Sunday, 19 December 2010

Happy Year-End to all folks.

We all make terrible New Years' Resolutions. Not the type which are shown in the movie where you neatly write down point-by-point as to what you should do, and inevitably it has one point that deals with weight. (I am not going to dwell into that forbidden territory. Pricks me right at the bottom of my small small heart). But one makes a mental note of some of the important things that the fresh year shall induce you to do. All fair and good. But the list remains more or less unchecked even at the end of the year. So I decided to get rid of that lousy habit once and for all. It's so much better to recall all the good things that you've unexpectedly done, than to recall all the things that you were supposed to do and you haven't. (One always should voluntarily forget all the lousy stuff of the year. Works well with the happy hormones and all that, you know). To hell with expectations. One can't deal with those of the people around you, let alone those that one voluntarily shoves into the already burdened mind.



So cheers to all the good thoughts. May you enjoy the last days of the year like you've never enjoyed before. And if things don't work out fine, then you always have the option of being sad and lousy. :D

Sunday, 12 December 2010

On the larger picture.

I've shifted homes within the city quite often. In my earliest days when I'd generally spend my time staring, crying and pooping, I lived in a place where Job Charnock first landed when he came to this side of the world. It was a locality of composite people: fallen aristocracies still clinging half- heartedly to older glories, and families stepping on to the middle- class ladder.


I then shifted to a nearby locality which stands out for it's cultural diversity. There's the families of respected professionals, a predominantly Christian setting with a fair amount of Muslim population and a respectable number of Jewish families as well. This is where my grandparents lived and I believe that their liberal outlook suited the locality well.

Then unfortunately from the heart of the city I had to shift to what I thought then was a concrete jungle adjacent to Kolkata. However, Salt lake is now quite the hub of all things that's quite advanced in the city, being new and organised. I used to live in government quarters and my neighbourhood was pretty much egalitarian, and even if ostensibly, they weren't too conservative. After staying there for nearly thirteen years and making friends that would last a lifetime and more, I shifted to a new place about nine months ago.

My neighbourhood now is pretty interesting. Neighbours wanting to borrow stuff firstly asks if they've ever been contaminated by meat or not. They apologetically say that they are without a maid, unfortunately because they obviously had to get rid of the previous one because she made the mistake of being born as a Muslim. I remember, when my grandparents used to live in this same place (after they had shifted from Central Kolkata), I went to a birthday party. We were all around 10 years old, and a girl innocently asked me 'what are you?' I was to young for some good sarcasm and hence I was just plainly wondering whether she wanted to ask me if I were a girl or a boy. Of course she clarified, wanting to know not my gender (thankfully she figured that out herself. Smart kid.) but my caste. She seemed satisfied with my answer.

And I wonder. All the glorified things about the country sometimes seem like such a big sham. We aren't really a nation and yet we expect everyone to have nationalistic feelings. My new locality has been quite different from all the apparently progressive localities in Kolkata I've lived in. And yet I have this uneasy feeling that this is closer to reality.

Saturday, 9 October 2010

Of momentary observations.

It's that time of the year when the weather suddenly starts to change it's mood. As I tucked myself under a warm sheet as it rained quietly outside, I thought of all the charming thoughts that might be coming to a person who has been bestowed with the power to write magic. Those that touches the heart more than the common sense. At times I regret my inability to make things seem more beautiful than they are. It's probably my perception of reality that makes me incapable of doing so myself. I'm not a very honest person when it comes to exaggerations. But somehow writing of feelings that are 'magical' renders to me a sense of betraying my own standards of honesty, however shifty that might be.


It rained outside. The streets were almost empty except for a bus or two speeding by. The wind was so cold that it was hard to imagine that I was all messily sweaty only a few days ago. The windows of most of the houses stayed close. There was no extraordinary sway of the trees. Just a passive tolerance of the rain, as if it didn't bother them at all. As I observed rather nonchalantly I thought of the hopeless romantics who were thinking of their lovers, the creative fellow writing that one poem that would give these moments a timeless beauty, the sad man down the road being nostalgic about times lost and faded. I thought of how the music lover would listen to that one tune that befits the moment according to his tastes, I thought of people's passions, of which I've read so much.

Passion seems to evade me as I nudge my mind to remain pragmatic all the time. As I heard the drizzle, I realised that I don't know what my favourite song is like.

There was a sense of regret in me as I went off to sleep. It was just another beautiful day-end, whose larger-than-reality magical elements remained beyond me.

Friday, 17 September 2010

very intellectual traits of very intellectual people.

Ever since our glorious school days, I laughed at my sister for choosing the science stream as she'd have to study very very complicated things while I'd laugh away with my paltry humanities syllabus. I was wrong. And the Gods have thus been punishing me with extra classes almost everyday. Hence the brief sabbatical from blogging. However all my pedagogic activities have not been wasted. Considering I have a crooked sense of observation, I put it to good use.

