For a change I read my own blog right from the beginning. Now I am in a reminiscent mood.

This one is my favourites and me thinks my best improvement of the blank paper.

http://nautiluschronicles.blogspot.com/2009/05/25.html

25.07.2010.

Loneliness is ominous at midnight.

Hope is a dead letter.

The clocks stopped... they refuse to go on without.

The moments tick… unrelenting.

The face etched in stone... masks impassive dread.

The macabre silence swirls twirls mocks his unsaid.

The shadows – covetous, lurk beyond reach… waiting, watching… will he die this night.

04.07.2010.

It is a beautiful day… clear, cold, crisp and windy. I stood all morning on the bridge wings. I haven’t cut my hair in five months. It was beautiful standing there listening to my favourite songs with the strong breeze playing the fool with my unruly hair. A Camus quote comes to my mind – ‘But what is happiness except the simple harmony between a man and the life he leads.’ I am in absolute harmony with my life on beautiful days like this when I stand on the wings, look around me and see nothing but nothingness. Or moonlit nights at sea when the night is my lonely princess, the coltish grace of moonlight on the rippling water her bejewelled ornaments, her hair the soft shadows the clouds cast and the gentle breeze on my face her beckoning song.

12.06.2010.

Two more lousy ports in Japan later I am at sea again. Yes the windmill of fate turns in favour atlast. I am on my way to either Argentina or Brazil or both, bunkering and taking supplies enroute from Singapore and then on to Amsterdam. I’ve ordered a few tins of rasogolla’s and chocolates to brighten things up. Yeah nothing livens up my life like good food. Life otherwise is routine. I try and write every now and then but it seems I don’t have much to write these days. Almost everything that trickles out looks frighteningly similar to something or the other that I’ve already written.

At this point Nimo goes blank. He sits there staring at the computer for a while. He then gets up, takes out the bottle of fine Glenfiddich he bought in the last port, pours himself a dram and proceeds to listen to BB King sing “Rock me baby… rock me all night long.”

End of transmission.

Over and out.

30.05.2010.

A neighbour’s father had passed away. We were at the crematorium in south Calcutta waiting in line. The corpse of a woman of about twenty to twenty three years of age lay on one side. Two young children, a boy and girl and an old man sat next to the corpse. One gentleman from our troupe with boredom and curiosity on his side came back with their sad story. The woman hit by a bus on the eastern metropolitan bypass had died on spot and had been lying in a government morgue for the past five days while her hapless family tried to arrange the money for her cremation. Finally they got the money but were unaware of the municipality charges for issuing the death certificate. So while the hapless father of the woman waited with her children the husband had gone off trying to arrange that paltry sum. I remember their faces. The children uncomprehending, probably hungry… they had lost their mother and were too young to grasp the rest. The father hollow and resigned, he had probably seen life get the better of them way too many a time. I noticed they were not in line. Time meant nothing to them. They didn’t know when or if the money will arrive. I didn’t have enough money that would put an end to their misery but I wore a gold chain that might have. I had this mad urge to give them the chain but I didn’t. I was scared my Mother and Aunt won’t understand or even if they did they would consider it an excess considering our middleclass existence. Fast forward to this day and this man… I wouldn’t care. I wouldn’t care about consequences. I would give away anything I have that I think might help. And that is my point. I don’t care anymore. I do not care about anything anymore.

And sometimes I wonder if that is a good thing or a bad thing.

02.05.2010.

I really must stop writing on bits of scrap paper. I purchased a chic writing pad and hope this strategic move will lead to writing regularly again. The inspiration was the wad of scrap paper trying to gather dust (cleanliness freaks do not allow dust to settle) on my desk. They were to metamorphose into posts. They didn’t.

