Something of Myself
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
'Why do I find it so hard to motivate myself? Why do I always have to push harder? Why do I have to dig, dig, dig, dig deeper and find nothing?'
He was thinking aloud as he was walking past the Exe river just by the Mill on the Exe. £1.50 a pint - that was the price for Carling lager those days. He used to head down for a long walk by the river and by the time he arrived at the Mill, he used to be ready for 5-6 pints. Walking back was almost impossible.
He liked crying in the rain - they could never see his tears.
They kept saying, 'Life's like that honey!' but he would not give up. Disappointed, defeated and disgruntled, he walked back to his apartment. Full of bricks.
These were the times when he used to buy an international calling card. The Bangladeshi ones are always the cheapest. A £5 card would allow you to speak for about 20 minutes with your dear ones.
'Hello!'
'Hey! How have you been?'
'Yeah, cholche.'
'Had dinner?'
'No. I'll be cooking chicken in some time. How are you?'
'First class. Don't waste so much money. I know you work hard for it.'
'Yeah, but to call you, right?'
'I know, I know...you better go and cook. It must be late.'
'Ok. Take care. Be good.'
'You too.'
'Tata.'
'You have £4 and 5 pence remaining on your card. Press hash to make another call.'
He would hang up and stare at the picture that sat on the middle shelf of the book rack. He used to see it and tears welled up. Unknowingly. Unwantingly.
The pain of distance. The pain of not being able to touch someone you love. The pain of not being able to see him smiling. The pain of not being able to pat him on the shoulders. The pain of not being able to smell him. That was it. That was what caused the pain. The absence.
It's no different now. No wonder then that motivation, inspiration, and the first cousins of the same are nowhere to be found.
But then, that's life honey! :-)
He was thinking aloud as he was walking past the Exe river just by the Mill on the Exe. £1.50 a pint - that was the price for Carling lager those days. He used to head down for a long walk by the river and by the time he arrived at the Mill, he used to be ready for 5-6 pints. Walking back was almost impossible.
He liked crying in the rain - they could never see his tears.
They kept saying, 'Life's like that honey!' but he would not give up. Disappointed, defeated and disgruntled, he walked back to his apartment. Full of bricks.
These were the times when he used to buy an international calling card. The Bangladeshi ones are always the cheapest. A £5 card would allow you to speak for about 20 minutes with your dear ones.
'Hello!'
'Hey! How have you been?'
'Yeah, cholche.'
'Had dinner?'
'No. I'll be cooking chicken in some time. How are you?'
'First class. Don't waste so much money. I know you work hard for it.'
'Yeah, but to call you, right?'
'I know, I know...you better go and cook. It must be late.'
'Ok. Take care. Be good.'
'You too.'
'Tata.'
'You have £4 and 5 pence remaining on your card. Press hash to make another call.'
He would hang up and stare at the picture that sat on the middle shelf of the book rack. He used to see it and tears welled up. Unknowingly. Unwantingly.
The pain of distance. The pain of not being able to touch someone you love. The pain of not being able to see him smiling. The pain of not being able to pat him on the shoulders. The pain of not being able to smell him. That was it. That was what caused the pain. The absence.
It's no different now. No wonder then that motivation, inspiration, and the first cousins of the same are nowhere to be found.
But then, that's life honey! :-)
Saturday, February 17, 2007
I don't know why I decided to write a post. Perhaps from the unending need to vent my frustrations, or to voice my defeat? This is post number 201. How different things were even 100 posts earlier. It's like my world is neatly divided into two timelines. BD and AD.
It's for you to unwrap them. To read the unsaid, decode the cryptic...
201 remains a testimonial of a life not-so-badly spent, but definitely wasted. :-)
Here's to the next 100!
It's for you to unwrap them. To read the unsaid, decode the cryptic...
201 remains a testimonial of a life not-so-badly spent, but definitely wasted. :-)
Here's to the next 100!
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Those Were the Best Days of My Life
How would it be if I were not put inside the jaws of struggle? How would it be if she had more faith in me than I had in myself? How would it be if I had not left dead bodies behind, and walked over them to arrive where I am right now? How would it be if I were not to submit and surrender every single idea that I thought could change the face of things facing me? Huh! It would be dull.
