Purple

Perhaps, just perhaps
Somewhere amidst the purple
There was a chance
A tiny chance
A little flower
Yellow. Crushed.
The sunlight not perfect
Too bright, too harsh
Wet shoes on the tracks
Muddy footprints
Strawberry jam
Finding shapes in clouds
A blue-black cap
Piles of friendly ice-cream
Nestled in the sky
Somewhere outside windows
Somewhere beyond doors
There was that tiny moment
Lost to all tomorrows
Perhaps, just perhaps
It is possible, after all
To be free.

Swan Song

I try to refrain. But there are times when temptation must be given in to. You have to listen to this song if you haven't already. I cannot get it out of my head.

Cyrus Jones 1810 to 1913
Made his great grandchildren believe
You could live to a hundred and three
A hundred and three is forever when you're just a little kid
So Cyrus Jones lived forever

Gravedigger
Gravedigger
When you dig my grave
Could you make it shallow
So that I can feel the rain
Gravedigger

Muriel Stonewall1903 to 1954
She lost both of her babies in the second great war
Now you should never have to watch
Your only children lowered in the ground
I mean you should never have to bury your own babies

Gravedigger
Gravedigger
When you dig my grave
Could you make it shallow
So that I can feel the rain
Gravedigger

Ring around the rosey
Pocket full of posey
Ashes to ashes
We all fall down

Gravedigger
Gravedigger
When you dig my grave
Could you make it shallow
So that I can feel the rain
Gravedigger

Little Mikey Carson 67 to 75
He rode hisBike like the devil until the day he bike
When he grows up he wants to be Mr. Vertigo on the flying
Ohhh, 1940 to 1992

Gravedigger
Gravedigger
When you dig my grave
Could you make it shallow
So that I can feel the rain

-Dave Mathews Band

Craazy shit. I listen to some great music nowadays. Putting them all up is tedious. I shall put in other tedious stuff instead. Like the great deal of crap i seem to come up with every class. Invaluable crap, i tell you. Priceless. Maybe next time.

Adieu

Today felt like the end of something huge. Like the whole of 16-17-18. The giggle-years. Total bye bye. The no look back types. Because what would you look back at? What, indeed I ask?

There cant be anything worse than a lump the size of a cricket ball down your throat when you're trying your best to be brave for other people, and holding their hand and telling them not to cry. When all you really want to do is break down and howl and don't care who sees you at it.

Haha. When was the last time you did that, i wonder? When did it become not-okay to show how you feel? Ever since the 16-17-18 passed? But we're grown ups now aren't we? We have futures to live and money to make. Oh and some life to live, along the way. If you can spare the time, that is. Thursday at 5, then? Maybe we could take a walk. Eat an ice-cream? No? But ofcourse.

But who will i walk with now? And behind whose back will i cry? And what will become of you? Who will look after that mad little mass of all heart and no brains?

Okbye then? Take care. No, you take care. And call me. Sometimes? Once a week? A month then? Oh okay, on my birthday. Yes?

Painted Pinecones

I am painting pine cones silver and gold and playing out a few imaginary phone conversations in my head. You know the kind where you can say all you want to and not look stupid or needy? Like i said, imaginary.
There must be something about life on a higher altitude. I wish i was born on the hills. In some tea garden or some such. Picking tea leaves with that huge basket thing on my head. Physical, utterly fulfilling labour. Where I wouldn't have to pretend to think. I would be so much fitter, for one and not puff and pant after climbing a few stairs. Besides there would be long hill road walks, and early sunsets, and goats cheese (atleast I hope there would be goat cheese). I love it how perfectly people outside the city learn to adapt. I wonder where we lost ours.
Travelling always gives me a high, but there is just something special about hills. I think its the green. I could never get tired of it. And the roads. As much as i support 6-lane expressways, there is something so uber-exciting about those windy sharp bends, especially if you are driving at night, with pale headlights on. And the rains. There is nothing more to add in that.

