Nautilus Chronicles

2010-07-27T10:23:00.004+01:00

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

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

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

2010-07-24T19:45:00.002+01:00

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.

2010-07-22T08:38:00.003+01:00

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.

2010-07-22T08:28:00.000+01:00

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.

2010-07-22T08:23:00.001+01:00

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.

2010-07-22T08:20:00.000+01:00

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.”

2010-05-20T06:35:00.000+01:00

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******

2010-05-20T06:29:00.000+01:00

28.03.2010.

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

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

Yeah yeah I changed the phone handset too.

The statement in the very first post calling this blog as a passing whim now stands officially withdrawn.

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

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

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.

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!!

2010-05-20T06:26:00.001+01:00

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.

2010-03-17T05:07:00.004Z

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

2010-03-15T22:05:00.000Z

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.

2010-03-14T04:43:00.004Z

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.

2010-03-12T05:25:00.003Z

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

2010-02-04T20:37:00.005Z

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.

2009-12-01T09:08:00.002Z

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.

2009-11-08T15:06:00.002Z

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.

2009-10-06T14:51:00.006+01:00

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.

2009-10-05T06:40:00.002+01:00

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.

2009-09-04T09:21:00.008+01:00

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.

2009-08-29T14:56:00.006+01:00

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'.

2009-08-27T18:09:00.001+01:00

25.08.2009.

I am showing symptoms of flu….. hogs, porkers, shoats and boars have all categorically refused my repeated naturalization appeals, so swine flu is out. Considering that my chances of defying gravity are nil, bird flu is not an option either.

I have ape flu….. yeah suits my personality too.

Dear reader, please remove that nonplus expression and fazed frown off your face. I am slightly mad….. it’s there in my family. I have a number of ancestors who were known for eccentric genius. You may now stop reading or continue at your own peril.

The idea for this post first hit me a few months back….. it came off a fairly innocent question I was asked. Over the following months a few other influences led me to further mull over the idea and finally decide to write a post. The question that started it all was – “Are you one of those lonely and deeply sad kinds?” – No I’m not. I’m convinced it was an innocent question. The rest however (questions & statements about me & my blog) were not quite innocent. I would normally either ignore them or give characteristically sarcastic, convoluted, satirical and cynical answers…. an exercise in amusement. Uncharacteristically, I will decant lucidity in this post…… or will I?

For the Nautilus Chronicles… I hold it with passionate & unbridled adoration. I’m a sailor. Through the history of time the most abiding document on any ship has been its logbook…. an intricate record of her span. The Nautilus Chronicles… is my logbook. I write it the way I want to write it….. I’m its Master and Commander. I’ve never promoted it or voluntarily asked anyone to read it. I know only one person who read it the way it should be read (regardless of belief in pride and/or prejudice) and remains my most cherished reader…. and I’m content with the few other readers I have & cherish. I find it annoying that some indulge haste in conclusion without trying to admire the inlay. My Nautilus Chronicles… demands time & insight. Lastly….. yes I repeatedly write about my childhood, the sea and Africa….. because I miss my childhood, I love the sea and I’m Africa. All three are my permanent adornments.

As for I … well I is often an inadequacy of perception than errors of logic. I’ll not ornate my words today. My reply for the innocent question is a Soren Kierkegaard quote – “Since my earliest childhood a barb of sorrow has lodged in my heart. As long as it stays I am ironic if it is pulled out I shall die.” I’m reclusive….. however even the most reclusive need some company. I spent a portion of my childhood trying to ‘fit in’ & in time realized I never will. This liberating discovery rid me of the fear of loneliness. I’m fine being solitary. Not that I’m never lonely….. I’m & I long for companionship too. But my comfortable solitude affords me to not compromise in choosing company….. compromises that in retrospect will surely not satisfy anybody. If that leads people to infer I consider them inferior…. so be it. A previous travel post & photographs on a social networking website led one person to surmise that I’m a rich spoilt brat, a show off. I’ve been poor….. & I work very hard so as to never face the uncertainties or petty humiliations of poverty again. Coming from a middle class family I’d always been adequately provided for but that didn’t inoculate me from the caprices of fate. I faced poverty due to my own follies & crawled out of it on my own steam….. I am no fool to romanticize it or claim it is an ennobling experience. Uh and then I’m seen as very arrogant….. amusingly no one ever explains why or exactly what in me exudes that irresistible charm. The Greek author Plutarch said – “What we achieve inwardly will change outer reality.” That is my arrogance and I’m not apologetic for it.

As for Jai …. I’m the one who likes to think of himself as this mischief making monkey that grins like a Cheshire cat and lives in a Baobab tree…. silly and playfully foolish on the surface but wise & insightful underneath…. a simile like metaphor…. I speak to the Leprechaun perched on my left shoulder.... ride my Unicorn & fly around on my pet dragon.... I'm multi-talented as I can do nothing and piss people off at the same time.... I’m a master of the ‘Art of Bullshitting’ i.e. making the absurd sound sensible…. easily amused, calmly volatile & repulsively perfect…. I never deny or admit anything to make myself more interesting.... I’m a prince & the frog, both characteristically remarkable…. I’m very ape…. as I can't act but do mimic.... oh ! I write bad poetry too.... and since there are no full stops, this then is a never ending sentence…..

I know this rather long literary (?) nonsense will not help turn annoying ocular lobes in the direction I wish….. but that is no reason to deprive me some amusement.

2009-08-05T18:55:00.006+01:00

03.08.2009.

My Happy Post…….

I haven’t been writing often these days….. not that I haven’t tried, I did. But the jamboree of thoughts and memories in my mind simply refused to leave their chaotic milieu to form lines of coherent sentences.

Why this happy post……? Because I am overcome with emotions and memories. Over the last weekend I drove 507 miles ( 811 kms ) through the Scottish Highlands, visiting places I had been to, ten years earlier. Not much has changed….. yet so much is not the same and I’m overwhelmed. I will try to put together the sequence of events as best as my present state of mind permits.

A lot has changed in my life lately. I had said to myself that this once I will take academics seriously and aim for good grades. I cleared my written exams last month and I will get Grade 1 in every paper. I should be very happy…. I’m only two steps short of becoming a sea Captain…. more obscene sums of money is to be earned…. every luxury, every comfort that life has to offer is at disposal. I should be jubilant. Yet…. 16^th July afternoon I had walked out of the examination hall and a quick exchange of answers with classmates confirmed what I already knew. I will get Grade 1 in all papers. A few minutes of vigorous handshaking and back slapping later I had quietly slipped out. I walked the 100 odd yards to ‘The County’ and sat down with a celebratory mug of Erdinger. I sat there watching my classmates…. a few overjoyed, delirious, some happy but not so much, some crestfallen…. a few resigned…… months of incessant pressure had come to an end…. and they all had some sort of emotions. I sat there with this odd empty realization that I felt nothing. Nothing at all….. it meant nothing to me.

I had always been the black sheep of middle class Bengali opinion. A failure when it came to being ‘Ram’….. as in ‘Ram baro bhalo cheley. Ram roj pora koriya school jay. Ram kaharo sathey maramari korena. Ram Baba, Maa’ke dukho deyna. Ram pujoy chiter jaama poriya khushi hoy….etc’. Climbing trees, playing imaginary battles with GI Joes, making the perfect paper plane, sailing paper boats in puddles, picking up fights, using improvised explosive devices to blow up letter boxes, sitting by the window gazing at the sky through stormy nights, staring at the sky for hours trying to spot Russian sputniks….. reading every book I could lay my hands on and dreaming of travelling to all the places I read about and this sort of stuff always meant more to me than being ‘Ram’. Not surprisingly I was considered a write off. The fact that I was better than most at almost every sport, I could paint, play the guitar, write better than most my age or that I had learnt Hindi and Deutsch (from half a book….what pun!!) completely on my own remained a closely guarded secret as I hated publicity. I never tried to reform my public image of the perfect ‘antonym’ of Ram. And even today when I’m told how I have changed and how successful I’ve become, or what a dutiful son I turned out to be…. by those same people who had written me off back then…. I normally smile, a patronizing combination of a smirk & condescending arrogance, implying a descent from superiority. One may wonder then why I aimed for good grades this time. First I wanted to see if I am capable of it…. whether my confidence was ill founded and I wanted to feel what is it like to be ‘Ram’…. and this is where begins My Happy Post…….

Even before the decision to go to Glasgow for my modular courses was finalized I knew that I will see the Scottish Highlands….. no matter what it took. I was there in 1999…. exactly a decade back and I wanted to go back. I set out from home at the crack of dawn. My plan was to drive straight to Aberdeen and then drive back through the Highlands stopping wherever I felt like. Maverick as usual I chose to take the country roads instead of the motorway. I took the M8 motorway till Erskine, crossed the bridge and hit A82. The speedometer showed a steady 60 miles per hour and I…… and I hurtled back through time at 60 minutes per hour.

I will not make this a travelogue. It’s the journey of a man through time to meet a nineteen year old boy. In Aberdeen I went to the same log fire eatery where we used to relish hot meals when on shore leave. I was a Gentleman Cadet then and had a meager stipend of 300 US dollars & I remember having to check the price before ordering. I ate a Yorkshire pudding and had this mad urge to ask the staff if they recognized me. Sitting there…. nibbling on me pudding, so much which I have left behind came rushing back….. my earliest days at sea. And I was happy….. overcome with Joy….overwhelmed with emotions. All those people I left behind came rushing back. Mambo….. he had the whitest teeth I have ever seen, How is Mio Min Tun and Kopote Ye…. Did Mio marry the girl he loved? Juma Obundi….. I wondered if he still has that loud belching laughter, Yusufoi Muhammed…. he was a softie scared of violence. Does he still have the nasty African habit of closing the eyes while shooting? What happened to the Somali who used to be a professor before civil war broke out? Where is Serg….what is is he up to? Does he remember me? Did Yousufoi manage to buy a home in Zanzibar….. how old are Mambo’s twin daughter’s now? Juma was of the Luo people, Yusufoi was of the Lozi…. do they still tease each other? Does Juma still play the ‘Nyatiti’… do they still dance at the beats of the ‘Djembe’ like we used to. I hummed to myself the song I’ll never forget….. ‘Jambo jambo bwana abari gani mizuri saana’. We worked hard, drank together, laughed together….warm hearty laugh of young boys on the verge of manhood…. full of life…. I was happy then, I am happy now thinking of then….. full of boundless Joy…. From Aberdeen I drove to Inverness ( Inbhir Nis in Celtic )…. I had posted letters from Inverness….. phone was too expensive those days. Next stop Loch Ness…. I had first read about the Loch Ness monster in ‘Anondomela’. It used to be a black and white magazine those days & there was a grainy photograph of Nessie….. I doubt if anyone will believe if I say that I had the same thrill last Saturday that I had had in 1999 or that I still have that issue tucked away somewhere. I am living my dreams – everyday :) I drove on to Fort Augustus, Loch Eil, through the Ben Nevis range…. to Inverlochy, Drumnadrochit, Loch Lomond, Loch Leven…. stopping at every breathtakingly beautiful spot that I could.

