I am useless

My latest story

2012-01-19T09:45:00.000+05:30

Friends,

Have I not told you that I am working on a short story collection and collaborating with Ian Vincent Mulder for that? We are on it for the last six years or so but still don't have any visibility as to when or in what shape the book will emerge. For now, we are creating just for the joy of it and hoping someday, someday our effort will be handsomely rewarded. But that's too much thinking in the future.

Nevertheless, Vincent has a beautiful blog and he has posted my latest story there (edited by him, of course), if you are interested in reading it. Kindly leave a feedback there, it will help us tremendously.

Here's the link: Ticket to Paradise
Thanks!
ghetu

nonsense

2011-12-09T13:49:00.004+05:30

It’s strange the way life shows you the path to happiness. It’s strange the way life holds your hand and take you back to your roots. The way you are meant to be or at least the place you really belong to. I realized that in the last fortnight, during my sister’s marriage. Yes, she is married now and she is happy. I can’t ask for more after whatever mental trauma she went through. Arranged marriages are a pain and you are plain lucky if you hit the jackpot. Of course, there will be compromises and I am not sure what compromises she did with her expectations. At the same time my brother in law also must have dreams and expectations of his own as he grew up, just as I have my idiosyncrasies. I am sure he has also compromised and cut corners to accommodate a sort of stranger in his life.

But that’s not my lookout. It’s my blog and I should talk about myself only, like the selfish giant. Personally, I have been through a lot of pain in the last few months, actually years. It started with depression from failed relationships, frustration from not getting the woman of my choice to the absolute rock bottom of seeing my sister suffering alone. I don’t want to get into what she endured because a woman’s pain is a woman’s alone unless she wants to make it public.
Males are different.We are all naked, see whatever you want to, if that makes you happy.

Suffice to say is that I was down, very down; I was absolutely at the rock bottom of my confidence and self-esteem. I was looking for that aha moment that would shake me from my torpor and infuse much needed life in this body. I was a walking dead. Almost like a zombie. This was the state of mind when I went to Konnagar, my house for my sister’s marriage. Relatives, for whom we kids used to wait with a bated breath started trickling in into our house. I felt strange alienation towards them. They looked arbitrary, emerging from a distant past like a ghost. People who were so dear to me all looked like a stranger. I was a changed man, a complete island and the worse is that I was content in my solitude. I went to my best friend’s place to invite him. My childhood friend, partner of my crimes. I was a stranger there too. I had this distinct feeling that I have moved on. That he is no more my friend. I have my new set of friends, who share common interest in the new life that I am in. I am in Mumbai and my friends are all in Mumbai. Childhood adventures forgotten, emotions packed in a shelf, I was a stranger to myself, trying to fit myself in this alien world of mine.

And then it all came rushing back. But like in Hindi movies, it involved a small drama. I banged on a wall and my forehead was cut. I have only seen this in comics books but really, if something hits your head hard, you see stars! Real one, multicolored!

I saw stars circling me for about one or two seconds and then realized my face is wet. Blood was oozing out. I blacked out.

And I came back to my senses. I realized I have fucking so much work to do now. IT’S MY SISTER’S MARRIAGE DAMN IT!

and I was that old self again. I rushed back in the morning to my home. Hugged everyone that I could get hold of. There were now many more of them. I sensed that excitement flowing in my veins seeing them, just as I used to feel as a kid. I waited for people who were yet to come with a bated breath.

There were song and dance and merriment all around. My house soon transformed into a big big fairground. I was singing, dancing, pulling legs, I was full on in my old self. I was rescued! People who were dear to me in my childhood were again dear to me now. I behaved and acted nice to get their approvals. I was so desirous of their kind words, to hear “good boy” from them. I wanted to be a good boy to them and not like a machine who is so bang on its calculations, so meticulous in its work that only a machine with no emotions can be. I saw the wrinkles on their faces, I felt sad. Death is approaching so surely but slowly all around me. In my earlier self, I would have taken it in my stride, something which is inevitable and purely a biological matter. But now I wanted to cheat death, I wanted to smoothen the wrinkles of my favourite people and assure them and myself that this party will continue forever. That they will be there for me, rescuing me from my dead self. I don’t want this death. I want to die singing, enjoying myself.

And then the realizations dawned upon me. Seeing my sister getting married in a family that we could only dream of and considering how the other alliances broke abruptly without any proper logic, I realized:

First: the most important thing in anybody’s life is family. Period.

Second: there is something called destiny. Believe it or not. And no, you cannot control it.

(Also in this context, I remembered something that Ian told me in his mails. “Universe balances itself.” – I don’t want to elaborate here why I can relate to it now because that is a separate post material. If I am in a mood that is. But yes, Ian, you were right. Universe does balances itself all the time. And so does human lives, it constantly balances itself. Thank you Ian!)

BTW, I wrote this post for Deepti, my friend. She is annoying.

goodluck and goodbye, mate!

2011-09-14T20:38:00.000+05:30

looking at my life has convinced me that all my life i have cared for everyone but myself and almost all the time i have cared for people who did not deserve my attention in the first place. and worse of all, i also expected that i be showered with the same attention i bestowed upon them and got hurt when it didn't happen. so much for expectations!

but there is then this fundamental question why we really shower attention. is it something deep within ourselves that tell us that the first step should be by us because we want that other person to have a step forward to us? may be so. but then what do you do when the other person does not even acknowledge you exist? two ways, you sulk, try to sweeten the deal like an old lover refusing to come in terms that it's over. or, you just say fuck off., enough is enough, i can see those flesh and bones and that dirt on your dress to convince myself that you are no special shake. may be i have cheapened myself considerably and please you should know i also exist in a space that is bit high for you to touch. i came down from my loft to touch your face and say, hello. now that you didn't really care, i pull back myself to a level where you cannot touch me, cause i have a level of my own and oh yeah, i have my arrogance too!

but then, i put myself in the same shoes of people who did not catch my extended hands. it's true that i myself have ignored many. it's true that i repented later on some of the cases too. but then, why should i be friends with anyone and everyone who wants to be my friends? so that's fine. together we play this game of friendship or indifference and then one day we find our own cosy corner and fade away from each others lives without any trace of anything that happened anytime in the past. heartburns, disappointments be forgotten, they do fade away. only joys remain. i think there lies the triumph of human lives.

so yeah, ignore me if you must, i still will think good for your life, mate!

Perpetual Motion

2011-09-14T12:50:00.000+05:30

Christopher had a dream … he dreamt of perpetual motion.Like the content of his dream, his dream also used to recur since he was five.He dreamt it till he was twenty-one. Ten years now, he did not encounter itanymore.

He has precisely eight hours now to decide if he would wantto continue his life with his wife. They got married in a jiffy five yearsback. If he wants to continue to have her in his life, he will have to give uphis job, his city, his self-esteem and move to London where Tresa has got a newjob. It was her dream to settle in Europe. He was a promising young man whenthey met. Among other thing, he promised her of a good life. He was a brightengineer with a good company. Like all good engineers, he implied, he wouldalso have overseas prospects. He is not sure if that was the lure or it waslove on her part. She said yes to his proposal and they got married soon.

All was well. And he got offers of jobs abroad. Twice in theStates, once in Australia ... He didn’t go. He was not willing to leave India.It seemed to him, Tresa too was not very willing. She had a good career here inan investment bank. They were happy and he expected his life to be settled,entrenched in this perpetual security.

But things have changed since then. Tresa has changed. He isnot sure he have, but there is no sense of togetherness between them. His homelooks like a compartment in Mumbai local train where they two are strangers forthe same destination.

Nothing is perpetual in life. Not love, not relationship.Neither happiness, nor sadness. Is the vacuum in his heart perpetual? Isn’tvacuum that makes the universe? Is there nothing that can be called perpetual?Not even sadness? He wants to have a perpetual sadness in his heart. Somehow hecan connect with himself when he is sad. But sadness also does not last. Whenhe sees Tresa’s message in his inbox, he becomes happy. He hopes she would comeback. He hopes things will be alright; hope takes the sadness away. Evensadness is not perpetual.

It has been a lifelong quest to find something that he canpinpoint as perpetual. Something where he can fall back knowing at least thiswill not change. He is in quest of find perpetuity … since he can remember.

After coming from school in the afternoon he would sink intohis mother’s warm bosom … his mother’s breath on his hair would feel sofamiliar to him. The smell of her skin, the perfect warmth that he knew sincehis days in her womb would make him lose consciousness …

The fine streak of the sunrays would sneak into the bedsheet from the closed windowpanes; carrying strange golden dancing particleswith it … much later he got to know they were dusts floating around. But as akid he would watch them transfixed, not been able to fathom how can they bewith the filtered ray and not anywhere else. The dusts were silvery, golden,shiny … the smell of the mother would assure Christopher all is well … he neverwanted to sleep and fritter away the afternoon. His friends, whose fathers werenot as well off as his, would play in the afternoon sun. They never cared forschools or education. They had all the fun in their lives. And here liedChristopher … lost in a room, forced to sleep after his school. He hated hismother when she called him for sleep. But when mom hugged him tight with herbody, he felt the world a beautiful place, a cosy, comfortable place … a secureenclave for him.

Before he would realize, he would fall asleep. Soon thedream would come to him.

He dreamt of toy cars falling steeply from a slope – aplatform, kinda wavy pathway created for the cars to fall at a great speed fromtop … a much more real version of Hot Wheels Trick Track. The track is a loop,the speed of the falling car is enough to pull it again upwards from the otherside before the car rushes down again …

He would dream the car going through this motioncontinuously, never for once it would stop doing its drill, the pull and pushof the motion, it’s weight, would not let it stop. Christopher would stare withawe the car whizzing out putting out a heavy metallic sound in an otherwisenoiseless environment. Christopher could never pinpoint where he is in thedream, even the environment, but just the whizzing car, the blankness aroundand his breath. The only thing that changed in the dream as he grew old was hislub dub … it fainted as he progressed in his age.

On occasions, in special versions of his dreams, he wouldput one or two more cars on the track. He would see transfixed they all movingperpetually, in a same monotonous manner, maintaining the same distance at anyparticular point on the track. They never touch each other. Sure when the carbefore one slows down in its accent, the falling one behind threatens to touchit, but it also loses momentum after that, struggling under its own weight toclimb up but obeying to the pull and push of physics …

As a kid Christopher always looked out for his dream in reallife. He struggled to make it understand to his father. his father got him manytoys, mostly cars, and many trick tracks, but none could offer the perpetualmotion. The cars ended up getting thrown away at the end of the track.Christopher would throw his hand in despair. The world doesn’t understand hisneeds. His own can’t give him a simple gift. It surely does exist in somespace, so why can’t it come to him? Just the track, just the loop from wherehis toy cars slide down in great haste and trudges up from the other side … asimple mechanism.

He grew up to realize his dream may be just a dream. Realitymay not be that simple. As he grew up more, he was introduced to the concept offriction. He took science. And then studied engineering. He was told perpetualmotion is the holy grail of Physics. It does not exist. Like an ideal lifedoesn’t exist where everything is warm, fluffy and cosy -- a world where flakesof golden dusts dance around in merry abundance.

The perpetuity should come to an end one day. Suddenly. Justas the real life trick tracks will eventually throw the toy-car away,everything that seems perpetual gets thrown out from its track abruptly. Justas one day they told him he has to sleep alone from now on. His mother had goneto the hospital to bring him a sister. Mom never returned. He saw his infantsister, a scary ball of translucent pink, placed in his room. Nobody took hispermission if he would be okay with a roommate, but it was implied the room isnot exclusively of his anymore. He didn’t protest, because he knew none who hecan protest. He knew that no one would care for his foot stomping. hisperpetual right of sulking was over, he knew that at the small age of seven.The world simply doesn’t give a damn. The only one who would have is no more.Like a stray puppy, Christopher came in terms with the rules of the world. Atleast he got a broad outline. He didn’t protest when the wet nurse for hissister slept at the spot where his mother used to sleep. He couldn’t protestwhen the nurse slapped his cheeks red for trying to remove the towel put on thebroken windowpanes to prevent the rays coming inside the room.

Christopher wanted to see the dancing golden flakes. Thenurse wanted to snore. Christopher used to crawl to his sister’s cot and staredat her. Froth coming from her mouth, she looked like smiling. She was happy andcontent with her life. Even as she never knew the smell of her mother.

Later when she grew up to be a beautiful young lady,Christopher was amazed to notice she actually didn’t need anyone to be happy.She was happy of herself. She didn’t need anyone. Christopher used to joke,“you are perpetually happy.” But then, she fell in love with one ofChristopher’s junior in college, a fellow band member of the Church choir. ToChristopher’s horror she cried to him once and confided she can’t live withoutJoesph! So what he is already married! She fled with Joseph one evening. Henever heard of them.

Has she got the perpetual happiness? He used to feel sad andguilty seeing Joseph’s wife. He thought she was perpetually sad. But then shemarried Joseph’s best friend. they seem to be happy. There is no perpetualanything then.

Christopher was a loner. He didn’t have many friends, but hehad a fierce band of friends. They were loyal to him. Tresa was one of them.

They are married for five years now.

Christopher looked at the email again. “I have to tell myoffice if they have to arrange for two. Let me know by 10 in the morning.”

It’s actually Tresa’s final call. If Christopher says no toit, it would be the end of their relationship. If he says yes, it would be theend of his existence.

Christopher lighted a cigarette. Tresa’s office has givenher an apartment in the town. He didn’t move there. He preferred to stay backat his rented place at the suburbs. Until two years back, they were planning tobuy an apartment jointly. They can’t even think of it anymore.

Christopher lit his cigarette. They were backpacking thehills of Himalayas when he popped the question to Tresa. She just had a breakupwith her boyfriend of two years. Christopher had just chucked a stupid girl outof his life. He was tired of the girl’s stupidity and was horrified when hefound she thought the purpose of any man-woman relationship is marriage.

“Do you ever want to get married,” he had asked Tresa.

“Yes, if it’s you,” she had said that casually as they weremaking their tents near the river.

“Marry me then,” he had said that in a matter of factmanner.

“Okay,” Tresa said adjusting the ropes.

And they were married within six months. There was nocourtship. No effort in knowing each other. After returning from Himalayas,they just prepared for the marriage. As if it was just hitting the bar for apitcher of a beer they were to share.

But deep down he thought Tresa expected a better life. Shewas fond of Europe. Christopher knew she would want to settle there.Christopher can, Tresa knew that. He wanted to make Tresa happy. He wanted tohave a normal life, a life of a man with a family, kids …

Christopher never had the dream again. He was not bothered.At night they slept like babies hugging each other. They didn’t have separatedreams, for a while. He was not sure if it was love. But surely there was care.There was this feel good factor in the company of each other. He thought heattained his perpetuity.

He fiddled with his mobile. Is it okay if he calls her now?It’s two in the morning. What the heck, she is his wife. He has the right. Andhe was determined to exercise it.

The phone didn’t ring for long before he could hear thefamiliar voice.

“what are you doing?”

“was trying to sleep. What makes you call? Is it somethingurgent? Can we talk in the morning? I have to leave for a meeting earlymorning.”

“not urgent. Sorry to disturb. Sleep well,” Christopher felthelpless. He didn’t know why he called.

“I was waiting for your call.”

“why?”

“I knew you would.”

“You have to leave in the morning.”

“yeah. So? What do you have to say?”

“nothing.”

There was pause. Christopher looked at the road outside hiswindow. There is still traffic there. This city never sleeps. He puffed hiscigarette. He could listen to Tresa’s breath.

“Have you replied to the mail? I didn’t get any response onmy blackberry.”

“no I didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know what.”

“you still don’t know.”

“no.”

“you never knew.”

“yes, may be.”

There was a pause again. Tresa’s voice came faintly.

“I am ready to forgive you.”

“for what? I haven’t done anything that would need yourforgiveness. Don’t pretend to be my saviour.”

“you have cheated me.”

“you have done a greater crime.”

“I never cheated you. I was always there for you. I neverthought of anyone else except you. I was always there for you. what’s the crimeyou are talking about?”

“think.”

“I don’t need to. Illuminate me of my crimes against you.”

“you tried to rob me from others, from myself. You tried tothrow my identity out in the oblivion. You wanted me in your purse.”

“men have strange sense of self-pity. What is did was whatwe women call love. If I possessed you, consider yourself a lucky dog. If Iwould not have possessed you, you would have known. Just as you know now.”

“but you wanted me to forget my past. you wanted me toforget my friends, you wanted me to have a life where no-one else but youmattered. Don’t you think that was a great crime?

“may be it is. But I wanted you to be happy. I wanted you toknow I care.”

“yeah … that’s the whole messup. Care with a tab.”

“So I did a crime. What’s your alibi for your infidelity?”

“you won’t understand.”

“that’s what you have always said. Even the day I left you.I didn’t want to leave you, but you didn’t give me any option. At least tell menow. I don’t know if tomorrow exists for us.”

“I can’t explain even today.”

“you got tired of me.”

“no. my infidelity was not with you.”

“waddya mean? You slept around when you had a wife at home!And you say the infidelity was not with me?”

“you may not be only your body, Tresa.”

“who am I then? If not my body? in which space I livewithout my body? stop trying to justify your actions with your sad philosophybastard. You cheated me and that’s the crux of the matter.”

“okay, if you insist.”

There was a silence. He could hear Tresa sobbing. Tresawon’t understand if he tells him he wanted his cosy enclave, the warmth of hismother’s bosom back. He slept with many women searching for that warmth that wassnatched from him when he was kid. He cared for Tresa. She was not like others.She gave him a feeling that she won’t tie him down as the other girls tried.May be he loved her too. For at one point he felt guilty of sleeping with herfriend. he confessed.

“look, you have insulted me. Still, we can have a new futurewhere we both can start it again,” Tresa’s voice was pleading. He felt sad forher. Poor girl, she still loves him.

“yes, we can. But at what cost?”

“can’t you just come with me? Will you not come with me andstart a new life with a clean slate? Please reply yes to my mail.”

“no Tresa. I am not the hanky of your purse.”

“Christopher! Please! I love you!”

“I love you too, Tresa. But nothing is perpetual in life,”he disconnected the call and then switched it off.

As he laid on the couch, tired of himself, he startedfeeling dizzy.

He dreamt of toy cars falling steeply from a trick track …the cars were not touching each other … yet they were going on with theirbusiness without for a moment stopping. Christopher dreamt of perpetual motion.

A peek at a salesman's life

2011-06-27T18:59:00.003+05:30

Sorry. You have to excuse me for speaking too much, but I love to talk and talking is my profession, sort of a way. I am a salesman and my success or failure is directly proportional to how much I talk. Garbage, gibberish, whatever adjective you want to put it to it will do. But I must not allow you to think. For thinking people do not need goods for which salesmen are appointed.

So where do I start? Doesn’t matter as long as I start anywhere. Heck, I have started anyway, you have come this far reading 10 sentences, 100 words 418 characters and still counting. Thank you for your attention, but no thank you, cause that’s my job to make myself important and always knowing more than what you thought you would not need but now you realize you need it badly as I need you to realize it how badly you need it.

So here we are. You accepting my superiority and humbly accepting your inferiority and still you don’t hate me.

Are you curious to read more? I bet you do. So let’s continue. As I said I am a salesman and my primary job is to sell stuff. Now, I don’t have anything tangible to sell you right now but I am glad to have your attention as someday I would come knocking at your door with all the smart stuff that I have to sell. I am glad you cannot throw me rightaway as we have already communicated so far. But I am a good salesman and by the end of this little illuminating discourse, I will manage to sell you something.

A little background may be of help to you. I was appointed a salesman a few years ago, nine to be precise and I was given a bag and a toiletry kit and asked to return to the office with money but not the goods. I was not told who to sell it and how do I sell it. My bosses were not bothered if I would slit the throat of my fellow passenger, rob him and dump all the goods at his feet. It was accepted as a good sales practice. As long as I came empty-handed and hand them over the cash for the day I was a good salesman and my job remains. I was supposed to be confirmed after three months and I had to be a good salesman at any cost.

You know what I did. I told my father to invest on me and soon I was filling my room with all kinds of shampoos and soaps and washing powders and borrowing money from my father. It was the question of my job and my father never really spend on me enough than what he did to my elder brother. He made him an engineer out of his money. To me, he did nothing. I became a salesman on my own. No son-of a bitch, not even my father, can take credit for that. But of course he did support me in my initial months.

I was a star salesperson soon and I was given a contract for three years. They had accepted me and I could finally wear that tie knowing well that for the rest of my life I am tied firmly to this profession. I was proud of my achievement and thankful to my dad for supporting me.

The real test came when he stopped supporting me. I was confirmed and my agreement was with him to support me till I get my contract. He stopped ‘buying’ my goods and I had to go out and face the world. Rather, I had to go out and face the watchmen of the buildings who won’t let a salesman enter the posh flats. But then persistence and a few Gandhis help. I was soon entering the high society and selling them my detergents or the body shampoos. Luckily my company was a well-known one, at least on the advertisement front and there were enough advertisements all around for people to be familiar with our products. My products were priced 20% less than what they would get in a supermart and I was soon the favourite of the bored middle-aged Indian wives.

I was friends with most of them in many societies and I was good friend with many of them. I did become special friends to about four-five of them and got intimate with two of them but that is another story. But that should not surprise you. It is part of a salesman's life and by now you know I have the gift of the gab and you don't know but I must tell you ... I am handsome too.
I had no qualms in lying to my customers about their beauty and I was surprised to find how dull women can be on this subject. Even when they know you are lying through your teeth, they will believe you if you compliment on their beauty.

You may benefit from my experience on this. Just use: ‘charming personality’ to a revoltingly ugly woman and ‘charming presence’ to a woman who could be beautiful at one point but now is brutally beaten by time. You inevitably will manage to sell two packets of detergent powder and at least one shampoo. So that’s a little trade secret that I shared with you. I don’t mind if you do good in your life using these tips and you don’t need to recognize me as your guru but please don’t come selling anything at my locality. I am the alpha dog of my neighborhood. You will be fucked.

Sorry, I digressed. By the way, what was I discussing? Doesn’t matter. I have lot of things to discuss with you about my life. Most interesting of all is how is that I have so many things to discuss with you.

You see that comes with experience. The more you are experienced, the more you realize that there is no point running around. Every man has a destiny to follow and even if you don’t want to, that destiny will end up following you. For example, it is my destiny to write this garbage and it is your destiny to read me. I don't know how you came to my blog but the fact that you are reading it is because it was your destiny. So stop fighting with your bad luck and accept me. Read on. Besides, it's my job too. I specialize in entering garbage in your head and it is not my fault that you are still reading it.You have just succumbed to my skills. Thank me, love me for being so skillful.
I can go on and on and on about me and you can read on and on and on because I am a good salesman-writer. But I must stop now because it’s time for me to go home.

Thank you for being my customer. In case you are wondering what I managed to sell you, continue to wonder.

No, don’t wonder. It is the job of all good salesman to tell you after selling the stuff how many other things they need to buy as ancillaries and how useless the stuff they just bought is without those add-ons.

So here you go: I sold you my boredom of sitting in a fuckin office whole day long with nothing but just a computer where even soft-porn sites are banned. Can you imagine a salesman’s life without porn sites? How do we live then? Why should we live anyway?

If you are wondering what are the ancillaries I plan to sell you ... don’t fret. It’s very simple. I shall sell you online a book by the famous author whose name I am presently forgetting. It is called, “Ye fuckfaces, stop peeking at others’ and get a life …”

Drunken part of "Write drunk, edit sober -- Ernest Hemmingway"

2011-05-19T20:03:00.000+05:30

Is osama dead? The man looked at me squinting. ‘They do say so,’ I tried to be a good reporter.

‘Says who?’ he retorted back.

Erm … world

Who is world, he snapped back.

The question was innocuous enough, but as a journalist I am not trained to answer simple questions. I fumbled.

US, Pakistan, I mean, they all,’ was my handiplasted definition of world.

India? What is India saying on this?

I tried to dig my reading on the subject. Did India say anything? I vaguely remembered they did.

They welcomed end of terrorism, I guess.

Don’t guess, please. Journalism is not guesswork, he chastised me. I was reminded of my editor. A variation of this is his favourite dialogue.

I tried to remember India’s response. Did we respond?

We are a non-confrontist nation. We believe in peace, I tried to make good of my shortfall in knowledge.

And the only one who is wise, he was quite proud of his Indian-ness.

Why do you say so?

Is osama dead? He repeated.

I don’t know! I had to surrender.

Of course you know! I bet you know! You are a journalist!

Well, yes, I am. But you see, we have different beats, for example I cover …

Yes, you guys are good at covering. You cover up everything possible, he was aghast.

We try to, I muttered. Still, we often fail to cover our ass …

Be that brave to answer a direct question loudly. I am not an elephant to hear low frequency stuff. Just be loud, as you lie loudly daily in your papers.

My apologies, but we do try to write as truthfully as possible.

Yes, sure. Truth and lies are open to interpretation. What is truth to you could be a white lie to your readers.

True, I mean, false, I mean … whatever, I decided to ignore him. He must have noticed it, for he decided to take my case.

I see that you are embarrassed by your action. And you want to avoid any argument with me on this. He was right, Rabindranath Tagore, when he said, Arguments are to be avoided; they are always vulgar and often convincing. You are convinced, I see.

That was Oscar Wilde, not Rabindranath.

How are you so sure? He told you so? His was a direct question.

I have read it, I am sure. I am a fan of oscar wilde.

Read where? In his book?

No. On humor websites. I am sure they have read the books.

So your information is based on a second-hand source and you believe what a third party writes.

I was losing my patience with him, whatever makes you happy. But I am confident that whoever has said it, it’s not Rabindranath. Otherwise there would be at least two dozens of reference books and ten doctorate degrees by my fellow bongs capitalizing on this, I said, before I tried to concentrate on my book that promised me to be a millionaire in just one-fifth of my life.

I see that you are reading a rotten book, he smirked, millionaires are not fools to share their secrets. Probably the message is how the author became millionaire selling you fools the book.

I didn’t answer. I tried to concentrate on the book but coudn’t. what if he is right?

Sorry, I didn’t buy the book. It came for review and the magazine guys chucked it away. I collected it from there. I didn’t pay a single paise for it.

I obviously hid the fact that I love this author and this is his third book that I am reading. Yes, I bought them all. The first taught me how to be attractive to the opposite sex in seven days. The second taught me how to be a leader in whatever I do. I am going to gift the first one to DT in her birthday and the second to my editor when he goes on for that annual corporate junket of his.

Both should know the rule of the game before I play it in front of them. When I do it now, they give me that look that tells you that somehow they think I am an ass. It is important for them to read the book immediately and know the formulas so that they appreciate my smooth implementation of them.

That is a kind of corruption, isn’t it,” he had that irritating smirk on his face.

What?

Are you corrupt?

No.

Are you honest then?

I would like to think so.

Answer objectively.

And why should I answer? You are becoming personal.

Do you have any choice? We are both stranded here at the middle of nowhere. We are on the highway and waiting for the bus. I doubt you can ignore me. I doubt your book is that interesting that you can ignore me. Moreover, I doubt you like reading at all.

How do you know I don’t like reading?

Easy. You are a journalist. Journalists don’t read. Journalism is not a profession for a thinking man.

I see that you are good in generalization, I snared at him. That silent him for a while. Just when I thought I had scored over him, he charged back.

At least that is true for you. no thinking man can read those books, let alone buy them.

And you think they are best sellers just like that.

Nope. I didn’t say that. Very few can think. Those who can’t depend on others’ thinking.

And you think you can think?

I think. Yes I do. Osama Bin Laden is a big enigma, that’s why. Lots of questions remain unanswered. Why haven’t they showed the body? why it was disposed off hurriedly in the sea? Why was it that the versions change again and again.

I think they have a logical answer for all your doubts. I think they have said that loud and clear. Too bad you don’t read newspapers.

I do. As Rabindranath said, by giving us the opinions of the uneducated, journalism keeps us in touch with the ignorance of the community. It is an entertainment. But seriously, give me a reason why I should read what morons have to say and dimwits have to write?

Again, that is not Rabindranath.

I know. It could be your Wilde, it could be Shakespeare, it could be anyone.

Then why do you attribute any damn thing to Rabindranath?

It saves me a lot of trouble.

Isn’t that corruption? Are you not corrupt? You deserve corrupt media. Why cry foul?

So you are corrupt, you acknowledge.

We all bloody damn are corrupt. Readers are corrupt, promoters are corrupt, journalists ought to be corrupt.

Tell me more. What is your corruption?

Corruption of thought, corruption of action. Corruption of becoming an ass-licker of high and mighty. Corruption of taking sides. Corruption of taking pride in breaking a story where you know only the first sentence is half-true and rest are all conjectures. Corruption of taking the profession of change as just a job.

Money?

No. not money. Not yet. I don’t know what happens in the top level. But I believe it is not.

I see that you are wearing a swiss watch.

Yes, I am. I saved for it. There is no harm if you indulge in finer things in life. It’s your one life, and you have a right to be happy.

Yes you have.

Since when you are a journalist?

Seven years.

Are you happy?

Yes.

Are you tired?

Yes.

Tired of happiness or happy of tiredness?

That’s a cryptic one.

If you are happy, how can you be tired?

I am happy that I am a journalist. I am happy with the glamour, social ranking and so called opinion-maker, if not a reformer, feeling. I am tired that all those feelings are actually false. I am burnt out.

Don’t you think you should leave it then and give chance to someone else who could have fresh ideologies and real zeal for the profession? I am sure you have other opportunities that conform well with your present state of decayed ideologies.

I can’t. I will not. That is another kind of corruption. It is a hard, winding way that I have come up through. The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep.

Ah! Another gem from Rabindranath Tagore.

Sorry to say, it is not of Rabi Thakur either.

Of course it is.

I don’t want to argue with you.

Don’t. Just tell me where you the same when you came to this profession?

No. No. No. I was 23, I loved to write. I wanted to change the world through my writing. Of course I had no idea how could I achieve that. But I used to hate my father for a small corruption on his part, for example, making fake bills for his medical claim just to get a small tax rebate. I was idealistic, yes I was. A fresh, pure young man, brimming with ideas and ideals. I am ashamed to say, I used to read good literatures too. Russian writes, Dickens, Shakespeare, Tagore … I was a voracious reader.

Why don’t you die then?

Sorry? I pressed my eyebrows hard. I was damn irritated.

You should die. You admit you don’t have a critical mind, you admit your mind is corrupt. You agree you believe in what the high and mighty tell you. You agree, you are a decaying corpse who have nothing but maggots to offer to the society, to benefit some opportunist crows.

“Die,” came his fleeting voice across the vast dry arid land spanning to a vast expanse on the two sides of the straight highway that was sparkling at points at a distance. Illusions of fumes were rising from it as if it was angry of this aimless journey.

I turned around to punch him on his face. I was angry too.

But he had vanished.

My bus was coming at a maddening speed, the road was empty and it was high noon. The next stop is still some hour away from here.

in search of nirvana

2010-12-17T17:49:00.002+05:30

I had my first smoke when I was eleven. At that age you are not matured enough to know who is your friend and who is your enemy in this world. The world was a lovely cosy place where monsters, such as fathers, sometimes appear out of nowhere to strike terror. You evade the attack and the world smiles at you, especially when you are the opening batsman and the vice captain of your team. Everyone sucks up to you for a place in the team. All are friends, or so I thought.

It never occurred to me that friendship and camaraderie are not for real in this world. In fact, it looked like friends take pleasure in embarrassing their friends and watch the humiliation sitting on the fence.

I have done it too, but in the right spirit of it. I never complained about my fellow friend’s wrongdoing to his parents. All I had to do is to mention in the passing how pleasing it would look if a certain character gets beaten up for killing that duck with his slingshot and how there could be a replacement of his in the next cricket match.

I used to watch, sitting on the fence, absolutely stunned, when that guy used to dance and sing at the tune of the cane.

But there is something in life that you don’t tell anyone, like wetting the bed last night. Or catching a bus to buy three cigarettes from a distant place, far from the preying reformist eye of any self-proclaimed moral guardian, who in our childhood were littered like plastic pouches all across the locality. I must tell you they were absolute horror, a mini version of our fathers, with limited powers.

Only when we reached the age of seventeen or eighteen and assumed the responsibility of keeping in checks the moral character of young kids in the locality, the responsibility gained some respect. The batch before us were crude. They used to box our ears hard and call names if there was some general complaint against our group.

Only when we assumed their roles, was some system and discipline inculcated into that responsibility. We brought absolute discipline by banging the heads against each other of those 10-12 years olds who thought they were too big for their boots.

We had to relinquish the position when we reached college, but the batches after us were lousy to say the least. But yes, when we were kids, those locality big brothers were like menacing vermin.

After successfully procuring three cigarettes from a shop some five kilometers from our locality, we came back and managed to hide our cigarettes and the matchbox in a shoebox and buried it in the grounds of a newly constructed house. And then we, two ten year olds, two elevens, and one twelve, patiently waited for our opportunity to smoke to glory.

We were tired of our half-pants and the half attention given to us by the society and we were desperate to rebel our way to adulthood. Smoking, just makes you that, we were convinced.

It was a Saturday and we all three were down with cramps in various parts of our bodies. As soon as the school gate was closed, our pain disappeared miraculously. At the want of a better thing to do we went for the cricket bat and ball, especially now that our fathers had left for office and we never really cared about mothers except when she was there to narrate like a parrot our deeds to them. We dashed out for the ground, taking a small detour.

Our pockets were heavy with packets of chewing gum which we were sure will get rid of the smell of a cigarette. If that was not enough, we had pudin haras in our pockets – a tactic that was cleverly eavesdropped and espionaged by our team leader (who was also the captain of our cricket team just because he was twelve and stronger and taller than any of us). In fact, he assured us that those mint capsules were enough to get rid of the acrid smell that can expose our adventure. However, the rest of the team protested about its bitter taste and so it was kept in our pocket as the last ditch effort. We were determined to chew the cyanide capsule before giving up our secrets. The plan, as you could see, was elaborate and well thought of.

