A sudden thought

They speak of experiences…they speak of backgrounds, but I feel the only thing that gives u a brainwave is an instance! Every time when we close our eyes we see a vision, most of them die premature, but some shape up to become an idea! When I see a rainbow, I think of a palate… when I see a bird I think of melody… But when I think of a dog I would never think of music…But HMV has its branding paired with a dog. Yes…because HMV stands for His Master’s Voice. That’s where one instance can make a brand…or coin a totally non-existential one.

Contemplation…

He stole biscuits for me and took the blame. He kept awake night after night to drive away my fear. He scanned a page of his own exercise book to mail me a copy of an answer, before an exam. He braved the rain to see me because I was sad. He held my hand throughout the train journey when I lost a dear one. He did not speak because I was tired of voices. He always understood when I failed a date. He never voiced a protest when I ignored him for weeks. He was patiently waiting on the other side of the cell phone to hear a “hallo”. He made me laugh uncontrollably; he made me cry with his vulnerability. He never shouted, he punished me with his silence. I always thought he loves me more than I love him… but just when I picture him smiling not for me, crying not to me, walking just ahead… a bit indifferent. It pains. I remain silent with an “all-accepting” pretence. It’s just then...then...I realize I have always…always loved him more. Strangeness...thy name is love.

A Tinsel Girl Who Never Grew up!

A foray into a girlish mind..on the threshold of womanhood
In my sixteenth spring …I was a smitten maiden
First time over… I was smitten by rain
Tweeny twenty-one… I felt the pain…
Sudden twenty-four…I am smitten again!

Being…smitten has an old world charm…
Your stable sanity… it might just harm!
The entire world wears a crimson hue…
And before you know…you’re no longer “you”!
Workstation seems a bubble of cloud…
The poor old heart beats oh-so-loud!
“They say nothing lasts forever”…
I wonder why it feels like fever?
Forever seems a bit too less…
I try to be normal… tying up a tress!
Smile loses context…
Mind dwells… around text!
And I feel so helpless...God save me…!

I am now a mature lass…
Lads look at me and miss their class!
Crushes are passé …so are flings…
Hero-worship is a clichéd thing
Then why does my heart… often miss a beat?
Why do those eyes sweep me off my feet?
There’s one strange word I try to spell
There’s one bit of me… I’m never gonna sell!
They may jeer… they may mock…
Yes…I am smitten … beyond their talk!

With all my frenzy…all my might
I’ll rather be happy than being “right”!

WOOLLY DAYS

Another August is here, another first Sunday of August awaits and another friendship day yet to come alive! Away from the glitters of Archie’s, out from the fiesta and festivals; far removed from the commercial extravaganza; a queer little pain strikes a chord. Life suddenly takes a back seat and travels back into the rugged days when wools became priceless in a sultry August day! The first Friday of August was a day to run home from school, bug mother to fish out her discarded roll of woollens, and from there meticulously strings of various colours were pulled out. And then the famous plaiting with choicest colours and out came some very beautiful cozy bands…that spelt “Friendship”! Consciously we never understood how appropriate was the metaphorical stand point of wools- that is warmth! But somewhere the warmth we felt was immense. Innumerable bands were plaited, late in the night they were packed inside the heavy school bag! The heart missed a beat! Excitement robbed sleep. Then as the morning stepped forward mothers were a bit surprised as their otherwise lazy children were up and ready for school. It was Friendship day! The school buses buzzed with plans of a signature feast that would take place during break-time. Some were daring enough to ask the teacher who took the class preceding break-time to allow an early break! “Miss please…its friendship day!” And I must mention that there were teachers who actually gave in.

Hands were outstretched, eyes glittering as “Happy Friendship Day” buzz surrounded us and the hands got fully occupied from wrist till elbow, we beamed unnecessarily, laughed uncontrollably, a strange feeling, a strange happiness. School friends are but that group of peers who know you from your ‘chaddi’ days! Love you because you are what you are! They know the weaknesses that trouble you; and are often your shield. They know your talent; and are more often than not your advertiser. They remind you of the most embarrassing moment and bring back that unadulterated blushing smile. They talk of those very insignificant brawl and still fight over it! They are still a reminding alarm when you are on the verge of missing someone’s birthday, even their own! You can’t help loving them as years pass by…you can’t help missing them in your grown-up schedules. Friends are a sky full of oxygen- people who don’t judge you…who have absorbed your tears in their brand new dresses, who have helped you soak your wet dress by sitting on it; who might have given you an external wound over a fight, but the care that followed after became a reason to cherish the wound.

