27 December, 2006

Contentment seeps in

Post Boxing Day afterglow.

I'd been to ILSS. The lake looked too forbidding for a swim, temted though I was to brave the evening chill and dive into those dark depths. That in childhood had held for me all the horrors that a Jaws-educated mind can concoct.
Just sauntered about the lawn, sipping coffee. After a long, long time.

Finished reading Khaled Hosseini's "The Kite Runner". A fine book, that celebrates the stark reality of Afghanistan in restrained narrative and intense characterisations.

"Christmas with Frank Sinatra" is playing softly in my room. Will soon be followed by a booming "Adeste Fideles" in all its tenor glory.

Feeling content. At nothing in particular, just managed to capture the 'goodwill to Men' part of the Christmas spirit.

25 December, 2006

The day itself

So I sit before the console on the day itself. Hopefully the strange entity going under the common nomenclature of Christmas cheer is fluttering all abt me, else skulking in a corner under my shrivelling gaze.

Not many decorations in my room, just the tree glittering unobstrusively by a window-sill. "A Christmas Carol" is lying face-down on my desk. The uncharacteristically penetrating sunlight squints inquisitively through the half-closed shutters. I had walked to this cafe, where I now blog. An offshoot of Park Street, festooned with the lights. Thinking of the old Flurys, where I'd have settled into a gloomy corner, protected from the pleibian populace, their grossness, their inanity - by a large tome. With Irish coffee and a sundae. Me and my combinations.

I'll walk down the familiar streets, passing swiftly like a fey wraith, I'd like to imagine. Feeling the minds passing by. Their stories and histories, joys, sorrows. I snuggle deeper into my dark jumper. Feeling Gandalfish. Wishing I had a pipe.

What the hell, I'm rambling! Musing at random on Christmas.

Merry CHristmas again.

24 December, 2006

A very merry Christmas!

Okay, so at last I am facing the console on Christmas Eve. Can smell the sweet aroma of the

baking cake.

Feel a sense of the usual inane fulfilment to be following the usual Winter rituals, which are so

very inextricably tied with the traditions of Christmas. Not so much of the faith (speaking on

my own behalf, of course) in this, as the feeling of doing or participating in something along

with millions, sharing the almost intangible (these days) joy of the Immaculate Conception.

With those of the faith, and those of the joy as well.

Imagining Park Street, festooned with the lights, bright and throbbing with the festive mood.

And the happy populace thronging the broad promenades.

True, I'm generally a bit remote from the general gaiety, but even alone one can celebrate the

common joy of humanity.

Alright then people . . .

Merry Christmas to one and all!

and somewhere "O come all ye faithful" is playing, followed by "Silent Night".

19 December, 2006

Tolkien's new book

Got this from TORC!
A new Tolkien book is coming out: "The Children of Hurin".

Check out the cover

Ghosts of Christmas - I

Leafing through a few well-dog-eared tomes. Sneezing uncontrollably from the dust and mildew. Emerged from the literary pile with a tattered browning copy of Dickens' "A Christmas Carol." Memories came flooding back, and I felt enervated by their onrush. I'd read the book at the age of 12. First time I felt this strange lump in my throat when reading about Tiny Tim, and all the rest. I don't know how many of my revered viewers have read this, but I do hope they felt the book (as did I) rather than reading it.
Wondered at how I resemble Ebenezer Scrooge more often than not. Not for me the bright lights and merry carols of Christmas.
For me are the bitter howling winds of the winter night that seem to expand my conciousness to eerie realms.
For me the shadowy gloom of the gloaming and the dusk, when I can contemplate on the frailty of existence.
And brood in peace about the might-have-beens of the fallen year, likened to the fag-end of my premature life.

Somewhat immobilised, having sustained minor injuries on the rooftop, doing the Saruman thing to the four winds. Toe-nail torn off.

Winter enshrouds me in its welcome sombreness and sobriety, matching its mood to mine. Encouraging me to contemplate and at times exude good-will to all creation (yeah, rarely).

I believe that in the end we can win over the odds, however dark be the hour, however cold be the world. When faced with adversity, we often stumble back. But it is never a full step.

We progress however towards some form of fulfilment.I hope, as I have always hoped, that many may find in their darkest hour that glimmer of fire that enkindles one to forge ahead.

And then the slow dirge of a grey life seems all at once to be a mighty symphony of triumph and the joy of existence.
I prayed to the spirit of Christmas that may some kindred souls always keep that spark alive in your souls. If we cannot touch each other it is only because we haven't reached far enough.

15 December, 2006


Winter has set in with its true bitterness at last in our amply-polluted city of strikes.
I have somehow managed to mark this onset in my personal calendar. There was a time when I drew Celtic crosses on all the doors. And wrapped in makeshift robes whittled willow twigs on Midwinter's Day. Sort of commemorating the ancient High Winter festivals of the Old Ones of the Hills
Now, however I've unfortunately become more reserved. Somehow, the uninhibitedness of childhood that I so cherished has become less pronounced. Nonetheless, I started off by turning on Vivaldi's Winter, from the "Four Seasons". I had it on cassette, until my musical friend gave me a Zukerman rendition.
Turning my thoughts to th more literary. Wordswoth perhaps holds the loftiest position when it comes to Nature. However, in Winter I bow my head to the Old Master: John Ronald Ruel Tolkien. I read it now as I've read for so many winters: a part of his "Cottage of Lost Play" works, where the aching melancholy of the Elder Kindred is brought out like never before. This describes how winter seems in the now-deserted Elven citadel of Kortirion (note, all ye TOlkien-lovers, the formative years of the 'Tirion upon Tuna' in Eressea).

The Trees of Kortirion

III. Hrivion(Winter)

Alas! Kortirion, Queen of Elms, alas!
This season best befits your ancient town
With echoing voices sad that slowly pass,
Winding with waning music faintly down
The paths of stranded mist. O fading time,
When morning rises late all hoar with rime,
And early shadows veil the distant woods!