I am a very bad storyteller of things that really happened. I can't tell you how my trip went, not even on this blog, because the moment factual details start coming in, its not me writing anymore. I haven't talked about it with my friends or the folks at home, whenever anybody asks, i have evaded it with my trademark i'm-busy-dont-bother-me look. Maybe a part of me is worried that you, being not there, will not understand it, and i will have to work hard at convincing you how beautiful it all really was. But maybe you will still not be convinced, maybe you will nod your head lamely and say something entirely inappropriate, maybe you will not break into the raptures i shall expect you to break into. And then i shall be in danger for hating you the rest of my life (or atleast the rest of the day).
I don't blame you. I know you try your best, I'm even willing to believe that you are genuinely interested and not just making conversation. But i still cannot tell you. It is the reason why I do not take photographs either. Because they never match up to the moment. (I am also not a very good photographer) Its me. I don't want you or anyone, animate or inaimate to take away from me what i cherish in my head. The feeling and all that. Which is why I can never tell you what exactly happened. And that does not mean I'm a snob or a recluse or anything of that sort. Alright, so maybe I am. But not for those reasons. Okay? Okay.
I do not think life in the city is for me. I have always been the slow sort. I prefer Cal over Bombay. I am not even remotely fascinated by New York or London (except for the architecture) and I will live there only if you make me an offer I cannot refuse. I will also run away as often as i can. I do love Paris, but the reasons are different. And because it has more character to it, besides its city life. I need a room with a view, one that is not of other rooms with views. I prefer small houses over apartments. I need green paths and fresh air, maybe a kind of place where everyone either walks or cycles to work. I need silence at night so that I can sleep. I do not need to be in touch with everyone all the time. You dont need it either, believe me.
Maybe I'll make enough money to buy a tea plantation and live there by myself, a modern Miss Havisham or some such sort. Do not get scared will you? I bake the most perfect pumpkin-and-hazelnut pies and sell them anonymously ofcourse, so that it may not tarnish my eh-keep-off-my-estate-you-bugger image. And yes, i brew the most perfect tea too. Come see me sometimes, when i'm not too lost in the greens. I'll make you some and we'll talk about far away worlds that do not have anything to do with reality.

Why is it so hard to tell people how much you're going to miss them? Its mammoth, and I wish i had a script. Which is ironic considering it would be one of those truly genuine things i want to say. Its so much easier to pretend to be busy. Unfortunately however, i haven't much time (oooh, doesnt that sound melodramatic?) And like a lot of things, like most things in fact, i am afraid that this too shall remain unsaid. I only hope you will understand and not think i am an insensitive ungrateful prick.
Instead I'll give you pine cones painted silver and gold. They looked much better in the original, but i cannot give you that, for they look too raw and you might wonder. And i will not have answers to that.

City Lights

I'm in love with the City. With its dust and traffic and pollution and aimlessness. With its 3-minute long signals and overstuffed buses bursting at the seams. I'm in love with B.B.D Bag and the Grand Eastern renovations. And Bowbazar and Bidhan Sarani and weird bus numbers from far north and the GPO and the grandfatherly tram conductors.
This has been the most glorious me-day ever. I did everything on my own, inspite of the day being unimaginably hot (this is all before the heavenly thunderstorm) Walked till the ends of College Street till bookstalls had been replaced by sari stalls. Looked through a few incredibly good art books. (Note to self: Go back.) Took a tram ride through the north, all randomly ofcourse, I had no clue what I was getting on and where it was going. North Cal is so picturesque, you can almost lean out and touch it. So anyway, I got off suddenly at a place where the tram stopped, walked around for a bit, looked at old baris, shops and people. Was actually looking for some food, but it was past 12 and they weren't frying kochuris anymore, and thats what I had to have. I did have sugarcane juice though, with lime and everything in a bhar.
Then I walked on some more, I really do not know in which direction, but bus names still seemed familiar, and that gave me confidence I suppose. Intentionally, I walked off the metro route, metros are too easy. I wanted to feel lost, if you know what I mean. Never mind if I had to ask for directions, or call up my dad, it was just the sense of, I don't know...oneness? And I realized that I could not get lost here, it was all too familiar, even though I have never been into these streets before.
How do I put it? It was a connection, one that I had been looking for since a long time with people, places anything. In spite of all irritants, I was really enjoying myself. Its like re-exploring a place you already know about, but its all in your memory, and you have to know it again. It was completing. All the way through unfamiliar to familiar landmarks, Park Street, Maidan, AJC et al, as I returned to my side of the town. Only there weren’t any sides anymore. The entire place was mine.
The City is hypnotic. Just fall in with its beats. Tram beats, dust footstep beats, Conductor chant beats, people, cycles, street food. This is my place. My own.

Aye aye!

