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Showing posts from November, 2005


I remember when I was a small kid, I used to pull the plug on my mother.

She was, as usual, my first guru. She used to give me all sort of crazy Bengali spellings.
Like ‘kujjhatica’. And I have to write the spelling of the author. Pretty complicated to me even now. Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar. How I wished to kick this man when I grow up.

As usual after giving my best efforts for several hours, I used to fail spelling both. And my playing hours would tick by. Mother never allowed me play with my friends until I have finished with reading the sahaj path (that was not sahaj at all) fluently.
The only benefit was I used to read it without any effort as the entire book was memorized and I could recite it eyes shut.

I remember I used to rub the troublesome spelling with my saliva and wipe it out from existence. Then, poker-faced, I used to go to her in the kitchen. “maa, maa, bananta to aar pacchi na. Kemon kore jeno muche geche.”

My mother used to leave me. I did not waste time to kick the ragged…

My love

I was feeling restless. One month of exams had fucked up all the finesse in me. Now it’s over. I don’t study all the year-long. So it gets particularly demanding during exam time.I needed to lighten up. I desperately wanted to get back my life. I wanted to hold arpita’s hand in mine. I called her in her mobile for an evening walk to our favourite spot.I called her and said she should meet me at five in the Batamore bus stand. We would cross Ganga and go to Sodepur. That is our usual love-route. We don’t sit in Konnagar Baramandir Ghat on our side. We would get caught by a thousand watchful eyes who know us both very well.It’s not that we give a tiny rat’s arse importance to them nor do we care what they say, but certainly we don’t want to be the fodder of neighborly gossip-mongers.Arpita came right on time. That’s her speciality. She is never late. And she goes away after waiting for only two minutes. So her 5pm is 4.30 for me. I am a renowned late-latiff. Always half an hour late.We …

Damn Fool

I came home to pick my cards. After deliberating long about the present situation of the world and how cheap and merciless girls can be, and chalking out the plan to punish the new tenant who is refusing to pay Rs. 500 chanda for Durga Puja, we came to the conclusion that our country is going to the dogs.
We had a soulful of bidi…me, Pradipta, Sanjoy, Subhasis and Shanti. We were tired of the heated debate that over the above-mentioned subjects, we felt a strong urge to entertain ourselves. I went for the cards.
We are a bunch of educated unemployed youth. Some of us have done their masters, I am only the underdog. I am a high school dropout.
I am filled with business ideas and am sure given a chance, I can be the next stock-market king. But my brother, who has a unfair biased (thanks to my boudi) over my intellect is not ready to lend me a mere five thousand to start with.
He is an officer with Reserve Bank of India and that’s a burden for me. He would not let me work in a factory, or in…


If she had got wings she would definitely fly away, but she is still struggling to escape her misery. She is still awaiting someone, someone who would free her from her perennial distress, someone, who is far far away in a distant land who would never answer her call.

She awaits and I know, she told me, she will wait until her death.

She told me to write this for you to know. I know now you know.

Pyar Me Twist

If sex is moksha for life my dog has achieved nirvana by now.
That day also I spotted him locked in pleasured agony to a German lady. Not that of a homo-sapiens species, my neighbour’s German Shepard had reached her puberty, and she was happy fucking with my nerry kutta (stray dog).
Being a responsible citizen, an Indian citizen, I should have prevented the lower caste to have love interest with that of a high caste, but suddenly the father in me rose and let them go having a whale of a time. And of course the Rangeela effect did not leave me by then. Just two days back I watched that in Lighthouse with Arpita (corner seat).
But my neighbour didn’t find it amazing. He came with a bamboo stick and threatened to attack the Kamasutra models.
But Bhombol is no ordinary dog. He knows how to fight back. His one groan was enough to take the air out of the ‘pyar ke dushman’.
That coward Shakti Kapur started pelting stones at my dog from his terrace. I couldn’t keep quite, I retaliated with a half-…


This is what Fool instructed me to do:

Seven things I plan to do
Kiss Aishwarya Rai
Kick Mallika Sherawat
Tour-de-Europe taking my parents, let them see the world (they have done enough for me)
Buy a Maruti 800
Put an invisible cloak and… (I love girls)
Write a book which would fetch me a puilitzer, if not Nobel
Marry the girl whom I have long pined for

Seven things I can’t do
Kiss Aishwarya Rai (Salman has underworld links)
Kick Mallika Sherawat (I fear Jacky Chan)
Wake up before five in the morning
Bogging without peeing
Decipher Michael Jackson songs
Crying and complaining to mother, while she comforts me hugging, if somebody hurts me—mentally, physically—I am too grown up for that.

