You guys make up your mind for once. Recently I read a report saying people who masturbate a lot are not likely to get prostate cancer when they grow old. Okay. Nobody complained. Yesterday there was this report that people who masturbate a lot and lead active sex lives in their youth are more prone to having prostate cancer at a later age.
Now, for once, give me the facts instead of doing numerous studies and coming up with different conclusions. I don't want to get prostate cancer. Is there any other way to ward off the possibility of getting it later? Do I stop being religious with the antidote or is that an antidote at all?
Newspapers confuse you. I will soon start skipping the health page.
Today I hit one Tata Safari with my jeep. My metal bumper got lodged into that SUV's rear bumper, and ripped it off. Apparently it costs quite a lot, while mine can be beaten back to shape for a nominal Rs 200. Am expecting that guy to give me a call any moment. Sudden expenses at the end of the month, especially when your otherwise healthy mental state has been challenged by a disturbing newspaper report, are very unwelcome to say the least.
And then there's this fever that came right in the middle of a conference call last night. That too on the slide that spoke about some revenue figures. I had also come to know yesterday that my wife's company is getting rid of a lot of people by the end of this month, so the general mood was not very rummy. A glass of rum was what I needed right then, but unfortunately, didn't have stock.
So I planned to take off tomorrow. Sitting at the desk with fever is not a great idea, and moreover m dad's leaving tomorrow, so I can spend some time with him, I thought. And just now received a meeting request for 11.45 a.m. tomorrow.
I want Charles Berlitz to write about Doomsday 2012 this time. That will give me something to look forward to.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Twenty in Four Years
This year I have some resolutions. One of them is to try and publish some short stories. I was always under the impression that I have many of them in this blog, but after searching all the posts since 2005 I realized there are only 20 so far. How many of these are publishable? Of course not the one about sniffing panties or the one about pouring mustard oil into a little boy. That means 18. These 18 stories cover only 33 pages in Word, so I must think of some more stories to make it stretch to at least 50 (pages in Word), meaning another ten stories or so.
With 30 of them, I can have a paperback of around 190 pages, priced at Rs 99 and available at all the wheelers and airport bookstalls. Something a bored passenger can pick up. But again, considering a person is adventurous enough to pick up a book by a complete stranger, what will ensure he/she reads it at all? The stories have to have some stuff in them to keep them engaged, glued to the pages. Something tells me sniffing panties is not such a bad idea after all. Most of these passengers are single. Single men, if not women. Men are generally horny and kinky, and more so when single. A horny, married man, out on a business trip and desperate for a fuck, jerking off and starching all the hotel bedsheets is what I am banking on. And they are available aplenty. Pot bellied, mostly, craving for attention, trying to strike up a conversation with single women, these men can be kept happy only if I give them the opportunity to experience some kink. That means I can include the two bowdlerized ones. Come back, faded brown, come back my mustard oil. But, how much kink can I churn out, knowing my sources are limited?
I guess digging back into my memories will serve my purpose. More on that later. For now, let me think of a cover for the book. It cannot be blatantly sexy. That might even be considered vulgar. I have to make sure the new Hindu moral brigade doesn't get to understand what's inside from the cover. But the title should be catchy enough for the single, bored, married man to pick it up and read the blurb.
Will meet Sudeshna soon. Will jump the manuscript on her during one of her least unsuspecting moments. Will talk to some editor friends who have volunteered to help.
And will finish writing those ten more stories. I have them in my mind. Be prepared to be scandalized even more.
With 30 of them, I can have a paperback of around 190 pages, priced at Rs 99 and available at all the wheelers and airport bookstalls. Something a bored passenger can pick up. But again, considering a person is adventurous enough to pick up a book by a complete stranger, what will ensure he/she reads it at all? The stories have to have some stuff in them to keep them engaged, glued to the pages. Something tells me sniffing panties is not such a bad idea after all. Most of these passengers are single. Single men, if not women. Men are generally horny and kinky, and more so when single. A horny, married man, out on a business trip and desperate for a fuck, jerking off and starching all the hotel bedsheets is what I am banking on. And they are available aplenty. Pot bellied, mostly, craving for attention, trying to strike up a conversation with single women, these men can be kept happy only if I give them the opportunity to experience some kink. That means I can include the two bowdlerized ones. Come back, faded brown, come back my mustard oil. But, how much kink can I churn out, knowing my sources are limited?
I guess digging back into my memories will serve my purpose. More on that later. For now, let me think of a cover for the book. It cannot be blatantly sexy. That might even be considered vulgar. I have to make sure the new Hindu moral brigade doesn't get to understand what's inside from the cover. But the title should be catchy enough for the single, bored, married man to pick it up and read the blurb.
Will meet Sudeshna soon. Will jump the manuscript on her during one of her least unsuspecting moments. Will talk to some editor friends who have volunteered to help.
And will finish writing those ten more stories. I have them in my mind. Be prepared to be scandalized even more.
Friday, January 23, 2009
The same debate
Strangely, although not having been taught about gods or their absence altogether, Aaron has become a little skeptical.
Who is our creator?
Well, difficult question. Scientists say it was a Big Bang, and the latest experiment to understand what happened during the Big Bang is currently on somewhere in Europe. CERN. If you want to, I can find out more about it. So, I am not in a position to answer your question. But there is no evidence to corroborate the "who" part of your question. "Who" suggests the presence of a being, either human or superhuman, and that itself is misleading. Why do you assume it is "who" and not "what." "What" can encompass anything from a phenomenon to a living being, and is a broader term. So, ideally your question should be "What is our creator?"
Can I fly if I wear Batman's cape?
No. Many children died trying that. Do you want to jump out and see for yourself?
He didn't want to.
Why does Durga have ten hands?
The same reason Ravana has ten heads.
Daddy, ten heads mean he has a lot of brain power.
Who told you? So you accept it is all symbolic? That Durga's ten hands carry ten different arms and symbolize her superhuman strength?
If Durga was created today, she would have been a superwoman, wearing a jetsuit and perhaps with blond hair.
Who brought me the gifts this Christmas?
Why, it was me, of course...I knew he knew.
No daddy, it was Santa.
Who is our creator?
Well, difficult question. Scientists say it was a Big Bang, and the latest experiment to understand what happened during the Big Bang is currently on somewhere in Europe. CERN. If you want to, I can find out more about it. So, I am not in a position to answer your question. But there is no evidence to corroborate the "who" part of your question. "Who" suggests the presence of a being, either human or superhuman, and that itself is misleading. Why do you assume it is "who" and not "what." "What" can encompass anything from a phenomenon to a living being, and is a broader term. So, ideally your question should be "What is our creator?"
Can I fly if I wear Batman's cape?
No. Many children died trying that. Do you want to jump out and see for yourself?
He didn't want to.
Why does Durga have ten hands?
The same reason Ravana has ten heads.
Daddy, ten heads mean he has a lot of brain power.
Who told you? So you accept it is all symbolic? That Durga's ten hands carry ten different arms and symbolize her superhuman strength?
If Durga was created today, she would have been a superwoman, wearing a jetsuit and perhaps with blond hair.
Who brought me the gifts this Christmas?
Why, it was me, of course...I knew he knew.
No daddy, it was Santa.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
When did you lose your virginity?
(Disclaimer: The owner of this blog can't be held responsible for you being grossed out after reading this account. Please proceed at your own risk to read this partly fictional account that came up during lunch today. And for anybody who has doubts about me after reading it despite the warning, I still remain the same decent guy that I was till my last post.)
We have all come across this question some time or the other. Either from our girlfriends/boyfriends or later from spouses, or during guy or girl talk, when you want to appear smart among your peers. For a long time I held that I first lost my virginity to a girl called Prerana, whom I met in 92. She was waiting for her medical exams while we went for our service selection board exams (the four-day interview process to join the Indian Army). We were a bunch of 52 boys, and the first day our introductions happened in the nude, hurriedly soaping each other in a cramped bathroom accommodating three.
"Hi, I'm Virat."
"I'm Upamanyu."
"Are you from Nepal?"
"No, the Armenian pirates once raped my great grandmother in Chittagong (which is now in Bangladesh). Otherwise I would have looked like a Bengali."
The third guy was busy soaping my balls while I soaped Virat's hands. In that five-minute break for a bath, with 52 guys rushing into 10 cramped bathrooms, we had no other choice and we didn't mind that either.
Just don't bend to pick up the soap, was the only rule.
In the course of the four days we became thick as a group, already at the battle front, ready to lay our lives for each other and for our country. It is easy to get swayed in that collective jingoism, and I was only 21. All we were looking for was to don the bottle green uniform for India.
The evenings were different and mysterious, because some of us realized that there were six girls selected from the previous week's exams, waiting for their medical tests. The otherwise thick group that we were, we somehow used to get shifty every evening with some of us making up weird excuses to go near the canteen. Prerana was one of the girls, obviously a bold Punjabi woman, and very smart. I also remember Kalpana, who was like a mentor to all of them and was selected as a radio officer. Some of us got friendly with both of them and I could sense that Prerana liked me a little more than the others. So did Kalpana, but she was like this elder sister, counseling people around. Prerana started with why, being a Bong, I was here. Being a Punjabi she was under the misconception that the Army was Punjab's backyard, but I couldn't blame her. Bengalis usually love their rice and fish and big tummies. I, strangely, had a romantic dream of joining the Indian Army.
I never thought it would work out, and it finally didn't. The selectors realized that I had no clue about how to negotiate my battalion out of a tight spot, true to my Bengali genes. Sadly, the story of the Armenian pirate raping my great grandmom was not true. I also blurted out in the interview that if I don't get through, I will do my post graduation in French and go on to become a teacher. Of course they didn't hire me despite me scoring the highest marks in the physical exams. And I thought just jumping around from trees and climbing walls would get me into the Army!
The limited interactions with Prerana weren't enough for us to know each other, and the day I realized only 1 guy (ironically, another Bong named Shantanu) from our group got selected, I didn't have the guts to go say goodbye to her either. She was a cowgirl and I was shy. Never met her after that. On the way back in the train, I made up a fantasy about being seduced by her in one of the railway retiring rooms. Ajay Dharni (No. 7, Akbar Road, Cantt, Allahabad) was one friend I was in touch with for a long time, and I think he later joined the Indian Administrative Services. If you find him, ask him about Chang from CDS Bhopal.
Those were days when we wrote letters. Long ones, each one an article in its own right. Ajay moved from Allahabad and we lost touch after a couple of years.
At about that time...one day I was walking with a classmate in front of Raj Bhavan in Calcutta, when she asked me if I were a virgin. When you are with a potential "maybe she will sleep with me" candidate, truth is the last thing on your lips. So out came Prerana from a wicker full of old laundry. Of course I wasn't a virgin, I boldly narrated my story.
I don't know if this sounds absurd, but if you toss around a lie in your mind for a long time, you eventually start believing it. The Nazis were the best in propaganda, and now the blatant untruth in some Palestinian and Pakistani history textbooks can make you shiver. My private untruth kept burgeoning into a big story that everyone started to believe. It does you a lot of good, this story of having lost your virginity. You are treated with respect by your peer group, some are jealous, and the juniors flock around you for some chance wisdom that may slip from your lips and open lucky doors for them. How, when, how was she, why you, how did it feel, the questions were unending. One guy, a fellow unvirginated being, asked me if I tried something strange (that I can't write about here) during the act. I mean, where do they make guys like that seeking empirical evidence from everything in life?
The story grew with me as memories of Prerana faded. It was time to lose it for real and we had no prom nights in India. Maybe still don't. Later I had to confess to one of my subsequent girlfriends that this was a made up story. And someday I lost it for real. Strangely, (or not so strangely as I later discovered in the movie American Pie) I didn't talk about it to anybody when it happened for real. Until I realized much later (when gay rights were being talked about) that having sex with boys is considered losing your virginity as well. Memories of a little boy running around my house with his ass on fire came back vividly to me. In the absence of a proper lubricant, I had poured mustard oil in him. I don't remember the date. I was a little boy myself too.
Don't ask me the question. I don't know exactly when I lost my virginity.
We have all come across this question some time or the other. Either from our girlfriends/boyfriends or later from spouses, or during guy or girl talk, when you want to appear smart among your peers. For a long time I held that I first lost my virginity to a girl called Prerana, whom I met in 92. She was waiting for her medical exams while we went for our service selection board exams (the four-day interview process to join the Indian Army). We were a bunch of 52 boys, and the first day our introductions happened in the nude, hurriedly soaping each other in a cramped bathroom accommodating three.
"Hi, I'm Virat."
"I'm Upamanyu."
"Are you from Nepal?"
"No, the Armenian pirates once raped my great grandmother in Chittagong (which is now in Bangladesh). Otherwise I would have looked like a Bengali."
The third guy was busy soaping my balls while I soaped Virat's hands. In that five-minute break for a bath, with 52 guys rushing into 10 cramped bathrooms, we had no other choice and we didn't mind that either.
Just don't bend to pick up the soap, was the only rule.
