Chaapa dukkho maapa shukh...

"There is nothing heavier than compassion. Not even one's own pain weighs so heavy as the pain one feels with someone, for someone, a pain intensified by the imagination and prolonged by a hundred echoes..."
-Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being.

To live with the knowledge of having wronged is infinitely more painful than that of being wronged.
For, there is not the slightest hope of retribution: the single factor that marks the glorious vanquished from the ignominous victor.
I'd rather be Hector than Paris.

Ex-es on the Why Axis

It was all perfect…perfect…JUST perfect. He had never felt anything as beautiful as this before.Never felt anything that would so completely suffuse his entirety with the essence of another human being.

Each time, however, she would bring her face down in a moment of intense passion to meet his mouth, all he could see was the same face lowered in the exact same angle over the one she had loved before. Yes, this is how she moves when in love, he thought…whenever in love, he visualised.
This is how she clings to the shoulder in ecstasy.
This is how she closes her eyes when kissed.
This is how she arches languorously when caressed.
This is how she daintily traces the contours of her lover’s arms with the tip of her fingers…

And suddenly he no longer was part of the making of love. He was a voyeur to her past.
A puppet participant.

Intimacy is felt best when you steal moments out of a crowded scape...

I feel pretty useless. Which is better than feeling used, I guess...

Exhilarating to read daily horoscopes at the end of the day! To scoff 'Hah! You wish' is turning out to be a fun game!

I'm not sure I really want to deny you access to my life. To cut you off clinically and irretrievably. No. I think I want you to have access to my life, so you know my updates exactly. I want you to yearn for that life. I want us to have a distance that's been calculatingly measured: enough for you to believe its bridgeable, and yet being unfathomably unfathomable. I want it to be a mirage for you, one that you yearn for, but die of thirst in its quest.
Die.

Anko koshe jenechhi aami
Mangal graha rushto,
Anko koshei ber korechhi
Kishe hobe tini tushto!


Shaptahete ekdin jadi
Na khao mach-mangsho,
M.sc to bolchhe amar
Gourab pabe bangsho.


Bujhechhi aami atdinete
Bigyan byata bhrashto,
Laglo kaje dher to bote
Taka, shamay nashto.


Ashol hero mangalbabu
Shob kripai to taar,
Taka dilen, kori dilen
Aangti dawshek aar.

Bujhinu sheshe haay haay haay
Nashto bachhor chaar!

If I'm mulling on the what-could-have-been's, can i be accused of living in the past? Or, in the future? The indefinite future?

 

Freedom is being able to decide if you want to be bound.
I feel free, yes.

Oh! What a win!
I beat you hollow,
But feel hollow within...

And as you turn more and more away from me; I turn more and more into you.

Swimstar

Everytime I go under water, I come up hoping to see you hunched by the edge.

Now, I don't come up for air anymore.
I come up for you.

Painting: My friend Purbani Das

"A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction."

Or non-fiction. Or anything. Or just function!

Most people I know managed to contain their growing-up experiences to a limited temporality; not allowing roots to grow into unmanageably scattered branches. Not me, though. By the time I was twenty, I had lived in five places, with no mathematical sense of time distribution. And no, I didn't/ don't belong to an army family; have just been peripatetic out of compulsion, tagging my father along wherever his whims took him next.

Since this seems to be the season for playing out memories to an open gallery, perhaps as catharsis, I thought I might as well try to fathom this "complicated" politics of social networking and reach out to as many people who contributed to this collective memory, as possble.

Out of the many places I happened to stay in, there was this one place where "destiny" (yes I know double inverted commas mean I'm quoting somebody here!) brought me back twice over; once in 1994, sometime before my 10th birthday; and the second & last time just after my Madhyamik Examinations-just before my 17th birthday! This place was known very far and wide just by its number-50 No.!!! Even though it was actually a co-operative housing society with about 70 families living over a sprawling space, the number 50, much like Billa no 786, managed to carry a weight of its own, lending to its members a power of intimidating superiority over all other houses and apartments over the entire Tollygunge territory! From as far as Golf Club Road, all you had to instruct the rickshaw-wallah by way of direction was say "50 No."! Kaafi hai!

This place was nothing like anything I had seen or lived in before, or ever since. The colour, texture and symmetry of brick is the first thing that I can think of when I close my eyes...the facade of all the six floors, the entire garage area, everything was done up in brick-something that leads me to automatically think orange first, when I think of Golf Link Apartments, 50. Chanditala Lane, Calcutta-40! It must have been the monsoons when I first went to stay there, for I just cant seem to get the smell of dark-green moss growing wherever there was brick, out of my system,that made cycling across the four bends such a slippery venture for all those who could, and running such a daunting task for others who tried to race their friends or scuttle along to a safer hiding spot during a particularly riveting session of Lukochuri! While hiding, you could sometimes spot a curious little frog croaking hoarsely at you and giving your secure hiding spot away; or perhaps a slimy snail that rid up your polka-dotted "pump-shoe" making you screech and earning the lifelong label of being a "tnash"!!!

Outside school, I made my first friends here. More importantly, made my first friends from the opposite sex here. Most among these boys, I viewed with disdain or suspicion; others, my snooty school upbringing forbade me from even considering as human!!! I was not to blame entirely of course! Some of these boys DID indeed stare at skirts and slacks that rode above the knee with such gaping wonderment, it made me want to go 'eww'!!! Moreover, I had trouble initially getting accustomed to a 'hi' not met with another 'hi' but a 'ki rrya, or having to play 'kit-kit' (not hopscotch, mind you!) barefeet'!!! Small things, insignificant things, yes, but those that have funnily enough, stayed back with me, even after seventeen long years! Some of these associations, these friendships last me till date-would have liked to use 'lifetime', but life has taught me to not take the poesy of this term too seriously!


