Something of Myself

Can we really trust people? How do you do it? After all, "Et tu Brutus?" aint that far away? You live a life like a cocooned butterfly...come out of it now and then...face the world: dirty, mysterious, filthy, gloomy, choking, stiffling and then suddenly you realise that you are running out of breath. All the people whom who had trusted: unselfishly - they come running towards you. You are oblivious of their approach. Like a moth attracted to the flame you move towards them - to embrace them with open arms and they hug you, love you, lick your wounds and then stab them! Stab it where it hurts the most. You cry but they get some sadistic pleasure out of it. You keep thinking, what did you do wrong? Was it your fault that you actually had the temerity to trust someone? How does it feel to be betrayed? Somebody once said that to be betrayed you got to belong. What if you dont belong and still get that betrayed feeling? What then? How do you feel? What runs through your brains? Are you left incapable of thinking? Or feeling? Immuned? Do you have a heart? Does it beat? Does it just pump blood?

Why do we trust others? Why do we need to put our faith in somebody else? Why do we have to share our secrets with people? Ordinary people. Sometimes I feel that I just want to be alone in this big, big world. Ekla. Akela. Loner. But it takes a lot of guts to shy away from everybody - to push them away from you. I have tried it sometimes. Succeeded at times. Failed a lot of times. Dont know why. And it hurts to tell yourself that you have just been proven the biggest motherfucker ever born! HA HA Looks like I got to get back to my old self - the one who found pleasure in pain, grin born out of pain! You need a really sarcastic vision of the world to be that way. You need to tell yourself that nobody in this world is WORTHY of being trusted. Why cant I learn? I have heard it from baba and ma but look at me! Even Krishna told Arjun to betray Karan. Kill him now He said. This is the moment. Arjun stepped back. Krishna was adamant. Trouble is I aint no Arjun dude! And there is no Krishna who is my sarathi!

Life goes on. You win some, you lose some, says Percy. But in the process you keep collecting this dirt, and end up with a heap of broken images! And then one day, you sit down in front of the heap and you try to figure out your history, the place where it all started. The task then seems enormous. After all how can you trace the histories of innumerable betrayals? Insults born out of jealousy. Hurt inflicted out of anger. All curiously mixed, like with some magic potion. Sometimes I wish life was like a slate and I had this magic sponge. One wipe and the slate is as good as new to write over again. Something like a palimpsest. Erasure and Beginning. One after the other. But life is not like that. Its like a Big Mac - a layer over the other - deliciously tempting, but junky in nature, causing havoc to your system. Trouble is with so much advertisement around, you can't resist it. Life's like that - too many ads, too much marketing, too much soul-searching, too bloody business like! Why cant it be like poetry? A cumulative experience leading to liberty? Or perhaps a Shakesperean play? Well it is like that sometimes - tragedy, comedy and of course a bit of sex! We are Thorn Birds after all. I am. I know it will hurt me but I will sit on it, let the thorn enter the insides of my heart, let my heart bleed and then I will sing a song - one last song, but the best one that I have ever sung in my entire life! Yes, I am a thorn bird. The legend is true. I am living it.

Words - Bee Gees

Smile an everlasting smile, a smile can bring you near to me.
Don't ever let me find you down, cause that would bring a tear to me.
This world has lost its glory, let's start a brand new story now, my love.
Right now, there'll be no other time and I can show you how, my love.

Talk in everlasting words, and dedicate them all to me.
And I will give you all my life, I'm here if you should call to me.
You think that I don't even mean a single word I say.
It's only words, and words are all I have, to take your heart away

Of Friends and Friendship

Row had come down after some months today. We had shared some uncomfortable silences over the last couple of months: she was apprehensive to get in touch with me and I was to egoistical to get back in touch with her! But today when she called me I thought about the fact the she respects me as a friend and loves me too. So i decided to give in: I do manage to surprise myself! Yes I do!

So we met.

It was good, it felt as if we had met about a day back. It always happens that way with good friends! And she cried when I hugged her when I was about to leave. I was naturally left dumbfounded by this. I always am. Meyera kaandle amar khub mushkil hoy: ami theek handle korte pari na, be it my mother, my girlfriend, my fiance, my wife...whatever!

Then I met this chap called Nitin. He obviously reminded me of my Nitin (Envy). Its been ages since I have met Envy...Anyways this bloke is from IIT doing his internship here. He seems like a v smart chap...Simple and polite. Too early to pass any other comments or judgements about him apart from this!

