.

Verbosity or circumspect clarity bore me. I feel a bit sick all the time. I feel like shouting about the nothingness from rooftops. The soul has drained out from the body, it's been three years and I can't even study for exams any more. It's a bit strange, I'm not good at this.

November is so far away, but I felt Novemberish a few moments back. Orange, oblique and not quite trusting. Suspicious, sad, inarticulate. Disgust, despair, drama.

I wish I could change.

Sometimes I just wish I would allow myself to be less hurt at times. This is pure sado-masochism. I hate it, I hate not being able to love, I hate the indifference and the anger, I dislike the gloom and dreariness. I want excitement, and a White Knight and Wonderland. At least, in a dream. I hate reality.
But I hate appearances even more.
Hypocrisy, lies, shallowness, weakness, boredom, ennui, wretchedness.
I don'know whether I really want it but

I am alone.

Monday, 11 May 2009

daringly dark/achingly intense

Enough with those angsty-profound-sad posts. I was reading Plato. When I consumed the only chocolate I found in my fridge. It was 85% dark chocolate. It was called "daringly dark", and now my daring has brought dark thoughts to me. I almost gagged, my head spun, my heart lurched. Even getting a 3 for a class test when I had misunderstood the question and written a delightfully irrelevant answer (can there ever be a wrong answer in literature..*hee*) was not this bitter.

Ah, the bitterness. Even falling out of love would be more less bitter, or being disinherited. This chocolate was poison. Poison, pure horror. Why is it even called 'chocolate'? Why is it not called 'kalmegh'? Why is not called 'neem'? Why don't Bengalis make a suitably spurious torkaari with it... something like Neem Begun which is the most toxic torkaari in the world. What the fuck is Neem Begun? Why do people eat it as if the lau-chingri would only be second fiddle to such a gastronomic delight?

"Made with Ethopian Beans"- I will make their balls beans. This chocolate is achingly intense- right! I will make their balls intensely ache. God! How I hate them! This stuff should be administered to irritating children who will never whine for 'treats' again. Trick or Treat?! Huh!

What an angsty-profound-sad post!

Sunday, 10 May 2009

A Broken Vase.

I cannot write or feel at all. I cannot feel the breeze that is blowing on me. You may scoff and say there is no breeze. That the murmuring ceiling fan is a joke and an illusion. That the skies are cruel and the examinations beckon. The cosmic sniggers are so hard to take. So is deception and cruelty. Reading Antigone does not make it better.

It is obvious that Antigone felt a lot. I mean if my father married his mother then I would feel a lot too. Or I could go numb. Antigone, being Greek, did both at regular intervals but the numbness, of course, being less obvious. What am I saying? The Pantheon alone knows. *sigh*
It is goddamned tableau that my life has frozen into. The seconds tick by. *tick tick* I too have a nervous tic which I would love to tick off. But such t(r)icks I have long since forgotten. When I lost that which I held most important. Faith.

Faith is that glass vase like Benjamin's language. So fragile, so easily broken, such magnificent pieces. For us poor humans, never to be joined again. Once gone. Why do they try so hard, when they know that the cracks will show? I know this eternal optimist, to my diseased eye, such a glorious and inept fool, who would say: "But think, the vase could be joined with the strongest of glue and the cracks would be a new design and the whole thing would be fantastic and new-age. Cutting edge!"

But I, perforce a cynic like that other Benjamin( a nice donkey), would say, "But where can such glue be procured, by dear foolish thing? Thou art young yet, and the night is not. The night fades into a dismal pink. Dawn-pink; frosty and cold and unassuming. Let us assume that it is a new day with a new beginning. I must get a new vase!"

But vases, vases are aesthetic necessities to keep flowers in. They are not mandatory. Flowers cruelly torn from the bounteous bosom of nature. Nature that forsakes every cruel and shallow hypocrite who inhabits this decadent(no Fin de siècle, but what difference does that make?) world. Decadent in values, in morals, in goodness. We live lives that are never for a moment examined. We talk of clever things or stupid things disguised; you know what I mean. We want to be poets and philosophers and historians and artists and art historians and professionals and publishers et al. Now stop to think. When was the last time we purchased a vase and stared at it longingly changing the flowers every day? Where is the time?

Vases don't exist any more. They existed for the Greek and the Chinese. Flowers are so fucking expensive. The last time I bought a dirty wilted rose for my mother, I felt repulsed at my own whimsical extravagance. And the last time I received a rose, it meant nothing. Such is faith, my friends. Such is the good life.

Crimson scarlet dirty flowers like a soul inept and soiled.
Do you think the vase broke even as it recoiled?

Saturday, 9 May 2009

untitled. (a note)

Creon. Seek not to have your way in all things:
Where you had your way before,
Your mastery broke before the end.
Oedipus The King.