We used to be an entire assorted bunch of kids coming from different socio-cultural backgrounds, going to different schools, having sparring parents as neighbours or with precociously secretive crushes on that guy from the 5th floor, or this girl form the 1st!!! Oh what hush-hush affairs they used to be! Couldnt be shared with anyone but the 'best-friend' (subject to change every week, or if you were very very loyal and stable, every two months!)- a coveted position for a girl in particular, especially if she stood to share the secret!!! But for all our juvenile puppy loves, there were scenes of real, dynamic action happening among our dadas and didis! Now access to that was classified information, and unless either one among the young couple had a younger brother or sister, someone who was in the know of the budding affair, someone who moreover, would be willing to pass on all the juicy details to us, there was very little we could do but gossip, speculate and chinese-whisper up stories that turned out to be more colourful than the real stuff!!! Public festivals like Holi, Saraswati Puja or Durga Puja however would be occasions where these romances could be played out in the open with relatively less self-consciousness. A boy would, for instance sit on one of those red plastic chairs and even while drumming on another one, belt out the just released "Parbo na hote ami Romeo, tai duppur belate ghumiyo, aste hobe na ar baranday...Ranjana ami ar ashbona..." and the short message would be delivered, loud and clear, even without the menace called the mobile phone. Some of these affairs were nipped in the bud, as Bela Bose's were married off to grooms more prosperous; others bloomed into lasting partnerships that today remain as tangible connects to a past I seem to have otherwise lost somewhere...a past where it was still enough to have a 'chakri'-any 'chakri'- to secure your standing vis-a-vis the girl or her parents; 'space', 'incompatabilty' were still thankfully fancy issues that you heard on 'Bold and the Beautiful' on Star Tv!

There was a roof of course, but not many of us were lucky to have gone up there. What we remained contented with instead was the "fifth floor shniri". This nook is difficult to explain to anyone who has not been here. It led up to the roof, but was an abode unto itslef. The perfect place to hide on those monsoon afternoons when rain did not allow you to explore the garage; perfect for playing 'Miss Universe'-a game invented by some of the most ingenuous minds amongst our immedaite seniors-that had us girls acting as Miss India contestants (yes, at age 10 and less!!!), sashaying down the corridor right upto the judge (who would be one of us!) answering inane questions that Sushmita Sen or Aishwarya Rai had confidently mouthed that year or the last, do a little impromptu jig maybe, and then be declared 'Misssss 50 No.'...clap clap clap!!!!! The shniri nook was perfect of course for couples who needed a little space for themselves, what with CCD's or other similar haunts not having turned the city on its head back then!!! An unsuspecting (or ok, hiiiiighly suspicious-but-duly-bribed) soul would be made to stand at the head of the shniri to alert them off any possible threat in the form of a Kakima or a nosey kid or a morally upright thakuma!!!


The railings of these little balconied stair-tops are another image that keep haunting me...red iron rods that held on to rainwater drops on to its surface like dew on a sun-kissed leaf...all you had to do is stand with your palm cupped beneath it and let the drops fall one by one and fill your senses up with its cool soothing touch...Strange, but rain has never smelled the same anywhere else. On many of such quiet afternoons, while I waited for my friends to come out one by one to play, I stood there alone, watched the drops of water fall lazily from the mango tree, or from the railings; watch the crow drenched to the bone, perched on the railing, too busy shivering to take not of me...silent moments that would be broken occasionally by a friend coming down with a bat, a racket or with stumps down and pausing to ask, 'ki re...khelti jabi to?'...

This place will be special to me for more reasons than one, reasons that are too deeply private to be brandished in public, even under the garb of catharsis. I havent been here in ages, and last heard, dont know very many people who actually live here anymore. Characters, corners and experiences of this place are far far too many to fit in one facebook note, neither is that the intention. Its the monsoons in Calcutta, esepcially when they mellow down to lazy drizzles by afternoon, that stir up memories of this place that made me, unmade me and made me anew...I dont wish to visit you again......

There's a bit of Judas Iscariot in all of us. The unstoppable lure of betraying the one we love and trust most; in the delirious belief that the betrayal-which we convince ourselves, is no betrayal at all-will provoke him to reveal his messianic self and redeem us.
Often, for less, much less, than thirty pieces of silver.

Broke.
Up.
Down.

Cigarette Castle

Cigarettes dangle in the pout your fingers once filled;
With the packets I've gathered, I've built the castle once promised.

Afternoons that smell of stale lipstick; half-awake eyes that feel cigarette smelling fingers over wet eyelashes...

Damn you, the checked shirt

Photograph

“The photograph does not call upon the past…The effect it produces upon me is not to restore what has been abolished (by time, by distance) but to attest that what I see has indeed existed.”
-Rolland Barthes

Numbers...

Numbers have suddenly been disappearing: falling off my life like stars.

Dates have fallen off my calendar leaving behind blank white squares. And I dont know how to fill up their flaking, gaping emptiness.

Phone numbers have vanished with homes changing home-makers...whose number is it now?

Where have they gone?

 

And when she slept, she shut her eyes so tight, the lids looked haphazardly run-stitch together...looked like pillows hurriedly sewn together to not let even a feather slip out...

One of these winter afternoons, I would like to look out of the window in my room and have the tree look back at me, de-frosted clean of the icicles of memory...

 

Love in the time of Lautrec

Blues in other hues