I am not always very nice to be around. I am forever impatient and always losing my temper. I went to Peter Cat for dinner yesterday (had grilled chicken sizzler, because I don't like rice). I saw a weirdly disturbing movie called Under Trial today during the interval of the ManU Chelsea match. I also saw Spidey. Total Hindi flick, with thunder, lightning, memory flashbacks, amnesia et al.
There are a lot of things I want to write about the City, before I leave. Some people are too nice to me. I dont deserve such niceness. Some people aren't. They can go lose themselves. I am a little apprehensive about what lies ahead. I hate doing things I'm not already good at. And most especially I hate doing things for a purpose. In this case, a livelihood.
I'm tired of worrying about money. I wish we could go back to the barter system instead. We dont need money. We need things. People kill for money, not for things. Why complicate lives unnecessarily?
The ISC results came out today. Mine came out on 18th May. I was supposed to go see Main Hoo Na that day but had to cancel it. I also ordered pizza after my parents left teary eyed. And then felt like a complete loser. But you don't need to know this. It really has not much to do with you.
I want a long over coat like MJ. But it must be bloody expensive, no?

Hello...goodbye.
So i gather we are not getting a farewell. Okay so, I haven't had much of a college life, like a lot of people. And maybe I don't yet know the names of everyone in class. But in my defence, i know almost all the faces. And i'm bad with names anyway, I can't quote a single critic to save my life. Besides my mom seems to have done enough networking for both of us during the exams, and now she knows not only names, and faces, but also permanent addresses, family backgrounds, future crises and the name of the vet. And maybe we are a rather disjunctive, seperated batch where each corner either relentlessly bitches about the other, or does not know of its existence. I have got laughed at without knowing what i did, and wild rumours have flown about my friend holding a dual citizenship and what not. Ah, so we are not the most social people. But there have been some fun times. Like collectively facing the dean's sarcasm, Eton's nastiness and CM's everyday classes. Ane everything. I remember CB went on one of her crazy fits and held a quiz in class, and PM did an end of the term psycho-analysis thing. Oh, and the first class, when we were all new and fresh and innocent (smirk!) and Bertie pricking the bubble right then with his "Why are you all here, anyway? You won't gain anything in these three years."
So anyway, I think we need a farewell. Legally, we are entitled to one, since we gave a jolly good one ourselves. Oh nothing too hi-fi, maybe just another day to see all the old, familiar faces , maybe bitch a little more about who is wearing what, maybe some good music, some badly prepared perfomances, some cheesy games. I know no one would really cry or anything, but maybe there would be the lump, maybe some half-sincere promises to stay in touch, some general best wishes, some smiles, some more memories. Maybe a last walk down those sunless corridors as a student, maybe a sneak peek into the office, maybe a smoke near the backgate, maybe a look back to the building once the sun has set and the neon lights are on.
As someone has so very wisely said, "We need closure." But then, it seems like we are not going to get any.
This is my own goodbye to the last three years. I havent missed a single oppurtunity to bitch, criticize and look down upon you. But now when I shall be out in the big-bad-world, I wont waste a single moment in telling every new soul I meet, what a wonderful place you have been. Goodbye Room 10, 11 and 19 and all the little rooms in between. Thank you, because I know now what I had and how I will never get anything like it again.

Today was Soo-Doo Day.
Yay!!!

Irony

There is a strange parallel between my day tomorrow and the next two years of my life. It is sad indeed when you do out of pity, the things you did out of love. Or compromise that which was your pride.
I'm not trying to be cryptic. Sometimes you are manipulated into some things. But even after you realize the manipulation, you allow yourself to be led in further. Becasue you must. For someone or the other's sake. For an image of yourself that some people have. That you would rather not break. Would that make me a hypocrite? Perhaps, yes.

I have had a fairly uneventful and happy life. No abuse or trauma or abject poverty or messy divorces. Which is why I realize how shallow it sounds when I say, that all my life seems lived for other people. Not in a self-sacrificing way. Just in an accidental, non-interfering kind of way. I suppose I was gullible, or just plain uninterested. As long as things are going more or less the way they were supposed to, as long as I didn't feel cheated to the face, it was easy to go along.
But when you're young, specifics do not matter. As long as you are into something. Anything.
You know what I blame it on? Books. And films, and music and words that mean so much but amount to nothing. That can change your perspective on life and people for ever. And yet remain innocently guiltless. It is you who change. And you who have to live with that change.
I feel all words and quotes and characters sometimes. And I realize that I expect my life to work out like my favourite book. Or atleast be as dramatic. Everything that I have thought or wanted, can be credited to some perceptive writer or poet or artist. Literature has, in a way, taught me to think for myself. And as I find out, the hard way, it's not always a good thing.
My life isnt a movie. And there is no guarantee of a happy ending or a prince charming or a sweepstake win. And there are certain things that must be done, be it against my will, for others who expect it to be done. For the sake of...I don't know, sanity? Not disturbing the universe?
The world has its share of rebels and mad scientists, who did not have to pretend to make choices.
The worst is when you're told, that the choice is yours to make. That it is, after all, your life.
Don't kid yourself, or allow others to kid you. That, it never is. And there wasn't even a choice to begin it.
Just go with the tide, and try not to rock the boat too much. There are agents who wouldn't bat an eyelid while pushing you off it. And all for your own good, ofcourse.