Everytime I read Greek Tragedy, I feel shaken. And vindicated. My apologies to all those concerned for my presumption. Also my apologies for the beginning of the end.

Tuesday, 5 May 2009

Coloured Water


Sometimes a burst of colour seems more important than life itself. When the darkness suddenly descends one night, and the city-lights camouflage that essential darkness. When the cars whiz by reminding us of our pedestrian existence. What sad thoughts the lonely mind has at that moment. Sleeping pills or a nostalgic noose?

Stop then and think, she says. Stop and cry for the dead departed who cannot see that sudden gush of red,orange or purple. How stupid is tungsten and neon to illuminate that which cannot be illuminated, that begs for the sly shadows of the night? There must be interplay and intercourse between shadow and shadow, heat and dust, life and death,light and anticipation,laughter and tears. There in the tragic moment of reversal lay the greatest laugh.Senile old man, what picture do you take?

In the orange certainty of my last epiphany, when the cruellest month of April tried to take away my last breath and choking gasping dryness siezed my throat in an eternal yet temporal thirst...I turned to water.

There in the face of darkness I saw splashes of light.
An elusive fountain of lost longing.

Coloured water.

Saturday, 2 May 2009

"I don't like this."

Yesterday, as I sat outside National Library with a ladyfriend of mine who looks 17 at the most, a man was staring at us. Perhaps he stared because I was smoking in 40 degrees celsius, or perhaps because I, a girl, was smoking in the first place. Or perhaps he was staring because we were women and he has never seen women. The fact is, I was irritated. I was annoyed at the fact that an otherwise sunny (too sunny) afternoon would have a disruption of peace and privacy because a stupid man could not keep his eyes off two girls and he always had the option of staring ahead (he would see the zoo) or looking behind him (he would see the aquarium). Why did he have to stare at us? Much to the consternation, amusement, and slight embarrassment of the ladyfriend (a firebrand from Presidency, history dept) I shouted at him. That too, in Hindi. He replied in crisp and angry Bengali that he was doing nothing of the sort, only thinking about an ailing mother in the hospital. This enraged me further. I pointed at the National Library and shouted, "Does that look like a hospital to you?" Then he blubbered out some further shit and I got redder and angrier and finally, I knew what you were doing. So shut it, and scoot.
That is in Bangla it was, Khub bhaalo korei dekhlam ki dekhchhilen. Aar naa baaje bokey, aapni ektu ekhaan theke hawa howe jaan naa! Taate amader shobaar mongol!

Thankfully he followed my advice and I was supported by the friendly chipswaala with a pot belly who also owns the chaa-er thek. I gulped down 3 cups of tea in dismay to recover. But it was very irritating. And I did not quite know whether I stood vindicated or not.

You see, when I was 17, I was molested by a man I had called jethu for years, a neighbour I knew since I was 7 years old. At the moment, I was like a dumb dog who could not protest, who could not feel anger as much a deep and overwhelming sense of shame and futility. It was as if the glory of adolescence was robbed in a sudden moment. I felt nothing then. Absolutely nothing, except fear. Yes, I know, most women who are independent fighting spirits and all that, will find it difficult to accept. When that drunk and disgusting man locked his front door and asked me to "give uncle a kiss" I was scared. When he then came and hugged me and groped around inside my shirt I went blank. But the moment before I went blank I did not feel anger as much as I recognized the fear.

In the winter of 2006 I was assaulted. Guess where. The stretch between Bengal Lamp and Jadavpur Thana. It was sunday evening-around 6ish- and that stretch was unusually deserted. I was walking thoughtfully along, thinking about the end-sems which would begin in 3 days' time. A guy jumped off his bike and put his hand on my mouth. Gagging me, he said "Hello." For a moment, the brightness of his hello deceived me into thinking that I knew him. That it was merely a prank that some acquaintance was pulling on me. But no. And that split second when his hand crept inside my jacket (and some jacket that was! 'twas a bomber, no less)- I felt fear, fear and fear. I wanted to kick him in his groin. But the fear that he had a knife around stopped me. Meanwhile he tried to drag me towards a gate. A gate where I knew no guard would be around on sunday to save me. The bile was rising in my throat.

I bit the man on his hand. It wasn't much but I had to. It was the only thing I could do. I bit him till I drew blood, and then when his grip had loosened I kicked him where I thought his balls were. That was when my intense fear was justified. He embarked on what were 5 minutes of extraordinary violence. He dashed my spectacles to the ground. He punched me repeatedly. He tore chunks of my hair out. Then he slapped me 4 times. After that, when I was scared out of my wits, dishevelled, slightly bloody, shaking with horror, he sped away. Because my spectacles were lying there on the ground I couldn't pursue him or take down the details of the bike. I still remember that it was red and white. Fat lot of use that is.