Being in a college that is famous for its intellectual hyper-activity helps, though often the immediate experience is ghastly and very suicide-inducing. I've begun to observe certain traits that are akin to all wannabe-intellectuals (irrespective of colleges. All's said and done, I'm totally smitten by the place I'm in :p)

When it comes to choice of movies, extremities help. You can get away with an I-am-above-all-this-crap air when you claim your favourite movies to be Oscar winning dramas/Obscure foreign movies and extreme Tollywood potboilers that no sane person can take seriously. It's only when you choose too many romantic comedies and too many movies that star Shahrukh Khan (which does not include Swades) that your intellectuality is questioned.

This idea trickles down to books as well. No one is ever going to listen to me if I say that Chetan Bhagat is the most intellectual author in India, for if nothing else he raked in a huge margin of profit through his paperback series. I've always believed that self help is the best help, and since this guy who looks like a fat version of Rahul Gandhi has helped himself with the moolah pretty generously, he must be admired. Also, reading unfinished works of dead peeps help in giving one the intellectual aura. With the high level of intellectual development that many have very laboriously indulged in, one isn't even an intellectual enough if he has just read 1984 and not Orwell's Critical Essays (or something like that.)

However when it comes to indulging in alcohol with gusto, the peeps who want to be vague rather forcefully (read: pseudo-intellectuals) go high too quickly, and talk about it too much, and at some point of time talk about why they've downed a few gulps, and in more than one instance, I've heard of one excuse that have been to feel the pulse of Pink Floyd more effectively. (However, being a teetotaler, I shall humbly no more comment on other people's alcoholic sojourns. May the Gods bless them with a thirstier stomach).

There are much more things of course but this shall have to suffice as the State Electricity Board has decided to go for a power-cut spree right now. *UPS beeps*. :|


Tuesday, 3 August 2010

How to write depressing poetry:

I have recently discovered that it is very easy to write bad emo poetry. All one has to do is to throw in all the dark words in a sentence, use all possible difficult words in one's own dictionary. The more the piece esoteric and complex, the better the quality of dark poetries of neurotic teenagers. From my perspective, it goes something like this:

The creepy night wishes away my time
Desire burns, churning blood into coagulated blobs.
Screams of laughter pierces through the night sky.
The kites swoosh across the screen of dark heaven,
seeking prey amidst the desolate streets
that are strewn with the remnants of violent desire.
The final desire of a lone person,
As her last futile attempts at emo-poetry
kills the very soul of its readers.

Don't kill me. :| I am bored. :|

Saturday, 31 July 2010

On a serious note

It is at strange times and circumstances that certain nuances of life hits one hard, while the unassuming innocent soul is least likely to expect a profound thought.

We mortal beings are habituated with tolerating people. Boy, we even tolerate the ones who leaves a sense of why-didn't-i-die-before-i-had-to-confront-this-being. But then even they are an inevitable part of our lives. Without them we'd never learn to value the rest of the folks. It's strange to meet varied nature of people with a paradoxical like-mindedness. At times, specially when exams are over and you have idle thoughts to spare, you'd realise with a faint smile, the affection of a person who likes you for who you really are, and not how your appearance makes you to be. The friends who may not boast of an undying bond forever and after, but provide some really good memories for the future, some unadulterated fun for the present, and some simple things to learn about the tricks of life and times, (that does include a plethora of corny jokes and other forms of jargon). The friend whose quiet gestures from a far off city gives you the confidence that you often lack: a consequence of being in the presence of super-man like people, with super intelligence and super appeal, (minus the inside-out mode of sense of fashion, if you know what I mean). This quiet confidence nudges you along this world full of extraordinary people, making you realise that it is nowadays often so extraordinary to be just another ordinary person. Somehow the idea makes me rather content. I am amidst good people.

P.S: I had philosophy examination today. That might explain what seems inexplicable in this note.

Saturday, 26 June 2010

Essay on Powercut and very hot people.

The original post is here: http://unbound-forever.blogspot.com/2010/04/essay-on-powercuts-and-very-hot-people.html

This is a very serious essay on powercut. During powercuts the lights go off. Usually they happen when Kolkata Knight Riders are playing decently. Loser people call up other loser people during this time. Naughty naughty people enjoy powercuts, you know why. Though I think they can switch off the lights when they want to anyway. But I guess all the other folks in the house will laugh then. Us silly Indians. We always like to do naughty naughty things in the dark. Like taking money as bribes. We like to take them from under the table while we wear pure white dresses to show off our pristine purity. You see, it's the system that has made us like this. We really don't want to be so naughty.

Hopeless going- to- be- twenty girls play during powercuts. They take the candle and sing Noorie Noorie. It is really funny but unfortunately the people around these girls don't have a sense of humour. You see, we are serious people.

Babies cry when it is dark. It's another issue that they cry even when there is light.. Screaming babies aren't childplay to most gonna-be-twenties. They feel very scared and wish that a handsome boy was nearby. But since they are hopeless they don't have handsome boys nearby.

These hopeless girls also feel scared that their good grandparents up with God are going to visit them in the dark. They are usually scared of ghosts and so they call up other people and scare them too. Hopeless gonna-be-twenties are stupid. They don't know that ghosts don't waste time on boring people.

