So dear boy, you turn 17 (thank you dear time), atlast. One more to go, and you'll be legally allowed to watch porn on the internet, and drink like a hairy redneck, not that it matters really. But it's not yet the time to say 'ki pelam, ki dilam' I guess. That's for midlife crisised uncles and aunties. Dude, it's freaking 17, and through most of the times, I took, and took, and took, and gave an unda in return, that also only the empty shell. Now looking back at this piece when I'll 27, or maybe 37, or even 47, if the human race exists till then (No, I don't believe in 2012, we'll be landing straight into '13 after '11, but yes, I do believe in apocalypse), will be pretty funny, and probably I'll be pissed off with all the pakamis, but, I would have changed by then, won't I? Not anymore a sock sniffing, pseudo poet, racist, sexist, airheaded, teary eyed (while watching ICICI commercials), fat guy (Maalkhor), Teddy (Aayoti), Mota(Apa), Demented Retard(Anwesha), and the rest of the adjectives, whichever you feel suits. But will I be able to stay true to whatever I believe in (not that I believe in much), whatever I stand for (again, not that I stand for much, mostly lie down and sleep), whatever is right and wrong for me (just don't ask about it)? Or will I have become 'just another prick in the hall', on whom I laugh (pathetically) today? Sadly, that all depends on how I turn out today. If I can actually mug, mug, and mug a little more, maybe I will do decent in H.S. and get into some crafty college, and by the end of it, I will end up as 'the prick', with a nice job, nice social status, nice girl, and the rest of the nice things, and a 'prick' indeed. But then again, aren't all of us running after that 'perfect prick' trophy?
Then let me ask you boy, if not a prick, what else do you want to be? Indiana Jones? Rahul Gandhi? Mayor of Kol... naah, not this for sure. Anyway, what I'm asking is, if not this, then what? You don't mug, you don't do decent in H.S., you don't get into some fancy college, just another below average one instead, you can't believe your fate, and by the end of it, become some ghushkhor, ombol-er patient, kerani type. Again, a total loser. Haha, now this is a funny situation. No way out. There's always the third option of becoming a truck driver, or some teacher in a primary school, in forgotten lands of Bihar or Orissa maybe, or just marrying some rich, nepali chick of a distant hilly village. But no one gets life tailor- made, and I ain't any Bibhutibhushon Bandopadhyay.
I remember, since childhood, every year during the Pujo time, as the air filled up with a homecoming scent, I used to read 'Bhombol Shordar', by Khagendranath Mitra. Maybe he was the one I wanted to be, a boy out there, escaping from his home, to become a worker in the then-newly established Tata Nagar steel factory, and then getting lost into that mystical, soil flavoured world of rural Bengal. I have often dreamed of the 'Shujola Shufola Bongobhumi', but today, that is a part of the chhoto belae shona Roop Kotha, along with a lot of other things. But this year, was an exception. I did not read the book this time, as the Pujo came. I did not require to read it. Maybe I'm growing up. But that kinda' terrifies me a lot, because now that I don't want to be Bhombol Shordar anymore, then what? Better if I stop growing and become another Dorian Gray. So thank-you-but-no-thanks time. I seriously don't need you. Go away, and bug some one else. You get what I'm saying? I. Don't. Need. You. Sadly, time will never leave us, any of us dear boy, and you just accept the fact, and move on with life :)
Anyway I hear the Ajans in the near and far away mosques. So it's time to go to bed for me. Again, happy birthday old boy, you're super 17 now.
Go away freaking grandpa-like-voice in-the-head! Good bye for now then folks, meet you a year later :) Till then, it's good bye.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Last letter: Another Juliet Romeo story
Wake up love, love, wake up love. It is time to leave, to escape. No more tears, no more fears, only escape. Escape to that promised land. Green fields and fresh air, white horses and joys to share. Today, we escape. Pack up lover, get dressed, before your father hears us. Before he sees us together, before the world knows we are leaving. It is too late to forgive, and forget. It is too late to sleep, to see the vignette. Today, it is our time, and today, it is the time to escape. When they will find us missing, think how they will act, may they cry, may this glass be cracked. The laugh, the spineless laugh be all they are left with. Their rules, their wisdoms, their laws, may they choke them. We hope they choke them. Come lover, it is time, to escape.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Fairytale I
Looking out the attic window, one can see imaginary snow flakes flying around like merry children on a Christmas eve. The castle stands at the backdrop like a misguided stranger, wholly and completely aware of his own restlessness. Looking at the grey walls, one can read the unsung hymns. People say, if you visit the adjoining graveyard, even today you can hear sighs of forgotten heroes on their road demon bikes, waiting for their songs to be sung at the market place. For the one who sits in the attic, this is a fairy tale kingdom belonging to him. But observing snow flakes, through a chipped pink glass can be an interestng experience. One sees sad, demonic faces, faces which make you want to defacate your guts. He shifts his vision, and he sees the tribal girls with red, alien flowers tucked into their headgears, all going to the red forest to gather more flowers. They've got more heads than one can imagine. The trees seem to be on a mating spree, all reaching out their hands to the adjoining lovers, and couples go to the forests to collect tree babies. The meadows roll down on one side, to embrace the little dancing creek, like a father sweeping up his ten-year old, flushed-cheeked daughter. One knows he's the king of this land, and his rules are the gods of this land. And so the colour of the meadow changes, and the creek changes her pathway, and gospels are sung in the graveyard.
Suddenly one hears his own mother screaming about leftover breakfasts, and one rushes down from the attic. His imaginations are closed down for now.
To be continued, if ever in the mood again...
Suddenly one hears his own mother screaming about leftover breakfasts, and one rushes down from the attic. His imaginations are closed down for now.
To be continued, if ever in the mood again...
Friday, October 1, 2010
Dreams/Nightmares III
Waves. The sound of waves rushes in to awaken your senses. You find yourself standing, waiting beside a sea of times, the dawn waiting to creep onto your wet, rubbery feet like a forlorn lover. The wind reaches out to ruffle your sand crusted hair.
You look around, you see shadows, standing, waiting, some near you, some at a distance, and one at the far end of the time. You approach the nearest shadow. He turns around to face you. You know him, you could know him ten years from now on, for he is you.
You: I know you.
He: I know you too.
You: You are me.
He: I am you.
You: But you, you look strange. Your eyes twinkle, they dance like raging dragonflies. Your voice, it is so rough, yet so promising. You look like a banished knight. Who are you?
He: I am who you wish to be, who you aspire to be. I am you, who may never be.
The shadow slowly fazes out into the universe. The sea rushes in. Your knees get wet.
You approach the next shadow in the line, a strange, broken figure, outlined against the bluesy, asleep sky. He turns around to face you, you know him, twenty years from now, he is you.
You: I know you.
He: You do? How does it change the story?
You: You are me.
He: How does that matter now.
You: But you, you look strange. Your face looks like no light has ever burned it alive. Your countenance, reminds me of a broken hulled, torn sailed ship. You look like the epitome of defeat. Who are you?
He: It doesn't change anything anymore, but I am who you're afraid to be, who you never wish to see in the mirror. I am you, who you maybe oneday. But believe me, it doesn't change anything.
The shadow slowly fades out into infinity. You shudder because of the terror, and because of the cold water, which slowly damps your sandy chests. You approach the next figure, a small, timid little figure. He turns around to face you, you know him, forty years from now, he is you.
You: I know you.
He: Ofcourse you do, son.
You: You are me, aren't you?
He: Yes. I am you.
You: But you, you look strange. Your skin hangs in loose folds, your limbs are nimble, but your eyes, they shower kindness on everywhere it sets its sight. You, are like an ancient Banyan tree, hung low due to the weight of the experience.
He: I am you, my son. I am you, who will always be there, who is constant like the northern star. I am you, who you are destined to be.
The shadow disappears, leaving you to be hit at your face by the salty waves. You approach the last shadow, a very distant one. You wade through the strangely cold water. The figure, one of a child, floats over the sleepless ocean. You try to identify him, but you cannot anymore. He turns around, he faces you.
He: I know you.
You: Yes, even I know you.
He: I am you.
You: Yes, you are me, but who, I mean how, I mean why are you? Your face bears the brunt of innocence, yet you seem to be certain of your identity. Your silhoutte assures one of empathy, yet you are a child. You, are like a forbidden fruit.
He: I am you. I am who you were, who you always have been, but not anymore. For I die today, my job has ended. From today onwards, I am the one who you'll never be able to be.
The voice fades out, and the figure slowly rises and disappears into the space above. You stand helplessly, as you realise the sea rising, slowly rising and submerging you...
You look around, you see shadows, standing, waiting, some near you, some at a distance, and one at the far end of the time. You approach the nearest shadow. He turns around to face you. You know him, you could know him ten years from now on, for he is you.
You: I know you.
He: I know you too.
You: You are me.
He: I am you.
You: But you, you look strange. Your eyes twinkle, they dance like raging dragonflies. Your voice, it is so rough, yet so promising. You look like a banished knight. Who are you?
He: I am who you wish to be, who you aspire to be. I am you, who may never be.
The shadow slowly fazes out into the universe. The sea rushes in. Your knees get wet.
You approach the next shadow in the line, a strange, broken figure, outlined against the bluesy, asleep sky. He turns around to face you, you know him, twenty years from now, he is you.
You: I know you.
He: You do? How does it change the story?
You: You are me.
He: How does that matter now.
You: But you, you look strange. Your face looks like no light has ever burned it alive. Your countenance, reminds me of a broken hulled, torn sailed ship. You look like the epitome of defeat. Who are you?
He: It doesn't change anything anymore, but I am who you're afraid to be, who you never wish to see in the mirror. I am you, who you maybe oneday. But believe me, it doesn't change anything.
The shadow slowly fades out into infinity. You shudder because of the terror, and because of the cold water, which slowly damps your sandy chests. You approach the next figure, a small, timid little figure. He turns around to face you, you know him, forty years from now, he is you.
You: I know you.
He: Ofcourse you do, son.
You: You are me, aren't you?
He: Yes. I am you.
You: But you, you look strange. Your skin hangs in loose folds, your limbs are nimble, but your eyes, they shower kindness on everywhere it sets its sight. You, are like an ancient Banyan tree, hung low due to the weight of the experience.
He: I am you, my son. I am you, who will always be there, who is constant like the northern star. I am you, who you are destined to be.
The shadow disappears, leaving you to be hit at your face by the salty waves. You approach the last shadow, a very distant one. You wade through the strangely cold water. The figure, one of a child, floats over the sleepless ocean. You try to identify him, but you cannot anymore. He turns around, he faces you.
He: I know you.
You: Yes, even I know you.
He: I am you.
You: Yes, you are me, but who, I mean how, I mean why are you? Your face bears the brunt of innocence, yet you seem to be certain of your identity. Your silhoutte assures one of empathy, yet you are a child. You, are like a forbidden fruit.
He: I am you. I am who you were, who you always have been, but not anymore. For I die today, my job has ended. From today onwards, I am the one who you'll never be able to be.
The voice fades out, and the figure slowly rises and disappears into the space above. You stand helplessly, as you realise the sea rising, slowly rising and submerging you...
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Dreams/Nightmares II
Slowly the haze lifts, enabling you to twist your eyeballs for the millionth time. Everything shapes and breaks down, and takes shape again. Tiny, sad eyes stare blankly at every possible directions, apathy spilling over. It's a strange scene around you, a very familiar, but strange scene. Corpses lie around, scattered and scarred. Some beheaded, some with only the heads, some with everything, some with nothing. It's like a moving morgue has just been bombed right in the middle of the street, din-e dupur-e. A very familiar scene, a very familiar one. You try to remember. Where do you get to see corpses lying around everyday? You start moving, your feet get stuck in the muddy blood, bloody mud. It's like maroon tar.
