30.01.2009. 

It is raining. It just had to rain today…… it always rains. I walk in the rain…..unlike some who just get wet.

Resolve is never stronger than in the morning after it was never weaker. 

16.01.2009.

01:00 am ........

Tonight would it be wise to accept loneliness as my Myrmidon. Or should I refuse to listen to my lonely heart? Can I be lonely? Or must I be rigid as I am or I’ll be lonely. Can I please please be weak…. just for a moment? I promise not to collapse in countless shards of a cheval – each reflecting my fragmented whole’s. I want to resign. I want to resign as an adult and be what I used to be – an imagination. I’m somewhat eccentric. I wish I could have been a lunatic to be able to travel beyond this gripping rationality everywhere. I wish not to pen how I feel – what goes on inside of me. Some feelings are just so – to be left untold. Unsaid even to those who love us best. I want them to read my eyes. Them eyes, reproached for their cold nothing or lack of expression – same eyes read for my untold. I wish not to be their usher beyond obligatory yard wide smiles. I wish not to recite who I am, for anybody to listen to me. Let them live in their paradigm; I shall pay for my irrationality but what I hold most sacred must not be compromised on.

03.00 am .......

It is -4*C outside. English homes do not have roofs like we do back home. So I stood on the corner of Crondall Street in this dead of the night, the icy wind from the North Sea knifed through my mackinaws. I stood shivering, teeth chattering wanting to go back to sea, to my refuge. A song my Mother taught echoes my heart –

“Ei neel nirjon sagorey... elo melo dheu’er gaan gawa.. surer kheyaley tori bawa…..

Jegey jegey sudhu chora hawa sei gaan shoney……”

Amidst my lonely ocean blues….the ruffled waves hum… my forlorn melody…..

The surreptitious wind blows past my heart…. in lonesome audience ....

04:30 am ........

‘ Abokash ‘

Konow ek ashanto nishitey…… smritira chayar shorir niye….

Firey ashey amar bismrito abokashey….

Ashanto amar mon khunjey jay…. Tomar akashtakey keno etow durey monay hoy ..

Hridoye harano sur jhankar…. Feley asha dingulo adhofonta kunri monay hoy..

Konow ek ashanto bikeley…….

Joydeep

10:00 am ........

I'm myself again.

15.01.2009.

 

A lady (this time I just don’t know if she is young or pretty or gorgeous or charming or NOT!!) has apparently read my blog and raised questions. I’ll call her ‘Chatrak’ – Bengali for fungus or fungi (the gender divide?). So let’s be answering them. Numero Uno - I don’t give a tiny weenie dead rat’s ass if you disapprove of me as a person. I have it in me – the capacity to put people off. I know I’m arrogant and I love my arrogance. Despite the fact very few read my blog or should I say rants, I get occasional comments posted by readers, most of which I delete without posting. Not in trembling fear of criticism but because I believe every reader in entitled to his or her independent perception of what I write. I do not wish a comment to influence how my posts are perceived. The very few, I chose to post have personal attachments.

 

Now do I sound explanatory? Possibly…… I’m in fact gloating. That a woman read through eighty four posts and was driven to comment is satisfactory. I’ve been asked if all that I write is original. Off course NOT! Every book, newspaper, magazine, article I read, every movie or television program I watch, every song I listen to, every conversation I’m engaged in or those I overhear, each debate that unfolds, every person I observe wherever I am, each experience of every breath I take, every half page of scribbled lines and a lot more goes into the making of what I write. Ludicrous as it may sound but I read the dictionary even. I acknowledge if I quote any other author or poet. It is still possible a line or a post may seem uncannily familiar – ‘Influenced’ I believe is the collective judgment. I vaguely remember a quote I once read, something like “Original is the ability to successfully hide your source” - unfortunately I can’t remember whose ;-}   ‘Chatrak’ however failed to identify a source. I have been indicted of always associating myself with beautiful women to appease my chauvinistic masculinity – what stupefying insight that allows ‘see through’ to my muscles. I hope ‘Chatrak’ isn’t fat or a brittle maid. “I belittle women as objects” – A spot on observation that, so much so that I believe no further burlesque is required for such an ‘Objective’ subject. This blog is full of ‘Myself’ ….. True.

