The Art Of Making Friends

I was sitting in Deshopriyo Park, trying to light my cigarette. Nothing felt right. The weather was hot, the people were cold. I sat there, after finding a green patch to sit on. Hundreds of people were sitting around, scattered, like a jigsaw puzzle box had been upturned over the field. It was windy, and I couldn't light my fire. Suddenly a figure approached.

- Ki boss, ganja khawa hoche?

I looked up. A boy. Yes, he was a boy, 15-16 years at the most. Just hints of facial hair. He wore a dirty t-shirt, a ragged jeans. A mobile headphone was tucked in his ears. Slum kid. Bosti'r chhele. He asked again

- Ganja kheyo na ekhane.
- Arre na na. Ganja keno khabo? Cigarette.
- Sobai tai bole. Ei, tora edike aye to ektu.

He was talking to the mobile speaker.

- Arre shunke dekh na, ganja noy.

He took the cigarette, he smelled it. Didn't look very convinced. I observed my hands were shaking. I couldn't keep them still. Maybe I should make a dash.

- Dekho boss, bhalo bolchi ekhane ganja kheyo na. Dhora porle kintu bohut kechal hobe. Mama-o achhe assepase.
- Bolchhi to ganja noy, chap nish na. Cigarette khabi?

He's expression changed. He bit his tongue. Lojja peyechhe.

- Na na. Ei ekhhuni kheye esechhi.
- Arre kha na.

I offered him my packet. He took it.

- Gold Flake. King?

He's eyes were twinkling. He took a cigarette, and returned the pack. I observed two more figures approaching. All of the same age. All had the same attires.

- Ki hoyechhe re?
- Arre kichhu na, e amar bondhu, alap korabo bole daklam. Arekta chhele chhilo. Ganja khachhilo.
- Urri sala! King? Sala borolok hoye gechis dekchi.
- Ei dada-ta khawalo re. Bohut bhalo lok.

I had been promoted from 'boss' to 'dada'.

- O, tai eto bondhu! Dada, ar ache naki?

I checked. Two more were left. 15 bucks. Jagge.
I gave them the pack.

- Thank you dada.

He truly seemed thankfull.

- Kothay thako go?
- Ami? Ami north-er dik-e thakire. Tora kothakar?
- Oito, Kalighat. Amra Kalighat-er chhele.
- Ekhane omuk daa ke chenoto?

I had to show them that I was aware of the locality.

- Haan haan.
- Ebar ekhan theke nirdol dariyechhilo go. Pray dichhilo boro party dada-der ke bansta.
- Tumi kon party dada?

They now sat down, making a half circle before me.

- Ami? Party-farty kori na re, tobe mone hochhe korte hobe ebar.
- Haan dada. Karur side-e thaka bhalo. Security pawa jay.

How true.

- Ta dada, ekla keno? Boudi nei?

They smiled obscenely. I smiled back.

- Dhur, dekhchis na mukh ta sukno. love-tove e kono lafra achhe naki dada'r?
- Lover-i nei, to love.
- Dada, jodi chao to bhalo maal fit kore dite pari. Ekdom fresh, dobka puro. Hundred percent satisfaksan kintu.
 
I couldn't help but smile. They were offering me prostitutes.

- Naa re. Ekhon lagbe na. Ta tora school-tul jash na?
- Hasale mairi. School abar kiser? Sala khetei paina. Nehat tumi bhalo lok, bhalo cigarette khawale. Noile amader to biri fukei din kaate.
- Ta ekhane kibhabe, maane ei paharadari?
- Tomar motoi aro koyekta bhalo lok achhe, tarai kaaj diyeche park dekhasona korar.
- Income-tincome hoy bhalo?
- Ki abar bhalo, dekhchoi to upri-r dhandae ghure berai, magi fit kori, ganja-tanja-o rakhi.

15 year old drug peddlars and pros dealers.

My cigarette was over. I had to leave. I got up.

- Aj choli re, abar edike ele dekha hobe.
- Utchho dada? Porer bar ele kintu aro bhalo cigarette chai bole dichhi.
- Sala!

I laughed hard. People surrounding me were staring now.