I did a number of ports in the last two months, most of them in Japan. I hate coming to Japan. The basic needs of a sailor after landfall are never met in Japan. Phone is as expensive as the satellite phone onboard. Columbus I’m sure found it easier to find India than finding internet cafes in Japan and Nippon cuisine seriously doesn’t excite me. The other two ports were in Newzealand. Bluff well past 47° south and situated on the southernmost tip of the south island is a tiny forgotten hamlet. I loved Bluff. Life in Bluff can’t just be called idyllic. It is more like time come to a standstill. A few hours after berthing I was off in search of good food and internet, armed with some local humint from the rather old British draft surveyor who spoke incessantly. I was to find the Golden Age Tavern that served the freshest blue cod on the coast and ‘The Bluff Lodge’ – the only place in town with net access. The walk to town was refreshing. The road lined with low single storied bungalows with garden patches in front and large sea facing windows, the elderly couples who smiled warmly at a stranger, kids catching clams on the wharf, the lady who sat on the pavement outside her dairy and was spinning a merry yarn from lamb wool… it felt as if I was transported to another time altogether. But more pleasant surprises were in store. I found the Bluff Lodge on a crossing near town centre. I pushed open the huge doors and stood in a lobby with nothing but a piece of paper with an arrow pointing towards another door on the left. Beyond that door I found a small waiting area with a TV, DVD player and loads of DVD’s. There was an office across another glass door as deserted as the lobby and the echoes of my booming “anybody in” confirmed it. Next to a spiral staircase I noticed another piece of paper with an arrow pointing upstairs. I gingerly went up to find myself in a hall next to which was a library/lounge with a CRT monitor/computer and a few more rooms down the hallway – all unlocked, wide open, no keys, no locks… no nothing!! I was about to leave when I noticed on the wall a blackboard on which someone had written with chalk – “Just gone for a walk, back before 4.” It was 13:30 in the afternoon!! A bit bewildered I left hurriedly, had a melt in the mouth fresh blue cod meal at the GoldenAge Tavern washed down with fine draught beer before returning to the Bluff Lodge. Back up the stairs I found a smiling gentleman who in response to my question about leaving the place unlocked said – “Uh we are sort of trusting around here… don’t lock ‘em very often.” I wish I lived in Bluff. The last surprise came an hour before we sailed. The British draft surveyor came with gifts… a bottle of wine for us officers and a small stamp collection for the cadet. He said – “A small present for bearing with my incessant chatter. You see I was in the British navy during the Falklands war and served a long prison sentence. I know the meaning of silence.”

28.04.2010.

Dear Amul Butter,

I was introduced to you even before I was born. You see my Mother too is rather fond of you. My earliest memory of you is a warm delicious aroma. It rose from this delicious brunch my Mother made with steaming hot rice, daal, boiled egg, potatoes and you… all mashed together and garnished with green chillies. And know what Amul Butter? Over two decades and half later that memory is still as fresh as if it was only yesterday. Nothing ever beat that delightful taste. You were a part of my life in numerous ways. Appearing at breakfast on top of or in between sliced bread, peppered with black pepper and then reappearing as the same avataar albeit a bit soggy in the school tiffin box. You were the desire that effected my dignified begging for ‘just aar ektu’ (read liberal spoonful). You were the temptation that drove me to filching. Oh the Joy of sneak into the kitchen unseen, noiselessly removing your 100gms net weight from the fridge, flip the flap and digging in as deep as possible with a finger – heaven I tell you would have lost in competition. When love arrived in my life like stolen pages of a romance novel you were often my saviour. Love is hard work and hard work makes one hungry. Imperative all night long and well into the next morning lovey dovey coochikoos over the phone spelt trouble in more ways than one. Numero uno was of course the phone bill but the other? To my Mother’s utter consternation a double pack of Bourbon biscuit meant to last half a week ceased to exist overnight. Mum being a strict lady flatly refused to indulge – me or my love, biscuits or otherwise. The fatwa passed was a subsistence allowance of Britannia Marie or Thinarraroot biscuits till the scheduled release of the next packet of Bourbon, incarcerated in a secure storage facility (read locked cupboard). But I had you. A generous layer of you between bland Britannia Marie was a delectable escape from such cruel edicts. You were always there… in rainyday khichdi, in congealed over boiled Maggi to make it edible, in molten allure on Pao Bhaji or as charm on insipid idlis. Do you remember the time I first met you on an early morning flight? You wrapped smartly in silver foil, name printed neatly in blue and my guilty pleasure of discreetly licking you off the butter spread after some furtive glancing around. You and I in our sinful tryst with hot handmade tawa bread… you melting at the warm warm touch and my shameless lapping at your sensuous drib down my fingers. I could go on and on. Over the years I have travelled far and wide and I have had many a butter from all over the world. From the excess of varieties in Europe or America to the simple home made butter in Djibouti. But I have never had another butter like you... you are the best butter on earth. Someday I wish to be a doting father and I will introduce my child to your delights… I’ll relive those special moments with you one more time through my kid.

I love you Amul Butter.

J******

28.03.2010.

Listed below are a few minor corrections with respect to information given in previous posts –

1. Yeah I have had a laptop for a long long time now and thus my statement in the first post stands null and void.

2. Yeah yeah I changed the phone handset too.

3. The statement in the very first post calling this blog as a passing whim now stands officially withdrawn.

4. I reclaimed the title – His Majesty His Royal Highness The Prince of Pithrasgarh.

5. Yup I have since resumed playing IGI 1 & 2. In fact now I’m much better at it.

6. No Annihilina does not make lemonade on hot summer afternoons like Anne does (the lemonade making software is undergoing final trials before deployment) and yes ex²tremely advanced cyborgs/androids like me are programmed to drink lemonade on hot summer afternoons. But they prefer beer… lager to be precise.