It is also the time when men with salivating tongues stare at poor lonely girl in the dark. These men like to stare. They also like to comment and whistle. They don't whistle very nicely. I can whistle better than them and may be I should teach them someday. My school has taught me that whatever I do, I should do well. May be they did not learn anything in school. I feel sorry for them. May be they should go to school. When I grow up I shall do a big charity show where I will gather money for poor men who can't behave.

The powercuts switch off the fan too. This is summer. We all feel very hot. Even our school principal looks hot in summer. For we all sweat and the temperature is very high. Pretty girls can't untie their hair to show how pretty she looks in summer. The sweat and oil makes the hair look like a rope. That isn't pretty. But as my father says, pretty girls look pretty all the time. And so they look pretty all the time.

It is very hot now too. The lights and fans have just regained consciousness so I am going to publish this post. For all those who've read beyond the first line, thank you. You have proven that you have immense patience. May you get married soon

Friday, 18 June 2010

Tiger tiger burning bright

They came, they growled, they conquered...(or I think they rather went back to sleep). Or at least that’s how tigers behaved in the zoos. Tigers aren’t really just an entertainment in the behind the cages. They mean a lot more to the nation.

They inspired the famous Tiger striped trousers that heroines of the nineties have worn with √©lan, yellow trousers clinging to areas that today’s lingo will categorise as plus size while they were at their famous jhatkas and the matkas. Paired with yellow shirt and high boots, they completed the picture of an odd amalgamation of western casual culture and a typical sense of Over The Top (OTT) tendencies in tinsel town fashion. Hero in red jacket, wavy hair and macho sun-glasses would complete the picture. Without tigers, most cars in India would have had a vacant look. I mean, most people familiar with Indian roads is bound to see a car that ha a rather ferocious Big Cat perched at its rear, sitting in a regally formidable position. They usually have a scowl on their faces instead of a look of regal growls that are so famous in the back of Lorries and public buses. Their ferocious growling expression is usually accompanied by the word ‘danger’ in various innovative spellings and a couple of flags of the nation proudly proclaiming how great India is.

These beasts are so revered in our country that anything or anyone that does the country proud in a rather ferocious don’t-mess-with-me kind of a way gets the tiger tag. And thus Sharmila Tagore has a husband whom the nation fondly calls Tiger. Talking of the celebrity world, to many people, Rahul Roy is famous as the actor who metamorphosed into a tiger by night, prowling here and there (for some reason that I forgot.). Amitabh Bachchan’s character in the movie Hum was called Tiger. However tacky the name sounded, it kind of suited his character of macho guy working for local goonda and yet being the saviour of his brothers and finally the movie, beat up all the baddies at one go. I also wonder how Shehnaz Hussain would have survived for so long if she didn’t try to imitate the looks of a tiger, with all the lion kind of a head thrown in to add more glamour if that was ever possible. She would have shrivelled to something not so blatantly eye- catching, if you know what I mean. But now every person who has seen her once will probably remember her for the rest of his life, even if he has no clue about her products.

SO, to think of it, tigers are associated with the country more deeply than scientific datas will ever be able to prove. It is a different issue that it has inspired several of the nation’s fashion faux pas of yesteryears. But the fact remains that it is intertwined with the nation’s life. Simply put, saving them would do good, because their loss shall be deeply felt by many.

Monday, 17 May 2010

On being twenty

And so God took six days to create everything that he had to create. On the seventh day he was very peaceful. He sat with a good ol' bottle of beer at the beach and patted his belly for all the good job that he did. millions of years later as he still was working on his muse called creating 'people' particularly for this country which he definitely likes to fill with a lot of that kind, he had some trash. As a form of divine dustbin he created me. And I survive as the last of its kind.

I shall turn 20 tomorrow and with divine blessings I shall carry with me to my next year some obnoxious bouts of fever. Hail Birthday spirit.

I shall be losing my teenagehood or whatever that is, though I still look like I can pass off as a pre- adolescent whiny kid. From tomorrow onwards I shall officially lose my right to throw tantrums that can be simply passed off with a remark 'it's her age'. I am now officially supposed to act grown-up like, answer politely to questions like 'why are you so thin' and 'why do you study so much' instead of answering with some badly construed sarcasm. Anyway sarcasm doesn't pay off anymore. Nowadays when I reply to these questions by saying that I am dieting/because I wan't to be the Ultimate Geek, people actually take me seriously.

Now that I am getting out of the so called formative ages, I am suposed to take stuff around the world very seriously. If I claim that the greatest philosophers on earth have been P. G. Wodehouse, Jerome K. Jerome, Calvin and Hobbes and Chandler Muriel Bing, then I shall have to be prepared for the divine kick in the posterior for committing a sin by omitting Marx and the likes. I shall have to hide my optimism in almost everything with a cynical realism about the world where I comment on almost everything with a i-know-about-this nod and continue with a how-the-world-is-changing kind of a sigh. And yeah the vague look to almost all questions thrown at me willl definitely have to go.

