And this is for remembering all those that we lost in 2011.
From those in Japan, to those in Sikkim, the victims of AMRI, and illegal
liquor close home, those in Christchurch, Mumbai Bombings, those in Libya, all
the casualties in the 'Arab Spring', to all those close to us that we lost- the
brother, the mother, the friend, the uncle, the son, the father, the
grandparents, the lover, the wife, the daughter, the acquaintance; and also all
those stars of eternal glory - the actors, singers, entrepreneurs, sports
stars. You shall all be remembered.
December 31, 2011
December 30, 2011
2011
You can go to sleep crying and with a broken heart, You can
wake up one morning to find yourself ugly and disfigured. You can break down
every moment of everyday, You can see yourself transform into a huge burden of
uselessness, You can curse yourself for being stupid, You can lose friends and
their affection and never be able to figure out why they left you, you can
torture yourself to give up on who you loved, but you can never STOP LOVING
yourself, or give up on yourself. And there will always be some wonderful
people around you to get you through life. This is what 2011 taught me. :)
November 20, 2011
It Is The Sky I Sing To
It’s the Sky I sing to, and the Sky I sing for.
You should know this. Today, I am no longer afraid of what people might have to say. If you had waited around for a while longer, you would have fought off your fears as well. Only today, I have a fear far more labyrinthine than the one I could have ever weaved when you were with me. A fear that hints at loneliness, at helplessness, at being stranded without a soul to relate with. You were clever in not having stayed back to face these fears. You were cruel to have left me to fight them all by myself.
I have never revealed your secret to your world. Neither to mine. You lured the only ones that knew of your truth over to your side. I had sensed you would try the same with me, and you did. Only, I resisted. Not because I didn’t want my colors to help paint your portrait, not because I didn’t want my soul coalesce into your absence, but because I have to answer to people. I have to live for other people.
You also owed answers to other people. You needed to finish painting the beauty of our world. If only you weren’t in such a hurry.
And now, in dark nights, when I sit alone munching at cookies, you have no right to come and disturb me, to massacre my mental sanctity and peace, the way you do. You have no right to use the estuaries of thought to seek entry into the ocean of my mind, at times when I’m least expecting you to. On Christmas nights, suffocated under thick layers of fog and loneliness, I expect you to call out my name. And every August, every drop of rainfall on my skin reminds me of your fingers teasing me, my face, my hands and limbs.
Today, I can’t sing into a stupid looking telephone, expecting your warm voice at the other end. I do not seek to sing Summer songs or midnight lullabies or Birthday couplets to you through the phone. Instead, it is the Sky I sing to, praying to it to ferry my melody over to you, wherever you are. And who would know it better than you, that it is the Sky I sing for.
You should know this. Today, I am no longer afraid of what people might have to say. If you had waited around for a while longer, you would have fought off your fears as well. Only today, I have a fear far more labyrinthine than the one I could have ever weaved when you were with me. A fear that hints at loneliness, at helplessness, at being stranded without a soul to relate with. You were clever in not having stayed back to face these fears. You were cruel to have left me to fight them all by myself.
I have never revealed your secret to your world. Neither to mine. You lured the only ones that knew of your truth over to your side. I had sensed you would try the same with me, and you did. Only, I resisted. Not because I didn’t want my colors to help paint your portrait, not because I didn’t want my soul coalesce into your absence, but because I have to answer to people. I have to live for other people.
You also owed answers to other people. You needed to finish painting the beauty of our world. If only you weren’t in such a hurry.
And now, in dark nights, when I sit alone munching at cookies, you have no right to come and disturb me, to massacre my mental sanctity and peace, the way you do. You have no right to use the estuaries of thought to seek entry into the ocean of my mind, at times when I’m least expecting you to. On Christmas nights, suffocated under thick layers of fog and loneliness, I expect you to call out my name. And every August, every drop of rainfall on my skin reminds me of your fingers teasing me, my face, my hands and limbs.
Today, I can’t sing into a stupid looking telephone, expecting your warm voice at the other end. I do not seek to sing Summer songs or midnight lullabies or Birthday couplets to you through the phone. Instead, it is the Sky I sing to, praying to it to ferry my melody over to you, wherever you are. And who would know it better than you, that it is the Sky I sing for.
October 23, 2011
In Another Morning - II
And in another morning, the sun also rises,
Over Libya, where new hopes are born,
Over America, with which disappointment, is torn,
and Over Calcutta, where nothing ever changes,
Except the occasional government.
October 21, 2011
In Another Morning
In another morning, (there) was a proud sunlight.
That marched into our room, with delight.
And there were incomplete dreams,
Misty, ethereal, reeking of the previous night.
There was poetry, Oh, bless the poetry,
Lyrics of reassurance, of a future bright,
There were naked limbs, and sudden smiles,
Love in the creases on the forehead, quiet.
In another morning, there was a tender touch,
And almost ecstatic was the associated joy.
There were white sheets, pristine, that gave us
Shelter, and provoked us to completely destroy,
The notions of society that surrounded us.
The white sheets had a glow that did enjoy,
Parity with the aura of ecstasy in our hearts.
So, contented was I with you, oh (my) boy.
The tales of another morning(s),
Have perished since,
Our fairytale, like all others,
Did (tragically) die.
All I can do is
Dwell in refrains,
Haunted by memories,
Of your goodbye.
September 11, 2011
Ten Years Hence
I was on a train from New Delhi to Calcutta ten years(minus ten hours) back when I had first heard news of the Beginning of a new Era. Of Terror. Of Hate. Ten years hence, every day seems to be worse than the last, and every year is scarier than the last in terms of Life Security. 9/11 touched us all, and changed us all so much for the worse.
September 5, 2011
The Shortest(Lived) Love Story
Because he looked at you when you weren’t noticing.
The evening time resplendence highlighted the delicate contours of the back of your neck, under the setting sun that basked in the tangerine glory of His royal farewell, lending an intrigue to your form while your soft eyes, kohl laden and soul-stirringly sad, dazzled him with their spark of innocence. He stood there, tense, observing you, measuring every gentle rise-and-fall of your soiled, weary breasts. He stood in the queue, with bated breath, as you stood behind the counters laden with freshly picked apples, waiting for his turn in receiving two red apples, his daily ration(like yours, and everyone else’s)from you. And every time you would pass him by, he would take in the arousing rhythm of your gentle walk that reminded him of the ripples in the accumulated rainwater from the winter rainfalls resulting from the Mediterranean moisture winds.
By then, you had come to know a few of your fellow muhajirs. You had to abide by the mandatory apple-pickings with the girls in the mornings, and the retiring to your tent before the flooding of the valley by the blinding opacity of the moonshine. The nights were colder than the bellowing loneliness lurking in your tent. There was the numbing grief from the separation, probably permanent, from your parents, while trying to cross the border, along with hundreds of others. You did notice him, for there was no missing the chisel-sculpted jaw line, the jet black eyes, and the nose that lent the extra dimension to his face. From his eyes you could perceive the warmth of Southern sea. The only warmth that, you felt, could be any balm on the pain of the loss of your parents. You would wish for him to look at you, but you never saw him looking back.
Because you looked at him when he wasn’t noticing.
***************************************************************
Then, the Government of the nation you had all escaped to(under delusions of a better future), refused permanent shelter to your lot, and subsequently booked you all under charges of cross-border terrorism. Defying every clause and term of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, it ordered you all to be shot down.
There he stood in a queue again, a different one this time. This time at the end of the queue, there were no apples, but bullets, that awaited him. Neither were you standing behind a counter at the end of this queue. Instead, you were right behind him in this one, separated by two little girls and an old man.
Moments after the soldiers took their aim, and before the shots were fired, you turned to see him one last time. To bathe yourself one last time in the warmth that his eyes exuded. The soul-stirring sadness in your eyes kept brimming over, and together with the kohl, flowed down your cheeks, as if it had given up on its resilience. And then, for the first time, he looked at you when you were looking back, and realized that your rainwater-ripple walk was what had kept his hopes, his heart alive. For the first time you looked into his eyes to see the warmth of the Southern sea radiating directly towards you. And thus was born a love. A love, that to the world, made up the shortest love-story ever, but which, in reality, lived on after the shots were fired, lived through the global-outcry against the breach of human rights and allegations of genocide, lived on in the memories of the apple trees, and resonates till date under the evening time resplendence of His Majesty, the Sun, bidding farewell to humankind every dusk.
