Something of Myself
Friday, March 23, 2007
| You Are 68% Brutally Honest |
 Most of the time, you tell it like it is. Even if it's hard for people to hear. Sometimes you hold back though, because you never want your honesty to be hurtful. |
| You Are 40% Open |
 You are open at times, but generally you don't let many people into your inner world. It's possible that you have a friend or two that knows you well. But to most people, you are a total mystery. |
Thursday, March 22, 2007
It was pissing rain. Mahindra and Mahindra, in those days was a brand to reckon with. Imagine a jeep chugging along a motorway (highway?) - the Great Trunk Road. Three passengers. One driver. One little kid. Twelve years only. Expiry date unknown.
It was on that day, as the car shoved through the snarling traffic that the boy was introduced to the culture of his own history. Music. Lyrics. Sony Walkman (no, the iPod did not exist back then)...
What is it about our culture that constantly draws us towards it? Is it the language that binds us all? Is it the congregation of communities? Is it the dress code? Is it the way people talk? Communicate? The conservatism or the hideousness? Binge drinking or no drinking? Free sex or no sex?
The boy was a Bong. A bengali. A hindu branch. Tainted with the burden of the Babu adage. The Empire is not dead after all! Go back to the late 1700 or the early 1800 and you will find enough lit on the Bengali Babu. The english speaking native, known for his laid-back attitude, never falling short of praising the masters who ruled 3/4ths of the world! In a way, selling their conscience to ensure they had a respectable position.
Cut to 2007. The boy is a man now. Still a Bengali. The same old songs that moved his parents and his parents' parents. The same old dishes that lit up his father's eyes. The same tenderness that attracted his mother to his father. The same daring attitude, the same thirst for knowledge, the same I-will-submit-now-only-to-rape-your-unfair-system attitude.
Think about it. What it means to be what you are - a minute part of a huge community. What is it that binds you together?
For me what works is the simplicity. The naivety. The intellectual thirst. The collective mourning of what-we-could-have-been: a classical symptom of being a Bengali. :-)
During my stay abroad, I always feared I would lose a part of me that was very dear to me - my roots. But after years, as I look back, I can safely laze around on a leather couch, knowing this laziness is a trait of what I am. I belong somewhere. To a language. I have words that my mates understand. I have a notion of history that is embedded in the collective consciousness of the community to which I belong.
But above all, this is what fascinates me the most: we are so many things at once - a son, a father, a teacher, an employee, a Hindu, black, Bengali, friend, lover, enemy and still we manage to be what we are. Perhaps at times sacrificing one part for the other.
Joi Bangla! :-)
It was on that day, as the car shoved through the snarling traffic that the boy was introduced to the culture of his own history. Music. Lyrics. Sony Walkman (no, the iPod did not exist back then)...
What is it about our culture that constantly draws us towards it? Is it the language that binds us all? Is it the congregation of communities? Is it the dress code? Is it the way people talk? Communicate? The conservatism or the hideousness? Binge drinking or no drinking? Free sex or no sex?
The boy was a Bong. A bengali. A hindu branch. Tainted with the burden of the Babu adage. The Empire is not dead after all! Go back to the late 1700 or the early 1800 and you will find enough lit on the Bengali Babu. The english speaking native, known for his laid-back attitude, never falling short of praising the masters who ruled 3/4ths of the world! In a way, selling their conscience to ensure they had a respectable position.
Cut to 2007. The boy is a man now. Still a Bengali. The same old songs that moved his parents and his parents' parents. The same old dishes that lit up his father's eyes. The same tenderness that attracted his mother to his father. The same daring attitude, the same thirst for knowledge, the same I-will-submit-now-only-to-rape-your-unfair-system attitude.
Think about it. What it means to be what you are - a minute part of a huge community. What is it that binds you together?
