these days, after a few men down, a few friendships, loyalties and obsessions down... it all feels all the same. or may this too is a phase. a lot many times i have felt every mistake that i have made and every stitch that i made to mend it has changed something in me. i have believed,all of it has had something to do with what i do, how i look love and ignore today.but a closer, more honest look shouts out loud, i have been committing variations of the same mistakes. i have continued being foolish with math, wherever. i have continued being a glutton, a f aux pass artist, a scatter bread, a fatso, an irresponsible cutie pie, a semi nomadic baby who cries back to mum at the drop of a.. not hat but may be crown.

then how is it i still have felt different? was i lieing to myself when i said , "let's move on. this too, was an experience after all." ? why then did i have to be satisfied with what life fed me with? or was it the only option

because truly speaking, little has withered from the love that i could love, from the guilty conscience that i petted, or the loser attitude that i help myself with. how then, have you changed me, life?

how then have those men changed me? how then did those blood sheds matter. if all of it at all did, that little.. looks so negligible.

A day old golden sunshine washes my entire room in the late afternoon. i sit here, alone, with my laptop, surfing through other people's work, random music and dark social satire. that's how random and pointless my afternoons are. it is rather dusk now. and among my friends it's famous that i don't do well in the evening. i feel sad. i cry. i howl my sadness out if i am alone. they know, that i like keeping company in the evenings. but very seldom come these gold lit early evenings when(like today) i cancel plans with friends and choose to stay back.to enjoy being the solitary reeper.

i remember that morning when my baba had come to pick me up from the golf garden residence to shift in with him here, at behala. i was so depressed, even the thought of coming to new house without my grandparents was scaring me. and moreover baba, did not know how i have lived, what vegetables i dont like, what i like, that m not fond of fish, that i don't like sleeping early, no one in my family ever did, and so many such things. five years down the  line, today, he still does not know many such things. but somehow, in this apartment, half the size of the house i grew up in, i seem to find that soliloquy that i am about, today. '

this is that same room, that made me feel pukish that morning, it makes me feel at home today. and i have happily rejected an invitation to my previous house. i believe, if it is your house, no one invites you to come down. and if it is your house, you stay back to spend some time with yourself.

i like this chosen solitude. doesn't make me feel lost, rather found, nor ignored, rather self-pampered,

so many feelings cluttering, happy, sad, teary eyed and gay... inside my heart. i cannot put them into words. all i can say is... that watch is no pay back.. no pay back compared to those in-numerous happy times.. no pay back to those vintage records of ghulam ali, hafiz ali khan, beghum akhtar... no payback to that old cream coloured ambassador car that dropped me school everyday.. no payback to that uncountable number of mango bite lozenges that would come out of that silk kurta whenever i wanted one...no payback dadu. This watch probably is just a sphere that shall hold all that time, ticking in your wrist, to the beat of your heart. Today's day has given me a bagful of  pebbles... all "full circle" in shape.. yet hazy at their need to explain any definition to me.

My city is soaring high with the Pujo fever. The streets are lit up,
and so are people's hearts. Boys and girls have commenced with their
Pujo special romances (a certain romance that is meant to suffice the
Pujo period). Middle class fathers hold their little girl's hand in
the crowded markets selling bedazzling happiness. 'Shimmer' is the
order of the day. It's spread on the heart and the emotions.
My family has been a huge Pujo enthusiast since I've ever come to
senses. Our home is a three storied house in an upper middle class
Bengali locality. We have hence never had problems with accommodating
as many relatives, friends, their friends, domestic helps, drivers,
their families, so on and so forth in the house during these four
days. Not that everyone has had a bed to himself or herself. But
sharing and caring was the way to go. 3 people on the single bed. Two
kids on the sofa. Three people on the mattress. And every room looked
like that. The bedrooms, the living room, the dining space, the
kitchen, the passage... every room looked like the bedroom.
The only man who was behind this pandemonium was my dadu, a tall
lanky, stubborn body, the fingers of an artist, the heart of a lover,
and mind you.. the mind of a child. To him festivity is the only
logic, holidays are the dates, and celebrations are the reason. It did
not matter how much money you spend on the petrol, nor the time you
spent on the planning. It was all very practical to him. Even today
is. He is 88. My uncle (dadu's son), has lost his wife to cancer a few
months back, my mother (his daughter) does not live with him anymore.
The family has shattered into pieces; the home has come to exist as a
decent piece of property. The glories of financial extravaganza are
lost. Relatives have all moved on, happiness and calm are obviously a
better choice. A drunkard widower of 44 sits in his room drinking the
mundane sorrows. About at midnight, when he is done with the intake,
he vomits out the hatred for life… onto his old parents.
I can't believe I fought with my entire family in late school and
early college coz I wanted to be out with friends, and the family
functions just did not end. I cant believe my grandparents don't have
a car to roam around Calcutta in. I can't believe dadu does not have
money nor the energy to shop for us all. I cant believe the last day I
took him out, I had to hold his hands as he could not see the road
properly. (He's the same man who held my hand to the nursery school, I
remember, I would hold one finger of his with both my hands)
I have no idea why this Pujo does not free butterflies in my stomach
like every other until this one, has… I probably have done plenty of
shopping but I don't know what it is that I have completely lost, what
it is that I am on my way to lose, and what it is that shall remain.
Is this the last Pujo I am waiting for? May be I am compensating for
all of you, who were not having so good a time while I did, all those
years. We've got to maintain the balance after all. Or may be, I am
finally growing old? Is dadu's age withering me too? Or is my
withering away, aging dadu?