(Ritwik Goswami - March 2007)
The evening time resplendence highlighted the delicate contours of the back of your neck, under the setting sun that basked in the tangerine glory of His royal farewell, lending an intrigue to your form while your soft eyes, kohl laden and soul-stirringly sad, dazzled him with their spark of innocence. He stood there, tense, observing you, measuring every gentle rise-and-fall of your soiled, weary breasts. He stood in the queue, with bated breath, as you stood behind the counters laden with freshly picked apples, waiting for his turn in receiving two red apples, his daily ration(like yours, and everyone else’s)from you. And every time you would pass him by, he would take in the arousing rhythm of your gentle walk that reminded him of the ripples in the accumulated rainwater from the winter rainfalls resulting from the Mediterranean moisture winds.
By then, you had come to know a few of your fellow muhajirs. You had to abide by the mandatory apple-pickings with the girls in the mornings, and the retiring to your tent before the flooding of the valley by the blinding opacity of the moonshine. The nights were colder than the bellowing loneliness lurking in your tent. There was the numbing grief from the separation, probably permanent, from your parents, while trying to cross the border, along with hundreds of others. You did notice him, for there was no missing the chisel-sculpted jaw line, the jet black eyes, and the nose that lent the extra dimension to his face. From his eyes you could perceive the warmth of Southern sea. The only warmth that, you felt, could be any balm on the pain of the loss of your parents. You would wish for him to look at you, but you never saw him looking back.
Because you looked at him when he wasn’t noticing.
***************************************************************
Then, the Government of the nation you had all escaped to(under delusions of a better future), refused permanent shelter to your lot, and subsequently booked you all under charges of cross-border terrorism. Defying every clause and term of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, it ordered you all to be shot down.
There he stood in a queue again, a different one this time. This time at the end of the queue, there were no apples, but bullets, that awaited him. Neither were you standing behind a counter at the end of this queue. Instead, you were right behind him in this one, separated by two little girls and an old man.
Moments after the soldiers took their aim, and before the shots were fired, you turned to see him one last time. To bathe yourself one last time in the warmth that his eyes exuded. The soul-stirring sadness in your eyes kept brimming over, and together with the kohl, flowed down your cheeks, as if it had given up on its resilience. And then, for the first time, he looked at you when you were looking back, and realized that your rainwater-ripple walk was what had kept his hopes, his heart alive. For the first time you looked into his eyes to see the warmth of the Southern sea radiating directly towards you. And thus was born a love. A love, that to the world, made up the shortest love-story ever, but which, in reality, lived on after the shots were fired, lived through the global-outcry against the breach of human rights and allegations of genocide, lived on in the memories of the apple trees, and resonates till date under the evening time resplendence of His Majesty, the Sun, bidding farewell to humankind every dusk.
(Ritwik Goswami - March 2007)
August 20, 2011
O Ri Duniya[O, My World]
Khwabon se sile shamiyaane taley,
Humne sajaaya hai apna ek jahaaN.
Mutthi mein na ho qaid tassavvur ki udaan,
Ang lage makhmal mulayaam wahaaN.
JahaaN na koi jism,koi jaaN,lahu se latpat,
Koi guNcha, koi sitara jahaaN na ho fanaa.
Ek aisi ho humaari duniya,hai ummeed,
JahaaN har muhajir ko mile panaah.
TRANSLATION:
Under the dome of my unchained dreams,
I've painted a world of my own.
Where flights of imagination aren't kept suppressed,
Where every being is as soft as sheets, of silk, sown.
Where no soul, no life reels under blood-shed,
Where no blossoming flower, no twinkling star is crushed.
Such will be My World, or so I hope, I dream,
Where every refugee is given refuge, no one aside brushed.
Humne sajaaya hai apna ek jahaaN.
Mutthi mein na ho qaid tassavvur ki udaan,
Ang lage makhmal mulayaam wahaaN.
JahaaN na koi jism,koi jaaN,lahu se latpat,
Koi guNcha, koi sitara jahaaN na ho fanaa.
Ek aisi ho humaari duniya,hai ummeed,
JahaaN har muhajir ko mile panaah.
TRANSLATION:
Under the dome of my unchained dreams,
I've painted a world of my own.
Where flights of imagination aren't kept suppressed,
Where every being is as soft as sheets, of silk, sown.
Where no soul, no life reels under blood-shed,
Where no blossoming flower, no twinkling star is crushed.
Such will be My World, or so I hope, I dream,
Where every refugee is given refuge, no one aside brushed.
An Ode To The Rainbow Lives.
There is a little violet in each dazzling bright flash
Of lightning that visits you every stormy night.
There is a little indigo in every lone ripple
On the water, that is born when you walk by, quiet.
There is a little blue clinging on to every white Cotton
Cloud that you always want to sink into, for a sleep.
There is a little green in every grass and leaf,
That, from filth, rocks and hurt, your bare feet, keep.
There is a little yellow in every fire you light
To keep the bellowing darkness a distance away.
There is a little orange in every sunset you retire to,
Bidding farewell to every numbing fatigue of the day.
There is a little red in every drop of the blood, housed
In your veins, that livens your hopes, your dreams, your life.
There is a little rainbow I have wished for you, to nurse you,
Every time your heart cries a downpour, struggling alone in a strife.
Of lightning that visits you every stormy night.
There is a little indigo in every lone ripple
On the water, that is born when you walk by, quiet.
There is a little blue clinging on to every white Cotton
Cloud that you always want to sink into, for a sleep.
There is a little green in every grass and leaf,
That, from filth, rocks and hurt, your bare feet, keep.
There is a little yellow in every fire you light
To keep the bellowing darkness a distance away.
There is a little orange in every sunset you retire to,
Bidding farewell to every numbing fatigue of the day.
There is a little red in every drop of the blood, housed
In your veins, that livens your hopes, your dreams, your life.
There is a little rainbow I have wished for you, to nurse you,
Every time your heart cries a downpour, struggling alone in a strife.
August 9, 2011
Volkswagen Tones Erased
Goodbye, long surviving summertones on blog, and Volkswagen awesomeness. I shall miss you.
August 2, 2011
Lessons of Tolerance
Very recently, I was discussing with three of my (girl)friends, all of them from conservative Hindu families, the possible repercussions of them falling for a boy from a Muslim background. They unanimously agreed that their parents would not accept any such relationship, and hence they themselves would never allow themselves to fall for a Muslim boy. It was disheartening to know that even in today’s day and age, people are not willing to give love a chance just because religion comes in the way. The topic was broached again, a few days later, around a couple of other (Hindu) friends of mine, and their response was along the same lines. The gravity of the realization that then dawned upon left me rather disappointed and disillusioned(I could’ve used the word ‘shocked’ for a more dramatic effect). Despite all the ‘All Indians are my brothers and sisters’ lessons taught to us in school, we haven’t really learnt the true meaning of acceptance or tolerance. Each one of us is a flaming bigot in some way or the other, though we may proclaim otherwise.
It was never, however, only about accepting and loving all Indians. We, as children were taught to love all human beings despite their cast, creed, race, religion, gender or nationality. However, the amount of Pakistanophobia and ingrained hatred that still exists among most of us Indians is shocking. There is one friend of mine, another girl, who happens to have her roots in those areas of pre-1947 India, that now lie in Pakistan. This girl happens to be regularly rendered a target of almost heinous terrorism and Anti-Pakistan jokes by all of us, by our group. Sure, if you ask us, we are just having fun, teasing her about being a ‘Paki’, and of course we hold nothing against Pakistan. But lurking sinisterly behind every one of those ‘bomb-manufacturing-units’ and ‘Please-don’t-shoot-us’ jokes, there is a delusional notion that every household in Pakistan houses terrorists. I mean, when we Indians hold such ideas about our neighboring countries, what rights do we really have to cry our voices hoarse, when any South Asian member gets picked up ‘randomly’ for extra-rounds of frisking at airports in the West ??
