Friday, 30 October 2009


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!

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.