- Khawabo re, aro bhalo cigarette khawabo.
- Dada, amar number ta rekhe dao. Jodi dorkar pore, kono bawal-tawal hole sref ekta phone mero. Amra asbo, nischoi asbo. Tumi bohut bhalo lok. Ajkal tomar moto piece pawai jay na. Sob to sala joray joray asse, chummachati kore chole jay. Sala bhoy dekhiye taka baar korte hoy.

He gave me his number. I took it.

- Ki naam-e save korbe?
- Dada, amar naam Amol.
- Amar Bittu.
- Amar Aryan!
- Ghyama naam to.
- Ar dada, tomar naam ta?
- Amar naam? My.. my name is...

A true story. Tried to keep the dialogues unchanged.

Did you know, Pink Floyd was a storyteller: A Wholesome Review Of The Dark Side Of The Moon

  The Dark Side Of The Moon, needs no introduction. Anyone, who has learned A-B-C-D of modern music, has gone through the album, or a part of it, atleast once. Dark Side, or DSM as some call it lovingly, was the magnum opus of a certain British band by the Pink Floyd. DSM is a landmark, in every possible way. It stayed in the billboards for a straight 15 year stretch. It has sold 45 million copies internationally. It made the Kings of London Underground a household name. The album cover is considered to be among the greatest ever. It opened new territories in the field of music. But above all that, it had a lot to say. A concept album, with such amount of philosophy infused into it, had never before been created, except maybe The Who's Tommy.
  DSM, is a journey. It tells the story of an individual, and his journey. This journey does not begin at biological birth, and does not end at biological death, yet it is a whole life, put inside 45 minutes of music. The individual is represented through the songs. Each song, musically, lyrically, and as a whole, marks a period in the life of the individual.
  He begins with Speak To Me, a piece, which is reflecting whatever shall grace and disgrace his life in the coming minutes. It's like, he's a dish of scrambled eggs - scattered, disentagled, confused, yet hell bent on becoming something new. The album begins with the birth of an independent man. An individual who dreams, who sings, who creates. The last part of the song, known as Breath, is where words come in. The man speaks -

Breathe, breathe in the air.
Don't be afraid to care.
Leave but don't leave me.
Look around and choose your own ground.

Independence. This is what the man enjoys, yet he knows what lies before him is a precarious road, and he expresses doubts. But he continues on none the less.
  The next piece is On The Run, and the man is literally on the run. An instrumental piece, here he is running to find a better place, getting accustomed to the world, and his route goes haywire, represented by the tense and curt chords of Gilmour's guitar. A slight dialogue in the middle of the piece is the only piece of spoken words in this piece -

"Live for today, gone tomorrow, that's me, Hahahaaaaaa!"
The man's first lesson, this shall be.

  Once the song ends, there's a long silence, and suddenly a thousand clocks start to ring. A wake up call for the man. The 'tomorrow' mentioned in the last song, is not very far away. The first big factor of life, Time, enters his life -

So you run and you run to catch up with the sun but it's sinking
Racing around to come up behind you again.
The sun is the same in a relative way but you're older,
Shorter of breath and one day closer to death.
 
  Death. And once he realises this, he wants to go back home, resting by the fire

Home, home again.
I like to be here when I can.
When I come home cold and tired
It's good to warm my bones beside the fire.
Far away across the field
The tolling of the iron bell
Calls the faithful to their knees
To hear the softly spoken magic spells.

  The next piece, is another instrumental piece, if you consider a voice to be an instrument. One of the two compositions by keyboardist Richard Wright, and hence, a piano based piece. Probably the most meditative song of the album. The only spoken words in this piece -

"And I am not frightened of dying, any time will do, I
don't mind. Why should I be frightened of dying?
There's no reason for it, you've gotta go sometime."
 
  Probably the most important moment of the album, the man learns how to accept death. And so ends the first side of the album. Half of his journey is complete.

  The next song begins with the chiming of the cash register. One of the two singles released from DSM, and one of the biggest hits Floyd would ever record. It began with a 7/8th bass intro by Roger Waters, and in came the vocals and the guitars and the drums, Nick Mason pounding it.

