Wednesday, 12 December 2012


If months like these pass like weeks, life will be over in a jiffy. And the idea of life is too confusing. I wish it was limited to the singular, but then we all are tiny specks in the universe, connected to each other in some obscure way which is too infinite for logic to properly explain. Coming back to where I have been for the last twenty two years, after a tiny stint of a few months elsewhere, makes me feel like I have come back to meet parts of my many lives that I have left in little corners of unknown streets, tiny memories stored in boxes full of wrappers and bus tickets, old school stockings and carols reminding of the Christmas pasts. And the constant feeling that words and emotions are often too inadequate to for the hearts bursting out with undefinable laughter, joys, sorrows, dreams and reminiscences. It sometimes seem like I talk like someone who's life has been stored in memories, and the future is only about recalling them. However, I am as expectant of the future as any eager mind is. But wherever I am, I wish to come back at times to collect my bits of lives stored and guarded in the discreet alleys of my city.

Sunday, 7 October 2012

The night sky makes one realise the insignificance of being in the cosmic meanings of the universe that shall never be defined. The stars that are dead still shine, like happy memories of childhood. Across the universe, the planes rush in one after the other to the airport that is near the roof I stand gazing at the cosmos, feeling the importance of my own insignificance.

As the windows of the low planes shine bright, a gush of life falls on to the larger-than-life unending sky. Up there in the sky are souls like mine, anticipating a quick landing after a long day, homecoming, and a quick night's sleep which cannot differentiate between a grown up and a child. On a different layer of the universe, a plane slowly trudges along, from a distant corner of the world, and it is just a speck; like the dying star. As the clouds ocassionally engulf its fire-fly like lights, I almost feel that the universe has consumed it, taken it to where it belongs while we are kept wondering what the other side of the picture is like, our dreams limited by the high walls of logic. 

 May be we are like the distant dying stars. Shining on, where the mad dreams die to give way to reason.

Tuesday, 28 August 2012

Maturity is all about accepting that life is going to hurl dollops of boredom at you, and you've just got to sit back and watch as it happens to you. I am not quite fond of the existentialist chaps whom I don't understand but I suppose I at times get why they were so cranky about life. Too much of maturity does that to you.

But of course, the happy-and-peaceful romantic comedies of the world are just going to make you believe that what is happening is funny, and in the long run you are going to spend your life crankily-happily-ever-after with the chick of your dreams, or something similarly fairytalish.

This is what I believed for a long time, till education happened to enter my mind like some obnoxiously stingy smell that you just can't avoid on the road even if you put your handkerchief in front of your nose like you are kidnapping your own self. With age comes excessive questions getting thrown at you about life and other profound nuisances. I ocassionally wish to retort that I can't think so much as I am going to die someday anyway. Might as well be peaceful in the meantime. Education and maturity nexus will question you as to what you want to be and become, whether a snooty academician who throws brillianty obscure post-modernist discourses on the dining table, or someone who works for a living, and then utilising the money to live life one's own way. It will be a bit sad if I find myself being defined and redefined by the small number of people I know, on the basis of my education or the lack of it.

Sometimes I wish to be more, or less, than a mere definition of educational degrees and professional jargons. Sometimes I guess one would like to stick to the childhood fairytale dreams that might give one a small life, but a valuable one, to me and to people I appreciate. But if scholastic intellectual brouhahas crept into everyday life, in every mundane experiences, then I suppose much of this world will remain unappreciated.

Sunday, 26 August 2012

Minor national park.

The idea of staying away from home began late in my life. Bred within the grand comforts of familiarity where even the hostile dogs on the roads are familiar enemies, a completely new city entail much excitement. So my appreciation for all the hardhips of life that hostel life entails is of much intensity. Along with the sense of liberation that you might feel, where several minutes in a day give you the whoopie feeling, the levels of toleration that one is born with is indeed increased manifold, up to a point when a rat is literally doing bungee jumping above your head, you can relax and continue with your task and let the fellow be. I've been alloted a hostel that's supposed to be the oldest in my campus. this entails families of rats that have been raised from generation to generations, and therefore have expertise of sniffing their ways into food like a trained hound. it also entails mosquito repellant resistant mosquitoes, some humble termites that recently made a friend of mine look like he's had the pox all over again and some darned dogs that breed like bunnies and proliferate the entire Earth in order to replace human race, someday very soon. And I am not alone. The jungle here is appealing. There's a joke that if one sees a nilgai in the first week of being in the campus, one is supposed to complete her PhD from here. In all fairness, I wish to run away. But to top it all, I have seen five such so called lucky charms, often in pairs which implies many more unborn nilgais in the making. Strange are the charms of luck. Then there are cats who stare at you, and you can stare back too. It's a game of who bats one's eyelids first. But cats are fine. My balcony also sees - what one of my friends searched in the internet to find out that its called a civet- stealthily climb up. We had a mutual moment of passion where we stared into each others' eyes while it dangled its tail. Then I silently went back, brought a can of baygon and sprayed in all my glory. My revenge was taken, and my uninvited guest has so far decided to run away for good. South Delhi, I conclude, has a lot of animals, human forms included. But indeed, it's fun. the days end when you wish to, the dead of the night is filled with wide-awake people on the roads, and libraries that are stacked with all sorts of books, YET kind enough to let us humble mortals access Facebook to spy on people's life like good old times when we had only studies to do, and some entertainment and the rest, that were taken for granted thanks to the odd blessings like parents, familiarity and neighbourhood. Life away from home is supposedly odd. It's everyone's life away from home out here, some more and some less. But, well, with a good friend or two, it's all good after all.