7. The FNT-7900 stories told to the single digits do not move on from one Sunday to another based solely on my imagination. My mood does play a role once in a while and depending on the direction my mood swings to the following take place –

• He goes for drydocking.
• He goes for systems overhaul.
• He goes for weapons upgrade.
• He goes for much needed vacation.
• He has a ‘Kryptonuclear’ powerplant meltdown (little kids must not even enter his room because of contamination hazards).

• He goes AWOL (pssst.. this happens when am not even in the mood to think up excuses to not tell stories)

Author’s Note: Some readers can be rather irritatingly observant!!

24.03.2010.

A pretty young lady I much adore said the name of my ship sounds like a colourful African bird. The idea has caught my fancy. “Glorious Plumeria” yes she does sounds like a colourful African bird. We sailed out from Tsuneishi on the 23^rd of March bound for Bluff, Newzealand. We crossed the ‘Challenger Deep’ today, the fifth time I crossed the deepest place on earth. Life onboard is routine. My last ship was the best of my sea career and I think after Global Ace this ship feels stiffling. Out of a crew of twenty one the only one I have come to admire is the Ukrainian Mate. That’s rare considering I am the snooty and condescendingly arrogant sort who inevitably places himself on a higher plane than almost everyone he meets. Apart from his amazing hard work or sense of responsibility what has surprised me is his ability to remain smiling and genial no matter how much he works or how fatigued he is or the never faltering softness in his nature and behaviour. I respect the man. I’ve also come to like the Cadet. At twenty he is much more easily likable for his small town boy innocence unlike the wiseass, skinny drainpipe jeans wearing, Chinese Crested (although I’m a dog lover I can’t stand this breed) hair cut sporting youngsters I oft come across. He told me quite candidly that he comes from a small village and would appreciate if I taught him officer etiquette. I confess the kid took me by surprise. Mine was the second last batch of trainee officers who underwent etiquette training classes before some pen pushing deskbound arsehole decided it was not a requirement anymore. That and some other lowering of standards led to an influx of officer’s who have proprieties similar to horses in a stable or in some worse case scenarios swine in a sty. This young lad with his constant effort to make his English better, his clothes smarter, his work perfect, his manners proper and his knowledge sound is like a breath of fresh air. I grudgingly confess that I’m often forced to do homework in my cabin so that I can teach him properly… from the right glass for a particular drink to long forgotten lewd full forms of spherical trignometry formulas. The funny bit is the realization I have had from this. First how much I have forgotten of so many things I had painstakingly perfected a decade back and second that sometime in the future I might take up teaching as a career.

16.03.2010.

Dear Void,

I am lonely so I thought I’ll write you a letter. I feel lonely… lonely as the sea. The sheer expanse, the unfathomable deeps within the sea that embody so much also ironically leave the sea lonely and forlorn. Sometimes when I feel this way I miss the little boy who was my friend. Ours was an unusual friendship. The wise me… street wise, fight wise and the child him, innocent and gullible. He passed away leaving me with this haunting regret that I did not do enough to save him. And now when I think of him I mutter his name over and over, I etch it on the snow… sand sometimes. My fingertips trace the letters unmindfully making them warm to the touch even on the coldest days. Perhaps in the hope that touching it will renew faith in love, in life or perchance raise him from the earth he lay in… his blood warm, flowing again.

“... the embers left from earlier fires… shall duely flame again” – Walt Whitman

I’ll write to you again another time. Good bye dear Void.

Yours,

I Jai

14.03.2010.

The Post Script

“The state of happiness steals from our written words… the muted expressions of sorrow that turn them words into poetry.”

I read this somewhere… such a lovely thing to say isn’t it? Is that why I cannot write when I am happy? But I ain’t no poet… I just read poetry.

10.03.2010.

Tsuneishi / Japan

Latitude 34° 23.0’ N

Longitude 133° 17.9’ E

Sometimes I cannot help but think that ‘Life’ is like a child. Your own child… you cannot help but love ‘Life’. No matter what ‘Life’ does to you it becomes impossible to stay angry at ‘Life’ after a while you melt… give in. My dear ‘Life’ I too am not angry at you any more. I cannot because you are mine… you are my life.

I stood there in the dimly lit bridge, quietly gazing at the stars slowly fading into the pre-dawn sky. One shackle in water, chain up-n-down… anchor aweigh - Vitalyi Kravchenko’s voice crackled over the radio. Roger that - I heard myself say, followed by the Dock Master’s command - “Engines dead slow ahead, wheel ten starboard.” After eight miles we took the bend and entered Tsuneishi harbour. Everything was same… just as I had last seen. Except that now I knew that my underlying anxiety, the trepidation about how it will affect me was over. I felt nothing.