There is a part of that I discovered today. A part that usually lies dormant, and hardly comes to life. The part that was. The childhood days. School. SXC. 1A, 2B, 3C, 4A, 5C, 6B, 7A, 8 don't remember, 9A, 10C. The marwari guy who had loads of money and jackshit intelligence. The bong guy whose father had expensive cars to satiate his son's desire. The ordinary guy whose father sold meat, and who is now one of the leading engineers of the Microsofts of the world. The crack-obsessed guy who was perpetually drugged. Comfortably numb?! The guy who representated the minority and did not pass out even when I finished my Master's. The topper - forever being followed by the prettiest of the ladies. He was no book worm. Quite a contrast actually. He shared his first name with me. Short. Timid. But brilliant. Unlike me. I was the back bencher. Shy. Callous. Careless. The last two words kept surfacing in my report card, under the 'additional remarks' column.
It's been a long way since then. The chilly winds. The rain. The smell of foreign soil. The sense of being a foreigner. The exclusion. You are not one of us. Everything contributed to what I am today. And still they say, 'prove your worth.' It's fucking frustrating. It's like going into labour every fortnight and being accused of being infertile every now and then. It's worse. It hurts. But hell! Who cares?! Not me!
I miss those days. Naive. Irresponsible. Unaccountable. Homework and all. Evening games.
'Ma, please can I go out to play cricket for an hour? I promise no more than an hour.'
And then I would not return before two, three hours...Pele...nowhere to be found. Battling it out in some shady field in the suburbs of Alipur. Durgapur bridge was just under construction those days. The slums were full of folks who did not have a meal a day, selling their daughters for less than $5 a day. Dad was always apprehensive about them; he thought they were aggresive by nature and could do anything to get what they wanted. Unfortunately, the lunch or the dinner was elusive. Like Sukumar Ray's Abol Tabol. :-)
Only more tragic.
How would it be if I were not put inside the jaws of struggle? How would it be if she had more faith in me than I had in myself? How would it be if I had not left dead bodies behind, and walked over them to arrive where I am right now? How would it be if I were not to submit and surrender every single idea that I thought could change the face of things facing me? Huh! It would be dull.
There is a part of that I discovered today. A part that usually lies dormant, and hardly comes to life. The part that was. The childhood days. School. SXC. 1A, 2B, 3C, 4A, 5C, 6B, 7A, 8 don't remember, 9A, 10C. The marwari guy who had loads of money and jackshit intelligence. The bong guy whose father had expensive cars to satiate his son's desire. The ordinary guy whose father sold meat, and who is now one of the leading engineers of the Microsofts of the world. The crack-obsessed guy who was perpetually drugged. Comfortably numb?! The guy who representated the minority and did not pass out even when I finished my Master's. The topper - forever being followed by the prettiest of the ladies. He was no book worm. Quite a contrast actually. He shared his first name with me. Short. Timid. But brilliant. Unlike me. I was the back bencher. Shy. Callous. Careless. The last two words kept surfacing in my report card, under the 'additional remarks' column.
It's been a long way since then. The chilly winds. The rain. The smell of foreign soil. The sense of being a foreigner. The exclusion. You are not one of us. Everything contributed to what I am today. And still they say, 'prove your worth.' It's fucking frustrating. It's like going into labour every fortnight and being accused of being infertile every now and then. It's worse. It hurts. But hell! Who cares?! Not me!
I miss those days. Naive. Irresponsible. Unaccountable. Homework and all. Evening games.
'Ma, please can I go out to play cricket for an hour? I promise no more than an hour.'
And then I would not return before two, three hours...Pele...nowhere to be found. Battling it out in some shady field in the suburbs of Alipur. Durgapur bridge was just under construction those days. The slums were full of folks who did not have a meal a day, selling their daughters for less than $5 a day. Dad was always apprehensive about them; he thought they were aggresive by nature and could do anything to get what they wanted. Unfortunately, the lunch or the dinner was elusive. Like Sukumar Ray's Abol Tabol. :-)
Only more tragic.