In the course of the four days we became thick as a group, already at the battle front, ready to lay our lives for each other and for our country. It is easy to get swayed in that collective jingoism, and I was only 21. All we were looking for was to don the bottle green uniform for India.
The evenings were different and mysterious, because some of us realized that there were six girls selected from the previous week's exams, waiting for their medical tests. The otherwise thick group that we were, we somehow used to get shifty every evening with some of us making up weird excuses to go near the canteen. Prerana was one of the girls, obviously a bold Punjabi woman, and very smart. I also remember Kalpana, who was like a mentor to all of them and was selected as a radio officer. Some of us got friendly with both of them and I could sense that Prerana liked me a little more than the others. So did Kalpana, but she was like this elder sister, counseling people around. Prerana started with why, being a Bong, I was here. Being a Punjabi she was under the misconception that the Army was Punjab's backyard, but I couldn't blame her. Bengalis usually love their rice and fish and big tummies. I, strangely, had a romantic dream of joining the Indian Army.
I never thought it would work out, and it finally didn't. The selectors realized that I had no clue about how to negotiate my battalion out of a tight spot, true to my Bengali genes. Sadly, the story of the Armenian pirate raping my great grandmom was not true. I also blurted out in the interview that if I don't get through, I will do my post graduation in French and go on to become a teacher. Of course they didn't hire me despite me scoring the highest marks in the physical exams. And I thought just jumping around from trees and climbing walls would get me into the Army!
The limited interactions with Prerana weren't enough for us to know each other, and the day I realized only 1 guy (ironically, another Bong named Shantanu) from our group got selected, I didn't have the guts to go say goodbye to her either. She was a cowgirl and I was shy. Never met her after that. On the way back in the train, I made up a fantasy about being seduced by her in one of the railway retiring rooms. Ajay Dharni (No. 7, Akbar Road, Cantt, Allahabad) was one friend I was in touch with for a long time, and I think he later joined the Indian Administrative Services. If you find him, ask him about Chang from CDS Bhopal.
Those were days when we wrote letters. Long ones, each one an article in its own right. Ajay moved from Allahabad and we lost touch after a couple of years.
At about that time...one day I was walking with a classmate in front of Raj Bhavan in Calcutta, when she asked me if I were a virgin. When you are with a potential "maybe she will sleep with me" candidate, truth is the last thing on your lips. So out came Prerana from a wicker full of old laundry. Of course I wasn't a virgin, I boldly narrated my story.
I don't know if this sounds absurd, but if you toss around a lie in your mind for a long time, you eventually start believing it. The Nazis were the best in propaganda, and now the blatant untruth in some Palestinian and Pakistani history textbooks can make you shiver. My private untruth kept burgeoning into a big story that everyone started to believe. It does you a lot of good, this story of having lost your virginity. You are treated with respect by your peer group, some are jealous, and the juniors flock around you for some chance wisdom that may slip from your lips and open lucky doors for them. How, when, how was she, why you, how did it feel, the questions were unending. One guy, a fellow unvirginated being, asked me if I tried something strange (that I can't write about here) during the act. I mean, where do they make guys like that seeking empirical evidence from everything in life?
The story grew with me as memories of Prerana faded. It was time to lose it for real and we had no prom nights in India. Maybe still don't. Later I had to confess to one of my subsequent girlfriends that this was a made up story. And someday I lost it for real. Strangely, (or not so strangely as I later discovered in the movie American Pie) I didn't talk about it to anybody when it happened for real. Until I realized much later (when gay rights were being talked about) that having sex with boys is considered losing your virginity as well. Memories of a little boy running around my house with his ass on fire came back vividly to me. In the absence of a proper lubricant, I had poured mustard oil in him. I don't remember the date. I was a little boy myself too.
Don't ask me the question. I don't know exactly when I lost my virginity.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
"...and for non-believers"
so said our 44th prez. In a country that tried to hide from the world that Kennedy is a Catholic... in a country that has refused Bertrand Russell an NYU chair of philosophy because he openly proclaimed he is NOT a Christian...in a country which has on its bank notes "In God We Trust"... we hear someone say... this country is also for non-believers! I mean, THANKS, man... you are benevolent, aren't you? You allow the non-believers to stay!
did I hear right? you mean someone has acknowledged that there ARE non-believers? like aliens? a handful of people being suffocated to death in the midst of the blind millions who spread blindness in the name of religious superstition?
religious minority? i'll tell you who're minority in this world. the atheists.
if one of our new political leaders had the guts to accept that there are atheists even in india, instead of meekly breaking coconuts to make everything "auspicious," we could have asked for some special status too, huh? Some 3 % reservation in government jobs?
Too much to ask for?
But then, if America is coming of age, India is still infested with... i tell you... indians. someday, even if in my dreams, I will shove a bloody coconut up some auspicious asses and garland them.
did I hear right? you mean someone has acknowledged that there ARE non-believers? like aliens? a handful of people being suffocated to death in the midst of the blind millions who spread blindness in the name of religious superstition?
religious minority? i'll tell you who're minority in this world. the atheists.
if one of our new political leaders had the guts to accept that there are atheists even in india, instead of meekly breaking coconuts to make everything "auspicious," we could have asked for some special status too, huh? Some 3 % reservation in government jobs?
Too much to ask for?
But then, if America is coming of age, India is still infested with... i tell you... indians. someday, even if in my dreams, I will shove a bloody coconut up some auspicious asses and garland them.
Monday, January 19, 2009
The Burden of Buying a Bike
So, it was decided that I will buy a bike. Which one? I asked Abhi of http://bikeszone.com and he promptly suggested Hero Thunder.
I went to Commercial Street to check out Hero Thunder, but liked something much more beautiful from Hercules. How much? I asked, knowing it will be around Rs 5,000 or more.
"This is eighteen."
So, I promptly scaled down my tastes to settle for something that didn't look all that good, but still managed to have a lot of drool value. That was around seven thousand.
With my mind set for this cycle, I came back and started doing the calculations. A spare-wheel rack for two bikes (to mount the bikes on my jeep) will set me back by another 10,000.
(image courtesy http://www.jk-forum.com/showthread.php?t=13001)
It is made by Thule of Sweden, and adds some character to your jeep. Okay, so 10,000 plus 7,000 make 17,000. Easy math. A pair of saddlebags for the bike will be around Rs 700. Plus a helmet for me for around Rs 800.
How much? Not much.
Called up the guy who sells spare wheel racks. Hey, so what's the weight that your carrier can manage to hold?
Sir, it is meant for foreign bikes made of aluminum. Ah. So I want to buy a Hercules blah blah for myself. Will that do?
No sir, you better buy that Rs 18,000 model to be able to carry it in this rack.
How much? 18,000 plus 10,000 plus 1500?
I am NOT buying a bike. Decided. Aju is selling his bike for Rs 1500. I am not buying, didn't I say?
I went to Commercial Street to check out Hero Thunder, but liked something much more beautiful from Hercules. How much? I asked, knowing it will be around Rs 5,000 or more.
"This is eighteen."
So, I promptly scaled down my tastes to settle for something that didn't look all that good, but still managed to have a lot of drool value. That was around seven thousand.
With my mind set for this cycle, I came back and started doing the calculations. A spare-wheel rack for two bikes (to mount the bikes on my jeep) will set me back by another 10,000.
(image courtesy http://www.jk-forum.com/showthread.php?t=13001)It is made by Thule of Sweden, and adds some character to your jeep. Okay, so 10,000 plus 7,000 make 17,000. Easy math. A pair of saddlebags for the bike will be around Rs 700. Plus a helmet for me for around Rs 800.
How much? Not much.
Called up the guy who sells spare wheel racks. Hey, so what's the weight that your carrier can manage to hold?
Sir, it is meant for foreign bikes made of aluminum. Ah. So I want to buy a Hercules blah blah for myself. Will that do?
No sir, you better buy that Rs 18,000 model to be able to carry it in this rack.
How much? 18,000 plus 10,000 plus 1500?
I am NOT buying a bike. Decided. Aju is selling his bike for Rs 1500. I am not buying, didn't I say?
Saturday, January 17, 2009
My first million
For the last couple of months I've been rather worried about Aaron's fascination with money. He keeps asking whether something is expensive or affordable, about how much each thing costs, and when he will be able to make millions of dollars. At the age of six, it is a pretty disturbing development in a kid who was born in a household of erstwhile, disillusioned commies. The mention of dollars (not rupees, he wants dollars, mind you) didn't help things much and I could realize my brow and that of my folks going into this thinking knot. Everybody was worried but I could sense that the blame was being directed at me. Somehow. Bengalis would know how difficult it has been for one Mr Nondo Ghosh, who has been blamed squarely for every little mishap in West Bengal. The saying goes: "Joto dosh, Nondo Ghosh."
And despite my name not being Nondo, the Ghosh kind of attracts at least half of Nondo's share of blames. The fact that Nondo is nowhere to be located these days makes it even more difficult for the Ghoshes of the world.
So, people at home suspected me for having inculcated these absolutely capitalistic trends in a kid who was supposed to grow up and study philosophy or history and possibly teach in China if not sacrifice his entire life for the upliftment of the downtrodden. "All this is because of you" lamented some aunt. "You taught him about money."
I couldn't deny it altogether either. I have had to dissuade him from making me buy big toys by explaining how these are expensive and thus unaffordable. "Your dad can't buy a Scorpio, okay? You have to make do with a cheaper jeep? Is that okay?" And he has listened. He has also gone ahead and claimed to his friends that the cheaper jeep was superior than a Scorpio. After realizing that his dad has a limited buying potential, he has even stopped asking me to buy all the toys from one particular shop at The Forum. Yes, so I have taught him about money in a different manner, and was really happy at how this knowledge was received by him.
"Yes I have taught him about money, but about how one should value money. Not to splurge. Haven't you seen the numerous articles in the newspapers about the need to teach children about savings from an early age?" I tried to defend myself. But frustrated communists are difficult to convince. And all communists are frustrated anyway.
But I was worried too. I didn't want my son to keep talking about money all the time. After a point he procured a piggy bank from somewhere and went around asking money from everybody. My dad, usually a little careful in the matters of money, somehow showed him a lot of generosity and started giving him a five-rupee coin every day for his piggy bank. He would roam all around the house with that tin can and tell us how much he has. Soon he lost count. The tin started getting heavier. We all contributed. And our worries touched the cieling. What if he starts demanding money for the services he renders, we all started thinking. He cleans my motorcycle as a pleasurable activity at times, but the moment he realizes it can fetch him money, he might revolt, right? What if he demands money every time we ask him to get water from the kitchen? Or even worse, every time he craps because we ask him to?
This worry kept the entire household awake till the wee hours every night. Sleep-deprived denizens of the Ghosh household could be seen walking around at three in the morning, making a paan for themselves, or going for a late night walk. A house that is filled with various scales and timbres of snoring at night started becoming unusually calm save the slight rasp of blankets brushing against agonized bedspreads.
A few days back he learned to ride his bicycle. It happened by accident, almost. Let me explain. During our recent trip to Calcutta we met the kids of our classmates for the first time. A six-year old girl we met was found to be almost ten inches taller than Aaron. Again all eyes fell on me. "You don't make him ride a bicycle. That's why he hasn't grown at all." An urban myth, I tried to convince them. Look at this picture of the girl's mom with me in school. She was taller by almost a foot when we were children. But communists don't listen to scientific reasoning either, unless written in their Quran, Das Kapital. Some of them promptly referred to a dog-eared copy and some other leather-bound books and informed after a while that Marx and Engels never mentioned that girls grow faster than boys. Hence, it is a myth. And obviously my fault that Aaron hasn't grown beyond 3.5 ft at the age of 6. Ray Manzarek was the shortest in his class for a long time. So was Satyajit Ray. They both turned out to be rather tall later in life, I reasoned.
But...by now my shoulders got used to being perpetually drooped.
So last week I cleaned the cycle, filled air in the deflated tyres, and made it ready for him. I also removed the support wheel. And he learned to ride in a few seconds. This sudden discovery of the joys of riding made him so delirious, that he couldn't think of anything but riding. I noticed, however, that I never got any appreciation for passing on my riding genes to him. He was hailed as a champ by everybody, and in the general excitement that followed, the fear of his "capitalist" dreams got buried.
"I will buy a bike too, to ride with you to the tennis club."
"When, daddy? When will you buy yours?"
"Next month, beta. This month I don't have any money."
"I will give you all my money, daddy. I have a million dollars in my piggy bank. You can take it. But please buy your bike today."
And despite my name not being Nondo, the Ghosh kind of attracts at least half of Nondo's share of blames. The fact that Nondo is nowhere to be located these days makes it even more difficult for the Ghoshes of the world.
So, people at home suspected me for having inculcated these absolutely capitalistic trends in a kid who was supposed to grow up and study philosophy or history and possibly teach in China if not sacrifice his entire life for the upliftment of the downtrodden. "All this is because of you" lamented some aunt. "You taught him about money."