There are unmarked graves in Tsuneishi… a phone booth, a hill, a café, a bridge, a bicycle or that of a smile – a forced reply to the smiling Japanese guard saying ‘Mushi mushi’. Graves of the dead for whom I did not do everything I could to never forget anything about them. I didn’t make myself remember conversations or scenes over and over again to keep alive every tiny detail. I did not take out old photographs and study them or climb up the attic to open an old suitcase. Despite all that was taken away I did not cling to the one thing that couldn’t be taken away. Here in Tsuneishi I had done the most difficult thing in my life… I had forgiven unconditionally and let die. I walked past each grave. The least they deserved in exchange of my gesture was respect and they were denied it. There is no hate because even hate is an emotional response… perhaps the only one that can be more overwhelming than love.

There will be no epitaphs.

One day regardless of the distance covered in time or miles you shall be avenged.

Those who read this post are requested to not comment.

03.03.2010.

I cannot write when I’m happy.

I am back at sea. I signed on at the Singapore anchorage on the 18^th of February. We sailed six hours later heading north past the South China Sea and then up through the Sea of Japan. Leaving Vladivostok about one hundred and fifty miles to our port we headed further north till the Gulf of Tartary, then altering starboard through the La Perouse strait, with the Sakhalin islands on our port side and into the Sea of Okhotsk. Another days sailing brought us to Shiroteke Misaki in Japan off the Ostrov Kunashir islands in Kamchatka and to one of my favourite parts of the world… the lonely, deserted and almost forgotten lands beyond the 45^th North parallel. The temperature is -9* celcius during the day. The blizzard hasn’t stopped since we arrived, there’s a 30 knot wind blowing making the six on/six off port watches on the exposed weather deck a gruelling experience… and thanks to the proclivity of crane wires to part ( accursed !!! ) on every ship I join, I have slept for five hours in the last two days. But I am happy… just happy. I’m always happy when in these remote high northern latitudes. The desolate loneliness, the silence, the unbearable cold, the sheer hardship required for even the most basic everyday things we do clears my mind, gives me strength and a sense of freedom. It comforts me.

This will be a long post. I haven’t written in months. Sifting through the bits and pieces of paper that I had scribbled on and carefuly tucked away I realize it is impossible to piece them together. The thoughts and emotions are way too varied to compile into a single themed post. Hence this will be a post of excerpts. The events are between October last year and February this year.

I and ‘Shine or Crazy’ (we haven’t yet decided which one of us is Shine and which one Crazy) had a gala time over the last two weeks. Idyllic days, evenings and late nights spent sipping limited edition Johnnie Walker whiskey, watching the Crossroads Guitar Fest, listening to blues, discussing books, movies, politics, driving around Calcutta and eating at our favourite joints. The idea to come home at the same time is a hit and we plan to do it again this October. The other grand plan is, to buy books worth ten grands every year from now and turn one room in the apartment I soon plan to buy into our exclusive library. Another room is to be turned into a gym and the drawing room into a movie lover’s paradise with a projector and a state of the art sound system. Last but not the least a fully equipped kitchen for my gastronomic delight J

I avoid shopping malls the way a now married friend of mine avoids his innumerable ex-flames… that’s more doggedly than any of us would avoid bubonic plague. However on the rare occasions when I do visit I have keenly obeserved the youngsters who throng the malls. To me they all look alike in attire, behaviour, attitude, lingo… everything. They all seem to know everything… done everything and appear equipped to handle anything or perhaps… everything. I am not sure if I’m awed by them or annoyed. I had a much more interesting childhood. The naivete of those times and the lack of wikipedia made many discoveries a lot more enjoyable. Not like now when instant gratification seems to be the flavour. I guess these kids can actually make Maggi in two minutes.

There are a few places in Calcutta that are not just mine - Hindustan Park, Bliss, Southern Avenue, Gurusaday Dutt Road Barista, Someplace Else, Tollygunje Metro Station, Gariahat Barista, Tea stall near Chandni Chowk Metro Station… and a few more.

I hate being in the spotlight. It annoys me… more so when I find myself in it as a direct consequence of the high refractive index of so called “success and achievements.” I absolutely despise people who judge others based on their acievements in academics, career or wages earned.

An idyllic afternoon spent talking and sipping beer with ‘The Thinking Man’ followed by a drunken and dangerously insane scooty ride across south Calcutta brought out the wild teenagers inside us. We still rock the party on the house mate. I had told him – “Two wheelers scare me these days.” He had looked at me and said – “I have never before heard you utter the word fear.” Next morning I looked in the mirror and told myself – “Only when you have something to loose do you begin to fear.”

