There is this evanescent , hidden sweetness in the air.I cannot put a finger on it..cannot show it to you.But that's what intrigues me perhaps.Perhaps it is all memory. my memory ....the wide open paddy fields and the contended suppleness in the air at evening.
Yes winter is coming and so are the pujas and shefali flowers
Why do we cry? To gather fellow human beings? What about the muted cry? What about the cry we cry for ourselves?Of course , till absurdity rings its buzzer in the colorless scentless silence called consciousness.
And if it erases all the definition of mental pain what will we cry for? Only physical pain?
Why is it necessary to mourn a death? To mourn a defeat?....to smooth-en the sharp edges suspended in air?...to put a cover over the nudity of our alienness?
(Just some random thoughts on reading The old man and the sea)
Whenever I think of my days in Silchar ...Pritam is always there along with Atanu ,Tinku ,Shakil, Bibhu, Shubasis & Abhijeet . We had a lot of things in common. I would like to call us the transition generation.We had seen Barak Valley and the associated culture loose its pride loose its identity in the wake of Globalization..and change in Indian economy.We had seen the Rabindrasangeet sung at home and at schools fests being replaced by Himesh & Ekta Kapoor morality.
Ok ,lets not go into all of that.But out of that shared hatred for the cheap culture developing around us ...we formed a group.A loose connection...a vague entity keeping us together.Though nothing was ever spoken except between me and Atanu.We were the theorists. Some of us still had the old world ambitions of art and science.Most of us liked Photography especially Me ,Atanu ,Pritam & Subashis.We dreamt of buying a SLR...we wished we had two more bikes.We wanted to trace the rivers of Barak Valley to their staring points.We wanted to capture the face of change that the society was undergoing.We had so much energy.
Pritam had a digital camera...an early canon powershot and a bike ( a Libero i think) and Subashis had a dilapidated Scooter.And yes Tinku had a Honda Unicorn.These were gear we had.We knew so little and had so much ambition that we thought we would change everything.
One day Atanu and Pritam found a skull of a dead buffalo in a field and brought it to my Hostel room in NIT SILCHAR.No one knew what to do with it.But it was something new ....something no one else would touch.Something that would invite everybody's scorn.And dint that suit us?.We did everything that was not cool.And we still do. Later on , on my insistence they disposed of it since being as famous as I was at college for my infamous acts I could not keep it and augment my reputation.
Shubasis Atanu and Pritam formed at GC College the SAP group. And I believe they were the only ones in their respective batches who perused a career in Pure Science after their BSc.The others needless to say opted for MBA in ASSAM UNIVERSITY.
On another occasion we all went to Koomber Bagan near the Koombirgram airport in Silchar.We dint take any towels and bathed in the rivulet with our clothes on. It was while returning from there that we took this pic.I would call it the pic of the era.It was 2007.
Pritam was the silent type.He would rarely speak or give opinions.But he was very straight about somethings..no nonsense...no mushy talks...no crap on religion.
Being an soft headed lucrative Engineer...who would have got a job earlier than me?
But I always wished for a day we would reunite.When we all would have jobs...and of course SLRS and Bikes.
Now with the death of Pritam one of the pillars of that dream is gone.
And we the living view such accidents as a instantaneous dip in a rather dull plain curve.A dip you can avoid by remembering his happy memories ..or in immersing yourself in the protests.And if you feel tired and fatigued in this fight to bring Pritam Justice .. zoom in into the dip ....and it shows ---a helpless 25 year old hand and feet tied ....for five days kept in captivity ..knowing that there is no way out...and one night the butchers come with a knife to slit his throat...and he cries for mercy in front of some inhuman monsters, "dont kill me, dont kill me"....helpless.... helpless ..helpless.....where was humanity then?..where was your God? where was your view of normalcy.consistency ..the determinism that tomorrow shall arrive...?...
So one hot afternoon a beggar and a millionaire were standing at a bus stop for the next bus.The millionaire could not manage a private car in these remote parts and the beggar was waiting to take the next bus wherever it went.He had no destination.
They were the only two passengers around. The bus stop stood amid a barren field.Nothing could be seen
for miles around.
Suddenly it began to rain.The millionaire went inside the shed and began to utter all sorts of curses at India...its dirty politicians....its decrepit population....and above all his luck.He was also afraid that he will catch a cold.
The beggar just stood there.The torrential rain was flowing over his skin & his ragged clothes releasing little streams of melting dirt.He sure was finding it good.He looked at the millionaire and smiled.
Then the millionaire caught sight of the beggar and said "hey idiot come inside .. u are going to catch a cold"
The beggar said " Oh its everyday's affair.Come outside Saheb..u will feel fine."
The millionaire thought the beggar was taking his rustic nature a bit foo far.The beggar thought that the
millionaire's gestures were superfluous.
With no one around who could say who was pretending....?
