Tuesday, 21 March 2017
Posted by Olive Oyl at 23:30
Wednesday, 1 March 2017
*Faints gracefully into the background, waits to be rescued for enlightenment*
Posted by Olive Oyl at 20:56
Saturday, 10 September 2016
I miss Delhi. I am homesick to an extent of missing Delhi, instead of my first home. I made irrevocable ties in the city to last a lifetime. A home or two in a heartbeat.
Posted by Olive Oyl at 03:57
Tuesday, 12 July 2016
When you are writing for a profession, you don't have the liberty of suddenly digressing to Rihanna. You digress only on to Hegel or Heidegger, or some white Western dude. You can throw in a Toni Morrison for diversity, but as far as I knew, Alfred Nobel was pretty a blast of a white dude. You bitch the hell about how some data reeks of male privilege, but you just can't ramble on with your hypotheses without being called a mad philosopher. You have to pause, every once in a while, because short sentences are cuter. You maintain sobriety and somberness. Your words are well thought out. You back it up with evidence, and if a word is not footnoted, you are anxious. If you want to crack a joke about your subject, you cannot footnote it. I mean, you can't say Churchill looks like Mad Eye Moody and get away with it. You just can't pull that off. Dissertation writing is a depressingly sobering experience, where you are grilled into the narrow, small sentences of academic privilege, till you lose your mad, unpunctuated, unpunctured, voice to collective edits.
Posted by Olive Oyl at 01:53
Friday, 27 May 2016
I got to know that Saudi Arabia has banned pictures with fluffy cats, and it saddened me. I mean, when life throws you an incomprehensible dissertation, you look forward to that one day when things will change, education will end, and you will be able to put up a profile photo wildly smiling with a fluffy cat that you just rescued off the pavement. (Who abandons fluffy cats in the first place?).
Dissertation blues are real. It is when you suddenly realize that your argument needs to be spruced up, and from there it's an endless chasm where your thought eventually plummets to questioning your intelligence, tenacity, future, life, and even love for the aforementioned feline things - beings that always inspires me to grow a personality at least, if not strikingly glowing intelligence.
I wish my brain functioned more that it does. My life wouldn't be slow, my decision to do things with life would come earlier, and in times of deep pessimism, the future would not look like just an endless wait for things to happen.
Posted by Olive Oyl at 01:56
Thursday, 12 November 2015
This is a ghost of a place because I resided elsewhere. There's a haunt of memories of attempting to convey something, I forget what. The book shelves are dusty as its been long since one has pulled out the paperback as it left trails of clean wood. Each book has memories of love laughter and people. Some are nearer to the desks of the school and some are closer to goodbyes in the airport.
Traces and trails. No one will know of our histories without the traces we will choose to leave behind. The hearts shall remain unwritten. There will be ghost of a heart somewhere in the pages that are not dog-eared for remembrance.
Posted by Olive Oyl at 22:25
Friday, 2 October 2015
And here, in the present, autumn sets in with gushes of cold whiffs of air only reserved for moments of moonlight. The city I have begun to call my home looks enchanting. As I walk through the musty lanes near my residence, foraging for sudden cravings of chocolate, the air caresses with determined welcoming of a new season. I always take autumn as signals of something new. The romantics would chide me for altering meanings of entrenched metaphors. But I guess that's only the Bengali in me. We are known to calculate our years around the axis of the Durga pujo. But however much I shall be away from the first home this time, the essence is, somewhere within, everywhere. As someone said, it's the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness. As also of cold caresses, warm embraces in the air, and taking stock of losses and gains.
I wanted to write something, again on the eve of some examination. Life comes full circle, exam to exam, of course. Fifteen was never too different from twenty-five. Should have known.
Posted by Olive Oyl at 00:27
Wednesday, 1 July 2015
Posted by Olive Oyl at 03:16
Sunday, 11 January 2015
Such movies, painted and dented with such forceful causalities are particularly loved because they bring forth dawning comprehension about life and love, trying to make sense of the chaos that these things really are. And these movies are almost definitive in Decembers. They appeal to your end-of-the-year sensibilities, where the world has created an idea that each year must show some form of completion in your life. Boy must meet girl as the clock strikes midnight (else Cinderella may not leave her glass shoes) etc. etc. I realised I have no such conclusiveness to display. It's not fun. Therefore, this post is a narcissistic highlight of all my trysts with destiny I managed to encounter in the past year:
1. I came back to Calcutta for two months, only to be hurled back to Delhi again. City of Joy is clearly disgusted with my existence. To prove that, the universe conspired and I accidentally ended up spending half the time in the National Library in Calcutta. It's the only place that serves chai for two rupees. Somewhere, all the communists in my family still feel reassured from their commie-heaven.
2. I graduated this year. No clue why I don't have a picture of looking-important and grinning like an Madman who accidentally ate the Cheshire Cat.
3. I met new people. Yes this statement does sound like I was a convict for long suddenly liberated on to giant pools of population. But the fact is, in spite of having a dangerously low threshold of tolerating humanity (a reciprocal feeling of self-protection, really), I like knowing them. I am not sure how they feel about me, but over the years I believe my social skills have improved from the level of a dead rat to only a dying one.
4. talking of rats, I plunged into research. This deserves some explanation. I have studied history and I have embarked upon a journey which includes hoping to work towards a PhD in the subject. This translates into a lifetime commitment to poverty. Which by default trains me to have a snooze-fest personality and a surly demeanour. This was a result of bad parenting: they let me take my own decisions. Relying on a sixteen year old's decision making capacity is probably a mistake. But they refuse to acknowledge this. Too much faith is unhealthy. Sigh.
5. I am learning the art of academia-talk. It involves conference hopping and ambushing people with questions when they present their research. These questions must have some specific traits: they must be five minutes long. Three minutes should be given in displaying your own knowledge in the subject. In absence of knowledge, you rephrase the content of the paper as a question and throw it back. Such a process is particularly fun if you like the sound of your own voice over the mic. I sometimes end up getting bored mid-sentence, and this isn't a helpful thing.
6. Caused by no. 4 and 5 (and other aspects of my life on the lines of to err is human) I now boast of five strands of white hair. A friend kindly told me that it is five because he stopped counting after that. I take that as, no count no number. My five strands of white hair deserve an elegy, I feel. In ten more years, they shall be facing the tunes of fake hair-dye anyway, possibly in some corner of some obscure hostel-like room with a cracked mirror. *Shudder*.
7. I shall turn 25 this year. Quarter century. In an age where marketing strategies see you as vulnerable enough to sell under-eye creams to, you know that adding another year is not going to go down well. But 25 isn't that big a deal. The problem lies elsewhere. One of my friends pointed out that this blog has seen me mature through times. I agreed, and something sunk in me a little. I knew that the time has come to accept what I have been not willing to acknowledge all these years: I am probably a hypocrite who pretends to grow up to fit in, but deep down is stuck in the firm belief system of a thirteen year old-in-denial. I therefore obviously defy laws of maturity. Ok wait this isn't highlighting all the talents I was supposed to write about in this post.
Why did I start writing again? Oh well. Doesn't matter. My high school English teacher isn't correcting this bit, and I need not stick to three sections of essay thingy. This shall go without a conclusion.
Happy New Year, fellows.
Posted by Olive Oyl at 13:40