Strange dreams you have. Corpses lying around, while fedora toppinged men eat strawberry ice creams , debate with each other about sex and sensex, and bargain with invisible hands for the corpses. Some ask for whole bodies, others just want a piece of the meat. Dali, in a sickening, surrealistic sense. Not a nice scene, not even probably a dream. But is it a nightmare? Aren't nightmares supossed to be about scary horses, which bring out your worst fears, of something you are scared of? Nightmares are bad things. This scene before you, is bad, but not scary. This is something which you see every day, don't you? Dead bodies lie around you, while crooked, vultured men fight for a piece.
Confusion riddles you, as the haze returns to encompass you. You turn around in your bed, REM slowly stops. You sleep again.
Anuprerona: Machher bajaar.
Strange dreams you have. Corpses lying around, while fedora toppinged men eat strawberry ice creams , debate with each other about sex and sensex, and bargain with invisible hands for the corpses. Some ask for whole bodies, others just want a piece of the meat. Dali, in a sickening, surrealistic sense. Not a nice scene, not even probably a dream. But is it a nightmare? Aren't nightmares supossed to be about scary horses, which bring out your worst fears, of something you are scared of? Nightmares are bad things. This scene before you, is bad, but not scary. This is something which you see every day, don't you? Dead bodies lie around you, while crooked, vultured men fight for a piece.
Confusion riddles you, as the haze returns to encompass you. You turn around in your bed, REM slowly stops. You sleep again.
Anuprerona: Machher bajaar.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Dream/Nightmare I
A windy night, while dreams float around your flushed cheeks. The owl hoots like the nightwatchman, the squirrel screaches out, probably a nightmare. A honey dew moon is smiling, at you. Your cheeks redden, the transluscent nightdress, reveals not much, conceals not less. You slowly step on the wet, cool earth. Tonight, the galactic milk bowl is overflowing, tonight is a beautiful night. The owl hoots again, begging you to wake up. The enchantment continues, you wake not up, lest you are barred to hear the lullaby. You wait for the song to start, but only the brook's monotonous lyre hurts your drowsy senses.
A slow hum starts. The beginning. Next a gentle breakout will follow, followed by whistling chimes, ending with the slow, calm, determined sound of a sitar. You know the song by heart.
But today the music is not sounding what it used to. The hum slowly becomes mild, thumping, clap beats, almost as if people are applausing the end of sermon in a churchyard. The music is getting loud, it's nomore the claps of the fallen, but the pounding of a million drums, war drums. You search for the source of the swivelling beats. It's not coming from the milky eyed sky, not from the lemon crusted moon, not from the spacy waters. Then where?
It's coming from the depth of of the earth below you, it's almost like the earth is beating in million tiny hearts. The earth, which you considered to be cool, to be wet, is becoming hot. It's starting to melt into liquid red, blood red. The tumultous earth is moving away from below your feet. You try to reach for the sky, for the moon, for the rivers, but they have moved far, far away from you. What is left is the earth.
You start to sink, and suddenly you hear a new drum beat join the hundred million drums. It's you, your heart, it's beating again. Slowly as you sink, you listen intently to the music of the new era.
A slow hum starts. The beginning. Next a gentle breakout will follow, followed by whistling chimes, ending with the slow, calm, determined sound of a sitar. You know the song by heart.
But today the music is not sounding what it used to. The hum slowly becomes mild, thumping, clap beats, almost as if people are applausing the end of sermon in a churchyard. The music is getting loud, it's nomore the claps of the fallen, but the pounding of a million drums, war drums. You search for the source of the swivelling beats. It's not coming from the milky eyed sky, not from the lemon crusted moon, not from the spacy waters. Then where?
It's coming from the depth of of the earth below you, it's almost like the earth is beating in million tiny hearts. The earth, which you considered to be cool, to be wet, is becoming hot. It's starting to melt into liquid red, blood red. The tumultous earth is moving away from below your feet. You try to reach for the sky, for the moon, for the rivers, but they have moved far, far away from you. What is left is the earth.
You start to sink, and suddenly you hear a new drum beat join the hundred million drums. It's you, your heart, it's beating again. Slowly as you sink, you listen intently to the music of the new era.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Untitled V
Dreams are made winding through my heads
And before you know, you are wide awake.
As spiders climb up the chair
Mirrors stare at new born earthquakes.
Another vibrating cry inside the dead
Rises for a little girl's sake.
Claustrophobia, another name
Brand old wing, same old ache.
I know, I know. This sucks big time.
And before you know, you are wide awake.
As spiders climb up the chair
Mirrors stare at new born earthquakes.
Another vibrating cry inside the dead
Rises for a little girl's sake.
Claustrophobia, another name
Brand old wing, same old ache.
I know, I know. This sucks big time.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Memories II (Scary ones)
They come rushing in, filling every cell with the required oxygen. Another misty morning, and they come rushing back, as if it's dinner time already. Starting from a scratch isn't easy, ke na jaane, then why did I even try? I thought I could just erase each and every face, tear down all the wall decorations, and lay bare my memory attic, and wait for new faces to arrive. Faces. They have arrived, and they have decorated my walls, but old faces merge with new ones. Something I didn't wish for, not at all.
'Psychedelia brought us together'. That's heavy on the brain cells for any kid. How can goddamn illusions bring souls together? Impossible. And if illusions did bring them together, then it also seperated them. This is no sudden realisation, this is something which I gradually understood, and knowing the truth, I decided not to face it. But they come rushing back, like hungry dogs. Looks like its not the time yet. Let's wait.
I need a shave, and since i'm not getting it, this is the way i torture other fellow human beings. Muhahaha.
'Psychedelia brought us together'. That's heavy on the brain cells for any kid. How can goddamn illusions bring souls together? Impossible. And if illusions did bring them together, then it also seperated them. This is no sudden realisation, this is something which I gradually understood, and knowing the truth, I decided not to face it. But they come rushing back, like hungry dogs. Looks like its not the time yet. Let's wait.
I need a shave, and since i'm not getting it, this is the way i torture other fellow human beings. Muhahaha.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Human Spirit (The oldest one)
When I'm in my bed at night
A Voice whispers in my head
Voice: What am I?
Me: Well, how the hell should I know who you are?
Voice: No seriously tell me what am I.
Me: Bug off! Don't disturb me.
The voice keeps on nagging.
Me: Your a pretty little irritating twitch, aren't you?
So I ask it 'Who are you?'
the voice doesn't reply
Me: Well what's your name
Voice: I don't know, i cant remember.
Me: Then go bug someone else. I need my beauty sleep.
suddenly the voice speaks out loudly
Voice: Wait. I know who I am.
Me: Great! Congratulations! Now let me sleep, please!
Voice: I am Death
Me: What???
Voice: I give Life.
Me: What the fuck!
Voice: I am Fire
So you can feel Ice.
I understand its urge to pour some leaded philosophical lecture in my precious ears. There goes my fine sleep out the window.
It keeps on blabbering
Voice: I am Thirst,
so you will quench me.
I am Hunger,
so that you will sate me.
I am Apathy,
so that you feel Empathy.
I am Poverty,
So you will know Plenty.
I am Hate,
so that you price Love.
Me: Man are you then somekinda' god or shit?
Voice: No, I am not God.
And yet, I am not Satan.
There he goes again
I am not Paradise.
And yet, I am not Hell.
I am here.
I am not here.
I am there.
I am not there.
I am where you are.
But also where you are not.
Me: You're just confused.
There is another pause. Voice resumes, now slower.
Voice: Confusion, is a myth. I am just speaking what you wish me to speak.
Me: I don't want you to utter a single more shit!
But it continues.
Voice: For without death, where is life?
For without hate, where can you find love?
For without hitting the bottom, how will you now that there might be a way up?
For without me, how do you know that there is better, that there can be better?
I am, the one. I am, the none.
I am time, and I am space. Yet I am one without a face.
Now do you know who I am?
Silence
Me: Nope..........
This is one of my earliest pieces. I have tried to leave it untouched.
A Voice whispers in my head
Voice: What am I?
Me: Well, how the hell should I know who you are?
Voice: No seriously tell me what am I.
Me: Bug off! Don't disturb me.
The voice keeps on nagging.
Me: Your a pretty little irritating twitch, aren't you?
So I ask it 'Who are you?'
the voice doesn't reply
Me: Well what's your name
Voice: I don't know, i cant remember.
Me: Then go bug someone else. I need my beauty sleep.
suddenly the voice speaks out loudly
Voice: Wait. I know who I am.
Me: Great! Congratulations! Now let me sleep, please!
Voice: I am Death
Me: What???
Voice: I give Life.
Me: What the fuck!
Voice: I am Fire
So you can feel Ice.
I understand its urge to pour some leaded philosophical lecture in my precious ears. There goes my fine sleep out the window.
It keeps on blabbering
Voice: I am Thirst,
so you will quench me.
I am Hunger,
so that you will sate me.
I am Apathy,
so that you feel Empathy.
I am Poverty,
So you will know Plenty.
I am Hate,
so that you price Love.
Me: Man are you then somekinda' god or shit?
Voice: No, I am not God.
And yet, I am not Satan.
There he goes again
I am not Paradise.
And yet, I am not Hell.
I am here.
I am not here.
I am there.
I am not there.
I am where you are.
But also where you are not.
Me: You're just confused.
There is another pause. Voice resumes, now slower.
Voice: Confusion, is a myth. I am just speaking what you wish me to speak.
Me: I don't want you to utter a single more shit!
But it continues.
Voice: For without death, where is life?
For without hate, where can you find love?
For without hitting the bottom, how will you now that there might be a way up?
For without me, how do you know that there is better, that there can be better?
I am, the one. I am, the none.
I am time, and I am space. Yet I am one without a face.
Now do you know who I am?
Silence
Me: Nope..........
This is one of my earliest pieces. I have tried to leave it untouched.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Untitled 4 (A love song)
And true love waits
In haunted attics.
True love lives
In Lollipops and chips.
Hang on.
Don't leave
Don't yet leave.
And true love hates
Hearts, ductless.
True love breathes
In kitten smiles and sleeps.
Don't leave.
Please, don't leave.
And true love bleeds
For sinking paper ships
True love weeps
On drying petal lips.
Sleep, sleep
Oh, just don't leave.
In haunted attics.
True love lives
In Lollipops and chips.
Hang on.
Don't leave
Don't yet leave.
And true love hates
Hearts, ductless.
True love breathes
In kitten smiles and sleeps.
Don't leave.
Please, don't leave.
And true love bleeds
For sinking paper ships
True love weeps
On drying petal lips.
Sleep, sleep
Oh, just don't leave.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Untitled 3 (A short story?)
The door opens with a creaking monotone. 10 years. It's been 10 years since anyone has enterd this room. This used to be his mother's room.
Mother. The word doesn't bring back much happy memories. Shouts, counter shouts, obscenities, abusive behaviours, hurled between the two sides like ultra-modern missiles.
He moves and stands near the giant window. He opens it. From here, nine storeys above the world, everything is so small, minute, unimportant. When he was a kid he used to measure how much time his spit would take to travel the nine storeys. 4 seconds, surely not more than that.The day Maa jumped from this very window, he had thought, how much time did Maa take to hit the hard, ignorant world below?
He leans over. Does the world look a bit larger? Not really.