I meet you in the afternoon.You come running, out of breath and busy.You take my hand and look away at the horizon.
You are always restless to leave.
Only echoes of your laughter lap at my horizon for a longtime.Two trains cross each other at the station.The sky is an absolute white wash of zero. For a moment all passengers forget their destination.
The river surface spawns fever.Out of freedom I dive into the water ..embrace the nausea.
The streets are too lonely...too free.My veins signal red emergency.
Anything could happen.Anything.
The mirror stares back....but I see a crow perched in a dead tree.The walls grow hair.
Till I find you in a corner.In silence you look at me straight in the eyes and turn away.
Nothing is spoken.
But I am washed ashore in a damp corner.Clinging to ragged pieces of clothes for shelter.
And I imagine
How easy was your duty
The rest is courtesy of humanity
what does it mean when a kite is lost
In a blue afternoon sky?
What happens after the freight train is swallowed by the flaming mirage?
What do the stones in ruins say to each other?
As the clock strucks two
Another strange dirty town passes by
There on the road these unknown faces
are tied to their own stories
Adding more dimensions to the mystery
Just a look alerts them of the outsider
...hostile faces guarding their secrecy
The evening sky still calls
The heart back home from the oblivion
Back to the shelter of a story
Back from haunting freight trains
lost kites & lost history
to celebrate selfishly the comforts of a concubine
called one's life ...one's own story
You were born in my memory
Your grandma's smile
Your's mothers fingers
Have been embalmed in the sweetest amber
For everything you do
For everything I see
I want to trace it back to where it began
In my memory
The essence of wonder i stored in me
of opening the eyes for the first time
To see shelter in your eyes
“Neither can I. And more importantly we are not supposed to
move. We are like trees”,Y replied.
“yes trees maybe. But time passes. Children come and play.
The evening falls. Our branches grow beyond our knowing. “
“Then what would be the purpose?. Or is it what isn’t the
purpose?” y smiled as he asked this and then said ”Slowly the pilgrims change
destinations. Searching instead for a building that supplies all the
electricity in the world. Or set of sketch pens pouring infinite number of
“ oh I remember sketch pens. We used to take out the ink in
them and then pour in bottles with water .It was cold that morning. The crows
left the terrace as I opened the door.Or maybe I saw that in a movie…I cant
remember” x said
“there is water on both the sides. A single road goes in
between and then vanishes into the water.the weather is stormy. The hyacinths
are floating and beneath them there are the cobras” y said with affectation.
“and whats left
behind? Dint you look behind?” X asked.
“No I dint. I could not. But I know more. I have known the
afternoon too. Afternoons filled with the smell of incense sticks. .Tori Amos
singing Carnival with the turn of the sun. Libido crawling like a spider on the
surface of ancient temples”
“ but the evening is mine. Father comes from office. Maa
makes tea. We study rhyme books. The night outside smells of ripening fruits.
There is the TV going ZEzezzezzzzzzzzzzzzzz.Our house floats on the sea.There
is no one around .No one around.Only the
stars and planets and Neil Armstrong on the
moon.ZEZEZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ……End of transmission.” X fell silent.
“I cant move” he said after sometime.
“The purpose is love” Y began. ” Love that happens in sleep.
The purpose is ruined when you know it”
“That maybe so. But it contains the inherent danger of
inbreeding” X replied.
“I am blind. I lost my eyesight long ago. But your reply
reminds me that I am just myopic” Y said. “But love it is I know. The purpose
is definitely love. If all else fails there is the handy pedophilia”
“Geez u are sick”
“Oh my Lolita” y laughed.
X said “the purpose is love. When you erase out the
impossible whatever remains however improbable must be the truth. Sherlock Holmes”
“But here is what I hate: the distilled purpose relies too
much on youth and beauty. Also this story goes through the looking glass…the
lovers see themselves in the mirror in which another couple are looking at
another couple in another mirror …and it goes on. Orhan Pamuk”
“One day. One road. One breath of impulse to whisper “I fell
in love with you while I was asleep”…..and the journey shall begin…..”
“And so the journey began. From the ruins of a lost
civilization. In search of new land……the journey began from the pain of child birth to the
odor of perspiration…..the journey began from the palaces whose doors were closed to the open fields where the koel
sings of peace…the journey began … from the emptiness of lonely seas into the
coziness of a blanket…..” y said.
X said ” but we can’t even move”
” but we are always
moving …immersed in a river of life”
“ such optimism does not last long” x said.
“and neither does love .but we can exchange dreams…..i hope
…..the absence of purpose shall bring us together ….”
He was in search of memory in the vague streets of time gone by.Wishing day and night to find a colour suitably faded by time which could camouflage his skin.
She was trying to forget the past everyday in silver screens.Looking for a colour bright enough to be called "fun loving" & "successful".
They find one another ondeday at some point of time when the past meets the present. When fairy tales mingle with reality.