I have written about 4000 words of my introductory chapter. It is ok right now, needs a lot of revision and a hell lot of a re-structuring. But I know I will do it. Tomorrow. Or may be even today. While I was writing the introduction, I realised that subconsciously I was defending Kipling. I dont know why. Why do we defend people whom we've never met? Whom we'll never meet? Who have no influence in our lives? May be out of admiration, perhaps a mixture of admiration for their talent and respect for their vision? But he is cool: he is another dude in my hitlist! :)

Baba and Ma are going to Jamna tomorrow. Its Bhubaneshwari pujo. Its been ages since I have gone to our ancestral village. The pukur, dadu r chamber, aamader poitreek badi, badir pechone narkol gaach, gayer lokera, lokeder respect....these are things that form an indefinable impression on a youngster's mind. But I am sure I will visit it soon and relive those memories again...Jani na keno sentimental hocchi kintu kothay jeno money hoy je dadu, didimar ashirbad chada ami kichui korte partam na. Shastre na ki bole je manush ja kichu hashil kore shob pitri purush der ashirbad e. Bodhoy Dr. Bijoy Jyoti Roy amar opor khub khushi, bodhoy tini amake khub bhalobashen...Loke bole ami naaki ekdom amar dadur moton. Dadu ke ami kono din dekhini, khali sunechi onar bepare. Shunechi tini naki amar maa ke khub bhalobashten. Shunechi tini naki amaar dada r aashbar kotha shune khub excited hoye chilen. Shunechi tini naki shobai kaar dukkher shomoy dadaten. Dadu jodi aaj thakto, jodi ek bar taake dekhte petam tahole onek kichu jigesh kortam. Most importantly jigesh kortam about how naughty and mischevious my dad was! Kintu dadu nei. Dadu jokhun nijer shesh koyek ta nishash nicchilen tini amar baba ke ekbar dekhte chaan...Baba jete parini dadu r ghore...baba is bad at looking at people with cords inserted at all possible places. Baba jai ni. Dadu baba ke naa dekhe i mara jaan. I hope I am there with my baba when he dies. I hope he lives to see that I can do him proud. Ami amar maa baba ke khushi korte chai...tara amar jonne onek kichu sacrifice korechen. I want to payback some of it. Whatever I can, however I can... I hope I am able to prove them that I am a good human being - I know thats what they wanted. I hope I can live upto their expectations!

Baba jokhun mayer preme podechilo tokhun eti likhechilo:
"Debar amar nei to kichu, tai to deoya gelo na
Pabar amar asha chilo, tai to paoya gelo na."

Sweet innit? ;)

Daddy

"Aina mujhse mere peheli si surat maange
Mere aapne hi mere hone ke ki nishaani maange..."

"Sapno ke ghar ke hain chatt pe sitaare
Toffee o ke deewaron pe latke gubaare...
Ghar ke ujiaare so jaa re
Daddy tere jaage tu soja re..."

Brilliant, Fantastic, Done: Good night!

Some quotes on India

“India was like some ancient palimpsest on which layer upon layer of thought and reverie had been inscribed, and yet no succeeding layer had completely hidden or erased what had been written previously. All of these existed in our conscious or subconscious selves, though we may not have been aware of them, and they had gone to build up the complex and mysterious personality of India” (Jawaharlal Nehru, Discovery of India, 1946, pp37-38).

“For no pen – not even the magic pen of a Kipling or a Mrs.Steel – can convey to a mind unacquainted with the East the subtle atmosphere of India, the awful lifelessness of her vast dun-coloured Plains, the smells and sounds of her swarming cities, the majesty of her incomparable mountains, and the mystery that hangs over the lives and thoughts of many of her peoples” (Maud Diver, The Englishwoman in India, 1907, p5).

“In India it is foolish to try and settle which comes first, the owl or the egg. You can’t differentiate cause and effect when both are incomprehensible” (Steel, On The Face of the Waters, p272).

And finally,

“The diversities among the men who ruled India and the contradictions between the various doctrines that they invoked must not make us forget the nature of the system that was set up and eventually had to be abandoned. It was a centralised, enlightened despotism that was transformed in time into an elaborate, autocratic bureaucracy” (Raghavan Iyer, “Utilitarianism and All That”, 1960).

Time to Kill

Its been ages since I have actually done some serious work. This week has been horrible cause I have been out and socialising. The first one was when we went out as a group, i.e. M.A.' ers...CN was there and she was looking drop-dead sexy. Lizzy was as good as ever, though she was visibly very nervous. F was well wasted by the end of it. R&B were cool, as ever - their conversations peppered with Iron Maiden and Linux! The next one was yesterday and I met S. She was very worked up about her dissertation and she was unlike what she is normally. Got me worried. I tried to help her out and I hope it has helped. Only time will tell...

Now, it is time to kill...time to get back to the dusty covers and the yellow pages. I have just been smelling them, time to read it! Dekhi ki hoy...

R is coming down this weekend. We havent talked for about 4-5 months. Not a single sms, email et all. I hope when I meet her its not too uncomfortable. Actually I dont want to meet her but I guess I will.