4 seconds. What can you do in 4 seconds? See your whole, pathetic life lying like a Kolkata Sewer system map before you? Regret all the decisions you ever took in your life? Feel the sudden urge to live your life once again? Start to love your children once more? You can do a lot of things in these 4 seconds.
He took 1 hour. After Maa committed suicide, he just needed 1 hour to decide, that he is going to go away from this house. Go away forever.
And so he did.
After 10 years he has come back to this city, to his home. And he has come back only when he has been assured that no else is left to disturb him.
Baba is dead. He passed away two days ago. Heart attack, or stroke, or something of that sort. Shona Jethu had called him up and requested him to come back, for the mukhagni. So he is.
Baba is dead. Just like Maa was. No more need to come back to this *darned* city anymore. No more need to receive disturbing calls, like he has for the past 10 years. In the end the frequency of these calls reduced significantly, but they did come. No more requests to come back. His umbilical cord has snapped, atlast.
A gusty wind hits his face, and rids the room from its dampy stink. He looks around the room in the artificial twilight. Much hasn't change. It's obvious Baba never entered this room, and so did not the servants. He remembers Baba once told him that Maa still lives in this room. He doesn't doubt Baba. He always knew Maa would never be able to leave this house, leave Baba. Maa is still there. He can feel her. He can sense her smell, the typical smell, which every mother has.
Memories. He feels scared. He comes out of the room, and locks it tight.
Bolted. Now they can't disturb him anymore.
Mother. The word doesn't bring back much happy memories. Shouts, counter shouts, obscenities, abusive behaviours, hurled between the two sides like ultra-modern missiles.
He moves and stands near the giant window. He opens it. From here, nine storeys above the world, everything is so small, minute, unimportant. When he was a kid he used to measure how much time his spit would take to travel the nine storeys. 4 seconds, surely not more than that.The day Maa jumped from this very window, he had thought, how much time did Maa take to hit the hard, ignorant world below?
He leans over. Does the world look a bit larger? Not really.
4 seconds. What can you do in 4 seconds? See your whole, pathetic life lying like a Kolkata Sewer system map before you? Regret all the decisions you ever took in your life? Feel the sudden urge to live your life once again? Start to love your children once more? You can do a lot of things in these 4 seconds.
He took 1 hour. After Maa committed suicide, he just needed 1 hour to decide, that he is going to go away from this house. Go away forever.
And so he did.
After 10 years he has come back to this city, to his home. And he has come back only when he has been assured that no else is left to disturb him.
Baba is dead. He passed away two days ago. Heart attack, or stroke, or something of that sort. Shona Jethu had called him up and requested him to come back, for the mukhagni. So he is.
Baba is dead. Just like Maa was. No more need to come back to this *darned* city anymore. No more need to receive disturbing calls, like he has for the past 10 years. In the end the frequency of these calls reduced significantly, but they did come. No more requests to come back. His umbilical cord has snapped, atlast.
A gusty wind hits his face, and rids the room from its dampy stink. He looks around the room in the artificial twilight. Much hasn't change. It's obvious Baba never entered this room, and so did not the servants. He remembers Baba once told him that Maa still lives in this room. He doesn't doubt Baba. He always knew Maa would never be able to leave this house, leave Baba. Maa is still there. He can feel her. He can sense her smell, the typical smell, which every mother has.
Memories. He feels scared. He comes out of the room, and locks it tight.
Bolted. Now they can't disturb him anymore.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Untitled 2 (An Apocalyptic Painting)
A Maroon evening. A Blue mountain in the distance is visible, with Grey forests covering nakedness of the abdomens of the mountain. A solitary Birch tree stands in the forefront, shifted towards the right, an unusually Red Birch. So Red you'd think it was dead by now. A boy sits below the tree. A seemingly tired boy. Blue hairs veil a pale White face from us. We cannot see his face, but a frozen tear dangles near his chin. One of his hand rests on the Sepia-toned grass. Two Ash smitten joints roll on the grass before him. In the far left corner of the canvas we can see a bare-footed girl running away towards the mountains. We can't see her face. But her bleeding feet stabs a dagger in our eyes. Her Green scarf waves like an ominous signal.
The canvas remains still, only the colour of the sky slowly turns bright Black. This Black now starts bleaching the canvas. First the mountain, then the forest, then the boy and his tree, and atlast the girl. The canvas becomes Black.
You need to read this piece with eyes closed, or else you won't be able to see the painting. Happy reading :)
The canvas remains still, only the colour of the sky slowly turns bright Black. This Black now starts bleaching the canvas. First the mountain, then the forest, then the boy and his tree, and atlast the girl. The canvas becomes Black.
You need to read this piece with eyes closed, or else you won't be able to see the painting. Happy reading :)
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Untitled 1
Clouds. A wing.
Drop. Gun in hand.
Salt in eyes.
Subterranean Sitar.
Another war-like trance.
Is the king?
One without a name.
Drop, drop, and hit hard.
Being without being,
And wings without feathers.
Ugly truth.
Drop. Gun in hand.
Salt in eyes.
Subterranean Sitar.
Another war-like trance.
Is the king?
One without a name.
Drop, drop, and hit hard.
Being without being,
And wings without feathers.
Ugly truth.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Shadhinota Dibos
Kal Shadhinota Dibos. Deshattobodhok, that is patriotic songs are being played in the streets, the shops are getting decorated with the tricolours, today’s 14th August.
Scene I
In one such shop, a shop where notebooks and pen-pencils and graphs and the national flag are found for sale, a boy enters-
Boy: Uncle, uncle. Indian Flag hobe?
Shopkeeper(a man in his 60s): Ki?
Boy: Arre uncle! Flag, National Flag of India pawa jaabe?
Shopkeeper: Oww! Jatiyo Potaka? Achhe to, kirokom chai bolo agge?
Boy: Ki size-er achhe?
Shopkeeper: Chhoto, boro, majhari, kagoj-er, plastic-er, ja chao paabe.
Boy: Amay oi glossy-ta dao, chokchok korchhe jeta. Garite lagabo.
Shopkeeper: Garite lagabe? Kintu ota je boddo polka, chhire jabe haway.
Boy: Na na, A.C. gari-to, amra janla khuli na. Flag-ta besh gari-r modhhe dulbe, kalke Independence Day je! Celebrate korte hobe to.
Shopkeeper: Gari-te potaka lagiye celebrate korbe?
Boy: Na na, kalke amar schoole-e Independence day program. Amader Principal Flag hoist korben, tarpor amader cake-patties khawabe. Kal to khub moja!
Shopkeeper: Haan, kal khub moja. Ei nao tomar potaka.
Boy: Thank you uncle. Happy Independence day! [Leaves]
Shopkeeper: Shubho Shadhinota Dibos tomakeo.
Scene II
One of the roadside temples of Kolkata, where every Saturday, some or the other kind of Pujos are done. One such Pujo is going on in one such temple. A large number of people are crowding the road adjoining the temple. A group of 9-10 year olds in tattered clothes can be seen loitering around at a distance.
Boy 1: Ei sala shob ekhane dariye thak, ekhuni bhog debe.
Boy 2: Ki debe re?
Girl 1: Shei to ek-i khichuri bhog debe.
Boy 3: Orre amar moharani re. Ei khichuri-tai baa kobe pash?
Girl 2: Ei, nibi kishe? Maal-ta to gorom hobe.
Boy 1: Thik bolechhe shala, ajkal to thonga-monga kichhui dey na.
Girl 1: Cho amader pelate peye gechhi.
Boy 3: Koi?
Girl 1: Oi to kagoj jhulchhe dewal-e, chhire nilei holo, amader plate.
Boy 2: Mairi etar mathae budhhi achhe kintu.
Girl 2: Kintu otato Bharat-er potaka. Kal oi ki bole, Shadin-na-ki ekta achhe na! Bharat Shadhin hoyechhilo kalke je.
Boy 3: Haan haan, Joy Hind, mera Bharat mohan. Shob bujhe gechhi. Ekhon cho to.
Boy 1: Ei bhog dichhe, cho cho, joldi kagoj-gulo chher.
They quickly tear the paper flags, and run towards the prosad bittoronkari man.
Kal Shadhinota Dibos. 63 “glorious” years of Independence. Being the “proud” citizen of the next superpower in the world, I feel so pathetic, err.. I mean patriotic. Kal Shadhinota Dibos. Mera Bharat... Mahan?
Scene I
In one such shop, a shop where notebooks and pen-pencils and graphs and the national flag are found for sale, a boy enters-
Boy: Uncle, uncle. Indian Flag hobe?
Shopkeeper(a man in his 60s): Ki?
Boy: Arre uncle! Flag, National Flag of India pawa jaabe?
Shopkeeper: Oww! Jatiyo Potaka? Achhe to, kirokom chai bolo agge?
Boy: Ki size-er achhe?
Shopkeeper: Chhoto, boro, majhari, kagoj-er, plastic-er, ja chao paabe.
Boy: Amay oi glossy-ta dao, chokchok korchhe jeta. Garite lagabo.
Shopkeeper: Garite lagabe? Kintu ota je boddo polka, chhire jabe haway.
Boy: Na na, A.C. gari-to, amra janla khuli na. Flag-ta besh gari-r modhhe dulbe, kalke Independence Day je! Celebrate korte hobe to.
Shopkeeper: Gari-te potaka lagiye celebrate korbe?
Boy: Na na, kalke amar schoole-e Independence day program. Amader Principal Flag hoist korben, tarpor amader cake-patties khawabe. Kal to khub moja!
Shopkeeper: Haan, kal khub moja. Ei nao tomar potaka.
Boy: Thank you uncle. Happy Independence day! [Leaves]
Shopkeeper: Shubho Shadhinota Dibos tomakeo.
Scene II
One of the roadside temples of Kolkata, where every Saturday, some or the other kind of Pujos are done. One such Pujo is going on in one such temple. A large number of people are crowding the road adjoining the temple. A group of 9-10 year olds in tattered clothes can be seen loitering around at a distance.
Boy 1: Ei sala shob ekhane dariye thak, ekhuni bhog debe.
Boy 2: Ki debe re?
Girl 1: Shei to ek-i khichuri bhog debe.
Boy 3: Orre amar moharani re. Ei khichuri-tai baa kobe pash?
Girl 2: Ei, nibi kishe? Maal-ta to gorom hobe.
Boy 1: Thik bolechhe shala, ajkal to thonga-monga kichhui dey na.
Girl 1: Cho amader pelate peye gechhi.
Boy 3: Koi?
Girl 1: Oi to kagoj jhulchhe dewal-e, chhire nilei holo, amader plate.
Boy 2: Mairi etar mathae budhhi achhe kintu.
Girl 2: Kintu otato Bharat-er potaka. Kal oi ki bole, Shadin-na-ki ekta achhe na! Bharat Shadhin hoyechhilo kalke je.
Boy 3: Haan haan, Joy Hind, mera Bharat mohan. Shob bujhe gechhi. Ekhon cho to.
Boy 1: Ei bhog dichhe, cho cho, joldi kagoj-gulo chher.
They quickly tear the paper flags, and run towards the prosad bittoronkari man.
Kal Shadhinota Dibos. 63 “glorious” years of Independence. Being the “proud” citizen of the next superpower in the world, I feel so pathetic, err.. I mean patriotic. Kal Shadhinota Dibos. Mera Bharat... Mahan?