You toddled your way with them and learnt to stand tall, you brushed your shoulders with them and felt the unconditional support for the first time outside family. They are simply incorrigible and unquestionably the best blessings of life.

Friends… YOU complete me...and make my existence into full on living!!

I am running out of ideas. Or maybe ideas are running out of me. This long and strong affair suddenly is losing its gelling glue. I now wonder what to do. So many plans, so many dreams, of publishing a book!! all to go down the drain. Sigh..i did not know that idea is such a slippery companion.

But I take up the challange, I will write sans ideas. My first book will be on the Futility of Ideas. All of us the budding pen-mongers should rebel against this hyper dependence on "ideas". Its our increasing reliance that has given them such a snobbish air that they now try to control their conceivers.

C'mon buck up guys(I am a bit jittery alone) join me in this epic battle where we vouch to stick it out sans ideas!

Cheers!
;)

Letters

Those yellow worn out papers, stacked in a neat pile, kept carefully in the drawer of my grandmother, had always been an object of curiosity to me. Those are letters written by my grandfather during their courtship period. I just wonder with thrill, how it felt! The would-be bride has seen the would-be groom just for once, in front of a big joint family crowd. But the anxious bride-to-be comes to know the groom-to-be through his letters. Amazing. In some winter morning for the first time a letter came by post that had the name of my grandmother scribbled on it. The letter was carefully delivered by my grandmother’s immediate elder brother. And ah! The shyness. The 16 year old girl quietly tucks it in her blouse…and climbs the staircase of the terrace- the only place that promised some privacy. A thumping heart, a quivering hand, opened the first ever letter that was addressed to her. And out came a script written in beautiful handwriting. It told her a story of a boy of 23, who has joined his medical internship. The trials and hardships, the tensions and excitement, for the first time a stranger spoke to her through words. She was at the top of the world. The ending line- “bhalo theko” suddenly seemed the most beautiful phrase on earth.

Not the face, she fell in love with the hand that wrote. Now it was her turn. Shaky hands, began replying. She did not know how to address. She thought hard, in deep trouble, she suddenly recalled her mother addresses her father “shunchho”. Immediately the sixteen year old lass, wrote a “shunchho” at the beginning of the letter. She wrote about herself, but in that "herself" she talked more about her family members than herself. And as she ended the letter with beating heart she added a “bhalo theko”. Feeling a little guilty, a little lost, she handed it over to her brother. Anxious about the handwriting, anxious about the spelling mistakes, anxious about the language. What if he is angry, what if he never writes again,- all the anxiety were quiet when the second letter followed. This was the beginning of a letter stream!

This was the romance of letters. The touch of the hand, the scribbled mistakes, the blob of ink smeared at some place…so personal…so proximal. Not like the emails we write, not like the sms-es we type. It was a romance of a different level. We cannot give up technology, we cannot do without the mega fast emails and instant messages- communication has evolved to its apex---but still somewhere a little desire breathes, that wants back those heart-beating days of letters, those impatient wait, those thirsting eyes that kept looking on for the postman…Alas! letters thou art passé!