I was so shaken that I stood there for ten minutes. It did not occur to me to go to the police. To ask somebody for help. A couple I knew vaguely stopped by and asked me whether I was OK. I told them what happened. They made me drink water. After that I called the friend who lived the closest (Prayag). Prayag came immediately, he was very nice, but I wish I had gone to the police. And I wish I could talk about it to someone then. Someone.

Fear is not the worst feeling in the world. Some people can say it's the most logical, obvious, and OK thing to feel under such trying circumstances. But what does one do? Fight it. Quell it. Frown at it. Make faces at it. Say boo! Say shoo! Say; go take a goo!
And that is precisely what I do now. If I dislike even a random stare or ogle, I say it out aloud. It does a lot of good to a soul that was once afraid. It still is afraid at times, but never too afraid to say out aloud: I DON'T LIKE THIS.

Tuesday, 28 April 2009

Fucking Memories Before I Fucking Graduate?!

After a long time, something dries deep within me. The fan sounds just as it did three years ago, slightly silly and yet curiously addictive.I look like a woman these days. But some friends claim that very little has changed when it comes to that curious external appendage called our body. That is, not a collective Body-like a Body Politic.But bodies, like that dangerous and awe-inspiring multiplicity that modernity gifted mankind.

My previous post was a whimsy. It was on time and time is whimsical so I was perfectly justified. I am like that only, strange and selfish. This post is also on time-except I shall be very sober and linear here. The plot, she said. The plot is something that only the most confident(arrogant?) storyteller can discard. The modernest among the modernists, so to speak. And we of course, are but pale imitations, moderns we are hardly. Little goofballs (not golfballs, freak!) would be more apt.

Three years have flown by. Those who are thirty will snigger at me and laugh at my youth. Ah the presumption of youth. What extraordinary epiphanies dost thou have, little one. But three years have passed and the almost-18(a memorable event) is almost-21(my father promised champagne many years back)...and I wonder.

It was a warm and sweaty summer then and I had no sense of dressing. None whatsoever. As Prayag says, I am an ex-Ugly. I used to wear courdroys in summer, so you can just imagine. The strangest clothes and the stupidest expressions. Oh woe the simple of mind...(I was the simple of mind)...I used to dislike people who smoked because I would feel choked when people smoked-I hated the smell of wafting tobacco and, and I forget. But then.
I grew out of it.

I grew into all sorts of terrible things i.e., terrible for me. Terrible for one who was simple of mind (essentially)...you must never aggravate your neurosis with stimulants. Only an absolute retard would poke a crazy cobra. But I am lunatic and my mind is a snake who is looking for a mongoose. Why looking,you ask. Just.

I wanted to discover the woman in me. Most often (frighteningly) I found a man, at times. But let those bi-curious leanings be the subject of another story. Such a long time, it has been and so short does it seem. Was it the other day I staggered on to a stage sloshed to no slight degree to garland Wayne Shorter and Herbie Hancock at Dalhousie Institute? I was prodded on stage by this lunatic weird hairy opportunist oaf...no need to name such non-entities.That has been 2.5 years. Amazing. I didn't even take a goddamned autograph of WAYNE SHORTER AND HERBIE HANCOCK! I AM S'POSED TO BE A JAZZ AFICIONADO! But I really love jazz, so...

Then there were the amazing evenings in 2006. I am not talking about the ones when I got stoned and thought this man shouting into his phone was Pavarotti Incarnate. My stoned evenings seem unreal now. I cannot even remember them. Initially I did feel happy. The sky was blue, you know. Blue! BLUE!!! Wow. can you believe it? Blue? Oh yes. Blue.
That's what it does to you. Bleh.
But the evenings I talk about were not those. They were ones I quietly soaked in. Just. Before I started depending on nicotine and tea for an added zing. They were evenings when you realized you were no longer in school. That you could read Browning in the CL, and think about the Renaissance.(Think being the operative word, actually knowing about it then was pretty impossible)...Sometimes I studied in the CL with Prayag for company. Prayag used to study a lot, I only pretended that I did. I saw pictures. And Prayag would tell me what a nerd I was and what cool friends he had; friends he got sloshed with. He would talk about cool girls who partied all night. I would snigger and think about Baudelaire. Oh woe the simple of mind.