Blogpost

Somethings are just not fair. They truly arent. And i wont explain that. You wouldnt care anyway. You would just nod your head and think of all the times when you thought the same thing.
I'm tired of the herd mentality. I never really wanted to be a cow. Or a goat.
And i am perfectly pissed off. And thats an alliteration in case you didnt guess. In which case you must be really dumb.
I wish blogger was like MSword. I hate having to capitalize.
Its the easiest things in life that are so difficult somehow. Ok, so that wasnt entirely original. But it is entirely true.
And that is what matters, really. No matter how much you deny it.
I'm half in love with Wilde. Men should have a way with words and wit. Alliteration again, by the way. I bet you missed it. Yes, men should be, must be witty. Even if they are hopelessly gay.
And this is a pointless post. So what? It makes sense to me. And it'll make sense to you too. When you write it. Except that you wont. Thats the whole point of it.

L'Après-midi de la folie

Talking to a friend last night made me realize/accept/understand that i had got it all wrong. This isn't what it is about. What anything is about.
The reason for last few days' worth of madness had been a simple case of misappropriation of priorities. Oh, I don't blame myself. It is easy to get swept away when the tide is flowing only one way.
Truth is, that sometimes, we underrate ourselves too much. It's okay to set high goals, infact the higher the better. Just dont kill yourself trying to get that high. It is evidently, not worth it.
So what? I get a first-class degree, an education with some of the best names in the country and/or the world, a high-paying job, blah blah. Surely that cannot be it? It could be, if you are not willing to look beyond it. And in that case, all the best. I am sure you will be very happy.
What I received in all that restriction, was severe denial. Some things are so simple, you wonder why you dont know it. Its not about that vision, or any vision. Its about you. You make the vision, you break it, live it, decorate it or dismiss it.

Life so far has been spent in searching for inspiration. It isnt that elusive. I have spotted it in words, in music, in pictures, in colours, in dreams. Spotted a hint, a promise of something more. Maybe your inspiration lies in a plush corner office, in a small house by the sea, in your leatherbound diary. Truth is, you wont know unless you go look for it. Its one of those things that wont come looking for you.
Dont promise a road for yourself and then expect you dreams to fall in place. It doesnt work that way, even though uptil the last moment, i thought it did. And though this might seem like a last minute bubble of optimism, it isnt really.
I realize, that I can always travel and always read. That i can always meet new people who are like me, or unlike me, and i can still have thought-provoking conversation. That i can always watch films and make plays, learn pottery and listen to music. That there will always be lessons to learn, and I dont need classrooms for that. I dont need to to well because that is what one must do, as long as I am happy and learning something new each day.

After all it is literature, it's theatre, it's poetry, stories, books. It's life and it is limitless. I am not giving it up, because that is not even an option. Its a part of my being. It doesnt matter if i go on to become a nuclear physicist or a banker, it shall be there, in me, as me.
Maybe I wont find inspiration in my work. Maybe i will. Maybe i'll find it in a wayward conversation, in "one of those mad, insane moments of life". Maybe in my sleep or while taking a walk. Maybe today, maybe tomorrow. Maybe right now. Maybe where i'm going next, or maybe when i'm 40 at a cafe, solving sudoku puzzles.

I haven't given up on it, yet. It wont let me. Cheers to the dream, and to the last 10 years, especially the last three. And thank you. It wont be the last.

Reality Check

Well, that is that I suppose. Its one thing to dream big, and quite another to dream impossible. And not as some people would say "Impossible is Nothing" But just impossible impossible. The usual dictionary meaning.
And its okay really. I mean, there were all these other things to consider. And other points to make. Speaking of points, is it always necessary to make a point. Whatever happened to pointless living?
Its a funny thing, co-incidences. And they are usually never repeated. Superstitions either. And then little glitches that come back to laugh at you. Like..."you think?"
And so life comes back with a little more perspective. And as always there are two roads to take. And two voices in the head. Isnt it funny when there are two choices in front of you, there is only one you want to take, and only the other that you can? And you know even before you make the choice that its not really a choice but a compulsion. Just like there isnt any thinking involved even if you spend days (nights? years?) deliberating. You know right at the onset, what you ought to do, and "co-incidentally", it never is, what you want to.
And so we get swept forwards and onwards and even backwards in this current of choices, pretending to be in control, and knowing fully that we are not and can never be.