……..and I am overcome. So much has changed….. ten years back I had plans for everything and none of those plans worked out, none of my dreams came true, many of my hopes shattered……. but within these 507 miles I realized I am still what I used to be. I was a dreamer…. I still am a dreamer, a wanderer……. I had imagination, limitless imagination. If I am to borrow from the Roger Kelly song…. ‘I believed I could fly …. that I could touch the sky…… and I still do….. my sky J

And the 507 miles through the Highlands have rid me of doubt. I am still the same. Good grades, the promise of filthy rich wages, success and/or appreciation fails to evoke any feelings at all…… but a walk through time, a reminiscent half hour spent on the shores of Loch Lomond, a walk down a street I had walked a decade back overcomes me with emotions. I am living my dream and one day I will go back…. to Zanzibar, Mombasa, Loyangalani, Nyahururu, Tamatave, Dar Es Salaam, Mogadishu, Berbera, Kismayo, Arusha, Gorongoro, Namanga, Serengeti, Masaimara, Malawi, Djibouti……. to St. Petersburg, Agostoli, Mangareva, Osaka, Bordeaux…. Vigo, and I will try to find my mates, find out how they are…what they are doing…. how they strolled through time. I will.

……. and I am this one liner I read and fell in love with -

‘Ex Africa semper aliquid novi – out of Africa always something new’

I Jai

2009-07-11T15:21:00.009+01:00

11.07.2009.

A rather unusual advertisement.

Ad Verbum Sapienti

Prince having sufficient experience with Princesses seeks female frog. Toads excuse.

Frog should be willing to surrender to the service and jurisdiction of ‘My Lord’ i.e. Myself.

Mr. N Chauvin

Post Box No. F23

………………………………. sigh ! My sense of humour still has me.

2009-07-04T20:55:00.002+01:00

29.06.2009.

.………continued

the Guitarist …………

he read poetry…. he loved poetry…. when he couldn’t go for walks…. no matter how he yearned…. he read poetry…. he was reading Edith Sitwell…

Still falls the Rain –

Still falls the Blood from the Starved Man’s wounded Side;

He bears in His Heart all wounds, - those of the light

that died

The last faint spark

In the self-murdered heart, the wounds of the sad

uncomprehending dark,

…and then the Guitarist would sit by the desolate window pane…. and speak to the forlorn shadow in whispers…. etching unmindful letters on the fading mists of warm moist breath on the glass…. till Morpheus came…. with his dole of a nights repose.

ki jeno ekta khunjchi….. chilo ; ekhon hariye gechey…. jani aar khunjeo pabona… tao……….

... as before I’ll leave ‘the Guitarist’ incomplete.

2009-06-19T17:44:00.006+01:00

18.06.2009.

It is bright and sunny today. After a drizzly overcast week the sun is up shiny and bright and the blue skies… the startlingly bright blue European skies that I so like. I’m a sailor. The sea and the sky and I are not the same blue everywhere... we are a myriad of hues. I borrowed a friend’s car and went for a drive through the scenic North England countryside with the wind on my face… humming Sweet Home Alabama with Lynyrd Skynyrd.

On the way back I stopped at a steak joint for a meal. I love steaks and it would have been perfect if I had had a juicy well done steak and drifted back home. But then life isn’t perfect. I met someone. What happens when a relationship meets an unhappy end? Uh well plenty as so much comes to an end with the death of a relationship. The phone doesn’t ring as much… no matter how many times you sneak a glance at it. Minutes and texts go unused, weekends suddenly present themselves with 48 hours… the book shelf proves indeed a friend in need. And with time we settle into the routine of living each day. But what about the other relationships… the ones that sprouted & grew into saplings from the now dead union? Do they end too? If wronged I am a cold, unforgiving, un-forgetting and fanatically vengeful man. Someone who would keep a vendetta untouched by the passage of time. But today I didn’t know what to do, unsure if I should summarily label hate in bold capitals on this chance encounter. The person I met had nothing to do with the end. She was merely an instrument of time in bringing a certain walk, a sudden laughter to the forefront of consciousness.

Boxing is seen as a violent sport, an abundance of vicious punches thrown at each other. But those who know boxing know that it’s not the fists but the feet that make up boxing. A dancers feet… lithe and agile that carry the subtle shift of the boxers weight on the feet. A good boxer can sense even the most imperceptible shift of weight – his own or that of the other.

I am a remarkable failure when it comes to social graces and though I sensed her eagerness I am grateful that she is good enough a boxer to have sensed the subtle shift of weight, to not have come and spoken to me.

Vibgyor is only seven colours…. and all the walls were painted. No matter how much I lime wash the walls now… on a bright sunny day pale shades of colour underneath are still visible. The children unborn, faceless but have names. Time is a tide. What a predicament. Swim with it and I know not where it will take me… swim against it and I would not know if I’ll reach. If I’m the bank… flush it will and then ebb. Flush with footsteps into my heart and ebb leaving foot prints on the soft fertile. Flush again might wash away the foot prints but I’ll never be the same again… never.

It is still bright and sunny outside. I wish the rain clouds would come so I could take a walk in the rain humming Muddy Water Blues…..

walking alone in the rain

water in my shoes

all I can feel is this pain in my heart and these muddy water blues

river weep for me

nothing left to loose

under the weeping willow tree with these muddy water blues

I Jai

2009-06-17T20:39:00.003+01:00

16.06.2009.

I have never ever studied like this. And I bloody well hate it.

This will be an anguished post. Isn’t that apparent from the fact that I’m writing in first person? I, in all probability shall now rant… emm perhaps rave too and orate and spout and and …. and another and……

Since time immemorial education and I have always had fleeting moments. ‘He’ - my education is a male gender regardless of the fact that he always appeared in front of me in feminine forms ( Mom & Aunt )… okay so coming back to the point ‘He’ tried every form of subversion, coercion, intimidation, threat, duress and/or all other wiles (e.g. Gari/Ghora chora or alternatively Gari/Ghora chaapa pora) known to him to get me educated. I employed every known guerrilla tactic to evade, escape or elude education. The statistics of a long drawn insurgency show that the behemoth managed to force the partisan to acquiesce some ground. However the dissident maintained a sustained harassing fire throughout, which militarily speaking eventually led to a win/win situation.

The above paragraph is an index into my frustration.

I was fortunate enough to have been born with a mind that always managed to do enough revolutions per minute, a few days before exams or in some cases on the exam night to allow me to pass with a fair percentage of marks (read between 60% to 75%) i.e. apart from maths. Maths & I enjoyed a role playing fetish – Hide & Seek. Throughout the year I would play Mr. Hide & just before the final exams the roles would reverse when I played ‘Seek’ – a humble 40% only.

However all that is now a thing of the past. Somewhere along the line I had become complacent and that lead to not taking education seriously. This momentary lapse of reason allowed education to lead me right into the treacherous quicksands of ambition. Three seductively good reads have been laying eggs on my shelf for a fortnight. I no longer camouflage Ayn Rand novels in brown paper to pass of as text books. The mirror doesn’t reflect the face that had read through ‘And Quiet Flows the Don’ in one sitting….. and that was only one out of numerous such reads. I would even christen the latrine while glued to books.

…….. sigh ! Now I study. I aim for distinctions… worse still I get them too. My lecturers, Capt. Ire and even Capt. Mad Dog expect good grades from me. Where is the boy from the back bench who received no more than perfunctory glances from teachers (except English & History)... where is he? I’m not expressing a release of vanity. I’ve topped my class so far and it means nothing to me. It felt good, still does, but means nothing… and that any which way is a complicated feeling.

I shall now go and sleep. To hell with education.

2009-06-14T14:47:00.002+01:00

12.06.2009.

Near….. but not together

Further still….. but not away….. memories stay

I Jai

2009-05-30T22:25:00.006+01:00

29.05.2009.

....... and 15000 miles away a poem I had not read recited my poetry that the poem had not read

and now I stand enisled.......

2009-05-28T00:05:00.013+01:00

25.05.2009.

There was a baobab tree…. there are quite a few different species of Baobab and this one was an ‘Adansonia Grandidieri’…. his favourite. Baobab trees are not common to this part of the world and when he had planted it almost everybody said it won’t survive. But he had cared for it…. right from the moment he bought it from the crafty old Malagasy woman for 150 Ariary’s, from the bazaar in Tamatave…. the Baobab was his legacy.

The road winded past the Baobab and faded uphill eventually reaching the quaint bungalow on the ledge overlooking the North Atlantic. The board outside read ‘Heath Mews Care Home’.

The old man didn’t have a name. Well he obviously had one but here he was only known as ‘The Capt’. The care staff, other inmates’ even visitors called him just that. Nobody knew how long he had been there…. the oldest staff said he was already there when they came. He had a guitar but no one had ever heard him playing it. He would clutch it in his hands and sit staring endlessly at the ocean. He had a box of coins from around the world and he was often observed taking a coin out and looking at it keenly for long periods of time…. and then he would take out a diary and scribble illegibly in it.

He hardly spoke and walked slowly…. but the cook, wise like all cooks are once mentioned he doesn’t have the eyes of an old man…. he didn’t have weary eyes.

and time immemorial …….

Imon and Mischa were born a few months apart and became friends over sailing paper boats in puddles, hide and seek, lock and key, the blissful faith of childhood that everything is good and fair. Though from similar social background they had very different lives…. Mischa was pampered like a princess whereas Imon though equally loved, adored and cared for had had looked reality in the eye almost as soon as he gathered his senses. And with time they grew, and apart, and oblivious…. yet she remained forever etched in Imon’s mind but for one summer afternoon. Imon had found her crying and over choking sobs she revealed how her father didn’t love her anymore…. didn’t bring her favourite chocolate pastries anymore or hug her to bed every night. Her father was having an extra-marital affair.

Years later when Imon would think back to that day he realized it was his first experience of rage. A rage born out of a sense of helplessness….. of not being able to do anything when he was prepared to do everything to set things right for her. Almost as if setting it right for her would also undo all the wrongs he faced.

a saucer full of secrets …….

He was destinies favourite goat it seemed…. destiny is also people or am I to say people are also destiny? Everything he touched or did would invariably end up into some wrong and certainly some that he didn’t even do or touch. He longed to be loved…. liked and adored like the other kids. He too wanted to be popular and funny and to be on the inside.... and the harder he tried the more miserably he failed. Bad, aberrant, delinquent, wayward…. disobedient and he somehow always managed to end up doing everything to oblige these bequests. He was in fact just a kid…. lonely, painfully shy, emotional, naïve …. craving a little affection, understanding …. a friend. He is a hollow longing.

abstract noun …….