We, the youth of the 21st Century, still hold on to age-old notions and stereotypes unconsciously bequeathed unto us by our parents and elders, while at the same time claiming to be ‘tolerant’ and ‘accommodating’ only because it is ‘cool’ to be tolerant.I know of people who vehemently claim to be non-homophobic but yet they get rid of a homosexual room-mate, just because he does not fit their comfort zone. I know of people who (still) claim Africans and Blacks are ‘ugly’ because God did not deem them fit to be humans and hence they, as a race, should still be treated as inferiors and be kept limited to blue-collar jobs, despite having ‘Black’ best-friends. I know of people who have been reared by a single mother, who do not hesitate for a moment before narrating jokes of the ‘Women should stay in the kitchen’ or ‘Bitch-make-me-a-sandwich’ genre. However, I have absolutely no right to pass judgments on anyone because I am equally guilty of having participated in a lot of anti-Semitic, anti-homosexual, anti-Islam, anti-Marwari, sexist, chauvinistic jokes myself.
Hatred and bigotry is born out of ignorance, out of refusal to look beyond the parameters of what one believes to be right, out of being non-accommodating to the views and ideas of others. There is hope as long as we learn to think about others and their feelings. There is hope as long as we admit to our faults and take steps towards correcting them. Several of whose stories I have mentioned here might take offence and feel blamed by what I have written. All I can say is that, that has been the least of all my intentions. All I want for you all is to become bigger and better individuals, to learn to love and care more and hate less. Tolerance for name’s sake is abusing the concept of tolerance. Looking within, and cleansing oneself of all the ignorance is a step forward in becoming a true global citizen.
It was never, however, only about accepting and loving all Indians. We, as children were taught to love all human beings despite their cast, creed, race, religion, gender or nationality. However, the amount of Pakistanophobia and ingrained hatred that still exists among most of us Indians is shocking. There is one friend of mine, another girl, who happens to have her roots in those areas of pre-1947 India, that now lie in Pakistan. This girl happens to be regularly rendered a target of almost heinous terrorism and Anti-Pakistan jokes by all of us, by our group. Sure, if you ask us, we are just having fun, teasing her about being a ‘Paki’, and of course we hold nothing against Pakistan. But lurking sinisterly behind every one of those ‘bomb-manufacturing-units’ and ‘Please-don’t-shoot-us’ jokes, there is a delusional notion that every household in Pakistan houses terrorists. I mean, when we Indians hold such ideas about our neighboring countries, what rights do we really have to cry our voices hoarse, when any South Asian member gets picked up ‘randomly’ for extra-rounds of frisking at airports in the West ??
We, the youth of the 21st Century, still hold on to age-old notions and stereotypes unconsciously bequeathed unto us by our parents and elders, while at the same time claiming to be ‘tolerant’ and ‘accommodating’ only because it is ‘cool’ to be tolerant.I know of people who vehemently claim to be non-homophobic but yet they get rid of a homosexual room-mate, just because he does not fit their comfort zone. I know of people who (still) claim Africans and Blacks are ‘ugly’ because God did not deem them fit to be humans and hence they, as a race, should still be treated as inferiors and be kept limited to blue-collar jobs, despite having ‘Black’ best-friends. I know of people who have been reared by a single mother, who do not hesitate for a moment before narrating jokes of the ‘Women should stay in the kitchen’ or ‘Bitch-make-me-a-sandwich’ genre. However, I have absolutely no right to pass judgments on anyone because I am equally guilty of having participated in a lot of anti-Semitic, anti-homosexual, anti-Islam, anti-Marwari, sexist, chauvinistic jokes myself.
Hatred and bigotry is born out of ignorance, out of refusal to look beyond the parameters of what one believes to be right, out of being non-accommodating to the views and ideas of others. There is hope as long as we learn to think about others and their feelings. There is hope as long as we admit to our faults and take steps towards correcting them. Several of whose stories I have mentioned here might take offence and feel blamed by what I have written. All I can say is that, that has been the least of all my intentions. All I want for you all is to become bigger and better individuals, to learn to love and care more and hate less. Tolerance for name’s sake is abusing the concept of tolerance. Looking within, and cleansing oneself of all the ignorance is a step forward in becoming a true global citizen.
July 26, 2011
Pretty Woman
'Coz her eyes don't shut,And the scars don't heal.
The nights go by, dark,
She tries hard to conceal
The struggle that she wages,
All the fears she does feel,
She stands out even worse
In her life's lost show-reel.
Apologies for the terrible photographic quality, the sketch looked tonnes better on paper, but I'm stranded with a 5Megapixel phone camera, and can't help it at the moment.
July 11, 2011
Favorite Quotations 1
Before erasing out the particluar section of my Facebook profile, I decided to post it as a note to commemorate a few of the best lines used around me, EVER.
1.I’ve never eaten anything for nineteen years now but you’ll find no one healthier – Priyadarshini Goswami
2.I’m dying of thirst, you boob! – Ikshaku Bezbaroa
3.I anyway look better than all of them combined- Ritwik Goswami.
4.Main Bharatiya Naari hoon- Rakhi Sawant
5. Ritwik: *narrates Hindoo joke*
Aditi Bhura: hum log sabhi yahaan pe Hindoo hain
Ritwik: Nisha is a Jain, no?
Puja: Even Aditi is a Jain.
Nisha: Yes Aditi, Jain aur Hindu mein difference hota hai, aur tum Jain ho.
ADITI(faint retort): Par humlog Hindoo jaise hi hotey hai...
6. Let's bang hard (into the boat) - Adrija Chatterjee
7. Ikshaku khub jorey jorey korey... (with reference to pedaling a boat) - Adrija Chatterjee
8. [He was to take his first college-final exams under C.U. the next morning, and he was very drunk, and was sleeping over at a friend's birthday bash. While almost dozing off...] "See you(C.U.) Tomorrow"- Rohan Ghosh
9. Ritwik- "Happy Birthday... Now you're twenty"
Debadrita: "Emaa, one more year and I turn adult".
10. "You're a virgin, but you're still so good at raping things! " - Sayantika Ghosh
11. "I had a life even before I met you all"- Puja Rohra
12. "The power is in my finger"- Adrija Chatterjee
13. "God is kinda like Santa Claus, for adults." - Kurt Hummel(Glee)
14. "Labels and closets are for clothes, not people" - Unknown
15. "Who watches TV on a TV anymore, anyway? "- Eric Van der Woodsen(Gossip Girl)
16. Maths Teacher: Solve this problem
Aritri: Sir,(do) not(ask us to solve) this kind of problem, it looks very tough.
Me: Tum dekhke kaise judge kar sakti ho? Judgmental ladki!! (How can you just see and judge? you judgmental freak!!)
ARITRI: Hum dekh ke nahi, kar ke judge kiye hain ( I have judged not by seeing it, I have judged by 'doing' it ) :P
17. "Toodloo" - Utsav Akhoury
18. Me: "What I don't understand is why does Lokkhi Thakur(Goddess Lakshmi)leave for so few days. I mean if she has to return after just four days, why does she leave at all?"
Sayantika Ghosh: "In that, she is just like Lijo Varughese!!"
19. ''If I actually flirted, twenty would be forty by now!" - Adrija Chatterjee
20. "I'm a hot Sindhi, Who needs Indians?''- Puja Rohra
21. Ritwik: Tongue-in-cheek ka matlab samajhte ho babuwa? (Do you know what tongue-in-cheek means?)
Utsav Akhoury: Is it some new sort of kissing??
22: "Aami aar kothaai bolbo na"- Debadrita Modak.
23. "Tussi jaa rahe ho? Tussi naa jaao" - Sikh Boy In Epic Bollywood Movie.
24. "All the boys I'm dating are useless"- Tu Berculosis
25. "I will drink Savlon, I will drink Dettol, I will drink Harpic"- Tu Berculosis
26. "Please give me one hug. Otherwise I will go and stand in front of a bus"- Tu Berculosis
27. "I toh cannpt 'handel' only"-Anwesha Roy
28. Vikramjit :What was the surgery?
Me: Of the foot. A bony fragment had remained there after the first surgery, so it had to be removed.
VIKRAMJIT: Was it a part of a BONE?