Money, it's a crime.
Share it fairly but don't take a slice of my pie.
Money, so they say
Is the root of all evil today.
But if you ask for a raise it's no surprise that they're
giving none away.

  Sardonic it was, bitterness pouring out of this song. And then came in the saxophone solo, and bang! The song shifted into a regular 4/4 beat. There it was, Rockn'roll at its purest form. The man had learned about the second great factor of life, Money. Another chain to curb down his independence.
  And slowly the guitar faded out, as the organ set in. Us And Them. Rick Wright's second solo composition of the album, the most beautiful song of the whole album. Its slow, melancholy tune made it clear that the man was trying to fit himself into the society, while a third person, probably a more mature person was sympathetically trying to console him of his loss

Us, and them
And after all we're only ordinary men.
Me, and you.
God only knows it's not what we would choose to do.
 
  And then anthemically, the third person shouts out

Haven't you heard it's a battle of words
The poster bearer cried.
Listen son, said the man with the gun
There's room for you inside.

  And the man decided he couldn't enter this part of the world, it was already dead for him. He shifted into his second meditative state, through a song by the name Any Colour You Like. The only entirely instrumental piece, devoid of any spoken words, it reflected the man's mind, approaching lunacy, finding no other place to release his pent up frustation. The piece has a very ominous tone smeared all over it, with Gilmour's guitar questioning the listener of his integrity towards music. And then suddenly -

The lunatic is on the grass.
The lunatic is on the grass.
Remembering games and daisy chains and laughs.
Got to keep the loonies on the path.

The lunatic is in the hall.
The lunatics are in my hall.
The paper holds their folded faces to the floor
And every day the paper boy brings more.

  A direct influence on this song was Syd Barrett's mental illness. Barrett was the founder of the Floyds, and his loss was something which influenced three of Floyd's albums, all three considered to be masterpieces. The song here has a playfulness, which the listener may observe, but s/he can never enjoy. Hidden behind this playfulness was incomprehendible life, lyrics like -

You lock the door
And throw away the key
There's someone in my head but it's not me.

could connect with anyone, but no one dared to connect with it. The man, had turned crazy in his search for a better life, a better meaning to life. Truly, it was Brain Damage for him. But the song promised a refuge for all the damaged brain ones, the dark side of the moon, which is where the man was going now, and the last song of the album played as he left

All that you touch
All that you see
All that you taste
All you feel.
All that you love
All that you hate
All you distrust
All you save.
All that you give
All that you deal
All that you buy,
beg, borrow or steal.
All you create
All you destroy
All that you do
All that you say.
All that you eat
And everyone you meet
All that you slight
And everyone you fight.
All that is now
All that is gone
All that's to come
and everything under the sun is in tune
but the sun is eclipsed by the moon.

And so, the journey of the man ended, from his birth, to his death.

  DSM, unlike what my parents claim it to be, that is an album created by nearing-age-30 teenagers on a drug binge, is a highly philosophical album, for me atleast. I've never though had the oppurtunity of hearing it right from the beginning to the end for the first time, because, since the time I can remember, I've heard DSM play in my house (one of the albums my father liked to listen to), so that's one experience I've been devoid of, but never the less, it was this genius piece, that made me fall in love with Pink Foyd, and music. And so this, is just a mere tribute. I hope all Floydians can connect to it, the way I do.

P.S. The whole concept of the story came to my mind today, when I walked from 8B to Gariahat. Heat can do wonders :)

Peep Hole

  Sleeping, was never the best option, and especially now, when it was midnight, and it was a lonely time to be asleep. He knew people would be visiting him tonight, and he wanted to meet them.

2:12 A.M.

  A knock on the door. He looked through the peephole. There stood a man, looked like man.