Unseen the Elves go by, their shining hair
They cloak in twilight under secret hoods
Of grey, their dusk-blue mantles gird with bands
Of frosted starlight sewn by silver hands.
At night they dance beneathe the roofless sky,
When naked elms entwine in branching lace
The Seven Stars, and through the boughs the eye
Stares down cold-gleaming in the high moon's face.

O Elder Kindred, fair immortal folk!
You sing now ancient songs that once awoke
Under primeval stars before the Dawn;
You dance like shimmering shadows in the wind,
As once you danced upon the shining lawn
Of Elvenhome, before we were, before
You crossed wide seas unto this mortal shore.

Now are your trees, old grey Kortirion,
Through pallid mists seen rising tall and wan,
Like vessels vague that slowly drift apart
Out, out into empty seas beyond the bar
Of cloudy ports forlorn;
Leaving for ever havens loud,
Wherein their crews a while held feasting proud
In lordly ease, they now like windy ghosts
Are wafted by cold airs to friendless coasts,
And silent down the tide are borne.

Bare has your realm become, Kortirion,
Stripped of its raiment, and its splendour gone.
Like lighted tapers in a darkened fane
The funeral candles of the Silver Wain
Now flare above the fallen year.

Winter is come. Beneath the barren sky
The Elves are silent. But they do not die!
Here waiting they endure the winter fell
And silence. Here too I will dwell;
Kortirion, I will meet the winter here!

13 December, 2006

Amazing Grace

I have a friend who never sings this song, though he loves it. I do not exactly know why, though it's been explained to me countless number of time. I believe, that i can truly comprehend the meaning of the word soaring, when they say "Soaring voices". It is as if the entire Me is soaring along with the music. Far out, transcending arches and domes. Reaching out to things too lofty to be expressed or even totally grasped.
Saturdays will always hold a special place in my heart. After a long time, i felt genuinely happy. Not happiness for others but for once, happiness with myself. I shall take this chance to exude my uncharacteristic good cheer in the faint hope that some unwary bloggers might catch it.

01 December, 2006

All the world...

So there was this play for Vibes. St. Xavier's HAD to do something: Agni, Arnab, Ilmaz and myself were delegated the task of being pocket-edition Shakespeares.
Topic: "Gandhigiri". For the uninitiated, it is about Mahatma Gandhi's pacifist ideologies and their relevance in modern times.

So I decided upon the archetypical park-scene. Two friends meet after a long while. One is restless, uncertain, hiding a terrible secret - he's been a murderer for his extremist group. His friend is a life-long pacifist, dating back to school-days. They talk of old times, campus-politics and long-lost loves - all so ephemeral now.
Finally, Amal confesses his guilt, and sense of shame to Saibal. Begs that Saibal shoot him to escape the shame of a public arrest.
Saibal declares that every man has a destiny to fulfill in his life. He'd confess to Amal's crime if Amal in his turn takes his place to spread the message of non-violence to the was-torn world. Amal is indignant, but Saibal asks, "Are you more afraid for me going to jail, or spreading my message?"

Next, Saibal is in jail, listening to a radio-broadcast of a world-conference in Chicago, where Amal, now a world-figure for spreading harmony is representing India. Saibal sighs in contentment, and the play ends.
A moving violin score by Anirban did the script great credit. btw, it's his b'day, so "Happy birthday!".

27 November, 2006

Smoke-rings of my mind

Well, here I am,back at staring into the smoke-rings of my mind. Was in a rather extraneous week.

Saw Casino Royale. As an action film, it rocked. As a Bond film, it lacked that subtle sense of suavity. Yeah, I know it's the starting of the entire thing, but well . . . I found it lacking.

Saw the Bangali translation of the play 'The House of Bernarda Alba". Liked it somewhat, though the message seems a bit jaded with feminists cropping up all over he globe.
Evening. A walk round Citizen's Park. In a slouching gait that only I can manage. Scattering scandalised conglobulated couples in my terrific wake.

Also, today marks my belated foray into composing poetry in my mother tongue. Disgracefully, I first thought out the stuff in English, then translated. Yet I made it rhyme! Yeah!
Tentatively named it the "Last Sunrise". A lone human's plea to the Creator, to end the eternal weariness of existence.

Read a bit of Omar Khayyam, again. Old favorite. The part about flinging the dregs of regret into the Fires of Spring...
And of course the eternal:
"I ask naught of the world,
Save a loaf of bread, a jug of wine
And thou..."

And thou just happens to IL Finar's Organic Chemistry. I'm studying. And striking a balance with my other literary pastimes. And so I shall.

The play was good. It elaborated on the differences between the following:
Wanting to do,
And having the power to do so . . .

I once said that my indifferense to my fellow men has shut me out in my mush savored solitude. Where venture only my few friends, free-souls. But men it seemeth do not like being ignored. Often, a desire for solitude is misconstrued as aloofness. A hatred for idle gossip: arrogance.

23 November, 2006

All The World's A Stage

We have written a play. Tried to make it as realistic as possible. Being no great Thespian, i've been content to remain the playwright (one of them!)
Trying to immerse myself into as many activities as possible. Toil, and the frustration (immense), well-tempered with excruciating impatience regarding any task I have to do, takes my mind off things. Believe me, slanging for all I'm worth, into the night sky is day better than brooding.
I intend to do something nice this winter. Comparable as a shack is to a skyscraper to the Taj Mahal.
Listened to Beethoven symphonies (all 9). Credit's going to Karajan and Klemperer. Also, Thus Spake Zarathrustra, Amy Lee's Call Me When You're Sober and Broken (I like this one better).
For now, i muse at random.

04 November, 2006

I didn't

No, I didn't change my expression. I didn't cry.