 

This post should not be mistaken as my offensive to decimate criticism. Criticism is welcome as it provokes thought. Criticise by all means …… make prejudice possible. But I deny being a ‘know all’ ….. I deny….. I deny….. I deny. I did find the fountain of knowledge, but being ‘Me’ instead of drinking from it I only gargled.

 

At the terminus let me sum up with a poem. I read it somewhere and copied it. I know not the name or the poet and I have not the inclination to find out. I did some editing here & there to suit my fancy.

 

Don't envy a man his medals

All those ribbons on his chest

He did not try to get them

They're not there at his request

They were earned in stinking hell holes

Where no man would like to go

Or in cold and wintry places

Where there's only ice and snow

 

He did not know he earned them

Till they were awarded at parade

And they were bright when he first got them

But in time the colors fade

 

He was told he had to wear them

And to wear them all with pride

But when the memories come to haunt him

Those same medals make him hide

 

Cause those medals will not bring back

All that he left behind

And he would trade them all forever

For a little peace of mind

 

So don't envy a man his medals

You don't want to take his place

Thinking back to long gone battles

And meeting dead memories face to face

 

The more I sweat

The more I shine

 

I am not a star

There is no halo over my head

 

Fate doesn’t like the colour of my eyes

Struggle and strife are old friends of mine

 

Who am I?

I

 

I Jai……..

18.12.2008.

This post has been in the making for a really long time. It was conceived on the back of a Metro Rail ticket and then grew in various foster homes like two or three yellow stick pads, a piece of an old newspaper, a toll tax receipt and a page of my scribble diary. At long last on this 10th day of January 2009 I am now set (after several failed attempts) to complete it. The post date only indicates the day of inception. The events within are spread between 18th December to 24th December.

A sense of detachment

Today I realised quite by chance, how my life changed as I sauntered through the last decade. I could claim that the nature of my job is responsible. But in all honesty I am responsible as well. Since I purchased my car I never traveled by public transport. I gave my car for servicing yesterday and that left me floundering for transport. As most of my friends have moved out of town there wasn’t anyone available to lend me a car. I set out from home decided that I’ll travel by taxi and return home ASAP. Fate willed otherwise. The moment I got on the rickshaw on my way to the taxi stand, I knew I won’t take the cab. Suddenly I was years back in time when I didn’t have a car. I drive down this road everyday but today I saw the blackberry tree that I once fell from, or Manoj’der Advut Bari. The rickshaw, then the Metro, then the walk to my Aunt’s office, so many people so near me and my old habit of observing strangers on the street – all that I don’t do anymore was suddenly staring me in the eye. I realised how much my life has changed with a greater income. I haven’t walked so many of those frequented Calcutta streets in years. I haven’t stopped at Tewari’s for hot gulab jamuns on my way to Mashi’s office. I haven’t eaten rolls from street side eateries on Park Street. I haven’t stood in a queue in the Metro and looked at the departure time and thought – “Gosh if I miss this one I’ll have to wait 12 minutes” and then ran four steps at a time to catch the train or been tempted by the alluring smell of chicken chaanp outside Rabindrosadan metro station.. It was a beautiful day. I may not again travel by public transport for a fairly long time. Frankly I enjoy the comfort of a car. But this lovely afternoon has suddenly returned to me my days so long gone.


I do not have anybody to buy flowers for

Yesterday’s good mood carried over and I was out prancing on the streets of Calcutta. Pay a visit to Mickey’Da in National library; walk through the honeycombed lanes of old New Market with the sweet aroma emanating from the bakeries & visits Braganza's music store to sniff the smell of wood polish, new guitars and that distinct old smell I can't describe. While browsing second hand books in Gariahaat after returning my friend’s scooty, I came across the man selling flowers. Bright yellow sunflowers, roses, chrysanthemums, gladioli, lilies and a few more I can’t name. I stood there admiring the flowers, lost in thought when the man said – “Sir take some for Madam”.

Anna….. What am I…. what am I supposed to do?

Relationships are like quilts. Love woven with emotion, care, affection which turns the quilt into a soft, loving and comforting corner of warmth. And relationships go astray. Time moves on, we move on from haphazard order to neat chaos to daily routine. But something changes…… this irreversible change occurs somewhere within us. I am yet to figure out exactly what, how or where but it does.

In praise of Brainolia

Today is my Mejomashi’s birthday. I remembered.