I couldn't deny it altogether either. I have had to dissuade him from making me buy big toys by explaining how these are expensive and thus unaffordable. "Your dad can't buy a Scorpio, okay? You have to make do with a cheaper jeep? Is that okay?" And he has listened. He has also gone ahead and claimed to his friends that the cheaper jeep was superior than a Scorpio. After realizing that his dad has a limited buying potential, he has even stopped asking me to buy all the toys from one particular shop at The Forum. Yes, so I have taught him about money in a different manner, and was really happy at how this knowledge was received by him.
"Yes I have taught him about money, but about how one should value money. Not to splurge. Haven't you seen the numerous articles in the newspapers about the need to teach children about savings from an early age?" I tried to defend myself. But frustrated communists are difficult to convince. And all communists are frustrated anyway.
But I was worried too. I didn't want my son to keep talking about money all the time. After a point he procured a piggy bank from somewhere and went around asking money from everybody. My dad, usually a little careful in the matters of money, somehow showed him a lot of generosity and started giving him a five-rupee coin every day for his piggy bank. He would roam all around the house with that tin can and tell us how much he has. Soon he lost count. The tin started getting heavier. We all contributed. And our worries touched the cieling. What if he starts demanding money for the services he renders, we all started thinking. He cleans my motorcycle as a pleasurable activity at times, but the moment he realizes it can fetch him money, he might revolt, right? What if he demands money every time we ask him to get water from the kitchen? Or even worse, every time he craps because we ask him to?
This worry kept the entire household awake till the wee hours every night. Sleep-deprived denizens of the Ghosh household could be seen walking around at three in the morning, making a paan for themselves, or going for a late night walk. A house that is filled with various scales and timbres of snoring at night started becoming unusually calm save the slight rasp of blankets brushing against agonized bedspreads.
A few days back he learned to ride his bicycle. It happened by accident, almost. Let me explain. During our recent trip to Calcutta we met the kids of our classmates for the first time. A six-year old girl we met was found to be almost ten inches taller than Aaron. Again all eyes fell on me. "You don't make him ride a bicycle. That's why he hasn't grown at all." An urban myth, I tried to convince them. Look at this picture of the girl's mom with me in school. She was taller by almost a foot when we were children. But communists don't listen to scientific reasoning either, unless written in their Quran, Das Kapital. Some of them promptly referred to a dog-eared copy and some other leather-bound books and informed after a while that Marx and Engels never mentioned that girls grow faster than boys. Hence, it is a myth. And obviously my fault that Aaron hasn't grown beyond 3.5 ft at the age of 6. Ray Manzarek was the shortest in his class for a long time. So was Satyajit Ray. They both turned out to be rather tall later in life, I reasoned.
But...by now my shoulders got used to being perpetually drooped.
So last week I cleaned the cycle, filled air in the deflated tyres, and made it ready for him. I also removed the support wheel. And he learned to ride in a few seconds. This sudden discovery of the joys of riding made him so delirious, that he couldn't think of anything but riding. I noticed, however, that I never got any appreciation for passing on my riding genes to him. He was hailed as a champ by everybody, and in the general excitement that followed, the fear of his "capitalist" dreams got buried.
"I will buy a bike too, to ride with you to the tennis club."
"When, daddy? When will you buy yours?"
"Next month, beta. This month I don't have any money."
"I will give you all my money, daddy. I have a million dollars in my piggy bank. You can take it. But please buy your bike today."
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
Mazhab ki larai?
Ashish'da used to come over once a month, and every time he came, I was advised to go to the other room. We had only two rooms, so Ashish'da and dad talked late into the night discussing something serious, while I would spend a curious time in the other room, wondering why I was kept away. I was allowed to meet every other friend of my dad but those late night visits by Ashish'da meant we had to switch off all the lights and pretend to be asleep.
Much later my dad told me that he was a guerrilla fighter who fought for some ultra leftist ideologies. He was a student of the regional engineering college in Durgapur, and they had a group of people engaged in extremist activities. My dad befriended him when they had come to burn the library of the A-Zone Boys' School, where my dad was a librarian. Somehow he convinced them against it, and sold them the idea that anarchism that cuts off your own limbs will serve you no purpose and eventually paralyse you. A library is a repository of knowledge, and no matter which ideology you belong to, you cannot act like the Romans. Remember when they burnt to ashes the entire Greek effort at ancient science? That took us back a thousand years. In your fight against the corrupt system of governance, where every government official from a peon to a policeman is corrupt, go ahead and kill those guys, but don't destroy schools and libraries and public property. If you ever come to power, you will have to build everything from scratch again.
I can't imagine how he managed to brainwash a group of charged, young boys away from that day's destruction, but he sure earned the status of mentor to these isolated bunch. He used to lend Ashish'da some books, and also tried convincing him that mainstream politics was the only way to come and fight the cancer that had gripped our country. The guerrillas, naxals as they were known then, most of them brilliant students, died a lonely death, and perhaps Ashish'da too, killed mercilessly by the West Bengal police.
That was then. Discontent about various issues have ensured that the world has always had extremists fighting for something or the other. The fighters of this generation, however, seem to have lost their reason. The advocates of pan-islamism today tell their cadres that they will go to jannat if they kill innocent people in another country. The operatives themselves are brainless today as opposed to the naxals of yore. They have lost their faculty of independent thought and operate on weird propaganda created by their mentors. Pan-islamism. A term very few countries are ready to utter. There's oil and there are friendly Islamic countries, so tread softly. Call them jihadis, terrorists, extremists, whatever, but do not utter that word. It is going to be the fight for the next few centuries, and any sociologist worth his/her salt will tell you where we are headed: Islam versus the rest of the world. A particular violent streak of Islam, which has otherwise seen great spiritual heights during the sufi movement, or has been the seat of learning for many centuries when Europe was plunged in sheer darkness. We haven't forgotten the Baghdad where scientific text was preserved in Arabic and later translated into Latin to pass on to Europe, hailed to be the continent of modern science. We haven't forgotten the Mirza Ghalibs and the Saahir Ludhianvis. We still love Gulzarsaab and Javed Akhtar's lyrics. We expect Aamir Khan to create magic in every new film. But somewhere, somehow, today's extremists want us to remember only WTC, the Bamiyan destruction, the killing of Daniel Pearl, or the latest Mumbai carnage. Every time a Muslim name is uttered, your first reaction is of doubt.
Who has to fight it? Definitely not MJ Akbar, who is busy lambasting the people in power from an almost overt soft corner for the jihadis and their "cause." After every attack or dastardly act by the Muslim terrorists, he has, instead of directly condemning it, somehow tried to find another viewpoint. We definitely do not need him in this fight. And we cannot fight this fight. It is for the Muslims to come forward and fight this fight for themselves. Muslims who consider themselves as Indian as any Indian. Who don't hoist Pakistani flags inside India. The normal, everyday Muslim who has come out of the ghetto and the burqa. Who, when they delve into their deep rooted culture of music, art, and architecture, can put to shame many wannabes today. Where are they? Why is it that the Kasabs have come to the fore and the Naseeruddin Shahs and Shabana Azmis have taken a back seat? Why can't Ghulam Ali come to India any more and why can't so many of us Hindus, Christians, Sikhs fall at his feet again?
Naseer saab's powerful performance in A Wednesday was so realistic, I can say with conviction that he acted the role of the angry common man from his heart. It almost came across as a scream from a person who is on the wrong side by mistake. And I don't know what the script writer had in mind, but the character there is definitely an irritated common Muslim man. He says "mazhab" for religion, and that gives him away. When he says cockroaches are infesting my home, he means both India and his religion.
Only a common Muslim man who looks like anybody else, eats what we all eat, listens to the same music as others, and is living in constant fear as any other Indian can help us overcome this new menace. We cannot push them away by constant racial profiling everywhere. A pious Muslim with a long beard entering a mall with a backpack isn't carrying a gun. Don't make him feel like a terrorist by stripping him naked and emptying his bag in full public view. Don't push further away the only people who can help you in this fight. The clean-shaved man that you allowed to pass, can be another Kasab or Ismail Khan. He can also be an LTTE bomber, a ULFA operative, or one of these newbie Maoists from Andhra who is clueless about where Karl Marx or Mao Dze Dong advocated bombing people shopping in a mall.
Much later my dad told me that he was a guerrilla fighter who fought for some ultra leftist ideologies. He was a student of the regional engineering college in Durgapur, and they had a group of people engaged in extremist activities. My dad befriended him when they had come to burn the library of the A-Zone Boys' School, where my dad was a librarian. Somehow he convinced them against it, and sold them the idea that anarchism that cuts off your own limbs will serve you no purpose and eventually paralyse you. A library is a repository of knowledge, and no matter which ideology you belong to, you cannot act like the Romans. Remember when they burnt to ashes the entire Greek effort at ancient science? That took us back a thousand years. In your fight against the corrupt system of governance, where every government official from a peon to a policeman is corrupt, go ahead and kill those guys, but don't destroy schools and libraries and public property. If you ever come to power, you will have to build everything from scratch again.
I can't imagine how he managed to brainwash a group of charged, young boys away from that day's destruction, but he sure earned the status of mentor to these isolated bunch. He used to lend Ashish'da some books, and also tried convincing him that mainstream politics was the only way to come and fight the cancer that had gripped our country. The guerrillas, naxals as they were known then, most of them brilliant students, died a lonely death, and perhaps Ashish'da too, killed mercilessly by the West Bengal police.
That was then. Discontent about various issues have ensured that the world has always had extremists fighting for something or the other. The fighters of this generation, however, seem to have lost their reason. The advocates of pan-islamism today tell their cadres that they will go to jannat if they kill innocent people in another country. The operatives themselves are brainless today as opposed to the naxals of yore. They have lost their faculty of independent thought and operate on weird propaganda created by their mentors. Pan-islamism. A term very few countries are ready to utter. There's oil and there are friendly Islamic countries, so tread softly. Call them jihadis, terrorists, extremists, whatever, but do not utter that word. It is going to be the fight for the next few centuries, and any sociologist worth his/her salt will tell you where we are headed: Islam versus the rest of the world. A particular violent streak of Islam, which has otherwise seen great spiritual heights during the sufi movement, or has been the seat of learning for many centuries when Europe was plunged in sheer darkness. We haven't forgotten the Baghdad where scientific text was preserved in Arabic and later translated into Latin to pass on to Europe, hailed to be the continent of modern science. We haven't forgotten the Mirza Ghalibs and the Saahir Ludhianvis. We still love Gulzarsaab and Javed Akhtar's lyrics. We expect Aamir Khan to create magic in every new film. But somewhere, somehow, today's extremists want us to remember only WTC, the Bamiyan destruction, the killing of Daniel Pearl, or the latest Mumbai carnage. Every time a Muslim name is uttered, your first reaction is of doubt.
Who has to fight it? Definitely not MJ Akbar, who is busy lambasting the people in power from an almost overt soft corner for the jihadis and their "cause." After every attack or dastardly act by the Muslim terrorists, he has, instead of directly condemning it, somehow tried to find another viewpoint. We definitely do not need him in this fight. And we cannot fight this fight. It is for the Muslims to come forward and fight this fight for themselves. Muslims who consider themselves as Indian as any Indian. Who don't hoist Pakistani flags inside India. The normal, everyday Muslim who has come out of the ghetto and the burqa. Who, when they delve into their deep rooted culture of music, art, and architecture, can put to shame many wannabes today. Where are they? Why is it that the Kasabs have come to the fore and the Naseeruddin Shahs and Shabana Azmis have taken a back seat? Why can't Ghulam Ali come to India any more and why can't so many of us Hindus, Christians, Sikhs fall at his feet again?
Naseer saab's powerful performance in A Wednesday was so realistic, I can say with conviction that he acted the role of the angry common man from his heart. It almost came across as a scream from a person who is on the wrong side by mistake. And I don't know what the script writer had in mind, but the character there is definitely an irritated common Muslim man. He says "mazhab" for religion, and that gives him away. When he says cockroaches are infesting my home, he means both India and his religion.
Only a common Muslim man who looks like anybody else, eats what we all eat, listens to the same music as others, and is living in constant fear as any other Indian can help us overcome this new menace. We cannot push them away by constant racial profiling everywhere. A pious Muslim with a long beard entering a mall with a backpack isn't carrying a gun. Don't make him feel like a terrorist by stripping him naked and emptying his bag in full public view. Don't push further away the only people who can help you in this fight. The clean-shaved man that you allowed to pass, can be another Kasab or Ismail Khan. He can also be an LTTE bomber, a ULFA operative, or one of these newbie Maoists from Andhra who is clueless about where Karl Marx or Mao Dze Dong advocated bombing people shopping in a mall.
