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


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.


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.