And so we dug up our ticket to adulthood and were soon amazed to see its transformation. For some unknown reasons, which we figured out should be because of the damned rains and the ensuing moisture, the white cigarettes had turned greenish. Our matchbox too was not in a good shape and we feared it would refuse to light up.

Nevertheless, we tried our best. We tried to light at least twenty sticks but were not in a mood to light up their lives. Some, though, showed some ambition and promise. They gave us hope by showing some hint of fire before giving up. But it was our day under the sun and we managed to light one.

Our captain lit the first cigarette and immediately shot up to stardom in our eyes. We were tiny insignificant pygmies in front of him is what we thought and he believed. It was decided that we should take turns in guarding the approach to the alleyway just in case some curious souls wanted to have a peek in our private lives.

It was also observed that since lighting one matchstick takes twenty to go waste and we have only six left, there is no chance that we can lit the other fags unless we light soon after one is finished.

Our captain smoked and gave us a short speech on how to smoke a cigarette. We were supposed to inhale it though we were not sure how one could swallow smoke! And if it is swallowed than how it could come out. So we swallow and try to vomit?

Our captain’s live demonstration was not much of help.

He claimed he had swallowed the smoke and now the billows of those white mini-clouds that we were seeing from his mouth were coming straight up from his stomach. But something in us couldn’t convince us on this Mount Vesuvias theory. One of us challenged him and he had to show the same thing with his mouth open.

And then mount Vesuvias erupted.

We decided, as a starter, it is enough to just smoke and puff it out without inhaling the smoke. No book in the world told us that smokes can be inhaled and if by chance inhaled successfully, surely nothing that goes in the stomach comes out from your mouth unless you are seriously ill. Our captain was just paying the price now, writhing in pain on the ground for playing with nature’s rule. We were warned.

So we dragged and exhaled. Again dragged, kept the smoke for as long as possible (and we all looked funny with our cheeks puffed up like frogs), and the smokes started coming out of our mouths as we started giggling.

We finished our first smoke quite successfully and were satisfied. We felt a gush of new energy in our veins that only adults feel. We were convinced.

Why can’t kids smoke? It is such a lovely thing to do! Why can’t kids have fun after all? We were sure that if we were allowed to smoke before studying, we could all become the first boy in our class. How about smoking before sitting for the exams? It would be a smoking good exam we were sure.

But our captain’s condition was deteriorating. His eyes had turned red and we could hear him muttering something. Our limbs froze. What if he dies? The youngest among us tried to flee but we, the seniors, secured him and threatened with dire consequence like excluding him from the cricket team for the whole season if he blows all up. We were ready to stand by our captain till we had to. If we find he is in a serious condition and could die any moment, we would throw him in the pond. But in no case someone senior should be called for help because this guy would surely expose us off. We figured that soon our respective fathers would reduce us to his state in case the incident gets exposed which we were sure to be if the captain is let free or an outside help is sought.

We poured water on his head – no effect. One of us suggested that some hot water should be poured in instead and we were wondering whether someone should pee on him but he recovered and stood up. He demanded a drag, as all the experience was too much for his nerve. Now he should soothe his frayed nerve with a drag or two. We had none.

The captain left us … angry. His eyes red, earlobes pink, and body shuddering in anger for the meager return he got for all the trouble. He felt cheated.

Ah! In his anger, he forgot to took the chewing gum or the pudin hara capsule. And that was our Achilles’ heel.

The captain betrayed us and soon our entire gang was caught, tortured and persecuted. Some were beaten till they genuinely started crying in pain, some were given extra math problems to solve, some were denied going to the playground for eternity (a week) and some were forbidden from mingling with the bad boys.

The later ones included our captain, my so-called best friend, who, after getting caught by her mother (who had an extra long nose anyway), sang like a canary under the prospect of a burning charcoal getting shoveled down his throat.

You know how Indian mothers are. With her violent gestures and shrill voice, soon it was established that I was the one who made her son smoke and I should be warned. Of course, if I was her son, she would have spanked me so hard for wasting the kids in the locality, it would have served as an example in the annals of history.

My father, ever so watchful to get an opportunity to display his Bengali martial art skills to his son, accepted the suggestion whole-heartedly. Soon I was ordered to get the cane.

Lest I forget to mention this, I was supposed to carry the cane with which I was going to get spanked. I had the choice of picking my own cane from a set of five. I was always given five minutes to decide which cane would grace my bum. ‘Benhur’ was my father’s favourite movie (which was kept off-limit to us for unknown reasons then).

At this point, while carrying my cane, I felt just the same as one Himalayan prince Siddhartha had felt some thousands of years ago.

I realized I had renounced the world. What is the meaning of family afterall? Who is your father? Who are your siblings? In this world there is no friend. Only you are true (and always the mothers are true to you).

I had no wish to live at all under such oppressive rule. What is the use of living when your own father is your greatest tormentor on earth? Why should I not disown him as my father when he is always so eager to part my dear life from my fragile body?

So I decided to run away. I left my home.

random thoughts

2010-09-25T19:32:00.000+05:30

wondering why i am not writing anymore? may be it is pressure of finishing the story that i started that is detering me from writing anything in this blog. but what do i do when my muse leaves me? i started the story when i was emotionally down. by the middle of the story, i got involved in my professional duties and all those blues left me. i wonder why do i start indulging in fiction when my own personal life is in turbulance. do my stories sound dark? if they do, i really can't help. i am controlled by my blues. when they leave me, my creativity ends. when they come to me, my life collapses.

and they are back again. personally i am going through the same emotions as what my characters are going through. arranged marriages are a curse on the society and the lives of the people who had to undergo it. we, as a family, are getting a first hand experience of what it takes to enter into such an alliance. people look something else from outside and you agree that you can proceed with them for a alliance between the families. as time progresses, the real characters of those people emerge and you get astounded to see they are not what their appearance promised. you get disillussioned.
only the Almighty knows what is going through my sister's mind when one after another the engagements are breaking down. one after another the persons who she thinks and we think are gentlemen are turning out scoundrels.
May God give her ample courage to face whatever she is facing. may He show us some light of hope. Amen!

her story

2010-05-02T16:23:00.002+05:30

(Continued after the roommate's story)

There is a proposal and the father liked the boy. Silently, he had put in a paper on her table.

“here's the password … you have to key in this to see the photo of the boy. Give one more try, let's reach out,” he left her to that.

Once again she should dress up for a stranger. Once again she should feign ignorance and look at a distance when that pig should look at her breasts in the pretext of wiping the beads of sweats from his face. Once again she should discuss about 'their future together' which should end at 'adjustment' being the key word and not 'compromise,' 'respect for each other' be the golden phrase rather than 'love for the spouse.' love in an arranged marriage happens, one of her married friend, now a mother of two, told her – in a way that you end up loving the sugarless tea that you started at the advice of your doctor. There is no way escaping love in an arranged marriage. You fall for the habit of smelling each other's farts and continue trying to get a sleep without irritating your nostrils. That is precisely the love in a married life … you cannot ignore the habit of each other. In all married lives, you develop this habit to survive. Only that in arranged marriages you survive cause you don't blame yourself, but your parents. In love marriages, you commit suicide, if you can't muster the courage of a divorce. You can't forgive yourself, can you?

and she will keep quiet knowing fully well that the person sitting opposite her is devouring every bit of her flesh. He is looking for that slight hint of the cleavage whenever she is moving her body a bit, to figure out the size of her assets and the deepness where he should hide his sweaty face after office – to get the refreshing smell of, as poets say, some kind of a flower or some such shit. It is accepted if he flirts a bit, it is against the rule if she does that, at least in the first day, first show.

It is forbidden if she speaks her heart out. She is not a 'bombshell' so she cannot afford to talk lose. She has to make good the lack of a sex-goddess look with her intelligence, although, always careful that that penicillin dosage is weighed carefully and delivered as per the patient's capacity. Bit more of it, as she has seen in the past, the patients die, some immediately and some in the long run.

She should gracefully accept that even as she ranked as the first in her university during her graduation and post-graduation it was achieved by her sheer memory and because she had nothing better to do in life that time other than studying. All toppers always do that, especially if that person is of fairer sex. The average scorers, of course, have a host of activities to take care of and education and exams are just one of that. The reason why they are now a 'wholesome' package, irresistible to girls of all hue and colours, and brains (if they have any). And in the arranged marriage market, all men are such wholesome packages, their parents will vouch for that and the would be bride's parents wholesomely would endorse that.

How she wished this business of arranged marriages be abolished from the society. How she wished this business of marriage be abolished altogether. How she wished there be no men in this world … and no women too. Only neutrals and animals.

She doesn't think she is a feminist. In fact, she hates feminists who declare their equality by burning their bras and wearing a man's dresses and staying filthy. She loves her skin, she loves the shape of her protruded and arrogant butt. She loves the uppish nipples of hers and the mysterious cave of her naval. When she is in her elements she runs her hand gently on them … she can't believe these are her own.

Equally, she can't accept these are for somebody else's pleasure!!! the right to destroy these flowers has been vested to some arrogant little bastard who is yet to come in her life but will come for sure. She can't believe she has to surrender this beautiful kingdom of her to a tyrant attacker who believes in blood, butchering and might. One day she has to surrender and hand over all her jewels to the person who just happened in her life. Just as accident happens, just as that middle aged man who traveled with you for eight hours in a train and talked about the world suddenly groped you in the pretext of stumbling upon the suitcase. Just as the pillion rider of the motorcycle that passed you just now did a nasty thing to you. You don't even get the time to react, accidents happen so fast. You can't even cry because many others will laugh seeing you sad.

Arranged marriages and the consequences thereof are one such accident. Only that you are okay to undress in front of the stranger and it is okay if he undresses you to 'consummate' the ritual and start a 'new life,' which again, is the happy name of a big, nasty accident. You suddenly find yourself surrounded by hundreds of strangers in different roles who wish you give them their due.

How she wished she was not a woman, not a man, not a eunuch, but a neutral in the world of neutrals.

She doesn't want to marry. But she will, in search of a different life and for the sake of her father. Her father, the only normal and respectable male she has ever come across, wants to see her married before he succumbs to the charm of his “secret second lover,” as he puts it – a rather fancy name for lung cancer.

It's more than one year that they have started their search for a 'suitable groom,' only to discover the real value of women in this world – that of a neglected, humiliated, tortured commodity.

After the latest round of marriage talks were called off as the daughter told the prospective groom, in a rather over the top voice, at a rather crowded, fancy restaurant to “fuck off,” after the boy suggested that she should join grooming classes to know how to come properly dressed and behave at a good restaurant lest his prestige and reputation as a rising high court lawyer goes for a toss, the frustrated father had to confess that he had no idea that human beings have become so shallow and hollow. He had to confess that remaining single is better than marrying one of such characters who believes human beings should behave as per the rules laid down by a certain bunch of jokers. But still, he wants the daughter to get married, at least try and reach out … many a times people just don't reach out and many a gems are lost forever.

“LET'S REACH OUT” is the poster her father has put in her bedroom, apparently to charge her up.

“i would not have insisted if you were not in this country,” he says. “It's very hard, almost impossible, for a single woman to have a decent, safe life here, in his opinion.

“crows won't spare you if they know you don't have a strong wing to fly off or a sharp claw to defend with.”
“who are the crows? Why can't I fight them”
“can you fight me?”
“what do you mean?”
“are you sure I am not one of those crows in search of a weak small birdie? What do you know about me really? The other side of me? I am talking about crows like me. The raven though, is the society.”
“and I don't want to know your make believe world. You don't have the heart to kill an ant. You are the weak birdie here, not me. I am a career woman.”
“so you need a career man.”
“but why do I need a man?”
“as I said, every woman in this country needs a body guard and well, biotechnology has not yet overcome societal norms I guess … you want to have them for babies may be?”
“but why do I need babies?”
“so that you can curse yourself why you had them because years of adulation and love won't make them listen to one plea of yours.”

her father has these nasty habits of blackmailing.

“i cannot stand men, they are pigs.”
“i would have agreed with you almost had I not been one of them and if I only had grown up with piggish men.”
“but they are, aren’t they?”
“I wish we could put different human beings in two three boxes, everything would have been damn easy. But damn everybody is so different than the other. Why, it's a scandal that we ourselves don't know what we are until that particular trait comes out in front of us. You wave your hand … hey buddy, you were here with me? All these years?! in disbelief once you see your unknown side.”

she could'nt help but smile. Papa is such an animated character.

“what's your opinion about women?”
“ah! Very easy. They can be categorised as two: bimbo – as in your mother and would be bimbo – as in you.”
“that's such a sexist comment. Wait, let me tell mom.”
“no. no. please don't. That was only for you to know. I didn't tell this to her in the last thirty years. You can't give this critical feedback on my behalf. Only I can. It's my feedback. I am her lord and master, I mean actually not, but at least on paper.”
“then explain yourself.”
“why should I?”
“mommmmmmyyyyyyy ...””

“hold on. Hold on. She is a bimbo because she left her father's palatial house of opulence to run away with a junior doctor, me – all for love. And you are an would be bimbo because you don't want to experience what it takes to love a person that makes you leave your parents.”
“but I want to fall in love … only that I can't stand men. You have no idea what I face everyday. Almost everyday I cry for a few seconds ...”

this is not the first time they are discussing the same issue and this will not be the last time either. But whenever she says this, her father tightens his fist, his eyes get red with anger and helplessness.

“that is why you should marry and fall in love or fall in love and marry, which can't happen unless you meet people. Listen girl, hatred is good cause when you are tired of it, you move towards love. But don't seal your doors and windows and die of those toxic gases.
“but I can't really love a person, can't court someone.”
“if you have loved your parents, your friends, your dogs and your dogmas, you can love a man too and trust me … a man can love you too! Yes, there are enough cranks in this world to do that. You have to just get your madman. I promise, I wont treat him out of his disease."
“mummmmmmyyyyyyyy …”
“okay okay okay … I have a good news and a bad news for you. Good news is that once again I have got an email from a boy's father stating that his family is interested in our family and that the boy wants to meet the girl first outside somewhere before families get involved. So that's the good news.”

“and the bad is ...”
“that he is a journalist!!!”

“ha ha ha ha ...” both of them started laughing.

She put the password to open the photo of the boy, much after her father left. This is getting so tiring, but she doesn't want to hurt her father. However, increasingly but strangely she is realising a certain vacuum and an urge. she doesn't know why, but she can feel the call to build a nest of her own. She can't believe it too and definitely don't want to acknowledge it even to herself. But everywhere in the air she could feel the call that makes the she-bird look for twigs. She wants to collect her twigs too.

Hey, hold on! Whoa! Isn't it the same one? She has seen this man in television! He is the same guy who throws in cheeky and snide lines during news sessions and on air flirts with his co-anchor. He has definitely got a character and audacity to do that. May be her father is right that male journalists are “bimbo among men” but “very interesting characters” and that “they don't know that they know they are bimbos,” “which is because most of them have come to the profession after becoming spectacular failures in whatever they undertook and they have no place to go, not even to politics.”

the intelligent ones among them, usually, become columnists. But again, they are not journalists. But yes, all of them are different and they are interesting, is how he sizes up journalists.

She must, she must meet this man.

For the first time in her numerous matrimonial visits, she got a bit excited. Excitement of meeting a man gave her goose bumps for the first time in her life. Excitement of almost a blind date swept her in. But the foremost of all, excitement of seeing a man in flesh and blood who comes on television every day!

She knows she has a 'sexy' body. Her friends have told her how jealous they are of her. She could feel the jaw-dropping awe of experienced men in private meetings or when she is walking down the road. She secretly compares herself to whosever's photos she comes across on magazines and newspapers and gets ashamed seeing she scores highly.

she wanted to show all of it to him. She wore a low cut blouse, rapped her saree really tight giving the impression of her curves clean and clear. And ah! She put on that red lipstick that she bought two years back in Hong Kong. “You can kill any man in this world with that wet-red Madam … beware, use it well and only when you really want it,” the saleswoman had packed the cosmetic with these words giving that all meaningful look to her. It made her blush and ensured she never could use that.

Decked up, she took a long look at her reflections on the mirror. She couldn't help but feel sorry for the lawyer she insulted at the restaurant. He has no idea what he has missed!

“Smokin hot bitch you are,” she told her reflection.

She doesn't know why she turns a witch sometimes. 'slut' sounds so sweet at those moments.

To be followed by "the meeting" (if you are not bored already)

the roommate's story

2010-04-08T02:40:00.007+05:30

(Continued after his story)

Amol kept staring at the photo of the girl. She is hot! He said to himself. A perfect match, his cousin-sister would say. He knows he is handsome and he deserves a hot chick too.

Or is she hot? She has definitely that forehead of Snigdha. But does she manage to get those thin, fine lines on them while laughing, brows lifted? Does she sway like Snigdha when she has got those lines? Ah! this girl has got that mild uppish curve on her lower lip. Does her lips look like that of a conchshell when she presses them together -- as in Snigdha?

He minimised the window as his colleague, actually a minor boss, passed behind him. Though he doesn’t care if his office gets to know that he is getting married and is a paid member in all matrimony sites, but he is doing this for the last one year. People must be laughing at his back. They don't dare in front of him. He has this image of a weirdo in his office, though he doesn't know why.

His funda in life is very clear. He would have girlfriends, if possible more than one, but he is not going to marry any of them. He doesn’t love any of them. he is in fact, incapable of loving anyone. He trusts arranged marriages. It’s all arranged. It’s an agreement and he loves the concept of not getting overburdened by love. He doesn’t mind responsibility but not when it’s heavy with the burden of love. Not at this age. He is thirty, definitely not a virgin with any belief in loyalty either.
Hidden in his cubicle, Amol maximizes the window again. Yes, this chick is hot! He got to express interest.

“Dear Mr. xxxx, we liked your daughter yyy’s profile. If you are interested in our son’s profile, please get in touch at this email id or call us at ****** between @@@ and %%%.
Your’s truly,
//// Amol’s (the prospective groom’s father)”

Amol quickly writes the mail and clicks the send button. Who’s next?

Well, a cigarette may be. If this girl falls for the bait, he will meet her like the one he is meeting this week. It’s always a great fun to meet unknown girls and talk about their past love life, “did you ever had a relationship,” he would suddenly throw at her. He loves to see what follows. He sometimes tags Anando with him and introduce him to the girl as some old college friend who he bumped across just now and who can be ignored while talking about serious issues like future ...
Anando is the epitome of an ambitionless life. He is ready to go with you to any place you want him to take. He will sit like an afghan hound at the same spot where you leave him. Patient, motionless. He will drink his chicken soup with the same indifference as he sips his roadside tea. He will smoke his cheap cigarette with the same expression as he smokes cigar. He is the strangest and sweetest creature Amol has ever seen. When asked what’s his goal in life, Anando will answer with a bright face, “Enlightenment!”
“What the fuck is that?”
Anando will wear that all-knowing smile, “not for you immature. You will have to take many more births before you ever come to realize what it is, looks like this is your first human birth from the animal form … it’s not a concept for you. Enjoy the world as it is … this suits you.”
Amol would burst out in laughter … “Anando, see that girl? Did you notice her big boobies?”
“any human body is a depository of excreta and piss … says my guru …,”

He comes to the verandah of his windowless office. From the spot where he is standing at the sixteenth floor, the view is faboulous. You can see the city, the sea, the vessels -- both commercial and that of armed navy. Taking their photos is strictly prohibited and if caught in the act, while on the boat visiting the ancient caves at that distant island, you will be pulled down on the army speedboats and punished.
The beauty is, any damn guy can just fire a rocket from a handheld rocket-launcher on those Army ships from this spot where he is standing. Funny!
While smoking his sixteenth cigarette for the day at 2 pm, he is suddenly reminded of his mom’s call. Apparently his father is taking undue advantage of the neighbours. That his son is a television journalist with a reputed English channel has an immense impact in his locality back home. Thanks to cable television, people in that small, sleepy, bitchy town see him frequently in television! He is the pride of his town. According to the last unconfirmed report, one small kid has confessed, he wants to be a ‘Amol Sarkar’ when he grows up, at the annual cultural function of the locality. He has become famous at the place where it matters the most. He is famous in his small, sleepy, bitchy town.
And he has attained the marriageable age too.

His father is precisely taking that advantage. According to his mother’s call last night, his father goes out for morning walk, now regularly and comes back home only late in the morning. On his way, he will have tea at atleast three houses along with parathas, luchis, sondesh and other delicacies. All thanks to the troubled fathers of different girls who must now be married off. He doesn’t refuse when a person invites him for a quick tea and five minutes of chat. After having his brunch at that place, he doesn’t refuse the other person too, waiting for him to pass through the road absent-mindededly, for a quick coffee and for a light talk on today’s politics.
Within the age bracket of tTwenty-one to thirty-two all the girls are acceptable for Amol, his father had one professed in a club meeting. And he also announced his intention to get Amol settled at the turn of the next year. Calls and photos started pouring in and increased exponentially. At the age of fifty-seven, Amol’s father spends his night watching the nubile eighteen to thirty-threes, hundreds of them, for his son … late, very late at night, often skipping the sleep for the morning walk. Most of the time he sleeps after coming home from his healthy morning walks. With a full stomach, the voluntary-retired public sector clerk starts snoring like an animal. At least two hundred eyes of the fathers of hundred girls are fixed on him. Like a central banker who gives rate hike hint and the market reacts, he throws wordy hints and the world around him is thrown into chaos. He wished he fathered five more boys like Amol. Noh, his wife was not game. Bitch!
Amol knows his father’s nature. This man loves to pamper people with a hope that he will be pampered back. There is no difference between a kid and his father. This man never took a responsibility in his life. His duty towards the family started and ended with giving the money to run the family for the month. Amol doesn’t love his father. Only that his hatred for him has reached such a level that he has started pitying him.
His mother though, is a different human being altogether. she is made of steel, or possibly tougher material than the world has discovered so far. She has an indomitable spirit and is as immovable as Himalayas.
But Amol doesn’t want to spoil the fun of his father. Just a few years back, he was after the same girls. He had a reputation of being a dirty character, that of a playboy. As it happens with a person who has got a reputation of a playboy, he never got a chance to play with anyone. His proposals were turned down with a rebuff and often leveled as sleaze.
The same parents would give him a dirty look and shut the windows or snap the curtains when he used to pass near their houses. It’s a sweet revenge that he is taking through his father. God is there for sure.
He knows he will marry none of the girl from his locality. He would marry someone whom he ‘arranged.’ That’s why he is in every matrimony site and spends at least two hours of his time checking his prospective brides. Anando, his roommate is at the receiving end of his obsession. Anando calls Amol a Psycho.

Actually, he got one chance in his life to live up to his reputation. But he never could play with Snigdha –the only girl he ever loved, ever worshipped and the only human being who ever understood Amol. Even now, Amol’s criterion for the girl she plans to settle down with in life is that she should have traits of Snigdha. Whenever she sees a girl’s photo, Snigdha’s smiling, innocent face flashes in front of him. He searches for that same hint of sparking laughing eyes in those photos.
Some girls matched that criterion and he went to meet them at cafeterias, tugging along Anando with him.

Snigdha and Amol were in college together when they decided they must tell their parents about the relationship.
When he broke the story at the dining table, Amol’s father immediately congratulated him. But his mother’s face darkened. Snigdha was from the same town. In a small town like theirs, everybody knows everybody else and his mother had seen Snigdha growing up. She was easily one of the most beautiful girls in and around and was a lovable character. But she was suffering from an ailment, a seemingly incurable one. Snigdha had a small hole in her heart.
His mother put her foot down. Amol didn’t eat for the whole of next day. His mother tried to reason with him but Amol didn’t speak a word to her. in the evening his mother came to him, crying.
“Amol, eat something.”
“No.”
“I can’t give you permission beta, she is a good girl but she is a patient.”

Amol kept silent.

“Amol, listen to me. I pray to you … forget her my son. Anybody but her Amol.”
“But Mom, I love her.”
“And we love you Amol, you are our only son.” His mother broke down hugging Amol.

Amol went to meet Snigdha the next week. At the bank of the Ganges, Amol told her he cannot continue. Snigdha kept staring at him with her round, bright, surprised eyes. Like a calf at the loss of her mother, her eyes were wide-opened , terrified … she kept looking at Amol but couldn’t say anything. She was speechless, Amol, the only person she ever loved, the only person for whom she can give her life, the only image that is there in her mind is leaving her! She kept staring in disbelief at Amol’s brooding face struggling to avoid any eye contact with her. Tears rolled down her cheeks but she couldn’t cry. Her voice was choked.
Amol left her there. When he was starting his motorcycle, his criminal mind was flashing the last interaction with his parents on this issue.

He remembers, that evening, after some high drama, his mother started smiling at him. Lifting his face she kissed Amol ‘s forehead.
“If that makes you happy Amol. I know you are made after me. I know you will always remain faithful to any thought that has come into your illogical mind.
I wish you luck boy. Be happy. I promise I will keep Snigdha as my own daughter. We will give her a good treatment that her family cannot afford now. I have no issues if you marry her even now. You are our only son. We can take care of you very well. Perhaps people will say bad things, especially as you are unemployed. But do we really care son?
Go … do whatever makes you happy. Always be faithful to your heart. Go son, go, bring my daughter home.”

That’s when his father entered.
“Hey, Amol! I heard that girl has a hole in her heart? You are crazy or what boy? Who wants a patient as a partner? Leave her … as if there is any dearth of women in this world … huh! Girl who can breathe even without nose! Huh! Crazy diseases you have got today! What will people say? Your friends, who are sympathizing with you now will start making fun of you after some time. You will become a widower at the day of your marriage, I tell you, how about that? All I thought was that my son picked up a girl for himself and now I don’t have to worry … okay listen you Amol’s mother, I will be late … we have the semi final of bridge competition at the club. For god’s sake, eat your dinner and don’t wait for me … unless of course, if you want to hear how I again won this match … ha ha.”

The last scene continued to flash repeatedly in front of him. Amol didn’t have the power to look back. He could feel the vacant stare of Snigdha rushing to engulf him in nothingness. He accelerated fast to take the first corner that came his way. He started hating his father. He started realizing, for the first time, that he is not entirely fashioned after his mother. His blood has coward gene in it. He started hating himself. He wanted to kill his father for passing that faulty gene of his to him.
Snigdha passed away after two years, may be of a broken heart. Amol’s hatred towards his father peaked into indifference.

watch out for her story. this time for sure.

his story

2010-03-22T02:36:00.007+05:30

Anando is a loner. Throughout his life he craved for a woman. Sometimes the human woman, sometimes the body woman. All his life he wanted to be touched and touch a soft, soft body … he wanted to be touched by a soft, soft mind.

But he is weary of the efforts involved. He has a secret wish that he never shared with anyone. He wants to get raped! By a woman.

He can never, even in his dreams, think of undressing in front of the fairer sex, or anyone for that matter. He has problems going to the loo because the pigeons have built their nests on the ventilator above and they get disturbed when he enters the washroom. His ears become red-hot when the she-pigeon stares at him with those red, round, wide-opened eyes of her.

Let the rapist woman undress him forcefully, he will act … but won’t react. That’s his secret little fantasy. But he knows he will remain a loner all his life. He knows how his death will come. He will have a massive heart-attack. All loners die of a broken heart.

When he comes back from the office, half-dead after struggling to stand in the packed train compartment for over an hour, and stops near his door … he always half expects that somebody will open it for him. He fancies he would be served freshly-brewed tea and snacks and be scolded mildly for coming late and switching the television on without even washing the dirt, carried in from the outside world, first.

He wants his world to have two identities – ‘outside’ and ‘inside.’

But he always ends up opening the door himself except on some unfortunate Saturdays when his roommate is ‘sick’ enough to not go to office. The house, those Saturdays, reeks of filth. Sundays he is around to check his errant, messy and callous roommate.

He has to switch on the lights himself. Slowly he has to carry his tired body and sick mind to the bathroom and open the tap to fill up the buckets. Water is a scarce commodity in this part of the world and who knows; tomorrow there may not be any supply. It is not uncommon here to spend two straight days without any water flowing through the pipes.

Removing the mangled newspapers, those that are staying the same way his roommate left them before rushing for the office, he couldn’t help but curse his roomie. If the house is left to him, it will soon resemble a municipality vat. A bad, bad word comes on his tongue but is slowly retracted … afterall, he is a friend -- a shallow, ordinary human being alright, but somebody who has never left his side at times of crisis. Somebody who can sleep even near a blast furnace wearing a baby-like smile, who falls asleep while talking about the meanest office politics or while describing the roundness of one of his colleague’s breasts! He is everything that Anando is not. He feels he has a responsibility towards his immature friend.

He hesitates to lie down on the mattress to watch the business news channel repeat, for the umpteen times, the interview of a neo-rich industrialist who made it to the top by dubious means. He listens for the umpteen time the sermons of hard work and sincerity by the interviewee and slowly shakes his head in disbelief. When you have money, people listen to your lies with great interest and belief. Even people like Anando. He can’t believe his intellectual decadence. But he continues. At least the person talks intelligently, he likes to be charmed by smooth talkers. He doesn’t like smooth talkers.

Television is the greatest entertainer, he has realized of late. It is not an idiot box. Idiots are the people who call it idiot box. There are several means of entertainment if you switch on the television. You have peoples, animals, nations, science, technology, rape, self-immolation, fraud, war, terrorism, politicians, big-talkers, soothsayers, religion, blast site, oppression, cartoon, race cars, women, sports, business, world affairs, universe, Afganistan, Iraq and weapons of mass destruction – pick your choice.

He has a knack for liars. He could never lie in his life. Never. He respects straight-faced liars. Business news channels celebrate liars. The journalists lie through their teeth in the name of exclusives, keeping a straight face. He likes business journalism and financial journalists and the people they interview and talk about.

He would have hated them if there was a woman in his life.

He hesitates to lie down on the mattress … hoping that his woman will come and take his tired head on her lap. He hopes she will run her cold, soft palm on his forehead, caress his greasy hair with her long, thin fingers. Every time, he settles for the hair-oil -soaked damp pillow.

He half expects now his woman will come rushing from the kitchen, panicking and shouting for settling on the washed mattress without getting rid of the germs contacted from other people in train. He has a ready reply for this for years now.

“The person I exchanged my sweat with also thinks he is clean and I have germs … Would you not shake hands with that person’s wife if you become friends at the mall? Would you not invite her in this house and make her sit on this mattress?”

Of course, he didn’t get a chance to see what happens after he says that.

He looks up at the ceiling of the room. When they were kids, he would put an electric torch inside a makeshift tent of the bed sheet and switch the torch on in the dark room. He doesn’t know now what made them say that that time, but they were always convinced that they were lost in the Amazon jungle. The adventure to find the Inca gold would start then.
They didn’t know about Cortes that time but if they would have, that title would have gone to their father. His father would switch on the light and snatch the torch from them, complaining that now he knew why the batteries were down all the time. Everyday his father would repeat the same dialogue and switch on the radio. The two brothers would sleep huddling each other on those cold winter nights listening to the thin, faint, wavy songs of old Bollywood.

They had never heard of television and girls were irritating drag in their teams during recess. The only woman known to them closely was their mother.

He misses his mother the most in this world.

(Watch out for 'her story' in the next installment)

2010-02-09T23:12:00.000+05:30

what a sad truth. i have to come back to my blog to drown my sorrows. what a sad truth, i remember my blog when i am drunk.
i started this blog when i was 26. i am now 30. many things changed. friends changed. jobs changed. loyalty changed. yet this space remained my very own. my beloved.
what a profound realisation ... i still come to this blog when i need some solace. oh my dear diary, thank you for being my own. my only true own.

float

2009-10-19T23:46:00.005+05:30

I wonder how life has its strange ways of reminding how small and insignificant you are to the larger scheme of things. The funniest part is it comes from your own making.

The elaborate scheme that you conceive ends up consuming you and you try your best to break free. All your plans, your shrewdly, meticulously planned best schemes fall flat on their faces when the time comes for execution.

You realize that everything is in the larger scheme of things and you are allowed to move within a standard deviation range. As long as you are within that range, all your schemes are “perfectly planned and efficiently executed,” as soon as you deviate too much from the unidirectional flow, you are forced back again in the grand scheme of things and your shrewed plan reveals itself as nothing but a collection of most obvious flaws and people ridicule your 'quixotic' endeavor.

There could be exceptions. Or are they exceptions really? Are they something like the first atom shot in a particular direction to which the entire mass should eventually follow? I don’t know.

Of late, some great things have happened in my life in a very short span which has illuminated me and held open the book of life like no amount of book reading and visuals have done. I was carrying a great weight of expectations, a weigh so heavy that it was sinking me in the abyss, in a deep, dark trench without me knowing so. I was sinking deep, deep and I was happy until somebody snapped the rope that was tying me with the great weigh and like a bubble, like a cork I am rising up now … I could see the darkness of the deep slowly giving way to green-blue-emerald forms .... It may not be a mistake if I think I could see a silver sliver turning wide as I rise up. I am rising very fast, without caring for being patient enough to glimpse what’s around me. Like a cork, I am sure about my destination. It’s up, up and above till I see the sun face to face. I can’t and I will not attempt to breathe till I smell the salty air on the surface.

I want to float with the waves, the weeds and the dead fish till I am momentarily stuck at a place and wait for the tsunami to wash me again.

I don’t care about spirituality. Spirituality doesn’t care about me. I know whatever is around me is here and now and I have to smell and touch everything possible to get a feel. I know as soon as I am dead, everything is ash and that’s it. I cease to exist, my feelings, my senses are separated and lost from one another. Just like a hedge fund buying a complete business and selling it part by part until the name of the establishment is erased from the minds of the people and the parts became establishments or part of other rising establishments themselves. When I cease to exist, my senses, which are held ransom in this troubled body will find new houses of their own. My touch may find home to a tiger cub, my smell might go to a pig, my vision could go to an ant , my taste might go to a hungry emaciated dog and my hearing capabilities may reside in a conch-shell so that when you press it on your ear, you hear the sound of sea.

Scattered, the ‘I’ in me will be lost.