Monday, January 05, 2009
Aadi Sutripti
After a hard and frustrating day at work, at the end of which you aren't sure if you will be able to meet the month's target, a cup of tea can stem your suicidal thoughts. But at Aadi Sutripti, you can let your first cup linger for a maximum of 30 minutes, after which the waiter is gonna hound you. What else? Is that all? Are you gonna leave now? Do you wanna order something else? In 96, even an extra cup of tea pinched. But we had to spend some more time, to have futile discussions about how to get into better paid jobs, about how to save enough for a life together. Not a big, fat Indian wedding, but something good enough to convince our parents that we can survive on our own. Right then, we couldn't. The next cups of tea came, but the waiter was not gonna allow us another 30 minutes. Scheme. Sacrifice the next day's money today and buy some more time. To hear each other's frustrations reflect off square cups and saucers.
Some days, when I could sell, we treated ourselves to Moglai Parotas. But the waiter still had the same disdain on his face as if we were unwanted filth on borrowed time.
I went back this time with a good mind to order ten Moglai Parotas and nibble a little from each...and perhaps spend the entire day just giving back all that disdain to the waiter.
He just wasn't there after 13 years and nobody could recollect him from my description. I didn't have his name. Thinking how much he earned then and what could have happened to him now, the acerbity suddenly vanished and gave way to a strange worry for an unknown man.
Was it Kolkata, or am I being dramatic? Someday, we have to give back that city all that we stole from it.
Some days, when I could sell, we treated ourselves to Moglai Parotas. But the waiter still had the same disdain on his face as if we were unwanted filth on borrowed time.
I went back this time with a good mind to order ten Moglai Parotas and nibble a little from each...and perhaps spend the entire day just giving back all that disdain to the waiter.
He just wasn't there after 13 years and nobody could recollect him from my description. I didn't have his name. Thinking how much he earned then and what could have happened to him now, the acerbity suddenly vanished and gave way to a strange worry for an unknown man.
Was it Kolkata, or am I being dramatic? Someday, we have to give back that city all that we stole from it.
Sunday, January 04, 2009
Blue
Samyak stood by the window, looking out. You couldn't see much from the window save other houses and a slice of the sky, but he stood still, awestruck, like someone facing the sea for the first time. Actually he was lost in his thoughts, like most Bengali men of his age are. Samyak was waiting for the sound of a car down below.
At 32, Samyak has done decently for himself and earned himself quite some name as a percussionist. He plays the tabla, and has recently been invited by Dr L. Subramanium to perform with him at Bangalore. If you ask him how he feels about it, he will tell you it is like having achieved something beyond his dreams. From his initial days of learning tabla from Manibabu, the tall, dark teacher who used to come riding a bicycle wearing a white dhoti, to playing with Dr. Zakir Hussain at Banaras, Samyak has come a long way. He has even made a statement by refusing to play at the Sankatmochan music conference in Banaras, thus creating quite a stir. He had his reasons, he said on national television. But critics say he refused because non-Hindus are not allowed to perform at the Sankatmochan temple. And he feels, like all musicians do, that music is created to spread the word of peace and break barriers created by religions and races. Despite having come this distance, Samyak didn't forget about Manibabu. He died of a mysterious disease. His family didn't allow anyone to visit him the last few months. Not even Samyak.
He has even been approached by a couple of producers from Tollygunge to act in some Bengali movies, but he refused. He doesn't have the time. Apart from being immersed in practising, studying, and experimenting with music, he now has a new occupation. A little disturbing, you can say. Samyak is falling in love. And that is keeping him busy.
Samyak is not traditionally goodlooking, but his long wavy hair and his tall, sinewy physique make him a rather desirable date for most young women of Calcutta. Once, just after a performance at Kala Mandir, a crazed fan begged for his silk kurta drenched in sweat. And he has not pushed away this attention either. He has loved it like Cristiano Ronaldo would, and while some have looked away, most prude Bengalis have raised a questioning eyebrow...art doesn't give you the licence to...ahem.
So Samyak is falling in love. And the world doesn't know about it. Yet. He denied it to himself all this while, but when Gayatri gets off her sleek, black Civic and walks to him, he momentarily wants to forget that she is married with a kid. They met when he was a struggling prodigy, trying to get a slot in the local Doordarshan studio. Most of the producers were a little wary of his talent, and the local singers weren't too happy when he pointed out how off-rhythm they were, so the going was generally tough. Normal tabla players were in demand, not prodigies. That's when he met Gayatri, a city-based lawyer, married to a businessman in New Delhi.
Gayatri had heard him perform, and probably even took a personal interest in him because she herself arranged for him to meet her dad, who helped Samyak bring out his first solo cassette. It was a series of jazz percussion compositions, using absolutely unmusical objects to create heady, crazy, and sometimes eerie sounds. Although the local Bengali magazines pooh-poohed his attempts, a critic from the Downbeat magazine came across a copy of his album and lauded his efforts. There was no looking back since then. It was 1999. The year he met Gayatri.
Samyak stood in front of the window, knowing Gayatri wouldn't come. But his ears were trained on every sound that they could capture. Nothing much was happening in his locality that afternoon. It was sleepy, soundless, with the lazy crow soaking in the winter sun and letting out an occassional kah as if in thanks. Do crows pray? Samyak thought for a while, but then brought himself back. This new streak of absurdity is either a fallout of too much work or of going crazy altogether. A few days back he caught himself in a delirious bout of thinking about elephants flying and covering the sun.
Gayatri had moved to Delhi in 2001. But she used to come over once a year. Once she came with her daughter, about whom Samyak had no news.
"Whoa! How come you never told me about her?"
"So I haven't told you about so many other things too."
Gayatri was always at an arm's distance, but just beyond his reach. Samyak never thought about her much, but when she came with her daughter to Calcutta, he was a little shaken. Somehow, perhaps because she helped him of her own will, or because she listened to most of his whims, Samyak felt she was his. She wasn't after all. She went and had a kid with another man. Her husband, yes, but another man. All his flirtatious attempts at taking her to bed were in vain, but because he always had someone or the other to come home with, he didn't realize when simply missing Gayatri had turned into something serious.
He turned back after a long time and felt the wrinkles on the blue bedspread. He brought it out after two years, to make Gayatri's visit today special, reminiscent of their last meeting in 2007. That day Gayatri wasn't in her black business suit as always. She always wears black or steel grey business suits and Armani glasses, looking stunning. But that day she wore a white tee above a pair of blue jeans. She threw herself on the sofa, something very unlike her, but placed the flowers carefully next to her.
"Come and sit next to me, Sam" she patted the sofa and beckoned.
"You...you look so different in a t-shirt."
There was a questioning look in her eyes.
"I mean, even more beautiful. Almost human. Like I can reach out and touch you."
"And you couldn't all this while?"
There was a whirlwind working its way through his mind. Before he knew it, they were engaged in a kiss that seemed to last longer than he could hold his breath. "Gayatri..." he managed to gasp, but she pulled him deeper and deeper into her.
Samyak had tried to remember their lovemaking later in many of his late night fantasies, but couldn't find anything special in it. Sex with Anindita is always more experimental and vast. She manages to surprise him everytime. But despite being vast, it is devoid of something essential in making love. Something Samyak hadn't known before Gayatri. He had finally fallen in love. And he could chuck a thousand Aninditas and their Saharas for one little boring oasis for the water in it.
"Why were you so generous today?"
"I always wanted to give you this. All these eight years."
"But why now? Why not before?"
"You weren't ready."
"Didn't you want to kiss me that night we ran inside Nandan from the rain?"
"Not that I can think of," there was a glint of mystery in Gayatri's eyes. She was smiling, and he knew she won't tell. Despite having made love to her, he realized how far she still remained from him.
"Marry me, gee."
"I will, Sam. I will, the day you mean what you say."
Since then till today, Samyak has changed. He has waited for her, saved the blue bedspread they made love on as it was, and put it in the closet. And memories of the Aninditas and Sahanas have been taken over by memories of that one afternoon. Even his harshest critic, Sagarika Ghose, has mentioned in her latest article about a newfound element in his music: feeling. According to her, Samyak Basu has graduated from being just a technically brilliant composer to a musician from his heart.
Gayatri hasn't given him her number and isn't calling up either. She prefers to stay the mystery that she always has been. Incommunicado, just out of his reach. But today she will come. Has she left her husband? How old is her daughter now? Samyak started getting fidgety. He plugged in his iron and tried smoothing out the wrinkled bedspread. What will she think? If it is wrinkled? Will she not want to marry him thinking he is incapable of looking after himself? But isn't that too far fetched? Why would a woman take that as a sign of his incapability! Absurd. He wasn't incapable. She had closed her eyes when they kissed. She had kept moaning when he slowly entered her. She cannot think he is incapable. She hadn't made love in a long while. Or had she? But wasn't he thinking of his abilities as a husband? As a homemaker husband? What is the term for them? But will he look after the home? Her daughter, her daughter...where is she now? How old? Five, six? Will she come with her? Will Samyak be a father? Will the wrinkles on a blue bedspread, which has been spread out to rekindle memories of a blissfull afternoon, be held against him? Samyak kept ironing the ends vigorously. And then the phone announced a message.
Gayatri will not come. Ever. "Have a good life, Sam" was staring at him from the screen. He called up the unknown number but it was just that: unknown.
You can see Samyak in silhouette now. He waited all afternoon, standing in front of the window facing west. And now he is back there, facing an orange sun, wondering if he should turn back and crumple the ends of the bedspread to keep intact the memories as they were. He couldn't remember if Manibabu was his father. The flying elephants had started covering up his orange, setting sun.
At 32, Samyak has done decently for himself and earned himself quite some name as a percussionist. He plays the tabla, and has recently been invited by Dr L. Subramanium to perform with him at Bangalore. If you ask him how he feels about it, he will tell you it is like having achieved something beyond his dreams. From his initial days of learning tabla from Manibabu, the tall, dark teacher who used to come riding a bicycle wearing a white dhoti, to playing with Dr. Zakir Hussain at Banaras, Samyak has come a long way. He has even made a statement by refusing to play at the Sankatmochan music conference in Banaras, thus creating quite a stir. He had his reasons, he said on national television. But critics say he refused because non-Hindus are not allowed to perform at the Sankatmochan temple. And he feels, like all musicians do, that music is created to spread the word of peace and break barriers created by religions and races. Despite having come this distance, Samyak didn't forget about Manibabu. He died of a mysterious disease. His family didn't allow anyone to visit him the last few months. Not even Samyak.
He has even been approached by a couple of producers from Tollygunge to act in some Bengali movies, but he refused. He doesn't have the time. Apart from being immersed in practising, studying, and experimenting with music, he now has a new occupation. A little disturbing, you can say. Samyak is falling in love. And that is keeping him busy.
Samyak is not traditionally goodlooking, but his long wavy hair and his tall, sinewy physique make him a rather desirable date for most young women of Calcutta. Once, just after a performance at Kala Mandir, a crazed fan begged for his silk kurta drenched in sweat. And he has not pushed away this attention either. He has loved it like Cristiano Ronaldo would, and while some have looked away, most prude Bengalis have raised a questioning eyebrow...art doesn't give you the licence to...ahem.
So Samyak is falling in love. And the world doesn't know about it. Yet. He denied it to himself all this while, but when Gayatri gets off her sleek, black Civic and walks to him, he momentarily wants to forget that she is married with a kid. They met when he was a struggling prodigy, trying to get a slot in the local Doordarshan studio. Most of the producers were a little wary of his talent, and the local singers weren't too happy when he pointed out how off-rhythm they were, so the going was generally tough. Normal tabla players were in demand, not prodigies. That's when he met Gayatri, a city-based lawyer, married to a businessman in New Delhi.
Gayatri had heard him perform, and probably even took a personal interest in him because she herself arranged for him to meet her dad, who helped Samyak bring out his first solo cassette. It was a series of jazz percussion compositions, using absolutely unmusical objects to create heady, crazy, and sometimes eerie sounds. Although the local Bengali magazines pooh-poohed his attempts, a critic from the Downbeat magazine came across a copy of his album and lauded his efforts. There was no looking back since then. It was 1999. The year he met Gayatri.
Samyak stood in front of the window, knowing Gayatri wouldn't come. But his ears were trained on every sound that they could capture. Nothing much was happening in his locality that afternoon. It was sleepy, soundless, with the lazy crow soaking in the winter sun and letting out an occassional kah as if in thanks. Do crows pray? Samyak thought for a while, but then brought himself back. This new streak of absurdity is either a fallout of too much work or of going crazy altogether. A few days back he caught himself in a delirious bout of thinking about elephants flying and covering the sun.
Gayatri had moved to Delhi in 2001. But she used to come over once a year. Once she came with her daughter, about whom Samyak had no news.
"Whoa! How come you never told me about her?"
"So I haven't told you about so many other things too."
Gayatri was always at an arm's distance, but just beyond his reach. Samyak never thought about her much, but when she came with her daughter to Calcutta, he was a little shaken. Somehow, perhaps because she helped him of her own will, or because she listened to most of his whims, Samyak felt she was his. She wasn't after all. She went and had a kid with another man. Her husband, yes, but another man. All his flirtatious attempts at taking her to bed were in vain, but because he always had someone or the other to come home with, he didn't realize when simply missing Gayatri had turned into something serious.