Friday, February 09, 2007
In my moments of deepest uncertainties, and gravest fears, these lines never EVER cease to provide me with the inspiration which every ordinary human being needs, now and then: of course, these could only have been written by the God of poetry - Alfred Lord Tennyson:
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro’
Gleams that untravell’d world, whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish’d, not to shine in use!
As tho’ to breathe were life.
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
’Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro’
Gleams that untravell’d world, whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish’d, not to shine in use!
As tho’ to breathe were life.
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
’Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Father and Son
I just began reading Man and Boy last night. It was Tony, my M.A. supervisor who had referred me to read this book, as he thought it encapsulated the stiffling, contemporary, split British individual, as good as a leaf from an Irvine Welsh or a Martin Amis. However, what gripped me from the first sentence of the novel was the relationship between a father and a son. The sheer joy that a male individual experiences when he becomes a father (or in other words, the joy he experiences when a male individual's wife gives birth to a child)! ;-) Tongue-in-cheek? No? Never mind!
I wondered how I would feel when I become a father.
It would be a full circle to say the least. Keep aside the joy of having a new born in one's arms. Keep aside the joy of having the pride of calling oneself the 'father' of a child. Keep aside the pleasure of watching a one-day old human being smile/yawn/sleep. Keep aside the sense of fulfilment that comes along with being a family man! Hell, it would mean that I, a 30 year old individual would no longer be a man, but a 'Dad'. Some years down the line, he would actually call me 'Dad.'
There was a guy in my school. He was also called A*******. He was excellent at English elocution. He always used to recite one piece that started - 'Dad! Dad! Wake up Dad! It's nine in the morning, breakfast is done. Dad! Daaaaaaaaaad!' He used to elocute wonderfully, like a ten year old waking up his lazy-arsed father.
Imagine my son waking me up (of course my arse is the laziest you will ever see). ;-)
It would be beautiful. Hot babes will not live up to that beauty. Sex will not get me to that high. Drugs will not offer the permanent bliss. A child will. A child can. God, I sound like some 35 year old woman, approaching menopause and craving for her first child! ;-)
But it is like that you see. Life's simple joys are born at the brink of some simple thoughts.
I know it will be hard being a father. I know it will be hard moulding an individual, shaping him up, roughing him up, scolding him, annoying him...but then, when a man walks back to his house after a hard days work only two things make a huge difference in the quality of his life - a comforting wife and a loving child.
No, this is not about a middle class Indian family. It's about an universal truth. Experienced by the blessed. And it might sound like the chapter of a Mistry novel, but it is the truest and perhaps the most commonest aspiration of all young males with a desire to have a family.
No, this is not me who is writing this post. It's a ghost writer. I will sue this bugger for doing this to me. I swear this is not me.
It is times like these, brittle and vulnerable; I somehow, for one fleeting moment feel that I could just end up being like my Dad. Human. Proud. Loving. Responsible. And selfless. Therein lies the joy of being a father. :-)
I just began reading Man and Boy last night. It was Tony, my M.A. supervisor who had referred me to read this book, as he thought it encapsulated the stiffling, contemporary, split British individual, as good as a leaf from an Irvine Welsh or a Martin Amis. However, what gripped me from the first sentence of the novel was the relationship between a father and a son. The sheer joy that a male individual experiences when he becomes a father (or in other words, the joy he experiences when a male individual's wife gives birth to a child)! ;-) Tongue-in-cheek? No? Never mind!
I wondered how I would feel when I become a father.
It would be a full circle to say the least. Keep aside the joy of having a new born in one's arms. Keep aside the joy of having the pride of calling oneself the 'father' of a child. Keep aside the pleasure of watching a one-day old human being smile/yawn/sleep. Keep aside the sense of fulfilment that comes along with being a family man! Hell, it would mean that I, a 30 year old individual would no longer be a man, but a 'Dad'. Some years down the line, he would actually call me 'Dad.'