And so I shall enter a new decade of my life. And I shall survive.

P.S: None of these views on changing myself are actually going to be true. I shall bother about it when I am 90 and philosophical.

This has been dedicated to Chandrayee, Nibedita, Somrwita, Shreya, Tina and Sayantani. Without you, cribbing wouldn't have been so fun.

Thursday, 6 May 2010

My Legendary Idleness.

It is ironical that when I check the juvenile list that I made when I was not yet 18, as to what i should do when I gain the official adulthood, little did I realise that almost all of those targets were left incomplete even two years after I did become 18. I lack a sense of wildness that I would have found rather funny. I mean, what's the wildest thing I have ever done? probably walk in the stadium at 4 am in the morning. But then that's what old men do who have with them the company of arthiritis and gout. And boy I don't even have that.

Probably the desire to do something weird springs up from extreme boredom regarding what one already does, or does not. I sleep so much that it has been a long time since I saw what morning looked like. I woke up today at 5 only because I had to and I intend to compensate that by sleeping the next twelve hours to glory.

My sense of boredom is unique in the sense that it makes the world around me timeless, like those age old classic movies. I can sit with it for hours and little do I realise when morning turns into dusk. It is so exquisitely beautiful that I can weave it's magic even in my writing, propagating and making others understand the very essence of boredom as they read. Enjoy dear folks.

Wednesday, 28 April 2010

Yet another cynical observation

The beauty of unrequitted love lies in the fact that there remains hope. The irony lies in the fact that once the love is 'achieved', hope is dampened, and love fizzles out without much grace.


Most of the popular love stories are tragic. Or else they 'happily end' when cute boy finally gets his pretty lass. Probably they allude to the idea that here's where happiness ends, and hence a happy ending. For all the brawls and irritation that follows makes not a rosy picture. The love does not grow, only takes a giant plunge rather disgracefully and ends with a irritating hangover. I have this feeling that Devdas would never have been so drunkenly in love had he got his Paro. Probably he would have been deliriously joyous at first, pride pumped up to his neck or something. But he wouldn't have been screeching the name of his lady love all the time perhaps. (Just a thought. All the novel lovers need not prepare to strangle me to death if you think otherwise.)

And so love is achieved, like some chewing gum a kid hankers for, to be spitted out with much obnoxious residue.

Thankfully, there are exceptions in plenty, and even my cynicism can't dampen the prospects of some good ol' love stories. :D

Saturday, 10 April 2010

Essay on Powercuts and very hot people.

This is a very serious essay on powercut. During powercuts the lights go off. Usually they happen when Kolkata Knight Riders are playing decently. All the loser people call up other loser people during this time. Naughty naughty people enjoy powercuts, you know why. Though I think they can switch off the lights when they want to anyway. But I guess all the other folks in the house will laugh then. Us silly Indians. We always like to do naughty naughty things in the dark. Like taking money as bribes. We like to take them from under the table while we wear pure white dresses to show off our pristine purity. You see, it's the system that has made us like this. We really don't wantb to be so naughty.

Hopeless going- to- be- twenty girls play during powercuts. They take the candle and sing Noorie Noorie. It is really funny but unfortunately the people around these girls don't have a sense of humour. You see, we are serious people.

Babies cry when it is dark. It's another issue that they cry even when there is light, or bright light. The screams of these toddlers aren't childplay to most gonna-be-twenties. They feel very very scared and wish that a handsome boy was nearby. But since they are hopeless they don't have handsome boys nearby.

These hopeless girls also feel scared that their good grandparents up with God are going to visit them when it is dark. They are usually scared and thinks ghosts are going to come, and so they call up other people and scare them too. Hopeless gonna-be-twenties are stupid. They don't know that ghosts don't waste time on boring people.

It is also the time when men with salivating tongues stare at poor lonely girl in the dark. These men like to stare. They also like to comment and whistle. They don't whistle very nicely. I can whistle better than them and may be I should teach them someday. My school has taught me that whatever I do, I should do well. May be they did not learn anything in school. Poor men. I feel sorry for them. May be they should go to school. When I grow up I shall do a big big charity show where I will gather money for poor men who can't behave.

The powercuts switch off the fan too. This is summer. We all feel very very hot. Even our school principal looks hot in summer. For we all sweat and the temperature is very very high. Pretty girls can't untie their hair to show how pretty she looks in summer. The sweat and oil makes the hair look like a rope. That isn't pretty. But as my father says, pretty girls look pretty all the time. And so they look pretty all the time.

it is very hot now too. The lights and fans have just regained consciousness so I am going to publish this post. For all those who've read beyong the first two lines, Thank you. You have successfully proven that you have immense patience. May you get married soon.

Sunday, 21 March 2010

I've got exams coming up. hence a post.