Time is a pebble I'd like to keep. Only if I could.

i rode on my cycle after 7 years. yes, exacly 7 years. as soon as i tried paddling faster, and the air disappeared into my curly hair.. i could feel the restlessness, the aggression in my veins, that i used to feel back then, back in the last century, when i used to rule the roads with my pace. tch.. i miss being carefree.. i am yet to know the flavor of cautioned pathways, but.. somewhere i feel.. all these days, the stupid romance, was missing.

lets see, if some new blemishes,and bruises come my way.

i see that this silver-red cycle of mine has not left my old house forever, without any reason.

thanks god.

pebble cleaned and saved.

Politics. The politics of art, the politics of cinema, the politics of education. I'd like to ask gawdie.. y have you made this prticulr kind that loves jumbling up issues? I personally am not against all together, but then again, ur the one whose invested this entire conditioning into my working. I don't want to know how a jackle's mind works, neither turn my mind so cunning that it is able to nurtute such realizations. I've always loved camouflages, nad you know that. But this particulr kind? do not do this to me.

I come to the campus, sit in the sun, sometimes in the  a.c. rooms. and doing nothing apart from what would be called "discussing" or "conspiring"...
everytime i tell u i do not want to do this.. is it that u feel challenged? i always plead, i have never been too sure. have i? then y put me through all this?

Talking of pebbles, i do not know if i want to pick dis one... i don't like it's texture... but when was it about my choices? whatever suits you.

I've always believed in scripts.  Some people tell me, everything is not scripted. For example, sometimes destiny really goofs up with her timing. Otherwise, wherever did this concept of  'wrong timing' come from? I have seen fate do very uninteresting, out of context things to people. Why other people, even me. Like right now, she is asking for a sadness to arrive. I understand this is her way of bringing a little drama into my life's script, every now and then. But, after all, she is destiny, I can never tell, if this is just a little drama or a turning point.

The confusion continues regarding the point, if really everything is scripted. While writing this post, I figure out, if there are things out of context that are happening, then may be, 'out of context' is an adjective to script. I am just to live it.

Every time she has asked me to, every time i have lived it. I remember, I had asked for a little time, to realize certain things, a few years back. She gave me a platter, of choices, timings and amendments. This time i did not particularly ask for time, but I know she knwos me, and she possibly was okay with the fact that, I was taking my time. With no objectiions from her, I thought she was okay with this treaty between us.

But now again, she comes, to see how the stagger in the knees sound, to taste my sweat running down my heart and mind. I have no choices to  make. No amendments to try out.  And time, is of course not apparently, on my side.

An incomplete, haphazard one then, for a new feather on my hat, is it? Let's collect it too.

But, just in case you are reconsidering my case mademoiselle , let's make this one large. I have a lot more to invest.  Possessions that have waited through years, dates, tears, laughter, stealth, declarations, denials, words and men...to get invested properly.

 Let me..

will you, honey?

Green lights have dressed up the Calcutta roads, Robindroshongeet, patriotic songs and Shlok recitals rejuvenate the skeptical minds of the habitations. Men, boys and women with mostly dirty, faded clothes are running, shouting, screaming, celebrating on the roads, their faces and hearts covered with greenery. Mamata Banerjee and her posters seem to have taken the entire Bengal for a green ride.