It was raining heavily. The kind of rain so typical to that part of Africa….. very heavy downpour in brief spells and extremely poor visibility. They had entered the ‘El Maan’ channel shortly after midnight as usual, maintaining a black out…. not even navigational lights, intending to cross the ambush areas before dawn. A pump had tripped at 0200 forcing them to reduce to Dead Slow Ahead for about an hour. Every one on the bridge was quiet. Every one kept looking out at sea to the East. The 3^rd Mate was the first to spot the tiny blips on the radar. Visibility was poor and the wind was picking up, the swell was about two meters but inside the channel the ship wasn’t rolling much…. he lay prone on the funnel deck scanning his field of view. It was all a blur at first and as he focused the 10X’s the skiff suddenly jumped into clear view…. angling in towards them from the port quarter, he could see the man upfront clearly, mouthing unheard words.... waving the RPD he held. Imon kept repeating in his mind – check if wind is from right to left or left to right, determine if its full value, half value or no value, judge wind speed, allow windage, beyond 300 meters always go for a body shot, breath evenly…… then the man started to raise his RPD.

red when you love, and rosier red.... and when you love not, pale and blue …….

He had loved her dearly…. almost with affection one has for his child. He would often look at her when she wasn’t noticing and smile to himself. She was shocked when he called her at 2130 asking her to sneak out of her hostel….. he had already bribed the ‘Darwaanji’ he said. As they drove out he told her they were going to Gokarna for the weekend. He had packed a bag for her…. not forgetting a tooth brush. He had chosen the time well …. just about the end of monsoon and a full moon night. Those days very very few knew about Gokarna and since it was monsoon he expected the place to be deserted….. devoid of even the odd westerner or devout pilgrims. He had wanted the car to be a Gypsy but simply couldn’t manage one and had to settle for a Zen. He took the Konkan coast route from Bombay to Mangalore & Kumta. They drove through the night talking…. about the colour of the walls, what furniture it would be, what name sounds right…. listening to their favourite songs….. stopping for dinner at a road side dhaaba….. and late in the night when she had dozed off holding his hand, he kept driving while changing gears with the driving hand….. not wanting to let go. They drove into Gokarna when it was still dark, he woke her and to her utter disbelief they trekked up the hill….

………. and dawn broke

He was to sail again and would be at sea for nearly a year.... so he had wanted it to be special for her. They strolled along the relatively more unknown Half Moon beach in the middle of the night.... he took her up Casey Hill and they sat quietly on a steep ledge..... he wanted her to listen to the sounds of the night.... rain drops dripping from leaves.... the crickets excitedly discussing them.... the old lady on the moon smiling at them.... the Barn Fish Owl relishing his supper and the two of them wrapped in their comfortable silence. He had hired a boat and showed her how to do line fishing that he had learnt from the Minicoy islander ratings on his ships.... the boatman's genuine observation - 'Saar your son will surely become a fisherman' ......

sway …. sway sashay …. in flickering candelas …….

The Shadow.. sway, sway sashay …. around and round it sway …. in bejeweled beguiling way…. however still he may …. the Shadow sway sashay.

The Shadow was the restlessness inside of him.

The words ‘Sway sway .. sashay’ are not originally mine. They belong to a Maverick.

2009-05-16T17:16:00.012+01:00

15.05.2009.

Dear Void,

Are your surprised at this letter? Or do you not remember me? I wrote to you sometime last May…. I know it’s been a while. Do you think me selfish.... am I? I've been busy with life you know. It is raining since yesterday and rain does something to me….always. Rain in Calcutta…. ‘Kaalboishakhi Megh’…. the slow darkening sky turning grey and grayer still in forbidding gloom…. the baritone thunderclaps…. lightning on the horizon, raaga malhar and steaming cups of ginger tea…. and I’m restless. I lay still….. breathing as little as possible and still the restlessness wouldn’t go away. I had to let it out …. somehow, so I thought I would write a letter to you. Have you heard the song ‘Jibono Gaan Gaahey Ke’ ?

jibono gaan gaahey ke je…. sur bujhina ami

Baul holo je…. sakalo raagini…. mon lagena kaaje.... jibono gaan …..

‘Krishno’ jeno se daakey sudhu ‘Raye’…. sab bhuliya choley jetey chai

sukh dukh michey.. sukh dukh miche.. sakoli maaya michey mori je laajey

dhrubo taroka sudurey aanka…. sudhu dekhi path timirey dhaka

keno daako peechey…. keno daako peechey…. cholechi ami antobihino majhey

jibono gaan …..

The last two lines touch me somewhere deep within. I love..... rain

Rain was a sense of boundless Joy.... running up the stairs to our roof and get drenched till the clouds are spent of their last drops…. shivering with the gusts of cold wind…. picking up mangoes that the storm tore from our mango tree…. more mud slinging less football…. chilled beer, blues and rock on the roof of that shapeless apartment…. ice creams and strolls down Marine Drive…. and rain is sitting by the window doing nothing.... listening to lovely songs.... rain is deep fried onion rings, rain is Ilish Maach bhaja and more ginger tea, rain was 'Rainy Day' freedom from school...... rain is Maa, Mashi aar ami and more music and guitar.... rain is 2nd Hooghly Bridge and more beer.... rain is ......rain rain rain and rain ...... and

.... rain is my outlet or should I be blatantly honest….. my excuse to allow sadness over sorrows that died alone a long long time ago. Rain is my walk down the lanes of those precious moments....

‘The clouded sky today, bears a divine shadow of sadness - on the forehead of brooding eternity’

Here comes the rain again ….. It is time now for me to take a walk Void. I may not write for a while. Of late I’ve been writing more than I usually do. It is time now to reflect.

Dowidzhenya dear Void,

I Jai

2009-05-14T08:22:00.008+01:00

14.05.2009.

Anachronous and Phoenix

plaudit not O’ poetess reap

but a stirring within the confined deep

do know a gaze…. gazed your word’s abyss

recur a morning dream…. adieu past amiss

scrawl meaningless words…. let disappoint drain

and may be hear say – ‘lets go for a walk, lets walk in the rain’

what are poems…..

but our stroll through time.... scribbled in ink or lime

wishes & i ... live or die… dream or scream… don’t always rhyme

but wish we may

every morning is another day

die not but live

regardless of pain or peeve

let we must our dream’s…. dream

stifle we must our anguished scream

in pursuit of happiness burn…. say the wise

from your raging flames will Phoenix rise

I Jai

2009-05-12T21:26:00.000+01:00

11.05.2009.

I am waiting to receive feedback.

Yeah…. So?

I am waiting to receive psychological feedback.

Okay! (Sits up) I’m listening….

A String of Funny Events

Well at least I think they were funny. I’m not really moody. I am whimsy but not moody. However I have this strong sense of like and dislike and that sense often does not make sense to the sense of the sensible. Discussing psychological subjects invariably manages to catch my undivided attention, more so when I’m the object of the subject. But I despise filling in ‘Tick This or That’ forms that ask for personal details and require a brief ‘about me’.

I was pretty much going through a bad day. The previous night I had burnt my arm pretty badly while cooking (now you know the hazards of cooking with wine while adding a few drops to the food). The chemists enroute to college had informed me that in England one cannot purchase ‘Silver Sulfadiazine’ based burn salves without seeing a GP and obtaining a prescription. And my ‘mard ko kabhi dard nahi hota’ ego (legacy of watching a Papa Bacchan movie on cable TV ages hence, on a sweltering Calcutta summer afternoon, while high on a fair amount of gin and orange) wouldn’t allow me to visit the GP for such superficial injuries. Next, the three lines for Gemini in the newspaper predicted a passionate romance for the day!!!! Puh, I was on my way to attend a three hour lecture on ‘Tides’ (one of the most repulsively boring, disturbingly confusing yet indispensable subjects we deal in…. involving a sickening degree of interpolation). Fast forward to 01hr 51m 32s into the lecture, prodded by a philosophical voice whispering somewhere in the labyrinthine recesses of my head, I remember opening the blue book and (in neat beautiful calligraphic handwriting) writing on the front page – ”So die all who enter thy pages”. As luck would have it (why…. why, why, why is it that luck always gets to have?) I was sitting right up front and Capt. Ire (thus christened I) was chosen by luck to have put his book on my desk. Hmm…. in these recessed times the 37 pounds sterling fine would have allowed me to generously contribute to less job cuts in breweries…. alas. Exactly 01hr 08m 28s later…. there I was wafting down the corridors, all bubbly & welling with enough verbosity to allow me to write ‘Freedom At Midday’ and……. and this absolutely gorgeous ‘other species’ appears at the long end of the corridor. She is walking down towards me…. my gait changes, the ‘ i’m the man ’ look switches on…. closer she comes…. closer still….. and walks right past me without even a nano-hint of acknowledging my existence. I heard my ‘alpha ego’ cringe, let out a heart (my) wrenching squeal and drop dead. Skipping details of a depressing lunch, overcast by a festering existential dilemma I was found sitting in a classroom for the next torture, I mean lecture when….. Capt. Mad Dog (he is fond of this nickname) announced that the college management has decided on an in-house psychologist and although optional, students are strongly urged to fill in evaluation forms. I had had enough. Bring it on baby…. bring it on…. the voice in my head spoke.

I filled the ‘about me’ section with a dash of my imagination and a dollop of my wicked sense of humour.

Excerpts from the ‘about me’ section –

Name - J****** M*****

Scientific Name - Nimo Sapien Narccissus

Age - 28 Permanently (I will not entertain any questions regarding this)

Sex - Yes

Height - Fairly Lengthy but not overtly so ( Psycho-analytic clue )

Weight - Perceived - 72.0 kilograms

Caloric - 76.8 kilograms

Brain - Dead

Horns - Amputated at the age of 4 (surgical scars present)

Eye Colour - VIBGYOR

Teeth - Retracting canines, one crooked incisor.

Hands - Two

Fingers - Ten (both hands)

Feet - Two

Toes - Ten (both feet)

Tail - Protruding Coccyx

Blood Group - L ( Lager ) Universal Receiver e.g. spirits, wine, liquor, liqueur etc.

This post was conceived while awaiting feedback (read polite reprimand) outside the office of the “Weather Witch” (Head of the Department - Marine School).

2009-05-09T19:29:00.016+01:00

09.05.2009.

'Freyja'.....

I do not have sense of humour. My sense of humour has me.

2009-05-05T00:02:00.008+01:00

04.05.2009.

There is this friend of mine who vehemently insists I smile….. always. This friend unyieldingly believes in my photographs and persists that I’m an entirely different man when I smile.

My argument that in those photographs – “the plaster of paris isn’t drying……. did I mix too much water?” is arbitrarily overruled.

This is for you.

I was once a romantic….. quite a romantic & a dreamer….. now vague in the misty whims of time. But every now and then I find that die hard romantic ….. and I smile. I have this 8 year old best friend in Calcutta who has no doubt that my name is Capt. Nimo and that I am a cybernetic organism, an android. I smile when I receive his emails….. and while replying with vivid descriptions of my travels to other galaxies and distant stars. I smile at his wide eyed eagerness when listening to the story about the time I attended Capt. Haddock’s birthday party in Marlinspike Hall or when I see his smile after I’ve fixed his malfunctioning machine gun. I smile thinking about the ‘Me’ that used to be when listening to nostalgic songs like ‘Tere bina jiya jayena’ or Ajkal paon zameen par nahin partey merey’ and the rest.