Humans are social beings. So for the utopian cause of social welfare, we say things we really don’t mean. Such has been the case for me in recent times. Often what I say, isn’t really what I mean to say. Here are some of the horrid examples:


Fellow cruel social animal: You are so thin.
Me: I know (You opened my eyes sweetheart. I have those funny mirrors at home that make the thin look fat and… Oh look at those adipose on you)


Dentist: you’re braces will have to be kept for a longer time.
Me: No problem. (Without the braces I was the ugliest. With them I am uglier. Without them I shall be plain ugly. No problem. With them or without them I shall remain in some state of ugliness anyway)


Certain fellow classmates: You always study.
Me: I study adequately; I surmise (And if you think not studying is cool, go get a dip into an ice berg.)


To- be- Intellectuals: (Looking at a hot girl) “Karl Marx has said…”
Me: *Vague look*. (If you want to be an intellectual, let’s start with the basics sweetheart. Cut the biogas emitted from your system. In brief, cut the crap, save mankind. Being an intellectual does not imply that you’ll have to flaunt your intellectuality on every mundane occasion. That insults the true intellectuals fellows out there ruling the world. Digest THAT.)


As for many other questions that are thrown at me, the answers in my mind are definitely censored stuff. By the way this does not imply that I don’t fall prey to asking these questions to others myself. :D


P.S: If this has hurt the sentiments of certain fellow beings, let me tell you that I did not intend to, and I can't help if you are as touchy as me :| go, enjoy being lousy.

Monday, 22 February 2010

Twisted Logic. (Ignore post)

Thomas Robert Malthus had said that often natural calamity strikes a blow upon mankind to level population with the food of the world. Thus if there is one apple pie that can at most be shared amongst five fellows, and there are 10 beings, the remaining five may be struck by some natural calamity to bring down the number of people to five. If we broaden the spectrum, homicides of fellow human citizen fall into the same category of calamity, human induced. So with every premature death, the population balance is being sought to level.

If there is food for twenty. And there are forty people; Darwinian Theory of survival of the fittest comes to the rescue. The fittest gets the food. The fittest implies the one with an advantageous position or the one who is cunning. And thus we get the haves and the have nots, when population is not equal to the amount of resources in the world. Justice apparently denied as the lord calls for equality for his people, the have nots become vengeful. And thus we have cases of homicide. Often the victims are not victims of any personal vendetta. They are the victims of the privileges that some people get and some people are denied. To put it in a nutshell, they fall under the category of victims of inequality in the society. Like the terrorists’ or extremists’ victims. Erasing inequality from the world is a tough job. Because if you create economic and political equality, (which is very difficult because we folks are greedy and egoistic and hence want to get as much as we can, that may be more than what we need) you still remain with the inequality of the minds and personal preferences. And the only solution to that perhaps is to create clones of only one mind. But that would imply killing off humanity itself, which isn’t beneficial for the development of resources. Thus through homicides, mass or otherwise, one can not level people with resources available, which is perhaps the ultimate aim of the sub conscious. And thus, even without taking into consideration high ideals, killing people is meaningless and unproductive in the long run.


Enough said. It's amazing what a person can do to kill her boredom. And I am still bored. If not even more. :|

Monday, 15 February 2010

on life and death

We all like to survive basically. Even though we start wailing right from the moment we are born. But it’s not really as drab as that. Kindergartens are fine except for the first few days. You learn to tie your shoes, go to the loo that’s not in your home, learn to share tiffin and learn to detest the bread and banana combination that most Indian parents think is the best.

Then we learn to grow up. We learn to enjoy cribbing about our frustration. Gives us some self- importance. We learn to enjoy the nuances of learning a new life that has got an exciting mix of adulthood and innocence. we leave school as newly branded adults, willing to conquer our whims and fancies. We cherish our outings with friends, the mundane mumbo-jumbo talks usually garnished with silly jokes that the world will definitely not find humorous. We hold onto our dreams strongly, having a strong conviction that we’ll make them come true someday. And then one fine morning we just might die. To live life on one’s own terms we need time. But that might not happen. Life is as simple as that.


The terrorist attacks all over have bothered me. I am not that clear minded or idealistic to properly and charismatically explain that I want them to be stopped for the sake of humanity or world peace. I want them to stop for a selfish reason. They affect and scare me. And I don’t like this feeling.

Sunday, 14 February 2010

Essay on Valentine's Day

Today is St. Valentine’s happy birthday. Happy Birthday saint. It was a month ago. But for us it is today. I don’t know why. Today little little boys and girls go around with other little little boys and girls. They hold hands, wear pink and giggle. They also buy a lot from their pocket money. They usually like pink teddy bears. Today they do naughty naughty things. And the moral police have fun too, even if they don’t do naughty naughty things. The world today looks beautiful, like a big pink cake. Today the shops have hearts. The balloon ones that go with a bang when pricked. Just a week before this auspicious day many queue up to get their love of their lives. They prepare a list ad whoever comes off fast, they get it. It is very simple. Like shopping. And the shopped product comes in a pretty baggage too. All red and pink. And they hold their hearts. The balloon ones that go with a bang when pricked. The greeting cards’ market comes up with many many cards for this special occasion. They have heart chocolates that are so delicious. Everyone does not buy them. They get them as gifts from their lovers who spend a lot of money. We all have big hearts today. The balloon ones that go bang when pricked.

