I do not understand if experience has made me more mature or
pretentious. It looks so weird to me today, the things I'd do for love
in the past, for people, for friends and for family.... some of them
I am sure I'll never do again and some of them I surprise myself often
by not doing. A few friends of mine say I'm selfish. If I am, haven't
I grown into it? Who knows? Who walked it? But even if it was so, why
didn't life make selfish things out of people who went through similar
experiences? These days, when I am unhappy, I give it a serious
thought weather or not I should complain. I do complain at some point
though, I hardly have that amount of patience. But the fact that I
give it a thought, the fact that I get scared I'll be repeating
things... the fact that complaining may become acknowledging the
problem muffles ideas in my mind.. isn't it a huge mark on my
spontaneous quotient?

I think this luggage of experience is binding me to something else...
I don't know if I connect to that something of a life...

I don't want experience. I want to give it away, right there. Cry when
it wants to run down my cheek. Slap when the mind is juggled. Run as
soon as it's intolerable. Kiss as soon as it's uncontrollable. Hug
when I'm the most vulnerable, without thinking of the consequences.
why don't I do all this? And the cherry is, I still don't do all of
it, may be I do half of it, and get interpreted as selfish, and hang
between nowhere! I want to be a child again. I want to be an Arian
again.

Some other time
I'll find that line again
That line that sparked in my mind
and by the time I had pen and paper
It had gone away

Some other day
I'll have that line.

Some other moment
will bring it back to me
when It's meaning will change
may be i'll change a word or two in it
but I'll find that line
i'll write that line.

some other day
I'll have that line.

This could easily be a post on how I spent my first Durga Puja without
Dadu. But now that the Puja is over, let's talk about bigger
complications.

I was having a conversation with my father this evening.

I: You know Baba, I think something definitely goes terribly wrong
with Bengali men during Durga Puja. They try out falling in love, just
for the sake of Durga Puja or something.

Baba: Why do you say that? Someone has fallen in love with you this Puja?

I: If not in love, they at least 3 men I can count have shown romantic
interest in me.

Baba: You?!!

I: Yes.

Baba: I don't know what is wrong with the men from your generation!
They fall in love with people like you? Short, fat, disproportionate.
(I frown) I mean.. of course as a daughter you're fine. But to fall in
love with, you'd have to be so much more beautiful for me. Eww! How
can people feel attracted to you?

I: You are not my target audience.

Baba: Who has fallen in love with you ? Tell me! Someone who was
already in love with you? Or is this some new joker? You should never
fall in love with men who fall in love with you. Coz they have bad
choice, they've fallen in love with you!

I: I am not falling for people, we're talking about people falling for me.

Baba: You don't have long legs, proper eyes, a proper giraffe neck, a
waistline. I could never paint you.

I: Well, apparently a lot of other men don't think so. They could sing
me, play me, write me... I haven't found a painter yet, that too
shall...

Baba: Oh please. Don't kid me. No one has fallen for you. Such bouts
of imaginations will only add on to your weight. Go lose some weight!
And what are having? Payesh? Stop having it. Give it to me.

*he snatched away the plate and gorged onto every seed of rice in it*

N.B.: He is a diabetes patient.

chena shohor, chinte chayena amay
chena shohor, chinte chayena amay
ratri bojhe shurjo o je amake bojhate chaye
chena shohor, chinte chayena amay

ki mone holo, bawle
shawhor chokh khole
aar chokhe daekhe je amay
holudh jawto aalo
amar gaaye dhalo
shohor ta bheej te je chaye
chena shohor
kinte je chaiche amay
chena shohor
kinte je chaiche amay
shopno bihin ratri'r rin ningre nilo je amaye


kothae jaabe bawlo.. hawthat kije holo
chup kore roeche shomoy
pichle jaye shawhor
muhurter mohor
jibon tao gune jaye
chena shohor
chinte je chayna amaye
chena shohor chinte je chayna amay

ratri bojhe shurjo o je, amake bojhate chaye
chena shawhor chinte je chayna amay
chena shawhor chinte je chayna amay
chena shawhor chinte je chayna amay...