Sammie is very worried too, about her project, about her MBA. That fucking MBA is a killer man. I mean it just ruins her life dude! She is so delicate and chirpy: surely she deserves something better! But I hope she does something worthwhile with it and not end up making dal chaawal for her hubby! I would hate that. I see her as some corporate glam shot. Trouble with her is that she is not very determined...

Anyways, apun chalta hain! Aaj to sala yeh Kipling ki maaa....... wada raha sanam, honge judaa na hum...... ha ha

Idealism and Dreams

I share a flat with 12 other people. Most of them are wankers except a couple. One of them is Raghav, originally christened Raghavan. He is a Malaysian Indian. Anyways we were having this late night chat yesterday and he asked me what would be your ideal other half? It got me thinking, so here it is:

Obviously not in any order of priority, she should be a person who is a genuine human being: genuine as in somebody who cares for others apart from herself. She would be a well-educated person, not in terms of degrees necessarily but schooled in the world of life. She should be a person who commands my respect and admiration for various different reasons - for e.g. if she is into music and sings well or plays well thats a good one! She would of course, I hope love me. Selflessly. Like I would. Her family should be cultured: breeding counts, trust me on that! She should be a person with whom I can share my ideas, my passions, my dreams...

But as I write this I understand how selfish I am. Actually, cut the crap she should be a person who wants me as I am, and not try to change me. Jo tumse pyaar kaare, tum jaise ho waise kaare...

But kya faida, kaunsa mujhe aisi ladki milne wali hain...kismat bhi koi cheez hoti hain beta!!!!! HA HA At the end of it, hona kya hain? Ma, Baba ladki choose karenge, mujhe pasand ayi to haan karunga. The End.

However, as Eliot had once said, "what we call the beginning is often the end and what we call the end if often the beginning. It is the end where we start."

Literature and Loneliness

Is great literature born out of loneliness? Think about it, to a certain extent the answer would be yes. Some writers even confine themselves in cells or go underground to bring out the creativity bursting their minds. Isolation, seclusion from the rest of the world including your dear ones allegedly helps to concentrate and put things into perspective. But isnt it strange that the inspiration and the material for that literature comes from the very world that one moves away from? After all no literature exists in vacuum!

I was thinking about the act of reading today too. That's another very subjective, isolated experience. What you feel and experience when you read this random gibberish on my blog is only experienced by you. If you happen to read a novel or a poem or a play then of course the dividends are richer but the experience is solitary. Or is it not - because the other side of the argument would be that the "author" is actually there with you, present at a fictitious level, guiding you through the labyrinth that he has created for you. If the author happens to be a woman, chances are that you will get lost and then find yourself again: rejuvenated! Naah, just kidding...

There are stories that Dickens use to lock himself up in his study when he was composing the masterpieces that we still cherish today. He had apart from books, a single mirror in his study. He use to write a small amount, leave his desk, stood in front of the mirror and used to make funny faces to himself. I wonder why. Was it because he wanted to feel that there was somebody, an "other" physically there with him too? Or was it his way of taking (what we would call today) a break?

Come to think of it, there are so many things in life that are solitary - for e.g. sleeping. You could sleep "with" somebody but then again once asleep you would be by yourself - not conscious of any company! Masturbation is another solitary experience. I look at it as a frustrated response to the lack of sexual company. I am not arguing that its abnormal or something but its done in exclusion, until of course you are a lesbian or perhaps if you are getting a handjob, but then again it wouldnt qualify as masturbation, would it?

From literature to loneliness to masturbation. Nice. In my own words - fucked up! But hey who cares? Life is fucked up too. But we got to live it, try our best to do the utmost that we can for this life that we have and end it with some sense of contentment. Happiness is hard to find until of course you happen to be one of those elevated thinkers who find it in the presence of the ordinary. Most of us look for it in some kind of a idealised way and often fall short of it. Triumph is hard to maintain. So if I am contended with my life when I die (which is a virtual impossibility given my insatiable quest for everything) I'll consider it to be a job well done!

Chameli would have said on my present state of thoughts: life aisa hi hain sahab!

Is love solitary btw? I mean you fall in love "with" somebody, love has an object to be loved but is the experience solitary? I think it is cause when you feel a million butterflies buzzing in your stomach at the prospect of your first date, only you can hear the buzzing, nobody else. Similarly, when you are cheated upon, only you can hear the cracks which begin to split your heart apart. Why does everything in life (specially what we call it good) need to be solitary? Or is it just my insane way of looking at things cause I am in a country where I feel lonely? Not the latter I would imagine cause I dont feel lonely when I am in a place like London. You simply cant ignore the teeming millions. Of them one, at least one will have an impression on you and will touch you from your inside (that's a Morrison phrase btw - "I want you to touch me on my inside part and call me Beloved).

Results

Today my results are going to be out. Most people are of the opinion that it aint matter cause I got my PhD etc. To me it matters cause I dont want to give the impression that there is a dip in my efforts due to early success. I am not like that. I like to perform consistently and IMPROVE. Its all about idealising Ulysses. But for this moment Eliot comes to mind. His Wasteland:

"APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain...