Friday, 27 July 2012

On leaving/arriving elsewhere

Much like others I thought of writing a sentimental note on leaving the city for a couple of years. Then the cliched saying that the home is where the heart is reminded me of the diagram of the heart which we used to draw in school, that shattered the concept of heart much popularised by yash Chopra movies. The idea of the auricles and the ventricles and all that complications spoilt the whole romanticism that I was intent on outpouring, Nirupa Roy style, on this writing of mine. Anyway, I guess you've got the hang of it and wish to kill me now.

 Since I can remember bits and pieces of my life, the city has never let me be alone. I've found familiarity in the air as I trudged along the city in trams and buses, ferries and boats and trains. I've often felt the confidence that if I ever felt alone, the riverside would be there to make me feel that everything's fine after all. As I'll leave, I won't probably go with too heavy a heart. I'm looking forward with much positive gusto. But I'll probably be leaving with some tinges of a confused soul, a little less dreamy about things I were confident about in the past, and strange nostalgia about places that made some moments of my life breathtakingly beautiful.

Thursday, 12 July 2012


As great minds sat to rhyme out tales 
They wondered how they will be read:
Will they be like all the poets famed 
Or the ones that the readers dread. 

My heart too yearns for a little praise 
For which I sometimes selfishly write. 
But Alas, that requires a great flair, 
Which I lack, I must surmise. 

So while the clock ticks away to eve 
And boredom has gripped my senses, 
I am sure to keep my readers peeved, 
As in poetry doesn't lie my talents. 

An uncalled for holiday had left me intensely bored. Hence. :|

Saturday, 7 July 2012

Overrating and the importance of the mundane

The uniqueness of love is overrated. Call me a sceptic which I vehemently shall say I am not, but the social pressure of the search for uniqueness of love can be a tad bit annoying. Love is the most common feeling that hormones induce, that comes with large doses of hatred, jealousy and other strong admixtures that people fear giving a name to, which would thereby legitimise their existences. It sustains out of habit, like the side of the bed one is fond of, or the perfect sandwiches that one can call their favourites. They are all brilliant feelings no doubt, with each sandwich, as time passes, one will become comfortable and familiar with it, though each day it's taste will not bowl you over to death like love at first sight. But familiarity breeds fondness.

 Of course, the mind looks for greener pastures that proverbially always remains on the other side which you can see but never prance upon with equally glorious feelings. I mean, the sight of the mud, the roots and the discarded chocolate wrappers stuck between one or two dead grasses do not make the best of pictures, if you know what I mean. So, while you know that the love in hand is way more boring than hunting for the two coyly tempting from the bush, you might also deduce that when the bush twit is perched upon your forehand, after a day or two it will sing in the same boring tune.

Seven billion people, and eternally hormonal enthusiasm do make the world terribly dense with people. So, there are probably millions of perfect persons out there that the cosmos decided to not meet with you because of the lack of common place in the time space continuum. So the picture ain't that romantic comedy like all the time though with apt perception you can turn your life into one, at least a mere comedy if not a romantic one. There's not much uniqueness in reality. It's charm lies in it being common, mundane and everyday. It's all in the perception, I suppose. And I guess, the sooner we learn to appreciate commonness that has in it the ocassional streaks of uniqueness of our perceptions, the closer towards peace we shall be.

Tuesday, 19 June 2012


I learn in books what have been. There has been wars. There has been love, and a sea of things in between. But then there are things that do not happen. I wonder where we read about those. The lives that could have been. The famous men who could have ended in the grave before they wrote their masterpieces. The music that could have not been composed because of the absence of a piano. The lives that couldn't have changed because of the absense of the lives of others. The birth that didn't happen. The death that died young.

 We live multiple lives, clearly grouped into two, but sometimes fuzzy in between. The lives we live, and the lives of the mind.