Monday, August 9, 2010
Acid Trip [edited version]
Trapped in another world, all alone, strange vibes loiter around me, an almost subaquatic trance is wrapped aound me like a raincoat. Not knowing who I am, what I am, where I am, why I am? Pretty terrifying, huhn? But believe me, at that moment, you could care more about the death of the neighbourhood skylark. All one believes is what one sees, or doesn't see, in our case. But do I really see any thing, or not see anything? Even if I do, is it really there?
I feel death. When one is dead, one looks at the world in a much broader manner. Don't believe me? Don't, as if I care. The things I experience, are undefinable. I see things that are really not there, such as faces, faces I never knew existed, hideous faces, and goodlooking faces, and faceless faces, all coming out of the closet tag-marked "forbidden childhood". The walls start moving, clamping down on me one instant, and spreading out the next. The floor becomes a jelly ocean, or a very wobbly quicksand, it starts sucking me in. Everything is white. I start feeling beyond time and space. Starting to think myself insane becomes an understatement, but am I? Or am I not just another piece of dirt, or a puppet? Or are they just trying to frame me, frame me because they know I am the avatar, the spirit. The spirit which will save mankind. Everything becomes a question, but without any answers. And I see, hear, taste, touch, feel god.
This is something I wrote long time ago, about my experiences with intoxicating stuffs which a teenager should not know about. An edited version is posted here.
I feel death. When one is dead, one looks at the world in a much broader manner. Don't believe me? Don't, as if I care. The things I experience, are undefinable. I see things that are really not there, such as faces, faces I never knew existed, hideous faces, and goodlooking faces, and faceless faces, all coming out of the closet tag-marked "forbidden childhood". The walls start moving, clamping down on me one instant, and spreading out the next. The floor becomes a jelly ocean, or a very wobbly quicksand, it starts sucking me in. Everything is white. I start feeling beyond time and space. Starting to think myself insane becomes an understatement, but am I? Or am I not just another piece of dirt, or a puppet? Or are they just trying to frame me, frame me because they know I am the avatar, the spirit. The spirit which will save mankind. Everything becomes a question, but without any answers. And I see, hear, taste, touch, feel god.
This is something I wrote long time ago, about my experiences with intoxicating stuffs which a teenager should not know about. An edited version is posted here.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
End of a World
It's the end, or is it?
Recently I've started practicing deep diving inside my mind. It's easy. Believe me. Just open your Reality oxygen mask. And take a deep breathe.
Whoosh.
I'm there.
What I find inside reminds me of Lennon. Remember Lucy and the LSD soaked diamonds? Well, I find gigantic cities, inside. they have porcelain skies, and marmalade buildings, and naked men and women (what's with all these clotheless people, surely i'm becoming more and more perverted these days). Anyway as I was saying, the city portrays a happy, post-apocalyptic setting were the alleys are as wide as the the alleys in subaquatic cities. And everyone looks happy. Scary, huhn?
Comrade, it's not the time to be abstract and surrealistic, as losing touch with reality and putting a man on the moon is the same thing nowadays. I know, I know. But uncomprehending bugs bite me. And I can't even beat the shit out of them, after all, posha bole katha. So all I can do is search around the cities for some leftover liabilities. I could destroy the cities, and probably bomb the skies into million pieces, but no, instead I wait and wait. Walking in the streets is scary, with all these happy people around, isn't it comrade? Believe me it is scary, what with all these happy people chanting like hundred Jim Morrisons. Don't ask me what they chant, they're happy, free, they can chant anything. Anyway, time for my sedatives, so I climb out of the manhole and come back to Radiohead and Trigo.
So much for writing something fruitful. Sigh.
It's the end of the world as we know it, and strangely, I don't feel fine.
Recently I've started practicing deep diving inside my mind. It's easy. Believe me. Just open your Reality oxygen mask. And take a deep breathe.
Whoosh.
I'm there.
What I find inside reminds me of Lennon. Remember Lucy and the LSD soaked diamonds? Well, I find gigantic cities, inside. they have porcelain skies, and marmalade buildings, and naked men and women (what's with all these clotheless people, surely i'm becoming more and more perverted these days). Anyway as I was saying, the city portrays a happy, post-apocalyptic setting were the alleys are as wide as the the alleys in subaquatic cities. And everyone looks happy. Scary, huhn?
Comrade, it's not the time to be abstract and surrealistic, as losing touch with reality and putting a man on the moon is the same thing nowadays. I know, I know. But uncomprehending bugs bite me. And I can't even beat the shit out of them, after all, posha bole katha. So all I can do is search around the cities for some leftover liabilities. I could destroy the cities, and probably bomb the skies into million pieces, but no, instead I wait and wait. Walking in the streets is scary, with all these happy people around, isn't it comrade? Believe me it is scary, what with all these happy people chanting like hundred Jim Morrisons. Don't ask me what they chant, they're happy, free, they can chant anything. Anyway, time for my sedatives, so I climb out of the manhole and come back to Radiohead and Trigo.
So much for writing something fruitful. Sigh.
It's the end of the world as we know it, and strangely, I don't feel fine.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
No Dreaming for kids before death
Hey kid!
Move it now.
This is not your dream
This is not your place
So move it.
Hey Kid!
Rock N' Roll?
The Partie's all over
It's time to hunt some soul
So move it.
Hey Kid!
Shapeshifting?
No time for business
It's time for blasphemy
So move it.
Hey Kid!
Acid Trip?
Hallucination's illegal
The world is a creep
So move it.
Hey Kid!
City lights?
Dark with wisdom
Shut your brains tight
So move it.
The poor kid runs
The poor kid tries
The ending nears, or should we call demise?
The little kid cries, the little kid screams
The world is not anymore a place for dreams.
Move it now.
This is not your dream
This is not your place
So move it.
Hey Kid!
Rock N' Roll?
The Partie's all over
It's time to hunt some soul
So move it.
Hey Kid!
Shapeshifting?
No time for business
It's time for blasphemy
So move it.
Hey Kid!
Acid Trip?
Hallucination's illegal
The world is a creep
So move it.
Hey Kid!
City lights?
Dark with wisdom
Shut your brains tight
So move it.
The poor kid runs
The poor kid tries
The ending nears, or should we call demise?
The little kid cries, the little kid screams
The world is not anymore a place for dreams.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Ranting about a Headache
It has been a whole day and night phase, and it's now day, again. And my head still hurts. I swear I haven't even touched a single ciggarette over the whole week, I haven't bunked lunches, not any I remember, I haven't even lied to anyone(I know, I know, I'm pathetic).
Have I watched Wall? Yes. Have I listened to Radiohead over a long stretch of time. Yes. Have I heard DSM before going to sleep? Yes. Have I done loads of homeworks in a single day? Yes. Have I started becoming politically correct? Guess so. Have I brushed? Not yet. Have I progressed a single page of Outsider? No. Have I constantly thought about writing some good materials? Yes(I know, I know). Has Baba 'again' tried to solve my problems. Yes. Am I seeing black stripes in the white ceiling? Yes.
My head is aching since yesterday, and it's not my temple, it's the back of my head which hurts. It's paining in a very strange way, like hiccups, painful hiccups. Don't know what's happening. Anyway now i've got to go and brush, and then sit down and carry on with life, with a headache. Bye for now, cheerio!
Have I watched Wall? Yes. Have I listened to Radiohead over a long stretch of time. Yes. Have I heard DSM before going to sleep? Yes. Have I done loads of homeworks in a single day? Yes. Have I started becoming politically correct? Guess so. Have I brushed? Not yet. Have I progressed a single page of Outsider? No. Have I constantly thought about writing some good materials? Yes(I know, I know). Has Baba 'again' tried to solve my problems. Yes. Am I seeing black stripes in the white ceiling? Yes.
My head is aching since yesterday, and it's not my temple, it's the back of my head which hurts. It's paining in a very strange way, like hiccups, painful hiccups. Don't know what's happening. Anyway now i've got to go and brush, and then sit down and carry on with life, with a headache. Bye for now, cheerio!
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Homeless
They said
There's no home for you here.
Go away!
There's no one for you here.
Rather baffled by the weird sensations
of isolation and consolations
Go away!
Loosing my temper over quite indications
And the confusions of my determinations
Go away!
They said
There's no home for you here.
Go away!
There's no one for you here.
All the stupid realisations
regarding a screwed up affection and a mere abdication
Go away!
And all cerebral Stagnation
attacked by an army of salvation
Go away!
They said
There's no home for you here.
Go away!
There's no one for you here.
Breaking bottles
In the Hallway
Reading novels
Talking softly
Looking stupid
That's so stupid
Just go away!
They said
There's no home for you here.
Go away!
There's no one for you here.
This song is a complete churi from the White Stripes song 'There's No home for you here'. Ami bolbo amar ei lekhata porar por keu jeno please gaanta naa shone. Churi-ta boddo beshi sposhto hoye jabe :)
There's no home for you here.
Go away!
There's no one for you here.
Rather baffled by the weird sensations
of isolation and consolations
Go away!
Loosing my temper over quite indications
And the confusions of my determinations
Go away!
They said
There's no home for you here.
Go away!
There's no one for you here.
All the stupid realisations
regarding a screwed up affection and a mere abdication
Go away!
And all cerebral Stagnation
attacked by an army of salvation
Go away!
They said
There's no home for you here.
Go away!
There's no one for you here.
Breaking bottles
In the Hallway
Reading novels
Talking softly
Looking stupid
That's so stupid
Just go away!
They said
There's no home for you here.
Go away!
There's no one for you here.
This song is a complete churi from the White Stripes song 'There's No home for you here'. Ami bolbo amar ei lekhata porar por keu jeno please gaanta naa shone. Churi-ta boddo beshi sposhto hoye jabe :)
Monday, July 19, 2010
Sleep
Sleep
Like a pillow
Like a zephyr yellow
Like a soul-covered snow
Sleep
When sonic eclipse occur
When revolutions blur
When you kiss her.
Sleep
If you cry
If you can't lie
If you are in a field of Rye
Sleep
As you face the mirror
As the faces become clear
As you understand fear
Sleep
Nothing is above you
Nothing is below you
Sleep
Sleep
Sle...
Like a pillow
Like a zephyr yellow
Like a soul-covered snow
Sleep
When sonic eclipse occur
When revolutions blur
When you kiss her.
Sleep
If you cry
If you can't lie
If you are in a field of Rye
Sleep
As you face the mirror
As the faces become clear
As you understand fear
Sleep
Nothing is above you
Nothing is below you
Sleep
Sleep
Sle...
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Inside a Soapbox
Shouting inside a soapbox
My psychopathetic head hurts
A ciggarette smothers the disturbed lull
And all it can do is sulk, sulk, sulk.
The inside, is wet, is sick, is glue,
is red, is black and blue.
But still the holes inside the brain
don't spill over with acid rain
And despite all the ragged rage
I'm still just a silly rat inside the cage.
My psychopathetic head hurts
A ciggarette smothers the disturbed lull
And all it can do is sulk, sulk, sulk.
The inside, is wet, is sick, is glue,
is red, is black and blue.
But still the holes inside the brain
don't spill over with acid rain
And despite all the ragged rage
I'm still just a silly rat inside the cage.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Neo-psychedelic Mumblings
A dark room. This is my room, temporarily. It's actually my parents' room. But since their gone, to some faraway land, leaving me, this is my room, for now. My lips are dry, my throat itches, like hell. I need some water. But I feel too weak to get up and get the bottle. My mind feels horrifically empty, like an empty water bottle. I need water, but I feel too weak. The psychedelic Floyds numb my mind. At last I have returned to Floyd, I missed you, I whisper quietly. But they can't hear me. A techno-barrier limits me from reaching out, to them. My head is spinning, or reeling, again. I think I need to throw up, but I know, nothing, nothing will come out. My head feels wobbly, as if it may roll off from my shoulders any moment now. I hit my head, hard. OK. That hurt. But my head's fixed now, it won't roll off, not anymore, maybe. Beside me lies the math book. I've got homeworks piling up like a coloumn of sins over my head. Procrastination. It can kill you. But what the hell. Mathematics can't kill me, no it can't.