- Yes? What do you want?
  He didn't open the door.
- Good evening sir. I'm a salesman.
- Oh yeah? What do you have to sell to me today?
- God, sir.
- Ahh, what?
- Sir, our company is offering you an un-putdownable offer. We, are giving you, yes sir, lucky you, we are giving you god, and guess what? It's free. You don't have to pay anything, anything sir, and we will be giving you god, for free.
- God? And what do I do with him? Mathay makhbo, na media ke janabo?
- Err, sir, it's god.
- Yeah, so what?
- Sir, what do you do with god?
- I dunno. Can you tell me?
- Sir, if you'd kindly open the door, I'd like to talk to some one senior, barite maa-baba achhen? It's obvious you don't understand the value of what I'm offering you.
- You want to sell god, and I don't want to buy it. Simple enough?
- Err, yes.
- Good, now go.
- But...

2:49 A.M.

A knock again. He looks through the peephole. An old man this time. An old man, with a crooked face.

- Yes? Who is it?
- Young lad, I'm looking for a certain picture, a portrait.
- And how may I help you?
- By giving me the portrait.
- I don't have any portrait here.
- But you do my son. I need it urgently.
- I'm not stepping out of my house at this point of the night.
- Don't you want to help an old venerable man like me?
- No. But I'm feeling curious, why do you need that portrait?
- If I tell you, will you help me?
- No, but I'd like to know.
- The portrait, just looking at the portrait, makes me forty years younger. I become a new man. I live like a new man, a young man, an improved man. I can do the deeds one never sees in their most cynical dreams. I am what everyone wishes to be, but never becomes. Won't you help this old man become a better man?
- Better what?
- A man.
- Oh, I thought something else. No. I won't. Go back home old man. Go back home, and look at the mirror.
- But...

3:43 A.M.

A knock on the door. He peeps through the peeping hole for the last time. There seemed to be a boy standing outside. A boy, not a man.

- Hey boy? What do you want at this point of the night?
- Err.. Mm-mister, it's rr-raining outside. And it's kinda ccc-cold. And I'm kinda wet and d-ddrenched. Can I come in? I'll try not to disturb. Can I, mister, sir?
- Disturb? Heh. I've been waiting for you, for such a long time. Come in.

The door opened. And he left the door opened.

Mirror

Mirror. Yes. He kept on staring at that little piece of glass. It showed him his face. That's all. Nothing else. Nothing other than this face he has, which everyone gets to see.
He kept on staring at the mirror. He had good eyes, well, atleast he though he did. He had hair, dirty, dry, which gave it a brown tinge. He had freckles. He had little amount of hair on his face, not really passable as beard. He had brown lips. What else? Anymore observation to be done? Naah, none he could see anymore.