Lunatic Love

A city full of nitrogen monoxide, political disruption, stagnant career, potholed roads, reckless traffic, corruption and an umpteen more of such evils, is my MUSE. Just read a blog post in a blog called Calcutta Chromosome and somehow could not resist the temptation to chronicle my love.
I have never left this city for more than a month. Whenever I had been out of Kolkata, to satisfy my wanderlust, my love has redoubled. It’s like those quarrels, those no-talking nights that make a couple more cozy! The moment I return after a long vacation the “welcome to Calcutta” shining above the Howrah Bridge makes me miss a beat. The smell of the dirt and dust reminds me of the squalor, but at the same time it gives me that familiar feeling you get when you wake up every morning beside a snoring husband and miss it when he doesn’t snore. Bad or good, my habits are related to the grass roots of my city. I have not been to Switzerland, but I have travelled extensively in the Himalayas. But trust me, though I am a wander-fogle, during Durgapuja my eyes were all teary when the Upsana express drove out of Howrah station headed towards Haridwar. I promised myself right then, this is the first and the last time that I am leaving Kolkata during the Pujas. And after exploring the gangotri glacier, after having one of the best treks at Gomukh, I still remained true to my promise. When I returned, Puja was over, the brand new hoarding hanging half-heartedly at the road side barricades. The pandals were all undone, bamboos were being packed, it pained, oh ached. I missed several beats and sighed. It felt like I have missed my own birthday party. Yes the disheveled look of the city sent tremors across my mind. I missed my first Durga Pujo. I missed the dhyam kur kur dhaak, I missed the emptiness of Dashami. Yes Kolkata, Kolkata it is that can do this to me.
I curse my city, I frowned at its fault, I take part in debates that vouch for the degeneration that has set into the capital of Bengal; but when I hear any outsider abusing Kolkata, the bong in me shouts back “*****”! Just like the mother who beats her son every day, but is extremely defensive when the world attacks his flaws. Illogical perhaps, but who says that you should be logical in love? From the Tram to Phuckas; from the Gonga to Nandan; From Bookfair to Saltlake Stadium; From Lake to Gorer math; Kolkata is forever the mystic’s choice. A city that is an enigma, a city that has trodden down memory lane, and manages to evoke awe even with its innumerable limitations.- That’s Kolkata for you. You may find an umpteen number of reason to hate it, to go out of it, but I have only one reason to snuggle in its not-so-prosperous lap, that is my Lunatic Love. Let the world jeer at it, mock at it, it remains my City of Joy! And somewhere down the corner the people of the other metropolis, very secretly envies Kolkata; envies its ability to be so vociferous inspite of the ruins, be so spirited inspite of decline. It might sound cliched when we say we are proud of Rabindranath- but that does not in the least take away from the happy crowd clad in red bordered sari and white kurta pyjama-storming in Jorasanko and Rabindra Sadan-the craze does not demean the love. There might be a thousand Kolkatans who don’t much care about Rabi Thakur, but even their heart subconsciously beat when they hear a chorus singing “anondo dhara…”. Tell a Bong you are incompetent, he will smirk; but just try telling him he is uncultered- you are in for trouble. We are all rosy-eyed about our cultural acumen. Even the matrimonial ads boast about the bride or groom being “sanskriti-monosko”. Maybe it’s nothing but a archetype that has continued for ages. But can’t help lovng the attitude, the “antlami” that posses all of us during our green days when we walked “Nandan Chotwor” and took great pride in watching a Badal Sircar production. Take away all, you can’t take away the pride. The Incorrigibility is signature Kolkata. And am in love with that. Let biasness take the front seat-Mon Amour,my Kolkata- I love thee.

P.S. I love you...

Just read a blog post by someone very special..written on 21st February 2008. Long back..? yes..And I suddenly re-lived some bizarre moments. Moments when I was so confused..unsure..crude, maybe even obscure! I loved that "me"...and somewhere in some bloody corner of my mind I miss that me!
You know, in life we fret and fume over things we did not achieve or things which we thought were unfair..but we forget about those little bits and pieces of simple happiness that lie uncared for! When someone misses you, longs to be with you, cries for you..feels empty for you; when to someone your "looks" don't matter, you are beautiful every day..every moment; when to someone its you who matter not your behaviours...and you suddenly realize this truth all over again..don't you feel the happiest person on earth? Don't you feel like the most beautiful person on earth? blessed by trust and doting love? And then all the things that we could not achieve seem like a frail shadow of yesterday!
Life has been a fast-paced car...not exactly a smooth journey, but it was beautiful with its jumps and bumps! And when I stop to take a breather and peek into the bygone..i read this blog..this piece of "stray thought" that makes me feel how "loved' I am..and all I wanna utter is- You Make Me feel Belonged..in your own strange ways..we are weird...alien in the eyes of the world..but that's the best thing about us! The lump I feel for you is not just a proof of my love! the lump says We exist..stronger surer crazier!

P.S. I love you...