He turned back after a long time and felt the wrinkles on the blue bedspread. He brought it out after two years, to make Gayatri's visit today special, reminiscent of their last meeting in 2007. That day Gayatri wasn't in her black business suit as always. She always wears black or steel grey business suits and Armani glasses, looking stunning. But that day she wore a white tee above a pair of blue jeans. She threw herself on the sofa, something very unlike her, but placed the flowers carefully next to her.
"Come and sit next to me, Sam" she patted the sofa and beckoned.
"You...you look so different in a t-shirt."
There was a questioning look in her eyes.
"I mean, even more beautiful. Almost human. Like I can reach out and touch you."
"And you couldn't all this while?"
There was a whirlwind working its way through his mind. Before he knew it, they were engaged in a kiss that seemed to last longer than he could hold his breath. "Gayatri..." he managed to gasp, but she pulled him deeper and deeper into her.
Samyak had tried to remember their lovemaking later in many of his late night fantasies, but couldn't find anything special in it. Sex with Anindita is always more experimental and vast. She manages to surprise him everytime. But despite being vast, it is devoid of something essential in making love. Something Samyak hadn't known before Gayatri. He had finally fallen in love. And he could chuck a thousand Aninditas and their Saharas for one little boring oasis for the water in it.
"Why were you so generous today?"
"I always wanted to give you this. All these eight years."
"But why now? Why not before?"
"You weren't ready."
"Didn't you want to kiss me that night we ran inside Nandan from the rain?"
"Not that I can think of," there was a glint of mystery in Gayatri's eyes. She was smiling, and he knew she won't tell. Despite having made love to her, he realized how far she still remained from him.
"Marry me, gee."
"I will, Sam. I will, the day you mean what you say."
Since then till today, Samyak has changed. He has waited for her, saved the blue bedspread they made love on as it was, and put it in the closet. And memories of the Aninditas and Sahanas have been taken over by memories of that one afternoon. Even his harshest critic, Sagarika Ghose, has mentioned in her latest article about a newfound element in his music: feeling. According to her, Samyak Basu has graduated from being just a technically brilliant composer to a musician from his heart.
Gayatri hasn't given him her number and isn't calling up either. She prefers to stay the mystery that she always has been. Incommunicado, just out of his reach. But today she will come. Has she left her husband? How old is her daughter now? Samyak started getting fidgety. He plugged in his iron and tried smoothing out the wrinkled bedspread. What will she think? If it is wrinkled? Will she not want to marry him thinking he is incapable of looking after himself? But isn't that too far fetched? Why would a woman take that as a sign of his incapability! Absurd. He wasn't incapable. She had closed her eyes when they kissed. She had kept moaning when he slowly entered her. She cannot think he is incapable. She hadn't made love in a long while. Or had she? But wasn't he thinking of his abilities as a husband? As a homemaker husband? What is the term for them? But will he look after the home? Her daughter, her daughter...where is she now? How old? Five, six? Will she come with her? Will Samyak be a father? Will the wrinkles on a blue bedspread, which has been spread out to rekindle memories of a blissfull afternoon, be held against him? Samyak kept ironing the ends vigorously. And then the phone announced a message.
Gayatri will not come. Ever. "Have a good life, Sam" was staring at him from the screen. He called up the unknown number but it was just that: unknown.
You can see Samyak in silhouette now. He waited all afternoon, standing in front of the window facing west. And now he is back there, facing an orange sun, wondering if he should turn back and crumple the ends of the bedspread to keep intact the memories as they were. He couldn't remember if Manibabu was his father. The flying elephants had started covering up his orange, setting sun.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Bongs and Slang
Indians, being repressed, are not very forthcoming about the wonderful repertoire of slang that exists in our different languages. A punjabi always reminds you that you slept with your mother and that your sister probably has a cock, a bong can tell you with some conviction that you (even if you are a virgin still) have had sex with a fool umpteen times, and Malayalis generally confuse people with mongrels. By now you probably have an idea that we are dealing with creativity at its best. However, the middle class (which forms the majority of the urban Indian populace) would have none of it. They learn everything at school, practice the choicest of slangs with their classmates, but pretend to know nothing when it comes to mixing with people of other age groups. For example, a group of 14 year old boys, despite holding masters degrees in slang, would use normal language when they meet 20 year old seniors or 40 year old dads, who all, in their respective groups, are comfortable using this different lingo altogether.
Slang has its benefits. It makes expression easier and less convoluted. A Bengali word like Baal (which is akin to "balls" and literally means pubic hair) can be used to express anything from chagrin to disgust to disagreement.
"The Democrats will win."
"Baal."
You can also choose to use it generously whenever you find yourself cornered in an argument. It is very effective against logical argument of any kind. It can make a universal truth sound like a blatant lie.
"The sun will rise in the east."
"Baal."
And you don't have a good comeback.
I heard of one Bengali who got himself in trouble when he tried using this in Punjab. He said "baal" to mean "balls I will go with you," but the Punjabi thought it was the English word ball (which is pronounced in Punjab as baal) and took offence thinking he meant "balls." Although the essence was the same and the effect would have been similar if the Punjabi guy knew what baal really meant, we are dealing with serious semantics here.
However, slang not being included in popular literature means that in a language like Bengali, to write about a fictional account of two people fornicating, you have to resort to very archaic words from a dictionary by the famous AT Dev. I don't know much about him, but he has been immortalized in the famous rhyme about the Bengali dick. There are no proper, popular, acceptable terms for the various body parts that are involved in a foreplay or the real act. AT Dev, I believe, borrowed everything from the famous poet Kalidasa of the sixth century*.
The current Bengali langauge available for literature, with its nitombo for the butt and ston (with a soft t like in Perestroika) for breasts, is way too Victorian for authors to try writing about sex. But has it deterred them? No way. If you read the recent novels that are being written, you would wonder whether any Bengali character has not had an affair outside her/his primary relation. The latest literature, sometimes set in the US (too many Bongs there, I hear), sometimes in the posh localities of Calcutta, are all about gigolos and married women hankering for sex outside their marriages (primarily the reason why I want to make an investigative trip to Calcutta next week...to gather empirical evidence for/against all that is being written). I wonder why the usual everyday slang, despite being used every day by everybody in his/her comfort zone, is not being accepted in the language used for literature.
As I write this, my six year old son turns in his sleep and swears "saala," making me cringe. I can't blame him. He doesn't use it as a swear word. He has picked it up from Pappu can't dance saala. Saala, for the uninitiated and the Americans who read this, means "I'll do your sister."
It is perhaps the only term that has been rendered harmless by overuse. It has been used in popular songs, and you can see Bollywood heroes keep saying "abbe saale" all through any Hindi movie. It has almost become synonymous with the word dude. When I was growing up, saala was a taboo term. Today my son can sing a song with saala in it and I pretend not to get alarmed.
But there are so many rich, creative, beautiful slang terms out there for us to accept and make our own. The day we will be able to make slangs part of our everyday, generic vocabulary, we will be able to revolutionize our languages. Literature in native Indian languages will become much easier to translate. But, if no one heeds my advice, we will be drowned in the onslaught of the "fuck yous" that have invaded the lingo of our generation now like a horde of Huns. Every Indian boy or girl can nonchalantly say "he is so full of shit" about their teacher or use "fuck you" instead of a nice and crisper "baal" to express disagreement.
Stop our languages from this invasion. Spread the swear word. Call your neighbor a bansod instead of the oh-so-boring "good morning, how is your Earl Grey tea this morning, dear sir?"
You will feel liberated. Try it alone in front of the mirror first and then go out boldly to face the other world. Imagine screaming "bokacHHoda" with your dad and raising your fists up in the air when Sachin scores a century. Doesn't the idea feel good? It kinda grows on you, like the warmth inside a blanket . . .
*I have no clue which period Kalidasa belonged to. Not something we have been encouraged to learn in our English schools.
Slang has its benefits. It makes expression easier and less convoluted. A Bengali word like Baal (which is akin to "balls" and literally means pubic hair) can be used to express anything from chagrin to disgust to disagreement.
"The Democrats will win."
"Baal."
You can also choose to use it generously whenever you find yourself cornered in an argument. It is very effective against logical argument of any kind. It can make a universal truth sound like a blatant lie.
"The sun will rise in the east."
"Baal."
And you don't have a good comeback.
I heard of one Bengali who got himself in trouble when he tried using this in Punjab. He said "baal" to mean "balls I will go with you," but the Punjabi thought it was the English word ball (which is pronounced in Punjab as baal) and took offence thinking he meant "balls." Although the essence was the same and the effect would have been similar if the Punjabi guy knew what baal really meant, we are dealing with serious semantics here.
However, slang not being included in popular literature means that in a language like Bengali, to write about a fictional account of two people fornicating, you have to resort to very archaic words from a dictionary by the famous AT Dev. I don't know much about him, but he has been immortalized in the famous rhyme about the Bengali dick. There are no proper, popular, acceptable terms for the various body parts that are involved in a foreplay or the real act. AT Dev, I believe, borrowed everything from the famous poet Kalidasa of the sixth century*.
The current Bengali langauge available for literature, with its nitombo for the butt and ston (with a soft t like in Perestroika) for breasts, is way too Victorian for authors to try writing about sex. But has it deterred them? No way. If you read the recent novels that are being written, you would wonder whether any Bengali character has not had an affair outside her/his primary relation. The latest literature, sometimes set in the US (too many Bongs there, I hear), sometimes in the posh localities of Calcutta, are all about gigolos and married women hankering for sex outside their marriages (primarily the reason why I want to make an investigative trip to Calcutta next week...to gather empirical evidence for/against all that is being written). I wonder why the usual everyday slang, despite being used every day by everybody in his/her comfort zone, is not being accepted in the language used for literature.
As I write this, my six year old son turns in his sleep and swears "saala," making me cringe. I can't blame him. He doesn't use it as a swear word. He has picked it up from Pappu can't dance saala. Saala, for the uninitiated and the Americans who read this, means "I'll do your sister."
It is perhaps the only term that has been rendered harmless by overuse. It has been used in popular songs, and you can see Bollywood heroes keep saying "abbe saale" all through any Hindi movie. It has almost become synonymous with the word dude. When I was growing up, saala was a taboo term. Today my son can sing a song with saala in it and I pretend not to get alarmed.
But there are so many rich, creative, beautiful slang terms out there for us to accept and make our own. The day we will be able to make slangs part of our everyday, generic vocabulary, we will be able to revolutionize our languages. Literature in native Indian languages will become much easier to translate. But, if no one heeds my advice, we will be drowned in the onslaught of the "fuck yous" that have invaded the lingo of our generation now like a horde of Huns. Every Indian boy or girl can nonchalantly say "he is so full of shit" about their teacher or use "fuck you" instead of a nice and crisper "baal" to express disagreement.
Stop our languages from this invasion. Spread the swear word. Call your neighbor a bansod instead of the oh-so-boring "good morning, how is your Earl Grey tea this morning, dear sir?"
You will feel liberated. Try it alone in front of the mirror first and then go out boldly to face the other world. Imagine screaming "bokacHHoda" with your dad and raising your fists up in the air when Sachin scores a century. Doesn't the idea feel good? It kinda grows on you, like the warmth inside a blanket . . .
*I have no clue which period Kalidasa belonged to. Not something we have been encouraged to learn in our English schools.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
dear dad
sometimes you want to break down and cry and have someone tell you all this is going to pass.
why did we have to grow up? now it is our turn to tell our children that india is not gonna collapse by the time they grow up, without any conviction in our voices. is this what they are trying to achieve? break the backs of the common man and inject panic in our bloodstream?
and our foolish media has played into their hands, publicizing the acts, doing the job for the terrorists . . . man, they must be laughing at this fourth pillar of our democracy. in a bid to outrun the other channels, each TV reporter is eagerly waiting for more blood and gore to show us. they are sensationalizing the incidents and calling it the second largest terrorist attack after the WTC. the terrorists are laughing and raising a toast.
and then one of our leading newspapermen will take time out of his harem and write a column sympathizing with the cause of the terrorists. in chaste, almost ostentatious English. it is the government's failure that we are paying the price for now, he will harp. like all americans should be made to pay for Nixon's troops in Vietnam or all Germans should be hated because there was once a hitler there.
history shows that after every war the world has come back to its feet, but i am not so sure. something's welling inside and can't be held back any more. i want to cry, sob uncontrollably, and not pretend to be a strong man ready to protect his family and country.
dear dad, can i come back to you? will you protect me today?
why did we have to grow up? now it is our turn to tell our children that india is not gonna collapse by the time they grow up, without any conviction in our voices. is this what they are trying to achieve? break the backs of the common man and inject panic in our bloodstream?
and our foolish media has played into their hands, publicizing the acts, doing the job for the terrorists . . . man, they must be laughing at this fourth pillar of our democracy. in a bid to outrun the other channels, each TV reporter is eagerly waiting for more blood and gore to show us. they are sensationalizing the incidents and calling it the second largest terrorist attack after the WTC. the terrorists are laughing and raising a toast.
and then one of our leading newspapermen will take time out of his harem and write a column sympathizing with the cause of the terrorists. in chaste, almost ostentatious English. it is the government's failure that we are paying the price for now, he will harp. like all americans should be made to pay for Nixon's troops in Vietnam or all Germans should be hated because there was once a hitler there.
history shows that after every war the world has come back to its feet, but i am not so sure. something's welling inside and can't be held back any more. i want to cry, sob uncontrollably, and not pretend to be a strong man ready to protect his family and country.
dear dad, can i come back to you? will you protect me today?
