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.