Sunday mornings are my favourite, I do not step out of the house on Sundays. Because every Sunday morning my home is full of single digits aged between two and a half to nine or barely ten. My activities range from playing farmer to discussing Feluda, Tintin, Asterix, Famous Five and computer games. It fills me with overwhelming Joy as they are the only ones who know and believe that I am in reality a cyborg… an ex²tremely advanced android called FNT 7900 (Friendly Neighborhood Terminator being the name and 7900 being the model number). I serve His Majesty His Royal Highness The Prince of Pithrasgarh as his enforcer operating across galaxies and distant stars. The car that they see me driving is actually a camouflaged Tdrideinegeepeedee i.e. a hyper computerised, intergalactic time barrier defying space rocket. I also have an android girl friend called Annihilina. Her design is more or less based on Anne from The Famous Five series (Okay okay I never quite got over that crush). Guillotimaton is my sworn enemy. He is the cyborg pressed into service by the Sondonesians (the same bad guys who helped Rastapopulas hijack the plane in Tintin’s adventure ‘Flight 714’) who in turn are the worst enemies of the Princely State of Pithrasgarh. With these basic facts in place the story line endlessly meanders from Sunday to Sunday depending solely on my imagination.

Closer

I was stuck in traffic for nearly ten minutes. The song playing was ‘Yeh arzoo thi tujhey gul ke rubaroo katrey.’ After a fair bit of hesitation (I’m often told that let alone be approachable I appear rather hostile to strangers) the scruffy looking South Indian man (the accent) on the motorcycle next to my car asked – “Who is the singer?” Abida Parveen I replied. “Even in hard times such a song can make you forget so much.” – He said. The traffic rolled and we smiled at each other and moved on.

For that single moment we two complete strangers were closer. Closer in our…

Payday

DISCLAIMER – This excerpt is not to be perceived as disgusied show off or suave vaunting.

I sat there in my cabin. The crisp green dollars in my hand… twelve days of wages earned, just twelve days and so much money. And couldn’t help but feel what one of my readers put as ‘gentle melancholy’. Ironic isn’t it that my family or I do not need that much money anymore. We have a simple middleclass Bengali lifestyle and already have all the comforts that we can wish for. Sitting there with the money in hand I drifted back to a day some years ago. It was Ashtomi and the whole city was alight and alive… happy, boisterous revelry everywhere. I sat in my car parked next to a highrise in South Calcutta… blank and staring. I was jobless, penniless, career at stake, my pesonal life in ruins and precisely nothing to look forward to. Amidst the crowd I noticed this old woman stumbling half naked, crying, delusional, blabbering, phlegm dribbling all over her face. Impulsively I had stepped out of the car and given her the last hundred rupees I had and told her to eat something. Incredibly she had held my hand and said – “Baba amar eto chaina… eto chaina baba amarey tumi dui ek taka dilai hoibo.” I don’t need so much only a rupee or two is enough. I had stuffed the note in her hands and hastily walked away. I was scared. I didn’t want to be like her ever. I wanted to want… everything and more and more and more.

I am not trying to be humble and deep. I hope that this isn’t some warped sort of hubris either. I am just a little lost… unsure and fumbling. I do want… I enjoy the good things in life. But somehow what I feel now is not what I thought I will feel when I achieved the goals I set. I think I am not at all well equipped to handle happiness. Like the veterans of war I find myself more at ease facing obstacles and trying to beat a path out through contingencies.

But I will learn. I will learn to handle happiness. And I will learn to write when I am happy.

I will.

I Jai

28.01.2010.

I am writing again. Why wasn’t I? I couldn’t find time to go buy ink for my fountain pen. Why couldn’t I? I had taken over as Spiderman. And let’s be sincere here… saving the world is a tough job. The constant stress gave Peter Parker blood sugar and high blood pressure. Okay I too wanted out but the job scene is bad, even call centres aren’t hiring. Aha! Bad sense of humour intact… sarcasm too.

Why didn’t I write for more than two months?

From what my Mother and Aunt fondly recount my first attempts at writing surfaced when I was around seven years old. Domestic folklore unfolds that the first half page manuscript in Bengali was a detective novel involving the theft of a diamond, a suspicious phone call and the author as the protagonist. The author after running out of ideas to further the plot self-respectingly left it at – “to be continued…” In my imagination I think it was my subconscious proclamation that I would continue to write. I wrote in some form or the other throughout my life. However the Nautilus Chronicles is my first serious attempt at a journal. I started it as I realized that though relief comes with purging but catharsis can only come through confession. And I confess that I am not good at confession. This journal is my confessional. I write in litotes, irony, the n^th entendre and more in connotation than denotation not for the triumph of semantics.

I didn’t write as there was nothing worth writing about. I never force myself to write. I only pen my thoughts when the words fall free but not free falling.

I have complex problems.

Each complex problem I have has simple, easy to understand wrong answers.

My attitude does not help solve my problems. But it annoys enough people to prove its worth.

I sometimes fluctuate between exuberant happiness and tragic melancholy. I am not sure if that reflects my personality or my life.

I henceforward plan to be impressively happy. Always… err perhaps almost always.

05.11.2009.