29: Mayukh: Hi Mow-dyak(To Debadrita Modak)
Debadrita: I HABH A NAME OKAY? >:|
30. "Arrey Dhuroo"- Debadrita Modak
31. "Aaja meri aa, suhana lamha"(Trying to sing Suhana hai samaa, suhana lamha)- Sreejeeta Ghosh
32. "Baal Baara Bokachoda, Khanki'r Chhele"- Lijo Varughese
33. "Moo" - Shahana Yasmin
34. "Please don't scold" - Shahana Yasmin
35. "Teko naame ekta chhele chhilo, Nijeke mone kore superhero"- St. James' School Batch of 2009
36. "Waw Waw Caution"- Sumit Guha, Sneha Kedia
37. While playing Uno, I didn't want fours, while Rohan needed them. Before he picked his new card,
"May the Fours be with you" - Me.
38. "Mataal hobo, KaaNdbo" - Tu Berculosis (Will get drunk, Will cry)
(Describing her PoA for an upcoming party)
39. "I love being single. It is both a jhooth and a trooth"- Sreejeeta Ghosh
1.I’ve never eaten anything for nineteen years now but you’ll find no one healthier – Priyadarshini Goswami
2.I’m dying of thirst, you boob! – Ikshaku Bezbaroa
3.I anyway look better than all of them combined- Ritwik Goswami.
4.Main Bharatiya Naari hoon- Rakhi Sawant
5. Ritwik: *narrates Hindoo joke*
Aditi Bhura: hum log sabhi yahaan pe Hindoo hain
Ritwik: Nisha is a Jain, no?
Puja: Even Aditi is a Jain.
Nisha: Yes Aditi, Jain aur Hindu mein difference hota hai, aur tum Jain ho.
ADITI(faint retort): Par humlog Hindoo jaise hi hotey hai...
6. Let's bang hard (into the boat) - Adrija Chatterjee
7. Ikshaku khub jorey jorey korey... (with reference to pedaling a boat) - Adrija Chatterjee
8. [He was to take his first college-final exams under C.U. the next morning, and he was very drunk, and was sleeping over at a friend's birthday bash. While almost dozing off...] "See you(C.U.) Tomorrow"- Rohan Ghosh
9. Ritwik- "Happy Birthday... Now you're twenty"
Debadrita: "Emaa, one more year and I turn adult".
10. "You're a virgin, but you're still so good at raping things! " - Sayantika Ghosh
11. "I had a life even before I met you all"- Puja Rohra
12. "The power is in my finger"- Adrija Chatterjee
13. "God is kinda like Santa Claus, for adults." - Kurt Hummel(Glee)
14. "Labels and closets are for clothes, not people" - Unknown
15. "Who watches TV on a TV anymore, anyway? "- Eric Van der Woodsen(Gossip Girl)
16. Maths Teacher: Solve this problem
Aritri: Sir,(do) not(ask us to solve) this kind of problem, it looks very tough.
Me: Tum dekhke kaise judge kar sakti ho? Judgmental ladki!! (How can you just see and judge? you judgmental freak!!)
ARITRI: Hum dekh ke nahi, kar ke judge kiye hain ( I have judged not by seeing it, I have judged by 'doing' it ) :P
17. "Toodloo" - Utsav Akhoury
18. Me: "What I don't understand is why does Lokkhi Thakur(Goddess Lakshmi)leave for so few days. I mean if she has to return after just four days, why does she leave at all?"
Sayantika Ghosh: "In that, she is just like Lijo Varughese!!"
19. ''If I actually flirted, twenty would be forty by now!" - Adrija Chatterjee
20. "I'm a hot Sindhi, Who needs Indians?''- Puja Rohra
21. Ritwik: Tongue-in-cheek ka matlab samajhte ho babuwa? (Do you know what tongue-in-cheek means?)
Utsav Akhoury: Is it some new sort of kissing??
22: "Aami aar kothaai bolbo na"- Debadrita Modak.
23. "Tussi jaa rahe ho? Tussi naa jaao" - Sikh Boy In Epic Bollywood Movie.
24. "All the boys I'm dating are useless"- Tu Berculosis
25. "I will drink Savlon, I will drink Dettol, I will drink Harpic"- Tu Berculosis
26. "Please give me one hug. Otherwise I will go and stand in front of a bus"- Tu Berculosis
27. "I toh cannpt 'handel' only"-Anwesha Roy
28. Vikramjit :What was the surgery?
Me: Of the foot. A bony fragment had remained there after the first surgery, so it had to be removed.
VIKRAMJIT: Was it a part of a BONE?
29: Mayukh: Hi Mow-dyak(To Debadrita Modak)
Debadrita: I HABH A NAME OKAY? >:|
30. "Arrey Dhuroo"- Debadrita Modak
31. "Aaja meri aa, suhana lamha"(Trying to sing Suhana hai samaa, suhana lamha)- Sreejeeta Ghosh
32. "Baal Baara Bokachoda, Khanki'r Chhele"- Lijo Varughese
33. "Moo" - Shahana Yasmin
34. "Please don't scold" - Shahana Yasmin
35. "Teko naame ekta chhele chhilo, Nijeke mone kore superhero"- St. James' School Batch of 2009
36. "Waw Waw Caution"- Sumit Guha, Sneha Kedia
37. While playing Uno, I didn't want fours, while Rohan needed them. Before he picked his new card,
"May the Fours be with you" - Me.
38. "Mataal hobo, KaaNdbo" - Tu Berculosis (Will get drunk, Will cry)
(Describing her PoA for an upcoming party)
39. "I love being single. It is both a jhooth and a trooth"- Sreejeeta Ghosh
June 28, 2011
Joaquin
Joey,
It has been eight years.
You haven’t returned to the Oak-tree house.
You haven’t returned to the serene existence by the purple fire cackling in the fireplace.
You haven’t returned to the greetings of the conifers.
You have got lost.
Remember the night my parents fought so ugly that I wanted to run away to the kingdom to the East, the land of ‘National Happiness’ ? As they clawed at each other, and their respective dignities, I had to seek refuge under your coaxing and the endless efforts to cheer me up. As the grim night grew darker, Maria’s drums and your arms around me had kept me going. The very next morning, we went off. You, me and Maria, hitch-hiking towards what we thought was the East.
Joaquin, remember the psychedelia brewing amidst the diminutive tea-stalls dotting the Himalyan highways? There was the rain, the songs, the terrace farms, and the rain-water channels, the Indian truck drivers, and their garish Hindee music. There was your guitar. The numerous odes to the days in the future, the way you would set everything right, for me. We were young, we had hope. We had mattresses housing mites and ticks, and makeshift beds made out of hours of dedication, strings of ropes, and wooden planks. And, we had the love. Insect-infested, optimistic, poverty-ridden, Sikkimese love.
Instead of going East, we ended up going West to Katmando Town. Natives we weren’t, Joaquin. I never even knew where your home was. Somewhere in the States, you had mentioned passively. You had told me to believe, and I had believed. Oak-tree house had become home. There was marijuana, there was money, there were midnight-treks, and Mandarin-Nazis. There was music, a lot of it. And the inflow of dollars, Joaquin. It was all for me, you said. Indeed it was. I had my poetry, my silence, and all the dollars. Maria had her drums, and we both had your company.
Your motherland then went to war with Iraq. We didn’t need to worry, you said. The invites started coming in. The ‘Prevent Civilian Casualties in the War on Terror’ music groups, that wanted you to represent our part of the World. The land of the calm, the Himalayas, was to be represented by you, Joaquin. You told me, it was art. It was no more about the money. It was about being human, you said. I knew your life was all about being human, Joey. Your humanity had saved me. How could I not let your humanity prevent the chaos in the Middle East? Of course, I hardly knew the gist of all the words you told me about World Politics, but I knew you were right.
I let you leave, Joaquin. Not knowing there would be no more serenading at three in the morning. Not knowing that there would be no more breakfast by the conifers, painting the chimneys with the shades of our imagination, feeding the mountain-dogs in the evenings. I let you leave, never to see you again. I let you leave, to lose you to a stray attack by your motherland on the suspected terror-havens. They meant to slay the worshippers of terror, they said. They ended up blowing the worshippers of Art, to smithereens. They blew my heart, our world apart, Joaquin. Your land took you away from me.
Joaquin,
It has been eight years.
It is the evening of the Katmando Night.
They shall celebrate you tonight.
Will you come to Katmando tonight?
Will you let me soothe my mind,
Touch your being with my weary sight?
Joaquin, come with me to Katmando town.
I shall revel one last time, in your voice’s sound.
Your hair jet black, the eyes almond-brown.
Joaquin, I want you in Katmando town.
It has been eight years.
You haven’t returned to the Oak-tree house.