It is but a fortune that my senses have decided to be with the ‘I’ in me and I should celebrate that. I should feel everything around me when I am adrift on this vast blue ocean. Yet, I must not rub myself too much to get a mark on me.

From this point, let life be a celebrated journey of nothingness and let it come with its own gloom, doom and cheers. Yet, now having getting the knowledge that I am just but a part of the larger scheme of thing, let it be just a cork on the vast blue ocean. Amen.

lazy, half-drunk thoughts

2009-08-16T23:11:00.003+05:30

Maan … despite all these heavy rains in Mumbai for the last couple of days, the municipality has threatened to cut down on water supply. The rains accumulated in the pools are not enough to meet the water needs of this city’s populace. They are even threatening the water level is only enough to sustain six months.

Today being Sunday, I conveniently ignored the door bell at eight in the morning. I swear this is the last eight-o-clock Sunday morning bells that I missed in my life. The kind guard had come to tell me to fill up the bucket/s (I have only one) in half an hour’s time. No water for the next twenty four hour!

Being the lazy champion that I am, I didn’t fill up the bucket last night before sleeping (does anybody do that in any case?). since I am dependent on tap water for drinking purpose, I had nothing to drink too. So I went to buy water in the morning. But thought of better utilisation of money and bought beer instead. Now, technically I cannot wash my face with beer, can i? Nor I can use it for my other urgent needs.

So I had to go to the shops again and buy two bottles of water, two litres each. I was aghast at such precious waste of money. I mean, you buy water in this country! Gosh! Beats me. To comfort myself and to even out the cost to utilisation ratio a bit, I picked up two more bottles of beer.

So here I am, down two bottles of my favourite beer (Indian one). Sitting on my bed, stinking and happily typing whatever comes in mind.

I found the rain god to be very active in answering my prayers. He is a public sector entity with a mind of his own. When there was no rain and sitting on a Mumbai taxi was like entering the oven, I prayed fervently, “oh rain god, bring us some rain.”

Lo, in a week or two, the rains started pouring … till it started getting on my nerves. One day it rained so heavily that the trains stopped. Busses refused to come near where I stay. I desperately requested the taxi drivers to drop me at my place. they gave me dirty looks. Some of them even swore. Wet like a crow, I was running around dadar, and pleading to the drivers to drop me at my place. I was ready to give double meter. None was ready to come.

Finally, one good soul agreed at Rs500, double of what i usually pay. I was ready to dole that out. But just a kilometre and I was stuck in the heavy traffic caused by the flooding of the roads. Have you ever seen a snail moving at its laziest pace? The traffic was slower than that. I estimated if I start walking, I might reach my home by the next day morning. If I sit in the taxi, I will reach the day after. So I got down and started walking. This is after the driver recovered his 500. a contract is a contract after all. It was my wish to get down at the middle of nowhere, not the driver’s fault. I had no right to argue with him.

My wet phone turned out to be very reliable. I managed to call a friend and told him to stay at a particular spot with his car so that I could walk that much and go to his place to stay. I reached that place after two hours walk and found my chauffer standing. He drove me his home and my life was saved. That’s when I complained loud to the rain god. “stop it. I say stop! For the sake of your boss, stop it.”

And the rain stopped forever. Fucker!

Did I mean to take it so literally? My experience with all public sector entities told me that they don’t take things literally and matters get settled at their own pace. So tuned we are at our own public system that if we want something to be done at a particular date two years down the line, we apply now. If you go by the rulebook and apply one day before the date, as normally this is the time to get the job done, it will come to you after two years nevertheless. How do I know the new Indian rain god is so efficient in answering pleas? Didn’t he learn from his bosses? The great Indian lazy gods? One of them has always his eyes shut. Another is lying lazily on a lotus and the other is busy in his library.

At different phases of my life I have requested them to get me things, mainly love interests. I prayed that that chic at the corner of that road be mine. I prayed I get an answer of my proposal to her. She didn’t reply at that time. Because the plea didn’t reach the lazy Indian god’s bed. When it reached and she replied, it was five years late. The girl, a baby on her hand, her baby, lovely girl of two years, told me that day … “ you proposed me, I wish I was wise that time.” What the fuck! Although I fully didn’t understand what she mean by that. Whether it would have been wise of her to accept my proposal or to slap me immediately, but my positive outlook towards life encouraged me to take a positive version. The gods got my plea heard after five years, when things have turned upside down and I was chasing some other chic after getting rejected and refused by ten more.

I know I will continue getting positive answers till I am fifty. I have so many proposals pending on which i didn't get answers till date.

Now where from this active civil servant appeared among these lazy louts? I am lodging a complaint about him now. He will, hopefully get replaced in about five years time.

Don’t take things too literally in India yaar, if you run or walk too fast, you will miss half of India, as somebody said.

There are exceptions to the rule of course.

Mumbai. Everybody is running here. they don’t know why they are running, but run they must. You know just three minutes down there is a train coming and if you board this one, there is a high probability that you will drop from the running train just as a ripe mango. Yet, people run here. when they get down from the train they must push you to overtake you and get stuck in the same place. the entire jamboree of ecstatic crowd, must push the other crowd-loving people coming from the opposite direction. From a distance you will find the platform over-bridge transforming into an ancient battlefield where greek or roman soldiers jostle each other under their giant shields. I love this scene most of the time until I become one of them.

There is so much action happening here. once you come to Bombay you become a true fighter. The entire city is a battlefield. You go out to work not knowing whether you would come back alive or in one piece. It makes you fearless. You never know which bag has what in it. You never know the bus you are riding doesn’t have ingredients to make meat out of you. You become a fearless soul. When news of a bomb blast comes, you open your costliest whiskey to thank the stars for sparing you this time. The next day you go to the office anxiously. Only to face the same shit like everyday. Slowly slowly the shit takes better of your fear and you forget the daily hazards until your benevolent neighbouring country sends a pack of dogs to bite you down at hotels, gatherings and restaurants. When they are short of money to send dogs people from another neighbourhood come in bicycles and keep tiffin boxes or pressure cookers for you. Open that and all your pains vanish in an instant. Yours and several others’. This city makes you fearless.

Fear comes back to you, even while crossing the road, when you step into some other Indian cities, cause you know road accident is the only few reasons you can die there. And you will have no other to blame except yourself.

If the chicken pox spared you here, surely the swine flu will do you. If you have the ability to digest the pig, then comes typhus, or malaria, or anything that you can name of. Each time you thank your lazy gods. You can only pray, by the time they realise you have not been blessed with any one of these, you can escape the city and reach somewhere else.

But would I leave Mumbai for that? Nah … I am a Mumbaikar, resident of the greatest slum on earth. And like any slum dweller, I am sympathetic towards my fellow slum dweller and is ready to stand with him shoulder to shoulder when the time comes to fight back.

May be, I will be done when wine flu hits the shore.

Seeking Roots

2009-07-04T18:09:00.002+05:30

I don’t know if I have bored you with the same rhetoric earlier. May be I had, and as is my habit, I did not commit to what I proposed. That’s me.

I am not sure if this time I would be able to honour my commitment, I guess I will be. For it is coming from the genuine depth of rootlessness that I am writing this now, sitting at the office, listening to the intoxicating sound of heavy rains.

I am committing myself to writing in Bengali, my mother tongue.

For writing in any language, the literary type, you have to have that command. I can understand the plight of the Indian writers writing in English. Most of them, except a few, are educated in an English medium school and have no knowledge of their mother tongue. They cannot write in their mother tongue even if they want to. For all I know, Indian languages are far more complicated than English. Even if one is fluent in speaking it, it needs skills to try and write in it.

I am a sensitive guy. I am compelled to write my feelings almost everyday. But the tragedy is that for the last few years, the idea of connecting to an international audience had struck me. I was almost hypnotized and day dreamed of becoming a global ‘author.’

But I guess, you can forgive me for that wishful thinking. I was just very young and like any other young man, had aspirations above the potential.

I have a workable English language skill. I can write news stories perfectly well and fast and can communicate what I saw and what I need to communicate to my audiences. But when it comes to communicating the feeling, I can never do that with my poor knowledge of English language.

I talked to my editor that day about what is lacking in my approach to writing stories, about our project … what he said was bang on. You need 10,000 hours of practice to master any craft. That would turn out to be at least three hours of practice for over a decade.

I am sorry. I don’t have that time with me. I have spent at least 5,000 hours practicing stories in Bengali.

The basic structure is there, I can write stories as I think I want to write. When I write in English, I have perfect control over my subject. I don’t have control over my language. The language is what is pulling me from getting a perfect nirvana in my art. I cannot communicate the beauty, smell and touch in English which I can easily write in my mother tongue.

What the heck, my Bengali was sweet once upon a time. I was a regular in magazines! I had even my poetries published! Where is that language now?

I have lost 75% of that skill worshiping a language in which I don’t think. I still and will continue to think in Bengali before translating it in English.

What precious waste of time!

It depresses me now knowing that I have ignored my sweet Bengali. But looking back at it, I find it perfectly useful. English is how I will earn my bread. I needed to know the language to be faithful to my profession of choice. My continuing endeavor will be to master it further.

But my mother tongue is something that would earn my creative satisfaction. I need to nurture that like before, when I used to dream of writing regularly in those prestigious Bengali magazines.

So, what is in store for you? No more tortures from my side. Only when I would feel like writing some impromptu stuff in English, creative or mundane, I will surely heed the call.

Did I miss saying that you were the ones for this much of improvement in my English? It was horrible when I was fresh out of university and started writing non-text book stuff in English.

I thank you all my dear friends, thanks for enriching my writing skills in my acquired language and thanks for gently guiding me to the right usage of a word whenever I faulted.

Did I disappoint you Ian? Are you feeling dejected and betrayed? For you spent hundreds of hours editing my copies and re-writing those to make it proper English! Kindly forgive me. The idea is not to cheat you.

I have realized the futility of connecting to an international audience. Writing has become a much more sacred ritual to me than what it was before. When it is the question of religion, please allow me to worship my God my own way.

Please allow me to go back to my roots. I am as proficient in my mother tongue as you are in yours.

When I was in school, my Bengali teachers taught me to write, when I was in crisis, fjam taught me to stick to my passion and when I was sure about my passion, you taught me how to achieve perfection in pursuing it. My dear Ian, your influence in my life is much much more than instructions in English.

It’s a larger scheme of things, over and above the language. It’s about the subject itself. It’s about the thought process, the same neurotic vibes, blessings of the muse, that you and I both receive the same way. You taught me how to capture those and how to celebrate that. Your greatest gift to me was that.

Just that, our ways of putting it in paper will be different from this point.

Sabbatical Yay!

2009-04-30T18:32:00.002+05:30

It’s a very slow day in office. Voting is going on in Mumbai and the whole world is closed, except the newspaper offices. People are also enjoying this brief break from rusty Mumbai life. As per the initial reports, the turnout is only about 10% in polling booths. Why trouble yourself standing in the crowd in this heat when you can sleep the whole day!

But …

Why should a business paper be open when the stock market, banks or any other financial institutions are closed is beyond me.

Anyway, the boss is pretty calm today. He is a great journalist. He was trying his level best of rubbing his enthusiasm to me but with all my non-activities I have hopefully conveyed the message to him that I am not interested in being a great journalist as him. After several brave attempts including some bursts of inspiring lectures, he has realized his futility and is pretty chilled out with me now. These days he asks me about the weather instead of developments in my beat.

I have successfully conveyed to him that this is job for me and I have passion for it, but not ‘burning’ passion as he wants to see.

Let’s see how long this calm continues. I better do the most of it. I better write a blog post before the bossy wakes up from his slumber, he afterall, sometimes forgets my message to him.

All the star reporters are playing cricket outside. Earlier they used to make my life miserable calling me again and again to join them. But I have demonstrated to them my love for my chair and preference for arm-chair journalism and arm-chair cricket, i.e. watching India Premier League sitting on my chair instead of gathering like bees around the TV-hive. They now know that nothing except cigarettes attract me. But these people don’t smoke. So it takes some effort between us to communicate with each other. Most of the time they do the effort.

Of late, I am thinking of taking a break. Journalists, who in their entire career has achieved nothing, call it “sabbatical.” I know at least five six great useless creatures who have taken a sabbatical after five-six years of doing nothing. My boss, on the other hand, is the most diligent workaholic I have ever seen. I have never seen him talking about taking sabbaticals. At the most, seven or fifteen days leave to recharge, but that’s not sabbatical.

I doubt if he is forced to take sabbatical for a month, he will start a hunger strike at the gate of this office.

But I want a ‘sabbatical.’ I fit the bill perfectly. In my five years of journalistic career, I have done nothing, achieved nothing and I hope to remain the same in my next thirty years.

I fancy myself with that old bloke from the vernacular media who comes to the press conference every time to have free food. The guy is a fragile frame of his former self. As fragile as my news stories.

His body just needs a good shake-up to breath its last. Going by the bulging bags under his fish-like eyes, bent spine, withered skin, I am sure this guy is the happy playground of all kinds of diseases, diabetes to start with.

Yet, this septuagenarian savors a kilo of the sweetest sweets, finishes almost one whole cooked sheep, and eats rice equivalent to a produce of about a square-hector field. If the press conference has drinks too, most of the time people carry him office after the conference. During the conference, he snores. Yet, he comes back for the next conference perfectly fit.

He is my inspiration. I know if he can survive in this profession, I will also. For that I don’t need to be as active as my boss.

My colleagues have realized I am like that ancient stone. You cannot move me. If you really want to disturb my peace, you start worshiping me. They come back to me for some inspiration and pastime when they think they have done enough for the day and are dead tired. With my inspiring talks of non-activity, I give them the much sought after peace of mind.

They don’t disturb me anymore.

I am a perfect guy to flaunt a ‘gone-for-a sabbatical’ tag. But I have to wait for sometime before that. Meanwhile I can go for a fifteen-day vacation and go unnoticed. Far from the madding crowd, if I may be allowed to say it poetically.

I am making some effort in searching for the ideal place. During weekends I am going to far off places to check if my mobile picks up signals. The place where my mobile won’t pick up signal should be the perfect place. It should be “not reachable” whenever contacted. People should not get me when they want. But I should be able to get them whenever I want. The place should be cheap and should have an abundance of chicken and mutton serving restaurants. Booze should be duty-free and the only channel to come there should be Doordarshan. Internet should be unheard of and cable television a dream-come true. Yet, there should be electricity. I should be able to sleep properly with the fan on and mosquito repellants diligently doing their duties.

Oh yes, newspapers should not come there. If you have noticed, the world plunged into sadness after newspapers were invented. Before newspapers, literatures were like Ramayana, Mahabharata, Iliad, Odyssey -- all those great books of superhuman activities. People instantly realized they are not able to match the heroes there and so they didn’t dare to be active, instead sitting calm and composed under the great banyan tree and believing whatever the interpreter told them.
Post newspapers, literatures are like “Hard Times” “Ulysses”, “Outsider”, “Sons and Lovers” and the mother of them all – “War and Peace”. Basically all those troubled-conscience pieces that was possible by writers who read newspapers and started thinking parallel. Not only reading man, the writers were journalists too. All those sad lots …

I also read newspapers. I read them everyday to find out what people in my beat has written and to crystal-gaze as how my day in the office will start.

On my way to the office, being one smelly sardine in the great moving can of sardines, I device clever answers to save my arse from the inevitable question of my boss, “why have you missed this?” My day start with that and ends with, “What? No story for tomorrow too??? I really don’t know how you …”

I hate newspapers. Newspapers should be a strict no-no at the place of my mini-sabbatical.

Oh yes, the most important of all. It should be a paid leave.

There is no incentive in going to a place just for doing nothing when I am getting paid doing the same thing in office everyday.

Laughable stuff

2009-04-09T00:11:00.000+05:30

Sorry for not writing here for so long. Sorry for my last post that hurt you. That was intentional. I wanted to pick up a quarrel with somebody, I was fighting with myself, a weight that I wanted to throw at somebody and relax. Sadly nobody gulped the bait.

I am sorry for myself.

Journalism is taking away too much of my time. It discomforts me a great deal when I think about it. But the joy of this profession is that there is no accumulation of profit. You get your due then and there. If you are in a newspaper, you get your reward the next morning.

The fun ends there though.

Next day is a new day, a new challenge, a new tension about what you will write now? Today’s newspaper is tomorrow’s wastepaper for the readers. For reporters, today’s newspaper is the filthiest of waste paper. When you were writing the article, you were busy, bosses were happy. Now you are done. Now you are story-less, worse than being penny-less in the world.

But still, you somehow pull yourself to dig a new hole to taste water. Over a period of time, it can become addictive, I guess. Of course, over a period of time, you get to know for sure if you fit the bill or not. Either you get excited or the profession will throw you out. You cannot sustain in journalism if you don’t have passion for it. No fooling business here.

Babes and blokes with those shiny eyes dreaming of becoming pseudo-famous, a word or two for caution – this profession is not glamorous.

Anyway, instead of trying to become the role model in journalism, I better cough it clean. I have conceded defeat. I am a failure in my pursuit.

When we were kids, my father’s favourite word of advice was “dream for the stars, and you shall reach the moon.” How true he was. I always dreamt of becoming a writer. Always. Ever since I was a child, I had this fascination for writers. When I was in college and university I used to roam around College Street, the Mecca of Calcutta’s book loving crowd, just in case I catch a glimpse of a writer! I frequented coffee house, secretly planning to catch hold of a writer and be his apprentice. That never happened. Nobody thought me fit for an apprenticeship. Nevertheless, I made some good friends in some “let us pool and publish” magazines and managed to print some of my juvenile short stories. I started behaving as a writer, as in, intentionally forgetting things and pretending to hear people calling me after a time lag of five seconds.

But then, it tired me, the acting part. I realised I have a long way to go.

I didn’t want to become a journalist. It happened. How it happened is an interesting story for which the aforementioned magazines play a role, but that I reserve to tell you some other day. Nevertheless, I became a journalist. I dreamt for the star, I reached the moon. My father’s wisdom came handy.

Now I cover treasury, the most uninspiring thing for you. And banks, including the central bank of the country, bit interesting, if you chose to take interest in financial systems. But then, my journalism starts and ends there.

People ask me about stock tips. Since I am a ‘financial journalist’. I am supposed to know everything about the market and my recommendations should make the person rich in just a fortnight. When I try to reason that my ‘expertise’ lies in bonds where the minimum lot of trading is Rs50 million, people refuse to believe that I don’t know anything about equity. I am a journalist, I am supposed to know everything under the sun.

Worst, people ask me what is my assessment about the upcoming election. Who is most likely to form the government? What would be the equation like? When I explain that I am a business reporter, they come back to the stock tip. When I tell them, with all my feigned humbleness, that I cover bonds and I have a workable knowledge on bond market, people think I am trying to be modest, or I don’t trust them, or I am a true ‘professional’ – not to divulge secrets. The worst comes when some of them give me a scornful look. It translates into roughly something like this, “If you are a journalist, I must be King Arthur” and “what the fuck you are doing in journalism if you don’t know anything?”

I wither in front of those suspicious looks. I can’t help but to look for cover.

Nevertheless, in my personal space, I am happy with what journalism has so far offered me. People who matter in my field know my name. I get mails (fan-mails? Hate-mails too!) from the readers. My parents feel proud to see my name in printed words. I get to meet the celebrities and heavyweights you see on television and newspapers everyday.

And I get the chance to wonder at their ordinariness.

The ghost of a writer just left me a couple of months ago. Till then, I was torn between my career and my dream. It did no good. Neither I wrote substantial anything, nor I concentrated at my job in hand because I thought this is not my world. It’s almost like betraying the wife for the mistress.

But my neglected profession, as if just to lure me into her arms, is giving me rich rewards. That day I wrote a column. Actually not. I contributed in a daily column in the absence of our consulting editor. He didn’t write that day and instead told me to fill his space. That doesn’t make me a columnist. But yes, it IS writing a column for sure. An unthinkable honour for a junior reporter. You don’t write a column unless you are an expert in it. I am just learning about the bond market, yet, I wrote a column on it.

I was excited.

I called up my mother, “Maa, I am writing a column today.”
“What? You are not writing about banks anymore? Your bosses are angry with you,” she was tensed.

I had no choice but to tell my simple mother that things are fine here in office. But I didn’t try to explain her about the significance of a column.

I called my father, “Baba, I am writing a column.”
“Ok.”

I wanted a word of encouragement from someone. I wrote that old man in England a mail. As expected, there was nothing but encouragements. I knew this. He is predictable. He doesn’t believe in hurting people with his words. May be because he is a refined Englishman, may be because he is a genuine good man. May be because he thinks I am too sensitive and not capable of handling his criticism. But I knew his response, it didn’t encourage me at all. He is predictable in his mails to me.

I am staying alone these days. I missed my friend I wanted to call him and share this piece of news with him. I knew he would be happy, genuinely happy for me. I knew that. He always celebrated my happiness and shared my pain.

But he has hurt me somehow, I don’t know how. I didn’t call him. I won’t share my joys and sorrows with him anymore.

I called my former boss, who also happens to be my good friend, in the pretext of enquiring about a friend’s job application. I broke the news casually, he was excited. I felt happy. Really happy, but feigned to be “it’s normal. I am not a columnist really. It’s just stop gap.” But I was happy.

I wanted to call this guy who I consider my elder brother, who shielded me from all the workplace turbulences throughout my career with him. But he had left Mumbai two days back and I was not sure if I should disturb him with my ‘trivial’ news. Anyway, we are in the same organisation and he will see my name in the paper.

I called up this coolest guy in the world. A man I consider the kindest yet the most brutal in the world, the most moody and the most magnificent. I wanted to talk to him and after sometime I wanted to break the news. Because I believe in his emotions. If he congratulates me, I know it would be no formalities. But he has discarded me from his life I guess. He seemed not interested in talking to me. I knew he was brutal.

“Say something. Why are you answering in monosyllables,” I said. Thinking shall I break the news now? My personal feat?

“I have nothing to say actually,” was his cold answer. I bade him good bye.

True. I have nothing to say too.

Finally, I broke the news to my spiritual guru. We were having beer. He was elated. It was genuine. Suddenly the world seemed all draped in colour. Suddenly it seemed, I have achieved something big. The sparkle on his eyes told me I am happy seeing somebody happy for me.

Suddenly I wished my parents and sister and brother were here. That predictable old man was here. My friend and former flatmate was here with me. I wanted to have my former boss and the meanest and coolest guy at my room with me.

I wished they would demand a party. I wished I would be beaten up for refusing to give a party.

I swear I would have emptied my bank balance if they would have asked for a party.

Yet nobody asked for it.

Mood Swings and Rehman-Gulzar

2009-02-23T17:57:00.000+05:30

I don’t know why it should happen. But presently, I don’t need you at all. You must have noticed I am deliberately insulting you or throwing my nasty tantrums on you. You have seen my nice side, but you must be surprised to see my mood swings. I really don’t know why it should happen.

I just want you to leave me alone. Comfortable in my cocoon, I must hibernate and emerge as something totally unknown. I was never a very extrovert and never intend to be. I know I am a good man and I can consciously never hurt anybody, physically. But you are becoming too much intrusive in my life, without actually knowing so. You are dragging me to every party when all I want is just to slip unnoticed in the vast human ocean. When I left my home some five years ago that was upmost in my mind that I will be lost in this vastness and I and only I will be there in my world.

But increasingly, you are trying to make me social, which is dead against my will. I just don’t want to interact with you, I just don’t want to meet you, I just don’t want you to expect me doing something that would please you. I am back to my usual self. That of extreme selfishness and I want you to respect that.

Having said that, let be assured that I love you and I do care for you. I am just begging you for a space of my own.

Thanks for your understanding. Goodbye.

BTW, Rehman got two Oscars for his “Jai Ho” and Gulzar for his lyrics. I guess they both have truckloads of those metal statuettes already for their other songs. If not, fuck Oscars. You don’t know quality. You are still driven by the marketing hoopla. You have preferred your other singers over Rehman or other Indian composers and musicians and lyricists for eternity. And you thought Jai Ho is an extreme example of a good song. Come to India not with dirt in your eyes, looking for slums and garbage. You still require the wisdom of seven births before you realize what is real India.

Go, get a good translator and read what our “bollywood” lyricists have written for ages. You will feel ashamed for the shallowness of your “I want to fuck you” lyrics.

Case in hand: “Na jaane kyun, hota hain yeh zindagi ke sath, achanak yeh man, kisike jane ke baad, kare phir uski yaad, choti choti si baat” or “Kahin dur jab din dhal jaye, sanjh ka dulhan badan churaye, chupke se aye. Mere khayalo ke angan me koi sapno ke deep jalaye … "

(I am not trying to translate it, I am very poor at it. Request somebody to translate it in the comments section. Please. Kindly do it.)

The human drama

2009-01-03T16:12:00.005+05:30

It was a cold, very cold night. The young lady was tossing and turning in pain on her bed. This was going on for the last three days. The baby was refusing to come from his mother’s womb. Yet, the doctors won’t operate her because there was a serious lack of anesthetic and cesarean birth was a rare operation that time. Certainly a costly affair that this lower middle class family coudn't afford. Besides, being a government hospital, it was under-equipped. There was no way but to wait for the baby’s wish.

Perhaps the baby sensed, it would be too hard for him to adjust to the world, perhaps he was not satisfied with the world where he would spend his mortal life.

Suicidal missions were not heard of that time but the mother of the young pregnant lady was cursing the baby – he was determined to kill himself and his mother, almost as if in protest.

His would be uncles were pacing restlessly in the almost filthy hospital yard. Taking turns to be present there. Making sure that the tiniest of the difficulty won’t hurt their dear sister, one of eight siblings. The elder son of the family worked in a x-ray clinic, assisting the radiologist in taking photographs and developing the films. The one younger than him would work as a collection agent for a bank earning 2 per cent commission on the proceeds collected daily. The elder one would cycle fifteen miles to reach his job. The younger one would spend twelve hours of his day cycling the town and collecting daily current account deposits from the traders. Between two of their earnings rest the entire burden of their family. They had to marry their sisters and secure a bit more comfortable career, and if possible, marry themselves.

The boy’s grandmother and aunt from his father’s side were patiently waiting for their grandchildren. They were sure it would be a boy, because it would have been a disgrace to have a girl child. Imagine the strain on their loved son’s finance to brought up a girl and to marry her off!

The grandmother was bit anxious for their daughter-in-law but she was sleepless over her grandson. No harm shall befall him. Her family should not sacrifice the child to save their daughter. If they had to choose between one, she will fight till death and make sure that the child was saved. They will arrange one more girl for their handsome and able son. He after all, was in a government service! And was a science graduate!

The father of the kid, meanwhile, was coming to office regularly at a distant land. More than a thousand miles away from where the mystery was unfolding. He was least bothered about whether it would be a daughter or a son. He loved his wife, though he didn’t acknowledge it, but he knew that. And he was anointed by the holy rhymes of Wordsworth and Shakespeare. He was one of the few in his batch, who would read English books and worse … understand them and enjoy!!!

But it’s a disgrace to be at your wife’s side during the childbirth. There was no insult more in this world then to show love to your wife. His mother would kill him if she comes to know that her son has fallen for a woman whom he got to know for little more than a year. Besides, he couldn’t stand his sister's taunts. Although they were from the same town, they never met each other before marriage. His mother told him whom to marry, the girl was told a groom has been arranged for her ... and they were husband and wife in months.

Being one’s woman’s side was a shameful act for both the man and the wife. But he wanted to be in the hospital, he almost decided to, but all his modernist thought was defeated by his fear of termed as an “hen-pecked husband.”

The child was troubling the mother for the last three days, but may be he took some pity on the poor lady and started kicking his mother, demanding to come out fast, as his habit would turn out to be, he would want to do everything in a hurry. Even if that would mean half of his thing remain unfinished.

The lady started crying loudly as the pain intensified, doctors and nurses crowded once again to her. The doctor being a man in his sixties and the head nurse none other than the boy’s grandmom from his father’s side. For she was the head nurse of the hospital. She was from a royal family who dared to marry someone much poorer and run away from her family to settle in this town of Gaya, Bihar. But when her husband passed away, she did all sorts of odd jobs to raise her four kids and to educate them before specializing in delivery cases and become a midwife in the hospital.

After draining the frail mother all her energy, the child finally emerged in a bloody state. The grandmom, also the head nurse, promptly noted down the time and place. “10.45 PM, Gaya, Bihar.”

It would need the doctor to beat the child real hard on his butt before the child would start breathing, filling his little lungs with the smell of all sorts of medicines.

The horde of just-now-became family would then hear a cry very similar to that of a cat’s meow … meow …

They would erupt in joy!!!

The grandmom would rush out from the delivery room to hug her counterpart, the mom’s mom. “Congrats didi!!! It’s a boy! It’s boy!” The old ladies then would hug each other in joy and cry together! The baby was healthy and the mother safe too!

The boy’s complexion was Lal (red)! Pinkwash! He was the first son in her family. Now her husband’s family would survive and the lineage preserved. The proud grandmom claimed her first right in naming the baby of her family. She named her “Laltu.”

The elder brother of the new proud mom (still dizzy and unsure what’s happening around) would jump in triumph. He would empty his pockets and throw the money to the other nurses who demanded money for the good news. His best friend would immediately dispatch to the telegram office to send a telegram to the new proud father, sitting in Jaipur, Rajasthan.

One neighbour present in the hospital would rush to the girl’s house to give the good news hearing which the youngest son in the family, still in school would declare he won’t go to the school and won’t touch his books for seven days because he was “very happy”, a state of mind which he preferred to be often rather than being having “stomach ache” going to school.

Precisely twenty-nine years after that human drama enacted in Gaya, Bihar, the child would write this piece sitting in Mumbai, Maharashtra, wishing himself a happy birthday and thanking the family, his greatest strength, to stand beside him all the time.

And would silently apologise to his mother for troubling her so much and would whisper “Maa, I love you.”

2009-01-01T15:50:00.006+05:30

happy new year my friends.

i am writing something just not to miss the opportunity to wish you all. even though, i am not very inclined to write anything these days. it's not that i have dried up or that i don't feel the urge to write something, but somehow i am not able to pull myself to write something here. so i thought i must grab this opportunity and fill something on my blog.

so, what's your resolution this time? i don't have any resolution, for either i have become too matured (read cynical) or i have realised the futility of new year resolutions. just a small 'thank you' to all of you for giving that emotional support throughtout the last year, actually ever since i started this blog.

as we all know 2008 was an eventful year. india and pakistan was almost there in the warfront (or was that only for the public?). i almost decided to go and live in pakistan, honestly.

i will tell you the reason. see, pakistan is so fond of flaunting its nuclear arsenal, i won't be surprised if they would use it at the first chance. and guess where it would fall first ... yes, in mumbai, right beneath my arse.

so why do you think i planned to leave for pakistan? well, i am pretty sure our 70-year olds will never use nuke. the whole world knows that, including condo rice and hu, not to mention asif, ali and zardari. so, i was just thinking, the only way to be safe during the war is pakistan. and guess what, i would just take my one month's salary in indian rupee to the country, i am sure, the pak's economy would be so fucked up after the war that they would need some hard currency. you must be thinking why indian rupee when dollar is there? well, i don't want to call my friends fools here for i know you are all intelligent creatures. just to correct your thinking ... united states gives them f-16s and sting missiles ... not dollar, ask condo if you don't believe me. now remained what? renminbi? the currency is so undervalued that it won't fetch a parle g packet.

of course, i will get truck full of pakistani rupee in exchange of my one month's indian rupee.

in fact, i have shortlisted some houses for me in islamabad. in fact, when i discovered that most of the places shortlisted are actually hotels, i promptly rejected them, for the country's cave dwellers are fond of hotels these days and as per the tradition, when they leave they blow their abode up. i lovedd mush's mansion though. how much he would charge me for it? half my salary? ummm ... hard deal.

how would i go to pakistan now? why? by boat of course. i will sail my way to karachi listening to my ipod -- thee greatest invention by the us of a.

anyway, please come to see me, i assure you a royal treat.

but of course, it all depends on when the war would start. i am waiting.

meanwhile, have a BLAST!

Hello!

2008-10-29T21:22:00.006+05:30

Argh … it hurts. I better not touch my leg. Probably it is broken. Doesn’t matter as long as I am not touching it. This state is pure bliss. Oh, I never thought pain could be so beautiful. White pain.

But I should not touch it. The pain should come in waves. It’s like music. It has its own rhythm.

Are you feeling pity for me? Are you? Bless me! Praise the Lord! You are thinking about me right now! How can you not think about me? The object of my love cannot be so inhuman. Though, of course, that indifference in you was what killed me at the first place. I came looking for that fine soft line on your stern face and could not get out.

I know you don’t agree to what the respected men of your locality did to me. I am not a thief. Neither I can think bad of anyone. They left me unconscious. Praise the Lord again, right in front of your window. I guess, that’s the room you live, don’t you? I can vouch though that that’s the room where you practice your singing skills. In my pilgrimage to your lane, your voice was the only contact between our souls. On the waves of your tone, I have sent several messages, “I have come. I have come.” Didn’t you get those? Don’t lie.

What’s the time now?

Oh, your well-wishers have taken my watch. You have thieves among your protectors. Better choose better men next time. But you haven’t chosen them, I am sure.

What? Your window is still closed like everyday? As if nothing has happened? But how can you hide the fact that you are watching me intently through those cracks. I can see that through my third eye. You know love makes your senses sharp? Love is blind they say. Blindness sharpens your other skills. Have you ever seen a blind man meeting with an accident? Your saviours said forget it as an accident. How can it be? A blind man can never meet an accident. Even if he is about to, somebody holds his hand. I know you will come and hold my hand before it’s too late.

It must be past nine. My parents should start worrying for me after ten. For I have never entered home after ten. You see, in social terms, I am a ‘good boy’.

I know my shirt is wet with my blood. But you can feel the heaviness of dews when you stay calm. You can hear their sound. Again, it’s music.

I can hear that distant sawmill making logs of the vast trunks. The wind is carrying its sound, sometimes muffled, sometimes clear. I don’t know which side the wind is blowing.