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water...

I will show you fear in a handful of dust. (my favourite line in the poem)

Unreal City,
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many...

What is that sound high in the air
Murmur of maternal lamentation
Who are those hooded hordes swarming
Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth
Ringed by the flat horizon only
What is the city over the mountains
Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air
Falling towers
Jerusalem Athens Alexandria
Vienna London
Unreal...

Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.
Shantih shantih shantih

Complicated Heart

This one has a very special memory: a memory of Raj (Rajorshi). This was a song that he wrote out for me and told me to listen to. He introduced me to MLTR. I still have that piece of paper in my wallet, it has a sipaya effect about it now with memories firmly etched onto it. No idea where Rajorshi is right now, but I guess wherever he is, he must be doing GREAT!

Don't know what to say now
don't know where to start
I don't know how to handle
a complicated heart
You tell me you are leaving
but I just have to say
before you throw it all away

Even if you want to go alone
I will be waiting when you're coming home
if you need someone to ease the pain
you can lean on me, my love will still remain
Don't know what you're thinking
to me it seems quite tough
to hold a conversation
when words are not enough
so this is your decision
and there's nothing I can do
I can only say to you

Even if you want to go alone
I will be waiting when you're coming home
if you need someone to ease the pain
you can lean on me, my love will still remain

Nothing to Lose

There are times when you make me laugh
there are moments when you drive me mad
there are seconds when I see the light
though many times you made me cry

There's something you don't understand
I want to be your man

Nothing to lose
your love to win
hoping so bad that you'll let me in

I'm at your feet
waiting for you
I've got time and nothing to lose

There are times when I believe in you
these moments when I feel close to you
there are times I think that I am yours
though many times I feel unsure

There's something you don't understand
I want to be your man

Nothing to lose
your love to win
hoping so bad that you'll let me in

I'm at your feet
waiting for you
I've got time and nothing to lose

I'll always be around you
keep an eye on you
cos my patience is strong
and I won't let you run
cos you are the only one

Nothing to lose
your love to win
hoping so bad that you'll let me in

MLTR)

I have been listening to MLTR lately tonight. MLTR and myself go a long way back...to the time when I was about 15 years of age - just grounding my feet in the teenage years. Vulnerable, rebellious and warmly open to every other missy I met. But this is about the first miss I met. It wasnt any love-at-first-sight. In fact, it started as an irrepressive (does any word exist like that?) crush. She was a bengali, easily 4-5 inches taller than me (so what, look at Sachin's wife, and Rushdie's latest wife?!), had a pretty face, intense eyes, gorgeous hair and fine sensibility. At least thats what I felt when I began to know her.

It was hard to approach her at first given the shy person I was back then! Did it, managed to ask her out, became friends and then finally told her that I was actually feeling as if I was falling in love with her. I told this to her after a year of knowing each other. I had known her inside-out by then. Or so I thought, of course I was a dumb-fuck and I was stupid and I was unschooled in the world of life.

Things didnt go on as I had thought. She met somebody. Loved him. He was handsome (come on its time I accept that!). But the thing I didnt like about him was that he treated women like toilet paper - use and throw! I knew it the first time I saw him. He was a good 10-11 years elder to her. But what mattered was that she loved him. She told me that she was sorry, that she couldnt resist him during the time that we were going around - steady and I was steeped in the height of that insrutable thing called "love". Huh!

Now when I look back I feel so stupid. I feel so dumb. Why couldnt I ever see that she wasnt ever in love with me? That it was more of a business relationship for her? Nah, me was naive dear, very naive...you could take a yard from me then and I wouldnt even probably blink! How very different I am NOW!

As I listen to MLTR those days flash by inside my head. A glimpse of her laughter, a glimpse of her tears, a glimpse of her innocence (that's what I construed it to be), a glimpse of the day she gave me my first valentine day's card, a glimpse of the card with a lady on the cover holding a bunch of roses to her bosom, a glimpse of the day she got lost amidst 100,000 people in the Nehru Stadium and I was left feeling like a holy-shit-what-will-happen-now, a glimpse of some of the lies that I told my parents for her and for me, a glimpse of the first time I actually managed to hold her hands, tightly yet in a soft manner, a glimpse of her smile...She was brilliant in singing. One of the songs she use to sing quite often for me was "Piya Bina" from Abhimaan. If you know it, you know its a difficult song to sing. She did it with ease and gracefulness. She dressed immaculately. She never spoke more than what was needed. She was even good at biology (my strong point during those days!). We used to solve Biology "test-papers" together and would time ourselves to see who would get there first! She beat me almost always, yes, she was that good!