Being old friends she tries to hug him in some gesture she has learnt from her favourite star.But he makes an uneasy face and moves away.And it makes her uneasy too.Her affectionate face clouded by the burden of pentitent pretence.
The moment... the ueasy silence.
One unable to receive love .Another no longer able to give it.
(Thanks to Orhan Pamuk's The black book)
the scorched afternoon
as dry as a bone
windy with extraterrestial tunes
submerged in chemical fumes
the colossal sun in rage
pulversising the surface like chalk
you baulk at the sporadic sounds of life
the drone of the machines stalk you out
of the rhyme of drizzle
of love...of the evening lamp
for an instant you feel the earth turn in its cosmic sphere
mad with mercury vapor
inhuman ...and alien
That the night is enormous
That we shall carry the burden of dreams
With us until we die
That silence shall overlap silence
With growing uneasiness
And increase in number
of things we don't like
That neither joy nor sadness
made you write
just a lack of definition
or inability to fall asleep.
make a palace to your heart's desire
decorate it with marble statues
paintings and photographs
and then desert it for years
let the time pass
the moss grow
the paint crack
the cobwebs cover the paintings
1.You and me
If you are the first rose of the spring
I am the wayward prince
If you are the smuggled tribal girl
I am the spoiled son of the zamindar
If you are the kind mother
I am the child that hides in your clothes
If you are the euphoric destroyer
I am the demon to be salved by your sword
If you are the shy veiled flower
I am your blind door keeper
If you are the mirage of mystery
I am the Arab who died thirsty
If you are the silent home maker
With me you are having an illicit affair
If you arrive with the light of reason
I shall demand the twilight of the unconditional
I dream you scatter like fireflies at dusk
For you I shall recede with the first rays of dawn.
(the usual mediocrity....)
2."I formulate infinity and store it deep inside of me"...Nirvana
I know why i wrote this
I know why i wrote "the usual mediocrity"...
I know why I wrote..."I know why i wrote "the usual mediocrity"..."....
3.Sacrifice your sacrifice
He said "I sacrificed everything for you"..
She replied -"except one thing".
"What?" he asked
She said " Why did you wish to let me know that you sacrificed everything?."
......and i am loving this song
hetha mor dip nebha raate nid nahi duti aakhi patey prem she je morichika haay e' jiboney ei shudhu mani
almost as good and as proud as those U2 lines
"have you come here for forgiveness ?
have you come to raise the dead?
Have you come here to play Jesus
To the lepers in your head?"
I am an elitist at heart. Because only in the pure bred and the natives I find and found the best.And somehow hate this generation of mulatto and mestizos....but that is the reality of present day life....where it his hard to find a shed for your head...and i am talking about ......
hey what was i talkin about?
Amazing how people think...and how different people are...what do they buy in village fairs? who wears those odd colored shirts and jeans displayed in show rooms.?if i were the designer everything would have been black and grey...who are those boys that take their girlfriends to stalls by the Pooja mandop and eat "jalebiis"...her eyes mad with mischief...her clothes studded with fake gold embroidery..sweat dripping down her neck...who are those that take almost embarrassingly named cocktails (sex on the beach!!!) ?....and those that buy antivirus cds at the electronics shop (i want to scream to them ..download avira..or avast..its better and free)..those that argue for hours on with the proprietor(even though the proprietor does not even know what android or ios or symbian are) about which mobile to buy...and those that will ask somebody how to reach an address and try to listen carefully an gargantuan mess of take left ,,take right..then look for bla bla bla....when finally they end up taking a rickshaw and- say take me there.....those whose computers are full of crap software and songs and word files ...so messed up that they fail to find even the most important document.....those that pay attention to a drunk and stoned guy and even try to make out some meaning.....those whose first step after buying an android is to download talking tom....what fun what fun man!!!......those who dye their hair red...those who buy designer underwear!!!!....those who put vinyl wallpapers on their cheap cars.....
those who pay attention to people around them ..and not critical reviews.....those who don't have a premeditated opinion about everything....those who don't waste hours and hours on some theoretical inconsistency...
( i dont know why i call it "yellow light in escape"....the suggestion is psychedelic i think)
Then Mom said " I don't want you to stop your fight...but just come here a second and put on this white cashmere sweater I bought for my sweet boy"
And So he put it on. Some readers put their fingers through the writing and inspected the fabric and commented "Genuine cashmere"
Delighted he asked them " Do i look good?"...And mom was knitting by the veranda .The readers dint reply but she said " you do my boy..you do".But at that very moment a sword cut through the sweater and also made a deep wound in his chest".He fled home.
The sweater lay there on the pile of debris created by thousand and thousand years of war.
A beggar picked it up one day .On the tag by the neck of the sweater he found this written
" 100% GENUINE FEELINGS.....WASH CAREFULLY"
The beggar realized that he could not take it otherwise the communist police will convict him of keeping items of dubious nature.