All my life, I thought it was my tendency to hold on to things that
made me special. But special is a very tricky word. They also use it
for the handicapped. Now the fact that I feel everything belongs to
me, is my handicap. A close friend insisted that letting go, is the
correct thing to do. But wait, do I have an option really? It is not
the correct thing to do, it is the only thing to do. If nothing else
then, death shall snatch it all away. I have been striving on this
process and correctness of it for 3 days, I'm sure I must go through
this process. But achievement is a different ball game.


What of my pebbles then?
Are they not mine?
Why am I carrying their weight, romanticizing with them?
I am scared to lose. To lose the capability to attach myself.

I am coming from a land I had built in my bedroom years ago.
Years ago, when my dolls were named..
when iron gates could be gates, could be barricades, could be the way
to another country.
There, in my room... the kites flew beyond the palisade.
Children were bred, children were killed.
Many a women met many a men.. all of them lived together, loved together.
And then there was sex, in pretending that my mother's dark brown
slender lipstick was my Aundrey Hepburn cigar.
And then there was cinema, in the way I'd lie down and imagined
someone noticing the curve of my neck from behind.
And then there was poetry, in me trying to feel like an artist.
And was seduction, in those scantily dressed seductive mono performances.
Ahh the mirror.
He knows it all.
Wherever that land could have come from, it still breeds beneath my
cushions, like dust mites.
I am nearly allergic to it, to it's easiness of random tours to any
and everywhere.
That easiness, I've lost it. I think, i think too much.
Work, infidelity, brilliance, competition, jealousy, envy... I think so much.

When you have short hair, you love your hair. you love touching it,
you love flaunting it's shortness, you love being the cute cool chick.
You also love the way your locks fall and cover up half your face
making your glance look mysterious. you know you're looking hot in
that red light in the party.No maintenance needed, they can take care
of themselves, their dry up in ten minutes and ur ready for the class,
and if u want the wet look, you'll look like a fem-fatal, and will you
love it! especially in my case since i flaunt clumsy so well, my short
crop is perfect. in fact I become a different person. I talk
differently, walk differently, turn differently, get lost within the
unknown, that too.. differently.

When wearing a sari, a short crop makes you either look like one of
those hot English teachers in school, or like a boho chick gone
traditional.. none of which is unimpressive. Preferably if there was a
red streak somewhere, the sari'd look even better.

But fashion, psychology and attitude is not all what a haircut
effects. IIt effects perspectives. In a country like India, a short
crop can also mean, easy going(which is true but read"available" which
is more true), cool, and incapable of home making(to some people).

secondly, one day when your hair will grow shoulder length, it will
neither remain short not be long, so now you become a girl with no
cliche, yet THE cliche.. which is..UNNOTICEABLE. Now that is good when
you really want to disappear, i don't know how many women apart from a
couple of really close friends of mine really wouldn't mind doing
that. strangely, both of these women I'm talking about, have gorgeous
waist length hair.

Yes so where were we? Mid-long hair. This one is a rather boring
state.you keep them open, you tie them up, you twirl them, keep them
wet.. all the same. your face just looks.. the freaking same.

And now the "men" bit. Men like short hair when they are wooing you
for fun. Remember, you look "available"? If i could not be harsh, then
you look cool, chilled and laid back. Which will possibly make more
men make a move than when you've got long hair. So the men make the
move, you take your pick from them, you fall in love, and while
falling in love the hair grows longer. and on second thought, you're
somewhere letting it grow because you're done with looking cool. you
want to look like a woman now, not a girl.

The tricky bit is darling, while you grow your hair from winter to
summer, the nature changes. Now there is, humidity, hence sweat,
terrible managerial discomforts.. and what not.the obvious decision is
to get your fizzy long hair either rebound, or cut. But by this time
the men in your life have got used to your "womanliness". not only
that, your mother possibly has taken the go ahead without asking you
that you bang on want to marry in a couple of years, your close
friends have started thinking you have matured as a woman as well.

but no sir.i haven't matured, neither am I marrying in 2 years and am
definitely less of woman than i look like. Cutting my hair down or
changing my hair style has got nothing so Indian.emotional, or
maternal about it.

:)