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
good sense, they say...
good sense, they say, doth prevail even if the racist followers of white and protestant Christian supremacy have ruled the US for the last eight years and gone all over the world like plundering Huns with no conceivable reason, making us lose our faith in the average American voter. but look up now! can you see that the republicans are gone, and the world will be safe? no more will you have to take out processions in Berkeley against the war, because there won't be any unnecessary wars. no WTC will be bombed by the CIA again. no frankensteins like the talibans will be created, no saddams will be hanged... india will probably have to worry about the nuclear deal not coming thru, but then, humans have come back, so rejoice. the democrats are humans and they (despite being Americans) respect women, black, Catholic, Jewish, hispanic, or gay rights unlike the illiterate republicans, who represent the generic illiterate, school dropout, religious, blind American. we have always known and looked up to good human beings like Jimmy Carter or Bill Clinton. they are the Americans we adored. strangely, the same Americans elected people like Nixon, Reagan, or the Bushes to power. we are Indians, so we don't know much, but that's one behavior by the world's richest and most advanced people that we could never fathom.
we aren't as interested in the politics of our own country because it had gone to the dogs right during the days of Gandhi and Nehru. the humans left us in the hands of a handful of indians, can you believe it? Indians ruling India? so they created a constitution that was heavy and complicated and wrapped in red tape. in an euphoria similar to that of students when teachers leave the school, the indians sixty years back sat in the chairs meant for and suiting the British. and we have never looked forward since then. it has been socially, morally, and culturally a backward journey that will eventually end in a bottomless abyss. religions of all kinds gained prominence, the caste divisions were exploited as vote banks, the divide between the rich and poor increased even further, intolerance reached absurd levels...and we got cellphones and a rocket to the moon. a handful of indians wanted the humans beings to come back, but then, they were economically brow beaten after the second world war and could not sustain their empire. America and Russia emerged as the superpowers instead.
Our prime ministers have always exchanged roses with the Russian premiers and the ruling Congress of senile old fools had a socialist leaning. But some Indians read Allen Ginsberg and some others listened to Lennon and Morrisson. America it was. It will liberate us. To get ready for our liberation, we promptly increased the size of the flared bottoms of our trousers. Nothing happened, really. We were left disillusioned.
Even now many Indians follow the American polls like it is gonna decide their life tomorrow. Like Obama will liberate us from us Indians. Some are disenchanted. Some know that the evil will gain victory over the good by proving that Obama loves to have sex. Maybe even with his intern.
And soon enough all our liberated, emancipated Americans will vote for a republican candidate... oh blasphemy... how can a prez let someone else give him a blow job?
he he, if we started bothering about our scandals, we would have to let the military rule us instead of the khadi clad pigs out there. Chandrasekhar, our ex PM, had to have sex with one minor boy every night. A new one every night, mind you. And this is a rumor, I hear. I love rumors because they have some element of truth in them. Maybe he kept one boy for a week? Some bastards tweak reality for some selfish, sadistic pleasures, I tell you!
So, dear Americans, listen for a second. Even if your Obama dear goes around fucking twenty different men and women, please show your good sense and elect another democrat (or Obama himself) next time round by keeping in mind his good deeds the next four years. he will take the troops off Afghanistan and Pakistan, resulting in the terrorists being left with no agenda of killing Americans (they mean Americans, but plant the bombs under our asses because we signed a nuclear deal with the US while Pakistan was kicked out by China) and turning into farmers or truck drivers. He will give the Americans back their jobs, so they will agree to unrecognize the word Bangalored from their vocabulary. Americans will learn to sing and write again and may also start talking of world peace (that will be a miracle, lemme sound Mr Benedict off on this). Lennon may come back from his grave. LSD might again be allowed freely in our country. We may get another chance to burn lingerie. With Indian women mostly wearing satin these days, it will be a welcome activity. For all you know, I may be able to take my motorbike from India to Redditch through Afghanistan and Iran without being hit by 2,064 bullets. Oh for the sweet little dreams that Obama has brought into our minds. The bankers are rejoicing, and my mutual funds are looking up again with a rising sensex. Never has some other kinda arousal brought so much pleasure before. "May Obama have the sexiest intern ever, but may he never get caught," is our collective sigh.
we aren't as interested in the politics of our own country because it had gone to the dogs right during the days of Gandhi and Nehru. the humans left us in the hands of a handful of indians, can you believe it? Indians ruling India? so they created a constitution that was heavy and complicated and wrapped in red tape. in an euphoria similar to that of students when teachers leave the school, the indians sixty years back sat in the chairs meant for and suiting the British. and we have never looked forward since then. it has been socially, morally, and culturally a backward journey that will eventually end in a bottomless abyss. religions of all kinds gained prominence, the caste divisions were exploited as vote banks, the divide between the rich and poor increased even further, intolerance reached absurd levels...and we got cellphones and a rocket to the moon. a handful of indians wanted the humans beings to come back, but then, they were economically brow beaten after the second world war and could not sustain their empire. America and Russia emerged as the superpowers instead.
Our prime ministers have always exchanged roses with the Russian premiers and the ruling Congress of senile old fools had a socialist leaning. But some Indians read Allen Ginsberg and some others listened to Lennon and Morrisson. America it was. It will liberate us. To get ready for our liberation, we promptly increased the size of the flared bottoms of our trousers. Nothing happened, really. We were left disillusioned.
Even now many Indians follow the American polls like it is gonna decide their life tomorrow. Like Obama will liberate us from us Indians. Some are disenchanted. Some know that the evil will gain victory over the good by proving that Obama loves to have sex. Maybe even with his intern.
And soon enough all our liberated, emancipated Americans will vote for a republican candidate... oh blasphemy... how can a prez let someone else give him a blow job?
he he, if we started bothering about our scandals, we would have to let the military rule us instead of the khadi clad pigs out there. Chandrasekhar, our ex PM, had to have sex with one minor boy every night. A new one every night, mind you. And this is a rumor, I hear. I love rumors because they have some element of truth in them. Maybe he kept one boy for a week? Some bastards tweak reality for some selfish, sadistic pleasures, I tell you!
So, dear Americans, listen for a second. Even if your Obama dear goes around fucking twenty different men and women, please show your good sense and elect another democrat (or Obama himself) next time round by keeping in mind his good deeds the next four years. he will take the troops off Afghanistan and Pakistan, resulting in the terrorists being left with no agenda of killing Americans (they mean Americans, but plant the bombs under our asses because we signed a nuclear deal with the US while Pakistan was kicked out by China) and turning into farmers or truck drivers. He will give the Americans back their jobs, so they will agree to unrecognize the word Bangalored from their vocabulary. Americans will learn to sing and write again and may also start talking of world peace (that will be a miracle, lemme sound Mr Benedict off on this). Lennon may come back from his grave. LSD might again be allowed freely in our country. We may get another chance to burn lingerie. With Indian women mostly wearing satin these days, it will be a welcome activity. For all you know, I may be able to take my motorbike from India to Redditch through Afghanistan and Iran without being hit by 2,064 bullets. Oh for the sweet little dreams that Obama has brought into our minds. The bankers are rejoicing, and my mutual funds are looking up again with a rising sensex. Never has some other kinda arousal brought so much pleasure before. "May Obama have the sexiest intern ever, but may he never get caught," is our collective sigh.
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
pashbalish
It has long been proven that Jesus was a Bengali. He was with his mom for 35 years; he thought his mom was a virgin; his mom thought he was god. Now, these three are common with all Bengali sons, and it also proves beyond doubt that he too was none other than our Jishu. Historians are looking for just one proof before declaring this to the world. Did Jishu use a bolster while sleeping?
If he was a Bengali, he must have used a bolster to sleep at night. Bengali sons, who sleep between their parents till the age of about 15, are given a bolster thereafter as they move to their own room. By 15 they have obviously learned to jerk off, so the arrangement of another room. Most Bengalis could not afford a separate room for their children until even the last decade, and that also perhaps explains why they had to keep their children in the same bedroom, but something tells me they don't want their children to grow up.
In the other room, the Bengali son goes off to sleep after hugging a soft bolster. In his wet dreams, of Madhurima, Tilottama, Tamali, Tisyapali, or even of goddess Saraswati at times, the Bengali son chokes the bolster to death.
And then he grows up and is sent to the hostel. Bags are packed, a horde of relatives accompany him to the railway station to see him off. Everybody is teary eyed, as he fades with the train into the distance, his fat lunch box still dangling from his other hand. With one, he is busy wiping his tears. "Dugga dugga."
The Bengali son writes his first letter: Ma, I reached. Got my room and put up your pic there. My roommate is a Bihari, a very studious guy. My bolster is a huge hit with the others. Arup borrowed it the other day to get a good night's sleep after his class tests. You know ma? Everybody is a nocturnal here. They stay up till 3 or 4 in the morning. I too join them at times. I take my bolster there and our senior dada, Gora, who has failed a couple of times, leans on it and tells us stories. Bishnu says he will get a nice, embroidered cover for my bolster from Gujarat this summer.
The Bengali son grows up even more. Almost can be called a man by now. He has learned to shave and also say hello to the girls. But even today he terribly misses his bolster when he visits the girls' hostel. That could have given his restless limbs something to hold on to like a koala hugs a branch. In the absence of a bolster, the Bengali son is absolutely clueless about what to do with his limbs, and mostly one can see them hang about his body without any definite purpose. "They gave me a nick, ma, but I like it. They call me a chimp." So, the Bengali son has learned to pocket his hands and has also coined the idiom "deep pocket," which has found some different connotations these days.
The Bengali son gets married. All these years of jerking off are going to pay off now. He will step into manhood. For a brief moment, the bolster is relegated to the backyard of the Bengali son's mind. All he can think of is how to pounce on his live bolster the night of his wedding. In anticipation, the Bengali son keeps checking himself in the loo and goes around asking his friends about the female anatomy. Just where is it, can you tell me? The experienced Bengali sons tell him. He enters the room. The bed is covered in rose petals. His bride is perched on the edge of the bed with her face covered. She too has forgotten her bolster for a brief moment and is counting her rapid heartbeats. He reaches the bed. She looks up at him. But his gaze is fixed somewhere else.
There are two red bolsters on the bed, covered in nice red velvet.
"Eta tumi nao, borota aami nilam" you can hear the Bengali son mutter with a big smile as he takes the bigger of the two. And then they go off to sleep.
If he was a Bengali, he must have used a bolster to sleep at night. Bengali sons, who sleep between their parents till the age of about 15, are given a bolster thereafter as they move to their own room. By 15 they have obviously learned to jerk off, so the arrangement of another room. Most Bengalis could not afford a separate room for their children until even the last decade, and that also perhaps explains why they had to keep their children in the same bedroom, but something tells me they don't want their children to grow up.
In the other room, the Bengali son goes off to sleep after hugging a soft bolster. In his wet dreams, of Madhurima, Tilottama, Tamali, Tisyapali, or even of goddess Saraswati at times, the Bengali son chokes the bolster to death.
And then he grows up and is sent to the hostel. Bags are packed, a horde of relatives accompany him to the railway station to see him off. Everybody is teary eyed, as he fades with the train into the distance, his fat lunch box still dangling from his other hand. With one, he is busy wiping his tears. "Dugga dugga."
The Bengali son writes his first letter: Ma, I reached. Got my room and put up your pic there. My roommate is a Bihari, a very studious guy. My bolster is a huge hit with the others. Arup borrowed it the other day to get a good night's sleep after his class tests. You know ma? Everybody is a nocturnal here. They stay up till 3 or 4 in the morning. I too join them at times. I take my bolster there and our senior dada, Gora, who has failed a couple of times, leans on it and tells us stories. Bishnu says he will get a nice, embroidered cover for my bolster from Gujarat this summer.
The Bengali son grows up even more. Almost can be called a man by now. He has learned to shave and also say hello to the girls. But even today he terribly misses his bolster when he visits the girls' hostel. That could have given his restless limbs something to hold on to like a koala hugs a branch. In the absence of a bolster, the Bengali son is absolutely clueless about what to do with his limbs, and mostly one can see them hang about his body without any definite purpose. "They gave me a nick, ma, but I like it. They call me a chimp." So, the Bengali son has learned to pocket his hands and has also coined the idiom "deep pocket," which has found some different connotations these days.