And felt my universe crash about me. Silent. Unresisting. Submitting to reality, for in that submission I reaffirm my lifelong devotion to rationality and logic. And reality.

But there shall be no other. I cannot create a Taj Mahal. But my life shall be a monument to that infinite grace. My highest reverence. The temple...

Only myself. On with the life I shall yet master! Myself and no other. Now and for ever. The little that I can possibly do.

And remember. Always.

I didn't cry. Or am I lying?

28 October, 2006

Crusading still

You can feel the nip of cold at early dawn these days. I'm anticipating the coming chill. Maybe I'll have time to go away to my beloved mountains again. Caradhras!

Though, most things are still the same. I'll continue my lone crusade against a warpes convoluted reality. The cold will give me an excuse to go about flapping in a cloak.
I'll still be likened to Tarquinius of Lucrece. A really unfair comparison.
I'll still yearn after grace beyond my feeble reach. My deepest reverence, my utmost shrine! Hah, even my self-styled disciplined mind has to bend.
I'll still crusade for the shadow-men, the half-dead broken disillusioned men and women of this world. Unbeknownst.
For the fallen lovers and broken warriors.

And be myself. In all its entirety.
The Winter matches my mood. And my spirit.

I wonder at times where all this will lead. Whether it'll all be half-said words and useless nuances. Another regret to add to the pile. A friend once quoted,
"The saddest thing in life is never to have loved. Almost equally sad is never to have expressed it."

Can I ever claim to even the former?My cynicism and aloofness has shut me out from my fellow men.

Well then, God, if it has to boil down to that entity! Good God!
Will it all end? What do I crave? merely acceptance (hopefully calm) of the fact. And that's it. No reprisals, no reciprocations. Most of all, no "we can still be friends."!
To be my highest reverence. That in the darkness that will soon engulf me, and the time of solitude in the world, with only my work to sustain me ... to have the good fortune of knowing that somewhere out there is someone for whom I care. And who knows that I care.

Maybe the problem of being introverted is that these might well remain but words on a screen. Who will I pray for strength? Who will take me in with a glad smile and no recriminations?
And if this come to naught, will any that might now hear me, heed my plea for fellowship then?

I shall go on.

26 October, 2006


I love rambling. Aimlessly through the city roads, letting my feet do the thinking as well as the walking. Down streets that've imprinted themselves into my memory. My mind elsewhere.

In communion with the entire ensemble of humanity. The teeming thousands that lived and died, laughed, cried. Were crushed, and crushed others. And rose up, sometimes. Soiled and potrefied. Shouted old slogans on young lips. Eye caught fire from eye, as hundreds take to the street: the city of strikes.

Lights. The rather ragged show of fireworks. And I high on the rooftop, wrapped safely in my shroud of brooding seclusion.

We are a strange lot. Fly-overs take us over the slums, preventing us from being contaminated by the squalor. As if denial meant nonexistence.
I walked. The lights flickered as dusk drew in, matching my usual mood. I lookes around. The usual Indian mismatch - the very grand and the very shabby, the princes and the paupers. The ideals and the reality. Slogans and the slavery.

Secure once more in my high eyrie, I sigh. Let's see....h'm I'll continue with Steinbeck.

18 October, 2006


In the cool comfort of BCL, I'm staring at a well-beloved screen. And typing.
Walked down the length of Camac Street. Following the exquisite rear of a damsel in mauve T and faded jeans undulating down the broad sidewalks. Darn! had to go off to a side street.

Invariably I hunched my shoulders forward, imagining the dark cloak to be billowing all about me. Striding forward like some Jedi . . .

Watched Rashomon. A milestone. You see the deradation of human spirits, and then the final redemption. Also, I might say the Japanese poetic tendencies are beautifully transferred into the poignant grayscale footage, and the fuild camera movements.
The best of Kurosawa.

Will issue Pratchett's "Strata". He's about the only author that I can fit into an increasingly oppressive schedule. My father's (and my) favourite book of his till date is "Nightwatch". A must read.
I've put Steinbeck on hold temorarily. It needs time. Time that I cannot spare.

I have a mind to paint again. Something idyllic and fragile, rather than the intense scenes of my past endeavours. Wash painting. Featuring, say, a sunrise, distant horizon melding into the skyline, dark foreground. Anchoring the composition will be a tree. Not my usual withered sages, but a lively youth in full blossom. I do not think that I have ever painted or even envisaged painting something this optimistic.

I feel this intense desire to hear Dylan. Chimes of freedom. Then Beethoven's "Appassionata". Anything to keep from brooding.

17 October, 2006

Small success

Okay, so at last my slide-show is working (at least in IE).
Kindly check it out at the bottom of this page. Pics are from a Minolta SLR.

I shall try to express as possible, as often as possible. It gives me a sense of release, this blogging. As if I could pour my spirit through my keyboard, my lifeblood flowing into the words. Oh, how hopelessly abstract!

Now the great wait. The deep breath before the plunge. The Interregnum.
Then, life, either I shall awaken to a new Life or bid an unnoticed farewell to this close companion of mine - existence.
How pathetic! I who had vaunted of being untouched by the weaker emotions, the 'iron' will guided only by the logic and human reasoning for whose triumph I envisage myself to stand for-- all undone by this strange feeling, that transcends Platonicity.
And confessions?
To whom?

'The essential sadness is to go through life without loving. But it would be almost equally sad to go through life and leave this world without ever telling those you loved that you had loved them.' -F P

Come, the more prosaic, usual me. Plan to see Pashomon. Anirban kindly lent me the discs. Then gottawrite something for the Xaverian.

15 October, 2006

Standing...just that

Finished Ayn Rand's "We the living."

I generally do not elaborate on my principles or the logic guiding me actions. Consider it inane, and such questions asinine.
In general, when down I don't tell people that I'm gonna stand up again but i do it all the same.