You haven’t returned to the serene existence by the purple fire cackling in the fireplace.
You haven’t returned to the greetings of the conifers.
You have got lost.
Remember the night my parents fought so ugly that I wanted to run away to the kingdom to the East, the land of ‘National Happiness’ ? As they clawed at each other, and their respective dignities, I had to seek refuge under your coaxing and the endless efforts to cheer me up. As the grim night grew darker, Maria’s drums and your arms around me had kept me going. The very next morning, we went off. You, me and Maria, hitch-hiking towards what we thought was the East.
Joaquin, remember the psychedelia brewing amidst the diminutive tea-stalls dotting the Himalyan highways? There was the rain, the songs, the terrace farms, and the rain-water channels, the Indian truck drivers, and their garish Hindee music. There was your guitar. The numerous odes to the days in the future, the way you would set everything right, for me. We were young, we had hope. We had mattresses housing mites and ticks, and makeshift beds made out of hours of dedication, strings of ropes, and wooden planks. And, we had the love. Insect-infested, optimistic, poverty-ridden, Sikkimese love.Instead of going East, we ended up going West to Katmando Town. Natives we weren’t, Joaquin. I never even knew where your home was. Somewhere in the States, you had mentioned passively. You had told me to believe, and I had believed. Oak-tree house had become home. There was marijuana, there was money, there were midnight-treks, and Mandarin-Nazis. There was music, a lot of it. And the inflow of dollars, Joaquin. It was all for me, you said. Indeed it was. I had my poetry, my silence, and all the dollars. Maria had her drums, and we both had your company.
Your motherland then went to war with Iraq. We didn’t need to worry, you said. The invites started coming in. The ‘Prevent Civilian Casualties in the War on Terror’ music groups, that wanted you to represent our part of the World. The land of the calm, the Himalayas, was to be represented by you, Joaquin. You told me, it was art. It was no more about the money. It was about being human, you said. I knew your life was all about being human, Joey. Your humanity had saved me. How could I not let your humanity prevent the chaos in the Middle East? Of course, I hardly knew the gist of all the words you told me about World Politics, but I knew you were right.
I let you leave, Joaquin. Not knowing there would be no more serenading at three in the morning. Not knowing that there would be no more breakfast by the conifers, painting the chimneys with the shades of our imagination, feeding the mountain-dogs in the evenings. I let you leave, never to see you again. I let you leave, to lose you to a stray attack by your motherland on the suspected terror-havens. They meant to slay the worshippers of terror, they said. They ended up blowing the worshippers of Art, to smithereens. They blew my heart, our world apart, Joaquin. Your land took you away from me.Joaquin,
It has been eight years.
It is the evening of the Katmando Night.
They shall celebrate you tonight.
Will you come to Katmando tonight?
Will you let me soothe my mind,
Touch your being with my weary sight?
Joaquin, come with me to Katmando town.
I shall revel one last time, in your voice’s sound.
Your hair jet black, the eyes almond-brown.
Joaquin, I want you in Katmando town.
June 12, 2011
Rock-N-Roll Queen
Rock N Roll Queen
Where have I been?
All these years, fading silently away,
Away from the limelight's golden ray,
I feel lost, meant never to be seen
But once I was, the rock and roll queen.
Seven years of an unmatched reign,
Eleven records of a glamour, at the top
The people pining for a glimpse of mine,
They’d squeal and roar, they’d jump and hop
Unparalleled in my ways so mean,
Once I was, the rock and roll queen.
Driving down Milan, that man in charge
Josh Lucas, the Hollywood storm
Driving into a night, drunken delirium at large
A crash, one dead, one out of form
An instant collapse of all the sheen
Indeed since then, where have I been?
Rock N Roll Queen
Where have I been?
All these years, fading silently away,
Away from the limelight's golden ray,
I feel lost, meant never to be seen
But once I was, the rock and roll queen
Where have I been?
All these years, fading silently away,
Away from the limelight's golden ray,
I feel lost, meant never to be seen
But once I was, the rock and roll queen.
Seven years of an unmatched reign,
Eleven records of a glamour, at the top
The people pining for a glimpse of mine,
They’d squeal and roar, they’d jump and hop
Unparalleled in my ways so mean,
Once I was, the rock and roll queen.
Driving down Milan, that man in charge
Josh Lucas, the Hollywood storm
Driving into a night, drunken delirium at large
A crash, one dead, one out of form
An instant collapse of all the sheen
Indeed since then, where have I been?
Rock N Roll Queen
Where have I been?
All these years, fading silently away,
Away from the limelight's golden ray,
I feel lost, meant never to be seen
But once I was, the rock and roll queen
June 8, 2011
Ainvayi
The long due Bangla translation of Ainvayi Ainvayi. This was created a long back, but never posted. So, I post it now. 'Co I am bored. Ainvayi. This one actually fits the original tune. Try to sing along.
Chokhe’r du dhaare,
Shurma mekhe re,
Chhokra gulo chaay hote
Hi-fi.
Hridoye koraat i,
Amaar chole jaayei,
AaNtke uthey mon bole
Why why?
Chaaye bheja biskut hoye gelam.
Aami toh emni emni
Emni emni lut-ey gelam...
Shore daraa re, kaora,
Jeno neem er i pakoda.
Pichhu korish keno
Kokhono dainey, baaye?
Toke shudhrobo naki?
Juto petabo naki?
Mathaay marbo naaki aaj i
Dhaay dhaay?
Romeo holi keno permit chhara?
Tui toh emni emni
Emni emni lut-ey geli...
Chul set korlam gel-tel diye re,
Buk phuliye, don boithok kori re,
Shundori haraali tui
Nijer chaal ta chele
Kotha’r pithe kotha’r
Basketball ta khele.
Gel dekhe meyera khushi hoy na moteyi,
Don boithok kore jibon kaate na moteyi,
Bhaloi jaani tor mone aache theek ki
Uddeshyo chhokrader bodlaay na moteyi.
Gur dekha macchi’r moto
Aatke geli.
Tui toh…
Keno amaar goli te opekkha korish,bol?
Achoron down-market korish, bol?
Dekhi jodi shoriye janla’r porda ta, pagol,
Sheesh baajiye khali birokto korish bol?
Chhar attitude, kokhono maan shundori
Bank-cheque chaash naaki praan shundori?
EeNter ei mon ta norom kor na ektu
Dekh, aami taagda jowan, shundori,
Chhoy foot theke dedh foot hoye gelam
Aami toh…
Here's to the most adorable Bollywood song EVER.
Chokhe’r du dhaare,
Shurma mekhe re,
Chhokra gulo chaay hote
Hi-fi.
Hridoye koraat i,
Amaar chole jaayei,
AaNtke uthey mon bole
Why why?
Chaaye bheja biskut hoye gelam.
Aami toh emni emni
Emni emni lut-ey gelam...
Shore daraa re, kaora,
Jeno neem er i pakoda.
Pichhu korish keno
Kokhono dainey, baaye?
Toke shudhrobo naki?
Juto petabo naki?
Mathaay marbo naaki aaj i
Dhaay dhaay?
Romeo holi keno permit chhara?
Tui toh emni emni
Emni emni lut-ey geli...
Chul set korlam gel-tel diye re,
Buk phuliye, don boithok kori re,
Shundori haraali tui
Nijer chaal ta chele
Kotha’r pithe kotha’r
Basketball ta khele.
Gel dekhe meyera khushi hoy na moteyi,
Don boithok kore jibon kaate na moteyi,
Bhaloi jaani tor mone aache theek ki
Uddeshyo chhokrader bodlaay na moteyi.
Gur dekha macchi’r moto
Aatke geli.
Tui toh…
Keno amaar goli te opekkha korish,bol?Achoron down-market korish, bol?
Dekhi jodi shoriye janla’r porda ta, pagol,
Sheesh baajiye khali birokto korish bol?
Chhar attitude, kokhono maan shundori
Bank-cheque chaash naaki praan shundori?
EeNter ei mon ta norom kor na ektu
Dekh, aami taagda jowan, shundori,
Chhoy foot theke dedh foot hoye gelam
Aami toh…
Here's to the most adorable Bollywood song EVER.
June 4, 2011
Every time an Abhinav Singh, an Adarsh Mukherjee or a Debanjan Sen leaves the world, there is a little less goodness left in the world. And, a little more disillusionment with the entity called God.