I smile when I remember how ‘The Sly One’ & I used to spend the whole night in my home listening to ‘Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought’. And then early in the morning sneak out and drive to Outram Ghaat to drink tea from the stall where ‘Congo’r Gongorilla’ had proposed undying love to ‘Dainty Fairy’.

And I smile for so many things….. and once in a while the rapid shutters of a lens freezes a smile into eternity.

I have my sorrows and my abiding grief….. but I’m also a happy man.

I smile.

2009-05-03T22:30:00.000+01:00

01.05.2009.

I want to write and I can’t find them words….. worse I can’t quite gather what is it I want to write. Am not not not going to write another deep dark within post…. or one more wise wisdom wizard kind. Nay ….. I aint writing nothing like that.

I haven’t been to sea since last fall. Too long a time ashore makes me feel claustrophobic….. clogs my bloody mind.

I flounder for words….. for ….. for ….. dunno ……perhaps for that thing I’m looking for …..? But I know not if it is a ‘thing’ or what ….. am not even sure if I’m looking….. am I?

the scent of …..?

the search for …..?

the book named …..?

the restaurant in …..?

the wet tickets to …..?

strolling lazily past …..?

the faded pages from …..?

speaking of was & when …..?

and ….. and the smell ….. smelt like ….. like ….. a morning song …..

Time flies…. four long months and it seems as if it was only the day before. In retrospect they were devoid of anything extra-ordinary. Regular days….. to and fro….. college and home….. mad hatter Friday nights.…. lazy lard bucket weekends….. the making of a good friendship ….. the fleeting lady in red….. the passage of winter ….. the coming of spring.

Oh and if I may say so ….. for the first time in the history of my kind, there now exists recorded evidence of willful academic achievement. It is a good feeling, I grudgingly concede. But ….. a very big ‘butt’ …… Back Bench Bad was any day better ;)

And there are times when I want to weep. Mumma said you can’t always get what you want.

Yeah…..

My heart an organ of fire aglow …..

My soul the mountain brook aflow …..

My sorrows arrive in midnight’s guise …..

My hopes with the morning sun in tandem rise …..

I Jai

2009-04-28T18:25:00.010+01:00

28.04.2009.

I was born with... and strength of character.

I have become a man with strength of character…. in my ability today to overcome resentment against others…. to try and understand my anger or grief notwithstanding…. to have a kind eye while recognizing defects and see beyond them.

2009-04-22T19:46:00.009+01:00

22.04.2009.

Post Script :

Nimo insists that though his last post bears resemblance to facts, it however shouldn’t be taken as an index into his emotional premises.

Nimo only publishes comments that his whims wish to publish. His whims are born exclusively off his crotchets.

Nimo is not answerable for his actions within the Nautilus Chronicles and selectively without.

Nimo is Euclidean Space.

Nimo is not mortal dust…. has no mathematical formula…. therefore can have no derived values…. is made of no physical mass or particular dimensions…. thus has no unit…. contains no chemical properties.

Nimo is a ratio.

2009-04-19T00:26:00.004+01:00

18.04.2009.

Lilac,

Love is watching your childish glee when eating the cherry from my ice-cream…. and your call five minutes before mid-night to remind me to wish you Happy Birthday…. carrying you on me back across a mile of sea beach ‘cuz you are afraid of the crabs…. or when gently nudged out of slumber when you would curl up against me….then lying awake watching your silhouette…. bathed in tender shadows of repose…. love is finding your hairs in my pullovers…. your scent on me t-shirts…. or watching the glow of afternoon sunrays melt all over you.… my weakness at welled up tears…. tip over & roll down your cheeks…. waiting at a railway platform and then spotting you amidst the swarm…. love is plaiting your hair…. talc you to sleep…. the numbing pins & needles in my legs from hours of awkward posture cause you were fast asleep….

and I can no longer write……

Con amore,

Jai

Here I was….. writing yet another page of my journal. What are these seeping crisscross of futile clawing on my soul? I say journal because my ‘Nautilus Chronicles’ is not really a blog in the sense of blogs. I want to scream. Not many read the ‘Nautilus Chronicles’ and I like it that way. So far I know only one who has read it the way I urge those who wish to read it. I am a carnival of rust. None.…. not even a single entry is random….. awkward punctuation marks are not chance….. inept spelling mistakes aren’t mistakes….. each tale is a yarn weaved as knit of my legacy. I want to be drenched in the summer rain. I deleted what could have been one of my best literary efforts ever. I realize I must not…. The letter and the deleted pages were supposed to make a contrast. To hell with contrast. Why do I write in a public forum? Because mischief is my aptitude….. delight even…. I’ve always pondered why invariably the key is always hidden. What if the lock was sent into hiding? I will leave the letter untouched and leave the deleted pages from Somalia untold…. How many nights must I still exist before I’m born? How else must I die before I believe I died? Make no mistake….. this isn’t the hour of the defeated….. Requiem.

I don’t make sense.

I wish I could loose my sanity…. Then I wouldn’t have to care about making sense.

2009-04-17T11:51:00.011+01:00

16.04.2009.

I am often pulled up for my sarcasm. And I often have pondered why an overwhelming majority overlook the sense of humour and latch on to my sarcasm alone. Here below is a letter I wrote to the Vice President HR of an establishment I once worked for.

Dear Mr. ******,

My name is J****** M*****. I was once upon a time ages and ages hence a **** employee. I served the company honestly and dutifully from ******* **** to ******* **** and then left to rejoin the merchant navy. Since then I have tried in vain to retrieve my Provident Fund from your establishment.

I hope you remember that I spoke to you over the phone, after being directed to you by the Vice President HR from your *********** office sometime in October 2008. I then personally drove 35 kilometers (one way only) to your office in T**********, R******* to meet you and Mr. ***** ****** to fill up my PF Forms for the fourth time (only). The explanation I then received for a more than two year delay was that my form was first inadvertently overlooked at the time of my resignation, then it was once lost (second time & I was never informed), subsequently (3rd instance) it was submitted to the PF Department without a receipt by your sub-agents and as a result the PF Department (as informed to me, by you) latter claimed they never received it. I hope you also remember your assurance that your department was then (and hopefully still now) being run more professionally with a greater degree of competence compared to the time when my doomed Provident Fund Forms were besieged by misfortune.

Although I have had already explained it to the lady (VP HR) I spoke to in the *********** office and then to you and to Mr. ***** ******, let me reiterate - I do not live in India any more & my picayune fortunes do not permit me to fly to India frequently to sign Provident Fund Forms. I was on vacation in October and you assured me that this time if I dissipate a portion of the precious time with my family & take the pain to drive to your office and duly fill the forms, you will ensure that they are followed up / submitted properly and obtain a receipt. I must concede, that you did and Mr. ***** ****** did email me a copy of the receipt and also mailed the hardcopy to my residential address in Kolkata / India.

But alas! The windmills of the clerical gods turn not in my favour. After a considerable period of time (I restrain myself from counting days & months) I have now received a letter from the Provident Fund Department stating that my Provident Fund could not be released as I quote - "THE AUTHORISED OFFICIAL OF THE ESTABLISHMENT NOT ATTESTED THE CLAIM"

My relative in Kolkata has kindly scanned and sent the documents to me. Attached please find the same for your kind perusal.

Let me assure you I am not upset. I am not angry either or agitated even. Are you wondering why not? For the sake of my General Physician. He is a genial old Welshman & would be shocked to find seismic fluctuations in my otherwise perfect BP. Despite feeling weak, helpless & enervated, in spite of cowering infront of this insurmountable obstacle of incompetence and apathy I still manage to have faith. However I do shiver to think what would have become of me if I retired from **** as a feeble old man and had to run to so many pillars and posts to retrieve my Provident Fund.

In the mean time I assure you I am in good health and not old and feeble, thus if you could kindly point me to the right direction of the right pillar and post, I pledge, not only to run to them but I will put any possible Herculean effort to move those pillars and posts to retrieve my paltry sum. I had logged every call made to your office and the references, dates and names of persons I spoke to. Though I am in the UK now and do not have them here, if you need I can have them scanned and sent over to humbly serve as 'Aide Memoire'.

Please do try to forgive me for my obvious sarcasm. I couldn't help but use humour to pacify my dismay at this inescapable tragedy. It is not directed at you in person. Please understand it is not the money which bothers me so. It is the lack of empathy for ex-employees, apparent absence of a sense of responsibility and I shall not go to the extent of questioning competence.

I also wish to bring this to the notice of higher management. I will remain forever obliged if you could kindly forward me the email addresses of the AVP & VP Human Resource, Centre Head in Kolkata and that of the India Head of Operations.

At the terminus let me again apologize and beg forgiveness for being voluble & if my words have in anyway offended you.

Yours sincerely,

J****** M*****

COPY TO: Mr. ***** ******

2009-04-05T11:34:00.011+01:00

05.04.2009.

“ 21 in 4 ”

Last night I was touched by a trivia……. a trivia of a moments unbidden free spirit, uncontrived…. unconstrained eagerness of youth ....of ‘21 in 4’. A delight that I now am incapable of….. and thus so cherish.

It is only half a decade and a little over another three 365’s that I too was ‘twenty one in four’. My childhood did not die a natural death with the coming of teen age…. nor did my teen age fade with the dawn of adulthood. By the time I was twenty one I had had the sense of unlimited power that the first feel of a ‘G3’or a Kalashnikov in your hands provide…. and the much deeper, profound understanding that the same feel of that same Kalashnikov or the scopes of a MSG90 leaves you with……when you have become wise not in proportion to your experience but to your capacity for experience...... and some more come to think of it.

I too “Profess to wish those words unwritten” – Yes. Shall I give my ‘Ratio Decidendi’? Yes I shall …. I must in order not to allow an ‘Obiter Dicta’ misconstrue my act of deletion as “Actus Reus” and “Mens Rea” as part thereof.

Forgive my sarcasm.

I laughed heartily at the unrestrained spontaneity …. I liked it…. It made me feel good…. It made me happy…. It makes me happy to see the other possess what I don’t…. doesn’t matter if I can’t…. Someone can and that can make me happy.

I thought it best to remove any mark of the beast, as I wished not to mar the innocence.... the free willy frankness of youth untouched.... a lovely gift I did not have, with the consuming remnants of my realities.... the passion of resentment…. the quick recoil of sarcasm of those called - 'The been there and done that' types . And now do I not sound ostentatiously learned?

I wish I were.

Is this coincidence… or is it April? This post reminds of one I wrote last April.

North England / 5^th April / 09:37 British Summer Time

2009-03-24T22:04:00.005Z

24.03.2009.