Wednesday, 10 February 2010

Them Nobel Fellas


(I had written this ages ago. Found it lying idle and posted it thus. :| )


The beloved pet dogs of every house begins to play hide and seek, with more of the hide part underneath the bed, as the rich nooks and corners of the country light (and sound) up in expensive fireworks. The news, for which we were waiting ever since independence, behaving like a scorned lover ever since Gandhi was given a miss and only simmering a bit when Mother Teresa received the prize, has finally come. The Norwegian Nobel Committee has finally decided to give the Nobel Peace Prize collectively to some Indian celebrities. I browsed through the list through my tear bedimmed eyes. With patriotism brimming, I saluted the recipients. They were:

Rabri Devi: Awarded the Nobel Peace Prize along with the rest for maximum development in Bihar, for the first work in total development is deconstruction of what existed, to be built anew, and she has done the part of deconstruction mighty well. Award given also for having the stamina to be the power-wife in a male dominated society. Early 2009 data suggests that she is the proud owner of 60 holy cows and 36 calves (by now they may have proliferated their brood) and thus is a symbol of hope to all the farmers of India- join politics and there’s no more the need for gulping all the pesticides. Her indefatigable spirit is marked by her continuation of whatever she does and did even though the mean citizens and judiciary all conspired against her and filed corruption charges. But she rose from the ashes during each low and proved her might by continuing to be exactly as she was. She not only gives hope to the farmers but is a great source of impetus for people who do not find mere embezzlement of money a corrupt deed. All hail.

Rakhi Sawant: Given the Noble Peace Prize for being able to retain the traditional Indian culture amidst this kali age of social mayhem, thus giving hope to people who fear that doomsday of tradition has arrived. She has got engaged in the traditional form of Swayamvar and got pretty pretty men to woo her. This also is a victory of feminism or female chauvinism or whatever it is called. She is also the ‘Bharatiya Nari’ who is so committed to her social work that for the sake of public exposure, she is on television 24*7. Oh dear, the pain she takes to tame us ruthless destroyers of social norms. She’s the mother goddess who shall save the straying Indians and place them back on the traditional bandwagon. Bless her holy pure heart. A peace prize has been announced for her, which shall be telecast along with her every time she’s on screen. That will give an extra fillip to the unruly Indian public so that they behave more traditionally from the next time.

Mayavati: Women empowerment personified, she has brought back the ancient culture of creating portraits and statues for self aggrandisement. Her workmanship spirit is marked by the presence of a small bag being held by her in every statue. She gives more importance to ideological empowerment than mere economic progress and has thus spent around Rs 2000 crore to built statues of the mighty lady herself, and a few others to uplift the spirit of the downtrodden. Like Rabri Devi she has given hope to many that behind every dark cloud there is a silver lining, which may incidentally be Indian politics. The statues and gardens 400 years later shall become what Taj Mahal has become to us. Many cynics criticise her but one must not forget that she has given hope, apart from the fact that she has created a few more parks for the lovers, a few more statues for the crows to whitewash away to glory and a few more monuments that our descendants shall look up to in amazement, wondering what was going on.

Varun Gandhi: he managed to go the ground breaking way. Such vehement claims of protecting one’s people hardly come by. He was the self-proclaimed messiah of the Pilibhit people. Proving to be an all time macho man, he claimed to slice off all hands that would rise against his people, true Rajnikanth style. He is the great hero, the angry young man who can only be mellowed by Ma. Peace prize goes to him for proclaiming to protect his people from all handy evil, as well as for giving hope, with all his aggression, that ‘yes he can’ achieve what he has proclaimed.

Rajnikanth: It’s a man! It’s a superhero! No, it’s Rajnikanth! To the man who can beat a thousand villains blue with just a single wink, he isn’t merely the macho man. He’s almost superhuman. Rajnikanth does not have a fanfare. He is a religion and his fans are the worshippers. His golden hair in the movie Shivaji might have been one of the most absurd fashion faux pas in filmy history, but then, whatever he touches becomes a cult, even if it’s a blonde wig. Rajnikanth religion transcends class division. Both the haves and the have nots worship him with equal fervour. To them, he is the Absolute, his dialogues their gospel. He had definitely deserved a Nobel for his effortless triumph at class assimilation, and he got it.

Palaniappan Chidambaram: Nobel Prize given strictly for good reflex action and presence of mind. As the Great Boot of Jarnail Singh was being passionately hurled towards him with Indian precision, he smiled. He dodged his head in a calm manner like when a person grooves to good music, while the boot passed like a lost comet. And he smiled. As Jarnail Singh’s fierce eyes were attempting to pierce him, he smiled. As the reporter was being taken out of the room, he asked people to hand him gently, and he smiled. Also, Obama smiles and he got the Award. So P. Chidambaram has been given the award too. Probably also given for having one of the least corrupt images in desi politics.

