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.