I stare at the fold between my thumb, and I can see the skin moving. It's beating. My right hand is breathing. It's like a different creature all together. And it's not my pet. But even it procrastinates. 'Shine on You Crazy Diamond' has reached it's end, the part which I love the most. The strrangely uplifting music seeps onto me. And I slowly feel my temples. The skin on my temples is also moving. My head's beating, hard. I see a strange milky figure flying before me. Is it a ghost? Because if it is, I sould be scared. But it's just my school shirt, dangling a few inches above from the ground. So it's not a ghost. Great. I get up, fetch the bottle, and drink the water. At last I feel better. Now I don't feel so empty anymore. I sit up straight. And push the 'Publish Post' button. For now, I can sleep. For now, I can rest.
I stare at the fold between my thumb, and I can see the skin moving. It's beating. My right hand is breathing. It's like a different creature all together. And it's not my pet. But even it procrastinates. 'Shine on You Crazy Diamond' has reached it's end, the part which I love the most. The strrangely uplifting music seeps onto me. And I slowly feel my temples. The skin on my temples is also moving. My head's beating, hard. I see a strange milky figure flying before me. Is it a ghost? Because if it is, I sould be scared. But it's just my school shirt, dangling a few inches above from the ground. So it's not a ghost. Great. I get up, fetch the bottle, and drink the water. At last I feel better. Now I don't feel so empty anymore. I sit up straight. And push the 'Publish Post' button. For now, I can sleep. For now, I can rest.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Affection for Apathy
My head is still spinning, I can't lift up my head from the pillow, and it is tough to write a blog while resting your head on a 4 inch flat piece of cloth, so let me write this properly, and let my head spin.
Today when I entered home, I observed my face on the mirror. It looked empty. I expected questions from my parents.
'Where were you?', 'Why are you so late?' But no such queries. So I tried to look harrowed, and scared, and tired, and I tried to be noticed. But still no questions. Baba was on the phone, Maa was watching some stupid tv show where kids think they sing. I got tired of waiting for someone to notice the dramatic edge of my eyes, so I got up and changed.
Today I met up with Suchi again. Suchi, my friend is someone whom I love to hate. I meet him almost every week. Suchi, is my regular dose of apathy. He, is a kid whom I know since childhood, he is one of my closest pals. I thought that it was only because of this friendship I like to meet him again and again.
But today I understood, that's not the case. Suchi is a just another stupid kid with regular problems. But what makes him different is his complete indifference towards the problems. Suchi is a kid who is clueless about his future, just like the rest of us; some of us know, some don't know, some pretend to know, but all of us are in search of it. Suchi, on the other hand is a kid who does not know what he wants to be, what he wants to do, and he does not care. Today I understood it is this indifference towards life in general which brings me back to him.
Today, we were discussing his life span. Poor guy has a block in his heart(like he cares) so his probable living years is fifty, then he added that this fifty gets reduced to forty because of his persisting abuse of the white stick(again, like he cares), and then I added that this forty gets reduced to thirty because of his depressive brain, which will not allow him to live long. Atlast he protested, 'eto aage mere felish na'. Poor guy.
Suchi is the anecdote of me, like an alter ego. He is everything I am not, and nothing I am. I am a pretty emotional kid who has a fucked up brain, with which he is searching for a few answers for some questions, and is generally filled up to the brim with empathy. Suchi is on the other hand a cold hearted prick who has a fucked up brain, with which he is searching for some questions to answer, and is generally filled up to the brim with apathy. As I said, he is a mirror image. Since childhood I was attracted towards insurrectionists, and it is this attraction which led me to love Jesus of Suburbia, the Catcher in the rye, and Suchi. I always wanted to be the 'rebel' kid, and sadly, I always ended up being the stupid, goodboyish, philosophical idiot I am, but it was this want to be the trademark 'rebel', which made me end up with Suchi. But he is no rebel, he is just a loser kid who is completely inert to his prowesses, but wait a minute, aren't rebels meant to be just like the way Suchi is? I guess so. And so, I said it out loud on his face today, " You're a Fucking, moronic loser!'
Anyway it's one already and i feel sleepy, and my head is still spinning. So i'll go off now. But just one statutory warning for all the would-like-to-be-a-rebel-somedays, never, ever, try to be a rebel, you'll end up being the loser. Goodnight.
Today when I entered home, I observed my face on the mirror. It looked empty. I expected questions from my parents.
'Where were you?', 'Why are you so late?' But no such queries. So I tried to look harrowed, and scared, and tired, and I tried to be noticed. But still no questions. Baba was on the phone, Maa was watching some stupid tv show where kids think they sing. I got tired of waiting for someone to notice the dramatic edge of my eyes, so I got up and changed.
Today I met up with Suchi again. Suchi, my friend is someone whom I love to hate. I meet him almost every week. Suchi, is my regular dose of apathy. He, is a kid whom I know since childhood, he is one of my closest pals. I thought that it was only because of this friendship I like to meet him again and again.
But today I understood, that's not the case. Suchi is a just another stupid kid with regular problems. But what makes him different is his complete indifference towards the problems. Suchi is a kid who is clueless about his future, just like the rest of us; some of us know, some don't know, some pretend to know, but all of us are in search of it. Suchi, on the other hand is a kid who does not know what he wants to be, what he wants to do, and he does not care. Today I understood it is this indifference towards life in general which brings me back to him.
Today, we were discussing his life span. Poor guy has a block in his heart(like he cares) so his probable living years is fifty, then he added that this fifty gets reduced to forty because of his persisting abuse of the white stick(again, like he cares), and then I added that this forty gets reduced to thirty because of his depressive brain, which will not allow him to live long. Atlast he protested, 'eto aage mere felish na'. Poor guy.
Suchi is the anecdote of me, like an alter ego. He is everything I am not, and nothing I am. I am a pretty emotional kid who has a fucked up brain, with which he is searching for a few answers for some questions, and is generally filled up to the brim with empathy. Suchi is on the other hand a cold hearted prick who has a fucked up brain, with which he is searching for some questions to answer, and is generally filled up to the brim with apathy. As I said, he is a mirror image. Since childhood I was attracted towards insurrectionists, and it is this attraction which led me to love Jesus of Suburbia, the Catcher in the rye, and Suchi. I always wanted to be the 'rebel' kid, and sadly, I always ended up being the stupid, goodboyish, philosophical idiot I am, but it was this want to be the trademark 'rebel', which made me end up with Suchi. But he is no rebel, he is just a loser kid who is completely inert to his prowesses, but wait a minute, aren't rebels meant to be just like the way Suchi is? I guess so. And so, I said it out loud on his face today, " You're a Fucking, moronic loser!'
Anyway it's one already and i feel sleepy, and my head is still spinning. So i'll go off now. But just one statutory warning for all the would-like-to-be-a-rebel-somedays, never, ever, try to be a rebel, you'll end up being the loser. Goodnight.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Premonition
It's a windy night, a very windy night. Two silhouettes stand and disfigure the absolute darkness surrounding them. They are standing on the roof of a five storey building, and it’s windy. Only the outlines of the figures are noticeable. They can’t see each other’s faces, and they don’t need to. They are still kids, no i’m sorry, they are still boys. Who cares? They don’t.
Boy 1: So, how’s everything going? How do you like the new surroundings?
Boy 2: It’s good, yaa it’s really good. What about you?
Boy 1: Everything’s fine, everyone’s good, everyone’s ok. Had a fight today.
Boy 2: What? Kar sathe?
Boy 1: A stupid guy. My girl was crying over the phone, because she was scared of some stupid blood transfusion, and the stupid guy kept on bugging me, so I beat him up.
Boy 2: You’ll never change!*chuckles*
Boy 1: Why should I?
Boy 2: Yaa right. Why should you.
Silence
Boy 1: Dude do remember? Once you had said something terrifically stupid like my arrogance will lead to my downfall, or something of that sort. Do you still think that way?
Boy 2: Ofcourse I do! Etodin baade jiggesh korchhis keno?
Boy 1: Today this random guy whom I considered to be my friend, questioned my loyalty. Can you believe his fucking audacity?
Boy 2: Yaa right!*snickers*
Boy 1: Some times I just feel so fucking tired with everyhing! Everything stinks!
Boy 2: Bujhi, bujhi!
Boy 1: Kichhu bojhona shala!
Boy 2: *snaps* What the hell do you think? You think you're some big hotshot who has all the fucking problems in the world just cut-pasted into his life? Well let me tell you this, you're not the only one!
Silence
Boy 1: Dude, don't get so touchy, I was just trying to share my complaints.
Boy 2: Well, they're common complaints.
Silence
Boy 2: Dude look down, isn't the street looking nice, with all the dreamy neons showering blessings on it?
Boy 1: It would look even nicer with a deformed body lying on it, it would look so bloody poetic. *lights another cigarette*
Boy 2: Dude that's enough, you've had your share. Ar khash na.
Boy 1: Leave me you stupid asshole!
Silence
Boy 1: Jaanish, sedin mukh diye rokto beriyechhe.
Boy 2: What?!
Boy 1: Keu jaane na, kauke bolish na jeno*winks*
Silence
They listen to the song of the wind, they try hear their call, but it's just the song they hear which keeps on lingering on their senses.
Boy 1: Thanda lagchhe, niche cho.
Boy 2: Maa's going to call in 5 minutes, I better scram.
Boy 1: Wish I could too.
Boy 2: Huhn?
Boy 1: Kichhu na, chol.
And they go down, down, down the dark, spiralling stairs.
Boy 1: So, how’s everything going? How do you like the new surroundings?
Boy 2: It’s good, yaa it’s really good. What about you?
Boy 1: Everything’s fine, everyone’s good, everyone’s ok. Had a fight today.
Boy 2: What? Kar sathe?
Boy 1: A stupid guy. My girl was crying over the phone, because she was scared of some stupid blood transfusion, and the stupid guy kept on bugging me, so I beat him up.
Boy 2: You’ll never change!*chuckles*
Boy 1: Why should I?
Boy 2: Yaa right. Why should you.
Silence
Boy 1: Dude do remember? Once you had said something terrifically stupid like my arrogance will lead to my downfall, or something of that sort. Do you still think that way?
Boy 2: Ofcourse I do! Etodin baade jiggesh korchhis keno?
Boy 1: Today this random guy whom I considered to be my friend, questioned my loyalty. Can you believe his fucking audacity?
Boy 2: Yaa right!*snickers*
Boy 1: Some times I just feel so fucking tired with everyhing! Everything stinks!
Boy 2: Bujhi, bujhi!
Boy 1: Kichhu bojhona shala!
Boy 2: *snaps* What the hell do you think? You think you're some big hotshot who has all the fucking problems in the world just cut-pasted into his life? Well let me tell you this, you're not the only one!
Silence
Boy 1: Dude, don't get so touchy, I was just trying to share my complaints.
Boy 2: Well, they're common complaints.
Silence
Boy 2: Dude look down, isn't the street looking nice, with all the dreamy neons showering blessings on it?
Boy 1: It would look even nicer with a deformed body lying on it, it would look so bloody poetic. *lights another cigarette*
Boy 2: Dude that's enough, you've had your share. Ar khash na.