Uma Bharti: Her conviction towards doing what she aims at is commendable. Like Obama has immortalised the words ‘yes we can’, similarly her ‘ek dhakka aur do’ (give it one more push) won the hearts of hundreds of workers who gleefully pulled down the Babri Masjid, and with it went down religious syncretism, security and a big chunk of beautifully carved history. But then who cares about that. The mighty woman is known for her fiery antics in parliament to give more ‘dhakka’ for the support of her causes. Ah! Where would one find such energy, spirit and such immense lack of lethargy amidst the pantheon of the holy Indian politicians? She gets the Nobel Peace Prize for hope- for the hope that she can retire in peace, satisfied with an award, without making further hullabaloo with her Babri Masjid stunt and the likes. A percentage of the prize may be shared with other bigger leaders Who Must Not Be Named, who were stupid enough to demolish something that was integral to India.

Amar Singh: Prize for being the First friend to the First Family of Bollywood. His dedication towards his friends makes him take painstaking efforts to tolerate all the award functions of the Filmy parivaar. He is the bridge between the real and the reel world and is the ideal exemplar of the ideal friend. Amitabh Bachchan is one lucky man. And now he has unleashed a greater zeal for filmy stuff, showing his acting skills in movies and being bereft of his party folks for good.

Himesh Reshammiya: The proverbial last but not the least; He gets the Nobel for discovering other activities of the nose that we folks of the world were blissfully unaware of. The only works of the nose other than smelling, to us ignorant lay people, were nose digging (which by the way is a subtle art very few could master, or appreciate in public), nose blowing (with lots of sound, and then using the same kerchief for more than a day till every cursed neighbour is compelled to have the same disease), snoring and being nosey for the sake of following the principle of know thy neighbour. But this man could make The Nose sing. Alright, so some people can blow their nose rather tunefully but he actually can make full songs out of it. How did he do it? It’s complicated. Since discovering the nose does not fall under any proper category, he has been placated with a Peace Prize.

And so I come to the end of the list, Kudos to the Audacity of Hope.

Tuesday, 2 February 2010

Life, Travel and the Race.

Darwin’s (or Herbert Spencer’s) term ‘survival of the fittest' alludes to a philosophy that transcends generations. This isn’t any essay on Darwinian Theory but something more boring. One has to sweat it out in every sphere of life. Like for example, I was joyfully concentrating on this pretty chick on a bus, listen to a groovy song to fit my rather promiscuous mood, when this pretty pretty boy caught her attention. And lo behold she was hooked onto him. Gender bias I say. Even the girls are hooked onto the boys. In Orkut lingo, ‘no donuts’ for women empowerment.

And so the Fittest wins by rummaging through the survival strategies. As I hop on to the bus after college to spare me the extra pennies that are downright pinched through my pocket if I take an auto rickshaw, I have to do this impromptu nagin dance jig to slither into the maize of sweaty fellow passengers. I stand on the door of the bus, on the threshold of life and death, praying to the God whom I pray to when I am in an extremely strategic position, muttering bribes so that the not-so-benign Almighty spare me the horror of being made into a newspaper headline “Thin girl squeezed to death. Mamata Banerjee blames the CPM, crying conspiracy” or something like that. As I enter the bus finally, Rajnikanth attitude style, I am made to do obscure yogic postures that even Vatsayana and Co. couldn’t dream of, let alone write. Thanks to my extreme lack of volume I eventually squeeze out a seat between two people. Gosh, the things one has to do to do a simple thing as sitting.

And then in the same bus, one might chance upon two fellow women, keenly interested in their (and others’) hyper-motherhood, and their conversations that have a strong and sinister undertone of baby competition. So if Momma in Red Sari says her litter could walk at the age of 1 year, the Momma in Blue attempts to shut her up by citing examples of her little kid’s running, Usain Bolt style. I distinctly remember one such victim of Hyper-Parenting-Syndrome who insisted that her class three kid could spell P for pneumonia when other kids could only blurt A for apple. And so the kids of these are made to run in the race and sweat it like a man, even though the blighted creatures don’t even know how to adjust their own nappies. And since then they fight it out. Man to man and woman to woman. (Man to woman: they don’t usually fight…ahem). They fight it out on the field of education, love life and marriage, divorces and old age, and let’s face it. Even death.

The need for me to hop out of the bus takes a lot of meditation and planning. I see the front door and the back door. Wherever the coast is clear, I try to manoeuvre myself to that side. I have this feeling of struggling against the whole world as I find myself trying to wriggle out of the people hanging from the bus handles. I do my famous obscure yogic postures. Do the slithering nagin dance. And finally I hop out of it. And peace. This reminds me. in the crematoriums, there is usually a big line for the resting-in-peace fellows. The one who could ‘come first’ in the ‘dying examination’ goes in first. Theologically speaking, probably he gets a faster Nirvana. And so the rat race continues. In life as in death.

Sunday, 31 January 2010

I proclaim thee nerd and geek

It’s one of those mornings when I wake up with a pathetic hangover. I drag myself out from the bed with the blanket trailing behind me like some abnormally weird Cinderella robe. The few strands of hair that remains on my head are attempting an unkempt look. But then a proper unkempt look requires a lot of hair for them to get involved with each other. So I have been saved. My eyes look groggy, can do with a lot of sleep. The effects of a pathetic hangover from a boring dinner it seems.