Snapshots

There is a bouquet of long-stemmed roses, from last month, wrapped in a cellophane of pink stars and tied with a white ribbon, stashed away in my locker. I do not know now, what I should do with it. I did not know last month either.
A day will come, when the locker will be opened and its contents discovered, when prying questioning eyes will wonder at the fresh pink stars and the decayed flowers and the pretty white ribbon. I dread the day, for I know not yet the answer to the questions in those eyes, or those in my head.

There is also, a wooden wind-chime that makes a strange sound on lazy Saturday afternoons; there is the house next door that has witnessed innocent beginnings and selfish ends. There are candles that were lit during the last KalBoishakhi, whose smells have lingered into books, bed sheets, fingers and hearts; there are liquid timers that have evaporated into nothingness, there is a small crystal oyster on a dark wooden shelf. There is a blue beaded bracelet with a broken catch, there are old yellowing letters in an earnest hand, there is an empty Rocher wrapper. There are recipes for cheesecake and honeyed chicken never-read never-used, there are indignant red crosses on blank calendar squares. There is Southern Avenue and long silent walks, there are secret midnight phone calls, there is falling out and falling over. And there is a funny song.
There is bunking classes to play hide-and-seek, there is Haldirams, there is butterscotch ice cream on a new white shirt. There is madness, there is anger, there is walking away from a busy street. There is cloud watching and kite flying, there is Haji’s takeaway biriyani and tram rides through the Maidan. There are stormy evenings and a broken glass swan, there is death, there is Cadbury Perk. There are shy first glances, there are school uniforms pretending-to-be-adults. There are feverish journal entries, there is craftwork, there is amateur poetry.
And there is rain.
There is looking for the first time, there is Smirnoff, there is red wine. There is the sea, there is an unknown bed. There is a journey, there is a book fair, there is Dreams on DVD. There is Christmas morning three years back, there are the rows of Inox. There is crying in the attic, there are hysterical breakdown. There is Nicco Park and joyrides, there is Ashtami. There are stolen kisses on secret stairways. There are midnight story telling sessions, there are friends’ weddings, there is singing lullabyes. There is a chhatar tola, there is an SD4, there are lies never told. There is spin-the-bottle and clumsy seduction, there is a 6-hour conversation, there are surprises given and surprises spoilt. There is pushing away, there is drawing near. There is consolation, frustration, sympathy, misunderstanding, there is the second hooghly bridge, there are picnics by the river. And there are dolphins.
There is a first touch, there is a last. There is waiting outside Priya, there is apprehension, there is ‘Ode to a Nightingale’. There are errant friends and troublemakers. There is a shower, there is a kitchen. There are indulgent families and film festivals. There is a night full of stars, there is a cell phone under the blanket. There is yahoo messenger, there is sneaking in, there is a snowglobe. There are intertwined fingers and interlocked eyes, there is a long distance phone call. And there are dreams.
There are home décor books, there are coffee stains on floors, there is getting drunk. There are days missed and days made up, there is a blue glitter pen. There are names taken the first time, there are initials doodled in books, there are pictures sketched in minds. There is growing up and leaving all far behind. There are crazy, unthinking moments when all function but the mind. There is a tickle, there is nervous laughter. There is Goosey and Jimmy Porter. There is a sense of the forbidden, there is rebellion, there are bruised egos and homemade lunch.
There are confessions, there are threats. There are crumpled sheets and hastily brushed hair. There is a cork from a wine bottle. There is lightning and a hint of smudged kohl. There is a song hummed alone, there is a mischievous smile. There are stolen looks in a crowded space, there are questions answered without a word. There are panic attacks and paranoid fear, there are mood swings, there is impatience. There is a medical shop. There are e-mails. There is a smile out of place. There are power cuts and overnight trips. There are byes and there is a goodbye.
There are sepia memories and written records. There are two bruised hearts and so many broken dreams. There are promises never kept and words not forgotten. There is a green silk blanket.
There is all this and so much more. This is all that and so much less.

How am I to get rid of so much evidence?

What happens to a dream deferred?

Wouldnt you like to know? This happens.
This.
This.
This.

Trinity and all that. Hah hah!
And 14 years 5 months and 6 days on I suppose I shall look back in anger. Or apathy.

Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh.
The world revolves like ancient women
Gather fuel in vacant lots.

Not original ofcourse. All by Mr. Eliot. All. Every bit. Who died and made him king? Who told him to make assumptions on behalf of the rest of the world?
Ah, but he had something going there didnt he?
And so we laugh, darlings. We laugh.