The Bengali son gets married. All these years of jerking off are going to pay off now. He will step into manhood. For a brief moment, the bolster is relegated to the backyard of the Bengali son's mind. All he can think of is how to pounce on his live bolster the night of his wedding. In anticipation, the Bengali son keeps checking himself in the loo and goes around asking his friends about the female anatomy. Just where is it, can you tell me? The experienced Bengali sons tell him. He enters the room. The bed is covered in rose petals. His bride is perched on the edge of the bed with her face covered. She too has forgotten her bolster for a brief moment and is counting her rapid heartbeats. He reaches the bed. She looks up at him. But his gaze is fixed somewhere else.
There are two red bolsters on the bed, covered in nice red velvet.
"Eta tumi nao, borota aami nilam" you can hear the Bengali son mutter with a big smile as he takes the bigger of the two. And then they go off to sleep.
Monday, September 22, 2008
the monk on the 19th floor
Deepesh mailed me the other day asking if I was interested in this rather nice 3 bhk apartment being sold at the L&T. What's the price? Oh, I didn't ask, but you can calculate . . . the apartment is about 2060 sft and the going rate here is around Rs 4000 per sft.
I calculated and could just manage a wry smile that is best known as kashtho hashi in Bengali (literally translated it means a wooden smile). It costs a whopping 82 lakhs. Even if the guy negotiates, he will probably bring it down to 76? When did the property prices skyrocket like this, and who allowed it? When our parents, mostly government officers, retired, they made a paltry amount that they deposited in banks for a good return of about 15%. With the inflation rising and the banks making lesser profits, those interest rates came down to around 10, and even lesser. My dad suddenly realized he has to cut a lot of unnecessary expenses to make do. And meanwhile, the salaries kept rising beyond the limits of decency, and when the companies realized that it was probably sensible to hire an Irish or a Romanian instead, our economy had already been sitting on a huge ball of uninflammable gas. If the ball deflates, people would fall and die, so no need for me to make them burn for the sake of prose. They will die, that's it.
No Deepesh, how can I? I can't make so much money by selling my apartment, and it is indecent to ask for so much, I commented. Deepesh, however, left Mr Subramanium's number with me.
Came home and told Sayantani that we shouldn't keep dreaming of absurd things like a flat at South City in 2008. Maybe, if we bought one in the year 2000, it would still have been affordable. Now women, let me tell you, seldom like to see reason. She made me call the person.
"Hello? Mr Subramaniam? I'm Arijit. Got to know about your apartment and was curious about the price." I managed to squeak over the phone.
"Oh, hello. We can talk about the price later, Mr Arijit. You just come and check out the place."
So, we fixed an appointment with him and went over to check out his place. It was on the 19th floor, huge, and with an awesome view. "Where's your furniture?" I was curious because there was nothing in the house, making it look even huger. The marble on the floor shone like a mirror and the midday sun was reflected on it like a huge ball.
"Oh, I just use the kitchen to boil my vegetables and I sleep in that room," he pointed to the third bedroom that we hadn't checked out. I went in and found a mattress on the floor, with a pillow on it. Everything was very clean, but I was a little surprised because a person who can buy an apartment in a condo like this definitely is rich. Maybe he doesn't stay here, I was thinking, when he almost read my thoughts and said
"I do stay here, you know :). I have a phone, some utensils, my clothes in one of the wardrobes, and that bed. I know you are surprised, but that's all we ever need, don't we?"
"Oh, not at all. I wasn't thinking about that. Very true indeed... what else do we ever need?" I need my internet, my car, my mobike, my freezer full of meat, and also need to change my cell phone every two years, so I was another middle-class man with middle-class dreams. It reminded me of my mom. All she had as a teacher were a huge gladstone, a table fan, and a small kerosene stove. And she could survive on anything. She didn't splurge, neither was she stingy when it came to my needs, but for herself, she needed just a fan. It was hot in Durgapur and she was always overweight. Just a fan, now, but as a student we didn't have ceiling fans either, she used to tell me. I wondered how that was possible. To live without a ceiling fan. It always reminded me of how Gabriel Garcia Marquez keeps dwelling on how sultry and hot it is in his country. His descriptions of heat can make you squirm in discomfort at times. Where is he from? Spain or Mexico? Like Senator John McCain, I too forget my geography at times. And like my mom, Gabriel Garcia Marquez never allowed his protagonists the luxury of a ceiling fan.
"So..." I tried coming to the point, although I knew I could never afford even half of that amount even after selling everything I had and paying off my mortgages "...how much are you selling it for?"
"How much are you ready to pay?" he smiled at us.
Now it's coming, I thought, and was about to say something when I realized it's best not to give him false hopes. "Well, frankly, sir... we cannot afford this place at all, but then, we just extended our dream and made it spill over into our reality." I tried being abstruse. "If I sell my apartment and pay off the mortgage, I will be left with about half of what this apartment is for. And no bank will lend me the remaining amount because we cannot pay so much in EMIs."
He smiled and walked to the french window.
"I'm sorry, sir, we must go now. Thanks for being kind enough to show us around."
Sayantani looked at me and smiled too. I guess she too finally stepped out of her absurd dream and joined me in my reality. There, on the floor, were our Bata shoes, not Guccis.
"But I never told you my price, did I?"
"You don't have to, sir. I know the going rate, and it is rather high for us." I kind of leaned toward the door, pretending to leave...
"Hmm, see... I bought it in the year 2000 for 20 lakhs. Now I am leaving. So you pay me those 20 lakhs and the apartment is yours."
"LOL" I snorted and then broke out into a laughter. (Damn this chat lingo, man, I can't even laugh normally these days)
"Good joke, sir. And my son Aaron can pay you the remaining 60." I tried to continue the humor.
But it turned out that he was serious. Mr Subramaniam even worked out my finances for me. "If you sell your apartment and pay off your mortgage, you have x amount left. Pay me 20 from that, and the remaining can be your retirement package. Just retire and stay here."
I couldn't believe what he said. My wife was about to walk away, thinking he was deliberately insulting us, but he was serious.
Then he told us his story of how he turned into a monk. But now it is almost midnight for me.
I calculated and could just manage a wry smile that is best known as kashtho hashi in Bengali (literally translated it means a wooden smile). It costs a whopping 82 lakhs. Even if the guy negotiates, he will probably bring it down to 76? When did the property prices skyrocket like this, and who allowed it? When our parents, mostly government officers, retired, they made a paltry amount that they deposited in banks for a good return of about 15%. With the inflation rising and the banks making lesser profits, those interest rates came down to around 10, and even lesser. My dad suddenly realized he has to cut a lot of unnecessary expenses to make do. And meanwhile, the salaries kept rising beyond the limits of decency, and when the companies realized that it was probably sensible to hire an Irish or a Romanian instead, our economy had already been sitting on a huge ball of uninflammable gas. If the ball deflates, people would fall and die, so no need for me to make them burn for the sake of prose. They will die, that's it.
No Deepesh, how can I? I can't make so much money by selling my apartment, and it is indecent to ask for so much, I commented. Deepesh, however, left Mr Subramanium's number with me.
Came home and told Sayantani that we shouldn't keep dreaming of absurd things like a flat at South City in 2008. Maybe, if we bought one in the year 2000, it would still have been affordable. Now women, let me tell you, seldom like to see reason. She made me call the person.
"Hello? Mr Subramaniam? I'm Arijit. Got to know about your apartment and was curious about the price." I managed to squeak over the phone.
"Oh, hello. We can talk about the price later, Mr Arijit. You just come and check out the place."
So, we fixed an appointment with him and went over to check out his place. It was on the 19th floor, huge, and with an awesome view. "Where's your furniture?" I was curious because there was nothing in the house, making it look even huger. The marble on the floor shone like a mirror and the midday sun was reflected on it like a huge ball.
"Oh, I just use the kitchen to boil my vegetables and I sleep in that room," he pointed to the third bedroom that we hadn't checked out. I went in and found a mattress on the floor, with a pillow on it. Everything was very clean, but I was a little surprised because a person who can buy an apartment in a condo like this definitely is rich. Maybe he doesn't stay here, I was thinking, when he almost read my thoughts and said
"I do stay here, you know :). I have a phone, some utensils, my clothes in one of the wardrobes, and that bed. I know you are surprised, but that's all we ever need, don't we?"
"Oh, not at all. I wasn't thinking about that. Very true indeed... what else do we ever need?" I need my internet, my car, my mobike, my freezer full of meat, and also need to change my cell phone every two years, so I was another middle-class man with middle-class dreams. It reminded me of my mom. All she had as a teacher were a huge gladstone, a table fan, and a small kerosene stove. And she could survive on anything. She didn't splurge, neither was she stingy when it came to my needs, but for herself, she needed just a fan. It was hot in Durgapur and she was always overweight. Just a fan, now, but as a student we didn't have ceiling fans either, she used to tell me. I wondered how that was possible. To live without a ceiling fan. It always reminded me of how Gabriel Garcia Marquez keeps dwelling on how sultry and hot it is in his country. His descriptions of heat can make you squirm in discomfort at times. Where is he from? Spain or Mexico? Like Senator John McCain, I too forget my geography at times. And like my mom, Gabriel Garcia Marquez never allowed his protagonists the luxury of a ceiling fan.
"So..." I tried coming to the point, although I knew I could never afford even half of that amount even after selling everything I had and paying off my mortgages "...how much are you selling it for?"
"How much are you ready to pay?" he smiled at us.
Now it's coming, I thought, and was about to say something when I realized it's best not to give him false hopes. "Well, frankly, sir... we cannot afford this place at all, but then, we just extended our dream and made it spill over into our reality." I tried being abstruse. "If I sell my apartment and pay off the mortgage, I will be left with about half of what this apartment is for. And no bank will lend me the remaining amount because we cannot pay so much in EMIs."
He smiled and walked to the french window.
"I'm sorry, sir, we must go now. Thanks for being kind enough to show us around."
Sayantani looked at me and smiled too. I guess she too finally stepped out of her absurd dream and joined me in my reality. There, on the floor, were our Bata shoes, not Guccis.
"But I never told you my price, did I?"
"You don't have to, sir. I know the going rate, and it is rather high for us." I kind of leaned toward the door, pretending to leave...
"Hmm, see... I bought it in the year 2000 for 20 lakhs. Now I am leaving. So you pay me those 20 lakhs and the apartment is yours."
"LOL" I snorted and then broke out into a laughter. (Damn this chat lingo, man, I can't even laugh normally these days)
"Good joke, sir. And my son Aaron can pay you the remaining 60." I tried to continue the humor.
But it turned out that he was serious. Mr Subramaniam even worked out my finances for me. "If you sell your apartment and pay off your mortgage, you have x amount left. Pay me 20 from that, and the remaining can be your retirement package. Just retire and stay here."
I couldn't believe what he said. My wife was about to walk away, thinking he was deliberately insulting us, but he was serious.
Then he told us his story of how he turned into a monk. But now it is almost midnight for me.
Monday, September 08, 2008
Anne comes back
The last post about Anne Frank brought back memories of the other Annes in my life. Well, they were never part of my life and neither will they ever be, but they did take up a lot of time in my growing-up years, occupying a large enough RAM in my brain to deserve a mention in my blog today.
The first was Anne Frank, whose 13-year old photo was of the most beautiful girl I could ever imagine. As a 10 year old boy, I couldn't fall for anybody else at that time. Anne Frank, the girl who, if cryogenically preserved and brought back to life today, will be my girlfriend forever. I will make sure she never gets to shed a tear. I will make sure she never runs out of food. And many of you out there must have fallen for Anne like I did. It wasn't unnatural. Many of my friends were in love with her too. We were of course in love with little Priyanka Gandhi at the same time, because she was the most beautiful Indian girl we had seen, but then, Anne was dead and gone, and indelible from our memories, whereas Priyanka was probably still wetting her bed on troubled nights. 
And another collective crush was on Nazia Hassan, who brought disco to India. Everybody I knew was in love with her. All the girls were in love with her brother, and their LP Disco Diwane was a must have in all homes, save the ones of the proletariat, who shunned the influence of disco on their carefully preserved culture. Trash, I tell you. That's gonna ruin your culture.
I agree with the Bengali proletariat. Poor guys. But anyway, Nazia's LP was coveted as much for her picture on the cover as for the songs.
Meanwhile, most of Enid Blyton's characters had made a rather boisterous entry into the collective psyche of the school students. Sometimes to such an extent that the girls chose either to become the tomboyish Georgina (George) or to become Anne, the perfect British blond schoolgirl. We heard of sausages and bacon and made our parents run to Janata Variety Store in Benachitty to find out what these things meant. That man had canned food: the food of the whites! Every time we passed by, we looked at the Russian, German, and British engineers and their wives buying their monthly provisions. We were certain that they read Enid Blyton too and got the idea of having sausages from her stories.
