young one, there will be others: many, and more. jot them down in those darkling eyes. so that looking back were as likely as looking forward to bring a smile. til roads diverge let us go with the flow. with no guide but the stars and no tag but the ascetic's incal of Wanderer upon bared foreheads in a lucent eventide.
31 March, 2012
for a short while there was comfort in the dark. In being held, all a'tremble. with no prior substances needed to break walls, but just the quiet silence of many walks and mindless talks between two people. the playful questing, the sudden urgent scuffling and childish tracing of contours. the curve of a smile, tracing a line down the dip at the collar-bone. with eyes wide shut.
23 March, 2012
Write I shall for write i must. with mismatched cases and errant punctuation, like some knight-errant in some old fashioned book (and no, there's no worm on any hook so far).
there are things that are best expressed by specifically NOT talking about. So here we shall remark, as always, upon dusk. and byepass lights. the din of construction work a distant thunder. ashani shonket.
And the award that went to Feluda and Lear, who was also Amal and Apu and a lot of things we emulated (tried to at any rate) in our idealistic childhoods. Down to (tunelessly) Ami chini go chini.
Remarkable how a person and the characters somehow merged into the consciousness of an entire generation of bengal. that meant dhuti-panjabi, that meant labored sonnets recited into the night, unrequited pangs and delightfully remote glances. BhNare chaa, sipping at the scalding tea from earthen cups in ramshackle roadside stalls. dark embers and rickety benches.
and coffee house. college street boi-para. North calcutta (not Kolkata!). shyambajarer mor. tram rasta. Antlamo. narrow streets of cobbled stone - now almost wholly gone in other parts of my city. Ei shohorer kobita, chhobi ta, shobi taar. A 'proud to be bong' moment.
12 March, 2012
Somewhere, somehow let it all add up.
All of it. Somehow. Anyhow.
Every bit of swift dusks and scuffled-foot walks, mindless talks. the stark solitude of a lab while folks are meeting-up on Park street. The intentional lack of a life. every morning bus ride sardine-squashed against the mob. every hour spend pottering away. every time it is working away on gibberish code instead of settling down with a good book or a movie or join those creative chaps still remaining in our city and do something (anything) that is bright and soulful and makes you think of things that are all the more precious because they are half-forgotten and wholly undefinable. except in some tiny recess of your mind that was lofty and rigid and quaint and delicate all at once.
yet none of it. the strips of fluorescent lighting and thoughts of the 2 hour journey back home from the lab when only freight wagons thunder down the orange-limned roads. pottering away. to what end?
after something so frail that it could survive only in whispers. anything more and it would capsize.
having to wait a few more ages for things to fructify. but it's alright (think twice? a zillion times already).
02 March, 2012
so i am diagnosed with spondylosis. "acute" as per the balding doc.
the hours before the console had to catch up sometime.
and yes, someone just made my day with her usual dialogue-baji: "No the world isn't getting any smaller. Just the people are less." With strict admonitions NOT to put it up on this blog.
that explains everything.