Bombay

I call her Bombay not Mumbai. I am in Bombay and for the first time since 2006 I will stay much longer than a few hours’ inbetween flights. My feelings about Bombay are quite perplexing. Like many who arrive by train my first impression of Bombay was of gloom, poverty and anger without enthusiasm i.e. depression. Early in the morning as the train enters the city, the stench, slums, people defecating in the open and the abject poverty visible everywhere invariably leads the newcomer to a sense of foreboding. I had arrived by train and the fact that I came with a lot of uncertainty which I intended to metamorphose into a bright future only helped to multiply that sense of foreboding. There are a hundred other things about Bombay that attracts my passionate disfavour. The bursting at the seams local trains where the people of Bombay prove their herd instinct similar to that of the Wilderbeest crossing the African veldts, the language, the apathy, the filth, the ‘Gardullas’, the Mumbaikar attitude and much more. Frankly I have more than enough reasons to be able to say that I hate Bombay and this is where my emotions get quite befuddled. Because there are also those things that I undeniably like about Bombay. The Seaman’s Club for example… I invariably stay at the club. The glitz of company paid star hotels have never managed to overcome the old world charm of the club. So what most rooms are on a shared basis or non air conditioned… I spent months double banking within these walls when I was a Gentleman Cadet or when I was a jobless junior officer. I still eat the same puri bhaaji for breakfast and chicken fried rice with daal fry for dinner… to commemorate those days. The days when the twelve rupees puri bhaaji was the best bet because it was filling enough to let me skip lunch... saved thirty six bucks. The beloved officer’s billiard room… where I have spent numerous idle days playing crown pool… hoping.

Bombay and her Irani Café, Gaylords, Café Mondegar, Marine Drive in pouring rain, Darab Shaw House, Four Bunglows, 5 Spice, Bade Miyaan and my perplexed state of mind. This time around I walked in Bombay… long walks, taking pictures & writing epitaphs for unmarked graves of a past long dead. A person I’ve known for more than a decade recently told me that I appear to carry my sorrows with me… as if I refuse to let go. Yes I do but not as you interpret it. Not as a triumph of sorrows but as a victory of will, to decree that no matter the madness of fate… I keep faith.

Because happiness belongs to those who believe in it the most… believe in it the longest.

P.S. Each photograph I took in Bombay turned out to be in black and white or sepia.

08.10.2009.

I have no social or moral conscience. But …

We have this totally weird calling bell, courtesy my Mother’s mindless dependancy on our electrician. It plays a shitty bollywood tune followed by an irritating female voice requesting to open the door. I have been fighting tooth and nail over the last two years to get Mum to replace it. I was at lunch when the bell rang. “Abar tora! Na ami kichu nebona… ekhon kichu lagbena, palao dujonei. Bell bajiona aar, ragi dadababu achey kintu baritey khub bokbey.” (You two again! No I won’t buy… I don’t need anything, now off you go. And don’t you ring the bell again or you will get a scolding from the irascible dadababu)… I heard my Mother say. “Kichui nebena… acha duto ditey hobena, ekta mishti dao taholey… adha adha khabo, aar ekbar bell’ta bajatey debey Mashi ekbar, ekbar.” (You won’t buy anything at all… okay you don’t have to give two, give us one sweet only, we will share… and will you please please let us ring the bell once, just once.) Unseen behind the curtains the fearsome creature called Ragi Dadababu watched the pair… the not yet into teens older one prop up the younger (three quarters of a foot shorter) to help reach the bell and then laughing heartily, walk away savouring a sweet each… happy.

I have signed a truce with Mother. As long as the bell doesn’t conk out on its own… it stays. My friend’s one and a half year old, I’m told wears only Ginny & Johnny clothes that cost about 1500 rupees each & drives a battery operated toy car half the size of my living room (forgive the slight exaggeration). A fairly good quality Bengali sweet doesn’t cost more than five rupees.

I suspect the only emotion I have left that still moves me beyond reason is rage.

06.10.2009.

