It's all about Me

                            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.

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.