There was some ballet at Kala Mandir. Wish I'd watched that.

Bug that. Occaisional blogging is like slices of heaven on a platter.

14 October, 2006


Metros. Tube. The Underground.

Packed like sardines in a tin. Communal stink overcoming my own efforts. Still managing to chhuckle with an ol' pal over th new times. Life.

Makes me feel nice, I confess, to know my blog's visited. Unbeknownst to be erstwhile.
Old ideals on young lips. Id always been a liberalist, and egalitarian.
Whatever. I'd get going.

Viva el Blogger!

04 October, 2006

Thus Spake Zarathrustra

I must say Kubrik's 2001:A SPace Odyssey left a rather deep impact upon my conciousness. The sense of scale - a cosmic scale - and comprehension of vast vistas of the unknown . . . seldom has it been expressed in such a style, more a visual spectacle than a film borne by a storyline based on dialogue.
Delving deep into the fabric of existence, it attempts to answer the very basic of questions: why are we here?

Starting of with the famous music: C G C and RIchard Starauss's "Thus Spake Zarathrustra", the film is later borne upon the sublime waves of the Blue Danube, as we are shown breathtaking views of outer space, and human progress reaching out to the stars, like dust. A mighty chorus celebrating mankind's triumph and the sense of discovery that is latent in every person.

Dominating Man's span of existence is the mysterious monolith (1:4:9), appearing at every decisive moment in Man's journey through Time, to propel him forward.

Then comes the famous HAL, the comp that thinks for itself.

Now THIS is a landmark: the Stargate. A series of semi-abstract flowing lights igniting free thought as the astronaut Frank lands on Jupiter.

The film ends as it started, the view of an eclipse accompanied by the trinitarian chords C...G...C then the drum roll. Only, now we see the Starchild at one with the infinite depths of the Universe.

Yeah, I am a bit obsessed with this movie for the time being. It's all about the mission or quest that we all feel we have before us. This rather slow and meditative film seeks to expand our conciousness, that we live not merely on a planet but among the stars that we aspire to. We are not flesh but intelligence-pure untainted that can attain even the lofty heights of the gods themselves.

Escape from Pujo

I'm back from what I describe to myself as Rivendell : an idyllic place for reflection and relaxation to gaze back upon the richness of life to its fullest and to revel in the fact of continued existence. A place where you can laugh or sing or read a library or merely laze around. Provided a much needed respite from my usual drab existence.
Facing a wall of books i attacked in earnest. Read Isabelle Allende (Zorro) ,Marquez (Living to tell the tale) and Steinbeck (Grapes of Wrath).
Exercised my mental muscles a bit.
Hung out with my friends.
Gorged myself on food.
Gazed upon a star from afar.
Went on gazing. . .

26 September, 2006


For the record, you chaps from Kolkata...

St, Xavier's represented by Shrut the Slu..erm...Shrutarshi Basu , in full teddy dignity won the runners-up in ye Franke Anthonie Public Schoole Debate (e?).

We clapped. I dunno what Shushobhan came. The fellow kept pronouncing him as Shushubun.


Finishing the Asimov that Basu lent me for the vacations. I've never been able to stand the crowds and the general bustle of the Puja celebrations. Makes me a bit of an oddball.
So I've chalked up a series of activitie for myself.

ON the studies front, I've gotta finish SHM and Thermodynamics.

Thinking (seriously cogitating, you can practically hear the wheels whir) abt painting a few landscapes again. The John Constable style. Oh, and no, nubile young figures are not going to feature prominently in the foreground. Unless they come up and pose voluntarily of course...

Read a couple of Etgar Keret's short stories. And topped it off with Terry Pratchett's NIghtwatch. Arguably one of his best: the biting satire amidst the realism.

Also...hem...hem (this is the part where I clear my throat very importantly)...I'm going on something best decribed as a most perilous quest. More in the domain of princes and knights, I know, but one must do something ere the armour gets rusty.
THere are dragons. Esp. scalpel-weilding ones.

And one fair damsel right at the end, if things sort themselves out.

20 September, 2006


Pujas. Universal festival of Bengal.

Everyone's happy. NO, elated, that's the world. A sort of semi-deific anticipatory euphoria.

And me? Alone in my impregnable fortress of rationality, the facade of reason which I still (erroneously) maintain is untouched my conflicting emotions.

I'll hope I guess. I might just...well...y'know...

18 September, 2006

At last

As with all things, my Net embargo has also been lifted.
Exams over.
Hence, I'm in a joyous mood.
And I missed bloggind like anything. Urgent flurries of sorries to those who chanced here in the interregnum.

Revelling in cool AC indoors, glancing wryly at the heat outside, who'd say this was autumn?

To me autumn is always the russet robed sombre lord - a time for reflecting, nostalgia, and that vast inexplicable longing for something just beyond mortal reach or expression. In the dreamlike limpid air of autumn, crisped in the chill of early morn, I can reflect ...

The passions, cravings, joys and labours of a thankfully rich life. Touched both by great joy and by remorsful regrets. To think of all the lives that touched mine, briefly, oh so very briefly. To think of the many lives I touched in my span. All to diverge, like the brittle leaves borne on the wan amber wings of the Fall gusts. The Brownian motion of Life.
I stood for so many things (yes, the bus included): the triumph of the individual, of free-will untrammeled and uncensored. Firmly believing in the victory of reason, the noble grandeur of the human mind.
And the old ideals, repeated on the young lips of my friends.
How many will yet linger, in the great rush of life?

Where in this far land beneathe the trees can I see the golden blaze of true fall? Distant memories.
Yes, this is a season for reflection, retrospection, of lingering loves never quite quenched.

That the shortening days, the long evenings, all point to one overwhelming fact:

The memories of past love linger, but ... the summers always end.