... and for all the somethings that never change

I am home. Back romancing my lovely lady Calcutta. My bookshelfs are in disarray because Mumma cleaned everything for my home coming. Cleaning & setting up the neglected music system… lovingly rearranging the books to my satisfaction. Unpacking my carefully washed, pressed and packed clothes, ironing each and putting them back again in my usual military order. Wage and win the war to have my internet connection reactivated. Relentless adda with Maa, Mashi… answering Mejo Mashi’s questions and assuring her that I ate well all these months and am in good health. My para, durgashtomi’s community lunch… the old faces, the extra thousand quid chanda I happily shell out every year. Little Rishi a year older and proudly in fourth standard now. But still wide eyed, listening to Capt. Nimo’s adventures in faraway lands… while sitting side by side in our sun bathed veranda and sharing the Cadbury he brought for Capt. Nimo. I found out this time that Little Rishi is a Gemini. No wonder he has wings of imagnation and we gel. Catching up with ‘The Sly One’, him turning up late as always. Heart warming conversations with the ‘The Thinking Man’ and the joy of playing with his daughter. The excited - “P** Dada eshey gechey?” from each of my Mother’s single digit students. The warm feeling that their delighted smiles bring when given the coins I bring from places I travel to. Mumma and I in Lake Market fairly carried away while buying fish. Mumma halfheartedly warning – “fridge’ey erpor jayga hobena kintu.” Picking Mashi up after office, exchanging genuine plesantries with the two parking attendants outside her office and then hing’er kochuri followed by chanar gawja from that shop on our way home. Chilli Garlic Pepper Fish in Beijing, Mejo Mashi under strict supervision, my longing glances at beer served at other tables… sigh! The pleasant security guard at the R******** ATM who always says – “Dada eshey gechen.. bhalo achen toh?” My nightly excursions to Satyanarayan for ‘garom rasogolla’ and endless such trivias which are not trivial at all….. I belong.

Joy

…………continued

the Guitarist …………

he was a quiet man, he didn’t speak much… strange isnt it that as a child he is talktative. the Guitarist had keen senses… he understood people. To him people are like music… the stooped old man near the Minto Park crossing... like dusty forgotten cassettes lying somewhere in the Guitarist’s loft, waiting their turn to be disposed off. But the music in them… what about it? No the music is eternal. Reinvented, reborn in shiny new discs or eletronic gadgets… manifested in Levis clad, lively youth thronging Park Street. Time doesn’t change… time is standstill. It’s only us the subjects of time that change. Or the Guitarist is perhaps hallucinating… is he? the Guitarist has this habit of driving aimlessly around his beloved Calcutta… ornate, bejewelled in festive revelries of Durga Pujo… people abound happy & boisterous like elaborate colourful songs from hindi movies. Amidst this the Guitarist noticed those to whom the revelry meant nothing… these five days to them continues to be the same struggle as the other three hundred and sixty… they are like the music played on radios in Babughaat or obscure paan shops that no one really pays any attention to. Just after dusk a day after Dashami Calcutta & her people always appear weary and drowsy to the Guitarist… in that somnolence he hears that Tagore song – “hridoye tomaro doya jeno pai… shongsharey ja dibey manib tai… tabo doya shantir neerey, ontorey namibey dheerey… amaro boley kichu nai”.The rain clouds were forever kind to the Guitarist… obliging whenever he was home his fantasy of Calcutta as a beautiful young woman… rain drenched like the Miyanki Malhar raaga based song penned/composed by his Mother’s eldest brother and oft sung by his Mother…

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… and when the midnight seems to be an hour too many, in his sea of silence the Guitarist turns into Mehdi Hassan’s rendition of Mirza Asadullah Baig Khan’s poetry…

“dil-e-nadaan tujhey hua kya hai… akhir is dard ki dawa kya hai

hum hai mushtaaq aur who bezaar… ya il-la-hi yeh maajra kya hai”

….. some things in life deserve to be left incomplete… I had written and had decided to leave ‘the Guitarist’ incomplete. Irony is it that ‘the Guitarist’ seeks the song that will complete him.

25.09.2009.

“Congratulations Mr. M*****, you have cleared your orals and that will be all. Here is your NOE. Safe seas and calm voyages always.

“Thank you Sir… I’ll be going home today…. i.e. if I can find an airticket.”

Made it J …… !!

Uh well… I kinda spent this Prince’s ransom for the airticket and I dunno mind. Yeah because I'm ‘Moa mucho happy la’ ‘cuz I know in a few hours am gonna be home… and it’s Pujo.

A new era.

Disclaimer : This rant makes no sense... and I darn not give no damn that it ain't make no sense to nobody.

03.09.2009.

Results are out….. yeah in line as prophecied.

So what do I do now….. eh? Feel accomplished, become respectable and turn into a social beast.….. yeah endearing ideas!! I think I will now muse….. muse about becoming a poet. Are you curious if this maketh sense or is it shite, pure pseudo-intellectual crap? Fair enough.... curiosity didn’t kill the cat…. ignorance did. Curiosity was framed.

God damn it or damned be god ….. I’m philosophising AGAIN… holy crap!!!! These days I write insufferably long posts, gloomy too… and since there is effing nothing I can do about it, Jai shall now go grab another drink and desist from writing for a while.

29.08.2009.