What are you doing now? Apart from thinking about me? Are you studying? I am sure tonight is a bad night for your studies. You are probably writing my name on your philosophy notebook. I am sorry to disturb you like this. But allow me to, I am enjoying it.

Ha ha. You have to open your window tomorrow morning. You will find me here, at the same place. I will greet you good morning. No, I will not sleep today.

I will not allow anybody to move me from this place unless you come and tell me to go. You will see, if you tell me to go, I won’t take anybody’s help. I can limp and go home. My legs are broken but my heart is all charged up. But you have to come and order. Or plea!

You have one more option. Let the world sleep. You come near the window and let’s talk. Don’t worry, you won’t be disturbing me. Really, I am telling you, I don’t need rest. I am comfortable here. I never got the chance to sleep in the grasses. Looking through the grasses the world looks strange. I didn’t know this world exist. My world was always three-four feet above the ground level. I guess yours too. Hey, I must tell you, it’s fun. Try and sleep on the grasses, turn your face and look horizontally. I mean practice my pose now. You can try other poses but I can’t, probably they have broken my neck too. Thanks heavens for that.

Can you hear that frog croaking? A snake must be swallowing him right now. A small poison-less snake. What is that frog saying? “Help me?” no, probably not. Who will help him? Another frog? Ha ha. May be … he is calling his Gods for the injustice. I am sure he has his mate waiting for him in some burrows. They are not as pretentious as we are.

Just as we should call our Gods before breathing the last, he is probably calling his Frog-God. You must be knowing that if you do so, you will not only book your seat in the heavens but all your sins will be forgiven. But there is a bad side to it. Once you are in the heaven and all your sins forgiven, you will not be allowed to take rebirth, for we take rebirth to pay for our sins committed in the last life. In the process we do some more sins and the overdue spills over to the next life. Imagine, if we don’t take birth again, what a waste it will be. We won’t be able to come to this beautiful earth again. I won’t be able to fall in love with you again!!!

Don’t worry; I have committed enough sins to claim a rebirth. Have you? Hey, don’t you want to come to this lovely earth again? I would suggest you commit a crime tonight. Come to me not heeding your parent’s warning. Come. Kiss me.

Hey, open the window. Let’s debate what’s the frog is saying? I wager that the frog is saying foul words to the snake for not having enough poison and delaying the death. What’s your take?

What did you say? Ha ha ha!!! True, I never thought that. The snake didn’t brush its fangs for a month. Ha ha ha! I must tell, you are hilarious! You ought to be, for I didn’t love you for nothing.

Tell me one thing. You really didn’t love me? How can that be? When I was in college, I read a short story where a little boy, tortured by his step-mom comes and narrate his hardship and sorrow to the river. The river didn’t give much importance as she had her other usual engagements. The boy, being a simple little boy continues to narrate the daily injustice mooted to him for weeks and months and the river became his friend. One day, when the boy was beaten up badly by her step-mom, he comes and cries profusely to the river. The river starts crying too and swells and takes the boy in her refuge.

Of course, there is a sad part to it, if you interpret it in that way, but my whole point was to let you know that if you love even a seemingly lifeless thing as water, the water also loves you. But you are a human!!! And you claim to be not in love with me? I don’t buy that. I know how much I have loved you.

Yes, yes, go ahead. Protest. And this protest should go on for eternity. At the end of the dispute you will acknowledge that you have loved me.

Ok, as you say, skip the topic. But don’t go now. Let’s talk.

Say you get married to a rich and successful man. Say you bear him a child or children. Then what? Will you be happy? Won’t you feel sorry for turning me down? Won’t you feel that in the process of securing a future, you wagered your life? Your love? May be I cannot be as rich as your would be husband. May be I won’t have that social status. But who knows? Won’t you take a chance for the sake of love? Which one would you prefer? A happy life or a prosperous one? Come choose. I am the happiness and the other one is the prosperity. Come choose. Come on …

See … you are not sure. If anyway you are not sure then you should always choose someone who appreciates you. I bet if you chose to ignore the other one, he won’t give a damn. He will move to some other good alliances. But if you don’t choose me, I would be devastated, can’t you see that?

Honestly, I would have done this long time before. But I was afraid of the threats from the so-called well-wishers of your locality. They threatened me that they will beat me dead if I am spotted again doing rounds of your house. But was that very disturbing? I would just peddle on my cycle around your house for an hour and leave. I have never disturbed anyone, I have never called you, I have never looked at any other girl. My cycle was never the cause for a traffic jam. Then why should they threaten to beat me up? Ha ... when I asked them these questions they have no answers but to hit me on my face and break my glass. You know what, that was a costly frame that my uncle brought me from Italy. That was my best gear to impress you. I am sure you have noticed the almost not-their frame and appreciated my taste. But then, those lousy fellows broke my glass and promised me of more action if I enter your locality.

I obliged for about two weeks. So I waited for you at the station. I waited from ten to twelve in the morning to spot you. But then, probably you took the earlier train. Next day I was there from eight, I didn’t see you again. Last week, I was there waiting for you at the station from five in the morning to two in the afternoon. You didn’t come. Were you okay? What happened to you, I was naturally worried!

You tell me what can I do but to come to your place resuming my daily routine of pilgrimage?

Let me first thank you for letting me hear your voice. You were scolding your brother for not studying. I have never witnessed this side of your personality. I must tell you, I was very impressed. But then, just when I was returning, they caught hold of me. Did you see what all weapons of mass destruction they brought with them to beat a frail guy! Ha ha. I couldn’t help laughing to see their mighty weapons!!! They didn’t know I cannot even protest if a child slaps me. Poor guys!

Probably I went unconscious after they hit me on my head from behind. Fools. They have left me right where they rounded me, bang opposite to your window. Ha ha. Who won at last? See now, I am talking to you. Morons.

Yes, coming back to it … trust me, there is nothing to frown about love. Love is neither a disease, nor a chemical reaction. Love is as pure as the word pure can be. There is nothing immoral if two young souls fall in love. The so-called pragmatic elders probably get a sadistic pleasure in preventing two souls from drinking the wine of bliss. But then, we can discuss more about it when you agree to my proposal and be my girlfriend. Till that time I will continue doing what I am doing.

No, I don’t agree with you. You can call it madness but you cannot call it stalking. Stalkers try and talk and even touches! I always maintained a 500 feet distance while coming after you. You can never claim that I ever talked to you. You can never claim that I came within a metre of you, sans when we are coming from the opposite direction and crossing each other. Hey, does the same thing happen to you watching me? I don’t know why my heart pounds just when I see you suddenly. It’s almost as an electric current passing through my heart! My earlobes become hot and red. I flush. My brown cheeks become red!!! Wow!!! What an amazing feeling love is! After I see you, my entire day passes as if I am in a fairyland. The park, the ponds, the dogs … heck, the beggars … all look so dreamy and beautiful!

Hey, I want this to continue all my life! Hey, I want to remain a romantic deep in love with you all my love. Hey girl, I love you too much to live or die.

No, please don’t think that the tears are there because my body is hurting. I am crying because God gifted me this power of love! I love God for that. I am blessed. You are blessed too! I pray to God to bless you with His extra-ordinary gift. Hey, I know you are blessed too.

What did you say? I can’t hear you properly. It’s coming so faint. I don’t know why but the sound of the ocean is increasing now. I can clearly hear the waves. Is there any ocean here? I don’t know. How strange. And I claim I lived here since my birth. But you must be wiser. You must take me to the ocean and set me free. I am tired of this life. I am tired of people who wish well of somebody and can beat somebody badly for somebody’s wellness.

Hell, leave the topic. Anyway, the night is getting darker. But what’s that strange colours in front of me? What are those blue lines dancing? Oh look it’s yellow now. Swear … it’s purple. Hey, I am enjoying it. Is this a special day? I didn’t read it in the papers today that the sky would be painted bright tonight.

You know what? I am shivering! Are you?

Ok tell me, what will you do when you see me five years from now. What if we meet at the same spot here? You married with two kids and I am still the vagabond. Half-mad as they say in love, still thinking about you? You will feel sorry, isn’t it?

But I won’t make you realise that I am sad without you. I will pretend that I have fallen in love with the new chick in the block and doing rounds of her house. No, I can’t see even a trace of sadness in your face.

Well, if good senses prevail and you become mine and we marry, for sure we will erect an obelisk here, at the spot where I am now. Let it be named the obelisk of love. I am not talking sense, am I? Hmmm … those well-wishers of yours really got me this time. But I forgive them. Really, I do. You cannot love someone if you have the slightest hint of hatred towards anyone.

So tell me, would you or would you not? Hey, may I get a glass of water? I can’t talk to you anymore without having some water. My throat is drying up.

Thank you! That was the sweetest water I ever drank! Oh! You look so lovely my love. I have never seen a more beautiful woman in my life. Can I hold your hand?

Ah, it’s like rose petals.

No, don’t blush, don’t blush, I mean it.

Ah, the warmth of your blushes must have transferred to me. For I am feeling warm again. Why do I always feel so, when I touch you, even in my dreams, I get such energy to fight back the world? Why my heart warms up? I love you!

Sorry, I can’t hear you anymore. The ocean waves are getting louder and louder. Have you ever pressed your ears against a conch shell? You get to hear the sounds of the sea. That was my favourite pastime as a kid. I am feeling like I am blessed!

I am sorry my love, I can’t hear you anymore. I can’t see you anymore. I can’t see anything but a myriad of colours. Colours that you can imagine, colours that I have never seen. Ah!!! I can see a bright light flashing at the end of the tunnel.

Sorry, I don’t know where I am walking. It’s not the lane of your house, there’s just a bright white light, and it’s getting tinier. As if a round door or something is closing the way from inside. I must see what’s at the end of it. You wait here, I will come back.

I must run my love, without you for now. I don’t want to miss you. I must leave you here, for I don’t want to risk you there. I don’t know what’s at the end of the tunnel. I will tell you once I get back from there.

You must take me to the sea and set me free.

The island of Saints

2008-09-07T17:12:00.007+05:30

April 17, 11.47 pm

I have to be discreet when I write this. But I am not sure about the string of events happening around me. Am I going mad? But if I put myself in a third person’s view, I don’t think I have done anything unnatural. But why did I do so? I am not known for charity. I never cared for anybody in my life except my career. But why am I doing all these things? Why should I take the girl along with me? Shit, I am even thinking of adopting her. What would Malini say? She is stressed out already and we have a conscious decision that we will never have children in our lives. People say I need my children when I am old. But I am also a child of my parents. And see, I live in New York and they are in the Naxal and mosquito-infested Hazaribagh. Shit, they don’t even know I am in India right now. If I feel like, I might drop by to say hello to them, if I don’t, I might just spend fifteen days in Mumbai or Delhi and leave. Anyway I am returning on 30th.

What did they gain raising me? Am I a good son? Hell, no. Why should I expect a different treatment from my son that I didn’t do myself?

I better go and listen to this little girl. Heck, I should tell her not to call me papa. I am not her papa. I will never be. No, I am not going to adopt her. I always travel light. I might just drop him somewhere in the port area and leave.

April 18, 9.30 am

It was crazy, crazy last night. While walking through the jungle we actually fell just in front of a pack of elephants! Wild elephants! And let me tell you they were not at all in a good mood. I was almost shitting on my pants. Thank God, for whatever reason they just fled the scene. Wild elephants are cranky and very moody, I have heard. I never could imagine I would enjoy an African safari in my own country. It was much more fun than my last year's Kenya visit to see the masssive migration of the wilderbeast! But my little darling was cool. She surely doesn't fear anything in life. This five-year old is driving me crazy.

Actually, she is. Every now and then she is calling me ‘papa’. I don’t know why, it almost feels like she is mocking me. I am deep in a jungle now. I don’t remember how I came here. Only that I hired a car from Port Blair to Rangat. About 170 kilometers by road. In between you have to cross a backwater on ferry. I don’t remember what happened to the driver. I vaguely remember we, Tuli and I, started with the driver but … as far as I remember I was driving the car with Tuli sitting beside me humming her strange, almost inaudible, song. The girl is pretty. She has her own way o doing things. Feels like she is an adult in a child’s body. I love her. She is cute with her baby Bengali accent. Sorry, I forgot to mention here. She is a Bengali.

After the 1971 Hindu-Muslim riots in Bangladesh, many refugees were dumped in this island by the government. They were given lands and ample good wishes. Nothing else. She must be one from those colonies in the interior of Andaman and Nicobar islands. But whenever I ask her where is she from she just looks at me and say ‘papa’. I don’t know what happens to me after that. I cannot proceed to my next question. Is it paternal love? If so, being a father is surely creepy. Poor Amit, he just had a baby. Thank god his child still cannot call him papa.

Time to go where she takes me now. I don’t know, but it’s fun so far. I have a feeling that we must now leave the car behind and go trekking. There is no road but one faint resemblance of a trail heading towards the dark jungle. Ancient track? Or is it used by Jarowas? If so, trouble.

April 18, 10.30 pm

Shit, I remember now. Oh God, what did you make me do. Why did I do it?

Tuli was insisting that we should take the right turn which my driver refused as those are Jarowa areas. These aborginal naked people carry bows and poisonous arrows with them and shoot at people who stray into their area. He didn’t want to go. But Tuli WANTED. I first requested, and then raised my voice. But that stubborn guy was reversing the car refusing to go further. And that’s when I snapped.

I came down from the car and took a medium sized stone and …

Tuli helped me in disposing the body deep in the jungle. I was still pissed off with him. I wanted to squeeze his blood out.

But time was less and the tourist taxis keep coming through this road. It’s quite strange how easy it is to kill a man. It’s so damn easy. When you think of killing somebody, you think twice, thrice. You are afraid. But once you execute the killing, it’s so easy man. It’s sort of fun!

Strange, I was struggling to lift the body. But she was carrying him like she is carrying a doll. She didn’t even wink. All along she was looking at me. She knows the jungle for sure. For she found a place where nobody, not even vultures can get the body.

I had this feeling of committing a crime creeping in my mind when we were returning to the car. But then Tuli called me ‘papa’ … I found her to be the cutest girl in the world. I am surely going to adopt her. To hell with others.

I must go now, Tuli calling me. Is she crying? Oh my God!

to be continued

perpetual motion

2008-08-02T01:31:00.003+05:30

When I was a kid, I had a recurring dream.

I used to dream that I had lots of small metallic toy cars, hotwheels type. And there was a platform constructed in such a way that the cars keep on running on that. The path will have its steep ups and downs and when the car falls from the peak, it should gather such a speed that it easily climbs the second peak. And again rolls from it and turns through the tilted path and climbs the first one easily. The ends should be connected so that the motion never ends.

Now.

I would add one car after another and those would chase each other real close, but would never touch each other. I would just sit quite and watch them for hours running. Even when I am back from school, they would run like that. In my dreams, I even could feel the heat of the tyres when I take one on my palm. Everything is so vivid still now. I would see which one wears out first.

I also had a dream that I would own a small helicopter that runs on … runs on … runs on … I don’t know what. But I will have a controller in my hand and I would steer it through the skies and challenge the birds. It would fly alongside the birds noisily. It would threaten Mana’s, Khudi’s proud kites in sky and I would force them to steer clear their kites out of my helicopter’s way, in case it tears them down.

Probably, if I try, I can achieve the second one. But is there any such thing as the first one? Does any such platform exist? Can anyone do it, if it is not there? Does the law of physics permit that? Shuv, Loki, Vikas … you engineers, do you know about it?

Of course, there will be friction, but the weight of the car and the speed is enough to take care of them. Is it possible? Perpetual motion?

I am sorry, if somebody else has also thought in this line and have come up with solutions. I am grossly unaware of it. But honestly, this was my own thought, not influneced by anything. It just was there in my mind. It's still there. Though never cared to do the reasearch. Please guide me.

Lastly, why I had such an out-of-box dream that didn’t leave my ‘can die for’ wish list ever since I was a kindergarten kid? Also, when other kids dreamt of very mundane things, why did I dream so radically different? Or that every kid thinks radically different things? I really don’t know. Please tell me is it so, that when you were a kid, you had a peculiar wish?

What kind of character I was/am? Can somebody explain? Pscycho?

What was your childhood dream? Did you achieve it? Does it still haunt you? Do you feel a sense of defeat for not achieving it?

Care to share?

thank you for the ride

2008-07-02T21:07:00.004+05:30

I love Delhi auto-rickshaw drivers.

If you are a tourist to delhi, don’t waste your hard-earned money and get duped by the cheat tour conductors. Rely on the auto-rickshaw drivers for a nice detour.

I was in the national capital on Sunday for some official work. Although, I am no lover of a place with rude people all around, I was not averse to a sight seeing.

But then, I had no money or time to indulge in luxury.

I had to go to this famous grey market Palika Bazaar from Connaught Place, where my guest house was.

The auto driver agreed promptly, lowered the meter and started for the journey of my life.

We went through alleyways and treaded the six lane roads. We almost hit a motorcyle and escaped getting banged by a speeding bus.

I saw the Parliament at my left, and after sometime, at my right side. I saw a gang of children playing with red heart-shaped balloons in front of the famous India Gate. I saw them again -- now fighting pitched battle for the few remaining balloons, with their parents trying hard to pacify them.

In short I saw everything twice, thrice wih my driver telling me which is what.

"This is the backside of Jantar Mantar," he said.

"This is the entrance of Jantar Mantar," he guided me after half-an hour.

After about two hours, I landed at Palika Bazaar. The auto rickshaw guy charged me only Rs350 which I gladly shelled out.

After having my bag full of pirated softwares and computer games, which, if bought legally would cost me a fortune (NOOOOO, I will not name them, in case you go complain and burn my arse), I waited near the bazaar gate to get an auto. I asked a localite where do I get auto to go to my address at Conought Place.

He replied, “Venchod, dikh nahi raha hein woh tower?” (***** can’t you see the tower there?)

And so I walked home. Thanking my auto-rickshaw guy for showing me Delhi at a throwaway price.

clash of the titans

2008-06-19T16:02:00.003+05:30

We were set to conquer the world. Conquering our opponent team was just the beginning. If you were there in Bengal, you could have sensed the air was heavy with the smell of sulfur. We all Mohan Bagan fans burst so many crackers that since then our poor earth has started behaving erratically. Everyday in the newspapers you might find some grey-haired environmentalist warning about the next impending ice age. You might think all this has been caused by the increasing fossil fuel burning, but no!!!! It’s all because of the prelude to that much anticipated ‘clash of the titans’ as newspapers wrote as a run up to the match of the century -- the great Mohan Bagan versus the ordinary East Bengal. And you guessed right. The air turned yellow and heavy. Good luck if England is chillier than ever even this year. That’s our contribution. But if Sudan or Somalia is facing drought, we don’t take responsibilities for that. That’s the handiwork of those louts who support East Bengal – but that’s another story.

It’s ten years now, but feels like yesterday. Since a week before the match, the vernacular dailies had no news in their pages except some kind of pre-match analysis of the game. There were full-page cartoons of the captains of the both sides. “Clash of the Titans” under this headline the two captains were facing each other with hatred in their eyes. With square jaws (Mohan Bagan’s was squarer) and red eyes (you know whose was redder), two captains were staring each other. The cartoons soon became the topic of the evening debate. We successfully identified 37 weak points of the East Bengal captain. His eyes were reflecting a hint of fear, his biceps were not as fully developed as ours, and he was a tad thinner and oh gosh!!! The horns on the Viking helmet that he was wearing … they were almost blunt and bent facing each other. Whereas, our captain’s helmet was like … ‘come here and leave your eyes’ types.

I cannot list all the thirty sevens here but enthusiasts can email me.

Yes, you guessed it right. There were a round of cracker bursting. The air turned mild yellow across Bengal.

We were excited because we had a new coach for the team. The great coach, who went to watch the soccer world cup in the United States, painstakingly researched the real reasons for the better performance and invented a new technique.

A keen observer that he is, he found out the winner, Brazil team’s goalkeeper, always keeps a water bottle (a lucky charm) just behind the left bar of the goal post. He discovered the goalkeeper always touches his forehead on the left bar first and then runs to the right bar, touches it and then jumps to touch the cross bar.

He also discovered that the lead Brazilian striker has gold in his teeth and the main defender always pulls his pant before hitting the field. Before every corner kick, the player (whoever he is) scratches his head. And oh yes, most of them have short hairs to cut through the air. Those who were finicky about the aero dynamics were entirely bald.

The entire match he was busy noting down the real reasons of the successful Brazilian team and came back to India with a world-conqueror smile.

He was also convinced that in a game like football, speed is the keyword. Skill comes second. Speed is everything.

He was quick in implementing his findings. All the players of our team parted ways with their fancy hair. Our goalkeeper learnt the art of saluting the goal posts. Our lead corner taker, who only parallels Beckham, soon started scratching his head and so on. The striker’s teeth were covered with gold.

Oh yes, our coach did not forget to bring a Brazilian water bottle with him which duly graced the left bar.

He also invented a new tactics. Indian football is Indian football because players don’t run much. These lazy players are content with kicking the ball whenever it comes near their feet. Kicking is their work but where it lands is not the their concern. But the inherent mechanism is such that the ball always will land up to the right person. Say, for example you passed (or miss-passed as you western snobs might think) the ball to the opponent team, the player concerned again will pass it to his opponent. It’s a nice show of brotherhood and game spirit. India never attacked anybody in its 3000 years of history. Footballers know that very well. They don’t attack each other even in the finals. They also feel ashamed if they accidentally score a goal. So most of our matches are goal less or decided over the penalty. In matches with foreign countries they are ready to absorb the shocks. They get to eat all the goals, they give none … narrow minded fellows.

But this time it was different. Our aggressive coach was hell-bent that he would uproot this practice of a peaceful coexistence and will turn the peace-loving grass grazers into fierce warriors. His tactics was simple. When the ball is with you, the whole team start attacking. The whole team, if need be the goalkeeper, should come up to the opponent’s box. And when the ball comes to our box, the whole team should spring into action to defend the motherland. He called it the Indian blitzkrieg. Thanks to him, many got to know about the famous Hitler tactics. We didn’t mind when our East Bengal rivals were also illuminated. After all, they always need illumination. We were quite happy to educate them, as we have always been in the lead role of educating our countrymen.

Our coach also learnt that pre-match war of words is as important as in-match skills. So he was quick in calling the opponent’s feared (as they claim) striker Omoleja as omelette. Their captain Baichung, who was hailed by the EB fans as the scorpion of the hill, as the ‘earthworm of the hill”. He called for the Nigerian ‘Cheema’ to have a ‘jeevan beema’ or life insurance.

So, the stage was set. And the crackers were getting costlier with the passing time. They were in short supply and you have to wait in queues to grab a box of chocolate bomb. The earth was getting threatened to get covered with green-maroon flags. Wherever there was a shortage of maroon, we were quick in painting the entire nearby clothes available after our team’s jersey colour.

Such was the hatred for the opponent’s orange-yellow jersey that kids refused to have orange or lemon icecreams. They just demanded that their icecreams be coloured either maroon or green or both. So the now famous ‘MohanBagan Icecream’ was conceptualised.

Eden Garden! The great stadium with a seating capacity of 1 lakh 30 thousand was over-pouring with supporters of the both teams. All the Mohan Bagan fans came in flocks to abuse the East Bengal fans that also came in equal numbers to get tormented and humiliated by us.

And the clash of the titans began!!!!!

Just as the referee blew his whistle, the ball was on to our side. Eleven players charged like a tsunami. There was absolute panic in the East Bengal box. Red-yellow jerseys were scattering here and there not understanding what to do.

Back in the gallery at the Mohan Bagan stand, the environment was electrifying. We were shouting beyond our capacity. We were teasing the poor East Bengal fans, who were dumbstruck by the sheer velocity of the attack, with friendly abuses which they deciphered as dirty slangs. Half of the people in our box were half naked as we pulled out our jersey and were rotating it above our head. Mexican waves rolled half of the stadium at out side. The world has never seen such aggressive attack in a football match ever.

But then, as one of our players, forgetting the aggressiveness that his great coach has taught, passed on the ball to a player of the opponent team as a sign of old camaraderie. And that bugger, without even considering returning the favour, going against the curtsy, hit the ball towards our empty goal post. The goalkeeper who was also assisting the attack ran like an arrow to defend his turf.

The East Bengal fans started hollering like a pack of dogs.

But then they did not see our full plan. At the same electric speed that our team attacked, they again came down to defend their box and the day was saved. The ball was again at the opponent’s box.

We again started hurling friendly abuses to the other team’s fans, sitting at an aisle apart, separated by a fence.

Again the opponent was baffled. But our team could not take advantage of the situation or may be they could not forget they are gentlemen. None of their shot came near the goal post, but ended up on the defender’s feet who was prompt in kicking it towards our box. With no art, no game spirit, just like a robot, he was taking the ball from our skilful strikers and passing it on to his hungry striker waiting at our box. Only because of that striker has a fluke luck of scoring goals somehow, our great goalkeeper could not leave his goal post to assist his lightening fast comrades. Bastard!

The wave of attacks and quickly regrouping happened for some more time.

Our group went up, came down, went up again, came down again, went up like a storm, came down like a wave, attacked again like Roman centurions… but could not come down this time.

They were tired. Out of breath. Panting like dogs. Just within the first ten minutes of the game.

And they never recovered.

Game and war have ethics. You are not a great warrior if you violate the ethics and win the war. East Bengal did precisely that. Taking advantage of our tired team, they just walked and scored their first goal. Nobody gave them a fight when they scored the second.

There was a pal of gloom among us. I was not in a position to speak. I had ruptured my vocal chord shouting for my team. Many were experiencing the same, for we were communicating in gestures. Our opponents, louts as they are, were creating sound pollution without even noticing that there might be some old people with heart ailment who could pop it if they continue to shout like this.

These uneducated lots were hurling dirty slangs at us. The same words that we uttered in a great game spirit, they were uttering those words with a tone that clearly was insulting.

We didn’t expect this from them when clearly both were Bengalis. But then, they have a different history. It is clear if Mohan Bagan plays against Brazil or any other country they will support Brazil or that country only because they are anti-Mohan. Traitors!

But we were not there to flout rules. With due respect to the spirit of the game, dumb, we were watching the match. Some were walking towards the gate even when the match was only fifteen minutes. All our body builders and our pride left us and the stadium.

But then the opportunity came again.

We always knew they have the worst kind of defence. They scored a self-goal out of utter complacency. The goalkeeper was playing with the ball when it slipped from his hand and hit the net.

That was a moral booster. We started shouting again. The words that they were using for us were duly returned with extra cheese smacked on them.

Our team also recovered a bit, or so we sensed. We started forecasting doom for the East Bengal team. Perhaps they also sensed so.

Only to stop us, expert fence climbers as they always are, they adopted the same technique as our tem and came at an electric speed. Climbed our fence, beat us and again at the same manner went on to their gallery. Before we could react, the police came in between. We always knew the police are on their side. We always have seen that.

With bleeding nose and injured pride we started singing for our team. But those bastards were again panting like dogs. Before long the omelette and the earthworm of the hill had score hatricks each.

May be these barbarians, remembering the game spirit, stopped scoring goals and instead started playing with our players. Passing ball through their shaking legs and hitting them with the ball to claim a throw and again to pass it through their shaking legs. It was devastation.

We came home battered and bruised. Our team had let us down. The saddest day of our lives.

And then it started. Yes, these East Bengal fans started bursting their crackers.

Now we knew why the crackers were so costly to get. Bloody hoarders!

Remember, what our first Prime Minister Nehru had to say about hoarders? They should be hanged from the first lamppost. Alas, since we lack leaders like him today, not a single East Bengal fan was hanged.

They went on bursting the crackers. Without giving a damn about the old people, patients in the hospital or school children preparing for the exams.

Their bloody noisy celebration went on for days … weeks. They didn’t stop until the air turned red-yellow, the colour of their jersey.

So now you know what is the real reason for the global warming. Since winter comes before summer, we take full responsibility for the chilling winter weather in England, but we won’t and don’t take responsibility for the Somalian drought. Period.

wake up!

2008-06-07T00:08:00.004+05:30

i am so fed up! all these arrogant bastards and bitches have stopped blogging. these proud arses think they are super busy and have no time to even write a few paragraphs (even one simple graph!).

i call and warn all my blog friends to resume writing. and as a note of admission they should comment on this blog saying that they have posted a new one in their erstwhile brilliant blogs. comeon friends, isn't it true that we became so close to each other because we had a passion for hitting each others' blog and pulling each others' leg. comeon .... are you really that busy????? if you are so, admit it here. if you don't admit, post!

please, please, please for God's sake ... shuv, kaushik, sayantani, scout, ace, fool on the hills, rubaru, nautilus ... please start blogging! as for me, i lift the moratorium

of course, i am not taking vincent's name here. he is the only one who kept the promise.

rest, i need a new post within five days. even a small sentence will do. but please start typing. i am tired of my life, i need to depend on you. please give me reason to live, to laugh, let's share each others' pain. let's celebrate together, just as we used to do earlier.

i just lifted the restriction on my blog. i had thought that some people i detest read my blog. i still believe they try to come here just to nitpick and screw my happiness later. for them my message is GO FUCK YOURSELVES!

but i am missing rip van's comments. and kaushik, the desi sahib has vowed not to hit my blog unless i open it for public. so be it.

i have one more reason. i thought i would be able to write stories here that i would share with my closest friends. i had this illusion that i am a factory of stories.

the mirage has disapperaed. i have realised ... i am not that talented. just an ordinary guy. from the core of my heart, i believe in simple living and high thinking.

yes ... i am a blogger!

my blogger friends, please revive. please make it a movement one more time.

a good news

2008-05-14T01:08:00.002+05:30

read this article in my co-writer cum editor's blog. it just now got selected for a spirituality issue of a magazine. congrats dear friend!
may you shine like a star! you are a star! i am proud of you!

****room

2008-05-07T23:33:00.001+05:30

God! What has happened to me? Six months of stay in Mumbai as a journalist and I cannot go to the bathroom anymore!

OK, before you dirty minds start thinking what clever yet nasty comment you will write, let me clarify quickly.

Almost everyday I have to go to this five star hotel or the other to attend press conferences (the names of the foods their sound like poetry). Once I did the mistake of asking a liftman where the ‘bathroom’ is. He gave me a surprised look and rectified my mistake, “you mean the washroom?”

“Yeah, indeed. I am sorry,” I had to apologise.

Now invariably when I have the urge to release some extra liquid out of my body, I go to the ‘washroom’.

My dear ‘bathroom’ is now dead in my life. Probably it will never come back again unless I go back to my home in Calcutta where ‘washroom’ is where the well is (to wash your feet and hands) and bathroom is where you actually do things …

But in Mumbai, there are only washrooms or the most illusive 'restroom' (heck! the first time I heard this word, I thought people go there and sleep). May be I have become civilised or the whole world has become brown sahibs. Only Mumbadevi knows!

Please allow me to stop here, washroom beckons …

the anchor

2008-05-04T17:09:00.001+05:30

When the rickshaw took the turn and the waving hands of the people so familiar disappeared, he felt a heart-wrenching pain.

For what he is going? Where is he heading to?

He could hear the murmur of the roots getting pulled out from the assuring piece of dirt that was its home for twenty-four years.

The familiar background, where he was born and grew up -- his friends, the dangling aerial roots of the banyan tree where he spent at least a thousand hours hanging and pretending to be a monkey with his gang, the pond where he learnt swimming -- everything was slowly moving out of the sight.

How he wished the rickshaw to have a jet engine, everything would have zoomed past and would look like a thin hazy string. But the rickshaw puller is not even at his normal speed. As if, he is also under the spell of this gloom.

The earth has a gravity and the particles in it have their own share of the force. They don't exercise their power, thank God! But whenever you pluck something out of the system, they do their best to undo the damage.

Now they were exerting their power to pull him back, he was determined not to listen to them. He had turned his face from them. He was searching intently for something in his handbag, but was not sure what the object might be.

Everybody was there at his home to see him off, in fact all his friends and the neighbours, except his sister and father. She had gone to the court where she is interning under a senior lawyer. Father left in the morning for the office. Rain, storm, earthquake, nothing can stop this man from going to the office at the right time.

But he was half expecting that she would be there for him to pack his bags. He thought his sister loves him. His believes were now a little shaken. Anyway, she is the most selfish woman he has ever seen. She even didn’t let him take his favourite books with him. They both had pooled their fund that they received time to time from the guests at the house, to buy some books, mainly of Satyajit Ray and Shibram Chakrabarty, their favourite authors. But she did not let him take those, citing that the property of the house should be left where they are. Selfish woman!

But he has to admit too that in his twenty-four years of life, he hasn’t come across many women.

He tried his best to forget everything. But it's like pouring a drop of lemon juice on the milk when you have gone to the extremes as raising a cow to get the milk. He could feel his blood pressure rising.

No he doesn't care about his family. Nobody is there for him. Nobody was there ever. Of course, mother will always be concerned. Moms are afterall moms! They are borne to worry about their children. She was crying all day long, careful not to show her tears to him. He was crying too. Sometimes taking extra care to show his tears to her. He doesn't want his mother to know he cares little. Which is not true also.

But the sister was missing in action. He tried his best to turn his attention to the now slowly fading football field. The bad roads made the rickshaw shake violently. He passed the sweetmeat shop that refused to grow in size. It still looks shady and uncouth compared with the other sprawling sweet shops where they serve wearing uniforms. You don’t get to see their kitchen from outside. But this shop is still what it was twenty years ago with an indication that it might remain the same twenty years from now.

But it still is the best sellers. You can challenge the presentation, but you cannot challenge the quality and test of the so familiar rosogolla.

When he was a kid, he used to come here with his grandpa. The shop has the same old bench at the same old place where he used to sit with his grandpa. He was always suspicious whether the giant cauldron where they make the famous tasty rosogolla were also in use at dark to cook pesky babies like him.

Whenever that man with a tanned, ghostly skin colour and huge protruding belly used to pass him, he would shrink to his grandpa. he was always afraid that this might be his turn now to turn into a giant rosogolla.

