Like all useless souls, I am extremely lazy. And have no ambition to change that. I usually don't read back my posts and if I do, the horrible grammatical errors and murderous typos, plus the extremely poor language, prompt me to close the blog immediately. I hope you would do the same. But if you are headstrong and plan to continue, you do that on your own risk. Opinions and suggestions are welcome, but will not be worked upon.
Search This Blog
It's official now. Ghetufool has started his Bangla blog.
For my non-bong readers, don't get disheartened, i will continue writing in my broken English. Especially, my Piklu series will always be in this blog.
Bong-readers, comment dite bholo na jeno notun blog-e.
About a dozen years back, I started writing blog posts out of sheer boredom in office. The work was repetitive and the bosses were menacing. Not the fault of bosses as much as the systems put in place. It was a real-time world and you perish in seconds or become a hero. No, I was not a stock market trader, but close. I was perhaps in deep agony. I had left my family members, my root, my friends and my culture. Those years were the most important in my life, the early twenties. I was free for the first time. Free to do whatever I wanted to do. It was a lot of pent-up sexual energy really looking for an avenue to be released. I found my moksha in creativity, especially as my office colleagues started appreciating my writing, albeit with no hint of grammar in it. Slowly strangers came to my blog and I visited theirs and we became friends. And then I started connecting with people far away from my place, across oceans. With one I became friends for life – Ian Vincent Mulder. But that’s ano…
I became a father on
18 November, 2014. At that moment when fatherhood embraced me, perhaps I should have been elated, jumping up
and down and doing all sort of activities that new fathers do, at least,
that's what most sane people do. But nothing of that sort happened to
me. When I heard my baby's voice, first like an angry cat and then a mild wail wafting across the operation
theatre to the waiting area where we all were pacing up and down, the
first thought that hit me was how was my wife? It was a C-section and
she was partially unconscious. I should not have read Internet too
much, for I was reading all sorts of horror stories, of mothers not
waking up or recovering etc. I was petrified as I was not hearing my
wife's voice. The doctors and sisters inside the operation theater
must have been very busy with their other procedures. In fact, after
bringing out the baby from the womb, they were busy closing the cut,
I later got to know.
The realisation of
becoming a fathe…
(Note to readers ... mainly Ian, who is the only one who reads this blog >> i just finished writing this in office. didn't even re-read it after writing, forget editing. Expect a leaner/fatter and better written version, if my mood permits.)
Keep your hands busy, said my father every time I used to
lean against the tree to catch my breath. Keep your hands busy you idiot, keep
your hands busy, don’t let your head decide for you. Keep your hands busy, he
would coax me to get working.
And so I would again start chiselling the chunk of rock, along
the lines my father, a master sculptor, had already outlined. But I would still
dream with eyes wide open. When the hammer used to fall so gently yet firm on
the chisel, I used to dream of the cities and the grand mansions.
I was not good in sculpting, yet I wanted to be the greatest
sculptor in this world. I wanted to be honoured by my king. I wanted to be the
subject for which kings wage wars against each other. I was a dreamer, I …