"Breakfast's ready, come down quickly." He observed his mother at the door.
"Coming maa, just a sec." He froze. That wasn't him who said. It was the boy in the mirror.
"Okay." His mother went away nonchalantly.
He must have seen wrong. It was he himself who did the talking, without even realising. Yes, that's it. All the late night online chats have started to screw up his brains. That's the thing. Cummon', people inside the mirror don't talk.
He went downstairs. He had the mirror with him. Breakfast, a part of the typical life of a man. Why couldn't they call it "Sigmund Freud", or maybe "Swansong" maybe? Why "breakfast", out of all the words in the world? No answer. Whatever, he sat down for the usual toast and omlette and the rest of the shitty food.
"The food's great, Maa. Thanks for all of this." Okay, now he was getting freaked out. This, surely wasn't him talking. It was the boy in the mirror. He never said anything of this sort to his mother, even though he knew she'd really like to hear it.
His mother seemed amazed too. "Why, thank you dear! It's a pleasure when good food is appreciated."
"Thanks for everything, maa. Thanks for being there always." Oh my! This shouldn't be happening. He had an image to maintain.
"It's okay." He's mother was too amazed to say anything else.
"Maa, was I just talking now?"
"Yes, who else would be doing the talking?"
"Maane, you saw my lips move?"
"Darling, are you alright?" Clearly, his mother found this mysterious now.
"Err, yeah maa, fine!" He got up, "I'll go, get ready for school" The plate was empty.
"Dude, who the fuck are you, and why, rather how, are you talking?" He asked the mirror. No reply. Strange, it had something to say to others, but not to him? Irritating. He started to get ready for school.
Moneybag. Check. ID card. Check. Tiffin. Check. He went ahead. He didn't realise, he was carrying the mirror.
School.
Now he wasn't exactly the popular guy in the class, so most kids stayed away from him, except his last bench gang. That's where he went and sat. Rest of the guys were there already.
" Hey man, you don't look right. Anything wrong?"
" Huhn? N-n-no. Everything's fine. Didn't sleep well last night, that's all" He stammered. He checked himself in the mirror. He was looking tensed.
"Why, in the name of *insert name of any famous pornstar here* are you carrying a mirror"
"Err, I like this mirror, It's kinda cool." He lied. This was a regular, normal handmirror, and he didn't like this mirror.And as time was passing, the dislike was growing.
First class.
Economics. Not one of the classes he particularly enjoyed. He'd rather sit insie the boys toilet, sniffing glue maybe. But he had to attend this class, attendance reasons.
Today, the old hag of a teacher was teaching something on the history of agriculture in *enter name of state*. He was shit interested.
"Now, can anyone tell me, how exactly did the political transformation affect the agricultural relations?"
Most of the first benchers raised their hands. Usual crappy answers.
He didn't even realise when he had raised his hand. The teacher seemed amazed to see a last bencher attempt for an answer.
"Yes, tell me"
"Well ma'am, you see, the political transformation actually took place because of the unrest among the poor farmers, so when the *so-and-so* poitical party actually decided to contest the elections, they already had the mass on their sides. Shouldn't we first observe what reasons led to the change in the mind of the poor, than go to straight to some acts passed by the government just to marginally satisfy the needs of the people."
"I would be glad if you kept those questions for your political science classes, we, are studying economics here."
"Ma'am, all of these are linked, so it'd better if all of it came together to us."
"Enough. Anyone else can give the answer, minus all this political glorification?"
"And this is how you paln to make us educated, ma'am?"
"Get out of my class, now."
He knew arguing was useless, he went for the door, cursing the mirror.
"Fuck you." Shit, that mirror should not have said that.
"What??"
"Ma'am, ma'am, I didn't say that, it wasn't me."
"Enough. Tell your parents to come to me tomorrow."
Deep shit. He's in for some trouble.
Bell rings, period over.
"Dude, you just nailed that woman, man!" "Awesome work man." "Are you fuckin' out of your mind? Keu bole teacher ke oshob? Tui pagol hoyechhis?"
He kept quiet. He had nothing to say.
The morning showed the day. The whole time in school was shit. He argued in the english and psychology classes too. He fought with one of his friends. He proposed that cute girl from the senior classes. And he advised the janitor to write a big "Fuck you" in the dining hall so all the teachers and students could see it.
He screwed up his school life, in one day.
"What exactly were you thinking, when you said that to the teacher?" He's father asked. He'd received the call from school.
"She had it coming baba." Why the hell can't that mirror stay quiet? It had messed up enough already.
"Hmm. No dinner for you tonight."
" Oh yeah? No prob. All you have to offer anyway comes from those shitty lies of yours. The money you take from people, just so that you lie for them, maybe better than some other guy"
He had that slap coming. His mother stood there, observing quietly.
"Did you see his audacity? Did you just see what you've made of your son? A monster!"
"Achha? I rather see him just saying the truths no one else dares to say."
"Oh please, shut up. Don't start all of this again. As for you, you little devil, go upstairs. Go and think what you did."
He went for the stairs, but before that, he gave his father the finger. The mirror was affecting his actions now. As for the man, he was way too amazed to even beat the shit out of him.

"You, you little piece of shit. You have ruined enough of my life. Before today, I was a normal, average teenager. Not the type to be noticed, not the type to be given the attention to. And for you, I'm a delinquient in the eyes of my parents and the school, and a hero for my friends. You just made me do all of the things I never wanted to." He was angry, and he shouted at the mirror. He kept on blabbing. The mirror was quiet. He just saw the himself. Shouting at him. The mirror was quiet. It had no voice for him.

Enough! He hit the mirror hard, trying to break it.

And there he was, staring at that little piece of glass. It showed him his face. That's all. Nothing else. Nothing other than this face he had, which everyone got to see, till today.