Seven things I say quite often
Jah kelo
Chool pore gelo

Fuck you bloody
I love you…
What a nonsense…
Gaar mariyeche

I tag Phoenix and Tridib


I had goofed up last night. Nothing to get excited about the word ‘night’. I work at night. I work when other people sleep and I wake up when other people are preparing for a siesta. And I don’t work in a call center.
Last night I had a correction in my story. I wrote million instead of thousands in a news story. And it hit the wire without any remorse. The editor also missed it.
I didn’t realize my mistake. Five minutes back I had just send the story to the editor. I was checking it on my own after I sent it.
I spotted the mistake myself and ran to the editor to tell him, look sir, kindly check it, I have written million instead of thousands. But just seconds before he had released the news into the wire.
It was too late.
I could see the pain in my editor’s face when I told him about the correction. I was sorry for him.
Writing million instead of thousands is a serious error.
My heart stopped when the good old man began to fix the error and run it one more time in the wire.
I felt the world…

Don’t drop that bomb on me

After my last post, I got at least four phone calls from my friends in Calcutta. Worse still, one from Shillong. People are thinking whatever crap I write in this blog is true. Well, I must confess, I am a very poor guy living a life of hardship. Luxury is an alien word for me. And I am not a scoundrel as not to support my family (if they need).
Don’t confuse with what I am and what I write.
The last post was a synopsis of the drama that I am presently working on. It would be staged during durga puja next year by my group “prayash natyagoshthi”. Don’t confuse it with real me please!
My writing may read morbid and haughty but the drama is actually a comedy one.
I wonder what sanjoy, arup, makra and sudipta will say after watching my drama.
Hope all your misconceptions will be answered to.
You have objected to my post, but did you ever consider, when I jumped into a pond? I don’t know swimming!!!
Why didn’t you ask me who is this arpita or suparna when I write about them? And who the hell is t…


I was a carefree youth when I was unemployed. The only authority whom I used to fear and respect was my father. I loved my family. Loved to tense my mother, coax my brother, and annoy my sister. Loved to party with my friends. Loved to return late from Debo's house.
Loved to cycle around Nabagram searching for chics. Loved to see their faces, sweet smile. My heart used to run like a wild horse when Sushmita used to cross my path (or I used to cross her…top speed, thought Sush was bowled out…sigh…what an innocent stupid was I). Used to dance with Bryan Adams at 2.30-3 in the morning. Loved to stay awake whole night.
Loved to jump into the pond, loved to annoy neighbours with my tindrum.
Loved to love, to be loved, think of love.
I was a carefree youth.

I am not an old man. Still in my twenties. But now I am afraid of my boss. Afraid of my bank balanace, afraid of my colleagues…lest they mislead my boss.
I suspect my family might be eyeing my bank balance. Afraid, lest my sister ask for m…


I have been employed in several professions since my childhood. Of course, without pay. I was an honorary guard, an honorary judge, honorary rickshaw puller, honorary doctor (when I was in my kindergarten, I used to inject rubi and poornima with my hp pencil. As was standard, I used to inject at their posterior, tetanus booster…you know at that age you need tetanus shot, and doctors used to strip me for that). Felt nice.

But this time I would narrate my experience when I was an honorary postman. Yes, without pay and without even a chocolate I used to ferry letters between mohiruda and nanditadi.

Don’t remember which class I was then, but if I stretch my memory, it goes back to uttam kaku’s schoolvan, so I must be in my pre-high school, probably three or two.