30 August, 2006


Due to the proximity of the exams, no more blogging for me in the immediate future.
If your loyalties hold, kindly visit again after the 18th of Sept. The jaws of death beckon, but unfortunately i do not constitute 600!
Au revoir.

12 August, 2006


Now, at long last,I've found one more reason to love the rain more than ever.

Puddles. Yeah, that's right: puddles.

I asked, "Why puddles, for heaven's sake?"

With superior grin:"See, she's gotta be helped over them, right?"

"Ah-hah! NOthing more..."

"I'm going to kill you!"

Happy times, those.
That got me thinking. Back to SIr Walter Raleigh and his cloak business with Elizabeth. Now, I don't reeeeaally have to think much before helping some person over a puddle. Mind you, some person.

To get over the puddle of muddles (or vice versa) I'm elated for once. My Physics exam went over the top. 3 cheers for BKG.
Devouring Resnick, Halliday and Krane. And heck, lovin' it. And I really don't mean to say I love black-holes for the imagery.

btw, here's somehting to chew upon, as the Physics teach. rumbled, " YOu, fat fellow, intelligence is not your monopoly! I displace you from this classroom."

22 July, 2006


He enjoyed.
Even when there was no logical reason.

The buses rumbled past. afar, the lights of the byepass gleamed like a golden necklace. Arcing away like the Cosmic Curve.
"If I rode on a beam of light..."

Immutable. Inscrutable. The grey-black world around him. He longed for the night, when only the steady wheeling of the semi-obscured firmament would be the silent witness to his emotions.

He believed that to show emotions was not for him. Gladly bidding bosom mates farewell. A shake of the hand, rent-a-drool smile. Short nod. That was all. Now at the behest of comrades he cast aside his Zen-like mask. Only to reveal that all he could show were pseudo-feelings.

He had stopped caring.

He stopped dying.
Anyone can die . It takes a lot to die at the right time. Calculating the maximum no. of mourners.

It rained.

He would've liked it like they say in the stories: the rain that washed away the grime, the dirt, the gloom.
For him, it only caused wetness. Anough to disguise the moisture around his eyes. They were raindrops, of course.

Wished he could stop caring. Or at least show that he cared. Really cared. But he couldn't do that either.

Read Sartre. Words. They are only waves in the air, unless they can cause waves in your soul.
Now since when did he start believing in souls? You need to have one to know about it all.

Memories. That is perilous. Not that way, no, never. That was lies madness. "Kapurush."
"Have only two pills."
"What if I have more?"
"I do not think you will..."

"Aakash paney haat baralem kaharo torey..."

I knew not for whom
I reached out to the heavens above.
Knew not that you had come, even unto my room.

Shrouded in the Dark, I sat
Wreathed in monochrome dreams.
I knew not that the tumult, the chaos, the storm
Was the crest of your triumph.

At the break of morn the Light
Flooded my eyes, that beheld
Your form, standing

And then I and He
Them and Us
Friend and Lover
All entwine
And I rise above, lifted
On the argent wings
Of sorrow sublime
That itself is joy
Loss and possession
Love and Hatred
Are the side of the same coin.

He cried out. Remembering.


For a moment he was like a bird.

I'm an angel, going to a heaven I ever mistrusted.

Then the lights no longer gleamed, all lost in the howl of speed.
He arced as he fell, more graceful than ever in life.

They say you can see your whole life before you.
He only remembered how someone had once shown him the Soviet salute.
And that he wanted others to hear his Swansong. A significant other. Correction. An other to whom he never was really significant.

He realised that he loved life.

19 July, 2006

Thinking ahead

I learnt that Ingmar Bergman made a late film: Swansong. A most significant name. As we know, the swan never makes a musical sound. Until the end. When it feels death drawing near, the swan goes off to some tranquil lake, singing the most beautiful theme possible. And in the midst of the heart-rending beauty of the swansong, its graceful form takes wing, bedding farewell to this mortal world. You can feel some of that inexpressible grace in Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake, the overture. By both Karajan and Neville Marriner.
Wish to go that way. Someday. SOmehow. So I know what my last post's going to be.

REmembered one of my favorite lines, long forgotten. And the scenes.:
Vivien Leigh shouting, passionately. And at the door, the man turns, a half-swile wreathed on the saturnine face, (shoru gop: Shoumitro Chatterjee later on in Charulata)

"Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn."

Wish I could do that. DOn't we all?

"Life an adventure perilous and gay,
Death: a long and vivid holiday."
-Luis Untermeyer.

LIghtsabers. THey rock. So does life, to a certain extent. Taking limits . . .

17 July, 2006

Musing mumbles . . .

Okay, do check out the bottom of the page. Hope all users can view the slide-show properly.

That's about it. From now on, its back to mainstream posting.

12 July, 2006

Comings, and goings too?

Okay, I've spent (not wasted, mind you) considerable time on fiddling with my template. Not posting. As I felt I ought to.
People reflect a lot. YOu generally can't help doing so.
I was asked the most difficult question, yestereve.

Started off like this, on the phone:
A:"All crap, man...had row...couldn't help it, against my principles , and I can't stand that. Even if it means losing that person. I'll probably call , and then just walk away. See how it feels."

The confused misused accused struck-out ones of life. Be in the list as well.

Me:"That's being melodramatic. Against MY principles. Everything, if anything, that I've stood for."

A:"And what pray have you stood for?"

And I was silent. What have I stood for. People beleive in something. Like an anchor. Even if it is just themelves. But me: half-formed thoughts and hordes of might-have-beens.
So busy pointing out the Universe's errors.

I believe that I stand for reality. One's own reality. To rip away the facades, and be a minimalist, a secret non-conformist, a shadow-man, a grey-man. To believe, but only to myself shall I profess them/
To champion the Others. Neo-realists. Call them what you will.