No matter how much he liked the sweets, he never could appreciate them at the site of these giant cauldron the man with a fat belly cooking them and the black noisy greasy fan moving lazily above the head. It was a massive conspiracy against the kids of the world.

His grandpa was a part of the cruel scheme, which was not a very nice thing. For whenever he used to urge his grandpa to leave the shop taking the sweets home instead of having them there, for he was afraid, the old man would smile, flashing his remaining three-four teeth.

“You think they would let me have these rosogollas at home. all these bloody son-of-bitches doctors and that daughter-of a bitch your grandma think I have diabetes. I know for sure, I am perfectly ok. Bear with me boy. Let me have one more gilebi. Would you like to have one more sondesh dear?”

Thus, his entire heart-felt plea would yield nothing.

He would continue to come with his grandpa for two years more before the old man one day lies down at his bed and would refuse to move from there. He would join the stars after about six months of soiling the bed several times a day.

He remembers now that the ailing old man was denied access to his grandchildren. He was told that grandpa had an itch, which, if once contacted, would live with the victim forever. And he would keep on scratching till he dies. He was scared.

But his sister, two years older and smarter than him, would still smuggle sweets to the old man. From the crack of the door he would see the old man sucking the gilebi like a lozenze, now that he had only his gums left. One day the man was discovered sleeping for more than twelve hours. Fleets of ants were there around and inside the mouth. They were after the half-finished gilebi that was lying in his mouth.

Of late, he was also assisting his sister in smuggling grandpas favourite sweetmeat.

The suspicion fell upon the poor sister. After getting two-three slaps she easily spelt out the other culprit’s name. Both of them were flagged quite mercilessly for going against the dictate. Obviously, everybody was crying at home. The reasons varied.

Now the sweet shop is gone behind their path. It is also bidding its loyal customer farewell, swaying with the rhythm of the rickshaw. He refused to buy sweets from other posh shops and always headed towards this one whenever a guest came home.

Father was there till last night, giving him worldly wisdom of how to avoid being cheated and fend for himself in an unknown world.

“Everyman has his own destiny to follow boy. Nobody should stay with his or her parents forever. Look at me, I could have been a big executive by now. But I decided to stay with my parents and never left my ancestral home. I am a clerk now. If you want to grow, you have to sacrifice the surety of your home,” he said before handing over the list of dos and don’ts. He could sense that his father, who grew old so quickly from an upright man in front of his very eyes, pretending to be busy, with brows tightly squeezed, lips pressed hard. As if he was trying to subdue some brute force within himself.

Mother, who cries while even watching a TV serial, was at her best. Sobbing while laughing at his joke. Crying while cooking, shaking while serving food.

He and his sister slept the past night with their mother just as they used to do when as kids. Hugging her tightly. She used to shoo them away when they were kids. She used to complain of breathlessness. But last night she was not complaining at all. She was moving her hands on his hair and sobbing silently. A word or two from him would bring the tears with force. He was careful not to speak. As usual, the long lost smell of a mother’s bosom, put the baby to a deep sleep. It was long after he woke up he realised that today was his last day at home. He was going to a far off unknown land, for search of a greener pasture. To make his future ‘secured’, an opportunity that his place of birth cannot offer.

The rickshaw took a turn to the right. Lo … his locality is no more their. It’s the familiar busy street of the town with lots of rickshaws, cycles, cars, trucks jostling for space in the narrow broken street. Chaos as usual.

Actually, he was also half-expecting his father to accompany him and see him off. But the man always encouraged his kids to be self-sufficient. Given his fierce love for independence, that he so successfully rubbed on to his daughter, he should not have come with him. That would be too much of asking.

But he was amazed to know that father would be coming from his office at the Howrah station to see him off. It’s more than saying I care. He just cannot expect more than that from the man. But he was feeling cheated nevertheless. He thought that he and his sister were best of friends. So many sleepless nights were spent discussing the heightened failure in their efforts to get a perfect love interest. It’s not that she doesn’t get proposal. It’s not that she is not interested either. It’s just that however she wants to get attention from the other sex, she always, always rejects any amorous advance from the opposite sex.

She might pine for the man to propose her, but she treats him like a dirt once he falls for the trap so meticulously netted by her. Of course, she is beautiful.

As for he is concerned, he also fell for the traps laid by other fairer sex and had his fair share of experience in being treated as a dirt. He hates those girls. But loves to see his sister’s eyes twinkling once she refuses an offer.

He got down at the local station. Now he has to catch the train to the Howrah junction, where another express train will take him to his new destination.

Damn! If she was here, she could have at least taken care of the luggage when he would stand at the queue for the ticket.

Just when he was thinking where to keep the suitcase while he stands in the queue with the handbag, a hand pulled the suitcase. It was his sister!

“So late? Mom was not letting you come or what?”

“You here?

“Yeah, for the last two hours, waiting for his highness to come. Meanwhile giving the passers by enough scope to lech at a beautiful girl.”

“But I thought you went for the court.”

“Bull! Why should I.”

“Then why did you leave so early?”

“Well, I went to Calcutta. See what I bought for you.”

She reaches for a big bag, full of books. “…you now have the entire collection of Satyajit. All the books of Feluda and oh yes, Kakababu. I know you cannot live without them. Here is the entire body of work by Shibram and here are those brilliant ghanadas. When you feel sad, become nostalgic and homesick, take refuse to your favourite authors. You know they have a healing effect.”

He couldn’t speak.

“Well, you must be wondering these books cost so much. Well, ever since I learnt that you have got the job and they will post you somewhere far from Calcutta, I was saving my stipend and cutting down my useless luxuries like foolish lipsticks and shoes and sarees. You see, I can live without them perfectly well.”

He was again speechless. He suspected he was going to cry. The lines on his face were softening. His didi suspected the same.

“No, don’t Piklu. Don’t my dear brother. You see, if you cry, I cannot control my tears too. You see, that would be embarrassing. You see, that foolish boy is still after me. I refused his proposal three times, still. He is standing like an idiot these two hours, jobless. Never daring to come and tell me his feelings for the last time. You see, I don’t want to cry in front of that stupid boy. If he comes to console me, I don’t know, I might hug him and confess my love.”

“Now that you are going Piklu, I need a friend. You see, that stupid boy can be a perfect friend. He is a stupid, foolish boy with a heart of a gold, Piklu. I suspect he is as simple as you to whom I can wield my sword as I wish. Don’t cry Piklu, don’t embarrass me.”

“Don’t worry Piklu, mom and dad will be fine. I will take good care of them. Don’t worry about mom, she will cry for someday and then eventually will come in terms with it. Anyway, you will be coming home at a six months interval, won’t you? Don’t worry Piklu, everything will be fine. You take care of yourself. Here’s your ticket to Howrah. I am not coming with you. I don’t have the strength to see you go.”

“Oh yes, if you earn enough, buy me a scooter, won’t you? I am tired of riding a cycle and foolish boys chasing me on a cycle too. I need somebody who can chase me on a posh motorcycle at least, if not a car. You see, that’s what we call growing up. I know you will be a great man one day Piklu. Make me proud.”

“And don’t forget me,” she smiled and sped her way on her cycle before giving Piklu any chance to speak.

Piklu, looking like a fool, couldn’t control the tears. He stood their motionless risking missing the train.

Amidst the stream of uncontrollable tears and subdued sobs, he could just utter a few words.

“I am sorry didi.”

Co-passenger

2008-04-08T02:09:00.004+05:30

Mr Sarkar couldn’t thank the angels more!

It’s a two-and-a-half day journey. The train just started six hours back and Sarkar was cursing himself for choosing this mode of transport. He started counting the hours left. Thirty six minus six is thirty hours! He turned pessimistic.

But his crack management training had taught him to be strong and not to resign even at the face of hardest adversity. He had to find out a ray of hope anyhow. he calculated the time he would spend sleeping. At home he sleeps for eight hours a day. So for two days it would be sixteen hours. Voila! fourteen hours left. Now, if he stretches himself a bit more, he would sleep for four more hours. ten hours left.

Ten bloody HOURS!!! And does he really expect to sleep in this non-AC sleeper class compartment? With all kinds of sounds spilling from all over the place?? He hardly can put his eyelids together and forget his misery. The train sounds so much.

He again turned gloomy.

He didn’t want to come by train. He never boarded a train in his last ten years of life. Earlier, when he was a junior level executive, and the company used to give him tickets for train, he always used to come in the AC compartment. Where the sound is less and the pople carry the halmark of a certain standard.

But thanks to this nation-wide airport stir for three days and the eleventh-hour news that he had to attend an important hearing at Calcutta three days from now, he had to take the train. Sadly, all the AC compartments were booked. If he had to come, he had to take this sleeper class. Damn!

But this can be tolerated to some extent if he had a ‘standard’ person here with him. No, none are worth having a quick intelligent chat. These are mostly clerks or small time traders who travel by this sleeper compartments. Since the train is from Bangalore, half of the travellers are students from West Bengal or Orissa, returning home.

Being the CEO of “hi-tech” he cannot afford to chat with them. He hates Indians. If by any chance they get to know his identity, the first thing they will do will be to ask for a job for their sons, cousins or nephews. Give them an inch and they will … Bloody damn race of a bloody damn country.

He likes to spend his summer vacations in Europe. Such a beautiful country. Such beautiful people. Shit! His bloody damn skin. It’s a bit on the darker side. Bloody damn Indian blood.

Why? Why on earth he had to take birth to bloody damn Indian parents? Sometimes he ask this question to God. Of course He doesn’t exist, or if he really existed, must be envious of His creation. He still has to float in His ancient chariot and is bound by the earth’s atmosphere. Man travels by rocket and lands in moon.

He got a few brownie points with his European potential clients when he cracked this joke at a party.

Of course, that was a business requirement. To secure a business, anything is fair. He apologised for this joke going at a temple. He told his mother at Calcutta to arrange for a special puja. His sins, if at all, were cleared within a day.

Mr Sarkar was thanking the Gods now for finally listening to his unuttered plea. The man in the font seat, with a blazer and a beige tie looks like a top executive. Of course, it might not be possible for this man to be a CEO like him. But a man doesn’t wear a tie if nothing is in his head.

Looking at the ways of the man, Mr Sarkar rightly presumed he was also facing similar dilemma as him. For the man was looking impatiently at the windows and was sighing. Mr Sarkar waited for half an hour. He rightly guessed that both were thinking who will start the conversation. As both were exchanging a thousand words by their actions and were not hiding their mutual impatience as to get caught in this jam.

Being a free and frank man, Mr Sarkar decided to start the conversation.

“Airport stir eh?”

“Yes, yes. Indeed. It’s such a pain.”

“I am Abhishek Sarkar, CEO of a small software development company. Although our Bangalore office is the headquarter, our R&D is in the Silicon Valley. London is our marketing hub. Our Germany and Paris offices are not big though. But yaa, Mexico is picking up. We plan to list our company on the NYSE and LSE next month, what about you?” Mr Sarkar brought out a card from the pocket of his rucksack that he bought in Austria last summer.

“I am a farmer by profession. I have five tea gardens in Assam. I had a small refinery too, before it got bought over by Shell some five years ago. Hard business, they gave me a handsome amount, smartly exited. Dibyangshu Roy here.” Mr. Roy also gave him his card from his coat pocket.

As is the custom, you should not inspect the card in the presence of the person concerned, unless of course, you want to know the name. Mr. Sarkar kept the card in his wallet.

“What’s the name of the company you said Mr Roy?”

“It’s ConAgra Tea Estate,”

“I know one ConAgra … it’s a food giant in US.”

“Yes, we are their India distributor, we handle the tea-side. My own tea garden … the brand is theirs. You know how things work in these big companies,” Mr Roy said rubbing the dial of his watch. A Pierre Cardin masterpiece.

Yes, YES!!! This is the kind of man he likes to interact with. God! May be whatever happens, happens for a reason. He was really thankful now to the angels for forcing him come on this sleeper compartment.

They had a wonderful time after that till the time for lunch came. Mr Sarkar is sure that however his skin may be coloured by the nature the wrong way, but he is a true European by nature. He has taken every step to ensure he remains as European as his friend Martin Smith is in England. The hardest part was to keep a stiff upper lip and say words in a hush hush manner. He really likes how Smith argues in a perfectly normal tone. Europeans never raise their voice and he has finally mastered that. He was proud of his English bed-time and table manners.

But two things of the Europeans he never could approve was their using toilet papers and eating breads for lunch.

He needs at least five litres of water to wash himself properly and he needs rice for lunch and dinner. Without having rice, he could never imagine he had eaten anything at all.

But of course, some things are climate specific. When the British conquered India, they couldn’t retain their English signature as it was. They were hooked to afternoon siesta. So it’s no issue if he is exception to these two rules.

So when the lunch time came, he had to, had to order rice for himself. But he was hesitant of what his co-passenger might think. Mr Roy turned out to be a bird of the same feather.

Without even Mr Sarkar could say anything, Mr Roy brought out a Tiffin box from his suitcase.

Not to worry, he also couldn’t do without rice.

Angels can’t be better than this.

Mr Roy neatly divided the food in two different plates. Apparently, it is a custom in his family to carry some extra food and an extra plate, in case he had to entertain a guest like what he was doing now.

Both had a bellyfull. The food was out of this world. The biriyani was just as he had that day at a five star hotel.

He was content. He was happy. The food was so good that after a long long time he wanted to sleep in the afternoon. He was very happy. His eyelids were getting heavier. Ah! This is paradise on earth. He thought of cracking a joke.

“You know what Mr Roy? This is paradise on wheels.”

And both were laughing heartily. For a moment he let his English sensibilities go and was laughing like all the bloody Indians do.

Soon he was dreaming about his girlfriend whom he is going to marry once he gets rid of his menacing wife.

When he woke up it was six in the morning. Wow! He slept for bloody SIXTEEN HOURS!!! If he can continue this performance, he don’t need to worry about when he reaches home! he will just open his eyes after a round and lo! Howrah station!

He stopped a tea-wallah passing through the alleyway.

He took the chai, it feels so nice to sip something hot after a good night’s sleep!

While reaching for his wallet in the back pocket, he realised he must have kept that in his bag. Keeping the tea at the berth, he came down to get his bag.

It was nowhere to be found.

When he enquired about it, he got to know that the bag was taken by its owner who got down at a station last night itself.

“What do you mean the owner? It was my bag. Who was the owner otherwise?”

The man in the next seat looked at him, astonished! If Mr Sarkar remembers properly he wanted to lock his bag because this man was sharing the same cubicle with him.

He would have done that at night, but before that he went to sleep.

“Why, your friend. With whom you had lunch yesterday. I was thinking whether to wake you up when this gentleman was leaving with the bag. I sort of challenged him, he said that the bag was his. he said his name was Abhishek Sarkar, he also gave me his card. See,” the man forwarded a card to Mr Sarkar.

That’s his own card. His last possession left.

“Bloody that’s my card!!! That was my bag. I am Abhishek Sarkar”

Then a light bulb flashed in his head. That man has given him his card.

Dibyangshu Roy.
Chairman and Managing Director
Con-Agra Network
Agra, Uttar Pradesh

At the back of the card, it was written in bold letters, “SLEEPWELL”

Mr Sarkar rightly presumed he was cheated by this con man.

May be because he just had woken up, or may be because a long sleep had made his brain dizzy, he was in no position in remembering his English sensibilities and forgetting that in the same compartment, there were a lot of girls and elderly people, he started shouting rather in a typical bloody Indian manner.

“Madarchod, Motherfucker, Venchod, Suoerer Baccha, Khankir Chele, Son of a bitch, brother of a whore, fuck you bastard, up on your ass you asshole,” he was reported to have shouted for at least half an hour.

A witness was later found to have told the police that those were the choicest slangs that a man, even from a slum, could ever hear of.

But then, this was a sleeper class full of bloody Indians.

Dedicated to Kaushik Som who, after his long six months of stay in US, is finding bloody India a bloody shitty place with bloody people all around.

got this gem of a mail from my friend jennifer in bangalore (of course my bangalore friends won't let anyone know this)

2008-04-08T00:10:00.005+05:30

Hey Anup,

Purwa went off on a holiday and so has no idea of the impact she has created. the mail from Martin Howell, the editor for RAM equities said it was the biggest scoop from Bangalore. I guess she will get her kudos once she gets back.

the weekend was rather hilarious. am wondering if this is a common occurence? i went to get my haircut done and was trying out this place called Cheveux near KFC. now this is a unisex parlour. first there was this guy who was getting his hair cut and his girlfriend was hovering around the poor hair stylist and generally being quite positive. the boyfriend said he wanted his hair to have a bounce, (was he planning to appear in a dandruff shampoo ad?) and wanted to get up out of bed and without much fuss, be able to go out. after his girlfriend oohhd and aaahd, he promptly decided the hair dresser was fantastic and took his name down so he can fix the next appointment with the same hairstylist.

the second guy was even more entertaining. he comes in takes a seat and then hands his phone to the parlour lady. the lady on the phone is giving out precise instructions for the haircut for her man, including what kind of scissors to use.. the parlour lady was rather cool and having an animated discussion to find out what exactly the lady wanted - she wanted some George Clooney type effect. the parlour lady replied a bit puzzedly that Clooney does not have that kind of hair cut, the lady on the phone had to clarify that it was some Clooney haircut from years ago (perhaps when she had some crush on him?). anyway, after the discussion ends, the guy simply asked, "did you get all that?" the parlour lady then effortlessly dissed the lady on the phone's idea on various grounds and suggested they go for halfway to which the guy simply nodded. All this for a guy who had perhaps two inches of hair.

so now my question to you? Is this a common occurence? The people in the parlour did not seem to be surprised or taken aback by any of this behaviour.

Anyways, hope you are not feeling too pressurized. i think it really makes a difference to the kind of people you work with and in some sense, blessed to work in a bureau where people are quite low key. when you work in an office where the very air seems to be filled with hammers, even small non-issues become long drawn out affairs.

as for forgetting friends, its only natural. one of my favourite phases - friends for a reason, friends for a season, friends for a lifetime - these are the three kinds of friends. there's nothing wrong with being any of them. all of them have a purpose and a place in everyone's life.

more later,

jen

freedom

2008-04-04T01:09:00.004+05:30

He watched the little house-sparrow as it hopelessly continued crashing against the glass.

The little life could see the whole world outside, it could see its clan but could not reach out to them. As if an invisible monster is putting its hand on the way just for fun.

Panicked, the bird was fluttering its wings against the glass, as if to break it. But it's too strong against the little creature. Monsters are always strong.

He joined this organisation about a year back. It was a double promotion with a 100 per cent hike. The offer was too lucrative for him to ignore and he was confident about his ability.

Life in his last organisation was painful. He never could adjust with his boss. His boss, who was as if straight from a pig farm, used to abuse him everyday, every moment. Belittling him in front of others were a routine affair. And that fellow had lungs. People three floors down could hear what was being dished out to the subordinates. It was embarrassing thereafter to share the lift.
The new office is smooth. Bosses hardly call him. It's all communicated through emails. Here you only here whispers. Perfect civilised culture.

When he left his last office many things doubled. His post, salary, responsibilities, prestige. Abuse was a thing of past now. The work hours are now saner. No one forces him to stay till midnight. You can leave when the clock strikes five. Only thing is that you have to meet the deadline.

Absurd deadlines.

Since he joined the office, he doesn't remember a single day he didn't come to home past midnight. No one forces him to stay, yet he is too scared to leave. If he doesn't meet the deadline, his job will go. And he is not going to get a better paying job with the same designation.
Everyday his right to existence is questioned ... by no one, but by himself.

The bird was now losing its strength. It is fluttering its wings less now. Its more resigned kind of attitude. Perhaps it is waiting for the inevitable. And like all inevitable, it doesn't know what it is.
He sat on the chair. The door is shut, the window is the only escape route, so the bird thinks, but he sees it as closed through the glass. Who knows where from the bird came ... ah ... that hole in the wall. It just slipped in. But now it is not getting the hole back. Or may be It has forgotten about the hole. Just to ensure the bird doesn't escape through that route, he plugs the hole with a newspaper. The bird flutters again. May be thinking the giant has arrived finally to claim its life.

He sinks into his chair once again. He lites a cigarette. Soon the room will be filled with smoke. The bird will panic more. Or, will it get drugged? He will wait and watch.
His boss sent the whole office a congratulatory message heaping praise about him. It was a perfect polished English. Every word was chosen, fullstops, commas, parenthesis were carefully weighed and executed. It was a sharp sharp business mail. It was copied to the entire office.
Everybody was congratulating him for landing a major project for the company working day and night.

He had to deliver an impromptu speech. He started with thanking his team. The members of his team roared in appreciation. He praised the company, the work culture and of course he promised more such projects to come. There was a never ending round of clapping. The whole world was excited. Still, he was feeling uneasy, he didn't know why.

When he was on his way to the cafeteria, he heard some floating conversation. The participants stopped and greeted him with a smile that only tie-doning executives can flash. It's always like the email. They were cursing him in the filthiest of language. He wondered why.
He didn't expected this quick an action. His entire team got a fat bonus. And the target for the month was almost double. There was a note faintly indicating the next month's bonus will also be double if the deadline is met. Of course, the 'if' was just for the sake of language. Just to erase the green line appearing in Microsoft Word when you write a wrong or fractional sentence.

He was quick in distributing the responsibilities. There was no time to relax. There was no past achievement. There is no time to relax. If this project is not met ... the company is going to sink – something this sort he wrote. It's always sort of similar tone. Every time they meet the deadline to keep the company floating. Yet, the next time a bigger project comes and his top bosses forecast a doom if the project is not done. The company is only stable in the intermediate period when the work for the project is going on.

Next day two resignation letters came. Again two the following day. These are all junior level executives. They all have 1-4 years of experience. They hop job at will. And you cannot stop them. He doubled the salary of his existing staff. There were cheers. Many of team came to his cabin and thanked him.

Today, two more resignations came.

The deadline is only five more day to come.

He didn't had a proper sleep for may be eight months. He was feeling tired. He was looking at the bird and puffing his cigarette. The bird has given up. It is not moving now. It is sitting idle at the corner. It was intently looking at the open sky. A whole wave of sparrows are dancing in the wind. It's autumn. Although there is not much of trees here and nature is of course a distant possibility, but there's romance everywhere. It's there mating season.

Do birds feel sad?

He sank into his rocking chair bit more. It's a nice one. He bought it from the US when he was there for a week-long business trip. He looked at his wrist watch. A nice Swiss one. His first watch was a local one. His father gave him during his class ten board exams. It was a proud possession for him. He used to sleep wearing the watch, he used to rub it everyday with a fresh linen. There was not a single scratch on the glass. Whenever he used to sweat, he used to spend at least half-an-hour time cleaning its chain. It was a prized possession. His sister never dared to touch it, she was not allowed to touch the gem in his collection. It was a state-run cheap watch company. Made for masses. And it was still working after fifteen years of its life.

But he is not sure where it is now. When changing his flat this time, he gave it to a packer. He gleefully took it with him and thanked the generous Sir a thousand time. The watch was the last link to his old poverty-stricken life that he has left many many miles away. Never to return.
The watch that he is wearing now costs some five thousand dollars. It was given to him by his European bosses for landing a big project for the company.

He handles it very carefully. It's heavy. It's no fun wearing, but, it was given by his bosses.
Oh shit! It's 10.30 already. That means he was sitting and watching the bird for three hours now. God! Three hours wasted from the five days of deadline!

“Hey birdie, would you talk to me?”
“free me”
“who am i to free you?”
“i cannot lift the window glass, do it for me and i should be free”
“what if i want to keep you here in this room? Forever? And i would be giving you good food. And everything you want. Accept my proposal. It's better than freedom isn't it? anyway all you do the whole day is to search for food only”
“but why do you want to keep me in bondage?”
“that's the question. That's precisely what the question is. Why?
“why?”
“i don't know.”
“free me”
“no. No way. You have entered my den. And i don't free anyone. live with me or just perish.”

He started laughing like a maniac. As if the same invisible monster that was blocking the bird's way was shaking him now violently. His tone was changing. It was almost like a hissing sound, the waves of laughter was choking his breath. Just as a snake hypnotises its victim before injecting its sweet venom, he was fixed on the now tired birdie.
The sparrow again started fluttering and crashing against the invisible monster.

excellent!

2008-03-08T01:48:00.000+05:30

Someone asked for my blog link today. I coolly told him if I knew how to write I won’t be wasting my time in journalism.

The real reason was of course different. It’s an inferiority complex. My English is the worst one I have ever read or heard. I think in my mother tongue and then literally translate it.

And the friend who guessed I had a blog (cause in office I am always digging someone’s), is a master in English. He speaks and writes ‘perfect’ English. I didn’t want to show him how misfit I am to work for an English publication.

You all know by now how atrocious my grammar is, and I am not ashamed of it to you. My blog readers are my closest friends too! But why invite others for a free rebuke?

It’s not that I don’t know where the language is wrong. But I am too lazy to correct it. Even in my school days I never used to read the exam paper I have written and used to hurry away entrusting the examiner with all the crap. If I would have checked what was there in the paper, I would have at least, at least scored 5 marks more in each paper. But why should I check what I have written once? Honestly, very rarely I read my own posts. About 70% of my posts I never read after I have written and hurriedly posted. Rest 30% … may be I have read them once … not more than that.

My editor (not the newspaper one) insists that I should edit my copies and re-edit it once I finish writing. It would make my stories sharp.

My answer to him: Balls. What are you for?

So I would continue posting without giving a second reading to what I have written. It’s your duty to read and edit in the process. I would like to think writing wrong English is ‘my style’.

Ok… poor defence.

The fact remains that I don’t know English.

I know you would forgive me for that. But I won’t take the risk with a fluent English-speaking chap in my cold office. My boss is there to abuse me everyday, I don’t want bystanders to join the party.

homecoming

2008-02-12T22:54:00.001+05:30

Life was going on. He was feeling like he was dragging it unnecessarily. He thought of ending his life once or twice but stopped thinking that no one will cry if he dies.

What’s the use of dying if it doesn’t impact anyone?

It was kinda cold. Actually chilling if one considers the city’ weather. There are three seasons in this city. Warm, warmer and warmest. People realises it’s winter when they turn their calendars to December. Moms bring out sweaters for their kids. Mufflers for the dads.

They sweat wearing that. Yet, it’s winter and woollen clothes are a must.

Winter is over when the calendar page is flipped to February. Warmer season starts.

Nothing happens in this crazy hectic city. Everything is, as if, pre-planned. People, without knowing why, run like crazy animals. They know for sure there’s a train just after two minutes and the probability is that it will be less crowded. But they will pack the train like a school of fish. Packed-like sardines compartments screech in pain and reluctantly carry a bellyful of disgraced people.

Nothing happens in the city except this mad crazy rush, for no reason or rhyme.

And he gets sick everytime he thinks that he has to spend a substantial portion of his life here. It not only impacts him mentally but gets feverish sometimes. This city’s weather doesn’t suit him at all.

Yet, strangely. Yes, strangely. He always wanted to come to this city. He always wanted to embrace this life. It’s like Sauron’s Mordor. You need to be strong willed to resist the lure of this city. And our boy is the weakest willed person known to this world.

Doctor told him to wrap a muffler around his neck, cause this cold might aggravate into a bad cough and might transform into pneumonia. So bought himself a new muffler. A blue-red semi-woollen thick muffler of a reputed textile company.

It’s strange weather. He was sweating profusely but then when he was taking it off he could feel the cold creeping in like a snake. It was disgusting!

Ah pneumonia! What a nice experience it would be!

While coming home, in the train, he stood near the door. The fresh, sort of chilling winter air was gushing in. His hands were getting hard. Lips were dry like a leaf. He had put the muffler long time back in his bag. Now he unbuttoned his shirt. He thought people were thinking he was crazy. But that’s OK. He told everyone … you don’t know the grand scheme! He hollered his message to everyone. No one took notice. He was hollering on his mind.

Wow!!! He never knew the fresh air can be so rejuvenating. He never knew taking risk intentionally could be so life-giving.

His room mate was quite surprised to see him. “Hey, did you fight with someone on your way? Shirt unbuttoned … hair so spiky? What happened?”

“Yes, it was a mighty battle.”
“Whom did you fight with? What did he do to you?”
“He was trying his best to stop me, but I was at my best! He didn’t have a chance”

“But who was he.”
“Myself”

“What? What do you mean? Explain.”
“Get lost bloody. I won’t explain anything to anyone. Get lost.”

He left his roommate bedazzled. He slipped in his room and started laughing loudly on his mind. His roommate could not hear the mockery.

He did this for two days more. On the third day, he could not move from his bed. He was having problem breathing.

“Bad case of pneumonia. Can you take care of him?” the doctor asked the roommate.
“Yes, I can. I mean I have an office to go. But I can take leave,” said the simple roommate.

But he didn’t want to disturb his simple friend. He took his mobile.

“Sir, I am suffering from pneumonia, I can’t move. Can I go to my native? Doctor says I need rest. Please talk to the doctor.”

The boss was concerned, the doctor’s last words were ringing in his ear, “ … he might die if proper care is not taken. At least it will affect the brain.”

The boss hung up. He rang his boss.

“Anyway, he can’t come to the office right? Let him go. Who cares. Don’t involve the office in it. We are running on a tight budget. Can’t take the burden of his treatment.”

His boss rang him up. “I am very sorry to hear that boy. Of course we are concerned. Go to your native. Book the flight now. Hurry. And take care and return when you are fully fit.”

“Thank you sir,” he laughed his trademark one.

Ah!!! His place on earth. Home!!!

“God!!! How you managed to get to such a state? My God! Son, what have you done,” his mother was sobbing.

“If you cry like this now what you will do when I am no more. If you want to see me alive, start doing what you are best at. Put your hands on my forehead. Let me sleep. I am tired.”

And he was fast asleep soon.

God!!!

2008-02-11T18:18:00.000+05:30

if aamir khan's "tare zameen par" doesn't get the oscar for 'best foreign film' this year, i will lose my faith on the oscar committee.

aamir, i always wondered who is better, you or tom hanks. after watching forrest gump, i was convinced that hanks was better.

but "tare zameen par" again confused me.

i am so proud you are an Indian!

now you know who is your biggest fan.

you are the BEST. aamir, you are God!

THE AAMIR KHAN!!!

Q

2008-02-05T00:24:00.000+05:30

i went to dakshineswar yesterday.

the last time i went there five years back, priyanka was with me. i was unemployed, a happy-go-lucky student. she was also a student, but very worried about her future.

i had a nice wallet, she had a nice purse. both were empty.

we were happy. we were in love.

i don't know if priyanka goes to dakshineswar or not. but, i never did. yesterday mom and dad pestered me to come with them to this famous kaali-temple. i was recovering from pox. and was bored to death staying at home for the last 10 days. i decided to come along with them. dad was driving the car. it's long since i didn't go with him anywhere.

i went to dakshineswar there half-heartedly.

and i was a 23-year old again.

dakshineswar is full of priyanka's fragrance! it was like a time capsule. en route, i crossed uttarpara. my first kiss! right there at the embankment!

shit, i shouldn't have come. all these years i avoided this route.

why didn't i come this way all these years? was i afraid of facing the truth? i was. let it not get published on a public forum. besides, it's of no use.

bengal is a strange place. bongs are a strange race. here people smile when they are poor. they frown when they have money.

it's a strange race. genetically engineered to remain poor all their lives.

i bet, they want to remain poor too. for us bongs, art of living is more important than posh living. you can turn even a scoundrel bong into an artist of his liking, i don't know why, but i have always believed so.

dakshineswar is like a time capsule. traditional india is fast fading. it comes to its true self only in its temples and religious places.

but was i missing priyanka? does she miss me? no, should not be. she has a boyfriend. a nice chap. i am happy for her.

but i really didn't go after any girl after her. i flirt with everyone. loved ... ummm ... may be, none.

she was a weird girl. weird girls always attract me. i found another priyanka in bangalore.
they say when you love someone truely, the other party also has to reciprocate. this girl didn't.
did i love her? must be no. it's very hard to cheat a woman in matters of love. they can see through. i must not have been serious.

besides, priyanka, when we parted, said, "no girl, in her sane mind, can ever love you."
priyanka learnt that after courting me for two years. this girl knew it from the very first go. it's hard to escape a girl's eyes. hmmm ...

we stood on a queue to see the idol. it was a long, serpentile Q.

but there's a shortcut way to see the idol and a sureshot fastrack way to interact with the supreme lady (for vincent: bengal is different than rest of india. others worship mostly Gods, we worship goddesses). i won't write the shortcut here, there's a serious breach. that would be sacrilege. but why i mentioned it here is because P showed it to me first.

and when in that secret corridor, i was interacting with Her, i found someone puling my elbow, just in that old fashioned way. P?

nope, illusion.

my parents and aunt was there in that line. i went back to join them. i always like the ambience of dakshineswar and this is the only Q which i actually enjoy standing.

"what happened? your eyes moist?" asked mom.
"must be the fever. i still didn't recover."
"yaa, you are looking sick."
"yes, i am."

i cried after ... after ... after ... i don't know. i genuinely cried ... may be after 20 years?

Adventures of Piklu – Christmas gift (part II)

2007-12-31T21:02:00.000+05:30

(continued ...)

Piklu woke up as usual -- to the sound of his didi crying. Piklu’s sister wakes up in the morning and without any reason starts crying. Generally she cools down only after a half-an-hour of crying. But if in between father comes and begs his favourite child to forgive the world for its folly, she pitches up the sound. He has to tell all sorts of false things to her to really make her stop whining.

There is one more alternative. Mother comes and gives her a tight slap. She cries for a minute or two more and stops. But between the beating and her stopping, Piklu wakes up.

Today was no exception. She had just received a slap and was in the process of falling silent. Piklu always wakes up when she is at her best, but doesn’t leave the bed until she slows down, which means the day has started.

So they both woke up and went for the tooth brush. Both had forgotten that only last night they had made some wishes.

Piklu was the first to remember, “Didi, where do you think my gun is?”

“Which gun?”

“That Santa brought last night.”

Tuli was sitting quietly in front of the tap. It’s winter and the early morning sunrays were very comfortable on the shoulder. She sprang up hearing Piklu’s words. She started running towards their bed.