And then I have this lump in my throat….. this sense of wrong.

I wish I could make it simple…. I just tell my sad story and everybody weeps.

( I cant remember who I'm quoting in the last line)

North England / 24th March / 22:07 GMT

2009-03-18T12:21:00.005Z

06.03.2009.

…………continued

the Guitarist …………

he lay there…. for hours…. and hours and hours some times…. sunrays filter through the glass windows of the living room…. the Guitarist drenched in light, face obscured by the shadows lay there…. innumerable illuminated specks of mortal dust in the sunrays, held in view…. but not in contemplation…. he lay there…. the Guitarist liked the house…. ‘this house beholds the sun all day’ - he thought…. ‘and bathes me in moonlight through the night’…. the house listens to his fickle murmurs in Melodic Minor…. and to his desolate whispers in E Minor …. it smiled the other day at his reverberating notes of Happy Blues in E 7^th…. its cheerful echoes consummated his vibrant sounds of C & G Major…. the Guitarist sensed its longing gaze at his solemn rustling D Minor 7^th Arpeggios …. and he lay there picking out a whimsy twang here…. a melancholy note there…. not really playing…. composing his silent musing in tangible notes he wished to become music…. the Guitarist was a dreamer…. a little boy had once been his friend…. and had spoken to him of his dreams…. the boy was past…. the Guitarist however had dreamt on his dreams for him…. he loved rain…. he loves watching the air bubbles take shape in the puddles…. float around then fritter and dissolve to become one with the rain again…. sometimes he would sit by the window through a stormy night…. listening to the winds song…. to the soft drumming tales of raindrops on the glass windows…. the Guitarist would sometimes sigh and then leave abruptly to go for a walk…. wandering aimlessly with the coltish grace of the meandering river…. and he would always pause and look…. whenever he saw a child & father together…. wanting to learn the feeling…. he would bask in the colours of spring while sipping coffee in a pavement café…. ….

….. some things in life deserve to be left incomplete….. that is so because a neatly tied up end would probably rob the charm….. I decided to leave ‘the Guitarist’ incomplete.

2009-03-07T13:25:00.001Z

06.03.2009.

I do…..

Live everyday.

I want to…..

I want my GrandPa. I want to happily eat ‘Doodh/Bhaat’ believing its ‘Payesh’ because Dida said so. I want to be thrilled listening to how my GrandPa escaped with two revolvers when the British came to arrest him. I want to fall asleep for the umpteenth time listening to stories from our family’s time in Bhutan. I want to hate going to school for the first time. I want to be afraid of the dark. I want to smell ‘Garom bhaat, makhon, dim sedho, alu sedho and daal with green chilies’…..exactly the way Mumma used to feed me. I want a Leo Toy ‘Mauser’ pistol. I want to be spanked by Mashi for flunking maths. I want to sob if my Mumma is not back from office on time. I want to climb our mango tree…. see the crows lay eggs…. and the crow-lings hatch. I want to play cricket in my para and vanish like a mirage at the sound of a crashing window pane. I want a bicycle. I want to try to stifle those tears and fail after a disastrous bicycle stunt gone wrong. I want the hair rising thrill of watching ‘The Guns of Navarone’ and find the inspiration to climb up a drain pipe to Satya Babu’s third floor roof to retrieve a cricket ball. I want the first fugitive steps of puberty…. into the forbidden cities of Hadley Chase….Saratchandra...Eric Van Lustbader and....err..... I want to fall in love. I want to smile ...for nothing in particular. I want to write letters. I want to call home and her from every port. I want to come home after the long voyage is over. I want to take my family to the hills. I want to see their smiles when I unravel their gifts. I want to walk around ‘Gawrer Maath’ in driving rain. I want to eat Daal Bora’s from that old man near Victoria and listen to his opinion of the world. I want to sit on top of my car right in the middle of 2^nd Hooghly Bridge in rain, seeping beer with my buddy. I want to send flowers to the woman I will love ….. on a random day. I want to read. On a wintry morning I want to catch a ride on the first morning tram….. take a walk on Red Road, past Eden Gardens… watch the morning hubbub in Babughaat…. drink tea from that stall. I want to marry the woman I will love. I want to take her to Periyaar in monsoon.... Scottish Highlands in winter.... to my Africa. I want twins…..umm if not I want a daughter. I want to play with Sasha. I want to hold her in my arms and hum her to sleep. I want to answer all her questions like ….. Where do fireflies go during the day? Who are Leprechauns? If she can marry Tintin when she grows up? I want to write fantasy tales for Sasha when I'm away at sea..... tales of faraway lands…Gilgits…Amurs…. The Khorh….… Akobanga.... Rushai Serenyo…. Dragons… Fairies…. Dwarfs and Wizards. I want to pick her up after school and eat icecream together. I want to watch her grow.... learn to ride a bicylcle.... teach her to drive. I want to grow old. I want two rocking chairs and a table lamp.

And spring began…..

2009-03-01T21:06:00.002Z

28.02.2009.

Channel : IBI (Idiot Box Infinity)

On Air : 08:00 pm… Saturday

Saturday Night with I Jai…….

I - Welcome to Saturday Night with I Jai…….. I am your host ‘I’ we got a fun show for you tonight. If you are a parent out there please be advised that the content is inappropriate for young viewers. If you are a young viewer and your parents aren’t around ….don’t give a hoot.

Our guest tonight is ….. ‘Jai’ the newest spiritual Guru on the block… the wise guy doing the rounds and our topic is his philosophy of life.

(Unseen hands are heard clapping vigorously with excited hoops emanating from faceless mouths)

I - Welcome to the show ‘Jai’ how are you feeling tonight?

Jai - Oh I’m excited apart from the fact that I wonder – “What Latitude or Longitude I’ve got to?”

(He had not the slightest idea what Latitude was, or Longitude either. He was quoting from ‘Alice in Wonderland’)

I - Hahahaha you obviously have a sense of humour. Were you lost?

Jai - I’m often lost…. in deep thought. Unfamiliar territory you see.

I - Like I said very humorous. So tell us all about your philosophy.

Jai - My foot I will. Go buy a ticket to one of my sessions for 5 pounds 60. Get real sonny.

I - Hahahaha marvelous joke. So tell us about you then. How did you become a spiritual ‘Guru’.

Jai - Oh well…. I refused to allow my education to get in the way of my ignorance.

I - Do I detect sarcasm towards education?

Jai - Not at all. I love my teachers but I hate them too.

I - Could you elaborate a bit?

Jai - Uh well… I love them because they help me solve problems.

And I hate them because without them I would have no problems.

That incidentally is my philosophy – Balance…. I call it ‘The Act of Balance’.

I - That’s real deep and very new indeed. So you wanted to become a soldier, ended up as a sailor, left to become a banker, returned to being a sailor and then turned spiritual ‘Guru’. Could you explain that?

Jai - You see ‘I’ …..indecision is my key to flexibility.

I - But given that Indians in general and Bengalis in particular are said to be a people of ‘Middleclass Anxieties’ do you see yourself as acceptable?

Jai - I am single aint I? And I beg your pardon but you are obviously mistaking me for someone who gives a damn.

I - Well then…. let’s get up close and personal with our rapid fire section. Looking at the world today do you believe god wants to see us happy?

Jai - Absolutely. Beer is the constant proof that god wants to see us happy.

I - What is your idea of love and marriage?

Jai - Love is blind. Marriage is the eye opener.

I - Do you not yearn for a woman to love.

Jai - I do…. and I will continue to yearn for the woman I will love, till we marry.

I - Why only till you marry?

Jai - From what most married men tell me ….post marriage the ‘Y’ becomes silent.

I - Are you a chauvinist?

Jai - Never. My girlfriend always had the last word in any argument we had.

I - Do you expect me to believe that?

Jai - Holeheartedly….anything I said after her last words was the beginning of a new argument.

I - Do you have any regrets?

Jai - Yes, I was once suspended in school for quoting Einstein on ‘The Theory of Relativity’.

I - I’m surprised….why?

Jai - I quote from my answer paper – “When you are courting a nice girl, an hour seems like a second. When you sit on red hot cinder, a second seems like an hour. That’s relativity.”

I - I dare not comment. Have you made any similar scientific observations in ‘The UK’?

Jai - I have. “Bills travel through the mail at twice the speed of cheques.”

I - Have your talents ever been recognized?

Jai - Oh yes! My line manager in the bank wrote in my appraisal – “He is a man of perseverance. Over the last two years he has reached rock bottom and then he began to dig.”

I - I wonder why they haven’t put you in a zoo?

Jai - Uh… but for the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. They decided that it will be difficult for an average ape to believe that I descended from him.

I - Do you laugh at everything?

Jai - You mean why do I laugh at such terrible things? Because humour is my sarcastic realization of inescapable tragedy. ‘Con Anima’ my dahlings’.

I - Your given name is ‘Joy’ isn’t it?

Jai - That’s partly correct.

I - Who is ‘Joy’ ?

Jai - Let me answer that with a mildly plagiarized one liner – “Joy is my sorrows unmasked.”

I - Well, it’s time to wrap up the show and thank you ladies and gentlemen and you too ‘Jai’. Join us next week on Saturday Night with I Jai…….

2009-02-08T12:12:00.001Z

07.02.2009.

A silent musing......

2009-02-07T19:12:00.000Z

30.01.2009.

The ‘Storm’

My life was taken over by a ‘Storm’ – literally. It is now a month since I arrived in the North of England. True to my often ambiguous narration my life indeed was taken over by a ‘Storm’. I was for a very very short period of time a proud owner of a Blackberry Storm. Pride soon gave way to prejudice and I realised, the chasm between advanced technology and passé humanity cannot be bridged. Sheepishly I returned the extraordinary gadget to Vodafone and returned to using my faithful, more than half decade old Nokia (it has a KEYPAD!!!!) with arrogant pride.

The Cause of the Because

I arrived in the North of England with a purpose and a lot of baggage. The purpose is to gain higher education. Since my previous attempts (read persecution by Mom & Aunt) at education left me with no more than an acceptable toilet training, my baggage was enormous. Apprehension, dread, jitters, naked fear, cold feet…. foot… toes…. doubt, self-doubt, deep consternation and this crippling suspicion that I’m not myself anymore. Why? ‘Cause with perturbed bewilderment I realize that this once I want to study – not to just somehow pass but to score and score well. I will remain forever grateful to British Airways for not considering this weight as excess baggage.