My first friend in college was Raju, I think, and yes, Antoreep. Antoreep was crazy about films from day 1. The first book that he picked up from BCl was on Cinema. We had a Film Studies ED. He and I went to rescue a dog called Vodka from a Dog Pound. My car smelled of poor Vodka for a week, and though we scaled a fence- we could not save her. My mother (who had shouted) was very upset. Vodka died on my birthday- 12/08/2006. I still feel terrible. Dear Vodka, with such gentle eyes. I believe you have heard "the notion of some infinitely gentle, infinitely suffering thing"? That was Vodka.
Raju was always a rockstar, Basanti, oh she the heroine...she was wonderful! She made the days and evenings great fun with her scolding and her brusque and candid ways. And Howlie, can I express what Ms. Havisham Howlie embodied? The best things that children of 18 can hope for. She used to buy packets of Classics and smoke without inhaling them. She would wear velvet in sweltering heat-not to prove a point, but because she was Howlie. If ever somebody could have a humbling experience that would bring one's prejudices and set notions of acceptable behaviour to a crashing denoeument, revealing the basic hypocrisy of our idiotically set lives, that person is Howlie. Howlie who howled on our first day of interaction because I asked her not to pay for my photocopies.

But my friend, the girl who I wrote bad poetry with while sitting in Nandan/jheelpaar/wherenot...we smoked, joked, laughed and studied. Perhaps she has not forgotten, and nor have I. Things don't go wrong, things don't fade away, actual time-mind time; what is it? Where was it? How was it? Nandita used to play her sarod and I cried. Once we went to listen to a private recital and she cried. Fuck. Was I scared. She wasn't s'posed to cry. She never cried. I hope she still doesn't. ( I however, am a veritable weeper. This is because I am nyaka, not because I'm innately sad or something.)

There is a beautiful dusky girl with bee-stung lips. She should be in the movies. But she played a decisive role in the farce of my life. Her name is Anurima. She is TrueFriend, only she forgets me sometimes. Only that's OK. That is because I love her. She is solid and soft and she can keep a secret. But most importantly, she's an artist and a poet, as sensitive as the early morning sky.
Sunrita I spoke to about my deepest pangs. Like Death. And being liked by someone. The someone I don't want to talk about right now. Because I can see him reading this, and regretting-feeling sad-not that you did anything wrong. But I was a different person when I was 17-18. And you didn't know me then. Oh woe the simple of mind.

Two more people without whom my intense recollection or smritichaaron would be incomplete. Mandy who wrote poetry. Who I knew from before JU. Who was Mandy M. for years before she became Monidipa Mondal. Mandy is a part of me. Or at least her writing is. I may be out of touch forever. But she is always there. As am I. We catch up when urban ennui threatens to kill us. When Baudelaire shrinks back to his bawdy lair. When our naked scarlet dirty souls cry in the naked darkness of night. When the stars refuse to shine upon us, when the cars whiz by hating us, hating our pedestrian thoughts and lives. I love Mandy M. I love her poetry. I do not claim to know, or understand her, but that doesn't matter. Nobody knows me. For 3 years people thought they knew me. Variously described as 'bored', nyaka', 'pseudo-nyaka', 'vicious', 'sweet' (ahem!), 'intelligent' (yawn), 'eccentric'. 'crazy', 'complicated'...you get the picture?
Nandini Banerjee...you were there for me (or not) from school. You're not JU for me anyway. Neither is Sreya, or Mrinalini. Maddy&Dibbo have been strange but shaping influences. Maddy in fact I dig, but whether I dig her, or our collective graves in the wake of intense narcissism and ennui and hatred of the other sex (and yet being inevitably drawn to the best specimens respectively)....dunno :( Dibbo, for being Dibbo. Dibbo is unique. You can't define him. His voice shakes, he lends books, and he cracks jokes that I find funny after a crucial moment of letting it sink in.

Sion and Beanie for being happy and brotherly. Sion with whom I talked about everything. Whom I cried to. Beanies for stealing sandwiches from. Darn....I am not dying, just graduating. But I feel light years old. I am abandoning my scintillating prose-style for maddeningly inane stuff. I can't take this! Sion-Lion is a myth, innit. An adorable one.

In my final year, I graduated from being a standoffish person that nobody knew to somebody who talked lots lots lots. I have come to know a lot of people more. I have stopped being judgmental. When I see Sria smiling, I stop feeling that she's just a breathtakingly beautiful girl with dimples. She's not a doll, she's a plane! She's a bird! We have talked more in 2 months than 3 years? Strange. Also, Aurobouros Banerjee is a genius. He's a poet and a lunatic with logorrhoea. I love it! He's very very funny!

Alright, thank you for reading my Oscar speech. I haven't missed out anyone here. Because there is a second instalment. I feel sleepy now. This was stream of consciousness, a shower of impressions. My name is Tristram Shandy. I am not born yet. Good evening. Second years, I will pay all of you tribute. very soon.

*curtseys, dances a jig, and runs away*
*goes muah*