"Deeds are not shorn of their goodness if they go unsung."

I need a confessor, dammit. And some rotund Secomd Foundationer had better do it. I must confess. What? Merely that I'm confused.

04 July, 2006

A pick of pics

Yeah, I was amusing myself by having a peep around memory alley. Byepass. Whatever.
My blog's one of those that was never too adept at visual content. Then, by collaboration with the young Prince Kazarelth I thought of something . . . this.
I shot them about two years ago, setting off on a "Journey of the Fellowship" of my own. Who are you, alone and nameless-Tom Bombadil. HOpe you enjoy looking at the few windows to my past that actually show something scenic.

The Misty Mt.s? I'm Gandalf, at the crest of a hill, overlooking the broad expanse of Middleearth. Armed with a Minolta, film reel-Kodak.

That's Rivendell, right? Strain your vision, and you might see Elrond's Last Homely House.

The sentinels around Caradhras: Hollin.

What can this possibly be? Let's try Rivendell again.

Here Alarond Greywrath held of the pack of wolves. Shards of ice. Naur an adraith ammen! Naur dan i ngaurhoth!

The deadly plains of Morgul Vale. Or Gorgoroth. Frodo, yours truly, in blue. Teeth chattering. Samwise being a particularly obstinate mountain goat with a strange fascination for my fly.Ugh.

That's down memory lane. The EM Byepass can be seen, a faint glow of lights, away to the left. And the Sun rises.
Yes, I'm in a truly colorful mood. Giving a serious thought to turning positively cheerful.

29 June, 2006

Solar Flare

Not the superheated loop of flaming gas that is ejected in a graceful loop from the surface of our sun. Nope, not that.
THe one you get handling Photoshop, when the sun dazzles the lens of the camera. One of the truly beatiful things. Like when realisation dawns, not like a stately Monet Le Havre but a opening shot of Det Sjunde Inseglet type. Or when pure thought slices through clouds of self-deceit, blinding in its intensity.
Am I raving? I guess maybe I am.

Like my blog heading. Nothing but a solar flare. Semi-obscuring. Yet refined. Yeah, I know I'm incorrigibly self-praisewotrhy. At least, I messed around with the template after a looooooong time.

25 June, 2006

Gathering storms

Like so many others, stretching away on infinite axes in both space and time . . .

I looked up at the sombre sky, but thier grimness magnifies my own exultation at nature's might.
The thunder growled, and rank upon rank of grey-cloaked warriors rode across the broad expanse of the lowering skies, the fruy of their passing battering down on the earth below.

I laughed at this in a rather inexplicable joy. One that is shared by so many other terrace-marshals reviewing their celestial armies.

14 June, 2006


You'll find, some things are just too vivid. That they hurt your eyes, or your mind. Either way, one has to flinch and turn away, blinded by the intesity.

I like to think of myself as a realist, most of all.

I long resisted the temptation for blank verse. I chose to write essays instead.
Till date, I haven't a single abstract painting tolaud my meagre hand at art. When I paint, I paint the world around me as the good God (if there is one, that is) intended it to be seen. Surrealism yes, the emphasis on certain objects that comes naturally to us. But not vile meaningles doodles.

THere are some, the likes of Picasso and other pioneers of the cubist era who are in the pantheon of the Great. Certainly not every blobber of paint on canvas.

Amrita Shergil is always thought-provoking. But my favourite of philosopher-artists is Salvador Dali - that surrealist par excellence. the melting Time...

I'm happy. Is that so strange. I don't know. But believe me, its nice to know that you're not alaone in the whole universe. Maybe an alien's out there?

Dylan. Me circling the light of the lyrics like a moth.

Striking for the painter and the poet...

Black is the color where none is the number,
Striking for the confused, misused, accused, strung out ones of life...
An' we heard the chimes of freedom flashin'

02 June, 2006

Heaven and Earth

I saw X-men: the last stand. As action movies goes, it was too good, with awesome special efects in all the right places, all the right people saying the right things. I left the hall knowing I've seen something to its finish.

At the risk of sounding repititive, I'm God again. Due to the phoenix that fluttered into my inbox. I don't know, but if there can be anything approaching true emotion inme, then I must have felt it mostly in connection with the one at whose likeness I now gaze with something approaching rapture.

Vague. Ethereal. And senseless.

The things that mean.
The condensed drop of serenity,
crystallised on a blade of grass. Dewdrops: meaningful.

THe grey-fraught morn-clouds blushing at the approach of the sun.
The seraphim heralding in joy that we live to see another day break . . .

The countless smiles that mean so much.
And the ones that do not.

To arise at the tranquil brim
Of Emotion's ocean,
Past cliffs sheer and dim.

To feel in the rushing win, the lusty gusts of renewed life.
Laugh a frolick in impassioned lusts;
Life's a game.
For those who can bear to play it.
To smile, laugh at the purest of joys: to live;
To hope, besotted, depairing - yet unbowed.

That behind every cloud, y'know even without the Hubble telescope, one might just be able to discern a lining that may be silver.
And even in the throes of self-reproach a beacon of release shines out: that when the sun rises, it shall shine out the clearer. For in the end everything, even despair must pass, and what you are left behing is what you started with: you are definetely not a chimpanzee with a bamboo forced up its spinctor, however much it seems that way.
Black is the color where none is the number.

But I'm NOT the chimp, so as long as I feel like shivering in the AC and screaming at every innocent passer-by & slaughtering do-gooders, heaven knows, I'm still ready for a LONG LOOOOOOOOOOOONG guffaw.

Oh, and just be careul, I might offer u the cream of joy. Hemlock laced(hell, its ME after all).

29 May, 2006

The Da Vinci Code

Ok, I'm not going to add to the hype/notoriety surrounding that movie. Saw it.