I do not know who or what saved me though. Luck, or love, I don't know what it was. All I know is, it wasn't God. Coz he doesn't exist.
I do not know who or what saved me though. Luck, or love, I don't know what it was. All I know is, it wasn't God. Coz he doesn't exist.
May 28, 2011
May 23, 2011
The Hundredth. 7/Z/5.
This very nook, the one where I am sitting right now, was where I was when Dadu had charged at us with a wooden chair, holding it up with his two hands, under one particularly violent fit of Alzheimer’s-induced rage. Tebu was six months old then. I was all of seven years, and Buiya nine. Trembling out of fear, we had all rushed out of the room, Tebu carried by the domestic help, and out into the gully. Dadu had, after calming us, signaled us to come in, but had ordered that Mana, the domestic help, whose forcing medicines upon him had caused him to get enraged, stay out.
Dadu died a year and a half back, after suffering from the Alzheimer’s disease for almost one and a half decades. Tebu has learnt and un-learnt Canadian English and is almost in high school, and has a nine year old brother himself. Buiya is almost done with a Masters degree in English, and I’m in sophomore year of College, desperately trying to figure out the intricate nuances of Economics. The Powerpuff-Girls poster has been scrapped off the wall behind me, and the editions of ‘Desh’ and ‘Anandalok’ stacked up on the racks are there no more. But after almost twelve years and many cities, apartments, schools and life-altering experiences today, we’re permanent residents of 7/Z/5, Picnic Garden First Lane, again.
How much do renovations change, really? The set-up within each room has received drastic make-overs, but each corner is still painted with indelible memories. This,and 5-Ballygunge Place were the two homes I spent my earliest years in. The place I came home to right after I was born, the place where I learnt to stand up, to talk and walk, the endless humid-summer evenings spent on the ‘chhad’, the Tents-and-Adventures games with Tebu, Mongolamashi coming to work every morning, and engaging in squabbles with Thammu, Protima bringing us small-little souvenir toys from the fairs, the ‘mela’ near their slum, , Lebu’s birth, countless family gatherings. Within the walls of this home, my years of growing up have been kept preserved carefully.
Of course, once we moved out of Calcutta, and got acquainted with other towns and their people, the strings connecting me to this place began to grow weak. Sure, there still would be the coming-back-and-spending-the-vacations here, but that too got divided between here and Jodhpur Park, Lav-Kush, Abhyudoy, Salt Lake and all those other places. Eventually, there would be entire vacations when I’d not visit here even once. The walls lost their glow, the plasters and wall-papers were eroding away, the rooms got messier, and Dadu and Thammu older. The Nidharias moved to their own home, and then to Canada. Dadu got increasingly immobile, and soon, I had no reason to spend my time here any more.
After Dadu and Thammu had moved to Salt Lake, and Dadu’s demise in 2009, 7/Z/5 was left nothing more than a lot of rooms and old rickety ‘bonedi’ furniture covered with dust. Hence, not without reason, after its having housed us for twenty two years, Baba decided to sell it off, earlier this year.
The very next month I fell fifty feet, from a window of the Rajarhat apartment. I survived, but was ‘scarred’ enough to reject any ideas of going back to the fourth floor apartment where we were staying, or the one where we were to move to. Ergo, an entire make-over for 7/Z/5, and moving back here. Life has strange ways of mocking us and our plans sometimes. Today, I’m learning to walk all over again, in the same house where I learned to walk first, twenty years ago. Very few things have stayed the same. The ‘aangan’ behind the house is where it was, though it looks so much smaller today. The name-plate on the front door still bears the name of the 5 original-Goswamis. The Maxim-Gorky and Kafka novels still lay stacked in the drawing-room book-rack. But the single-houses lining the lane then, have given way to apartment-blocks today. Today, Shilpa Shetty no longer gyrates to “Jawaani Ka Alam” on television. Today, tears do not start flowing over one missed episode of Scooby-Doo. Today, the cabinet housing all of the ‘Shuktara’ and the ‘Sandesh’ issues, or the ‘Sinhasan’ with the idols and ‘nokul-danas’ are there no more. Today, I’m no longer convinced about the prospect of the existence of a fantasy-world infested by perilous ghostly-lions (all of it cooked up by my sister), just beyond the guava tree behind the ‘aangan’. Today, the guava-tree itself doesn’t exist. All that exist are fading memories of events of Not-So-Long-Ago, the rooms exactly where they were, and midnight-musings such as these.
Dadu died a year and a half back, after suffering from the Alzheimer’s disease for almost one and a half decades. Tebu has learnt and un-learnt Canadian English and is almost in high school, and has a nine year old brother himself. Buiya is almost done with a Masters degree in English, and I’m in sophomore year of College, desperately trying to figure out the intricate nuances of Economics. The Powerpuff-Girls poster has been scrapped off the wall behind me, and the editions of ‘Desh’ and ‘Anandalok’ stacked up on the racks are there no more. But after almost twelve years and many cities, apartments, schools and life-altering experiences today, we’re permanent residents of 7/Z/5, Picnic Garden First Lane, again.
How much do renovations change, really? The set-up within each room has received drastic make-overs, but each corner is still painted with indelible memories. This,and 5-Ballygunge Place were the two homes I spent my earliest years in. The place I came home to right after I was born, the place where I learnt to stand up, to talk and walk, the endless humid-summer evenings spent on the ‘chhad’, the Tents-and-Adventures games with Tebu, Mongolamashi coming to work every morning, and engaging in squabbles with Thammu, Protima bringing us small-little souvenir toys from the fairs, the ‘mela’ near their slum, , Lebu’s birth, countless family gatherings. Within the walls of this home, my years of growing up have been kept preserved carefully.Of course, once we moved out of Calcutta, and got acquainted with other towns and their people, the strings connecting me to this place began to grow weak. Sure, there still would be the coming-back-and-spending-the-vacations here, but that too got divided between here and Jodhpur Park, Lav-Kush, Abhyudoy, Salt Lake and all those other places. Eventually, there would be entire vacations when I’d not visit here even once. The walls lost their glow, the plasters and wall-papers were eroding away, the rooms got messier, and Dadu and Thammu older. The Nidharias moved to their own home, and then to Canada. Dadu got increasingly immobile, and soon, I had no reason to spend my time here any more.
After Dadu and Thammu had moved to Salt Lake, and Dadu’s demise in 2009, 7/Z/5 was left nothing more than a lot of rooms and old rickety ‘bonedi’ furniture covered with dust. Hence, not without reason, after its having housed us for twenty two years, Baba decided to sell it off, earlier this year.
The very next month I fell fifty feet, from a window of the Rajarhat apartment. I survived, but was ‘scarred’ enough to reject any ideas of going back to the fourth floor apartment where we were staying, or the one where we were to move to. Ergo, an entire make-over for 7/Z/5, and moving back here. Life has strange ways of mocking us and our plans sometimes. Today, I’m learning to walk all over again, in the same house where I learned to walk first, twenty years ago. Very few things have stayed the same. The ‘aangan’ behind the house is where it was, though it looks so much smaller today. The name-plate on the front door still bears the name of the 5 original-Goswamis. The Maxim-Gorky and Kafka novels still lay stacked in the drawing-room book-rack. But the single-houses lining the lane then, have given way to apartment-blocks today. Today, Shilpa Shetty no longer gyrates to “Jawaani Ka Alam” on television. Today, tears do not start flowing over one missed episode of Scooby-Doo. Today, the cabinet housing all of the ‘Shuktara’ and the ‘Sandesh’ issues, or the ‘Sinhasan’ with the idols and ‘nokul-danas’ are there no more. Today, I’m no longer convinced about the prospect of the existence of a fantasy-world infested by perilous ghostly-lions (all of it cooked up by my sister), just beyond the guava tree behind the ‘aangan’. Today, the guava-tree itself doesn’t exist. All that exist are fading memories of events of Not-So-Long-Ago, the rooms exactly where they were, and midnight-musings such as these.