For me what works is the simplicity. The naivety. The intellectual thirst. The collective mourning of what-we-could-have-been: a classical symptom of being a Bengali. :-)
During my stay abroad, I always feared I would lose a part of me that was very dear to me - my roots. But after years, as I look back, I can safely laze around on a leather couch, knowing this laziness is a trait of what I am. I belong somewhere. To a language. I have words that my mates understand. I have a notion of history that is embedded in the collective consciousness of the community to which I belong.
But above all, this is what fascinates me the most: we are so many things at once - a son, a father, a teacher, an employee, a Hindu, black, Bengali, friend, lover, enemy and still we manage to be what we are. Perhaps at times sacrificing one part for the other.
Joi Bangla! :-)
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Unfortunately for him and fortunately for Zara, DJ extended his hand, his thumbs at a perfect 60 degree angle, and slipped his fingers to shake hands with her. The girl was too small anyways, so there was no point blaming her for anything.
'I'll catch you later - you take care and give me a shout before the concert, you need some more practice', he mumbled, and walked down the narrow alley, taking a left turn onto the lane, and finally grasping for fresh air, arriving at the main road besides Shyam Bajar.
The Netaji statue was full of crow shit and it didn't really matter to DJ for his mind was going to burst anytime now.
The next day, he stayed in bed. He did not want to come out of his single bedroom flat. Suddenly, the flat became his very own Harlem. He started having imaginary conversations with Anusuya, Rebecca, Aroti and many others whom he had laid - the burden of which just began to inch deeper and deeper into his conscience.
His mobile was switched off. The landline had 35 new messages:
1. 'DJ, this is me. I know you must be angry and hurt, but I never wanted to lie to you. I am awfully sorry. Please give me a chance. Meet me at Caffeine. I'll wait for you at 5pm.'
2. 'Hey Bro, I thought we were going upto the night club tonight. Where the fuck are you dodo? Call me back!'
3. 'DJ, I waited for you until 9pm. Poor Zara was crying when I got back home. No, I am sorry. It doesn't matter. I didn't call to speak about her. I just called to say I am sorry. We need to speak. Please get in touch.'
The rest of the voicemails did not have any message. It was from the same number. The one that he knew by heart. The one that he dialled the first when he got up in the morning. The one that was set on his quick dialling list. And now, today, here in this moment, that number was the last thing he wanted to see. He wanted to do a Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.
So he stayed in bed. For the next two weeks. Barely walking up to release waste materials and only once did he take a shower 'cause he had spoiled the sheets. Life had no meaning for him any longer. They were right, fate is a bastard.
He wanted to confront her. But his ever-increasing pride of being himself, and the over-sized ego did not permit him to reach out. To anyone.
His whereabouts are unknown today. Perhaps he is raking up millions of dollars at the Silicon Valley, perhaps he is working as a consultant at Ernst and Young, perhaps he is walking up the stage at the Albert Hall to collect the Booker for the year 2009. Nobody knows.
P.S. Zara saw his picture in the newspaper months after he vanished. The note beneath the picture did not make any sense to her: 'In Memoriam - You Will Be Remembered Forever.'
'I'll catch you later - you take care and give me a shout before the concert, you need some more practice', he mumbled, and walked down the narrow alley, taking a left turn onto the lane, and finally grasping for fresh air, arriving at the main road besides Shyam Bajar.
The Netaji statue was full of crow shit and it didn't really matter to DJ for his mind was going to burst anytime now.
The next day, he stayed in bed. He did not want to come out of his single bedroom flat. Suddenly, the flat became his very own Harlem. He started having imaginary conversations with Anusuya, Rebecca, Aroti and many others whom he had laid - the burden of which just began to inch deeper and deeper into his conscience.
His mobile was switched off. The landline had 35 new messages:
1. 'DJ, this is me. I know you must be angry and hurt, but I never wanted to lie to you. I am awfully sorry. Please give me a chance. Meet me at Caffeine. I'll wait for you at 5pm.'
2. 'Hey Bro, I thought we were going upto the night club tonight. Where the fuck are you dodo? Call me back!'