 But perhaps the life of the mind is a farce. One wonders what will happen, and what could have happened. But in the end, that life is nothing. Because that life does not exist, except as an intangible corner, of the intangible mind.

Sunday, 10 June 2012

Dancing bears, moved stars and metaphors.

Language is like a cracked kettle on which we beat out tunes for bears to dance to, while all the time we long to move the stars to pity'. - Gustave Flaubert

I don't like to write with quotes. I feel that it is a sad publicity of knowledge, as well as an inadequacy of the self that has to borrow, to express. But sometimes, some are worth borrowing. Sometimes, in defence of myself I shall say, it is absolutely fine to admit one's own shortcomings. (I have plenty of those, but admitting to them is not one of my strong points).

 Too much education makes us rely on words more than anything else. Sometimes, a polished, poetic sentence of love is deemed higher than a crude, animate expression of affection. But then, is poetry only the trickery of words, or is it also elsewhere, and everywhere? Sometimes, it seems, that words are merely the tools that expressions use, when it's bursting out to be expressed. It is inadequate. But words are all that we have equipped ourselves with.

 There are times when one feels that one has not expressed oneself as ardently as one would have wished to. To burst out with passion every moment, is madness, they'd say. With unbridled scope of expressing love, happiness, comes unbridled scope of expressions of hatred. And to stifle the evil, one sometimes has to stifle the good as well. Like, the Bible said, young Jesus gave up his good life to pay for the sins of mankind.

 'Tunes for bears to dance to, while all the time we long to move the stars to pity'. The necessity of strong vocabulary aside, words are only a poor man's arm to guard himself against too much of expressiveness. All to maintain the cosmic balance of good and evil. After all, what in this world is worthy, the wise shall say, if not moderation, sophistication, and decorum?

Saturday, 2 June 2012

Late Progress

Optimism is overrated, and pessimism garbed in jargons of pragmatism, (as well as the importance of plastic surgery) highly underrated. 

 I was always glad that I've missed out on the Emo aspects of teenagehood. I seemed annoyingly at peace with the world around me. At the obscure age of two and twenty, I realise that it's not something that I've missed. Just that my maturity progress has come in late. 

 Yes, I've finally reached the level of depressed teenager syndrome. Better late than never. :|

Tuesday, 15 May 2012

On bad writing, conclusion and other pains

Calcutta summer is not the time for profound thoughts. Excessive sweat, stingy public transport and Glucon-D shots does not make a rosy picture. The heat plays tricks on your mind. My toleration level for almost everything normal was always low (however, I had mastered the art of tolerating major and minor irritants masquerading as people, till finally good sense sought to prevail) and summer blues have plunged them into dangerous thresholds.

Yet, for all it’s worth right at this juncture I am without an institution. College has literally chucked me out that was quite evident when I handed over my library card (which, by the way, I was fond of using till I got with it a Franz Kafka, after reading which I had an eye infection- not that one needs to trace a philosophical causal relation into this one).

So basically I’m a free bird now. But then, what can a caged bird suddenly kicked out do? I realise I should have been more cool in the last three years, but then that’s a streak I am deficient in, amongst other pertinent social skills.

Studying history has given me a strict sense of writing with an introduction, a body with adequate jargon and a conclusion that does not quite gel with the rest, but is written because some blighted fellows believed it’s good to conclude. As if every situation in life was worthy or unworthy of a conclusion. My penchant for writing what the lay men call crap has also been inundated with such specific technical jargon that makes way for boring readership. Ah, well.

Three years of college can make one realise that one can study without gaining a substantial amount of knowledge, but one can grow a talent to make up for it, by imparting, through lectures of various degrees garnished with high sounding intellectuality that sounds rather cool but has very little hint of substance in it. Yes, if nothing else, three years of education can teach one how talks in the highbrow language of intellectuality and at the same time become a pedantic pain in the posterior. I know, it’s a wonderful skill that shall hopefully get me a long way.

With age one comes across varieties of individual, to most of whom I am the aforementioned pain in the posterior. But it’s a mutual phenomenon, which balances the whole thing and makes me believe in the cosmic balance of pain in the hind shared in this world. This deep philosophical understanding can get one a long way. However, in the process, one finds beings akin to oneself, and one finds solace in that.

All in all things have been pretty nice so far. Yes, I am ebbing towards the Grand conclusion that they say is pertinent for good writing skills. Well, I’ve never had any, so now that I’ve finished with all the randomness that I wanted to express, I shall leave it, inconclusively.

Sunday, 6 May 2012

The art of being clueless

There's no dearth of talent in this long wide world. There's the rockstars with lovely manes and guitars on every street, who enthral some amount of people or the other due to some talent as well as abnormally large population of the city, there are those talented experts on cinema to whom watching anything short of a Fellini or other directors with obscure European names is sheer blasphemy, and then there are those intellectually superior beings who combine all the intellectual forces available in the society and become some sort of a Nietszchean Superman. 

