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*

Friday, 24 April 2009

Time,Dali, and Juvenilia.



time

*mutters*

Time is something that eludes
During Nocturnes and Preludes
Papa I cry Chopin...did he know?
Like Dali on whom it'd grow
Like a moustache with a mission
Time is a smelly emission.

Time is a tantalising tarantula
Which traps the crap of generations past
Time at last with the last teardrop
Time for some soda ginger pop.
Ma! I cried, I'm so terrible with time
Worse than with metaphor or rhyme.

Time for you and time for me...
Or Eliot's time, diffused with glee
Ominous time, wasted vastness
Dwelling in now is dwelling in pastness.
Everything I do tells me I'm so bad at it.
Everything the world does, I'm just mad at it.

Time for murder, time to die
Time to droop, time to fly.
Time to cry and time to kill.
Time is just a career skill.
And with that pearl of wisdom told
My time's ending-may yours unfold.

In fact, as this time begins one time does end.
My time's an enemy; is yours a friend?
I don't think any time can be.
I think my time. Is. Just. Me.

Darn- what lazy lameness lies here!
I want Dunhill& Bitter Strong Beer.

Thursday, 9 April 2009

the little girl.



Do you remember that little girl who sat by the window and prayed for you?
She was a stupid girl. They called her innocent, for they always do that. She was stupid. She thought that life was happiness and birdsong.
But she was named Ophelia.
And after such knowledge, what forgiveness?
She was beautiful. Therefore she was never happy. Her every thought was an epiphany, and epiphanies should be rare. That is how mortality should be. Those unaccustomed to waves of epiphanies call it madness or genius...and how many little girls have genius? Thus, it is always madness.
Then they said it was love.
It was not love, for there was no such thing as love then. There was sunlight and birdsong. There were colours. So many colours! Had noone ever seen the light before? The light?
Dreams are always in technicolour.
Only flashbacks are in black&white.
Memories are in sepia.
And so on.

There was a myth. Sometimes the myth was called the strange sad sublime story of one Orpheus. Kalidasa was sitting on a tree.Ignorant Kalidasa who was sawing off the branch he sat on. Oh when did the poetry come? The Snow Queen took Kay away and Gerda traversed light years to reach fairyland where the ice melted because of her stupidity. Only they always called it innocence.

Beautiful pastel shades and bright dazzling light. Only a tinge of red. Red as cherries, as roses, like blood, like lips, like lust, like a little flower that bloomed untended and uncared for in a corner. She put it in a little jar and her hair was orange and nobody saw her tears for she was a little girl and these were tears of stupidity... these were tears that they pay for innocence...the little Ophelia crying; for one day she would be sad...one day she would be mad.

These were tears of anticipation.

(Painting; Berthe Morisot, "female" Impressionist!Was neglected for more than a century.Now considered amongst the first rank of the painters belonging to that school.)

Tuesday, 7 April 2009

that hazy lie

we were so well and we were so fine
until you came and said you were mine
decant the dreams along with the wine
but i said i know you're not mine

we were so sad and we were so nice
together yet apart so much away
you would have me at any price
together together for the eternal day

i wanted to breathe the fresh air again
alone on my twinkletoes with you
you wanted to crush the petals in pain
death alone is such beauty true

we were so well and we were so sad
you took me and crushed me into your heart
and now we are so well and we are so mad
mad with love hatred desire to part

part with the old ways
part with the cold days
(part with the hazy lie
they call the future)

mad with lust.

Saturday, 4 April 2009

The Dance of the Ravaged Souls.

I had to cross the street and I saw him on the other side of the road. And I felt a curious emotion. It was not the rumball rebelling in my tummy. It was something far more profound. Huh! you say...'tis love! But huh, I say. It was not just love/indigestion/heat. It was a bit like a poem. Especially when he smiled. The smile was a bit like a grimace. But that's him, and I have nothing to complain about-not even when he punches/pinches the copious stitches that I have on my body(sadly shredded-alas these ravages of time)...

This tendency to digress he never encourages, and always makes me read Aristotle. This is because he thinks I have much brain which is, of course, a plain and blatant untruth. The truth is that I have interesting hair which manipulates my scalp in such a way as to produce many an illusion. (Then again; love is blind.) I used to think that he was very very brainy until he didn't cut his hair for a while and I realized that he too has interesting hair. Think, dear reader, even Einstein had interesting hair as did The Beatles.

And now, because I cannot find what I was looking for and wanted to share here, I shall quote myself i.e., it is a thing I once wrote when I was 16. I am 21 in four months' time. So you will please pardon immaturity of expression and appreciate the...the...curious emotion... as it were.

Now; The Dance of the Ravaged Souls.
Clad in transluscent temperaments and opaque longing
Pastel shades of pink and blue and tangerine
It was a dance; a greater dream
The sky was an indeterminate shade of grey
Or was it blue? And is it true?
That those creatures wore pixie hats?
They did! And twirled on their toes
Their heaving hearts unburdened by clothes
And the ravaged souls somersaulted off the cliffs.

Ah, there it did not end. But since my romantic mood is never quite that and often becomes a Romantic Mood, I shall keep it a fragment and declare it whole.

Thank you for reading this.