I sit straight, the bed calling me like a desperate lover. I ask myself the highly philosophical and extremely pertinent question, the answer to which should give me the so called key to success; the effect that guide books of similar names and innovative spellings have when you intend to mug up for a hundred marks on the eleventh hour or later. And then realisation dawns upon me. it brings me the rare hues on my cheeks and the sparkles in my eyes even without my contact lenses. It is intoxicating. Like some virulent shot given through my veins that make me plunge back to life from the dead. Studies. Yes, my friends. Gape at me with disgust as much as you want to. I don’t care. I have found the passion in my life. I enjoy studying. Though it takes a lot of free kicks in the posterior to actually make me sit to do so, but once when I am at it, boy, I am at it. I can sit in libraries for hours and I can bunk classes in the process, and it’s not because the librarians are handsome. (They are not and they happen to be my father’s colleague anyway. Rotten luck.) It’s not that my pedagogic exhibitions have been exemplary. But the fact remains that my passion lies in mugging up, and even understanding some of them. Chide me all of you, if you will. But here I proclaim: I like to study. And no amount of mockery shall deter me from doing so. :|

Friday, 8 January 2010

Lovestruck Romeo Part II (Clue: can't think of a title :|)

Every soul has bit the dust some time or the other. Losing the fluttering heart is one of the easiest things to do, with all the lesson plans elaborately chalked out in so many of the movies. And oh boy, the stringent repercussions are all the more astonishing. I tell you, love and infatuations can make the most stoic person go all weak and wobbly in the knees. With cupid declaring arrow war on many of my friends, I’ve had the chance of some keen scientific observation.

There starts to grow this intense desire to look more decent than before. (Alright I agree that we girls might always have this desire, but then no harm in assigning a cause to it for some people.) The very sight of slightly sentimental movies (barring Jayaprada- Jeetendra ones) render ultimate tear jerking sessions. Sentimental novels become the new Bible, pages often dripping wet by the virtue of human Niagra Falls. Certain songs trigger similar neurotic behaviour. Network failure on behalf of the hapless phone becomes equivalent to some excessively serious embargo brought upon on mankind by Evil Technology and heartless service providers. All of a sudden even the most disastrously sane chick learns a trick or two of acting ultra-girly, while the man’s macho quotient rises real high to a superman like protective manner. Obviously everyone does not have the macho physique but who cares, to those who are blinded by cupid’s aim; every fiery glance towards prospective competitors is like some deadly amreekan missile. And no sane person will ever be able to explain to them that only Rajnikanth can get away with this and how. Every hapless soul of the opposite gender trying to check the object of one’s fascination is, privately in the minds, skilfully loaded with dynamites and blown off into the thin air. Of course such an idea is never expressed in public, where one is the cool dude with at least some iota of attitude.

And then a time may come when the fun of it is lost. Sunsets are no more glorious, riverside never so fresh. And then…. It’s simple. One gets a new object of affection (or for boring souls: rejuvenates the old) :D and thus the romantic and hilarious cycle continues. :P

P.S: Ignore me for the jargon. Got loads of time at home and obviously have got nothing to do. :|

Thursday, 7 January 2010

Lovestruck Romeo

I am to talk about globalisation and the futility of lack of proper negotiations. I think things were pretty decent before. The intellectually inclined Bong would settle for the prestigious Calcutta University tag amidst intellectual talks over a cup of coffee house’s coffee. Then they’d settle for a good old’ job in the city and all that. But now more folks go out of the city to study, and here comes the negotiating skills at play.

If one goes away to a different city leaving his (or her) girl behind (I imply the prized female cow… err… friend; and not daughter. And I vehemently dislike the term girlfraaand for some vague reason.), the bloke will happen to be lightly screwed once he is in the new city. No matter how much the chicks of the new city are famous for their oomph factor; the mind is bound by the fetters of the girl you left behind. This kind of emotional sentiment piled onto the mind by the human psyche is seriously dangerous for the well being of the hapless folk. I mean, you are thrown into the gaga land where chicks are of the more superior kind and you simply do nothing about it.

Phone calls are another subtle prick in the already prickled posterior. What was otherwise glorious days of gaping into the eye of the girl without flinching an eyelid like the Bollywood heroes, is reduced to a few minutes of blabbers over the phone, along with a strong conscience barging in. it reminding one of the massive whole the phone bill is about to create. It then shifts to the internet and by that time, the heart of the lovelorn fellow is too full with grief.: p

And no matter how much filmi one is, it is strictly not possible to communication via pigeon network. Firstly, if a letter sent with the pigeon to an unknown land (unknown for the pigeon that is) the pigeon might get lost. And snail mails are better options. And what else is the hapless pigeon going to do? Whitewash for the sake of expressing the master’s feelings? Nay, Barjatya’s idea is not realistic to be precise.

And thus is the disheartening condition of the lovestruck Romeo marooned in an unknown land. Sustaining this is a different issue :P