My forte of intellectuallity, I proudly surmise, rests in my cluelessness. Before one can ridicule me for my lack of exquisite taste in intellectual exercises, I must say that being clueless is an art that many can be the Jack of, but hardly the master. To imbibe the art requires immense perseverance before you can proudly, when someone asks, 'where lies your passion', reply a bittersweet smile, 'Darling I've got no idea'. 

To have clarity in the aim in your life is the new cliche. It's what everyone does: Celebrate each day in ways that can render perfect photograph moment for the social networks, Go somewhere good to study. Go where the moolahs are overflowing, meet the partner who's so much the embodiment of social perfection that the fellow can be sedatively boring, etc. It's not at all that I am aimless. But the art of being clueless entails so much more. We can forget things we read, sleep, daydream, and remain completely unaware about how time works, and write anything for the sake of writing without any objective or aim.

Such writings, read by a few unassuming readers, have no rationale or purpose behind them being written, and leaves a feeling of irritating distaste for the aforementioned unassuming fellow. Herein lies the quintessence of the art of being clueless.

Wednesday, 4 April 2012


Being practical is an art that many hankers for but can never master. Some who does manage to reach a high point in life, where others can look up to them and admire for all their displayed glory. The idea of never bunking school during examination years was a strict No-no in bold red in the How To Succeed As a Super-Geek Guide books. Life has been simple, dreamy, untextured with intellectual brouhahas which, lets face it, kind of spoils the fun. I mean, one really would'nt plan to woo a pretty girl with a quote from Tolstoy and hope to get away with it. In brief, times were not always textured with pragmatism but were quite cool nevertheless. Of course, then we didn't worry much about life and all that in entailed. It simply meant living for the day. A bit too immature a thought I'd admit now. But of course time and tide waits for no man. Before we know it, what passes off as wordly wisdom stifles a lot of old-school mush that our minds, nay, our hearts grew fond of. Pragmatism and the progress of time is a great spoiler. But dejectedly or not, I must admit that wiithout it, life amongst the wise wise men shall be tough.

Tuesday, 6 March 2012


There's very little Springtime. But it's always beautiful. Like the sound of the feet on fallen leaves. The idle toothbrush accompanying yours. Paper planes and childhood memories. Oddly coloured drawing books of old school days. Photographs. The smell of new books. Highways. Numerous stars in a clear sky. Moonshine. Kites on a windy evening sky. A shelf full of books, nay a room full of them. Raindrops on windowpanes. The sound of thunder. Sudden darkness at daytime. Midnight. Conversations. Daydreams. Spring and beauty is for all. But the little that comes to me, is all mine.

Sunday, 19 February 2012


Growing up is such an ordeal, that with each year it throws in obscure realisations about life, future and all that mess. I've often felt many moments as crucial junctures, accommodating present happenings into the larger idealised picture of the future that the mind creates for recreation. It's often a comfortable happy task, and often one mingled with hope and a tinge of fear that my tendency to see things positively tries to stifle, often with grand success. 

 Honesty is not always my forte, I succumb to exaggerations because I love to be the good talker. But my skewed sense of honesty often pricks in positions of discomfiture. I see this time of my life as a critical juncture. There's the hovering idea of where I might land up for further studies, compiled with a distaste for the thought that critical beings are going to make, well, critical remarks if I don't land up in a place that is not ostensibly good. it makes me feel scared of judgements. But then, to think of it, of all the judgemental people I know, I'm probably one of the most prudish of them. 

 That brings me to judgements in the first place. Of course, there is an evaluation body everywhere. If not in the glares and appreciations of other people, then your own degree of conscience which is not adjustable because it in itself starts to judge the adjustments. Quite the Big Brother. But like all those big preachy words that fall flat when confronted with a reality check, I'd like to believe that keeping our own conscience and humility in place, we can only succeed if we learn to evaluate judgements dispassionately.

Wednesday, 1 February 2012

On Perfection

We run our tiny rat races to achieve little perfections of our own. The right job where your bank balance is cool and your colleagues and bosses love you, the right school where the friends have just the right quotient of fun and sincerity, and the right relationship where you have all the love in the world, and the least fights to go with it.

There are I think two perfections we come across in every sphere of life. One that's the idea and one which is the reality. The mind has the liberty to create perfections from various strands of experiences. We all want a bit of this and a bit of that; combine them and the mind has the perfection ready in a jiffy. I think this mind's perfection often makes one overlook the little real ones that life offers us time and again. While waiting for the ideal picture to take shape, we might forget to acknowledge what we really have. But then, that's how we all are.