The Cheshire Cat …. And a grin without the Cat

After nearly a decade I am again a full time student. Given my legendary social grace I should have chosen to live alone right in the beginning. But then again I make mistakes – all the time. I rectified my error in principle and moved into my own house four days after I arrived. I wisely chose a British landlord/lady and must confess I’m delighted with my inversely racist decision. It took me a full weekend to set up house and to say the least I’m riding the ‘Storm’ .....not the Blackberry ;) pretty well. I am a changed man……. I do things (successfully) that would amaze beyond disbelief, people who have known me long enough. For example I can navigate in ASDA or Lydl (British Wal-Mart equivalents) supermarkets and find grocery that I need without being hopelessly lost and irritable. I know that the meat and vegetables on top of the shelves aren’t the freshest. I pay utility bills online. I can write bank cheques without error the first time around. I can survive without a car, living proof that my legs are still good for vertical displacement (Mumma don’t chide me no more for a Princely attitude). I remember to switch of lights and central heating to save on gas & electricity bills. I can actually sit down and study – that realization left me with an overwhelming sense of loss. I always remember to take the key to the main door and haven’t locked myself out … yet. I sit on the first bench….. in every lecture. Apart from these mundane yet unavoidable grinds the settling down process saw me visit the public library and college library for membership, visit the Roman ruins and the cliff side beach (on a cloudy, rainy, windy, freezing -8*C day.... my buddies think I'm demented), walk accross the town camera poised, hunt for.....locate..... check out and happily settle for my favourite pub -' 'The County'.

I love living alone.... well apart from dinner time. I cannot live off ‘Take Away’ meals or Fish’n Chips with salt and vinegar. A well stocked larder and refrigerator is a must for my way of life. My devoted fondness for good food taught me how to cook and cook well. I cook a fair meal every night (I even tried dancing &/or gyrating like some hindi movie hero while I cooked.... not mucho fun though). However I hate having to sit down for supper alone. It invariably reminds me of the ‘Saheb’ and his undead minions from Shirshendu Mukhopadhyay’s ‘Potashgorer Jongoley’.

North England / 31st January 2009 / 02:38 GMT

All of a sudden I have this feeling that this post isn’t turning out the way I wanted it to. The words just aren’t coming through. Ideas flickered past as I sat through the past hour, staring at the luminous screen. Nah….. the ideas simply aren’t converging into meaningful or meaningless sentences. And I haven’t the appetite for a bromidic sentence construction exercise. Trite never appealed to me. I would rather tackle the half bottle of cognac I swore I won’t drink.

North England / 7^th February 2009 / 16:05 GMT

Calico days are paving the way for run of the mill journal entries. I have noticed that my emotions find words either when I’m walking the disconsolate climes of the Lord of Cerulean or when overcome with a sense of boundless joy or when propelled by any of the two – I look into my abyss….. and my abyss looks back into me. Why do words elude me when I can claim that I’m content?

Anyway …… the days rush past me. Or probably I rush through them. I’m not too sure. Am I going with the flow? Or am I just standing there……... as the flow goes past me making gurgling patterns of tiny rapids around my feet. My objective today is to finish this post. Finish it the way I planned it and finish it I will. No matter how degenerate it turns out to be or how completely it fails my sense of humour. I am still at it – education I mean. Since education is my sole purpose (ostensibly) of being here let me introduce my lecturers –

Capt. Ire (There goes my wicked sense of humour again) ….. Capt. Ire is my group tutor. I would love to hate the guy. But I just can’t. He is a brilliant teacher. And I must grudgingly concede that I try hard to dislike the bastard…… because as an officer he is a lot like me.

Capt. Pundin n Poondin (It just had to be this) ….. He is my or rather everybody’s darling. A thoroughbred sailor having been at ‘It’ for forty seven years – he like most sailors is simple, open, friendly with a gay becoming laughter. His lectures are always a delight, be it the poignant humour or the reminiscent tales from a life at sea. He reminds me of my beloved GrandPa. I am happy to say I adore him … because as a person he is a lot like me.

Miss 2B …. She is cute. Cute in the way she is lost most of the time. I sort of wanted to have a crush on her. But then I’m too old or jaded for crushes I guess.

Capt. Clime (Cheeky me) ….. He is cool. Must give it to him…. The guy’s cool. Otherwise he couldn’t have come to college wearing a trouser that had the zip held in place with a safety pin (never mind the gaps.....or err gapes maybe?) and carry it off with élan. He teaches Meteorology; he is six feet four tall and has the sense of humour to laugh when I asked him – ‘How tall are you…?' And then – 'So how’s the weather up there?' Or the time when he asked in class what we do with liquid nitrogen and I replied – “Terminate the Terminator”. This guy is real cool.

And that more or less brings us to the end of a mile long example of my literary dissatisfaction. Anyone who managed to reach this far deserves a beer and an aspirin.

2009-01-30T16:00:00.000Z

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.

2009-01-19T23:36:00.008Z

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.

2009-01-18T09:31:00.000Z

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 Jai……..

2009-01-12T08:41:00.000Z

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.

2008-11-30T19:13:00.000Z

29.11.2008.

A few friends have for a while now insisted that I write a book. I desisted. I am a storyteller – Yes. But I’m no novelist. I am writing my autobiography – a word at a time as I live through life a moment at a time. I do not construct my characters. I’ve seen them. So I sketch them carefully, penciling in minute details. … erasing some, I build up the plot, pregnant with humour overlaying an abyss of emotions. I compose music as though the soul of my narration. I freeze frames in black and white – turning them into eternity. I allow explosions of colour to splatter my canvas. I let my imagination defy shackles of reality and run the veldts. With time my characters come alive and develop into subplots. The explosive colours turn into aesthetic kaleidoscopes. The future appears as sequel to the omniscient narrator who becomes the eponymous hero and perhaps an auteur. My eyes glitter with the possibility of an end neatly tied up and satisfactory.

2008-11-30T17:38:00.000Z

28.11.2008.

At home for four months - the call of the running tide becomes irresistible with every passing moment. The challenge of the seas, the romance of the wild, the blowing North Wind carries the spirit of Neptune beckoning the sailor in me to unknown waters.

I have not written much in the past two or three months. My attempts to spew ink legibly ended up in ungainly blotches. However a few memorable incidents did occur which are worthy of mention. Since my syntax is not quite what it usually is, I decided to write it verbatim on an 'as was, there was' (that's past tense for 'as is where is') format.

A pretty young thing asked me -

'So what have you been doing these four months?'

Moi - 'Ummm I was indulging profound thought.'

Pretty young thing - 'Thats interesting. What did you gain from it?'

Moi - 'Uh lets see ... ummm about 7 pounds.'

Intercepted conversation between my Mother & an elderly relative -

Elderly relative - 'Why dont you arrange a marriage for him before he ends up making a wrong choice ?

Mother (mine not Maxim's) - 'I'm not worried about that. So far he has made me extremely proud with his choice of women. I didnt approve of a single one. And he didnt successfully marry any of them.'

The secret optimist in me laughed silly, despite being unsure about which way the humour was flowing.

While attending a RADAR Ops refresher course -

Lecturer (A senior sea Capt.) - 'Your target is 400 nautical miles away. Your RADAR range is 200 nautical miles. What do you do ?

A hand shoots up from the back of the class - 'Shoot it twice Sir.'

I spent the subsequent 30 minutes wafting through empty corridors of our marine college.

A rather nostalgic drift.

An old friend on my love life -

'So you have been falling in and out of love eh ... ?'

I - 'I find the word 'fall' derogatory. Love was or ummm... is like a revolving door. Move in & out sounds more effortless... no ???'

An energetic female voice from HSBC bank -

'Sir we have received your request for a duplicate card but we cannot process your request since you have not mentioned if the previous card is lost or damaged.'

Alarmed (I had forwarded no such request) I put her on hold, call my Mother, who after checking confirms that my card is very much at home.

I (Unholding her...pun) - 'Well you see it isnt damaged and certainly not lost. It was stolen about a month back.

Frantic sounding voice - 'Sir you must immediately report it as stolen & block it.'

I (Beholding her ... pun) - 'No I dont want to do that.'

Puzzled voice - 'Sir but why ?'

I - 'The thief you see is actually spending a lot less than my wife.'

2008-10-24T10:38:00.000+01:00

23.10.2008.

“ The Keepsakes ”

I saw a dead boy today. I’ve had this picture of him – yellowed with time, worn at the fringes. I sometimes took that photo out and looked at it fondly, with a tinge of sorrow perhaps and then carefully tucked it back in its unmarked grave. But today I saw him, and I the living learnt to live better from the dead.

What are ‘Keepsakes’? They are forgotten pages from our past that pop up at awkward moments and force us to look back. ‘Keepsakes’ nudge us towards looking back at the shimmering magical moments when barriers fell away between laughing and liking, revealing secrets, unfurling dreams….. untold. ‘Keepsakes’ help us to look beyond the enduring bitterness of the unhappy end. I climbed up our damp, dusty and unused loft to quickly bury some ‘Keepsakes’ in that box I swore I would never again open and escape pronto. Instead I found myself sitting in the dead boy’s tomb, digging into his journal, reading his mail, invading his sacrosanct crypt. He was no soldier. He was weak and needy and lonely – and he died that way. He made no valiant stand. But the kindness, the tenderness in his childish words made me think, made me question myself. I speak of the horrors of war often. The most brutal war is within us. Between us and our shadows. In some the shadow is the darker side of us – imposing, looming and larger than life. In some the shadow is the alter ego – the antithetical projection. In reality these are alibis for our failures. My shadow is but me – its form is helplessly dependant on how I face light.

Despite his un-heroic end ages hence, the little boy has won his war within. His words however childish showed me today, how I should face light. Time will one day steal away my stars and life will have danced its parting dance, as light dims death will find my hands somewhere in the darkness but I must continuously strive to live in such a way that when death comes it will be a fulfillment. The war without must not make me loose the war within.

And for us I sing – “How I wish…. How I wish you were here …. We are just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl year after year …. Running over the same old ground …. And how we found the same old fears … wish you were here.”

2008-10-18T05:43:00.000+01:00

17.10.2008.

“The 15 Mins Satire”

‘The 15 Mins Satire’ is a short play born from the raging flames of my literary genius and the seeds of my natural chicanery.

Disclaimer – The characters resemble we the living.

Oh! By the way I have this paralyzing suspicion that it's funny despite being utter nonsense.

The Characters :

“Aye” ( Characteristics – An enigma, personified )

“About Me” ( Characteristics – Unfolds progressively spiced with injections of flashback )

The Play :

Act 1 / Scene 1 ( Flash Back in Black & White ) :

“Aye” ( An enigma personified ) – A brave man will risk his life but not his conscience.

“About Me” ( Epitome of happiness always) – I sing the songs of sunlight…. Oh so bright ….Oh so bright…..

Act 2 / Scene 2 :

“About Me” ( I’m so happy. So happy. But…… ) – I'm so happy. I say everything is fine. Life is picture perfect. I smile my Mona Lisa smile.

“Aye” ( An enigma personified ) – The most important thing about communication is to hear what is not being said.

But...but..that song you are singing....isnt that my song too? Let us hold hands then.

“About Me” ( A fallen angel. Aggrieved & in despair. ) - You may charge me with murder... or want of sense. We are all of us weak at times…but a slightest approach of false pretence was never among my crimes.

Oh I've loved so true & yes I tried, I tried so hard.

