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.