“Wait for me, didi wait for me. Don’t leave me alone …”

Piklu was also chasing didi by this time. Both were back to their usual form.

By that time mother was putting on a new bed sheet.

“Where’s our socks?” didi demanded.

Mother pointed out to the floor.

“And where are the gifts that Santa brought?”

“What gifts? Are you day dreaming?”

Didi knows her mother doesn’t like her. So she gave the task to Piklu. Piklu embraced her mother and enquired, “Where’s the gun that Santa gave me maa?”

“What gun? I have no clue.”

“You must be sleeping when Santa came in. He came last night when everyone was sleeping. We know for sure.”

“You mean someone entered our house when we were sleeping? Oh my God! Did you see him? Was he with a gun??? My God! How he looked like?”

She ran to the other room to inform father about the stranger the kids saw. After some hollering about the man-in-charge’s inability to protect the family she cooled down. Father was explaining something to her.

She came back sober. She was again concentrating on her work. Her eyes met with anxious Piklu’s.

“No one came last night. Those are all in fables. Go, wash your teeth.”

“Nooooooo it can’t be. John always gets gifts from Santa. I know Santa had come.”

“Well, then, go and ask from John how he gets that.”

Didi was sure mother was just playing a trick. She knows where the gifts are, she is just playing with them. God knows why adults play with kids.

Didi winked and Piklu again embraced mother, “Please please tell me …”

“I said No! No gifts from Santa. Don’t disturb me. It’s already too late.”

The kids gave up after two hours of investigation. Except for the high racks where they cannot reach, they left no stone unturned. And was finally convinced, Santa gave them a miss.

So John really didn’t give him the right formula. Such a betrayal!!! It was time for Piklu to cry. And he sobbed a lot.

Evening there was a party at John’s. Christmas party. Time for that fat pig to show off. “See my motorcycle … see my gun … whoaw! That plane … all by santa!”

Piklu was determined to break his nose today.

The first thing he did after arriving at John’s place was to drag him near the bathroom and demanding an explanation. Wasn’t it a deal?

John pledged to be truthful. And something in his words made Piklu convinced too. So what went wrong? They were both in deep thoughts. Both had forgotten the wild party going on with confetti and chocolates and red and yellow sweet drinks doing the round. Both were sad and Piklu was happy because John was sad.

“I know why you didn’t get the gifts,” John sounded serious.

“Why?”

“Because you are not a Christian. Santa only gives toys to Christian babies.”

“Oh. What do I do to become a Christian?”

“Put Jesus’ photo on your house and go to the church every Sunday and be silent when people pray. Ask your father, he would be knowing better.”

“So does that mean next year I will get gifts?”

“Absolutely! Kill me if you don’t get one”

They had a huge fun after that. John for a change let Piklu use santa-gifted gun and declared in front of others that Piklu is his best friend!

At about nine their father came to take them home.

“I want to be a Christian baba,” Piklu declared.

“Me too. Make us Christians,” didi expressed her view.

“What!!! Who told you all these things?”

“Santa always gives toys to Christian babies. Let’s go to the market and buy a Jesus’ photo. Come,” Piklu was dragging his father towards the market.

“Oh no. Wait! It’s a terrible misinformation. I can buy you toys! Why do you need a Santa.”

“You will buy us toys? Hah,” didi did not trust father. “You don’t love us anymore. You didn’t buy me even a rubber when my old one became black. You were not like this before. You never beat me. That is maa who is always after my life. You also beat me that day, remember! You don’t love me anymore. It’s only Santa who can give us toys.”

“Yes yes! Let’s buy a Jesus’ photo,” Piklu was still dragging his father.

“Wait wait. What have you asked from Santa? Let me have the list. I know in which tea-stall Santa sits and sip tea all day long. Give me the list. I will catch him now.”

“Can we go too?” Piklu enquired. He has forgotten to write about a flute on the list. He will personally tell Santa.

“No. you kids stay back. He doesn’t give gifts to kids who go and meet him. He doesn’t like that”

“Oh”

They ran to their bedroom and found the list. Both their parents were having a conversation. Mother was very angry for some reason. She gave a burning look to didi when she was going to give the list to father. “Listen you devil’s child …”

“Oh … no please, leave them aside…”

“But … don’t you …”

“I will manage. Don’t worry.”

“I know you won’t be able to manage. Take this. … HEY YOU LITTLE BASTARDS … GET LOST FROM HERE.”

The kids promptly ran to their bed and opened their books. Suddenly they were the most studious kids the world has ever seen. They were convinced; their neighbors love them more than their mother does.

Father came back after an hour with a small bag and a gun in his hand. Yes, the same one Piklu wished for.

“Did Santa give it to you?”

“Of course. And he apologized for not being able to make it last night. He was scared of the dogs.”

“Oh, poor Santa. How he will make it next year,” didi was concerned.

“Don’t worry. Next year he will manage to come, he said. He will put on an invisible cloak and come. He said. And he said he loves all the kids in the world and you don’t need to be a Christian. Actually there’s nothing like a Christian or a Hindu or a Muslim. We all are humans and he loves all the kids, he said.”

“Oh … ok.”

But Piklu by that time was at a pitched battle with his invisible adversaries. He won’t let the enemy enter his house. He was shooting blindly at the bushes. Blood was oozing out like a river from the bushes. Green blood!

After having killed all the enemies, he came panting. Drenched in sweat. “Where’s the other toys?”

“Yes, where are the other things in the list, I didn’t get my dollhouse and many other things. Where’s my jewels?” didi too enquired.

“Oh, Santa fell into the pond in front of your school and lost everything. He managed to salvage only these. He has apologized again for this. Don’t worry next year he will come up with all things due.”

“Look Piklu! Mother is bringing a cake! Such a beautiful cake,” didi was very excited.

Santa’s cake was very tasty. Both the kids relished the plum cake. It was even tastier than what they had eaten at John’s.

Didi was the one to notice that.

“Mother, where’s your earrings,” she exclaimed. She wished to wear those earrings when she grows up. She always has an eye on those sparkling golden earrings. It’s the best she has seen.

“Oh, I just lost it. Don’t worry dear, Santa will give it next year. He has promised,” mother took didi on her lap.

“He better be, if he wants to see another Christmas,” said father and hugged Piklu tight.

Adventures of Piklu – Christmas gift (part I)

2007-12-25T01:48:00.000+05:30

Piklu was on the seventh heaven. After a week of pestering and bribing, John finally gave up!

Much to Piklu’s wishes, he had to voluntarily hand over the dragonfly to John as the final bribe. In search of the fiery red dragonfly, both had crawled under the bush. But John is a chubby boy. He never could fold his legs without bursting his pants. It’s lithe Piklu who always is bang on the target.

Piklu likes to consider himself the hawk of a sheikh that he once saw in his father’s magazines. Once a dove is in sight, the sheikh frees the hawk and it always manages to catch the dove, he was told. Ever since that day, he has turned into a hawk and the dragonflies – mere doves. Oh boy! What a terrible hawk he has been ever since!

But this dove was different. The hawk had to toil real hard, had to fly through dangerous cracks and caverns of terrible mythical lands – in this case, the dark alleyway behind their school – just not to lose the sight of this fiery red dove.

The dragonfly finally went and rested under the bush, which is infamous for dangerous creatures like earthworms. You can spot those dangerous creepy baby snake-lookalikes from the school window.

Nobody can blame John as courageous and naughty. He is a good boy, as his teachers put it. It’s always Piklu who is at the receiving end. Strangely, it’s always Piklu, who gets the most attention in the class.

Such was the call of the dragonfly that both the adventurers forgot everything and chased it all the way to the dark alleyway. They had to slip through the narrow broken school fence to come this side. But when the dragonfly hid itself in the bush, Piklu had the advantage. John was almost heartbroken. This is unfair, he thought.

When Piklu actually came out of the bush wearing a triumphant smile, John could not hide his jealousy.

It was no big deal for him, but of course a hard-owned battle. So Piklu was a little disappointed in having handing over his prized possession to John.

But John paid a good price too. In condition of keeping the secret to him only, he told Piklu the art of getting gifts from Santa!

Every year, John has received gifts, whatever he wanted from Santa. His parents, usually his father, helped him prepare the list in advance. It’s a week-long ceremony for John every year. Lists are made and quickly tore down. New plans are chalked out and budgets were also considered. Santa has other kids to give too. John should not ask for more, his father had told him.

And at the Christmas day, John was always there hosting a gala party. His friends can do nothing but wonder at Santa’s magnanimity. And John never for once told the secret to anybody. Even not to Piklu, despite him being his good friend.

But John divulged the secret this Christmas.

Piklu almost ran home in a trance. It’s long that their parents didn’t buy them anything. It’s long they didn’t receive a toy. And piklu has an eye for the wooden gun he has seen at the Wilmer’s Toy Shop at the marketplace. He wants it at any cost. That’s the finest gun a man has seen in his life!

Piklu’s elder sister was back home by that time. Anyway, it was the winter holiday season. Today was the last day of the school. There will be no classes for the next one month. It’s a gala celebration! His stupid sister was wearing that stupid frock of her’s in which she looks exactly like a stupid. How he hates talking with her when she wears that drum-like frock of hers. But she knows how to write and today is 24th December!

They had already managed to gather the stockings, the clean ones, cause Santa doesn’t like dirty stockings … his beard gets dirty. Character by character his sister created a long list. She had to write and rub many times because never in her life she has written this much and she were struggling to keep her handwriting as tidy as possible.

Piklu’s eyes were sparkling when each word was getting written on the list. One word means one gift! Assured! How can he not rejoice?

Looking his didi concentrate, he could not help but appreciate his elder sister. Nobody can write English as she does. Sigh … Piklu will not be able to write ever. He could not even write the numbers in Bengali properly. He always gets stuck at the juncture where two similar letters stand. The M before N or the N before M? That is worth a mystery to solve. Whereas his didi didn’t have to think twice.

So the list was drawn and inspected upon. Piklu’s due approval was taken. Both didi and Piklu signed. He might not know how to write ABCD upto Z properly. But he has an impressive signature nevertheless.

The final list, after two hours of hard work, stood as following:

for piklu from WIMAR (oposeat cake sop):

GUN-WIMAR
MOTOSIKEL-TOY
SIKEL-RED-NO TOY
COKLATE
SUNGLAS
MANIBAG
SORD
WATCH
HAT
KEMARA-TOY
CAR—RED BIG
CAR—RED MIDIAM
CAR—RED SMAL

For Tuli

DOLL – GOOD LIKE SAHELI DOLL
BANGEL
KEYCHEN – SET LIKE PRIANKA
DOLL—LIKE PRIANKA
DOLHOUSE—LIKE SWITI
JEWEL – LIKE ANTY
FROK—LIKE BOOKON
COKLATE
LOGENS – 1 PAKAT FUL FOR FRENDS

They both signed the list and decided there should be a note left to Santa to consider them first before he goes to John’s place. Incase, the stock is in limited supply. They were not very sure which way Santa comes from. So they marked all the lampposts with arrows pointing towards their house and left more arrows on the road. Now, wherever Santa comes from, he was sure to knock at their door first.

To draw Santa’s favour, they also planned a clever idea! Which is nothing but the truth. Their father has lost his job due to the factory closure and since then, he has stopped loving them. He doesn’t also shave like before and gets irritated at the drop of a hat.

No question of asking toys from him.

It was Tuli’s plan. She left a note with the list, the note at the top and the list next, so that Santa sees it first and give them all that they want. With her new honed mastery at English, confident, she wrote: FADER NO JOB. NO TOY. BEAT US. HE SAD. I SAD. I WANT TOY. HIRE LIST:

As instructed by John, they carefully put the stockings just above their head and waited anxiously till Santa comes. They wanted to see him. John said he comes exactly at 12 at his place. Their house is about 5 minutes walk from John’s house. So either Santa will come here when the long hand will be in 11 and the small hand will in 12 or when the small hand will be in 12 and the long hand will be in 1. Piklu could not help but marvel at his sister’s genius!

It was a cold cold night. Like Santa’s white beard, a white fog was engulfing the whole world. The blanket was warm and cosy. The distant lamppost’s light was getting dimmer and dimmer. And soon they were coiled at a corner, hugging each other like old chums and breathing on each others’ face – fast asleep.

(to be continued …)

Bombay duck

2007-12-10T00:29:00.000+05:30

I have never faced such a situation before. The stage that I am going through, it’s hard to explain.

What do you say when a person loses his emotion? Is he dead? Probably.

Probably I am dead. It’s a zombie-like existence. I can’t explain what I am going through, but it’s strange. It’s very unnerving. Almost eerie.

I have heard that when a man is at the brink of his death, he loses all the interest in things associated with life. It’s God’s way of making him accustomed to what lies ahead. This might also happen to a man before he renounces the world.

I have this feeling that either I am going to die very soon or that I am going to renounce this world for good.

What makes you live? Definitely emotion. Definitely the lust for life or hatred of life. You need to prove yourself to someone something. That makes you go on and on and on. But I don’t have anything to prove to anybody. I would have been the happiest now if there was somebody who would have challenged me to prove something. But no, I am not even willing to take his challenge, however eager I was even a year-ago.

When I was in my last organization, somebody challenged me saying that I have no hope of ever becoming a journalist. And he said he would be surprised if, ever in my life, I would see a single byline of my own. “The magic of Indian economy is that it is booming my boy. Go, get yourself another job. I don’t see you having any future here in this field,” I clearly remember his words. I fought back. I fought back enough for him to come to me to bid me farewell and say that “We will miss you. You were one of our finest workers.” That was a triumphant victory for me.

I never could forgive that man for his audacity. But as soon as he said those words … I felt pity for him. I don’t know why, but I felt pity for the man I always hated.

But then, these are all part and parcel of LIFE. I thought, after I joined this newspaper as a reporter, I would be the happiest person to see my bylines in the morning. But three months now in this new job as a reporter, I am never thrilled to see my byline. When I see my name in the paper, often in the first page, I almost forget I am seeing my name in one of the finest newspapers in India. Similarly, when my stories get killed, sometimes without any proper reason … it doesn’t hurt me at all. I wonder why. I don’t feel sadness when I am supposed to cry, I don’t feel happiness when I am supposed to dance in joy.

When did I last hear about this syndrome? Well, I read about a young man named Siddharta who went to become known as Buddha, or ‘old’ in Hindi. But will I be able to ever become that old to be called a Buddha? I wonder. If this negative air continues … I guess very soon I am going to pop it.

Some huge mechanism has suddenly sucked the life out of me. As I said, I am nothing but zombie these days.

Is this the city? The much touted glamour capital Mumbai?

May be. I am not sure. But then all the people here should have the same outlook like me. I could see life all over the city. Why I am feeling lost? Actually I am not even feeling lost. If there were some feelings of loss, I would have known that there is still some life left in me. I am not even feeling lost. I am feeling like a ball of cotton moving at the wind’s direction. Like a machine, I am boarding the train with all other machines … lots of them. And like a machine, I am going to the office to work. Sometimes even for more than 12-14 hours at a stretch.

I wish I meet my tormentor again in Mumbai. I would request him to torture me again. I would request him to push me to the limits, drive me crazy, fill my heart with poison against him. At least, I would get back the meaning for my existence.

How boon is a bane sometimes.

I don’t argue with people anymore. Even if the taxi driver charges more than he should, a rarity in Mumbai, I don’t argue with him the way I used to do with Bangalore autorickshaw drivers.

Mumbai is a dreary city. It’s a sin city, no doubt about it. Where there is glamour, there is sin. I won’t go into that argument. I didn’t see the glamour part of the city. It’s just like any city to me with a screeching infrastructure at the verge of collapse.

Just to give an example, in Mumbai, there is a brothel or some kind of sex joint everywhere, at least, the areas that I have seen. Sex is as easily available as rice in a grocery shop. It’s convoluting for a sensitive person. One block behind my house, there is a bar where there are more girls than customers. One day I went to drink seeing the nice ambience from outside. A swarm of girls gathered around me. I had to choose one.

Though I am not a purist or a moralist, and my ‘character’ is certainly questionable to even myself (so much so that if you ask me “can I marry my daughter to ghetu?” … I would say “that scoundrel!! Hell No!”), I felt like a deer-calf among a pack of lionesses. I somehow wanted to run from there. I did so. I bought a quarter of whiskey at an exorbitant price (the price of the girl whom I was supposed to spend my time with included) and ran away from that place. Of course, I had to pay the guard some tips for saving mine and other customers’ reputation from the ever vigilant police.

I guess, my disassociation with the city started from that point. To round it off, something very nasty happened at a bachelor’s party. If I have friends like these, I don’t need enemies. Mumbai scoundrels.

Soon, after someday, I realized the disease of indifference has engulfed me. I am slowly turning into a walking talking mummy. Did I say talking? Nay … I don’t like to talk anymore too.

I know after reading this much Kaushik would quickly comment, “go to the dance bar” or even some stupider shit like “you need a girl”. The fact is that I don’t need a girl. My parents are more than willing to find a girl for me. They are just waiting for my one mistakenly uttered ‘yes’. Within one week, I would see myself married. They would hurry about it, because they know I change my mind quite often.

But that would aggravate the problem than solving it.

Even if I forget about the other covenants of marriage, the most exciting part of a man-woman relationship is the physical proximity. And sex is such cheap dirt to me now that I have started realizing that a human being can perfectly live without even uttering the sex word. Copulation is nothing but a biological ploy. Well, naturally I have to pull myself to do that ‘S’ thing with my wife and I cannot hide for long my unwillingness, if not inability, to do such an act. I don’t see my marriage lasting long in this scenario.

But I was all for being a happy victim of this universal ploy. I had sex. Lots of them. At one point of time, I used to think this is life and this is the essence of all animals and human beings. When I grew up a little more, I realized it’s the most effective universal binder of all the forces available. I was knee-deep in love and lovemaking that time.

Not anymore now. The first casualty after I spent a week or two in Mumbai is that I have stopped thinking about hotties … even in my dreams! That’s more than I can take. That’s death of a salesman.

All glamorous things said about Mumbai are so stark and naked that there is no glamour in it. Mumbai is definitely the biggest disappointment of my life.

I met a famous heroine that day at a press conference. SHE IS SO ORDINARY!!!! SHE IS SO OLD!!! God!!! There was a time when I could feel my temperature rising seeing her gyrating at those Bollywood national hip-shaker tunes. God!!! My maid is more glamorous than her! I am sure, after looking at her, any girl with proper assets in place can become a heroine any day.

Sad! I realized I have a disease when even her deep shiny cleavage failed to excite me. I didn’t give a second look. If I was healthy, I would have perspired and panted like a dog as much as other male reporters were panting. It was so hot an atmosphere that the girls, my reporter colleagues from other papers, were not feeling safe at all. They were moving making a group. Asking questions in a group. Going to the washroom all at a time. I tried to chat with P. She always chats with me at a boring conference. Lovely, witty girl. All that she did was frown and looked away at the wall. The atmosphere was tensed.

I was disappointed in not being able to join the heating session.

Actually, in several press conferences, I quite often meet celebrities. They behave as such complete idiots. You don’t have to be super intelligent to find out that these glamorous people you see in your idiot box everyday and idolize are so super dull. Or, at least very predictable super bores. If I was healthy, I would have still liked to screw one. But end of the day would have liked to go back to the girl I proposed in Bangalore and embrace her to say “I love you”.

So what makes you continue to live on when you see that everything around you, things that you always held as truth, are so wrong … so false. What for you live on?

Yes, Mumbai taught me the biggest lesson in life. Nothing is true in life. At least those things that we think is true are definitely not true. Thinking is illusion. Seeing is more than believing. And I have seen enough to believe that I am going to renounce this world very soon or that my ticket is booked for some interplanetary (I don’t know where you go after death) expedition. Perhaps it’s faster than I think it is.

As for now, I am a zombie.

No girl, I can’t kiss you with the same passion I once did. Find yourself some other guys who still are in super shape. Mumbai just managed to fuck me. I am a rape-victim now. And like any rape victim, I am disillusioned whether consensual sex is good or gang-bang is fun.

mu,mbai salsa

2007-11-04T22:18:00.000+05:30

I am drunk. I never drank so much in my life. I am a dirty boy now. much to the spirit of Mumbai. Mumbai is a dirty fuckin bitchy good city. I always wanted this life. I am drunk.

And I will not alter whatever my hands are tyupimg in the keypboard. I want to read it later on to see how much different I am from the fake myself. when I am not drunk, I a write stupid things, I write nonsense lies.

Ah…this stpud problem of correcting your words when you hit the wromng key,. I wil not rectify it anymore. whatever hits the buttojn is golden. It will remnaun as it is. Respect how your senses guide you through. I amn drumnk and I am proud of that.

I know you pelpe are waiting for thi8s arsehole blogger to write somethinbg. But what shall I write>? What is there to writer? I am in love with this city at the first sight.l nbut looks can be deceptivce,. You fucking [people. You don’t know what;’s life. that’s why you blamne Mumbai local train. Ui hgave seen these jamopacked trains when I was in my college and school. I know what’s there tp catch a jam packed train during the rushing office hours. Fuckkin god, it;’s jyust like Calcutta. It’s exactly like Calcutta I swear. It is Calcutta. Period. And those arse ho;les who adfvertise Mumbai local trains to its gloryu or to its doom, I swear, you are the nipple-sucketrs. You don’t know ahat life is. I swear, I have seen worst kind of packed trains in Calcutta, huh, and you bklame Mumbai,. Baustards;./

Mumbai is great and that’s all.

It;’s like a second home coming. Mumbai is nothing but callcutta, the buildings,the roads,m people, traffic. Just replace the fiats with ambassadors, you have Calcutta in fromnt of you,.

Now whio is the vastard who says Mumbai is bad?
Mumbai rocks…qwelcome to Mumbai salsa oh janeman!!!

But two impressions that would have nebver happen in calocutta,

The first day when I was convinced that Mumbai is nothing but Calcutta, I sms-ed one of mt dear friends that mumbao is just vlike Calcutta and I am going to settle her.

But the next day I saw a man dropping fropm the trrain and getting halved byt a train coming from the opposite suide,. Yet, noby frowned. Nobu sympathized, as if a scum on earth has passed on. praise the lord,. It wil never happen in calcutta;.l bastard mumbaikars.

Second, people are professuional. You give a word, you fulfil it. Business is everything and you are super bvusy,m you are super efficient,. It will never happen in calcutta.

I am not returning to xcalxcutta. But I will not live in mu,mbai.

That’s all

Again, I a mdrunk.

Mumbaikar

2007-09-12T01:38:00.000+05:30

So, finally I am leaving Bangalore. Heading towards a rather unruly city, they say.

Will I be happy? I have to be. Afterall that’s my decision to leave this cosy-comfy job and opt for a much harder life. No pickups, no drops. Commuting forty kilometers a day in these insane, packed-like-sardines local trains, with the fear of a bomb going off anytime and reduce my much-adored body in pieces of flesh. Stories will not come to me, aha, I have to go and hunt for them.

Am I happy?

You bet, I am.

I know the life is hard there. But isn’t it true that anything easy makes you tired? Wouldn’t Mumbai be an adventure to be remembered? When did I say that I want time for myself?

No, heck no. I don’t want time for myself. I have had so much of time for myself in Bangalore, that I have gone crazy. It’s bloody damn tiring. When I switch off the light, and slip into my blanket, all kinds of thoughts keep crawling in, I go mad.

I want some hustle-bustle, the daily pangs of life that would be enough to make me forget my sad thoughts. I won’t say my life is full of tragedies. But I am a sensitive guy, and for me even a rude rebuke from a person I love is a disaster. I feel so morose. I feel so deserted, so lost.

Let there be harsh life waiting in ambush. I swear I will fight all the demons with defying courage. Yes, I want to fight the daily pangs of life. I want to see the raw life. My idle sadness can’t be more tragic than the life in a metro. Let me see that. And I am sure I will get the courage to laugh at my so-called depression.

And Bangalore is too artificial for my liking.

Yes, I know I will do well in Mumbai. I always perform best when in pressure. I know I will love Mumbai. And if Mumbai likes me, I know I am going to settle there.

I am going to be a Mumbaikar. Good bye Kolkata. Don’t cry for me. I am not coming back.

Goodbye Kolkata. I will come to you once in a while and fill my senses with the sweet fragrance of your bosom. But I will not sleep with you. I have a new lady in life. Mumbai.

help!

2007-08-16T15:48:00.000+05:30

I had a wonderful realization today. I realized, for the first time, that God cannot probably give you anything even if you pray fervently. You get what is destined. And surely even the creator is bound by his own rule of creations. A man’s life is not a blog that you write and delete when you want. No, it’s a defined path where the fruit falls in when it’s ripe and the time correct. It’s all pre-destined. God simply cannot break his own rule and give you what you want. A small change made for you would create a domino effect that would destabilize the entire creation. No, that can’t be allowed. And I have no objection to that.

I realized that God is just like your mother. She loves you. But probably cannot control anything in your life. You know if anything in this world is real and true to you, that’s the love of your mother. I would add the Almighty in it. He is simply a simple Man who watches helplessly what you do and still would smile at you. And I love Him all the more for that.

But then here is my question. I would illustrate an example before that.

Quite some time ago, I proposed a girl. I liked her a lot. She gently refused my offer. End of story. And I would also forget her very soon as I have this wonderful mechanism in my character by which I delete unwanted memories very easily. I close the chamber of emotions. I almost can become robot after that. I start thinking in one direction and don’t let any kind of emotion stir my mind. I become blank and brick-headed. And then after some time when I let my chamber open up, I find the emotion has subsided and turned into dust. You have to just blow it off. Trust me, I have this unique ability. I practiced it from my childhood.

I was a pesky kid. Everyday I used to come home injured with blood oozing out. And trust me when the wound used to pain, I would decide for some time whether I would cry or keep mum. The logic was very simple. Everyday I cannot cry and shame myself, particularly when I was the captain of our football team. That is too embarrassing as a leader.

If I decided to keep mum, no amount of blood would make me shed even a single drop of tear. It was unnatural, against all science, for a kid.

And when I decided to cry, I used to draw the living crap out of every soul in my neighborhood. I would cry till I was tired and fall asleep. Sometimes for hours.

The habit didn’t leave me till date. Add to it I have added one more specialty. I can laugh and make fun and frolic, when I am extremely emotional.

So, forgetting the girl is not a big deal for me. I know, I love her. I haven’t liked anybody for quite some years and decided not to fall in love again after my last harrowing experience. But this girl swept my feet and shook all my inhibitions. But I will forget her soon. I know, I will.

After this incident, this question popped into my mind. Why do we crave for things that are NOT destined for us? Why is this mechanism in nature and in God’s rule-book? What is the need for it? Why we should crave for things that are not ours to get? Why? WHY?

Would anybody care to explain? I didn’t get the answer myself. I would really remain grateful if anybody cares to make me understand this.

signal

2007-08-09T23:27:00.000+05:30

Anando stretched his left hand towards the melting sun.

This everyday scene is never old to him. Dusk and dawn was the height of spirituality for his grandfather. Whenever Anando gets a time off from his rather busy schedule, he ensures he sits in this embankment to see the sun go down. He still didn’t get the answer to his question. The melting sun has the clue, may be. He tries to figure it out.

His right hand was paining. The wound was still fresh. Does he need to go to a doctor to heal it? Oh no … let the nature take care. He is a sterner material than ordinary people. And when he gets an injury, he loves to see his system heal itself without any external help.

When he was a kid, he used to come to this place with his grandfather. The park at his left is still there … though in a bad shape. Weeds have covered the ground. Snakes abound. The see-saw and swings are robbed off their metals and woods and are sold off. The cement slide has shameless craters now where you can safely put a cup of tea. Nobody comes now, save at night drug peddlers and their miserable customers.

Grandpa used to let him play with other kids in the park, while he used to stare like a dumb to see the sun setting down over those marshlands at the other end of the river.

He was a little kid and could not understand why his grandfather should sit quietly and wipe his tears looking at the red, rapidly fainting sun.

But, may be now, he understands the greater meaning of it.

He was a lonely kid. Soon after, he started joining his grandfather. When all the kids used to jump and shout and play “L-O-N-D…Laundon”, he used to sit quietly beside his grandfather and watch the melting sun dipping slowly slowly into the marshy water. It was his routine for every evening…till his grandpa passed away. His grandfather was the only spiritual Guru he had in life.

He was sixteen then, when one day, his ailing grandfather called him to sit beside his bed. It was a great loss for that old man for not being able to see his favourite scene. But Anando, by then, was a regular visitor. Soon after Anando used to return from the riverside, his grandpa used to fix his stare at Anando’s hazel eyes. Anando also knew his grandfather was trying to see the sunset from his eyes, cause whenever he used to miss one, his grandpa would smile and say, “…was you very busy son? Must be playing the whole evening. Good, playing is good for health. It makes you a man.” But Anando could read the sadness in grandpa’s eyes.

He was not sure, whether his ailing grandpa really attempts to see the sun through his eyes or not. Curious, one day, he asked him about it. Grandpa had that rebuke in his lips. He smiled, “Anando you are not like others. You have a greater understanding of life than many saints.” But he didn’t reveal what he used to see in his eyes.

Everytime his grandfather used to fix his vacant stare at him, a sudden restlessness would engulf Anando. He wanted to shout at his grandfather. But couldn’t. He was afraid. But was not sure, what he was afraid of. But now, he understands everything perfectly well.

One day his grandfather called him. He was very very feeble and could hardly whisper words. Pointing everybody to go from that room, grandpa touched Anando’s forehead. “Son, it’s end of the show for me. You always wanted to know what I see in your eyes when you come back from the riverside. Answer some simple questions. And I will let you know.”

Anando was curious. He could sense that restlessness gathering pace in his mind. “Pray, do tell me what you see grandpa. Why I get afraid whenever you fix those stares at me. Why can’t I flee from your sight? Like a magician, you hypnotise me. Pray, do tell me grandpa. Before you go, you must reveal the secret. Ask whatever you have to ask. And I will be honest.”

After a little hesitation, grandpa asked, “Anando, do you believe in rebirth?”
“No.”
--Why not?
--There is no such thing as re-birth. Science would have proved it by now.
--Science is still in its infancy son. Everything cannot be explained by theories. You must have heard where science ends, philosophy starts. Even our sacred Geeta has told us to believe in re-birth.
--Everything depends upon belief grandpa. If you don’t believe in something…it cannot be true. I don’t believe in God either.
--Tell me what do you gather from seeing the sun go down?
--It’s a wonderful scene. It’s sad.
--Why it’s sad?
--I don’t know. But I feel it’ sad. It puts you off.
--It puts off you, but it’s joyful to me, whenever I see the scene I can’t hold the tears of joy.
--May be one day I will find it joyful enough to cry. But it’s sad to me that the giant…all powerful son should succumb to the pressure of moon.
--And don’t you see the harmony here? The sun has no reason to set. As you said it’s all but too powerful to ignore moon. But the sun is our father. You must have noticed, a father, after scolding his child…dashes out of the house…just for the mother to console the bereaved child, so that when he comes back again, he sees everything is in fine order. But you should be a clever and compassionate child to understand your father’s departure from home and sympathise with him. Are you that clever child son? I was clever. That’s why whenever I see the sun to retire…hope fills my mind. Now the mother moon will take over and soothe us. That’s the essence of life son. You are not supposed to face the heat all through your life. There is something nice waiting for you at the other end of the road. Don’t you think balance is needed in life? The setting sun epitomizes the balance dear. It is filled with hope.
--You are old and your grey cells are dying. All these are idle inventions of the brain. Only an old man can think like that.
--But you will also know the truth son.
--Maybe when I become old. But what the sun is to do with rebirth?
--Don’t you think the sun rising again the next day implies a new life? It’s the supreme creation of the Almighty?
--No; I don’t. Because the sun never sets or rises. It is fixed at its place in the universe.
--So are we. So are you, so am I. So is the life dear. We are fixed. Only that everytime we appear, at the end of the play, we have to disappear. It’s dusk of my life now. I will definitely appear somewhere soon. But your life has just started Anando. Make it a carnival. Drink the keg of life to the brim.
--OK. I will. Now tell me what you see in my eyes. Why I fear your stares. Why can’t I run away?
--First swear to me you believe in whatever I said. Swear to me you believe in God. I know you are a special boy Anando. You know a lot of things that take ages, even thousands of rebirths, for a man to understand. Promise me, you will make good use of your knowledge. You just have to submit yourself to God. And everything will be fine. All your anxieties and fear will ward off. You will be a new man…and will be saved Anando. Promise me, you will submit yourself to God. Of any kind, of any religion. Even God of your own creation. The day you realize the world is a creation and not evolution, that even evolution and adoptions are creation of a supreme being…you will be saved Anando. Promise me.
--Listen Grandpa, since I am very honest to you today, even to keep your heart, I will not lie. I must say I don’t believe in God. I am not even an atheist. Being an atheist is to declare the existence of God. I don’t care for any religion or spirituality. Even if that is self-discovered. Now tell me what you see in my eyes.

But his grandpa didn’t answer. He simply turned his face from Anando. There were tears in the old man’s eyes. Anando was waiting for the reply. He demanded the answer. But instead of saying anything, Grandfather again fixed his vacant gaze towards him.

The sun had set by now. whenever Anando feels low and that sudden restlessness clouds his mind, Anando always remembers his grandpa’s last conversations with him. Whenever he is faced with an inner crisis…he comes to this river bank to see the sun go down; he still struggles to find the truth that his grandpa discovered. The setting sun is a giant puzzle to him. It has many answers hidden in it. Anando tries to find out. Everytime he closes in to the truth…but each time it slips away. Before he gets ample time, the sun vanishes behind the marshy land.

His right hand was still paining. His victim bit him really hard. By then, Anando had expertly pushed the dagger right into his heart. He could feel the rhythm of his victim’s life slowing down. But then, just before passing away, the man caught hold of Anando’s wrist with his sharp, blood-soaked teeth. It was a death-bite. Anando’s assistants found it really hard to separate the jaws which were locked on Anando’s wrist. He was writhing in pain.