Its autumn……. and I’m back in the North of England after six weeks. Yesterday I moved from my old house to a 3^rd floor attic apartment. This time around my stay in England has fulfilled a number of desires. My life suddenly seems to have walked out of the script of a feel good movie. Living alone in a typical English house, going back through time to the Scottish Highlands and now living in a studio apartment that has a sloping attic roof with a sky light….. large open windows, soft pastel cream walls, mahogany coloured soft wood furniture….. and autumn is here….. with her blue skies, resplendent colours and a happy me. She is one of my favourite seasons. I rarely write in Bengali but today I will with bits and bobs of Bangla in my narrative. Acha sharot elei erom hoy keno….? Last year the same thing happened…. I wrote one of my most favourite posts ever just before Pujo and it was in Bangla. I’m a very proud Bong but tai boley je ami bhishon bangali ta noy…. maaney bhishon Rabindrik ba bangla shongshkriti follow kora kind of bangaliyana nei. Kintu bachorer ei shomay’ta elei keno banglay likhtey ichey korey? Autumn elei akasher neel’ta kemon jeno rong bodlay….. neel’e kintu kemon jeno ekta anno neel. Monay hoy haat baralei bujhi chuntey parbo…. chenra chenra megh pahaar, baatashey ekta imperceptible but anmona bhalo lagaar gondho, aar Manna Dey’r oi gaan’tar moto… “ek jhank pakhider moto kichu roddur….. bandha bhengey janlar sharshi somuddur.” Janlaar dharey boshey boshey crayons diye ekta sopnomoy jagot aanka…. guti guti paye sab smriti gulow beroy oder otiter baksho thekey, eshey boshey paashey, gun gun korey gaay purono dinguloke. It’s during these moments that I miss my ‘OldMan’, my GrandPa the most…. I’ve never loved anybody or anything more devotedly than him…. kintu jokhon sathey chilen tokhon kintu bujhini je etow bhalobashtam Dadu’ke…. in fact I didn’t realize how devotedly I loved and adored him till quite some years after he passed away. Like Kahlil Gibran said – “ Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation ” I guess ami baddo choto chilam.… it took a few years to grasp that he wasn’t physically with me anymore. Although I’ve a deep attachment with the Scottish Highlands I don’t like Glasgow. I was quite happy to be back here so I went for a walk. Ekhaney ekhon summer vacation aar sab puchkey gulo beratey beriyeche baba, Maa’r sathey and quite a few with doting grandparents, aar oder dekhey amaro Dadu’r katha monay porchey. I was very close to my Pa. Dadu amay school thekey aantey jeto….. aar roj amra dujon chotto chotto laal kul’er duto thonga niye khetey khetey hantam aar tarpor tram’ey chortam. Ami ekhono tram chortey bhalobashi…. khub bhor bhor, athoba fanka fanka sheeter dupurey aar noyto bhishon brishtitey. I remember I used to ask questions non-stop…. eta ki, ota keno, ei desh’ta katodur, Tintin katow baro, amio ki ekta Snowy petey pari, Lenin ke, brishti holeo ki Rip Van Winkle’er ghum vangto na?, ‘Me’ ki pronoun, ingrej’ra jokhon Dadu’ke dhortey elo tokhon was he scared?, revolver duto ki tomar kachey ekhono achey (my Pa had this small tin’er suitcase & for many years I believed that he had those two revolvers in it)…. jholmoley baaj Phoenix ke ki ami konodinow dekhtey pabo?..... amio baro hoye Bhutan jabo.... amay abar kobey Raduga aar Pravda’r boi kiney debey….. and he answered all my questions with infinite patience. Amader para’ta tokhon khub sundor chilo…. flat bari’gulo chilona. Bhor bela boshar ghorey half pordar upor diye asha roddurey ekta abchaya hoto aar ami Dadu’r sathey boshey Statesman portam. It was a ritual and once over he would ask me to tell him the news in my own words or read aloud… making sure I give the right pause for the right punctuation. Sharot, Durga Pujo aar tarpor ashto sheet….. Tapun’der baganey ekta shiuli phool’er gaach chilo aar amader baganey chilo tawgor, gandhoraj, shiuli, kamini aar duto aam gaach. Ekhon sudhu aam gaach achey ekta…. amar chotobelar priyo baganer half ekhon garage. Tapun’der shiuli gaach’tar tolay almost perfect gol hoye shiuli phool porey thakto bhor bela…. shishir makha ghaash’er upor. Oder gaach’tao aar nei…. amar monay hoy oi gaach’gulow bujhechey je sei din'gulo aar nei….. tai ora nijerai firey gechey amader feley asha otitey. Jemon ekhon amar monay ingreji aar bangla’r akhyor gulow.... ekhon aar tokhon’er sathey miley mishey hijibiji hoye jachey.

Dadu toh ekhon aar jayna bank proti maash’ey pension aantey….. amio toh aar dariye thakina barandar corner’tay…. Dadu ashbey boley amar boraddo duto lozenge niye.

Memories in sepia….. flashbacks in black and white and dreams in technicolour.

The concept of memories, flashbacks & dreams in sepia, black & white and technicolour is not mine. It belongs to the very talented 'Je Suis'.