Showing posts from November, 2006

must ten in a bong's life

In a typical bengali man's life, there are a few things that is a must do, in fact have to do. Without these, you are risking yourself losing the citizenship of the most intellectually advanced pauper country of Bengal.

First, take birth (after taking natural birth…a conspiracy by the heavenly bodies and your parents, you should rebirth as a Bong…Satyajit Ray’s Gupi Gayen Bagha Bayen being the priest initiate and Rabindranath’s Jaal pare pata nore being the mantra.).

Second, somehow get into a good school and get out of it with a star mark in your class ten board exams, making your father boasting indifferently about you in friend circle and your mother distributing sweets with moist eyes.

Third, get into a college, a co-ed one and hook a class mate within a year. Within two weeks, kiss her in a cheap resturant cabin…two months, feel her breast. No sex before marriage please, that's against morality. Go to Victoria Memorial and get caught by police in compromising position.



I am getting a little worried by the passing days. All my creative power is eluding me leaving a frustrating blank on my mind.

It’s nearly three or more months now that I didn’t write something innovative. Earlier, I never had to think, ideas use to flow in as soon as I typed the first word. Now, the situation is quite different. The fact that I have to write this boring post establishes the fact that my grey cells are dying (if grey cells control creativity…otherwise it must be the heart, if mind is controlled by the heart). Nothing happened really that should leave me alienated and hankering for a proper outlet. At least I cannot remember anything. Yet, just as death comes to an ailing dog, silently, assuring…the cold shadow of non-creativity is engulfing my life. Assuring, because, I feel, creativity is a kind of curse. You spend the whole night sleepless; screw your system methodically by not eating anything or taking proper rest. Just to labour out the baby germinating and kicking…


It’s very strange how our priorities change with the passing of time. when I was a little child I used to pray for toys, and chocolates and a brand new gun, preferably from Leo, that my father was so reluctant to give me. We were very poor then and my father had to overwork for a decent living.

Frankly, thanks to this great man, we never felt the pinch of poverty. We had the best of foods, best of clothes and best of schools for education. And thanks to him, I finally got my Leo gun.

So when that wish was fulfilled, I wished for a bicycle. Father brought me a bicycle. A lady’s cycle, so that my sister, when she grows up can use that.

At the age of sixteen, being a prurient adolescent, I wished for a particular girl. I wished for her till I was 19. And I still wish her, sometimes, although she is happily married. But since, this time my father was not around to fulfill my dreams, I never got it get done. I never could propose to that girl and was devastated to know she was getting married…


When you spread your hands in dark…anticipating someone will hold them tight and take you out from this mayhem, probably you are cheating yourself. Because, it’s dark and your saviour probably too do not know where, in which direction to extend his/her hand to get you. Probably he/she also, from the other end of the veil, is stretching his/her hand in anticipation of you.

We both hope against hope to get to each other. We both hope that our hands get in touch of each other. We both put our bets on a probable accident.

In the process, you, in desperation of reaching out to the person of your dream, and hoping you reached him/her, grab the finger tight whoever you come across in the dark.

You realize, after many ups and downs…after many heart-breaks, standing on the lifeless body of your dream…that you both are criminals. You shattered somebody’s life. Your friend, whom you mistook for your friend, raped your innocence. You both played with each other, in a cruel play of gladiators, in whi…