Everytime he finishes a ‘contract’, he had to sit to see the melting sun vanishing in the marshy land. He tried real hard, but could not believe in God. He still doesn’t know for sure what his granpa used to see in his eyes. As long as he remembers, he was afraid of only one thing in his entire thirty-years of life. He was afraid of those gazes. With his gaze, that old man used to suck up his soul. He was afraid those stares could kill him. Long after he would retire to his dark room and lock himself up, those vacant, yet, hypnotizing stares would haunt him everywhere.

He had a great fascination with darkness. Still now, he would switch off the light and sit with his head drooping down. This way so many signals come from so many places. He is sure that he can sense signals from outer space also. From his childhood he gets these signals. But, strangely…these signals started flowing unabated soon after he grabbed his grandfather’s throat and started squeezing it.

He was frustrated for not getting his answer. Yet again, his grandfather cheated him. He was now out of patience. The feeble sick man didn’t put a struggle. Within seconds he breathed his last. Nobody suspected. When Anando came out and declared his Grandpa was dead…everybody thought it was natural. Everybody was crying…at a distance…an owl hooted…towards the river. Anando went to the river bank…the signals started coming from all direction. Signals…strange signals!

thank you for the music

2007-08-02T12:23:00.000+05:30

i have deleted this post, for personal reasons.

best i have read so far!

2007-08-01T10:09:00.000+05:30

i just read this beautiful poem, the best i have read in blogosphere. the author is a natural poet to be sure.

i never thought this silent girl is so prolific. salute to you zannah!

close shave

2007-07-23T08:51:00.000+05:30

Friday one of my good friends got married to one of our worst enemies’ sister! The affair was there for long. They were in love, I don’t know, may be for more than twelve years! And my friend was furious that I was not coming to his party. He threatened, that it would be an end to a long relationship that dates back to our kindergarten! But still, I risked that.

Well, I must admit, this particular boy, whom I so magnanimously anointed as our ‘worst enemy’, did nothing to us. And with the alliance formed with my friend, I don’t see him harming me anytime in future. So bravo mate, I am proud of you.

But I must explain why we were so scared of him.

The rivalry goes back to when we were in class seven and got the access to our school library. Now we could lend books, any kind of them without the librarian guiding us to read what we were supposed to read. We were all ‘high school’ boys then and as such grown up and mature. In our small world, we were adults. Whereas, lesser mortals like the boy in question, who was in class six that time, had to wait one year more to reach our ranks. And the beauty of seniority is that, once you are a senior, always a senior. Juniors, even one year younger ones, ought to respect you. We were taught teachers are our second parents. And we ensured that juniors see us as their second teacher.

As such, it was our moral obligations to guide the immature lot into this crazy maze that is called ‘world’. ‘Life’ to be precise!

And we were good in that!

We had a rule in our school that either the librarian or students of class seven would choose books for class six and five. There were separate books for class eight and onwards. Everybody and anybody could select the book of their choice. Students of class five and six, the immature ones, were supposed to submit their requisition slip to the pre-determined place and the librarian and ‘seven’ites’ would go through their request to decide if they had asked for more than what they could grasp. To be precise, if they have asked for some books destined for the more illuminated lots like class eight and onwards!

Now, we had a favourite game. By that time, we had no idea how to make our name famous. So, as was the practice then and as we learnt from our previous batch, we used to put a puzzle in every ill-fated book that used to come across us! Not a puzzle actually, but a treasure-hunt.

We used to take a book and scribble in the starting page, “amar naam jaante hole 36 patai jao” (if you want to know my name, go to page number 36). In the aforementioned page, it would have been written ‘if you still want to know my name, go to page 7”. And when the curious treasure-hunter skimmed all through the lead, he would have been directed to some other book where the lead would start again.

It was the privilege of the class seven seniors. And we were proud of that. Once in a month the librarian used to threaten to ‘rrussticate’ the whole class unless the culprit is named, but we were sure of our friendship and the new-found strength in our muscle. The boy, who would dare to blow the lead, would be taken to the taskforce. And I swear, I was a terrible threat to the ‘boykind’ that time! It’s much later that I became what I am today, but that time, I was sure of myself. And those who knew me, including my father, were sure of my doomed future.

So, we had a game. Though anybody was invited to play the game and make the otherwise dull book a part of treasure-hunt, the good boys were against ‘defiling’ books. They didn’t want to earn the wrath of goddess Saraswasti, who is in charge of the education department somewhere in the sky above us.

Our story was different, we were the followers of Rakshasas and as such always against education and all those shit.

I digressed!

So one fine cloudy evening, after carefully considering this boy’s request, we handed him a book that incidentally was from a newly purchased lot. In fact, he was the first one to get the book. And we were always happy to give away new book to uninitiated juniors. If you write treasure-hunt clues in a new book, the chances of getting caught are very high! So says logic, since the librarian has only you to blame. Only when the book has circulated thrice, we used to start our masterpiece.

But there was a surprise waiting for us! The boy returned the book and as soon as we, the master mystery monsters, started to explore the thick book for strategically important pages, we found our nemesis, our worst nightmare came true. At the starting of the first chapter, it was written “if you want to know who I am turn on page 19”. The wires on our brain snapped. How dare he destroy a property of the library! That too, under our custodianship? It was an open challenge!

Before we showed the book to the librarian and proved that class seven students were indeed angels and it’s the class six lots that were the bad apples, we decided to bring the culprit to the task force.

We almost kidnapped the boy and took him to the nearby hedge. Then after a brief lecture like Steve Jobs does, before every new product launch, I brought the book from the bag. The boy, sensing the alarm, tried to run for his life. But five of us were too agile and athletic.

We gave him the beating of his life and pushed him at the nearby pond. After making him drink several gallons of water, we pulled him up and left him to recoup. He swore he would never defile a book. And he swore, rather uncomfortably for us…he would take revenge. His father was there at the police!

We went in hiding. In the sense, we didn’t go to the school for a week after that. We simply refused to go to school or said there was a holiday going on. The unfortunates among us did start for the school but ended up playing cricket at a distant ground.

No, police didn’t come to pick us up. We also didn’t show the book to the librarian.

But much to our astonishment, we saw the boy growing up like a goliath! When he left the school at class ten, he was already six feet tall. Well built, with unusual muscle for a boy of his age. And our batch really didn’t grow up. We were stuck at 5’2” when we left school. To this day, I am 5’8”. Whereas I heard that the boy, now a man, has added 5” more to his height and now has bulging muscles.

Do I need to tell how shit scared we were when he was growing to his glory. There was a time when we used to hide from his gaze, lest, he remembers and come to even out the past experience. We used to follow his every move just as jackals follow a lion. Careful, not to attract attention from the mighty beast. We were consoled when we found out, his favourite position in a football match is that of a mid-fielder!

A mid-fielder, in no way, is an aggressive fellow. He is not aggressive as a striker; neither is he a stubborn like a defender. We used to nurture hope that his nature was like that of the position that he choose to play and he still didn’t remember his vow!

That, I am typing still now and not dead, goes on showing, he is a forgetful giant! God be with him!

It’s true, he never harmed us, but the tension every time we crossed our path was too much for us. I am sure; I have lost at least five years of my life through that.

I really don’t know how my friend, a party to the crime, managed to hook the goliath’s sister, but I for one, never dared to look at her. She was beautiful and always hanged around with his giant brother. Naturally, the question of eye-contact was a stretched dream for a feeble man like me.

In fact, to be honest, my friend must have got that girl without any competition.

Because I spared no one in my locality. So much so that, without knowing, I once eve-teased the giant’s girlfriend! But I swear, I was innocent, ill-informed. If I would have known she was who she was, I would have made her my sister. But it was too late. When I realised her true identity, I was quick in fleeing ftom Calcutta!

So naturally, I shouldn’t have been in my friend’s marriage party, even if that means an end to our friendship! What if the girl reminds the giant of the vengeance? Incite him for the vow he pledged?

I have heard, all the wars in the world started with a woman. In this case, it would not be a war at all, it would be a murder! Ah…women…gate to the hell! Without any reason, the boy would land up in jail. Just imagine. Afterall, I know him from my school days, how can I moot this injustice to him?

Besides, life is precious than friendship, isn’t it? Or that it’s the opposite?

2007-07-04T20:40:00.000+05:30

Yeah!!! They have freed Alan Johnston.

I don't need the Free Alan window anymore.

2007-07-03T02:18:00.001+05:30

i am very tired. exhausted.

i need a woman in my life. need some love, i seriously do.

no mom, it's not a message for you. don't get excited. no, i am not talking about marriage.

but i am in need of love. i want to love and be loved in return.

i am very tired. exhausted.

second thought: i want to return to my family in calcutta. mom and dad and sis and bro...i want to return to you all.

mom, would you be less proud of me if i leave this glamorous multinational and settle for a shabby, red-tapped indian office in stagnant calcutta? would you think i wasted my entire career if i earn half of what i am getting here? would you love me less for that? would your concerns for me would halve too?

dad, would you again start thinking that i am useless.

but don't you see how deathly pale i am now? don't you know your son will die if he doesn't get some warmth from you? don't you know everyday i return home with a hole in my heart. tell you a secret...it's getting bigger and bigger.

mom, i want to come back. i am bleeding everyday. i am choking. i want to come back to you. i want you to touch me again and put me to sleep just as you always did.

i want to come back. please don't force me to stay away for the sake of career. i know what career is. it's devil's lovely instrument to take people away from god. it's devil's plot to deprive mortals of everything nice that god created.

do you know how it feels like to face the world and listen the chin-music but getting nobody to heal the wound. you feel bloody damn cheated. yes, cheated. the wound doesn't pain. it gets numb. you feel cheated and abondoned by everybody. even by god.

trust me...this cold heart needs some warmth. i need some love mom. i really do.

i am very tired. exhausted.

chunilal

2007-06-27T03:12:00.000+05:30

This is when Chuni was 15 days old (yawning, just after getting a good meal from my aunt).

One month old Chuni

This is greedy Chunilal now (thinking my mother would mistakenly drop something from the pot).

Can you believe it, he is only three-and-a-half month old field-lab puppy? And please don't mind the chain. He is always free. The photographer here was not too comfortable taking snaps from her mobile while the beast was in prowl!

lost (and not found)

2007-06-18T09:19:00.000+05:30

I was walking along the pavement when I felt somebody pulling my shirt from behind. I turned round to see a little girl, hardly in her fourth, indicating to give her some alms. She was gesturing to be hungry. My one rupee or two rupees coin would solve her hunger and possibly many other problems associated with poverty. This was the same girl I saw everyday when I used to pass in my motor cycle. I had some work in that place, I was going to fetch my bike and head for the home.

As a matter of fact, I never give alms to children. That’s my insignificant effort to deter them from begging. But I know, many people do. Actually most of us do. And thus trapping them to begging all their life.

Nevertheless, I decided to offer her some food. There was a bakery-stall nearby. She had a dusty, torn doll at hand. One leg missing. Probably one eye was also at a loss. May be a castaway from a ‘rich man’s daughter’. I guess the doll was happy, if it had a heart. Because this little girl was hugging tight the rag at her bossom. Like a motherbird.

I offered her anything she liked. She was all round-eyes! She was repeatedly looking at me; not believing that somebody was actually offering her something to choose. Beggars cannot be choosers. Probably she has heard it already. And have understood by now.

She chose to have a pink biscuit. The one that you know is laced with cheap untested food colours. As an adult, you would always stay away from it, but to a baby, it’s irresistible.

After she finished eating it, she smiled coyly at me. Not sure if asking one more would be wise enough. I assured her to go on and try one more item. Since we both didn’t understand each others' language, it was all gestures.

She pointed her finger to me. I immediately understood that she is now depending upon my judgment. That pink biscuit didn’t taste great. Must be. I offered her rose-cake, which she devoured with great satisfaction. All the way I was looking at her gleaning eyes. She was very happy. So was I. she was looking at me furtively time-to-time. Whenever our eyes met she was smiling coyly. But there were flashes of pure bliss in her eyes, may be gratitude. I am not very good in reading signals of the eyes.

I noticed, despite her dirty clothes and appearance, she is a baby with exceptional beauty. Her hair is thick. Teeth are perfect, shoulders are slender and fingers elongated. This is what we call the hands of a sitar artist. She is fair and has a perfect nose. Very unlikely she is from South India. Her features doesn’t match that of South Indians. But probably she has been raised here. Because she was speaking the local language. Who knows she might have been from a good family. You get to see photos of one year old missing in newspaper almost everyday. Who knows, her parents, may be in Delhi are still waiting for her. Asking about her parents would be futile though.

She was satisfied by now. Her tiny stomach filled. With the help of a local, I asked her where she lives, she pointed towards North. Having known her address, I asked her whom she stays with. She said mother! And lo, her mother was present there, right in front of us. Waiting for her chance to be fed in the bakery.

As soon as I looked at her, she started doing all sorts of antics, as if she has not eaten for years. She was staring at the glass display like a greedy and looking at me in a hapless manner. Yeah, I am the savior.

She was dark, actually charcoal-black. Stout and had square, short fingers. The kind of fingers I hate from the core of my heart. No way that she was her mother. I asked her (with the help of the local guy) where from she got her. She said she was her mother. We coaxed her and told her to say the truth. But she was adamant. And hungry!

I decided not to give her anything, not a single paisa. She followed for a good distance and finally gave up the chase. I think she uttered some curse too.

I came home. And after some brain-storming with my cousin and her friends, decided to ADOPT the girl! Or at least, making an arrangement under which she get proper care and a proper education. I will pay for her living and education. I would admit her in a good orphanage. I was sure that the girl did not belong to that woman. And I was also sure, as is the fate of these girls; they will be forced into the flesh trade as soon as they are twelve. They will be sold.

So why not ‘sell’ me. We decided to offer the mother five thousand rupees to give the kid to us. Somebody suggested informing the police before I do anything. Valid point! I had to agree. The whole night we devised the plan. I was an overnight hero.

Morning, the same time, I went to that place only to find a different person replacing the girl. It was a boy of around the same age. I searched for my little girl the whole day, across the city. Asking everybody. But she and her ‘mother’ were not to be found.

It’s three months now. And I am sure, she must be somewhere in India...begging, clutching another piece of torn doll and dreaming. It’s a huge country. Many cities. No chance of getting her. No way.

To narrow down my search options, I have to wait ten years. There are innumerable cities. Whereas, the number of brothels are not that many.

2007-06-16T03:54:00.000+05:30

today is the birthday of my ex. happy birthday snigdha. may God bestow you His infinite blessings.

will it rain today?

2007-05-26T20:02:00.000+05:30

The evening is cut short by heavy dark clouds. Will it rain today?

I wish it rains today. After may be two-three years, I am in a mood to enjoy the rainfall. When I was in Shillong, it was a headache. Because it always rain there. There was nothing new in it. Cherapunjee, which receives the highest rainfall in the world, is only 40 km from Shillong.

But will it rain today in Bangalore? May the Rain-Goddess be kind to the city today; Let it rain cats and dogs. I am in a mood to immerse myself in the music. May be, who knows, if mood permits, I will run to the terrace and not leave until I feel I have caught a really bad cold and going to fall sick soon. But I am in a mood to be the instrument, let the raindrops strike the chord in me. I will sing today. Will it rain today?

It’s long since I didn’t attempt to write a poem. I have lost touch with my mother-tongue Bengali. I want to write in Bengali today. For that I need to open myself. Let my pores absorb the music of a drizzle. Let the Rain-Goddess bless Bangalore today. Will it rain today?

I remember, when we were kids, me and my sister, we used to beg father to let us bunk our studies and enjoy the rainfall. The pungeant smell of freshly-drenched earth reminded us the smell of mother. The all reassuring smell!

Me and Jhumu, our nose poking outside the window used to inhale the most fragrant perfume in earth. It was not enough for us. As if we wanted to bottle the perfume and keep it at our bedside. It was a strange smell; it was a strange experience, a strange feeling. I always wanted to run out of the house and never return. I wanted to break free every time the smell invaded the whole earth.

Our face hard-pressed against the iron grill, we used to see the distant light in the lamppost getting hazier. Soon it used to shine like a holy man’s ring. Our eyes ... round, wide open, fresh, eager, moist, were filled with dreams. Dreams of growing up soon. We would then reach that lamppost and touch the holy ring, without getting scolded by parents.

We were spell-bound by the small rivers and springs and pools formed here and there. Who knew, that curve where I peed everyday, and that crack which I passed everyday without even noticing had such potential. Who knew that they were a piece of art waiting to be carved out? Soon we would wonder seeing the heavy rains inundating the nearby fields and making everyplace “water water everywhere”. We were the favorites of the rain Goddess. Soon she used to fill our hearts with so much joy that we, me and my sister Jhumu, used to hold our hands and dance and sing. Our stock was very little and often we ended up singing our national anthem…without giving a damn of maintaining a proper etiquette. As the rain transformed the earth, many a times we transformed our national anthem, a must to learn and thus the only full song in our collection, into rock-and-roll thingy.

And there was music, a tune; the notes of which I have forgotten as soon as I grew up. The notes, which I used to effortlessly relate to, and which used to make me somber. I have forgotten them. I am desperately searching for the notes one more time.

Oh! When did I grow up? Why did I grow up? Why?

I know, I am a sinner now and the Rain Goddess won’t let me get atune to her. She is now striking the hearts of her new aficionados; somebody somewhere on earth has now pressed his/her face against the window and watching the distant lamppost. The holy man’s ring of light.

But at least, I will try to recollect the notes. I will pray to her today. I will put all my vileness, schemes, meanness and perjury behind and again will press my face against the grill today. Let the thunderbolt strike it. Let there be no chance of escape. Who wants to escape to return to this world of futility? If She forgives me and claims me back with her blaze, I will be the most happiest. I will get back my notes. This time I can really touch the holy man’s ring. Without anybody objecting. Earlier it was father who prevented me going out. Now it was me, the clever and practical me. The foolish me.

Ah! Finally, I will get rid of myself!! What a relief!

But, will it rain today?

good morning

2007-05-10T10:32:00.000+05:30

Today I decided to say “good morning” to everybody I met. Familiar faces, not so familiar faces, but may be with whom I was forced to interact sometime back, I decided to say good morning to everybody I met in the morning. You don’t need a psychiatrist to certify that I am a highly unsocial guy. Almost to the point being an anti-social, minus the brawn. I hardly talk to people whom I don’t know very well or with whom I feel my ‘chemistry’ is not matching.

And now I am writing this, as I feel a positive Chinese ‘chi’ of Indian origin (to be specific Bangalore origin) caressing my mind and body.

The tea shop owner, whom I have never seen smiling, responded with a blush, and after a brief halt said, “good morning”. This greeting is not at all common in India, definitely not among the common masses who won’t greet you with a good morning, unless they really mean it. If they say good morning, they really wish you a good morning and good day ahead.

It’s not like the well-dressed stranger in an elevator who would smile looking at you and greet you with a morning note, without even caring whether he really meant a good day ahead for the stranger. Yes, I am proud of the fact that Indians are not into western artificiality. It’s constricting and is overtly a make over.

But, today, I decided to find it out myself how a simple greeting like “good morning’ could change my attitude towards my rather cynical outlook towards these fake western ‘manners’.

So I said good morning to the tea-vendor. He was obviously taken aback. May be, never in his career he had heard a ‘good morning’ from his complaining but regular customers. Indians complain a lot. He knows it by now. If somebody would crib that there is less sugar in the tea, other would frown about the tea becoming syrup. But the fact that they continue coming to the shop is testimonial to the fact that they indeed love the tea. Otherwise they won’t come. But they will never say if they are pleased when a good tea is served. The silence of argumentative Indians should be read as high praise.

Anyway, he took some time to adjust and digest. Suddenly the fifty-year-old pretended as a teenager and blushed. He gaped his mouth in approval (I saw four of his teeth missing, a never before discovery) and politely replied, “good morning good morning…the usual full-tea for you sir?”

“Oh yes, sure. You know my choice.”

And stupid both of us were smiling at each other as if we had a clandestine understanding.

I moved on and purchased a pack of cigarettes, I said “good morning, may I have a pack of gold-flake kings please”. And lo, the shop-keeper ignored the other customers and handed me the packet. “Good morning,” he said.

I was riding in my motorcycle back home when I saw another biker coming with the head-light on. I surprised myself by volunteering to warn him that the bike’s light was on (generally I enjoy seeing these goof-ups). I signaled while still riding and the man got it. He switched off the light and smiled, which only meant he was really really thankful. It’s an Indian way of saying “thanks a lot”. For my western readers, if any day, you bump upon an Indian saying “thank you” without a gleaming smile on his face, you can be assured, he is not thankful at all. Merely, he is becoming formal to you. But if he smiles approvingly and keeps silent, you can well assume he doesn’t want to utter the word “thanks” and belittle his gratefulness towards you. West is west and orient is orient, even in the days of globalization. And I pray it always remain so. But I still like the Urdu style of saying thanks. “Shukriya”! With the right hand at the chest, a little bent, and a serious grateful expression on the face; I just love it! On the contrary, take a typical westerner. He says thanks and ‘thank you’ in everything. He is perennially thankful to everything in life. But he doesn’t forget to shout “fuck you bastard” at the slightest inconvenience. Whew! Extreme edition!

So I was happy that the man smiled back at me.

I was parking my bike when the neighboring uncle, who was recovering from Parkinson, came out of the gate a little wobbly. “Good morning uncle,” I said. He gave me a lop-sided smile. “A very good morning young man,” he uttered the words with some difficulty.

We smiled back at each other. I knew the old man’s day was made. He is very frail and feels happy whenever somebody asks about him. I can understand his psyche. Generally I always halt in my way to ask about how he was recovering, whenever we cross our path. So that was not a major out-of-the-box experimentation from me.

But my greatest reward came when I met my landlord. He just had waked up and was brushing. Generally I am afraid of this man. He maintains an air around him which warns any loafer like me not to mess with him. But I must say, he has a heart of gold. Because of him, I got my internet connection after all.

So I carried my experimentation a little bit further and dared to greet him. “Good morning uncle”. He was very happy! He was very very happy! Against all his inhibitions about boys of my age, he stopped and asked me if I was facing any problem in the house. Whether I was facing any problem in this thirsty Bangalore where water is a perennial problem now. He asked me whether I needed a new lock for my room as it had broken.

Though I had some problems and repairing the lock is a priority now, I decided to return the goodwill. I don’t need anything now. I am happy in whatever you as a house-owner is availing me with. I am satisfied and happy for where I am living.

My house-owner was happy. So was I.

And the dog at the terrace! The staircase being outside the house, this dog comes to the terrace and sleep in the night. Often in the clothes that are kept for drying and fall from the wire.

Earlier, when I used to come from my office at night, this dog used to freak out and run for his dear life, tail tucked under the belly. But of late he has realized I am also a homeless dog like him and he has no danger from me what so ever. In fact, for the last fifteen days I am giving him biscuits (though careful not to make him my pet). So he was least afraid when I came at the terrace to have a morning smoke.

After some initial gymnastics, he came to me wagging his tail. I pat on his head. He yelped. Being a dog myself I perfectly understood his language.

“Oh thank you. A very good morning to you too dear. Wait here, I will fetch your biscuits.”

While coming to my room, I realized these western greetings are not without a cause. These are the cheapest way to let your vanity go and socialize and feel akin to realize your duty in this world. That to live and let live and that humans are waiting to be touched.

It’s no harm if you say you love them, you care. It only makes you wealthier. Now I will try to be a little nicer to people I interact daily. Hmmm…not everything in west is a complete decadence, I must say!

Good morning my dear westerners. A very nice day to you.

Confessions of a drunk

2007-05-07T08:26:00.000+05:30

Of late I have become very introspective. Very calm and deep in thoughts, or not thinking at all. I don’t know why this introspection, but I guess this is a kind of a stage in a man’s life. It’s allmost unavoidable as mid-life crisis, I guess.

I have started questioning my existence. Why am I here in the first place. I am 27-28 now and what have I achieved in life? In the sense, what was the need for me to take birth at all? Just to add to the numbers? But it was my firm belief that every little particle in this earth has some kind of purposes. It was my belief…may be a year-ago. When I was a little younger.

I think this age at a man’s life is quite revolutionizing, in the sense, it’s just like teens, when you are coming out of your childhood and is quite undecided of the world in front of you. You see people are responding differently to you. You get excited and astonished hearing your own voice, why blame others?

I guess my age has also some kind of connotation in the growth process. I am approaching thirty. My body has started depositing fat. I could feel the heaviness. I am getting bulkier. Whereas at one point of time, I was wondering why my cheeks should not be fleshy enough, why it should remain like that of a Somalian drought victim? Ah…I hope I get those lithe look. It was much better. My face was not good enough to hook a girl. No, I never expected a girl to get impressed by my appearance. So I concentrated on other tricks. Now that I am putting on weight, I don’t think I have the urge to impress chicks anymore.

Oh, I digressed…sorry. I was talking about this age being a crucial point. Two-and-a-half year and I will be in my thirties. Gosh! Can’t believe it. I still can remember the day I celebrated my twenty. And my twenty-one is still vivid in my eyes for several reasons, feels like yesterday. Twenty-four, I got my first job. I left Calcutta and started for Shillong. I still remember mother was packing my goods when tears rolled my eyes. I realized, for the first time, that the boat is lifting its anchor. It will never return to its original port. No…the safety, security, callousness and happy-go lucky attitude has suddenly vaporized. Now it’s the time to fend myself. From this point, I have to fend myself and possibly a many others.

When I was saying goodbye to Maa and touched her feet, she started crying so heavily, I felt like dropping my baggage and settle for the old life again. But the call from the wide wild world was too tempting to resist. That time I took my mother’s love for granted. Years of undiluted love from my parents and siblings made me thought that love is very cheap and is very tiring.

Oh! How wrong I was. Love is the only factor that keeps a human being running. The commodity that was in abundance at a point of time became so scarce now, that I became shameless in snatching some kind of love from somebody. Love, that doesn’t demand back.

When I was in Shillong, we had Tultul-di in canteen. She was the didi, or elder sister of everybody, including me. But quickly I found a mother in her. May be because, others were all locals and had a family, nobody cared for the deep love and affection her heart stored. I was lonely and was desperately searching for somebody who would shower me with unconditional love. Just like my mother. She quickly became a mother-replacement for me. So much so that, till this date, I feel a duty and responsibility towards her as her son would have felt for her. I don’t know. May be when she is old and frail and not able to look after herself properly, I might bring her back to stay with me, with my family. Though she has a family of her own, but I guess it should not be a problem. She is not married and her family is really her brothers’.

After almost one-and-half year, I left Shillong. Now this time, I learnt the greatest lesson in my life. I learnt, that I am a shitty emotional guy and quite incapable of controlling my emotions and be harsh enough to do a career for myself. I realized I spread my roots too much. It was paining very much to detach myself from my second home Shillong. I was in love with Didi. I was in love with my office, I had a Guru and brother in E.M. Jose, our chief reporter. It had become a habit to feed all the stray dogs in the locality early in the morning. All the dogs used to sit just outside my door waiting for me to wake up.

I used to get only Rs. 1,500, or a little more than U.S. $30 a month. There were many days when I had to go empty stomach, too ashamed to ask Didi to give me something to eat because I didn’t had money to pay her. But I never forgot to buy a full loaf for my dogs in Shillong. I used to save money only for that purpose. And many a times, we used to share the loaf. I used to divide it into six parts. One for me and the rest for the five pets.

At first, I used to loath this poverty. I am from a quite well-off family. I had everything, every comfort possible under the sun at my home in Calcutta. But soon I was in love with my poverty. At last something was my own!

When the call came to leave for Bangalore, I was ecstatic that my new salary would give me all those comforts and many more that I left behind. But when the day of parting came close by, I was at a loss. It was a painful, very very painful experience. I remember I stopped crying only when I reached Guawahati. For the last three- four hours, I was crying. I partied whole night. A very humble party that my Chief Reporter EM Jose had organized for me. Mcdowell whisky with water from the nearby spring and chicken.

Five of us--Jose, me, Om, Naresh and Sumit Kar sat at the room just below the printing press. The giant press was printing the morning edition with a deafening sound that gives you a headache. The entire room was shaking. We were oblivious of what might happen if the ceiling caves in. I was happy my paper was getting published. Page one being subbed by my. I was the one responsible for selecting the news for the page one. It was an honour that no amount of money can give you. Waking up in the morning and seeing a group of people scrambling for and reading the paper in a group done by you…it’s a heavenly experience.

They gave me the first printout. I left Shillong and my heart behind.

From that point of time I have decided not to fall in love with anything that is for momentary and temporary. Nope, I am not in love with Bangalore, because I was too careful to spread my roots here. But still I get weak and fumble when I see somebody extending me love. It’s quite scary! I try to my best to avoid that person and even stop communicating with him/her. Still he/she thinks that it was a wrong person to shower love to.

Actually, after Shillong, I realized that I am a boat. My anchor has been lifted. Now I have to drift along. It’s no good to fall in love with the weeds holding you momentarily. It becomes painful later on.

But I have become introvert and am brooding on the past. Doesn’t make sense to write this long, but these days I am not writing for anybody. I am writing for myself. So I won’t mind if you decide to leave in the mid-way.

Until some time back, I thought I have some purpose in life and that I am not an ordinary man. That I won’t let me become an ordinary man.

But after some incidents and as I mature, it’s quite evident that being a common man is the highest achievement a man can get. To live life unnoticed, unhindered, unlicensed and to die without thinking too much about anything. No, I am serious. A common man with no aspiration is the most clever and practical man possible. Why get fooled nurturing high ambitions? Why not try to be a good ordinary man, who cries at a little injustice and laughs at the slightest silly joke. Why not be an ordinary man?

But then, why these thoughts are crossing my mind? Is that because I am going to touch thirty? Is that because I am getting heavier and don’t have the physical might to challenge the world. So settling down for a much accepted escape route is wise and prudent? Am I compromising with my dreams?

No, I don’t think so. I think everybody has this realization at some point in their life. At some point of time a man is forced to think the purpose of his life. I think I have decided my own fate.

I will live and die a commoner. How dare I challenge and provoke the ancient wisdom of a commoner?

And I think like a commoner, I should settle soon. It’s time to heed mother’s plea. I will get myself a wife very soon. I will have a family of my own. I need rest and some warmth. And if possible, love!

2007-05-03T22:36:00.000+05:30

What a sad end! Lovers, please mourn her death.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/6619983.stm

2007-05-01T00:42:00.000+05:30

I am sorry darling. I cannot kiss you today. I’ve got influenza!

2007-04-17T21:18:00.000+05:30

Somebody was right. Birth, marriage and death cannot be predicted. Read this tell-tail love story! Courtesy: BBC

Straight from an insane's diary

2007-04-12T17:14:00.000+05:30

(I have four blogs. Two public and two private. One of my private blogs has got enough evidence to burn me at stake by the people who think I love them. The other one is where I write insane things like this. Daily ramblings. When I didn’t have the internet connection, I used to update it every week with seven write-ups going to the internet café. But I can update it regularly now. Since you will never get the link of the explosive blogs ever in this life, and I am pretty sure, you don’t want that too…for a change, I decided to post one of my ramblings in this blog. It was longer and full of names, needless to say I have deleted all of them. Today I strained my left heel when my bike landed on a pothole. I had written and posted this just before the accident. I was going to a bakery. I took that as a sign that this post would offend somebody. I decided to delete it. And I deleted it before going to sleep. But after waking up I realized there is a hidden Kaushik in me who would not allow me to rest peacefully as long as I don’t post it again. So, here it is again. Heavily edited. Enjoy, but don’t blame.)

Finally, I have decided to take charge of my life. Though I don’t have any specific idea as how to do that. No roadmap. But I guess, I will start from the very basic. I know it would not be that easy to take control of a life that is led astray by amazing heights of tomfoolery and happy-go-lucky attitude.

But I know myself. The amazing power that God has bestowed me with, to control my emotions and desires and focus on a particular point, is second to none. I have a pretty strong character. And once I decide to do something, not even my inner voice would convince me to stop from doing that.

I know I will change myself completely…completely.

From childhood I have this feeling that I will be pretty short-lived. I don’t know why, but I know, my sixth sense tells me, I will not live to see my forties. Earlier I used to panic, but these days it’s comforting for me.

I am getting pretty early signs too. Three packets of cigarettes a day has almost done me in. I cannot have a hearty laugh with my friends. When they joke and laugh loudly, I cannot join them with a loud blast because my chest pains. I know, I have almost destroyed my systems. It’s just a matter of time before I will be recalled. My role in this world is almost done. But before that, I have some job to do.

I got to finish my book. Fast, very fast. Nope, I will not wait for muse to whisper in my ears. Like a disciplined student, who, with his sincerity and dedication, if not intellect, impresses the Guru and gets his blessings, I will sit regularly in front of my computer and tear out the ideas that taking roots in my mind. I just want to get rid of these weeds. Ideas are like germs. They make you sick. For the past six months I am suffering from a sickness. And it is increasingly getting difficult for me to get free. To concentrate on things I love. To pay attention to the tit bits of life. Whenever I am trying to do something which demands some attention, I get reminded of the fact that I have an unfinished business. The book that mistakenly I started, need to be finished soon, very soon. It’s disturbing me a lot. I just want to get rid of it. I have given myself a time frame of six months. I have to finish the business within six months man! It’s so tiring, it’s so frustrating. I was waiting for the muse to give me ideas and force me to sit and type those and shrug it off from my entrails…but the muse, it seems, is busy. I am not writing anything for weeks at ends. In the process, my other works are getting hampered. Neither I am concentrating here, nor could I concentrate on my other businesses. It’s fucking frustrating.

But I have always believed in signals and hints. I don’t know who sends them…God or Devil. But I have always believed you get signals and hints for anything you undertake in life. My dear friend has decided to start his book (God bless his pen…if I get even ten percent of his power). Though I have started mine a long time back…I take it as a signal. I have decided to finish mine.