At certain dark, shady areas of the same Calcutta of mine lay the much known red flags. It's windy, but strangely their bodies don't wind with these new winds. Its all lit up everywhere, but these reds are shying away. These reds, which were the royals, these reds, to whom belonged all the light, all the shadow, all which was there to belong.

The green win has surprised me for sure. But what surprises me even more, is the complete wash out. Not one seat, here or there. Bamfront is missing! Not only in action, but also in fraction. But it is good that the divisions of who rules and who watches speechlessly are well determined. It spares people a lot of cheapness. I was listening to the oath takings that day, and the CPM leaders vowing as oppositions, broke my heart. Probably, as far as I remember brought a tear to my eye too. Defeat SO does not look good on some people, and victory? Well that too is so not everybody's thing. But I guess we all have to come to know about the either sides, to know better, which of the sides is ours.

The newspapers are spilling refreshment everywhere, with every decision that the new CM is making. I am happy for us, the people. I am happy forCPM too. And somehow, I am happy for Mamata too. It's been a very long time she wanted it. The victory has changed the way she looks. She has not changed the wardrobe and accessories, mind you. But something about her seems to have changed.

I am shaken by my possibility to feel both, acceptance and ignorance, about the same incident. CPM feels like family, the ministers feel like family members I have shared my land with for generations, and no one likes their elders to lose. May be, this change will have more changes to offer.

Like Dada does not look good if he starts behaving like Dhoni in the field, like Srk flop films don't suit SRK, CPM too, does not look good, at the opposition.

The Geeta says, everything that is happening, has it's own reason to offer. I therefore, am too humble a part of the universe to question such huge changes. But my questioning, my bothering, can vary the way the entire universe can work. This, too, the Geeta vouches for.

Yesterday:

Head n body shape: round.

Hair: minimal around the ear n grey in colour.

Height: 5ft 4 inches at the most.

Dress code: cotton safari shirt, ash in colour, and cotton trousers ash in colour too.

Eyes: small, twinkling and, smaller when he laughs.

Profession: junior artist in the regional Bengali film industry.

Age: 78

Flawless acting. But he was facing difficulties in reaching the same perfection while he dubbed his words. He could''nt apparently seem to follow the technicalities of the method. First he sat, then he stood, then he said, may be he should eat something, so he had his lunch, and then started again. It was difficult. Very difficult. Then he said he shall sit aside, and watch, while another artists dubs. He asked for a bottle of sprite, I got it for him. He drank half a glass and started burping, inside the ac studio!

Me, & a couple of fellow assistants, along with the director, laughed our heart out. Sometimes he'd start talking about all the big names he had worked with, in his hey days, and he'd keep talking about big directors, big actors, internationally award winning films in which he has had his unacknowledged contribution. We all, at certain point of time, got bored, and looked away, sometimes changed the topic. But he kept talking.

After 3 hours, ignored enough, and kept away from the recording room so that bigger stars and younger, faster people could come in and grant us their precious time, he was let in.

This time, a certain, irritation, on our faces, watching him skeptically through the glass, and a fatigue in his eyes. Being the "dub captain", and a little guilty of had helplessly insulted him may be, I asked him to sit down and make himself comfortable if he wanted to. He refused.

And he asked for the pilot.

In the next 15 minutes, his dubbing was over. Sweet man came out of the recording room, all smiling. The smile that a lil while back , was promising to fade away, was back, right there.

My director was happy, I was satisfied, that the day's work was over. But he kept talking. It felt like he was some walking talking Bengali Film Biography. The only words I remember from that unending epic was " Ajkal toh amakae keu daakena, chenei na amake" / " No one calls me these days, they don't even no me"

Today:

Head and body: longish, sharp, tall, fresh.

Hair: fluffy, hero cut( J )

Height: 5 ft 10 or more.

Dress code: white t-shirt, blue denims, aviator glairs.

Eyes: not noticeable.

Profession: new struggling actor in the regional Bengali film industry

He came in with this scribble of over-confidence all over him. When he met me, the handshake he offered was, like he was the Casanova, and I was going go get bowled over in a few seconds. He had told a fellow assistant director he shall finish in an hour.

I was happy, I had a good chance of finishing work off earlier than expected, and that would mean, meeting up with friends, adda, and so much of fun.