It feels strange now. Sometimes I even feel lonely. Sometimes I wish she was here, I could just look at her and say, "Look I have made a beginning. Give me a chance. I think I can make it big. At least I dream big. We are what we dream after all." But she aint here and I am not even in touch with her. The last time I heard from her, she was working as a copywrighter in a big ad firm in Calcutta. I never thought she would get that far considering her erratic performances during her career. But she did. She always had a knack for surprising me. She did it when she took my breath away, she did it when I considered her to be my "girl-friend", and finally she did it when she became somebody else's girlfriend!

I just hope she is well. I hope she remembers me sometimes with a smile on her face. I hope I never meet her. I have too much inside of me that will force itself up the gut when I meet her. I dont want that. She doesnt deserve it. Nobody does. After all as Chris put it, with "acceptance comes a kind of tenderness - a feeling of the paths of individual activity and also of the unique gentleness with which the majority of people respond to each other and to the world in general."

Hell, its good to be ALIVE! Each day brings new hopes and new visions. What more could a man of twenty two years age ask for? Bring it on I say because my thirst is unquenchable. Didnt you know Ulysses is my ideal. He is the dude!

25 Minutes by MLTR (for the ignorant and the unlucky its Michael Learns to Rock)

After some time I've finally made up my mind
she is the girl and I really want to make her mine
I'm searching everywhere to find her again
to tell her I love her
and I'm sorry 'bout the things I've done

I find her standing in front of the church
the only place in town where I didn't search
She looks so happy in her weddingdress
but she's crying while she's saying this

Chorus:
Boy I've missed your kisses all the time but this is
twentyfive minutes too late
Though you travelled so far boy I'm sorry your are
twentyfive minutes too late

Against the wind I'm going home again
wishing me back to the time when we were more than friends


But still I see her in front of the church
the only place in town where I didn't search
She looked so happy in her weddingdress
but she cryed while she was saying this

Chorus: Boy I've missed your kisses all the time but this is
twentyfive minutes too late
Though you travelled so far boy I'm sorry your are
twentyfive minutes too late

Out in the streets
places where hungry hearts have nothing to eat
inside my head
still I can hear the words she said

Chorus:
Boy I've missed your kisses all the time but this is
twentyfive minutes too late
Though you travelled so far boy I'm sorry your are
twentyfive minutes too late

I can still hear her say.......

i finally managed to structure my thoughts around the planning of the thesis. the post sticks are a real help though sammie has failed to gift me the w h smith's tiny stick ons for my notes. i hope she will soon...as the thesis stands (theoretically at least) -
chap 1 - intro: outline of my thesis (i.e. kipling's relation with india); survey of the field (current research et all); historical info (for which one of the books i am reading is by a calcutta uni professor); outline of my thesis portraying the skeleton on which the flesh shall be provided if "allah be pleased"!
chap 2 - self and identity (this is where i hope it starts to rock!) focus will be kim. using theories of bhabha and edward said (its a shame the man died). orientalism is phenomenal. "culture and imperialism" is a work of wonder. i hope to touch upon kipling's use of hybrid language (i.e. hindi, urdu and english).
chap 3 - race relations defining the setting of his fictions. will deal with short stories here primarily (this is the toughie - real hard to pick on the tales that will be useful...why the hell did he have to write so profusely? journalistic demand perhaps!)
also incorporate ideas of the home - homelands etc. dont know how it will fit into race though! clueless but then again thats what the thesis writing is all about, innit? ;) will also touch upon his travel writings. seems out of place again, perhaps need to put it under another separate chapter. LOT of thinking needs to be done as you must have figured out by now.
chap 4 - conclusion with a lusty cheer! god only knows what the conclusion will be but i think the general argument will be that this bloke kipling was basically dumbfounded by the wonders that india presented him. he was so in love with the country that he actually found it hard to temper it keeping in mind the british EMPIRE that was peaking at this time (post 1858 until 1900).

aagey jo hoga woh to bhagwan jaane....upar waale ne kuch to socha hoga mere liye...of late i have come to believe more in god. after all if he gives me pain, he gives me the strength to bear it; if he puts me in trouble, he shows me the way out of it...if he gives me sadness that is only to weigh the preciousness of the fine moments of happiness (for e.g. the 10 minute long laughter that percy and self often indulge in). but one thing is certain, yours truly will leave no stone unturned to deliver the best...or somewhere near to that cause i think the best can never happen - it is always an ideal to aspire to, an ambition that is unachievable but worth aiming for! lets see, time will tell, and RK will remain witness to it!

Calcutta – august 16 1997, 0845 hours.