May 14, 2011
May 10, 2011
May 7, 2011
The Ninety-Seventh Post
During those nights when I’d lie lifelessly in my irksomely tiny-and-white bed in the Intensive Critical Care Unit of the hospital, fleeting in and out of a drugged consciousness, sometimes I’d study the screens connected to the bodies of the other suffering souls. Those screens had every possible color depicting the various physical conditions, heart-rates, oxygen-saturation levels et cetera, of the patients, in every possible font. They resembled monsters from across the Vaitarna, one for guarding each unfortunate victim in that room, ready to grab hold of him immediately, should he lose his struggle for life. The suffocating silence looming in the dimly-lit room would be punctured at times by the nervous whispers of the visiting doctors and attendants, the heart-rending moaning noises made by an elderly occupant or the guttural, animal-like loud-cries from the bed housing a man from Kuwait, who I had heard had completely lost his memory after having fallen from about the same height as I.
All of these sight and visions would creep into my dreams, plaguing them, turning them into nightmares. There would be relief from waking from these dreams, only to be reminded that the nightmare I was living, the one I had purchased a permanent ticket to, through exercise of my unquestionable stupidity, carelessness and lack of concern for my own life, was not one I could be ever woken up from. I had fucked up. Fucked up, majorly.
Ma and Baba would visit during the visiting hours, which would be the happiest hours in the day for me. The only hours with human communication, with contact with the familiar, with anything remotely close to happiness, with warmth and love. Ma would also bring me news of my friends visiting me, friends who would come visit everyday without fail, even with the knowledge that I was recovering, even with the knowledge that they wouldn’t even get to see me. In the perplexing sanity of that room, with nothing much to do, I would think of the numerous things I could and would say to each one of them, to my friends and parents and family. So many things I’d own up to, confess, openly scream out, whine about, fearlessly opine about, and ruminate over guilt-free and in public. Now of course, back in the relatable insanity of the ‘real’-world, where every soul is bound by limitations and unspoken, unexpressed, incomplete dangling conversations, I realize, that I’m never going to say all those things I wanted to, to all those several people, ever in life.
All of these sight and visions would creep into my dreams, plaguing them, turning them into nightmares. There would be relief from waking from these dreams, only to be reminded that the nightmare I was living, the one I had purchased a permanent ticket to, through exercise of my unquestionable stupidity, carelessness and lack of concern for my own life, was not one I could be ever woken up from. I had fucked up. Fucked up, majorly.
Ma and Baba would visit during the visiting hours, which would be the happiest hours in the day for me. The only hours with human communication, with contact with the familiar, with anything remotely close to happiness, with warmth and love. Ma would also bring me news of my friends visiting me, friends who would come visit everyday without fail, even with the knowledge that I was recovering, even with the knowledge that they wouldn’t even get to see me. In the perplexing sanity of that room, with nothing much to do, I would think of the numerous things I could and would say to each one of them, to my friends and parents and family. So many things I’d own up to, confess, openly scream out, whine about, fearlessly opine about, and ruminate over guilt-free and in public. Now of course, back in the relatable insanity of the ‘real’-world, where every soul is bound by limitations and unspoken, unexpressed, incomplete dangling conversations, I realize, that I’m never going to say all those things I wanted to, to all those several people, ever in life.
May 3, 2011
Never There, Together
They sat around the fire, as it rained outside.
Legs intertwined, one of them with a guitar,
The other with a camera, each worshipping
An art, never up for hire.
Hours of silence, weaving in a glance or two,
Of the never uttered words, that generations crave,
Of the obvious comforts in the infinite company,
By the midnight fire.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Similar beings with dissimilar souls,
Never too long, do together last.
Each second is a dream shattered,
Reminiscent of an unwrinkled past.
Each photograph is a memory,
Wasting away under moisture and tears,
And each song is a one-way ticket,
Of return to the contagious, tragic fears.
Hope dries up, never stays around for too long,
When footsteps don't rhyme,thus ends each song.
Picture courtesy: Utsav Akhoury,once again.
Legs intertwined, one of them with a guitar,
The other with a camera, each worshipping
An art, never up for hire.
Hours of silence, weaving in a glance or two,
Of the never uttered words, that generations crave,
Of the obvious comforts in the infinite company,
By the midnight fire.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Similar beings with dissimilar souls,
Never too long, do together last.
Each second is a dream shattered,
Reminiscent of an unwrinkled past.
Each photograph is a memory,
Wasting away under moisture and tears,
And each song is a one-way ticket,
Of return to the contagious, tragic fears.
Hope dries up, never stays around for too long,
When footsteps don't rhyme,thus ends each song.
Picture courtesy: Utsav Akhoury,once again.
Fabricated Fornication
Count the bitter whip-words,
Reflected under the lilac glory,
Of her tired lips.
Count the seconds ticking away,
From the old watch-dial,
Whilst his trousers, he zips.
An old tale,
The repetitiveness
Of them,
Fabricated Fornication(s)
Reflected under the lilac glory,
Of her tired lips.
Count the seconds ticking away,
From the old watch-dial,
Whilst his trousers, he zips.
An old tale,
The repetitiveness
Of them,
Fabricated Fornication(s)
April 25, 2011
Patang(A)
Ek woh patang,
Jo hawaa mein gotein khaati,
Ud chali,
Tair chali,
Ek kinaare se doosra kinaara,
Ek galiyare se doosra chaubaara.
Aur ek PatangA,
Jiska udaan uska apna,
Aur armaan bhi apne.
Kabhi jhund mein bhaagta,
Kabhi akele.
Andhiyara ho toh mili panaah,
Roshni dikhee toh, jalke huya fanaah.
Aapko kismein milee
Apnee dastaan?
Jo hawaa mein gotein khaati,
Ud chali,
Tair chali,
Ek kinaare se doosra kinaara,
Ek galiyare se doosra chaubaara.
Aur ek PatangA,
Jiska udaan uska apna,
Aur armaan bhi apne.
Kabhi jhund mein bhaagta,
Kabhi akele.
Andhiyara ho toh mili panaah,
Roshni dikhee toh, jalke huya fanaah.
Aapko kismein milee
Apnee dastaan?
April 19, 2011
Guzaarish
Uddne waala yahi ek uskaa mann,
Ik dor se bandh chuka dekho,
Kitna ooNchaa chhalaaNg lagaaya,
Madmast nainon ki jurrat dekho.
Badi suhaani kohre waali ek nukkad,
Bulaa raha har pal iss baaNvre raahi ko,
Woh qaid akela, Waqt bhi rahi mukkad,
Bas ek mannat, ik chhutkaara haasil ho.
Ik dor se bandh chuka dekho,
Kitna ooNchaa chhalaaNg lagaaya,
Madmast nainon ki jurrat dekho.
Badi suhaani kohre waali ek nukkad,
Bulaa raha har pal iss baaNvre raahi ko,
Woh qaid akela, Waqt bhi rahi mukkad,
Bas ek mannat, ik chhutkaara haasil ho.
Khone Do
Haqeeqat ko lifaafe mein daal,
Daak se bhej diya parle kinaar,
Kaagaz ki naav mein saari sachchai daal,
Bahaa diya ussey Jamuna paar.
Mujhe zaroorat nahi saari asli baatein,
Mujhe anginat khwaab bone do.
Aur raat ki sooni hatheli pakde,
Chhup chhup ke tanha rone do.
Mujhe aaj, apne aap mein hi
Khone do, jee khone do.
Translation
I have sealed reality away in an envelope,
Mailed it away to The Other Side,
Crafted all of the world's truths into a paper-boat,
Have set it sail from the banks of the Yamuna,
I don't need to face reality,
Just let me sew my endless dreams,
And clutching on to the bare hands of Night,
Let me cry to myself
Tonight, let me find solace,
Within myself
Daak se bhej diya parle kinaar,
Kaagaz ki naav mein saari sachchai daal,
Bahaa diya ussey Jamuna paar.
Mujhe zaroorat nahi saari asli baatein,
Mujhe anginat khwaab bone do.
Aur raat ki sooni hatheli pakde,
Chhup chhup ke tanha rone do.
Mujhe aaj, apne aap mein hi
Khone do, jee khone do.
Translation
I have sealed reality away in an envelope,
Mailed it away to The Other Side,
Crafted all of the world's truths into a paper-boat,
Have set it sail from the banks of the Yamuna,
I don't need to face reality,
Just let me sew my endless dreams,
And clutching on to the bare hands of Night,
Let me cry to myself
Tonight, let me find solace,
Within myself
April 18, 2011
Hum Me Another Harmony
For me to wane under your shadow,
We must share the same Universe.