He started, and the bell rang, it was the death rung of the entire working team. A slouch that he could nt do away with, a pronunciation problem , that did not look like much of  a problem to him, a dialogue delivery , that had nothing to do with the even the character's grandfather. Was he worthless, or was he worthless? After a certain point of time, I , who never shouts, never misbehaves with co workers, (not because I cannot, but because I am new, I cannot afford to), started shouting, and losing patience. The man, kept doing to and fro between the recording room and the system room, we kept teaching him the novel most of ways to say things. But, all in vain.  This happened thrice in the day, and we had wasted more than half the day recording nothing from his bit.

At the end of the day, the director had to take the call, and now, after a day full of cribbing behind him, he is not dubbing for himself. Some new guy is coming day after tomorrow to do his job. Oh I forgot, while some other junior artists dubbed, he dozed of on the sofa, twice. And the ending note: " jawkhon uni pilot er acting ta dekhe boledichhen, amio toh tai korchi, amar ta kyano finalize kawra jachhena tahole?" /

" when he's repeating the same style as that of the pilot, why cant I repeat mine? I am doing the same thing right?" I shut the door of the car, and left.

Irony. God's dense , sense of humor, or his intention to put variety in to my mundane work life.. call it what you may…

I've never seen contradiction so well defined. Kudos gawdie!

It is spring.That part of the year when the fan starts running, at the ceiling of your house, again, after the silent winters, assuring you that there is a final exam round the corner, and you have to sit with your books, and even if you do, you shall fail miserably in mathematics. Those months that remind you of those celebrated holies, those lonely holies, those mischievous holies,  those colours that ran down the nape of  romantic lather, layer after layer, on those tickling cool sunny afternoons. it is also the season that reminds you of your birthdays... birthdays when loads of friends came, and ma cooked brilliant food, with a cake that was the shape of your age. birthdays... that gave you the prettiest of frocks and toys for presents. birthdays... that belonged to those seldom evenings when your dad was to come home with loads and loads of gifts, no matter what your grades have been in mathematics.

I thought amongst problems counting people's deaths and dadu's ill health, and failing relationships, and failing family bonding, THIS, was not going to hurt so much. My Nordic Aryan blooded 9 yr old german shepherd, is not there. He is not wagging his tail to glory already standing at the door , even before I can get off the cab, he is not there peeping from behind the door, making an earnest request with just the way he looks , that says  ' can I stay in with you? I promise not to disturb u while u study'.

Love and a lot of attention, that's all he ever asked from life. Little did he know that he was actually scaring away strangers when he jumped at them just for the heck of affection. He was like most of the people I am close too, an emotional fool. What a fool!!! I don't think he even knew that he was a german shepherd, he probably had an idea that he was a cow, or a goat, or a donkey even.

He loved mangoes, and mutton, he had imbibed all the qualities of the golf garden family.

Another thing that you cannot forget is that he would respond to any song that had the word 'shundor' in it. He would think, his name was being called out.  Lol.

But I could not interpret destiny after all. However much I decide to trick 'changes',  a new texture of them shall stand before me, with the tag ' handle this one'.

No, seriously… I did not think shundor's passing away would bother me so much, but I stayed at golf gardens for just a day, and I realized, it was so much difficult, shundor is all over the house.

He is just not leaving; he is not disappearing amongst other graver issues. And this time, his memories are hurting unlike till 5^th of February. Our house still smells of him, a big bowl still lies outside the kitchen, god knows why no one takes trouble to remove it, god knows why I don't remove it when I notice its useless presence.

I think about dida, what must she be going through all the day, alone, when for the past one decade nearly only shundor has kept her company in that huge house.

I can go on and on and on, there are so so so so so, many memories, this could never get over in one post, but recollecting hurts.

I have touched him so many times in all these years, but all I shall remember is the last touch, he was cold, I had myself placed his body on an ice slab, but his shoulder still felt so soft. Eyes were still wide open. My-my what eyes!!! What beautiful eyes!! The most naïve and love seeking pair I've ever seen.

Now, again, like earlier, I am the youngest member of my family. You don't get all the attention Shundor.  Dida, dadu, ma, mama, usha maashi, geeta mashi, heera lal kaku, shuchitra mashi…. Yes,  I have all of them, you go enjoy ur solitude. Guess you deserve it, golf garden is too tough, I understand. Love you.

 Jealous eh? Cannot help, you got to pay for bliss darling.