Its nothing oh-so-very explosive or anything. Just a nice movie. Tom Hanks wasn't as good as I'd have thought him to be. McKellen pulled of Teabing's character with his usual effortless wryness. Among the cast, the really cool ones were Silas, Jean Reno as Fache and him.

Audrey Tatou (or is it Tauto) was good as well. At least not one of those glittering critters that rock a movie only with a sleek pair of legs.
Really, all this furore about the movie was a bit of an overreaction. Think of it, you don't even get to see Christ here. And about him and Mary Magdalene having a good time, people've heard about it already, so there's nothing very shocking about it.
Look at Passion of the Christ: the saviour's suffering not only read from the Bible as a spiritual concept of Man's redemption, but a man covered in gore, suffering inhuman torture. That is disturbing.

About the most shocking thing in this movie was Silas self-flagellating. Good one, on the whole. All the jokes drew responses. Kudos to them. WHat? Its only a thriller after all. With a plot that just happens to be Christian. Blah!

Me. I'm enjoying the summer. Sweltering. Grrrrrrrrrrrr.
Me happy too!! Will see Charulata as soon as I get home. For those ignorant sinners, it's a movie by Satyajit Ray. If you never heard of the guy, think Godard, think Renoir, think Kurosawa, think De Sica. Think films. Lofty films.
Then think India.

26 May, 2006


I'm posting without even a pause for decency. Oh, great. I'm supposed to have finished Statics. ONly prob, my brain isn't exactly agreeing wholeheartedly with this generally accepted fact. Am I going to be dead? Ok people, don't even start looking hopeful!

I'll be off to feeding my bunips (they aren't a distant cousin of turnips, in case your intellect is sufficiently abysmal to assume so.)
It doesn't take too much to be nice. Maybe I need a makeover. In all ways. Shesher Kobita isn't exactly the best thing to read before going to some ol' pals b'day.

"Hey bondhu biday"
Farewell, O friend."


Bijon's great. Supposedly, he asked of some fellow, " Is an amoeba using your brain as a gym?" Imagine, pseudopodia elongated and everything.

Here are some free-samples:
"You are digging your academic grebh."(grave)
"You are an intellectual phossseel".
"I'll vectorially displace you from the class!"

Musings for real.

There, back to the time tested ploy: got mothing to do, so well guide a wondering mind to wander over familiar rambling tracks, through the smoke-rings of my mind...
It's to dance beneathe the diamond sky... in wild abandon of the to-bes and have-tos, and live for an ephemeral eternity in the blissful opiate fantasy of the seductive 'might-have-beens', could-bes and the why-nots.

Most minds are made of contradictions (I think, I mean ur not reading a to-be Freud), but some are I believe more prone to ponder over these seemingly inane contradictions. And those are the Others: the ones who stare for hours at a book without reading a line, who laugh but that laugh is the filtrate of unimaginable tears, who look up at the night sky and beseech the uncaring Providence and the eternal immovable blaze of the firmament. The ones who write jewels in any language, then tear them apart out of care for others. Who are silent out of affection: the unheard words, the unknown feelings, the unshed tears. The might-have-beens, fallen under the wheels of a life that seems so meaningless.
Those I believe(I MUST believe) are the ones that matter. Not out of wallowing in self-pity, or to be unique in pessimism. But in reality.

The greatest works are those which are rooted in reality, even if it is the surreal reality of a Salvador Dali or a Luis Bunuel. The neo-realist films of the first masters: the touching soul-tearing frankness of Luchino Visconti, De Sica's The Bicycle Thieves fate revealed in its inescapable doomed reality.
Bergman's Knight tortured by his convictions, playing his chess-game with Death, which we all know is pathetically useless. And the part where he finds a moiety of serenity in his troubled existence, the simple peasantly joys of having fresh strawberries with milk with rustic friends.

Writing, poetry or otherwise, is a release. And a pleasure. My convictions have everything to do with it. Philosophy is merely a retreat. Reality is facing the world with a big raucous guffaw, and chewing gum in mouth.

Yeah, that's right I'm one confused blogger. I try to make a point. Only, I don't know if its worth making. Heisenberg's uncertainty seems to have been tailor-made for me.

Reality: going to watch the Da Vinci Code. Hopefully I'll like it. Have a long legacy of falling asleep when bored. To be woken by righteous felines. I do not enjoy the prospect of seeing Monsieur Sauniere though. In all his brief appearances, he certainly wasn't the model for benevolent grandaddy-type old men.

Basusu, kudos to you to sum it all up.
Did I miss an m? Sorry.

22 May, 2006

Shepherd's Crook

Yeah, I'm a crook all right.

"Uh...h'm...ze Godfather....send Clemenza. Reliable hitman..."

Oh come all ye faithful.

Adeste fideles.

Gatecrashers or not, all are welcome to the Mouse of Dog. (house of... and then I'll find some blogger fasting because I hurt some secular sentiments. Look at what's happening to the Da Vinci Code. Nutters fasting. Fasting.!!?#@$?! )

annon edhellen edro hi ammen!
Open, of gr8 Portals of Salivation.

Anyway, ,its mon cousin's B'day. Will disgrace his table tonight.

Kazarelth, poor fellow who reads ur CV.

I seem to love pessimists. I read the Brontes and Austen, found them to be pseudo-masquers in a pseudo existence.

I read Dickens, and my mind reeled. Reality. Stark.

I read THomas Hardy, I fell in love. He was slammed by critics for his insufferable pessimism. That, my dear viewer, is realism. Farmer Oak. Oh yes, there are so many Gabriel Oaks around us. And that endless we all ask.
Is there anyone out there? A shoulder to lean on, a soul to cherish?
And there will be an answer : ...
There isn't.

In modern authors, I found John le Carre. His spys aren't the 007s off the conveyer belt. The are the half-known unknown grey men og a grey existence, where ideology and patriotism and all the other isms are consumed in a featureless fog of what MUST be done. And they do it simply because there were no others for it.