Boy 1: Leave me you stupid asshole!
Silence
Boy 1: Jaanish, sedin mukh diye rokto beriyechhe.
Boy 2: What?!
Boy 1: Keu jaane na, kauke bolish na jeno*winks*
Silence
They listen to the song of the wind, they try hear their call, but it's just the song they hear which keeps on lingering on their senses.
Boy 1: Thanda lagchhe, niche cho.
Boy 2: Maa's going to call in 5 minutes, I better scram.
Boy 1: Wish I could too.
Boy 2: Huhn?
Boy 1: Kichhu na, chol.
And they go down, down, down the dark, spiralling stairs.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Balloonman
Do you ever feel that you're empty. I mean there's nothing inside you, no bone, no blood, no anything. It is as if like you're a balloon, someone pinches you, and Phuuss! You're gone.
I know this sounds like the normal emo-crap ranting vomitted out by every other teenager, but I don't feel like them. I don't have any of the stupid pain-in-the-ass they feel, I'm not standing with my backs against the wall, and I don't threaten myself by shouting out quitely the same old word - 'suicide'. No, I don't have any such stupid problems, and the truth is, I don't have time for them.
I just feel like a balloon, all empty. For those who are confused, let me clear it, I'm not the helium-balloon type, who fly; I'm the normal air balloon, balloons with which kids play, which are used for decorations, and which, if left behind the door, burst out just as someone comes into the house.
I just feel like a balloon, and that's the story. Period.
I know this sounds like the normal emo-crap ranting vomitted out by every other teenager, but I don't feel like them. I don't have any of the stupid pain-in-the-ass they feel, I'm not standing with my backs against the wall, and I don't threaten myself by shouting out quitely the same old word - 'suicide'. No, I don't have any such stupid problems, and the truth is, I don't have time for them.
I just feel like a balloon, all empty. For those who are confused, let me clear it, I'm not the helium-balloon type, who fly; I'm the normal air balloon, balloons with which kids play, which are used for decorations, and which, if left behind the door, burst out just as someone comes into the house.
I just feel like a balloon, and that's the story. Period.
Friday, June 18, 2010
The accounts of a lonely oxymoron
Sunshine. A silver shining sea. A tropical island with two palm trees. I own this place. This is my island. A place devoid of human presence, this is my home. Life is great here. No one to disturb me, no one whom i can disturb. It's so serene that I feel myself thinking out, loud. It's so serene that even the sea does not disturb me. The sea, lies still. As for me, I also lie still, like a centipede. I let the sunshine shower on me, it's full of vitamin D after all. I lie, still, like a drowsy molasse pie. It's so peacefull. I lie the whole day, chewing the crystal clear grass, I don't feel hungry, I just feel sleepy. When evening creeps in, I get up, and enter my burrow. Time for dinner, sinner, simmer, whatever. After dinner, I brush my eyes. Health and hygiene is important afterall. I get into my bed, and I wait for sleep to crash in. But she doesn't. Instead I start to hear rumbles in the subaquatic labyrinthes. The toys from the attic start to come out, scary toys. I feel scared. I come out of my burrow. I see a light far away into the sea. It shines brightly. A girl lives there, a very beautiful girl. She is alone, too. I decide to go to her island. Yes, that's what I'll do first thing next morning. I never do though. I stare at the light, I sit down and stare at the light. I know anytime the toys may come out of my brains and kill me. So I just stare at the light, I do nothing else, I just stare. Slowly the night fades away, and the light fades away. I again feel drowsy, I lie down like a molasse pie. Another night passes.
This way it has continued for years, but I just can't bear it anymore. I know the toys are getting impatient, I am getting impatient. Anyday now, they will kill me, anyday now, I will not kill myself anymore. So the time has come. Today I chopped down the palm trees, and I made a raft. Tonight, I am leaving, leaving this home forever. Tonight I'll be heading for that island with the bright light. Tonight i'll try to reach out to her, to her world, to my world. Tonight, I will reach out to myself. Tonight, I refuse to die.
This way it has continued for years, but I just can't bear it anymore. I know the toys are getting impatient, I am getting impatient. Anyday now, they will kill me, anyday now, I will not kill myself anymore. So the time has come. Today I chopped down the palm trees, and I made a raft. Tonight, I am leaving, leaving this home forever. Tonight I'll be heading for that island with the bright light. Tonight i'll try to reach out to her, to her world, to my world. Tonight, I will reach out to myself. Tonight, I refuse to die.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Tele-Bivision
Bright colours, cause me pain. They hit me right between the eyes like love bullets. My eyes start to water. I can't keep on looking at them anymore. The need to turn around and face myself away from the colours become very evident. But instead of turning around, I just pull my throne a bit closer to the fountain of bright colours. I stare at them. A poison, the poison starts to lull my brain. The colours stack themselves inside my brain like empty boxes of mayonise pizza, which smell of cheesy delinquency. Overload. The alarm screams out. But I pay no heed to it. I sit, I stare. I see waves. colouful waves. non-colourful waves. I see grainy, sandy, dirty ants climbing up my cheek and entering my eyes, the shortest way to my brain. I see waving hands, waving legs, waving faces, waving waves. The waves seem to arrive from no where and end nowhere. Waves. Static waves. Gasoline rainbowed hands start to dance before me. They dance seductively. They try to hypnotise me. Suddenly the barricade unclogs. And the flow of unimportant data crosses my limit of insanity. Enough. I grab the remote, and switch off the television.
umm... my television has gone bonkers and this is my reaction to the nuisance he is causing. Damn You!.
umm... my television has gone bonkers and this is my reaction to the nuisance he is causing. Damn You!.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Ironically Galvanised Lungs
Faith you're driving me away
you do it everyday
you don't mean it but it hurts like hell
my brain says I'm receiving pain
a lack of oxygen from my life support
my iron lung
We're too young to fall asleep
too cynical to speak
we are losing it can't you tell?
we scratch our eternal itch
A twentieth century bitch
and we are grateful for our iron lung
the headshrinkers
they want everything
my uncle Bill
my Belisha beacon
the headshrinkers
they want everything
my uncle Bill
my Belisha beacon
suck, suck your teenage thumb
toilet-trained and dumb
when the power runs out we'll just hum
this this is our new song
just like the last one
a total waste of time
my iron lung
the headshrinkers
they want everything
my uncle Bill
my Belisha beacon
the headshrinkers
they want everything
my uncle Bill
my Belisha beacon
and if you're frightened
you can be frightened
you can be it's okay
and if you're frightened
you can be frightened
you can be it's okay
the headshrinkers
they want everything
my uncle Bill
my Belisha beacon
the headshrinkers
they want everything
my uncle Bill
my Belisha beacon
I suddenly had an urge to write something, but as nothing exploded in my brain, so I decided to post my most recent Favourite song.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
A page from the diary of a homesick alien
I love to be alone. I also love to walk alone. Walk where? I don't know. I don't care. Probably I walk on the roof of my home. And probably I walk on the shadowless road. And probably I walk on the milky moon beam. I don't care. I just walk. I also run sometimes, but only when I'm scared.
I see alien ships hovering over me. Ships with starry eyes, and rainbow moustaches, and clown noses. They come for me. They want me to go with them. I know everyone of them. They are me, I am them. They ask me to come back home. I want to. But I don't.
Why?
I don't know. I miss home. I want to go back. But I don't. I can, but I don't. They keep coming back. They ask me to come back. But they never try to understand me. This is my home now. This roof, this road, this milky moon beam is my road, is my way out. I want to go back home. But I also want to be free. So I don't, I don't go back. Probably I'm addicted to walking. In my home, I didn't know how to walk.
This is my home. Home is where I can walk, where I can run, where I can breathe, where I can think, where I can feel, where I can gaze up at the sky, and lie down on the grass, and die while walking, or running.
They will come back. And they will request me to come back. Go back. But I won't. I never will.
I see alien ships hovering over me. Ships with starry eyes, and rainbow moustaches, and clown noses. They come for me. They want me to go with them. I know everyone of them. They are me, I am them. They ask me to come back home. I want to. But I don't.
Why?
I don't know. I miss home. I want to go back. But I don't. I can, but I don't. They keep coming back. They ask me to come back. But they never try to understand me. This is my home now. This roof, this road, this milky moon beam is my road, is my way out. I want to go back home. But I also want to be free. So I don't, I don't go back. Probably I'm addicted to walking. In my home, I didn't know how to walk.
This is my home. Home is where I can walk, where I can run, where I can breathe, where I can think, where I can feel, where I can gaze up at the sky, and lie down on the grass, and die while walking, or running.
They will come back. And they will request me to come back. Go back. But I won't. I never will.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Rainmachine
I stand below the rainmachine. My rainmachine. I turn it on.
Big, whole pellets of water hit me like soft-nosed bullets.
I stand.
I stand.
I start feeling my nose, my eyes, my temples, my face becoming numb.
I can't feel my face anymore. But I feel water caressing my face.
I imagine.
I imagine myself flying. Flying over a strange city. I fly naked. I feel naked.
I see everyone doing their chores, no one gazes up towards me. Everyone looks at their shoes. Shiny shoes, dirty shoes, ragged shoes, shoes with strings attached, with no strings attached. Everyone stares at their shoes.
I fly. I see myself carrying a guitar. I'm playing the guitar while flying. I know it's weird. But I do.
Now I'm flying over an ocean, a blue ocean, a red ocean, a yellow ocean, a rainbow ocean.
Slowly I start to lose altitude.
I drop, drop like a bombarded pigeon.
And I crash into the sea.
I open my eyes.
I close the rainmachine.
I dry up myself.
I feel the last drop of numbness fly away from the tip of my nose.
And I feel happy.
Big, whole pellets of water hit me like soft-nosed bullets.
I stand.
I stand.
I start feeling my nose, my eyes, my temples, my face becoming numb.
I can't feel my face anymore. But I feel water caressing my face.
I imagine.
I imagine myself flying. Flying over a strange city. I fly naked. I feel naked.
I see everyone doing their chores, no one gazes up towards me. Everyone looks at their shoes. Shiny shoes, dirty shoes, ragged shoes, shoes with strings attached, with no strings attached. Everyone stares at their shoes.
I fly. I see myself carrying a guitar. I'm playing the guitar while flying. I know it's weird. But I do.
Now I'm flying over an ocean, a blue ocean, a red ocean, a yellow ocean, a rainbow ocean.
Slowly I start to lose altitude.
I drop, drop like a bombarded pigeon.
And I crash into the sea.
I open my eyes.
I close the rainmachine.
I dry up myself.
I feel the last drop of numbness fly away from the tip of my nose.
And I feel happy.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Rolling like a stone: A review of 'Like A Rolling Stone'
How does it feel
To be on your own
With no direction home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone.
This is cynical Dylan probably at his best. He shouts out in spoken verse to question his generation. And the strange part is even though it is meant for Dylan's generation, even I can answer this long-but-simple question.
The answer is, it feels scary, it feels scary to be on your own, with no direction for home, like a complete unknown. The identity crisis which the post-war generations of Europe and America had to face, is being felt by us today. It is understandable that if today a new Dylan was born in this pora kopaler desh then probably he would have also written a song of this stature.