I was in love with Anne of Famous Five. With the character, believe me! She was small, sweet, a little foolish at times, scared of darkness, and needed protection. Can't really explain to you here how she appealed to me. And to add to my wonder, they started telecasting the Famous Five series produced by BBC at more or less the same time. No, maybe I am wrong... maybe I had moved to Alistair Macleans by then, but I was in my early teenage years when they showed Anne on TV. We had a portable, b/w TV and the transmission wasn't clear, so it was difficult for me to get her name from the credits. Sometimes the credits move too fast, don't you think? I think I got her real name and also the address of the BBC, but don't know if I could finally muster the courage to write to them about her address. Maybe I did. I do remember that I never got an answer.
She looks too beautiful for someone who can fall for Jack Black, but the beautiful sister in Nacho Libre looks like someone you can keep on the altar and worship all your life. A google search of her images will yield better results, am sure (if you want to see her posing in the nude), but I like her in her nun's habit, thank you. I guess she has never looked prettier in anything else, or rather, anything less. However, I saw her last night and already her memory is fading.
But I doubt if anyone can ever take my Anne Frank away from me.
And another collective crush was on Nazia Hassan, who brought disco to India. Everybody I knew was in love with her. All the girls were in love with her brother, and their LP Disco Diwane was a must have in all homes, save the ones of the proletariat, who shunned the influence of disco on their carefully preserved culture. Trash, I tell you. That's gonna ruin your culture.
I agree with the Bengali proletariat. Poor guys. But anyway, Nazia's LP was coveted as much for her picture on the cover as for the songs.
Meanwhile, most of Enid Blyton's characters had made a rather boisterous entry into the collective psyche of the school students. Sometimes to such an extent that the girls chose either to become the tomboyish Georgina (George) or to become Anne, the perfect British blond schoolgirl. We heard of sausages and bacon and made our parents run to Janata Variety Store in Benachitty to find out what these things meant. That man had canned food: the food of the whites! Every time we passed by, we looked at the Russian, German, and British engineers and their wives buying their monthly provisions. We were certain that they read Enid Blyton too and got the idea of having sausages from her stories.
I was in love with Anne of Famous Five. With the character, believe me! She was small, sweet, a little foolish at times, scared of darkness, and needed protection. Can't really explain to you here how she appealed to me. And to add to my wonder, they started telecasting the Famous Five series produced by BBC at more or less the same time. No, maybe I am wrong... maybe I had moved to Alistair Macleans by then, but I was in my early teenage years when they showed Anne on TV. We had a portable, b/w TV and the transmission wasn't clear, so it was difficult for me to get her name from the credits. Sometimes the credits move too fast, don't you think? I think I got her real name and also the address of the BBC, but don't know if I could finally muster the courage to write to them about her address. Maybe I did. I do remember that I never got an answer.
Many such crushes followed: Suchitra Sen in the movie Shaar-e Chuattor (Seventy Four and a Half), 
Meg Ryan, and later Helen Hunt. I would watch their movies and stay mesmerized for days, but all of this faded after a few days. There was also Carrie-Anne Moss in that list but I hadn't noticed the Anne in her name until recently. I was growing up, feeling responsible enough for my age, happy with the Anne I married (she too is afraid of the dark and needs a lot of protection) until another Ana arrived in the scene.
And this is Ana de la Reguera.
Meg Ryan, and later Helen Hunt. I would watch their movies and stay mesmerized for days, but all of this faded after a few days. There was also Carrie-Anne Moss in that list but I hadn't noticed the Anne in her name until recently. I was growing up, feeling responsible enough for my age, happy with the Anne I married (she too is afraid of the dark and needs a lot of protection) until another Ana arrived in the scene.
She looks too beautiful for someone who can fall for Jack Black, but the beautiful sister in Nacho Libre looks like someone you can keep on the altar and worship all your life. A google search of her images will yield better results, am sure (if you want to see her posing in the nude), but I like her in her nun's habit, thank you. I guess she has never looked prettier in anything else, or rather, anything less. However, I saw her last night and already her memory is fading.
But I doubt if anyone can ever take my Anne Frank away from me.
Terrifying Lullabies
Why is the door open? Why can't I lock it? What if the robbers come in?
The door in question always remained just out of my reach. I would desperately try to close it, bolt it from within, but wouldn't be able to. When I later discussed my dreams with friends or read about dreams unexplained, it was seen as a plain and easy case of insecurity. You had an insecure childhood, people concluded.
So I believed them and blamed the insecurity on the communication gap between me and my parents. They were both 34 when I was born, and weren't very communicative, if you know what I mean. Of course my dad wanted to baptize me with Dialectical Materialism and Marx when I was in my kindergarten years, but then, there wasn't any kind of heart-to-heart possible with them. If I was insecure for some reason, I had to handle it on my own. And because there were no gods to turn to either, it was a helluva lonely experience. If I socialize a bit too much today, it is because friends meant everything to me.
Insecure childhood it must be. I was sold to this idea pretty much until the other day when a friend mentioned that her daughter wanted a copy of The Diary of Anne Frank. That's when it all came back to me.
My dad studied the WWII to the core and still has almost a hundred books starting from the proverbial Rise and Fall of the Third Reich to The Diary of Anne Frank. He didn't of course have those Commando series comics that I later read and thoroughly enjoyed. Were those published in the UK? The jerries always got beaten in those. Yeah, so my dad, when he put me to sleep, used to tell me about each day of Anne Frank. Or about how the French surrendered. Or about how some brave little boy in Czechkoslovakia fled with a German train! Stories of war. And then the stories of the Vietnam war as well. Pictures of how the Americans tortured the Vietnamese: of a smiling soldier twisting and breaking the arm of a lady or of three soldiers cutting out the liver of a live Vietnamese guy! Gore? Osama is a kid compared to the Americans in Vietnam or the German concentration camps. The Muslim terrorists of today are nothing. When you cut open a guy's liver, he stays alive for almost an hour after that, writhing and dying a slow death. Daniel Pearl died in about three seconds. Have you seen that video, btw?
So, these wartime stories, of bravado and victory of the good over evil, were playing on my mind. The enemy was on the other side of the door. I was a little kid, hiding inside, from the german troops, our dwindling resources getting over by the day. And the door, slightly ajar, was always just out of my reach.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
[{(delimiters)}]
This morning we were looking at some style issues and suddenly i came across something that made me sit up. "What is this? You have it wrong here," I asserted vehemently, because what I had in front of me was definitely wrong, and far away from the truth about mathematical equations that I learned in school. the style guide had the braces as the outermost brackets in a mathematical equation, in this sequence: {[(blah blah) x blah] + blah blah}. the person with whom i was looking at the stuff, somehow felt this is correct, but given her mathematical acumen (or what I believed was utter lack of it) I didn't pay much heed to what she had to offer. I know what it is like:
[{()}]
And I couldn't be wrong.
So I wrote both [{()}] and {[()]} on a piece of paper and went around our bay, to almost twenty people, quizzing them about what they thought was right. Some had always used the former, while some others, hold your breath now, had actually used the latter. So, soon we had two groups discussing and debating which one is right. Veena, from the publishing team, came to me with a photocopy from some style manual, which supported {[()]}. A vice president with a consulting company told me it is [{()}] and also that her son learns the same thing in his ICSE school.
Soon the entire office was abuzz with this issue and gradually we were losing out, the supporters of [{()}], that is. Only Lata Sundar was kinda nonchalant about it. Although she felt [{()}] is correct, she was the only one who didn't feel too strongly about it. How does it matter, she felt, as long as it is consistently used?
Meanwhile, some people looked up the Web and someone looked up the Chicago Manual of Style and it was {[()]} all over. I hadn't really ruled out writing to the Chicago Manual board of editors and wasn't ready to accept something other than what I had learned in school. It was like my faith being shaken. It turned out that the ICSE board still uses [{()}] while the CBSE changed to {[()]} according to some international rules, but it still wasn't clear.
I was constantly asking people around over chat and over phone about what they thought was right, still trying to digest the thought that some conspiracy this big could be hatched behind my back without me having an inkling about it, when I remembered to call up doc.
"What do you use doc? Do you keep braces or brackets at the extreme ends?"
"Oh, Arijit, braces and brackets are basically the same thing. Braces are made of metal or plastic, braces include brackets attached to the teeth and wires that connect them...
... but wait a second! I thought you needed a root canal treatment, and not braces! Where did this question come from?"
And I realized, the sequence didn't matter after all.
[{()}]
And I couldn't be wrong.
So I wrote both [{()}] and {[()]} on a piece of paper and went around our bay, to almost twenty people, quizzing them about what they thought was right. Some had always used the former, while some others, hold your breath now, had actually used the latter. So, soon we had two groups discussing and debating which one is right. Veena, from the publishing team, came to me with a photocopy from some style manual, which supported {[()]}. A vice president with a consulting company told me it is [{()}] and also that her son learns the same thing in his ICSE school.
Soon the entire office was abuzz with this issue and gradually we were losing out, the supporters of [{()}], that is. Only Lata Sundar was kinda nonchalant about it. Although she felt [{()}] is correct, she was the only one who didn't feel too strongly about it. How does it matter, she felt, as long as it is consistently used?
Meanwhile, some people looked up the Web and someone looked up the Chicago Manual of Style and it was {[()]} all over. I hadn't really ruled out writing to the Chicago Manual board of editors and wasn't ready to accept something other than what I had learned in school. It was like my faith being shaken. It turned out that the ICSE board still uses [{()}] while the CBSE changed to {[()]} according to some international rules, but it still wasn't clear.
I was constantly asking people around over chat and over phone about what they thought was right, still trying to digest the thought that some conspiracy this big could be hatched behind my back without me having an inkling about it, when I remembered to call up doc.
"What do you use doc? Do you keep braces or brackets at the extreme ends?"
"Oh, Arijit, braces and brackets are basically the same thing. Braces are made of metal or plastic, braces include brackets attached to the teeth and wires that connect them...
... but wait a second! I thought you needed a root canal treatment, and not braces! Where did this question come from?"
And I realized, the sequence didn't matter after all.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
jealous pig
well, only in this case, the pig is not jealous, it is me who is jealous of the proverbial pig who has its orgasm for thirty minutes. strunk recently sent me this joke and although i knew abt it, i laughed again when I thought about it. laughed, with a tinge of jealousy. thirty minutes!
i have seen some blogs with a huge readership. always looked at those blogs askance, you know. like okay, what is this person writing about that it attracts so much readership? i have of course survived without almost any, so can't say not having comments is in any way detrimental to writing; i survived with the hope of getting published one day, and "wait and see who has more readership" was always my comeback, albeit uttered to myself. but recently i saw a blog with thirty comments on one single post. somehow, that reminded me of the pig. the joy of reading thirty comments on your blog is probably comparable to the epitome of all orgasms: that of the pig. it is a pleasure incomparable with anything else. you can buy a merc and tomorrow get bored of it; you can own an industry, but that will probably give you grey hair...but to be read and appreciated by so many netizens is like something i have always dreamed of.
some are lucky enough to be pigs. i am still striving to reach that suilline level. in both.
i have seen some blogs with a huge readership. always looked at those blogs askance, you know. like okay, what is this person writing about that it attracts so much readership? i have of course survived without almost any, so can't say not having comments is in any way detrimental to writing; i survived with the hope of getting published one day, and "wait and see who has more readership" was always my comeback, albeit uttered to myself. but recently i saw a blog with thirty comments on one single post. somehow, that reminded me of the pig. the joy of reading thirty comments on your blog is probably comparable to the epitome of all orgasms: that of the pig. it is a pleasure incomparable with anything else. you can buy a merc and tomorrow get bored of it; you can own an industry, but that will probably give you grey hair...but to be read and appreciated by so many netizens is like something i have always dreamed of.
some are lucky enough to be pigs. i am still striving to reach that suilline level. in both.
(image copyright: http://www.hillquest.com/images/pig-lipstick.jpg)
Sunday, August 24, 2008
dharma
according to AnandaDasa, the dharma of any object is the basic characteristics of that object. the dharma of water is to be liquid. it is the state you are in.
when did a religious connotation rear its ugly head into something that pure and essential? my dharma is clear thinking and not to be waylaid by any religious overtures. religion of any kind is like a multi-headed serpent waiting on the sides of the road that leads to salvation. if you can overcome the challenge and move on, you will soon be all alone, but free. your mind will see things in perspective. you won't be surprised when humans defy death or when aliens come visiting. you will wish you were with Daniken. you will look up Zacharia Sitchin's articles on the Web. you will work as a volunteer with Teach India. You will work for the Church that takes care of HIV-infected children. All this, with an open mind.
Come out. Let clear thinking be your true dharma.
when did a religious connotation rear its ugly head into something that pure and essential? my dharma is clear thinking and not to be waylaid by any religious overtures. religion of any kind is like a multi-headed serpent waiting on the sides of the road that leads to salvation. if you can overcome the challenge and move on, you will soon be all alone, but free. your mind will see things in perspective. you won't be surprised when humans defy death or when aliens come visiting. you will wish you were with Daniken. you will look up Zacharia Sitchin's articles on the Web. you will work as a volunteer with Teach India. You will work for the Church that takes care of HIV-infected children. All this, with an open mind.
Come out. Let clear thinking be your true dharma.
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