Fortunately for your stars,
I'm not one in your sky.
Of the realms that cut through my space,
There's the denial,
The farewell,
And re-embracing,
The same cold autumn wind,
Through the city street-corners,
And the sub-urban flower-beds.
It enacts the same jubilant harmony
A celebratory arrival
Of that on who I have no claim.
A Territorial misfit,
A silver dream,
In our Universe.
***********************************************
Locked away under shadows
Of a bell-jar, of cardamom and almonds,
Cast in its image,
By a crisp sunshine,
Locked as punishment,
Locked through the absence
Of Guilt.
************************************************
Six years of the first battle,
And I'm in the midst of a second one,
Am I allowed ONE failure?
Yes, you can live each day as your last,
As much as you wish,
But you shall never be prepared enough for death...
Picture Courtesy: Utsav Akhoury
We must share the same Universe.
Fortunately for your stars,
I'm not one in your sky.
Of the realms that cut through my space,
There's the denial,
The farewell,
And re-embracing,
The same cold autumn wind,
Through the city street-corners,
And the sub-urban flower-beds.
It enacts the same jubilant harmony
A celebratory arrival
Of that on who I have no claim.
A Territorial misfit,
A silver dream,
In our Universe.
***********************************************
Locked away under shadows
Of a bell-jar, of cardamom and almonds,
Cast in its image,
By a crisp sunshine,
Locked as punishment,Locked through the absence
Of Guilt.
************************************************
Six years of the first battle,
And I'm in the midst of a second one,
Am I allowed ONE failure?
Yes, you can live each day as your last,
As much as you wish,
But you shall never be prepared enough for death...
Picture Courtesy: Utsav Akhoury
Winner/Wiener/Blah
My last post was all about how I've always tried but never won.
And here I am, after winning the biggest battle ever.
Life is all about the irony, really
:D
And here I am, after winning the biggest battle ever.
Life is all about the irony, really
:D
March 7, 2011
March 4, 2011
Godard and Us
If the youth of Jean Luc Godard's generation were "Children of Marx and Coca-Cola", the youth of today are the off-springs of Gaza and GaaNja. Nothing ever changes, in terms of every generation thinking itself to be the smartest, and the most gifted, and hence getting complacent and turning out to be an embarrassment for the succeeding generation.
February 27, 2011
Mon Amour
Mon Amour
I have wrapped the eternity in my poetry, for you.
Enchained all of the world's fragrance in such lyrics for you.
I have made a thousand million
Deals for your sake,mon amour.
I've made sure your eyes don't hurt from the sparkle of the stars,
Have made a crystal sky, a dome to that end, to soothe your scars.
Picked up, them stars divine,
Each one a diamond mine,
Have traded in the impossible millions, up in the sky, for you.
Winter creeps in, the chill sets in, I revel in the warmth of your breath,
The shawl of the evening, softer than silk, calmer than death.
Raisins and almonds, I've bought for you,
Caviar, champagne and chocolates too.
Have even bought out the Garden of Eden, from the angels for you.
Just for you, mon amour.
DISCLAIMER: This is an original translation, but a translation nonetheless.
I have wrapped the eternity in my poetry, for you.
Enchained all of the world's fragrance in such lyrics for you.
I have made a thousand million
Deals for your sake,mon amour.
I've made sure your eyes don't hurt from the sparkle of the stars,
Have made a crystal sky, a dome to that end, to soothe your scars.
Picked up, them stars divine,
Each one a diamond mine,
Have traded in the impossible millions, up in the sky, for you.
Winter creeps in, the chill sets in, I revel in the warmth of your breath,
The shawl of the evening, softer than silk, calmer than death.
Raisins and almonds, I've bought for you,
Caviar, champagne and chocolates too.
Have even bought out the Garden of Eden, from the angels for you.
Just for you, mon amour.
DISCLAIMER: This is an original translation, but a translation nonetheless.
February 12, 2011
Ujaan- Festival for the Sunderbans
Bengal's lost out on being parent to the national capital city. She's lost Bose, Dada as the cricket team 'kuptaan' and Ray and Ghatak. One glorious thing about her that remains as lustrous is her identity in the name of the Royal Bengal tiger(Panthera tigris tigris).
Home to this species is the largest mangrove forest in the world-The Sundarbans. The forest lies in the vast delta on the Bay of Bengal formed by the super confluence of the Ganges, Brahmaputra and Meghna rivers, and is a home to huge reserves of biodiversity, and is also recognized as a UNESCO WORLD HERITAGE SITE.
However, as is known to most of us environmentally aware citizens, the Sunderbans is under irrevocable peril due to the rise in global sea levels.'Ujaan- Festival for the Sunderbans' is an attempt by some concerned urban young adults to raise awareness for the conservation of this extremely sensitive geographical region.
Date: 11th- 13th March, 2011
Venue: Frazergunj-Bakkhali, West Bengal
Be there, Sons and Daughters...
January 29, 2011
My Art?
So, I see you, in the portrait that you have painted of yourself.
But oh my dear boy, don't you remember, you borrowed those colors from me?
You may ask, why, oh why, did I loan out my inimitable colors to you?
No, I don't have a reply, none whatsoever, save that, I love you...
In my dreams, several times, I have painted you, your face, your smile,
In hues unknown, in shades resplendent, all of it my creation.
That's not how it is, is it? For you have it fixed, have it all planned,
And when I see her smile, her hair, so secure, I fall, out of love,
Or try to...
Love, strange, love bizarre.
Love irrevocable.
For you.
And distress,
In my life.
You shall never be my
Art.
I shall be a star, staring down at a river below.
I shall be a scar, among the wrinkles that age on you, will bestow.
I shall be lurking , beneath your smiling eyes
I shall be planting, soft kisses on your hands, under dreamy October skies.
You shall never be my
Art.
Not my art.
But my love.
My life,
Forever.
Causing heartaches,
Bruising my fantasy-lores.
I have woven satin nights for you,
I have seduced the fallen angels for you...
For you,dear Luke.
I am your fool.
But oh my dear boy, don't you remember, you borrowed those colors from me?
You may ask, why, oh why, did I loan out my inimitable colors to you?
No, I don't have a reply, none whatsoever, save that, I love you...
In my dreams, several times, I have painted you, your face, your smile,
In hues unknown, in shades resplendent, all of it my creation.
That's not how it is, is it? For you have it fixed, have it all planned,
And when I see her smile, her hair, so secure, I fall, out of love,
Or try to...
Love, strange, love bizarre.
Love irrevocable.
For you.
And distress,
In my life.
You shall never be my
Art.
I shall be a star, staring down at a river below.
I shall be a scar, among the wrinkles that age on you, will bestow.
I shall be lurking , beneath your smiling eyes
I shall be planting, soft kisses on your hands, under dreamy October skies.
You shall never be my
Art.
Not my art.
But my love.
My life,
Forever.
Causing heartaches,
Bruising my fantasy-lores.
I have woven satin nights for you,
I have seduced the fallen angels for you...
For you,dear Luke.
I am your fool.
January 18, 2011
Not Simple Math
Even as a child, I was never convinced by the possibility of ‘forever’. I always knew nothing is for the keeps for an eternity. Every good thing has to come to an end, invariably. Relationships, friendships, success, career, life. Everything slowly reaches crescendo, and then fades out. Age didn’t need to teach me that. What I have learnt, however, is that the fading out is not necessarily painful, emotionally stressful or traumatic. Rather, the transition occurs naturally, and before one realizes, the process has already occurred. So, on the one hand, while there is no pain, on the other, there is also no way turn the tide of events and go back to how it was before.
In Class Three, I learnt, Distance=Time*Speed.
Sheer simple mathematics.
There was a teeny tiny corollary that was never taught, however.
Time increases the distance.
Always.
In Class Three, I learnt, Distance=Time*Speed.
Sheer simple mathematics.
There was a teeny tiny corollary that was never taught, however.
Time increases the distance.
Always.
January 14, 2011
Teen-End.
I don't like orange clothes or Mathematics, but I love Hindi romantic films and rainy days. I am extroverted, and I love being around people. I like to break out in song and dance in the middle of roads. I have got weird unmanageable hair and the longest natural eyelashes from among all the people I know. Also, I don't like communicating over phone. Hello, I'm Ritwik, and today is the last day of my teenage :-)
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