There was a guy in my school. He was also called A*******. He was excellent at English elocution. He always used to recite one piece that started - 'Dad! Dad! Wake up Dad! It's nine in the morning, breakfast is done. Dad! Daaaaaaaaaad!' He used to elocute wonderfully, like a ten year old waking up his lazy-arsed father.
Imagine my son waking me up (of course my arse is the laziest you will ever see). ;-)
It would be beautiful. Hot babes will not live up to that beauty. Sex will not get me to that high. Drugs will not offer the permanent bliss. A child will. A child can. God, I sound like some 35 year old woman, approaching menopause and craving for her first child! ;-)
But it is like that you see. Life's simple joys are born at the brink of some simple thoughts.
I know it will be hard being a father. I know it will be hard moulding an individual, shaping him up, roughing him up, scolding him, annoying him...but then, when a man walks back to his house after a hard days work only two things make a huge difference in the quality of his life - a comforting wife and a loving child.
No, this is not about a middle class Indian family. It's about an universal truth. Experienced by the blessed. And it might sound like the chapter of a Mistry novel, but it is the truest and perhaps the most commonest aspiration of all young males with a desire to have a family.
No, this is not me who is writing this post. It's a ghost writer. I will sue this bugger for doing this to me. I swear this is not me.
It is times like these, brittle and vulnerable; I somehow, for one fleeting moment feel that I could just end up being like my Dad. Human. Proud. Loving. Responsible. And selfless. Therein lies the joy of being a father. :-)
Friday, February 02, 2007
Have you ever felt the bile rise within you when you were fuming with anger and burning to vent it? That's what I am feeling right now. I am not the kind who can lick people's feet and massage their egos to accomplish a greater goal. They say it's in my stars, but calling a spade, a spade has always been my most instinctive response. Why should I flinch from telling the truth? Why should I bend over because you are being just plain fucking insane?
I want to do so many things that can bring about so much ruins on so many people. Fragments that they have shared with me is enough for me to bring them down from their seats of glory. It's about power, isn't it? Power is everything. May be not. May be reputation is everything. May be a single mail, or a single sms, or a single press release, or a single phone call might just pull the rug beneath your feet and leave you scarred for life. That is the beauty of not having power. Of not having anything to lose. Of not having anything to care about. Of being bold. Of being truthful.
These fuckers won't let me stand up. They are insecured. They have made it to where they are with a lot of massaging, blowjobs, pussy-selling...and now that they are glued to their thrones, they want me to do the same. I won't. I won't suck. I will nurture my anger and channel my vengeance in such a manner that you will lose every hair on your arse and be left faceless in front of your comrades. I will fuck you from within.
I am hardly the fuck-me-do kinds. But when pushed so much, with half-broken promises and flimsy dreams, there is a growing desire that flows with the bile that rises in me, to get on with it, and put everything to rest. Yeah, the world is not fair, but then nothing is stopping me from being just.
Don't mess with me. I am cunt-blowing material who will fuck your mind over.
I want to do so many things that can bring about so much ruins on so many people. Fragments that they have shared with me is enough for me to bring them down from their seats of glory. It's about power, isn't it? Power is everything. May be not. May be reputation is everything. May be a single mail, or a single sms, or a single press release, or a single phone call might just pull the rug beneath your feet and leave you scarred for life. That is the beauty of not having power. Of not having anything to lose. Of not having anything to care about. Of being bold. Of being truthful.
These fuckers won't let me stand up. They are insecured. They have made it to where they are with a lot of massaging, blowjobs, pussy-selling...and now that they are glued to their thrones, they want me to do the same. I won't. I won't suck. I will nurture my anger and channel my vengeance in such a manner that you will lose every hair on your arse and be left faceless in front of your comrades. I will fuck you from within.
I am hardly the fuck-me-do kinds. But when pushed so much, with half-broken promises and flimsy dreams, there is a growing desire that flows with the bile that rises in me, to get on with it, and put everything to rest. Yeah, the world is not fair, but then nothing is stopping me from being just.
Don't mess with me. I am cunt-blowing material who will fuck your mind over.