“Aye” ( A Quixotic enigma, personified ) – "Whoever loved … that not gave 'All' to love"

Dismiss his vows, his feigned tears, his flattery. For where your heart is hard they make no battery.

I'll be your hero baby....I'll kiss away the pain.

The lullaby fades away in her tears.

Act 3 / Scene 3 :

“About Me” ( A flash of serendipitous Gods ) and “Aye” ( An enigma personified ) walk away hand in hand.

‘Ye kahan aagaye hum.. yuhin saath saath chaltey’ plays in the background.

The audience claps.

Act 4 / Scene 4 :

“About Me” ( I’m easy to please. Just do what I want. ) – I’ll do what I want to and you must know that you cant say no if I say no.
“Aye” ( An enigma personified ) – I’m a self soaring monolith. I shall not give in. ‘Aye’ shall not.

Act 5 / Scene 5 :

“About Me” ( Another droplet in a sea of pain ) – I would like to make it clear in parenthesis that I do accept the blame, I’m but guilty. I eat humble pie.

“Aye” ( An enigma personified ) – NO MERCY !! My promise.

Act 6 / Scene 6 :

“About Me” ( Victim - crucified on the verticals of law & horizontals of codes ) – How audacious of you to decline my apology. Decline 'My' apology. Defiance be my glory.

But ….but I’m blue………

“Aye” ( An enigma personified ) – We flatter those we scarcely know, we please the fleeting guest and deal full many a thoughtless blow, to those who love us best.

I hate to see you sad.

“About Me” ( Juvenile delinquent ) - Pirouettes & breaks into a fervent foxtrot.

Audience sits up mesmerized.

“Aye” ( An enigma personified ) - 'Then it doesn’t matter which way you walk'... said the cat. 'So long as I get somewhere’ – Alice added as an explanation. ‘Oh you are sure to do that’.... said the cat, ‘If you only walk long enough’.

The End

Playwright’s afterword :

I could not allow humour to be a casualty of circumstances and just had to allow the facetious jests – devoid of malice.

Love is not a conflict. It is not a contest of my ego’s bigger or I can hurt better. It is less than easy to always consider oneself as the victim. And easier still to turn militant – an emotional activist gone wrong, an emotion gone berserk. Love is the psalm of life – it is to be cherished even in loss or grief. My GrandPa used to say – ‘If nobody measures up check your yardstick.’ I try these days to do just that. I try to emerge better from my personal debacles. With great poise some say – ‘Give all to love’. ‘All’ here is the catch, meaning all that I’m ready to give. There can be no pre-conditions to love. I’m not fond of laws. Laws are abiding. But I have unshakable faith in codes my Old Man taught to revere. As codes set standards – moral, emotional, spiritual & more. A person who doesn’t stand for something falls for anything – code of conduct thus is a neccessity. I wish “About me” her prophesied happiness & freedom from cliché’s. My wish for “Aye’ is his small measure of peace. I quote Emerson –

‘Give all to love;
Obey Thy Heart.’

2008-10-03T10:36:00.000+01:00

29.09.2008.

I normally take swift decisions. But I was fidgeting with my indecision over the last few days. ‘Nautilus Chronicles’ is in English. I was unsure if a post in Bengali would be proper. Today is ‘Mahalaya’ and I suddenly know what to do. Some things ‘Bengali’ can only be expressed in their true spirit in ‘Bangla’.

Smiritkosh

Banglay ami konodini serom likhini. Shotti boltey Bangla bhashar upor serom dakhol nei je Banglay lekhar ichetake, shahityer lelihan ognishikha hoye jyoley uthtey dewar dushahosh dekhabo. Aaj ja likhbo tateo kichu ingreji shabdo byabohaar hobei. Ki kori upay nei. Kintu monay monay etao jani je Banglay na likhley aaj moner ei kathagulo hoyto thik emni bhabey aar kakhonoi lekha hoye uthbey na. Chakri shutrey bachorer aat noy maash prithibir dur durantey bheshey berai. Jei du tin maash bari thaki setao jiboner gotanugotik gondir modhei je ketey jay sei kheyaltao doiniker nirontor probahey bhuley jetey boshechilam. Ek robibar shokaley, hothat hujugey metey, Pujo’r chanda tultey beriye pari jomalam parari onek dur, onek bachor na jawa goli guloy. Shomoyer choukath dingiye giye daralam onek onek peechoney feley asha smritider uthoney.

Amader paray ekta chilo baroder dol aar arekta amar shamoboyeshider. Ami du dolei naam likhiyechilam. Laumba Didader barir ek tolay thakto Mitildi’ra. Oder bari chilo amader grishyo aar sheet’er chutitey shokaley khelar jayga. Ami Yaman, Tapun, Buri, Ghoton, Mamoni, Tina, Tuli, Payel, Rhiju, Ronny, Basab sabai kheltam Colour Man, Lock & Key ebong most favourite lukochuri. Ronny chilo amar chiroshotru (chotobelar), Yaman’er Maa oor ek bikeley paanch choybaar jama bodlaten ghemey jabey tai, aar ami (chirokaler shoytan) khepatam - 'Yaman’ti tumi Lemon’ti' boley, Ghoton takhuni kabyo roshey habudubu, tayra Babushona chilo maarkuttey – gayer jor ebong judhobidyay amar ekmatro protidondi. Lukochuritey amay ‘Chor’ kora hotona ami nijei lukiye portam tai, Yaman ‘Chor’ holey bari choley jeto, ‘Monkey Dadu’ atondro prohora diten jatey onar bari keu lukotey na dhokey, Tankha’der alo andhari bagan diye giye Satya’babur garager chaat thekey Yaman’der golitey oor Maa’r gachey laf diyei Lotika Mashi'ke dekhey paliye bacha, Dola Mashi'der jungle hoye jawa baganey expedition - sabi aaj harano sur. ‘Monkey Dadu’ naki hariye gechey, Lotika mashi nei seta bojha jay Yaman’der bari dekhley, nei baritar protiti konay onar jotner chowa. Sei sab chotoder modhey sudhu Yaman aar Ghoton'er sathei katha hoy majhey majhey, bhalo lagey. Pujo asha takhon chilo ekta dum bandho hoye asha apekha. Ajkalkar mato sara bachor jama kenar byapar chilona. Class eight’ey bodhoy prothom gechi Maa, Mashi’r sathey prothom nijer pochondey jama kintey. Taar agey Maa, Mashi ja kiney anto tatei hoi hoi. Jama kenar cheyeo utshaho beshi chilo kenakatar sheshey Café-De-Monico’r fish fry ba Aminia’r biryani or Sabir’er rezala / parota kingba New Embassy’te Chinese khawar. Aar jodi Maa’r office ‘Murray House’ thekey beriye Great Eastern’er bakery thekey fresh garom garom pudding sanction holo toh amay paay ke. Bishyokarma pujo amar chirodini ektu dukho dukho kat to. Dadu chilen bhishon strict. Ghuri orano, guli ba danguli khelar amader poribarey anumoti chilo na tai chaader chilekothar upor shuye ghontar por ghonta dekhtam akashey ghuri aar chil’der anagona.

Mahalaya’r bhor belay Dida, Maa, Mashi, Mejomashi, Baromashi sabar sathey Dadu’r pashey boshey, onar cheeni chara dudh beshi dewa cha thekey, nijer boraddo ek pirich niye chumuk dewar sathey sathey Mahalaya suntam. Paribarik reeti menei Dadu’r mato amio ghor nastik. Kintu Dadu Mohalaya sunten, Gayatri montro aar arow onek Sanskrit shlok’er nirbhul udhriti suntam onar kachey. Ekhon bhabi diehard atheist hoyeo Sufi mysticism’er proti amar akorshoner ki okhanei suru? Hothat adhir apekhar aboshan ghotiye Panchami’te hoto Debi’r abirbhab aar Shoshti thekey paanch diner ektu beshi swadhinota prapti. Porashunor berajaal mukto hoye, bari ferar shomay shimar shamanyo shithilota’ta jatota pari upobhog korey nitam. Amar pujo katto baroder doley. Puchuda, Bablada, Dipuda, Tutu/Bhutu’da, Tublu/Shanku’da, Bappada, Babuji (Gaalo Oodi), Papuda, Tataida eder sathey athar mato sentey jetam. Sabcheye choto tai monay monay pochondo na holeo, kora shashon ebong anushangik onek soirotantrik / aganotantrik niyomaboli meney nitam sudhu baroder sathey exciting sab khelar utshahey. Nirmiyoman Monikuthi Apartments’er dotala thekey du haatey cap pistol chalatey chalatey bali’tey jhap marlo Mr. Walker ( Chalomaan Ashoriri ), guli ( Cap'er roll ) furiye unmatto haat paa churey sabaike dhorashoyi korey dilo Bahadur'er cheetar mato goti, flat barir bhit korar jonye kaata gortey cap pistol, leo toy and maati’r dhela diye grenade baniye hoto Commando Comics’er script anusaarey ditiyo bishwajudher most realistic enactment. Onabil anonder sab muhurto. Ashtami’te Sankarda’r dhak bajano shonar agroho, Keshtoda’r scooter’ey ekti round paray ghora, Bhanu Kaku aar Bolda Breaker’er advut nrityokola, arektu baro hoye sondhey arotir shomay notun prem’er drishtibinimoy, Dashami’r din mon kharap, bhashan ferot chol choley chokh, Ekadoshir shokaley notun khatay Durga’oi aar baki debota’oi namoh likhey porashunor sei purono jaaley abar jorano – sab aaj sudhu smriti.

Aaj ami sab peyechir deshey. Bhalo chakri, artho, protipotti, shafolyo sobetei nagorikotyo peyechi. Kurir Aat’er aporanhe dariye tao keno monay hoy jeno tin kuri paar korey fellam? Ekhon monay hoyna jeno bachor gulo ki tara tari ketey jay? Amader cheleybelay toh emon chilona. Ek ekta bachor jeno chilo kattooow laumba. Acha sudhu amari emon hoy na tomrao keu erom bhabo? Ekhon Pujo ashlei mon kemon korey. Buker modhey ki jani ekta chapa koshto. Sedin pora ekti probondhey jeno amar moner kathaguloi lekha chilo. Pujo ashlei anubhab kori - “ Ki jeno ekta chilo……ekhon hariye gechey….jani aar khujeo pabona.” Tobuo chai sab Pujo’y bari ashtey, amar Kolkatay, Pujo ashuk emoni bhabey barey baar, ashuk Debi’r haat dhorey feley asha din gulor smritira.

2008-09-13T08:34:00.000+01:00

13.09.2008.

'The Lilac Tragedy'

Next to my lost battle, nothing saddens me more, as the battle won.

I Jai

Baha De Cochones

I never accepted the creed that I could be hurt mortally. And I survived. I survived as I do not believe in succumbing. Always, I faced with defiant indignation the ugly fact of feeling pain. I never allowed pain to become important. Then why today am I so restless? Why am I afraid of my defiant indignation? Is this fear because I feel that this defiance will help me reach the day when I will be able to face my memories indifferently and the day when I will have no neccessity to face them?