Ok, I'm in a very quoting mood.
"My life will kill me."
-Pablo Neruda.

18 May, 2006


Its over.
I'm relieved.
MY head just might be still attached to my torso.
Some nasty shocks, some whews of relief (hah!).
NO whining.
No onushochona.

Laudamus, laudamus!

Let us praise!

I'm still semi-divine, and hemidemisemi atheist. After I'm th e reigning deity, so who else 'll I believe in?
btw, Life's good. NOt much suprises. Hopw fpr nothing, and no despair. Is all.
I'm still happy. There might just be that someone. Hopeless as it is.
I LOVE my pals, just realised. More than anything. Probably there aren't too many pf then

13 May, 2006

I'm God

Oh, did I forget to mention this fact earlier? Oops, just divine amnesia. (heh heh).

Me happy: Will get pic.

Me happy: Will meet.

Me happy: cuz' me happy.

Hence, I am Dog erm... GOd?

Quod Erat Demonstradum.


btw, I know for whom the bell tolls.
Now tell me, for whom does it chime?
An' they heard the chimes of freedom flashin'...

Going to SyZyGY. Felllows must have had Nordic or Russian roots, or simply IDIOTIC roots.Training for the toungue twister competition or something. Look at the blasted spelling!

Well, fare well to all the misbegotten and well-begotten brood of carbon-based bipeds. (Divine plagiarism?!?)

05 May, 2006

Hasty Snatches . . . ans Ray's Birthday

It seems that life can only be enjoyed in hasty snatches.
LIfe having a couple of bars of chocolate or a roll instead of a proper lunch. why?

Why, huh? Why?

I'll live, that's for certain. It gives me some satisfaction to see the lives around me participate in the turmoil of existence, no one trying to be dangerously emotional. On that account only anorexic dear pal can agree with me. Maybe I don't have a face left, after wearing so many masks.

striking...for the confused, accused misused struck out ones of life...
That's what I have contrived, to make the OThers, the might-have-beens and fallen cherubs to be a bit happier. Its such an extravagance for the Others, that if I can , then I should.

Very few there are who can appreciate, or even know. It is better that way. I've long since donned the mask of 'being happy in the joy of others.'
And when I see to lives so very dear to me complement and supplement, among all the other fallen ones, when I see them revel in the pure uncomplicated bonds of fellowship, for one at long last a haven, a solace... yes, I feel that there will be some light some brief spark behind the inscrutable uncaring mask of Providence.

As for me? Why, I have been the no one who's done nothing. That's the best thing to be. Unknown, uncared for, uncaring, unremembered, ungrateful, unlo-NO, that way madness lies!
TO be remembered. It gives one this sense of achievement, of fulfilment, towards friends. THat's why I blog, probably.

But yes, both my friends are happy. Sad, bereaved, but happy nonetheless. Paradoxes of existence.
And I'm happy too.

amal, thank god cancer spared him, is living too. As cynical as me, if not more. As much a realist as me, if not more. With as much caustic humour, if not more. Cheers.

Oh, and Satyajit Ray's birthday was on 2nd May. NOw that was a director. Whence comes such another?

Morbid satisfaction, to think of ones end. I can love only ideals. And my convictions lack passion, my statements lack emotion.

"For whom tolls the bell?"

Me. WHo'll bother?

13 April, 2006

Knights in rusting armour

I find it quite nice to talk over things to the darkness. THe only time I can step out from my facade is when I am truly and completely alone. It is truly useless being hopeless.

I felt that day, "if there can be a heaven on earth, then it was there, at that moment."

One must follow the thread of one's life, right till the very end, with the fortitude that one has managed or not managed to muster. After anorexic advice, and rotund realists ; I must go on. And if our roads are to meet, then why I shall smile indeed.

I cannot give up hope. Not THIS time. It is pure, untabooed, not immoral. I cannot let the only ray of light vanish forever. I'll polish the armour, clean the rust. And maybe, just maybe, the Temple might look back at one who asks for naught.

Is there hope?

When was there ever any hope?
For anyone?

For all them poor fellas, ruining their lives because Life is so . . . inexorable!

Sorrow is not an unique burden.

11 April, 2006

Birthday Crash

Okay, here's to ze B'days.

Happeee Bithday Kaushik "Kazarelth", best enemy and worse friend.

Happy Birthday, Jennifer Expose-it-o, I mean Esposito. Nice one in Crash.

Awesome movie, that. I likes it a lot. (heh heh) It it about racism, but unlike many rolled off the conveyer belt, it doesn't have a blatant message. It shows intolerance, racism, but there's no 'moral', no 'message'. Shows the things as they are -- you can;t ignore what's still alive an' kickin'. BUt one can rise above such things in one's own way; redeem past deeds.

One of the very best.

05 April, 2006

Good reads and sees.

Read Dostoevsky's Brothers Karamazov in about a week. Its intense, and lofty. Got about everything one cn imagine, and best of all is the stark uncommiserating realism that is in the every quark of the book. He referred a good book, as always.

Dad gotta know about Crash. Gotta see it clandestinely.

as for Brokeback,, Tan THeta an' Temple might tag me along.

Got the DVds of Orson Welles' Macbeth, and dad got "The Battle of Algiers".

But the long draughts of sweet freedom are passing all too switly, and the empty cup is truly a morbid sight.
Havr you, my ill-fated subhuman reader, felt truly satisfied about sadness.

I'm sadly happy.

Face reality.
No choice actually.

23 March, 2006

Release from bondage!

Episode I

The Fanthome Menace


So, Franky Fanthie (ICSE head-honcho) he is gone buh-bye.

Now for the long draughts of the sweet mead of freedom. Might get bored. THen, there always is music-movies-buggers . . .

Welcome visitor!