'Like a Rolling Stone' is a simple song chronicling the life of a certain Miss Lonely who went to fine schools, who dined with high society friends, who dressed herself in fine loins. But now she has to face the hard, cold, bitter world which awaits with knife and fork in hand to dine on her, after she has been robbed by her lovers and officials of every penny. Till this day she had been fooling life and in subtler terms, herself with the help of all the extravagance, she had been hiding her weakness from the world, but now that she is penniless she has to earn her right to live in the tough way. 'Like a Rolling Stone' deals with the issues of loss of innocence, the tough journey of life, and not knowing who you are.
But somewhere Dylan also highlights and glorifies the life of a nobody, with nothing, when he says-
When you got nothing, you got nothing to lose
You're invisible now, you got no secrets to conceal.
And this way he changes the whole course of the song from the tale of utter failure to the accounts of hope and faith on the human habit of struggle.
But it is the last four lines of the song, the chorus which helps to elevate the song from accounts of a stupid generation to the concerns of a bunch of stupid nobody generations.
How does it feel to be like a rolling stone?
It feels sad.
To be on your own
With no direction home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone.
This is cynical Dylan probably at his best. He shouts out in spoken verse to question his generation. And the strange part is even though it is meant for Dylan's generation, even I can answer this long-but-simple question.
The answer is, it feels scary, it feels scary to be on your own, with no direction for home, like a complete unknown. The identity crisis which the post-war generations of Europe and America had to face, is being felt by us today. It is understandable that if today a new Dylan was born in this pora kopaler desh then probably he would have also written a song of this stature.
'Like a Rolling Stone' is a simple song chronicling the life of a certain Miss Lonely who went to fine schools, who dined with high society friends, who dressed herself in fine loins. But now she has to face the hard, cold, bitter world which awaits with knife and fork in hand to dine on her, after she has been robbed by her lovers and officials of every penny. Till this day she had been fooling life and in subtler terms, herself with the help of all the extravagance, she had been hiding her weakness from the world, but now that she is penniless she has to earn her right to live in the tough way. 'Like a Rolling Stone' deals with the issues of loss of innocence, the tough journey of life, and not knowing who you are.
But somewhere Dylan also highlights and glorifies the life of a nobody, with nothing, when he says-
When you got nothing, you got nothing to lose
You're invisible now, you got no secrets to conceal.
And this way he changes the whole course of the song from the tale of utter failure to the accounts of hope and faith on the human habit of struggle.
But it is the last four lines of the song, the chorus which helps to elevate the song from accounts of a stupid generation to the concerns of a bunch of stupid nobody generations.
How does it feel to be like a rolling stone?
It feels sad.
Blurring into obscurity
Today I woke up in the morning. And I found my world hazy. I went upto maa-baba's room to inquire about the whole matter, only to find two faceless figures standing. I quickly came out of the room, out of my house. I was feeling scared. I went upto to the roof, my only recluse. On my way i was greeted by faceless, hideous monsters. I ran upto the roof. I thought the air would do me good. But I found no air, instead i saw a large, grey roof above me. It was obstructing the air, the blue sky, the white clouds, everything from my visibility. I panicked. This should not happen, it's not the time yet.
And then I remembered, i was without my glasses, as they had been sent for repairs.
Gosh, and I thought the world had started to blur out into anonymity.
And then I remembered, i was without my glasses, as they had been sent for repairs.
Gosh, and I thought the world had started to blur out into anonymity.
Crackrepair
I had a pair of glasses. One of the glasses had a crack vertically running through the middle of the glass. This crack helped me to see the world from two different sides, one left, one right. I saw 1 fighting against 100, from both sides, and i walked past them. I saw a volcano polluting the sea, from both sides, and i walked past them. I saw a stranger killing another stranger, from both sides, and I walked past them. I saw little kids jumping from clifftops, from both the sides, and I walked past them. I saw a man spitting blood on another man, and I walked past them.I saw a veiled woman serving poison to a man, from both sides, and I walked past them. I walked over deserts, over oceans, over cities, to reach my home. But when I reached there, I saw they had already burned it down.
My glass helped me to see everything from two sides.
But, it didn't tell me what to do.
So I threw it away.
My glass helped me to see everything from two sides.
But, it didn't tell me what to do.
So I threw it away.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Nostalgia: A Fever / Fever: A Nostalgia
I take a mug full of water. I dip my head... err... i mean my nose in it. And I breathe in. I inhale the water. And bang.
My head starts hurting, terribly. I feel my nose becoming numb and blocked up. My eyes get blurred.
And memories start gushing out of my secret vault.
I remember the time when I was six-years old, and it was midnight, and i had a fever. I used to wake up maa-baba, declaring that if i can't sleep, no one can.
I remember maa waking me up in afternoon, and washing my head with cold water and checking my temperature.
I remember the lemony sunlight of a winter morning bathing my feet and the smell of phenyl hitting me right between the eyes.
I remember maa repeating the phrase "Serves you right!" over and over again to prove that her decisions regarding me roaming around the house barechested was right.
I remember frequenting the neighbourhood dumpster to play with ash-smitten puppies.
I remember throwing up in front of maa, and then apologising for it.
I remember a windy evening, me savouring both my first can of coke and my first freaky ghost story.
I remember listening to Metallica on a hot afternoon and then feeling sick.
I remember waking up from a feverish nap to find someone rustling my hair, not being able to recognise her, till i understand it's Khuku Di.
I remember waking up in the middle of the night with a fever, and putting on Floyd on my mp3, only to realise after half an hour that it's just getting worse.
I remember feeling feverish.
I feel feverish.
And somehow, I love it.
My head starts hurting, terribly. I feel my nose becoming numb and blocked up. My eyes get blurred.
And memories start gushing out of my secret vault.
I remember the time when I was six-years old, and it was midnight, and i had a fever. I used to wake up maa-baba, declaring that if i can't sleep, no one can.
I remember maa waking me up in afternoon, and washing my head with cold water and checking my temperature.
I remember the lemony sunlight of a winter morning bathing my feet and the smell of phenyl hitting me right between the eyes.
I remember maa repeating the phrase "Serves you right!" over and over again to prove that her decisions regarding me roaming around the house barechested was right.
I remember frequenting the neighbourhood dumpster to play with ash-smitten puppies.
I remember throwing up in front of maa, and then apologising for it.
I remember a windy evening, me savouring both my first can of coke and my first freaky ghost story.
I remember listening to Metallica on a hot afternoon and then feeling sick.
I remember waking up from a feverish nap to find someone rustling my hair, not being able to recognise her, till i understand it's Khuku Di.
I remember waking up in the middle of the night with a fever, and putting on Floyd on my mp3, only to realise after half an hour that it's just getting worse.
I remember feeling feverish.
I feel feverish.
And somehow, I love it.
The Forbidden Blackhole
[The inspiration for this piece is 'Is there anybody out there?' from Pink Floyd's Wall album]
Knock knock.
Who's there?
A friend.
What? Friend? Mane?
Entry denied.
Knock knock.
Who's there?
An enemy.
Enemy. And you still think i'll let you in? Well, you are wrong!
Entry denied.
Knock knock.
Who's there?
A bird.
Birds should not be allowed to enter cages.
Entry denied.
Knock knock.
Who's there?
A fish.
Fishes should not be allowed to live out of water.
Entry denied.
Knock knock.
Who's there?
A stranger.
I don't know you. I'm scared.
Entry denied.
Knock knock.
Who's there?
An alien.
You are too boring.
Entry denied.
Knock knock.
Who's there?
Silence.
Entry allowed.
*ENTER/END*
Knock knock.
Who's there?
A friend.
What? Friend? Mane?
Entry denied.
Knock knock.
Who's there?
An enemy.
Enemy. And you still think i'll let you in? Well, you are wrong!
Entry denied.
Knock knock.
Who's there?
A bird.
Birds should not be allowed to enter cages.
Entry denied.
Knock knock.
Who's there?
A fish.
Fishes should not be allowed to live out of water.
Entry denied.
Knock knock.
Who's there?
A stranger.
I don't know you. I'm scared.
Entry denied.
Knock knock.
Who's there?
An alien.
You are too boring.
Entry denied.
Knock knock.
Who's there?
Silence.
Entry allowed.
*ENTER/END*
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Grocery List
Diya, my Grandma hands me out a bit of white paper.She orders me to go and fetch the things written on the paper. I look at the paper. It's a grocery list. I make a very reluctant face and refuse to go out of the house at this time of the morning. I try to make excuses. People think i'm too lazy. The truth is, I'm scared of grocery lists. I don't know why. But i'm scared. I feel a prickly ice cube dribbling down my spine.
Grocery list, a white piece of paper containing some names; aloo, peyanj, holud, rin saban, ada, amar matha. I feel scared. I quickly run back to my room, i close the door, and i declare myself to be sick. Diya, disgusted with me, goes away, Dadu goes and fetches the items from the grocer. They think, how I being their grandson, my parent's child, could be so lazy, and they go away.
What they don't understand is that, I am scared. Shit scared of grocery lists.
Grocery list, a white piece of paper containing some names; aloo, peyanj, holud, rin saban, ada, amar matha. I feel scared. I quickly run back to my room, i close the door, and i declare myself to be sick. Diya, disgusted with me, goes away, Dadu goes and fetches the items from the grocer. They think, how I being their grandson, my parent's child, could be so lazy, and they go away.
What they don't understand is that, I am scared. Shit scared of grocery lists.
Ruins
The house beside our flat apartment is being torn down. A yellow house. Day and night the workmen/demolishers are working really hard to break it down into bits and pieces. Nowadays i wake up in the morning with loud hammer bangings greeting me into the unconscious world. But when i go to sleep at around 2'o clock at night, i see the deserted, delapidated structure standing, waiting for its turn.
For the past 2-3 days the demolition has stopped. The workmen are not coming anymore. Maa says probably some problem with money issues must have ocurred.
Maybe.
Now when i go to sleep at night into my bedroom, the building stands, bored but still it stands. It looks so out of the world. It looks like some alien ship crash site. It looks scary. Only a single green, old, crumpled bottle of sprite lies on the half demolished 1st floor. This somehow comforts me. It soothes me. And it assures me that i'm just watching a decaying corpse, not some living thing.
For the past 2-3 days the demolition has stopped. The workmen are not coming anymore. Maa says probably some problem with money issues must have ocurred.
Maybe.
Now when i go to sleep at night into my bedroom, the building stands, bored but still it stands. It looks so out of the world. It looks like some alien ship crash site. It looks scary. Only a single green, old, crumpled bottle of sprite lies on the half demolished 1st floor. This somehow comforts me. It soothes me. And it assures me that i'm just watching a decaying corpse, not some living thing.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Ojana Ghumonto Bostu
[this is the product of pre-traumatic stress, read at your own risk]
[From the makers of ‘pre-death postmortem’ we bring you ‘Unidentified Sleeping Object’!]
The terror.
At last.
It’s sinking in.
Tomorrow. I’ve heard tomorrow never comes. I hope i’ve heard right.
Right? Or left?
This is not the time for political mumbo jumbo.
Go back to your bed; it’s not your fault that you’re a moron.
Fuck you!
I’ve lost it.
Where were we?
Right or Left?
Oh right!
No, actually wrong.
Hope i’ve heard wrong.
Right! Thanks for the cue.
Tomorrow.
A new day.
A new boy.
A newborn.
Tomorrow.
An old clock.
An old aspiration.
An old pain.
Tomorrow.
The same old wine in the same new synthetic-unbreakable bottle.
Stop fake poetry.
STOP.
...
...
...
Ok start.
Good.
Tomorrow.
Stop talking shit.
Yesterday
No yesterday, no day before yesterday.
Today?
You crazy?
Say something which Public love to sympathise.
Say something which public love to idolise.
Say something which public love to identify with.
Like?