Nanditadi was in her college, I used to hate her when she pecked me before going to her college. She smelled of fish, which I hated. Mohiruda used to live near our football ground and all used to call him mithun, as he resembled and …

Tail raising saga

We were in class three then. Me and khudiram, my best pal of childhood days.
We used to live in Budge Budge, south 24-paragana district. Apart from us, there were several other monkeys, with real tails. Beer hanumans with black faces and savage grimaces.
The only dissimilarity between them and us was that we couldn’t swing and they didn’t have a taste for pickles. Otherwise, we were in the same boat. From papaya to kachi aam, nothing was safe under our jurisdiction. What we missed, they picked up, what they left we used to cherish. They were master in biting people; we were expert in that art. In addition, we also used to spit when cornered.
It was a love-hate relationship.
We never used to disturb them and were the very first to reach sukli’s aamtala when a band of swinging marauders used to leave the place, dropping a lot of mangoes and gaab (I am not sure how many people know what it is). And believe it or not they also used to accept us as one of their own. Ramanand’s Ramayana was a s…


There was a time when we used to fear our parents like anything. I remember wetting my pant when my father scolded me once. That too when I was a student of class seven. Class seven, the most important age an adolescent boy undergoes. With algebra and trigonometry, I was diligently studying the art of a lady’s anatomy.
Was wondering why Arpita, who few days back also used to jump at me, scratch me, bloodied me when I used to pull her hair or pinch her, was avoiding me so craftfully.
Also I was realizing I am no more interested in her worldcup cards or new cycle. I don’t envy her if she gets an extra lozenge from Sarkar dadu.
I couldn’t remember her face anymore, she is changing so rapidly and worst but interesting, her chest is swelling as our maid chandana didi. I was wondering why she couldn’t jump with me at the natheder-pukur, or net talapia fry with her gamcha. Instead she used to get up from the pond quickly as soon as I used to jump. And was sure to cover her front portion with th…


its a shame that the cultured babus of bengal are so reluctunt to pay respect to two doyens of its literature. shibram chakraborty and syed mujtaba ali. its not only the apathy of modern day half-baked parents that they hand over to their kids latest volume of harry potter instead of a set of shibram or satyajit. thakurmar jhuli...papa, eta abar ki crap? mamma, you promised to give me harry's goblet of fire. jadi na dao, tahole aami pizzahut e jabo naa. i swear. horri bol. i am not acting snotty by saying children should not read rowling, but the pain is with the passage of time, our children has developed the tendency of thinking that if they read bengali, they would be a fallen race. and that tendency is inflicted to them by their parents...frankly speaking who were never a book lover. otherwise, how can they forget satyajit, shibram. how can they forget syed mujtaba, who taught bengalis how to write a travelogue, rabindranath's russiar chithi was never a great writing to kn…

Act of betrayal

I will not forgive you suparna, ja nachale amay.
i remember bathing with clinic plus shampoo everyday, just to impress you with my shining hair. so much so that after a year or so, my scalps started smiling at me through the mirror. i could see the shine, the other way round.
than began the regime of hair oils.
i feel guilty now remembering how i used to steal my sister's keokarpin and mehendi.
i remember i even administered cow-shit. just to make sure, when you caress my hairs after marriage 5 years later, your hands don't slip.
i remember, how i used to stand in front of your school gate missing my classes. just to catch a glimpse of you, what i got? i was bared from my exams because of the poor percentages. in this matter i wont forgive arijit. that jealous dog didnt give me proxy. but always assured me that he was regularly giving. bastard.
i will never forgive arijit, because he never did his duty and despite knowing that i am after your trail, he proposed you.
and you, bewafa, …

Catching a prawn

Ever hooked a prawn by a fishing line?
For those who has some kind of experience how it is done, i salute. cause they have enjoyed a lifetime experience.
and for those who did not, believe me, it is one of the most gruelling test of patience and steadiness that is known to mankind.
firstly the water should be fast flowing (ideal is a canal) and you have to sit with a really long string. you have to let go the prawn as much as it wants, but the tragedy is you don't have the liberty to pull the string back like you pull a fish or crab.
a prawn's mouth is extremely delicate and the body is quite heavy.
the fisherman needs to pull the string one centimetre at a time. at the same time with his mastery he has to tire the insect.
the challenge is when you pull the fish up into the air. guess what you do then. you have to sit right atop the canal on a poll or a bridge. you have to draw the insect in your basket.
that's a trick.
since i did not know it, i never catched one.
please somebody …