Or is the truth far darker? That this defiance is nothing but surrender, through shreds of my tortured resistance. That my defiance is but submission that my rigid refusal of pain, is in truth a macabre paradox designed to devise the victory of pain into something far more profound.

“The clouded sky today, bears a divine shadow of sadness, on the forehead of brooding eternity.”

2008-09-09T15:44:00.000+01:00

09.09.2008.

29 Time Strasse

Imon had lost track of time when he stumbled across the name post. “29 Time Strasse” it read and the road stretched beyond with neat rows of houses on both sides, acacia trees, wind blown eucalyptus and paved sidewalks. Imon had been walking so long that he had lost all sense of time and direction. But he had walked on, determined to reach – at least somewhere. Shaking his head slowly, as if to clear his vision, he peered into the street. A red haze was all he could see. ‘What is this read haze’ – he thought. Is it real or am I imagining it? He could hear the radio crackling somewhere in the distance. He trudged a few steps further. Now he could see the houses more clearly. He could see people inside, even through the boarded windows and locked doors. A man was bent over a piece of paper writing furiously……. “expectations… we all have them, grow them, nurture them… don’t we? My realistic expectations, so real yet they turn out to be someone else’s unrealistic expectations & the mismatch leads to disappointment”. Imon could read what the man was scribbling. He saw a family deliriously tucking into cereals that he knew to be barely edible. A girl stood in a window with a wistful look. Imon could hear her thinking – “I wish I too could have that – that thing called normal”. Two kids played in a living room oblivious of everything. The silent night pierced by their peals of unaffected laughter. A cat sat on a veranda and ignored Imon. A man lied to his wife and she accepted the flowers with rehearsed innocence. Two young lovers were lost in each other. Imon heard 'Somebody' dial a number wanting to say - “I missed you all day, I love you”. 'Someone' received the call – “I’m busy right now, I’ll call you back”. 'Somebody' replied – “Oh okay, I just called, just like that”. “Alright then” – 'Someone' said. “I wanted to hear your voice, for just a little while, I was missing you so I …….” 'Somebody' said to the disconnected line. Imon walked further and saw a couple at home. They have already traveled through the nagging, anger, hurt, sarcasm and reached the cold shoulder junction. An elderly man was reading out the newspaper to an empty rocking chair next to his. This street looks eerily familiar Imon thought. ‘Surreal when extraordinarily simplistic is bizarre’ – he said aloud. There …. right over there I see the end of the street, so close yet why does it appear so out of reach? And then he saw the old man. He sat in a corner in a shroud of shadows. Somehow the darkness made him more formidable. Though he couldn’t see him clearly, Imon had this feeling as if he knew the old man. And then for a brief moment he saw his eyes, illuminated by the bright glow of a passing car. His eyes – underneath, a reservoir of feeling. And Imon knew how they knew each other. They had the same eyes – of men who had seen much. Or is it too much? The old man didn’t speak but Imon heard him say – “One cannot change his destiny. But one can battle on till his destiny is revealed to him. I wish you peace. The small measure of peace that men like us seek and most seldom find. Walk on – and your foot prints shall tell no tales of how you died, but will tell tales of how you lived”.

2008-08-20T17:00:00.001+01:00

21.08.2008.

“Those who had, who have or who had had read this post are asked to archive the memory and discard the knowledge of having read it.”

2008-08-20T16:07:00.000+01:00

17.08.2008.

Dear Autumn,

You are here at last. Years ago, as a kid I would spend lazy afternoons up on our mango tree. That tree and I were friends, friends throughout the seasons. Come spring with her blooming greens and fresh buds, come summer with its fruity flavours, monsoon’s arrival with the Nor’Westers, the touch of gold on the mangoes, smell of ‘Pujo’ in the autumn air, winter’s chill in the brooding North wind and the tree and I. Days, so long gone. And the seasons came and past – spring with colour came, summer knocked warmly, the crows hatched, rain poured, the hatchlings flew, autumn arrived, winters froze and all the seasons seemed alike. And now after so many years ‘Autumn’ is suddenly here. No ordinary season - she. Autumn came and kept coming till I realized I’ve found a friend. A season, who quietly unfurled the story of my life, while I sailed around the world. Autumn who knew I loved Autumn before I did, forgive the cliché. And now that Autumn has left and I’m cloistered in my insecurity and the uncertainty of the future that no amount of planning can account for, let me just say – nothing I could describe in words can truly express how I feel about Autumn. I fervently hope you know. I hope you know that underneath my cynical, cold, laughaboutthethingsthathurtmemostshell I’m just me and I hope you don’t care and will love me irrespective.

I miss you Autumn and I try to not miss you too much by keeping close to you. As close as impossible. I’m terrible at goodbyes. I only wish Autumn is here to stay.

Love,

I Jai…..

2008-08-15T15:20:00.000+01:00

14.08.2008.

“Autumn”

An image not seen, yet so much felt…..
One made off the morning mist and not of mortal dust…..
Was it my love that shaped it so?
Or was it so shaped that I loved…..
Alas! My quest forfeit.
Let no frown of doubt sully the memoires fragile and pure,
A moment of love, a torrent of dreams…..
A silent echoing grief abound….
Emotions surge and swell…
And I fail to quell….
Life’s passions …. I cannot hold back.

I Jai…..

2008-08-10T16:02:00.001+01:00

08.08.2008.

I’m home. I signed off on 28th July. My beloved GACE will remain with me forever. Onboard her I’ve ridden my big wave, overcame a past, found my window and onboard her I earned my keep that will now enable me to further my goals and my dreams. She is my “Nkosazana”. I wish her fair weather and safe voyages always. “Hamba Gahle” my little lady.

A few stray lines plucked from a T.S. Eliot poem and strung together with imagination reflect my last six days.

Let us go then, you and I
When the evening is spread out against the sky,
Let us go through certain half-deserted streets
Of restless nights,
To lead you to an overwhelming question….
Oh do not ask “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
And indeed there will be time
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
And indeed there will be time,
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and “Do I dare?”

I write often and often I wrote – meaningful sentences, touching verse, obscure humour, vile sarcasm, poignant thoughts, introspective expression, intelligent anecdotes, cunning double entendre, blatant lies, painful truth, harsh realism…. but today a whole new expression – a selection of incoherence within an ingeniously conceived allegory.

Unhappy people are all alike – bound by a sense of loss. Some wound suffered long ago, some wish denied, tender emotions hurt by way of indifference, a lonely tear drop, some hollow longings, an abiding grief – kept alive in a shroud of yesterday. But to be happy one need not shed that shroud. Rather it is better to look for meaning in a past of hopes, dreams, triumph & loss, some secrets, some sorrow, memories that give meaning to our today. A meaning that provides a wonderful inspiration for a past overcome, however dark – a future headed for, however uncertain.

And I dreamt of autumn. And I dream of autumn. I want autumn. Autumn so much ‘When Harry Met Sally’ type. Autumn and Sally and I, would be uber delighted.

And I am a magic realism addict.

And it is time of the year again to fill my head with ‘nothings’ and purge the ‘everythings’.

And in my life I’ve given very few, the power to truly affect me and having failed magnificently, I’m more humane for it.

And my cynicism is the cloak that advertises my indifference and hides humane feelings.

And my obscene wisdom impugned – lest I become ‘it’. And I needed to find you and I needed to find me.

And I listen to ‘Ek hi khwaab kayin baar dekha hai maine’ incessantly when I’m upset. I wonder would you feel my pain so closely that you can’t listen to it either, much as I can no longer listen to ‘Mera kuch samaan tumhaarey paas pada hai’.

2008-08-08T15:40:00.001+01:00

22.07.2008.

soch meri hairaan badi hai….

At times I am surprised by my capacity for experience. Now & then I’m overwhelmed by the intensity of my emotions. Depth possessed as a faculty, combined with a dexterous ability at acute perception yields a tremendous capacity of insight. But is that a gift? I ask so, as such capacity for insight exposes the mind to a complex web of emotions that aren’t easy to handle. Insight sets one apart and invariably turns him solitary. It is much easier to be part of the mass. Because mass is more simplistic, less discerning, has little relationship with reason – mass is myopic. The moment one disintegrates from the mass, acquires a mind of one’s own – an ideal is formed that takes the imagination by storm.

Now let’s allow my ink fountain to escape the intangibility of self-amusing anecdotes that my narcissism thrives on. I saw a photograph today.

A portrait had once hung on my wall. Although I tried to remove every vestige of it, a pale shadow remained where it had hung. A testimony of time. I’m stunned today by the repulsion I felt at the sight of what time has done to that portrait. I learn everyday – a bit of this and a bit of that from the day’s caravan. I learnt today that the decisions we make, the path we choose eventually reflects in our lives, in our minds, in our relationships and surprisingly the vainest, yet most visible – in our appearance. In the past year the road I chose has brought me to a juncture where I’ve emerged better than before as a person – at work and in praise of vanity in appearance. Despite my detached contempt, my journey through the past year enables me today to look with pity at this miserable relic of my portrait. I’m not beyond self doubt. I have in the past questioned my decisions. I’ve asked myself whether I would have been happier had I chosen the convenient path of compromise at a time of crisis. Today I’m convinced more than ever that I’ll never choose compromise in the face of adversity, I shall never seek the comfort of the easy way out or the escape of instant gratification. I know it won’t be easy, I know there will be hurt & grief & anger…… and I know I will overcome.

English Channel / 22nd July 08 / 2210 UTC

After negotiating a couple of deeply uncomfortable days, just as I bask in my comfortable solitude, O’God Dead Reckoning descends upon me with clear unaffected exuberance. I often wonder if time is for our choosing or does destiny play its hand. Touched by the mark of the beast I’m in no mood for vicarious happiness.

And we fence with the boxer’s nimble grace,
In the ring of time’s changing face.
Believing this or believing that, and both are satisfied,
If noone has misjudged or lied.

The sands of time however await none.

2008-07-07T07:47:00.000+01:00

05.07.2008.

I had a rolling good time today. The new Master is Capt. Joshi, quite younger than the previous Master but from the old school. I gel with old school. He plays a guitar and is a Gemini. Needless to say the boat’s rocking both ways. The Capt., 2/E Rodrigues and I went out today. Since the Capt. owed me one, lunch was on him – a hearty beef steak and delicious pork chops washed down with some Heiniken, Stolichnaya, Jack Daniel’s and fulfilling one of my permanent adornments i.e. my childhood two shots of Bundaberg rum. Believe me! The best way to enjoy alcohol is to drink recklessly. Thus post our bout of reckless drinking, we were back onboard. I’m pie-eyed but indignantly dignified in posture. Well why not I say – after all I have not drunk at all in two and a half months. Such example of righteous self control deserves an occasional caprice. So here’s to good times and fun – Ho Ho Hum & Dum Dee Dum.