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.

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