H: “do you want to come along or not? Its getting late” how he hates her sense of time-management. Why can’t she ever be on time? I mean its good to be punctual, isnt it? But she hasn’t changed. He has been observing her for the last twenty odd years and she has ALWAYS been late.
G: “I AM COMING. DON’T SHOUT AT THE TOP OF YOUR VOICE. YOU DON’T HAVE TO DO THE HOUSEHOLD CHORES, DO YOU? AND YOUR DAD? HE JUST SITS ON HIS ASS AND READS THE NEWSPAPERS IN THE MORNING? WHY CANT HE HELP ME? HE NEVER HELPS ME”
She started to sob…and recovering her aanchal off the flight of stairs headed towards the car.
D: “Memsahib, at least have this rosogolla!”
G: “go and give it to your sahib…you will all pay for this dearly someday, I am telling you…”
She gets in the car with him sitting in the front seat. He always preferred the front seat from where he could get a clear view of the roads, the people, the traffic – the city. Sitting at the rear seat with her wasn’t an option he would consider normally. An exception would be when he wanted a favour from her. Yes he was selfish just like you and me. They travelled in silence. Uncomfortable silences defined his relationship with her. That’s how it was, that’s how it has always been and that’s how its going to be – change is diabolical.

H: “See you later then. Grab some breakfast at office at least”
G: “Bye.”

He arrived at the portals of an institution where he spends six hours of his day, five days a week; that makes it thirty hours a week and one hundred and twenty hours in a month. Exactly and approximately. Of late he has started to love this place perhaps because he knows the values of being a xaverian, of representing St. Xavier’s at an inter-school competition. He was always very competitive, wanting to bag all the prizes for his school – always aiming higher than his reach but never losing sight of his focus. St. Xavier’s has done him good. It has inculcated in him certain values that he treasures the most in life. of course, now he doesn’t understand the meaning of those values but I am telling you that he will in the near future. The school has offered him a way of life where he is free from all the tensions and frictions of adolescent life in a nucleated family peppered with ego rivalries. Once the gates of St. Xavier’s is shut at 0915 hours, he knows he is safe for the next six hours. He knows the world is his, this world, not the world out there.

As he walks past the prefect’s office, Father Boris calls out to him –
“Hey you! Wait. Come here”
H: “good morning father.”
B: “good morning. You are the one who went for the Inter-School Elocution Contest at Don Bosco last week, didn’t you?”
H: “Yes father.”
B: “Well, I’ve got the results today if you want to know it” (he said it with a grin on his face that begged the question: who wouldn’t want to know it?)
H: “Yes father. Please, please tell me what happened? Did we win father? Father?”
B: “you’ve got the second prize my boy. Well done. Here is your certificate and that’s the medal over there behind that menacing pile of papers.”
H: “Oh. Thank you father.”

He walked away silently with his silver medal and a white certificate bearing the logo of Don Bosco saying that he was the recipient of the second prize. He read it once and started walking towards his classroom – 9E.

He was never happy with his performances especially in curriculars. He wanted to excel, after all he came from a school that held Nihil Ultra as its motto – Nothing Beyond. The words of the school anthem began to ring in his ears – “In dramas, debates, and contests as well, / We boys of SXC do excel…” He was disappointed with himself but consoled by the fact that he had at least something to show his parents when he got back home.

he walks past rashbehari avenue observing the teeming millions returning from office; watches the busty girls brushing past him. its hard for him these days. hormones after all. as he takes a right turn from deshapriyo park he glimpses at a figure of a woman.

this woman is of importance to this narration.

he looks away from her. as if he never saw her. ignorance. no, its not blissful he tells himself. the woman is about 5 feet 10 inches tall, a good 4 inch taller than he. black hair, brown eyes, joint eyebrows and an almost perfect figure. oh and yes she has good breasts. he sees them first. always.

perverted? no, its the hormones. i told you just now.

the woman approaches him. she crosses the street and confronts him - a flashback of images runs wild through his brains. love, hate, deception and love again:

"hey! where where you all this while? i called you so many times (no she didn't). after that day you just vanished. are you OK?"
H: "yeah yeah i am fine. i am actually in a hurry. i'll give you a ring when i get back home, is that alright?"
"yeah, i guess so...listen i REALLY want to talk to you"
"yes i will call you. promise."

he so hated himself to make false promises but he couldnt help himself. life was like that. life made false promises to him and he to others around him, as if to spread the word of existence.

"who told you to offer to call? why? what;s the bloody point? she is a whore, can't you see that? do you need more proof? i mean she has cheated on you. can you comprehend the seriousness of this issue? your FIRST love cheated on you." a numbing sensation grips him. imagine a moment of paralysis - now here and now gone. that's what he feels.

he recognises a car turning at the lansdowne crossing. its his dad.
"oiy! hop in! where are you off to?"
H: "oh just going to buy some dhoop kathis. i'll go and get them, you carry on"
D: "sure?"
H: "yes dad. can you cook some alu morich for me when i come back?"
D: "sure. no problem. at your service sir!"

the car slowly moves away from him. "at your service sir" lingers on his mind. his dad had ALWAYS been at his "service". he felt a moment of pure happiness - the kind of emotion that one experiences when one receives his first valentine day's card from an anonymous admirer.

the woman's train of thoughts had been disrupted by the sudden appearance of his dad. he started thinking about him. dad. dear dad.

calcutta - june 1995. he's been waiting for the bus to come for half an hour now. the number 3C/1 seems like an illusion. this is it. this is the beginning of my story. he is my main character. he is waiting for the bus. you have to wait too...

