Thursday, 24 December 2009
Tuesday, 22 December 2009
Friday, 18 December 2009
Thursday, 10 December 2009
Sunday, 6 December 2009
a daughter of hate
Monday, 30 November 2009
Friday, 20 November 2009
Thursday, 19 November 2009
Tuesday, 17 November 2009
Monday, 16 November 2009
Friday, 13 November 2009
Wednesday, 11 November 2009
Tuesday, 10 November 2009
Monday, 9 November 2009
Saturday, 7 November 2009
Thursday, 5 November 2009
Monday, 2 November 2009
Sunday, 1 November 2009
Friday, 30 October 2009
Tuesday, 27 October 2009
Thursday, 22 October 2009
Wednesday, 21 October 2009
Friday, 16 October 2009
Tuesday, 6 October 2009
Friday, 2 October 2009
Sunday, 27 September 2009
Wednesday, 23 September 2009
Wednesday, 16 September 2009
Monday, 14 September 2009
Friday, 21 August 2009
Friday, 7 August 2009
Monday, 3 August 2009
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
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.
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.....
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...
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
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
light headed but still well-bredness
health so declining
blog's for bloody whining
such such such sedness.
is this pome?
is this tome?
is this rome
of course not
am i home?
or perhaps, fuckitall- my chest hurts
I NOT SMART.
Tuesday, 30 June 2009
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.
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.
Friday, 19 June 2009
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
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
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
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?!
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
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
Wednesday, 13 May 2009
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
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
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
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
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.
Saturday, 2 May 2009
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
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*