But it needs some discipline to tame my wild habits. I need to be more serene and domestic. I have cut down on my drinking habit. Now I have to cut down smoking. Possibly I will try to stop it altogether. At least, I should try not to smoke before I finish my project. Instead of playing computer games all the time and getting a headache, I should concentrate on doing more productive things like forcefully sitting to write, playing with an idea and giving it all the possible outcomes it deserves and finally zeroing in one and developing the trunk.

I don’t have a fascination for women anymore. I have had a fair share of them. All kinds of them. All secrets unveiled. I had to take the antacid of spirituality to digest my women-mania. One fine sunny day, waking up, I decided that I will not think about sexy women and porn anymore. That was the end of significant contacts with the opposite sex. But yes, I pined for true love. I pine for it still now. But nobody’s eyes reflected what I sought. I found a glimpse in one. But may be, she didn’t find that in me. End of story. A major problem solved. There is absolutely nothing which can take me away from my writing and I have plenty of time to concentrate on my job at hand.

How I want to get rid of this project man! It’s such a messy job. I have told my editor about that. And surprisingly he also says he also wants to get rid of it. We both want to shrug it off from our system.

Sometime I think of my editor. Funny guy with an Indian flute-like voice. Full of enthusiasm and life. He thinks as an eighteen year old and fucking I behave like eighty. Man....where from these westerners get all these energies? What do they eat? Beef? Shit. I would prefer to die before I even taste one. Indian cows have the most beautiful eyes among all animals. How can one kill such an animal just for the sake of eating? Thank God I am a conservative Hindu. I respect and maintain my Hindu food habits (Muslims and Christian friends and those Hindus who eat beef…no issues please. Don’t misunderstand me. You are all my dearest friends minus the food habit.)

Holy cow…I was saying about my editor. He is a Pentium dual core processor, meant for multi-tasking. One day when we meet, I will definitely challenge this man for a boxing round, just to see his stamina and lust for life. I am sure I will be knocked off at the first round.

At this age also he is learning new things everyday and implementing them in his daily life. He proudly proclaims in the non-existence of God because it makes Him like a master and the rest slaves. He despises the idea. Oldie, don’t you fear the Judgment day? See the other oldies in my country. I have seen a brave man…who once kicked an idol and defiled it by urinating in it, has become so God fearing these days! He knows his days are ending. He knows now he has to move to the new house. Better please the new house owner from the old house itself. Bastards!!!

We in India owe British much. True they ruled us for two hundred years (is that a significant time for history?) and prosper their bloody rain-drenched country, but the idea of India, in the truest sense have come from them. Bloody, if they would not have been here, Karnataka and Bengal would have been separate countries. I would have to apply for Visa and Passport to work in Bangalore. We have twenty six states now. It could have been easily, at least, 15 countries…had they not been here. If they would have been here for fifty more years, I am sure; they would have made us all Indians. And not just Bengalis and Kannadas and Tamils and Kashmiris and Malayalis…we would have been Indians. One Nation. One thundering voice! We are effectively now twenty six nations. That day somebody challenged me in Basavanagar to speak in Kannada, or else he would smash my bike. Since I am in Karnataka, it’s my solemn duty to know Kannada. I didn’t have the balls to protest. I could not say on his face that Hindi is the national language and that I can speak in Hindi anywhere in India. Knowing Hindi should be enough to survive anywhere in India. I simply didn’t have the balls man. Because I knew, Hindi is the national language just in the Hindi-speaking belt. In Bengal, we frown to hear Hindi and get all gleeful if a non-bong speaks in Bengali. The entire India is full of tribal. We are all well-educated tribal. We are simply not Indian. The British should have stayed more with us. I am sure; they would have made us all Indians.

Ooops…who’s saying that? Am I not from a family of revolutionaries? Didn’t two of my ancestors get hanged and one went missing forever for plotting against British Raj?

Shame…shame you scum…you shamed our blood. Tut tut…go die!

So where were I? who cares? It’s 8 AM now. You came from the office at 6. Now you are feeling sleepy. Go, have some tea and refreshment from the bakery and shut your fucking insomniac eyes. When you wake up you change your dirty habits and concentrate on your work. But I need a laptop man. I need it I need it I need it. Curse me if I can’t land a Compaq or HP soon.

overexposed profile photo

2007-04-11T16:21:00.001+05:30

pentax 50 mm fixed

universal magnifier

f 2.8

1/500

film fuji 100

vivitar body

12.30 pm

my first rose in shillong.

2007-04-06T17:26:00.000+05:30

finally got an internet connection at home. bsnl was dilly-dallying to give me the connection because there was no room for a new connection. the local cable guy was charging me rs. 5,500 for laying a fibre-optics cable. no way, i am not going to give those bastards money they don't deserve.

thanks to my house owner's son fahad khan, who was courteous enough to share his internet connection through an ethernet cable, i am writing this post. my first post from my pc. he is an engineer and knows a hell lot of stuff. i cannot even imagine what he did. what complications man! life is not simple.

three cheers for faddu.

life on a choppy sea

2007-04-04T00:58:00.000+05:30

My relationship with Snigdha was a choppy one. We were not happy. We used to insult each other everyday, every moment. But still we didn’t want the relationship to end. Though we were not married our relationship was a sacred bond.

We were bound by some promises. Though foolish and lofty it might sound today, but we were hell-bent to respect the sanctum sanctorum of the promises.

It’s seven years now we met. How wise were we? How mature? We were two arseholes desperate to love and be loved.

And we loved each other, madly...

But then…

It’s quite strange that we agreed to come closer without knowing anything about each other. We were complete strangers.

I wonder what made her come to me? She was beautiful. I was ugly. She said she found in me a person whom she can depend with her life. I don't believe her. I was not the kind of person she was looking for.

I don’t remember what were my demands that time. What criterions a girl should pass before she becomes my girlfriend. But I vaguely remember, she passed none.

It was a fatal mistake (and I am thankful to God for that).

So nobody met the other's criterions. But we ended up in a relationship. Two completely strangers…inhabitants of two poles.

For the first six months we struggled to love each other. And then, when we realized we actually LOVE each other…the relationship become violent. Both of us were not ready to accept the truth.

When I say violent, I mean it. We both were violent. It was a strange relationship. A bloody one. At the alter of love, we bleed ourselves and got sick. Belittling each other in front of others, especially strangers, was our favourite game. But everytime we repent it.

And then one day we were tired of all of this. We were tired…tired…tired. We decided to call it quits. By then we knew we can’t live without each other. But we also knew we can’t live together.

We cried under the banyan tree, hugging each other…for long. We were crying like babies. We knew life is never going to be same again. We tried, but could not agree to carry on the relationship.

We knew we both were sick psychos. Of an extreme nature. Which explains the attraction and the hatred.

We parted…

I left Calcutta…

Given an option, I am still ready to face the chin music from my tormentor. Oh lord…what a time. What a time…what an adventure. She is the only true woman I have ever seen. I can’t help compare others with my lady of substance. All fall flat on face.

I don’t care for security…I don’t care for love…I don’t care for a steady life. Life in choppy sea is what a true man desires. It made me tired, exhausted…but craving for more. Snigdha, you are on my eternal hate list. But you are the only lady I have loved so far…and I will remember you fondly all my life.

deletion of my last post

2007-03-29T02:23:00.000+05:30

I know I owe you an apology for deleting the last post (and your comments with that). I won’t be astonished if you decide not to come on my blog anymore. I know it was rather insulting.

But please give an opportunity to defend myself. I was on the seventh heaven Monday before getting the call from mother.

It was a wonderful flight. The Spicejet flight left Calcutta sharp at 2:40 pm and soon I was sailing pass the clouds. Giant clouds, whiter than snow. More beautiful than the most beautiful thing on earth. Standing tall as huge snowy mountains, without giving a damn to us. Some were so huge and majestic that our pilot joked, “We were supposed to fly straight, but I fear Mount Everest is blocking our route.” He said the cloud is full of thunderbolts and we will be fried instantly if we dare enter it.

And the spicejet chicks were the best examples of Indian hotties. Man, it was my best flight till date. I will never forget it.

But every good thing should have an end. So when I came down from my heaven and entered Bangalore airport, all things went awry. For example, I didn’t get my bag for half-an-hour. But I didn’t panic, I didn’t even tried to find it out. Because I was not the only one affected. There were five six bongs too who had lost their baggage momentarily. I have full faith on the race. I know they will somehow find theirs, and thus will find mine too. I just have to stick with them. But that’s a different story, a very interesting one that I plan to write sometime.

But it was before the bag fiasco when I got a call from my mother. She is always anxious about her children. So much so that we have started taking her as granted. But not this time. Instead of asking how my journey was she thundered: Why you and your cronies are harassing that poor Sayantani?

“How do you know that? She complained to you or what? Anything is possible by that girl.”

“No…your sister told me. She in fact translated whatever you and your friends had to write about that poor girl. Weren’t you ashamed? How can you write such derogatory thing about a girl? Don’t you have a sister? What if somebody writes about her something like this?”

“I will probably kill him,” I was determined.

“Than why you have written all these things in your dirty blog?”

“Because first she is not my sister; second, I don’t have the moral courage to consider her my sister anytime before I am seventy and third, I am sure she doesn’t have any elder brother.”

“Shame on you.”

I knew she was losing the argument. So instead of logic, she was resorting to emotions. I was happy.

Soon she handed over the phone to my sister. She had just returned from the court. Instead of going for corporate law, she opted for criminal law so that she can hang, or at least, imprison for life all the men in this world.

She snatched the phone from mother. She didn’t shout. She never shouts. She is like phantom. Her voice is enough to chill your very bones.

“What have you written in your blog, you rascal.”

“That has got nothing to do with you. Mind your own business,” I hissed. Because I knew if I continue fighting for long and let her take control of the situation, I will be devastated. Offence is the best defence, they say.

“Of course it has got something to do with my job. You can be booked under penal code x, xx, xxx, xxxx, and xxx for sexual harassment, defamation, abusing freedom of speech and dishonoring a woman’s modesty.”

“You mean, if Sayantani complaints? But she is a good woman. She loves me as her own brother.”

“It’s not necessary that sayantani should complaint. Anybody can. On behalf of her. So to say on behalf of women as a whole. And you and that shuv will be spending fifteen years behind bars.”

“Oh…OK.”

“Just to add, Sayantani’s last comment was reason enough that she is considering to sue you.”

“oh…ok.” I hung up.

Then what. Soon after I entered the office, I logged on to blogger and deleted the post.

Sayantani doesn’t need to be my sister. I don’t want that too. She doesn’t need to be like my sister either. But if she has got even 1 percent of what my sister is made of, then…I would have to change my dress and address soon.

Indian jails are not that tech savvy. They don’t have internet connection. Just imagine, to save one post, you would have missed thousands of mine and shuv’s future posts.

Now tell me, would you still stay away from my blog?

2007-03-13T18:20:00.000+05:30

Mother is ensuring that I always carry an antacid. People are treating me in such luxuries!! Man...

I am at home now. Yay Yay Yay...

No worries, no tension. Life can be so beautiful when you don't have to think about yourself and let your parents and friends take care of you. Yay Yay Yay...

2007-03-07T16:17:00.000+05:30

Life is so short. Why can’t we keep aside all our ambitions, apprehensions, jealousy, caste, creed, and religion…cultures? And just live for each other…just as two human beings in need of each other, two human beings dependent on each other. Like a servant and a master at the same time…why can’t we live for the sake of love itself?

I love you.

missed call

2007-03-02T22:44:00.000+05:30

The cab driver who came to pick me up this week is a funny guy, though he doesn’t realize it.

He doesn’t know a single word in Hindi and probably no idea what English is. He is a pure Kannadiga. Namma Bangaluroo types.

He is a kind of guy, who will piss you to no end, but you cannot hold your anger for long. For he is a pure-heart. A kind of guy who smiles even without a reason and takes life very casually.

Probably he is a new joiner and as such is very cautious as how he addresses us. His is the most mechanical “good afternoon sir” I have ever heard.

The rule is that when the driver comes to pick us up, he should come near the house and give a missed call. We are supposed to come and sit in the cab.

Start of the week, in Monday, it’s always a problem. Because you don’t know how many people are there in the pick up list and what time the cab would come and give a missed call.

But once you have been picked up, you know it very well about the pickup list and the timing of your cab. You get ready ten minutes before you get the missed call.

But since our driver this week is an extraordinary gentleman, he would give me at least three missed calls before he comes to my place. First one to tell me what time he would be coming, second to alert that he had started from the office to pick me up and the third to tell me he is just ten minutes away from my house and the final one to inform the cab is at the doorstep. I am supposed to call him back in the first two times. Once I didn’t call. Anxious he called me back to say, “Saar…cancelled?” I didn’t take a chance after that.

At least four hours before he picks me up, he would give me a missed call. I would return his call only to hear him say, “good morning saar. 2:45 awternoon.” Rather pissed that I need to call him for this bullshit and waste my precious one rupee, I always hung up saying a rather rude OK. Often forgetting he was the only person to greet me in the morning. And probably he is the only person who would address such a useless creature as “sir”.

Soon after ten minutes, he would call me. “sir…2:40 awternoon.” Since we both don’t understand each others’ language we would try to exchange minimum words. From my side it would be (in English): 2:40…not 2:45?

--2:45??? No 2:40 saar. 2:35…Ok 2:35--2:40 saar. 4 pickups. One cancel 2:50.

Now how you will deduce what this guy is saying.

Totally perplexed, I would want to make sure what time this guy would come in. I would say in Hindi, “What time exactly you will come in boss? Time…Time?”

He would laugh, “Hindi gottilla saar”. Which means he doesn’t know Hindi.

Now he would try to make me understand in his native language. Soon I had to say “Kannada gottilla boss.” Then both party would start laughing. At least, we understand this universal language.

Once I tried telling him he need not give me missed calls every day to repeat the same timing. That, even if he doesn’t inform me about the time, I would be ready by the same time he came yesterday. That way I can save my unnecessary call charges and also sleep a little more.

So after putting much restraint to my eloquence, I told him he need not give me missed calls before he comes. It went like this (again in English): Boss, no missed calls before 2:30.

He stopped his car and said something in Kannada that totally flew over my head. But I could gather something as an astonished “cancelled?”

--No…no cancellation…but…no missed calls…you come to this point…give me missed calls. Before that no missed calls.

His gestures told me he is suspecting my intellect. How you would know if I have come to your place, if I don’t give a missed call…he conveyed that with his language and gestures.

I also tried replying to him in the same way…but this time in my native language. "Khankir chele, ekhane asaar age leora missed call dibina. Shuorer baccha tor OK shunte giye amaar teen taka kharcha hoi.” (don’t give me missed calls before you come to the spot. I had to spend three rupees just to hear your stupid OK).

Perhaps he understood. Because he shook his head vigorously and said “Calcutta”. As is the case with all stupid non-bongs who know only three tortured words, he smiled, “aami tomake bhalobashe” (I love you). That was yesterday.

Today I didn’t get any missed call. And at three-o-clock when I didn’t get the usual one, I called the transport helpdesk.

The in-charge, with whom I have developed a good friendship in the two years of my job here, picked up the phone and wished me a nice holiday in Calcutta. “Convey my regards to your parents. Have a blast,” he said.

After trying to remain calm for a while, I returned his good wishes. “Thank you, I will.” I disconnected.

ENOUGH

2007-02-24T01:44:00.000+05:30

I am pissed off! Don’t play with my emotions darling; I can be a dangerous man. I was amiable, meek and sometimes allowed you to bully and cajole me. But, you should always remember you did whatever I allowed you to do…for my own entertainment. As a matter of fact, you neither had the intelligence or the cunningness to cheat me. I could see through whatever you were up to. Even a baby can. You have a fish brain.

And also, I always forgave you because I was soft on you. I had a strange kind of pity towards you. Just as a father has towards his kids! I knew you were foolish. And I was trying to defend you from this harsh world. I knew you were vulnerable. But you were sure of yourself. I couldn’t afford to leave you. It was a responsibility. A thankless one.

But that’s it. With your fish brain, if you think you can fool and cheat repeatedly and bully me to do things that I DON’T like, or DON’T want to do…then you are grossly mistaken.

I have tolerated enough of your crazy ideas. Tried to adjust, tried to mould myself…to attune to your cheap gimmicks. But in the secret corner of my heart I always repented for what I did to others. Couldn’t stare directly to the people whom I mistreated. The nasty wounds still didn’t heal. It hurts badly when suddenly I remember how ungrateful I was to my well-wishers and how roughly I handled them. I am almost robbed of my sleep remembering those incidents. ONLY BECAUSE OF YOU. Only to save our painful relationship!

Always a free bird and morally clean, you forced me to trudge in dirt. Tried to show me the world with your dirty eyes. ENOUGH. Nothing will do to ingratiate you to me again. After all these years, I confess, I never loved you. But I feared a break. Now I am afraid of any relationship. I have started to see girls as the agents of hell. Thanks to you, against my wish, I have turned into a misogynist. I HATE GIRLS.

Please don’t call me again. Don’t shed those crocodile tears. I know where from it is coming. Our relationship has ended five years now. You lost your chance. Don’t ever…ever try to reach me. You got what you always wanted. Now you are repenting.

I got what I never wanted. And I am rejoicing.

The making of a God

2007-02-19T17:38:00.000+05:30

“Why should I pay you for something that is destined to happen, quipped Relia.

“What obvious…,” I was quite surprised by his narcissism. “I will write for you and won’t charge you? Joke or what?”

“Useless, one day you will wake up and realize whatever I had said. You will realize you had the good fortune of interacting with God Himself. I don’t need to pay you. You will wake up suddenly and start writing my message to the world.”

“That is highly unlikely in the coming ten years or more, given that I see no chance of any mental imbalance on my part. But you never know old age. Oldies are bloody freaks! Take the example of my father. What if I forget everything by then? Don’t forget to leave your number if we are not working in the same office by that time. I will call and ask you to repeat your sermons,” I said sipping the tea.

“No dear, I don’t need to remind you anything. You will remember everything at that point. It will flash at your mind…like a movie scene,” Relia… calmly, coolly and composedly puffed the cigarette that we were sharing.

“Great…that would help,” I was comforted by my God’s assurance. And we ended the discussion there.

Just before coming to the tea shop, he crashed fifty-five jet planes in a short time of fifty-four minutes. Unharmed and bored, playing the flight simulator, he was visibly stirred by watching ‘Hitler’, a documentary where you could see what that psycho had done to Jews.

My God spent no time to chose his own God, his Hero. He anointed Hitler an example to follow. He quickly came to the conclusion that he should rule the world one day. And just like Hitler did to Jews, he will wipe the entire race of Bengalis from the face of this earth.

But, of course, that’s not before this Bengali finishes writing His lessons to mankind. Hail the new God. Om Tat Sat.

Follow-up on Valentine

2007-02-15T23:47:00.000+05:30

After going through the millions of applications carefully, I have decided to change my plan and stay single.

Mainly because:

I am happy to be a lonely heart
I don’t want to break hearts of all the beauties out there who would be dejected for getting rejected.

Definitely, love is in the air.

Thanks

Adventures of Piklu...Carnival

2007-02-15T00:10:00.000+05:30

It was raining heavily. Piklu was disappointed. For a full year he and his friends had waited for this day. Biswakarma Puja. The day of flying kites!

The whole sky becomes colourful on this day. Not only content with challenging the rivals, kids try to challenge the birds up there. Sometimes the results are disastrous. The hawks simply cut the thread with their sharp beaks! End of the dominance.

Piklu is seven-year old now. A master kite flier. He has a gang of people to assist him. It’s almost a carnival at the terrace. Father piles up huge amount of sweets and lozenges for all the participants. Mother would cook for all of them that day. There is enough provision of glucose and other energy boosting drink. Lest the warriors get exhausted.

And kites!

Of all kinds, colours and shapes. Piklu’s family is known in the whole locality for its kite-flying enthusiasm. Just bring your spool. Kites and foods and refreshments absolutely free! No worries till the sun sets.

No wonder all of the young enthusiasts wait for the day for a full year. End of the day when the sun sets, so sink their hearts.

They were ready with their thread-full of spools. The sky was clear and bright even the day before. But out of the blue…the sky tore apart just at seven in the morning. It was a heinous crime by the rain-God. The rain was of a peculiar kind. It was showering heavily at times and suddenly would stop. But not entirely; it would drizzle long after the showers have subsided. Than it would fall heavily again.

Piklu loves rain. The scent of the newly drenched earth reminds him of a far-off land. A land, he had left long before…but could not remember properly. Every time that overpowering smell engulfs the whole world, Piklu wants to break free and run. Though he doesn’t know where to run and what freedom from what;

But today he didn’t welcome the rain. He had bombarded the elders at home past night with his whys and whats and hows. And his sister was there to answer all of his questions patiently. His father was tired after some time. And mother frowned and pretended that she had more urgent things to do than answering his stupid questions. But didi is a darling. He loves his didi the most in the world. He planned to give didi a surprise today by flying his favourite kite where he had painted a big ‘DIDI’ word.

But nothing would work today. He and his cohorts saw helplessly the condition getting worst. The sky was getting dark. Heavy clouds were refusing to move and free the sun. Even their joint plea to the rain-God was not helping.

Their throats were almost dry by chanting together:

“lebur patai karamcha…jaa brishti theme jaa” (cherries on lemon-leaf…please, oh rain subside).

But may be the Gods are heartless these days.

Then the black clouds thundered. An old pain, almost forgotten, wrenched Piklu’s heart. Piklu was struggling to keep his tears under control. But the pearls were flowing down from his cheek unguarded. Piklu was sobbing now. So was his friends. It took a matter of time before all the kids were caught crying. It was worth a priceless photograph. There were no artificiality in them.

Day rolled into afternoon. The whole world was flooded. Everywhere there were small rivers flowing. There was no chance that the sky would clear up before the night. Tomorrow everybody has schools to go.

The kids, huddled together in the verandah, were watching breathlessly the motif of the rain. All the time they were holding their spools at hand. They had meals together in the verandah. One eye at the sky. Any hint of the rain stopping and they will invade the sky and flow their flags. But…

Piklu, now losing all hope was watching at the little streams flowing in front. He was following a leaf from a long distance. It was coming fast floating. It almost zoomed past Piklu. All topsy-turvy.

Soon the entire field was taken over by the kids. They were all ready with their paper-boats. Who is the best boat-maker? Who’s boat is going to make it to the end at the now overflowing pond or ‘sea’? Which boat going to leave it in between? Which one will sink? Which one will be turned over by the swift current of the ‘river Ganga’?

Soon didi suggested that the narrow path where their boats are getting stuck is Suez Canal. Who’s boat is going to dodge that suez canal and make it to the coast of ‘England’, after sailing from ‘Calcutta’? It became a major challenge. The prestige was at stake!

Finally, when the rain stopped and the sky cleared and the sun smiled at the evening, nobody bothered. Everybody was muddy and soiled and gay! Everybody was happy for the rain.

When the streams started to slow down, they started singing:

“Aay brishti jhepe…
Dhan debo mepe…”

(come rain with your full power…we will give you paddy accordingly…)

Valentine

2007-02-14T02:11:00.000+05:30

For my ex-girlfriends and their present boyfriends:

Happy Valentine's Day

For my future girlfriends:

RUSH...FIRST COME FIRST SERVE. I AM STILL SINGLE and FREE TO MINGLE!

criticism

2007-02-08T05:33:00.000+05:30

this is not fair. you slog hard for the day and at the end, you get criticism and brick-bats. i am not saying criticism is bad, but that of a heavy kind indeed hurts.

see, i helped this kid fly the kite, had a good time, and also made him proud to proclaim himself the king of the sky, when by our joint effort we managed to pack the other kids back to home and watch in envy our dominance over the sky.

he actually hired me for the entire kite-flying season. the contract being, his will be the finance and mine will be the expertise. i also consented that he has my full loyalty for this indian premiorship season. he soon crowned me the kite-king! the best he has ever seen in his five years of life.

we also let the kite fly as much as the threads in the spool allowed. it became tiny...really tiny...until the point that we had to guess where it was at the sky.

the kid invited all his friends and under an impromptu quota system invented by him, gave the other kids an opportunity to hold the spool for two-three minutes and feel the thrill.

but then, i lit the cigarette. the ash fell on the thread. the kite itself was out of sight. now we saw the thread vanish in an instant!

that is when the kid kicked me. but that didn't hurt me. neither physically, nor mentally. my exiting girlfriends always said i have a thick skin! a kiddy kick won't penetrate that.

seeing no remorse on my face, my employer threw the spool on me.

see now...noticed that swelling at my forehead? that is where the spool landed with its full force.

remedy please...i cannot go to meet my new chick with this scarred face...

gobsmacked!

2007-02-07T01:38:00.001+05:30

what a tough choice this beta blogger is (for a layman). i tried to change the layout and now all my settings have gone haywire. my office computer is not allowing me to debug the errors and errors are not letting me to change the settings as i want.

in the process, some links have vanished. some bloglinks have clubbed with others into a totally different header. it's a pain.

i promise i will fix this this saturday going into a cafe. by then, those who cannot see their blog link here, please don't be angry (i mean don't delete my link from your esteemed blog).

cheers

Madman

2007-02-06T02:13:00.000+05:30

You should not say obvious things which might hurt somebody. For example, you should not say a visually impaired as blind. Or, you should not call a physically challenged as lame. Or, you should not term my father, who is losing his grey cells very fast, as mad.

But, you cannot always control yourself. Like that day I yelled at him over the phone, “You are a mad man. No argument about that.” But he was not hurt, because the mobile he was using does not catch signals properly. It’s a first generation Nokia phone. The walky-talky types police carry in Calcutta along with their first world war rifles.

I am a very sober kind of person by nature. I don’t remember hurting anybody except my girlfriends…whom I used to chuck after courting for two months.

But, let me explain why I had to be rude to my father.

I got a phone call yesterday which froze my bones. As soon as I accepted the call a baritone voice roared: “Hello Mr. Roy, I am retired Colonel Bagchi reporting from point 335, I mean calling from Ballygunj. Let me introduce myself to you. I am a highly decorated army man from 1964’s batch. During the 1965 war, I was posted in Bihar and during the 1971 war, I was in Bangalore. At the time of the Kargil war, I was in charge of Calcutta. I retired last year and was long searching for you.”

My heart sank. Now what I have done on earth that a bombastic army colonel should search me for a long time. I managed to murmur, “sir, though I was in turbulent North-East and have covered insurgency extensively, I swear I don’t have any dealings with the militant group there. In fact, I have a good rapport with military and have cooperated with them when they wanted (do I have any other option?).”

“Oh Ok, so you were in North-East and covering insurgency. Let me note down.”

“So you didn’t know that sir,” I was almost cursing myself for letting him know my folly.

“No absolutely no.”

“Sir, if you don’t mind, may I ask what’s my fault? Why a highly decorated army man should call me searching? What have I done?”

“This was regarding your job.”

“But sir, I am twenty-eight years almost. And I have a poor eye sight. And a very poor physique. And an even poor state of courage to join army.”

“Oh no, I am not talking about you joining Army. It’s good that pen-pushers like you didn’t join army and pollute the sacred institution. I was just asking what do you do in Bangalore?”

“You don’t know that sir? I thought you know everything before you called me.”

“I know that you are a journalist, the last refuge for useless bastards. I got your number from your father actually.”

I knew, I always knew father is my biggest enemy. Now that I have grown up and become stronger than him, he is searching ways to flog me again to his heart’s content. He doesn’t want to let leave his control over me so easily. He is now employing army-men to achieve this objective. How shrewd and cheap he is! Just like me.

“Sir, I don’t know why father has given you my number. But to my knowledge, except for breaking traffic signals, I haven’t done any wrong.” I carefully hid my eve-teasing and leching part, the only folly uncontrollable by me.

“Of course you have done a wrong.”

“Why sir, I am ready to surrender. I am ready to accept my wrong, if any. Tell me, tell me. pray do tell me.” I could hear the lub-dubs.

“You have done the wrong of coming of age!” The colonel burst out in laughter. So loud that my ear was ringing. He was obviously very proud of his poor jokes.

“Didn’t get you sir.”

“can you keep my daughter happy for her life?”

“Depends, how old is she?”

“Just twenty-three. She is the cutest doll I have ever seen. Thoroughly brought up in an atmosphere of Kalashnikov. She was born in a military hospital at Meerut where army sergeants pulled her by a mine detector. She is a disciplined girl. My girl.”

“Sure sir. I can keep her as long as she is twenty-three. Her entire life of twenty-three in fact. And I will not charge anything. When can I get her?”

The army-colonel, true to his nature, didn’t understand anything out of its face value. “So, shall I think you are ready? When can I expect for a date?”

“I am ready for a date anytime sir. Please bring her.”

“so shall I fix the marriage-date, consulting with your father?”

Here is where I got a shock of my life. “hold on, hold on. You said marriage!”

“yes, of course, and you said you are ready. I am recording the call. You have admitted and consented, now you cannot back out without a court-marshal. You retreat, and you will be fired. Hahahahahahaha…” that rascal again left my ears ringing.

It was now time to become tough. What the fuck a retired colonel will do to me? besides, if he really wants to do something, I can always marry his minefield of a daughter. he had said she is cute!

I meekly told him to give me a week’s time and immediately called up my father. How many times I have told this man not to search a girl for me. my office is teeming with beauties. Hadn’t I selected one, if I wanted? I have no plans to marry now. But he will not listen. He will stop even a rickshaw puller and ask for girls to marry me off. Surely, he is getting old and now his sole wish is to increase his line even if that is at the cost of his son’s happiness.

It was now my time to shout. “Why have you given the colonel my number?” I had to repeat it thrice because of the phone he was using.

“you will marry, you understand. Why are you dragging me in it. Why should I fall in between? I am just playing a good cupid. So I have given him your number.”

“did I ask you to look for a girl for me? you didn't had a reputation for philanthropic activities, forget playing cupid. remember the beating you gave me when you discovered me with your friend's daughter at the attic?”

He was silent for while. may be repenting his sadistic cruelty he mooted against me. than, with a heavy, sad voice, he said: “you don’t want a celebration at home? You don’t want all the locality to come to our house and give you good gifts? Joy and merriment for a week? Marriage is the only way out,” he said innocently.

“why don’t you yourself get married than? I will come to dance. I will bring my mother also to bless the newly weds,” I was quite furious.

Finally after some arguments, he spilled the beans. “Actually, the colonel’s voice was so darth vader type ... and he was, as if, commanding. I was scared. I gave him your number. I am sorry, but words and arrows cannot be called back. Now you and your future father-in-law settle things between you. I will not interfere. Just after a year or two give me my grandson or a grand-daughter. And I will be happy.”

That is when I yelled at him. “YOU ARE A MAD MAN!”

But thanks to the walky-talky…it didn’t reach him.

He was still doing hello hello and hello…when I hung up.

P.S. that colonel is going to call me again Saturday. Please suggest how to save my arse. That bastard is going to shoot me. and I live very near to the cantonment.

Resolution

2007-01-26T00:57:00.000+05:30

I don’t know why, but of late, a strange kind of calmness has descended on my mind. I have started to look at the world from a different perspective. To my astonishment, today I spent at least ten minutes in front of the mirror appreciating my rather ugly face. Was hunting for the finer lines of beauty! Was posing like a cartoon a character and was wondering about the changes in me.

Thanks to my not so handsome disposition, I encounter the mirror only when I am forced to do it. For example, while shaving. I last paid so much attention to myself when I was in class twelve and was head-over-heels for a classmate. I knew I don’t stand a chance to her, especially when hunks like Pradipta and Arunabha are putting on efforts, but…I enjoyed fancying myself a knight in shining armour. Now that both Pradipta and Arunabha are hundreds of miles away from me, I must admit…I tried some cheap tricks to minimise their chance. At the end none of us was winner. My classmate flew with a pilot to U.S.!

Looking back, now I realise I never wanted that girl! I was happy for the attention I am showering myself to. I didn’t have greasy hair like today that time. I used to shampoo everyday. There was always a comb with me in my back pocket. My hair-mania reached to such a stage that whenever my brother, then eight, used to throw his handmade confetti, it used to get stuck on my hair and refused to go without force.

I used to put properly washed clothes everyday and apply scents and deodorants. How many times I shouted at my mother for a fine unnoticeable stain in my white shirt! I was indulging myself in luxury. And I was regularly going to the local akhara, a poor man’s gym.

That was the first time I started shaving. That was the first time I started to put cream (stolen from my sister’s trove) on my face. That was the first time I started to treat my body as a temple. That was the first time I started worshipping the temple with smoke.

After so many years, all the habits have shred except the habit of smoking. If the situation was like to light an incense stick, it’s now chimney. When it burns a lot. I drink to subdue the burns, a new addition.

Strangely, after so many years that urge to love myself is returning again. I realised I have not loved myself enough. It was a sin to neglect your life like this. Don’t know if it is too late for a new year resolution, but it’s still January. I have taken a sacred oath to love myself a little more, to indulge in luxury and opulence and not to live like a skimpy monk anymore. I will cut down on smoking, drinking, keeping awake late at night for no good reason. I should not lie anymore. I will stay away from my favourite game of pretending like a fool and throw situations to unassuming people and enjoy watching him/her getting bogged down with it, Etc.

I will read lot of books, will write even more craps, just to satisfy my love for writing, whether anybody loves it or not. I will not harm anybody or think bad about anybody. It leaves a permanent restlessness on your mind, if you try to harm anybody. It makes more bad to you than to your victim. Universal love is my motto now.

As ancillary, I have also decided not to care or fear anybody. A free mind…is what the need of the hour is. There should not be any black spot on my mind. Neither it should be introduced by me, nor should others get a chance to leave any stain. My mind should be a fresh lotus leaf. It should not hold anything for long.

To commit myself to this resolution, I have started with a modest investment of Rs. 14k. I bought an ipod last week. Not that I needed it, gadgets and me go the opposite direction. But it was necessary to catch up with today’s technology and make myself ‘cool’.

The next step is to find a girlfriend who loves me more than I love her. Even if she is the ugliest in the world. Just like me.

The search is on. I think I zeroed in on one. Fingers crossed.