Truth.
Ok, got it.
Tomorrow.
Great. Now you’re getting it.
That’s the word i’ve been looking for.
Boy, one day you’ll grow to become a great ‘came 2nd in the race’
Anyway.
Thanks.
What was the word again?
Eat shit!!!
[And he spits out in rage]
[From the makers of ‘pre-death postmortem’ we bring you ‘Unidentified Sleeping Object’!]
The terror.
At last.
It’s sinking in.
Tomorrow. I’ve heard tomorrow never comes. I hope i’ve heard right.
Right? Or left?
This is not the time for political mumbo jumbo.
Go back to your bed; it’s not your fault that you’re a moron.
Fuck you!
I’ve lost it.
Where were we?
Right or Left?
Oh right!
No, actually wrong.
Hope i’ve heard wrong.
Right! Thanks for the cue.
Tomorrow.
A new day.
A new boy.
A newborn.
Tomorrow.
An old clock.
An old aspiration.
An old pain.
Tomorrow.
The same old wine in the same new synthetic-unbreakable bottle.
Stop fake poetry.
STOP.
...
...
...
Ok start.
Good.
Tomorrow.
Stop talking shit.
Yesterday
No yesterday, no day before yesterday.
Today?
You crazy?
Say something which Public love to sympathise.
Say something which public love to idolise.
Say something which public love to identify with.
Like?
Truth.
Ok, got it.
Tomorrow.
Great. Now you’re getting it.
That’s the word i’ve been looking for.
Boy, one day you’ll grow to become a great ‘came 2nd in the race’
Anyway.
Thanks.
What was the word again?
Eat shit!!!
[And he spits out in rage]
Fairytale
‘Don’t wander to that hill my son. It is where the house of the sun is. Don’t ever visit the house.’ Said Grandma. ‘Why?’ asks the boy. ‘The demon without a face lives in the house. No one has ever seen him. Those who have, never returned.’ And so the boy decides to visit The House of the Sun. He takes his sword, his cell phone, his magic robe, and sets off towards the hills on his R’Enfield. Granny knows where he is going, and doesn’t stop him. She knows she has been successful in moulding him into a proper human being. Now he has to travel the rest of the path to become the man he was destined to. And so sets the boy his journey towards the House of Sun. He travels on a dusty highway for four days. On the fifth day he sees the girl. He stops.
Boy: Who are you?
Girl: I’m the gypsy.
Boy: Where are you from?
Girl: Nowhere.
Boy: Where are you going?
Girl: I don’t know. Will you give me a ride?
Boy: Sure. Hop on.
And so they set off, towards the hills.
Girl: Where are you going?
Boy: Over the hills.
Girl: Why?
Boy: To visit the House of Sun.
Girl: Why?
Boy: To kill the faceless demon.
Girl: Why?
Boy: So people are not scared of him anymore.
Girl: Why are people scared of him?
Boy: Because he has no face.
Girl: That’s weird.
And they travel on.
A gas station pops up in the middle of the highway.
Boy: Lets stop, my bike needs gas.
So they stop the bike in the gas station, an abandoned structure standing on the middle of nowhere. The boy gets his gas, still available in the station. The girl loiters around. Suddenly she finds a tape recorder. She brings it to the boy. They find a tape inside it. The boy presses the play button. They hear the wheels spinning inside. Then a voice blares out.
Voice: Hello strangers! If you have discovered this tape then probably you’re heading towards House of Sun. This is a statutory warning stating that anyone visiting the house has to be armed with sharp nails and teeth, and must have a twisted logic, and must be scared. Happy Journey ahead.
Boy: whatever.
And they get on the bike and travel on. After traveling for four more days they reach the hills. They find an escalator, moving at the base of the hill. They get out of the bike and step on it. The escalator takes them towards the hill tops. As they gain altitude they see the mountain become grey. They find an orchard here, a farm there, all empty and dried up. As they reach the top they see a large castle standing. A castle in ruins. They approach it. No one’s around. They approach the door of the castle. A rusty lock hangs from the door. The boy touches the lock. And it melts. They open the door to find an empty room, an empty heart, an empty mind. They search the rooms. All are empty. The Castle is empty. But a faint thumping noise enters their ears. A drum beat, a very peculiar drum beat. They are scared. And slowly the drumbeat starts to get loud. They try to look for the exit, and they can’t find it. The beat becomes louder, and louder, and louder. They panic, they cry out. The beat is now ear-piercing. The beat thumps down on their heart, it clogs their heart, it coagulates their blood.
Suddenly they find two little, yellow butterflies mingling in the grasses like two teardrops of god herself. Probably it is the mating season. And the drum beat stops, the heart finally rests. They find their way out. They find the exit. They come out of the castle. They are not scared anymore. Now they know who the faceless demon is. And they also know he is dead. The heart has stopped beating, and he is never coming back, coming back to get them. And they feel happy.
Boy: now what do we do?
Girl: I don’t know. What do you want to do?
Boy: probably get to know you better.
Girl: why?
Boy: because I love you.
Girl: ok.
Boy: well?
Girl: well what?
Boy: do you love me?
Girl: well… I guess I do.
Boy: let’s get back to the bike.
Girl: ok.
And they live happily ever after…
Boy: Who are you?
Girl: I’m the gypsy.
Boy: Where are you from?
Girl: Nowhere.
Boy: Where are you going?
Girl: I don’t know. Will you give me a ride?
Boy: Sure. Hop on.
And so they set off, towards the hills.
Girl: Where are you going?
Boy: Over the hills.
Girl: Why?
Boy: To visit the House of Sun.
Girl: Why?
Boy: To kill the faceless demon.
Girl: Why?
Boy: So people are not scared of him anymore.
Girl: Why are people scared of him?
Boy: Because he has no face.
Girl: That’s weird.
And they travel on.
A gas station pops up in the middle of the highway.
Boy: Lets stop, my bike needs gas.
So they stop the bike in the gas station, an abandoned structure standing on the middle of nowhere. The boy gets his gas, still available in the station. The girl loiters around. Suddenly she finds a tape recorder. She brings it to the boy. They find a tape inside it. The boy presses the play button. They hear the wheels spinning inside. Then a voice blares out.
Voice: Hello strangers! If you have discovered this tape then probably you’re heading towards House of Sun. This is a statutory warning stating that anyone visiting the house has to be armed with sharp nails and teeth, and must have a twisted logic, and must be scared. Happy Journey ahead.
Boy: whatever.
And they get on the bike and travel on. After traveling for four more days they reach the hills. They find an escalator, moving at the base of the hill. They get out of the bike and step on it. The escalator takes them towards the hill tops. As they gain altitude they see the mountain become grey. They find an orchard here, a farm there, all empty and dried up. As they reach the top they see a large castle standing. A castle in ruins. They approach it. No one’s around. They approach the door of the castle. A rusty lock hangs from the door. The boy touches the lock. And it melts. They open the door to find an empty room, an empty heart, an empty mind. They search the rooms. All are empty. The Castle is empty. But a faint thumping noise enters their ears. A drum beat, a very peculiar drum beat. They are scared. And slowly the drumbeat starts to get loud. They try to look for the exit, and they can’t find it. The beat becomes louder, and louder, and louder. They panic, they cry out. The beat is now ear-piercing. The beat thumps down on their heart, it clogs their heart, it coagulates their blood.
Suddenly they find two little, yellow butterflies mingling in the grasses like two teardrops of god herself. Probably it is the mating season. And the drum beat stops, the heart finally rests. They find their way out. They find the exit. They come out of the castle. They are not scared anymore. Now they know who the faceless demon is. And they also know he is dead. The heart has stopped beating, and he is never coming back, coming back to get them. And they feel happy.
Boy: now what do we do?
Girl: I don’t know. What do you want to do?
Boy: probably get to know you better.
Girl: why?
Boy: because I love you.
Girl: ok.
Boy: well?
Girl: well what?
Boy: do you love me?
Girl: well… I guess I do.
Boy: let’s get back to the bike.
Girl: ok.
And they live happily ever after…
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Coma
(Dedicated to my beloved insomnia)
Hush… Shhh… Silence…
Silence.
Everywhere.
Every inch.
Silence.
He drops the pin.
Silence.
The pin has sunk into silence.
He claps.
Silence.
His hands become invisible to each other.
He bangs His head on a wall.
Silence.
Wall? No wall exists inside a boundary-less block of noise.
He wants to get out. He can’t. He has to. He will not. He should. He doesn’t.
He jumps. He flies. He glides. He swims.
He crashes.
He’s hurt. He’s sad. He’s cold. He’s sleepy.
He yawns.
And silence breaks down. Silence is over. Silence is history. Silence is banished. Silence no more.
Now, it’s Echo’s time.
He hears yawns.
Everybody, it is yawning time. Everybody, now sleep!
Hush… Shhh… Silence…
Silence.
Everywhere.
Every inch.
Silence.
He drops the pin.
Silence.
The pin has sunk into silence.
He claps.
Silence.
His hands become invisible to each other.
He bangs His head on a wall.
Silence.
Wall? No wall exists inside a boundary-less block of noise.
He wants to get out. He can’t. He has to. He will not. He should. He doesn’t.
He jumps. He flies. He glides. He swims.
He crashes.
He’s hurt. He’s sad. He’s cold. He’s sleepy.
He yawns.
And silence breaks down. Silence is over. Silence is history. Silence is banished. Silence no more.
Now, it’s Echo’s time.
He hears yawns.
Everybody, it is yawning time. Everybody, now sleep!
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Who cares??
It was that kind of a crazy afternoon, terrifically cold, and no sun out or anything, and you felt like you were disappearing every time you crossed a road.
~Holden Caulfield
The Catcher in the Rye.
You see, we don't disappear. We, the people, just think we do. We think we disappear. We think we evaporate. We think we dry up. We think we drown. We think we are some stupid superhero who will save everyone else from a Royal pain in the ass. We think we are actually doing something fruitful. We think 'oh my gosh, i'm so cynical. That is so ultra-cool!'. We think we are such a liability for our watchman's son's pet frog. We think "DOWN WITH THE SYSTEM!". We think that we are thinking. We love to think.
But actually, we are just crossing a road, pausing to check if some car is approaching us, we stand in the middle of the road, the traffic police makes a weird face, and we cross the road and reach the otherside. The end of the discussion. Or is it???
~Holden Caulfield
The Catcher in the Rye.
You see, we don't disappear. We, the people, just think we do. We think we disappear. We think we evaporate. We think we dry up. We think we drown. We think we are some stupid superhero who will save everyone else from a Royal pain in the ass. We think we are actually doing something fruitful. We think 'oh my gosh, i'm so cynical. That is so ultra-cool!'. We think we are such a liability for our watchman's son's pet frog. We think "DOWN WITH THE SYSTEM!". We think that we are thinking. We love to think.
But actually, we are just crossing a road, pausing to check if some car is approaching us, we stand in the middle of the road, the traffic police makes a weird face, and we cross the road and reach the otherside. The end of the discussion. Or is it???
Monday, March 29, 2010
Season Change
Arrghhh.......... wake up............. pain.............. the pain........ it's back........... guess it's midnight.......... single streak of light creeps into my crib........... everthing looks so hazy............... can't breathe............. feeling all choked up............ the fan............ it's moving............ s it????? can't feel any air on my fac............... head so hot......... feet all cold............... the blanket???????? where's the blanket????????? dumped beside my bed............... shit............. too much pain.............. can't pick it up............... try to call maa................ no sound comes out from within me............... damn it.............. looks like got the fever............ again................
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)