G: "when you come back get some dhup kathis for pujo. OK? dont forget, today is thursday!"
H: "yeah OK! anything else your highness requires?"
G: "no. what can i want out of life at this stage? i have lost -" THUD.

and so he came out of his house wearing a blue wrangler jeans. waist 28. he has always been a lean fellow. he took out his ciggarette packet from his shirt pocket and lit one. "aah! what a hell this world is! i mean look at that girl who is walking just ahead of that bald motherfucker. i mean this girl is about 19-20 years of age and look at what she is wearing - string top and a short skirt! if she gets raped tomorrow there will be such a bloody commotion."

hobe na keno? this is calcutta. 1995. a very hot day in june.

S: "excuse me, do you have a lighter on you?"
H: "yeah sure."
he cups his left hand and lights the ciggarette for the young man. about 25 perhaps. men are so better than woman sometimes, he thinks.
S: "thank you dada. which bus are you waiting for?"
H: "3C/1"
S: "where are you heading for?"
H: "bhowanipore."
the man seems to be intelligent to as he understands that "he" is not interested in talking much to him. his curt replies implies that. he has always been like that. he never says anything blatantly until the situation demands that of him.

"koi humdum naa raha, koi sahara na raha" - he starts humming in his innermost private regions of his mind. a faint smile appears on his face. the heat is too much to bear. he thinks of buying a can of coke. the bus is not going to show up anyways. he goes to the vendor opposite the bus stop and asks for a can of coke. he doesnt like anything else but the can of coke. there is one exception though: bijoligrill's ice-cream soda.

V: "10rupees"
H: "just a second"
he searches for some loose change in his trouser pockets. no luck. he realises that he doesnt have any money on him. no coke. no ice-cream soda. no bus. and certainly no going back home to get the wallet. "but how the fuck will you buy the dhoop kathi? mum will shout the hell out of you if you dont get it. oh dear god, i hate this place."

he starts walking back towards his house. its not very far anyways - about 50 yards from where he is standing right now. he asks the durwan to lend him 20 rupees. the durwan obliges with a wicked smile that means - "you are the sahib and you are asking money from me? HA HA HA" he ignores it - decides to walk this time. the bus is a living nightmare he realises.

now that i have got the phd offer and scholarship, it seems like finishing the MA is going to be one hell of a job. i am sure, someday, i will look back as i do now on the days gone by, and just laught at my immaturity... but work needs to be done. this bloody teaching thing is also putting me off and is going to take up my time. i need to get to work. hard-core work. deep. you know what i mean? well, today read some unpublished articles of kipling...they were nice. that man's gift of phrase is simply stunning. read to find out more! ;)

baki jibon cholche aar ki. old wine, new bottle - life goes on. kalke abar ek bondhur mayer saathe dekha korte jete hobe. formalities. ki mushkil. aschorjo naa?
p: "hello aunty"
A: "hello"
p: "so how was your flight?"
A: "it was tiring but ok"
p: "are you liking exeter aunty?"
A: "yeah its very good...i like this weather a lot"...... (pele thinks you are a dumbfuck! let me go)
A: "so are you going to have dinner with us today then?"
p: "no aunty. i got to go. i have a meeting with one of my supervisors" (i NEVER have any meeting with my supervisors after office hours but high-class, filthy rich mom's are too dumb to understand that!)

i hate putting up with people because i HAVE to. i mean this girl is not even my FRIEND. she is just an acquaintance and i have to smile and look so goddamn interested about her mother and what she says. why? oh because if i dont then she will think pele is arrogant. its not about being arrogant asshole and even if it is...lets assume...so WHAT? this is me. i am like this. i am arrogant. i am moody. i hate to talk to people who talk bullshit and lack substance. why do we always need to talk substance? no we dont. but how do i know that you talk substance? what is substance? something that is logical, reasonable...something that makes me think. i think therefore i am. remember?

sometimes i wish i was not born in an indian society. the rules and codes of social behaviour turns me off. liz hurley turns me on! ;)

anyways, too late now. got to meet this phoney tomorrow about teaching plans etc. and the best thing is that you dont even get paid on time! take that! i wish i was a dog. eat from the gutter, sleep on the streets, have sex with any bitch and then die one day after seven or eight years of living. now that's what i call living like a DOG. ha ha ha khair rakhe kesto maare ke?

oh btw why can't people let other live in peace? i mean is it absolutely essential that you got to finger me when i am so busy and so stressed?? no right? then leave me ALONE.