3. 'DJ, I waited for you until 9pm. Poor Zara was crying when I got back home. No, I am sorry. It doesn't matter. I didn't call to speak about her. I just called to say I am sorry. We need to speak. Please get in touch.'
The rest of the voicemails did not have any message. It was from the same number. The one that he knew by heart. The one that he dialled the first when he got up in the morning. The one that was set on his quick dialling list. And now, today, here in this moment, that number was the last thing he wanted to see. He wanted to do a Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.
So he stayed in bed. For the next two weeks. Barely walking up to release waste materials and only once did he take a shower 'cause he had spoiled the sheets. Life had no meaning for him any longer. They were right, fate is a bastard.
He wanted to confront her. But his ever-increasing pride of being himself, and the over-sized ego did not permit him to reach out. To anyone.
His whereabouts are unknown today. Perhaps he is raking up millions of dollars at the Silicon Valley, perhaps he is working as a consultant at Ernst and Young, perhaps he is walking up the stage at the Albert Hall to collect the Booker for the year 2009. Nobody knows.
P.S. Zara saw his picture in the newspaper months after he vanished. The note beneath the picture did not make any sense to her: 'In Memoriam - You Will Be Remembered Forever.'
Saturday, March 03, 2007
He was good at drums. The long, nimble fingers that he had got from his mother helped him a great deal while he was on stage. She had chanced to see him in a local concert just on the outskirts of Shillong.
After the concert, unlike Hindi cinema, she had walked up to him with a proposal. She wanted him to teach her play drums. It was just that. Nothing more.
He was happy to help. He was not a star. Besides, he was not married, so engaging oneself for lengthy hours with a twenty-something woman would not cause any anxiety or jealousy to any of the women around him.
They took to each other in an awkward way. Whenever she used to chat with him, he looked at her intensely with his kohl-rimmed eyes. She thought he was a good listener.
He was a good teacher for he taught her more than the drums. He taught her how to let go of herself. He taught her to find happiness in the most ordinariest things. He taught her to let go of her past. He taught her to uncage herself. And in the middle of all this teaching that he was imparting to his student, he gradually realized that he was developing a certain set of feelings that were not typical between a teacher and his pupil.
His parents kept asking him about the girl and he simply kept avoiding by saying -'She is just my student.'
But he could not hide nor avoid his emotions when on the 15th day of December, he walked into her apartment and saw an exact looking girl, standing beside her student - all of three feet.
'Zara. This is Zara. And Zara, this is Uncle DJ.'
No one knows how much time elapsed as he straddled between the world of consciousness and the world where you know that what you see is how it is, but you do not believe it...
[Lost the thoughts...will have to come back later to finish this.]
After the concert, unlike Hindi cinema, she had walked up to him with a proposal. She wanted him to teach her play drums. It was just that. Nothing more.
He was happy to help. He was not a star. Besides, he was not married, so engaging oneself for lengthy hours with a twenty-something woman would not cause any anxiety or jealousy to any of the women around him.
They took to each other in an awkward way. Whenever she used to chat with him, he looked at her intensely with his kohl-rimmed eyes. She thought he was a good listener.
He was a good teacher for he taught her more than the drums. He taught her how to let go of herself. He taught her to find happiness in the most ordinariest things. He taught her to let go of her past. He taught her to uncage herself. And in the middle of all this teaching that he was imparting to his student, he gradually realized that he was developing a certain set of feelings that were not typical between a teacher and his pupil.
His parents kept asking him about the girl and he simply kept avoiding by saying -'She is just my student.'
But he could not hide nor avoid his emotions when on the 15th day of December, he walked into her apartment and saw an exact looking girl, standing beside her student - all of three feet.
'Zara. This is Zara. And Zara, this is Uncle DJ.'
No one knows how much time elapsed as he straddled between the world of consciousness and the world where you know that what you see is how it is, but you do not believe it...
[Lost the thoughts...will have to come back later to finish this.]