no studies for quite some time now...hmm...anyways booked my ticket. it always feels good to book your tickets, to know the exact date and go over it...the date that i will leave this godforsaken country for sometime at least. i am hoping to stay in kolkata for the durga puja. four years is a long time to miss out on badir pujo.

today the election results came out. i got a mail from my brother telling me that congress was on a winning front. i was dumbfounded. i never expected congress to win. but the democracy has done its trick - they've kept it simple: you dont deliver, we wont vote. good job. people are making a big fuss about sonia gandhi's origin. i mean for christ's sake by that logic arnold shouldnt have been the governor in the united states. i mean i agree with the fact that it is rather shameful that we dont have a leader who is an out and out Indian to rule the country but then again, sonia IS an indian. she has lived in india more than i have. does it make me less of an indian? so what if she was born italian? she married an indian. she lived like an indian. at least now the alliances have shut that matter up. i know she is not experienced and blah blah but its not the critics who decide the balance of power, it is the masses and the masses have chosen her. i hope she and her party does a good job.

i seriously need to get my concentration back. i am leaving for india on the 13th of august. can't bloody wait! sometimes i think i might feel like a phirang when i go there. i hope it doesnt happen. i hope i feel like i used to...its probably just the used-to factor...

aaj apun thoda lonely feel karr raha hain. subah se. actually kafi lonely feel karr raha hain. why? perhaps because to share your triumph is fundamental to human nature. perhaps. who knows? me not know. me most foolish. me ignorant. ignorance is bliss.

i look forward to tomorrow morning. it will be a new day, renewed vigours, new challenges, new yardsticks....how boring life would have been without the rythmic alterations of old and new, past and present, young and old, now here and now gone, a rising wave and a descending one....the beauty of life lies in the fine moment of transition between the present that recedes into the past and looks forward to the future. all happening simultaneously. god i am glad to be alive. to live another day. life is beautiful.

kipling asks in kim - "who is kim?"
what a fool! arrey kipling dada, kim is kim because kim is not anybody but kim. kim is kim. who is kim? kim is kim. why indulge in unfruitful psychoanalytical theories whereby kim's identity crisis is a result of kipling's masturbation crisis in early childhood? no i seriously read that....why cant these big guys keep it to simply - kim IS kim?

peye gechi. mil gaya. gotcha! i FINALLY managed to get the funding for the much sought PhD. credit goes to everybody, starting from parents to teachers and friends who helped me along. made it worthwhile. never made me feel that i couldnt do it. i am thankful to them.

bangalee ke aro lodte hobe. one more fight, the last and the best! ;)

now i need to go. a meeting with my supervisor. a man's got to do what he's got to do.

so now i have re-vamped my blog (or so it seems). it seems to be a lot better than the earlier version. still can't upload my stupid photo on this, but never mind, me no good looking stud anyways! me just ordinary. very mundane. almost as banal as the sweaty dew-drops balancing on the petals on a chilly winter morning. :) ciao!

Jesus mary christ! this is so bloody surreal. as i am typing this my future is being decided in a well lit conference room - the members of staff of the uni who will say "yes" or "no" to my application for funding. this is scary as hell. i am shit scared. i know i have a very good chance and i know that unofficially i have been told that i have got the funding but the leopard aint dead until it has been skinned. and that's what i believe in.

anyways i have been thinking about my fav books, poems etc since yesterday...about why i like them etc. here;s the list:

1. ellison - invisible man
2. george eliot - middlemarch
3. tennyson - in memoriam and ulysses
4. shakespeare - hamlet and merchant of venice
5. dickens - bleak house, little dorrit and hard times
6. kipling - kim
7. milton - paradise lost
8. richard wright - native son
9. jhumpa lahiri - the namesake and the interpreter of maladies
10. toni morrison - paradise and beloved
11. puzo - godfather
12. zadie smith - white teeth
13. hanif kureishi - intimacy
14. hardy - woodlanders and tess of the d'urbervilles
15. colleen mccullough - thorn birds (i am yet to read a more intriguing prologue than this one)
16. sidney sheldon - nothing lasts forever
17. satyajit ray - feluda novels
18. conrad - heart of darkness
19. dostoevsky - notes from the underground
20. tolstoy - anna karenina
21. italo calvino - if on a winter's night a traveller
22. vikram seth - an equal music

this is of course not in any chronological order, just a random rememberance and i have probably forgotten a whole load of others that inspired, moved, touched and swept me off my feet. shakespeare's othello and richard II for instance, the poetry of keats and shelley and wordsworth for instance. someday, like chris, i dream of having all of these and many others firmly etched in the innermost canvasses of my brain so that i can quote them at will, freely and wisely. so that i can take refuge in just remembering just a scene from one of them. that's my dream.

as of now, if i get to do the phd that'll be more than helpful is making the first step.