Monday, November 21, 20051:36:22 AM
I wrote this poem months back…last year, if I recall correctly:
She couldn’t hear anything
When words kept blowing
Looking up, far at Orion
And the signs of neon
Hearing nothing but the wind,
Perhaps the calling.
“Was it a calling?”, she wondered.
After all, her hiking hindered.
Then the road led nowhere,
Back and forth somewhere,
In-between the mud and snow.
All but stopped,
Her compass dropped,
And she broke into a laughter.
I named it Exodus. Strong name for an otherwise naïve non-poem, I must say.
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
BLACK AND WHITE
Saturday, November 19, 2005
9:40:16 PM
I am high on the Cosmic Plane. Hell knows what that means. But it surely means something or the other. It had been a busy week: zero studying, assessing human behavior, watching movies in the Film Festival and all that. I am finally reading Harry Potter, I don’t even believe myself. It turned out to be a lot better than I apprehended. Don’t know why I am not being able to read it faster. Maybe I am just plain lazy.
Something just came up my mind. The whole idea of black and white seems all very clear to me. From years of preconceived notion that black stands for the dark, which is related to mourning, fear, death and the like, we have it deeply rooted in our memory that Black is anything negative, bad and mournful. White, on the contrary, is preconceived to be the color of peace, tranquility, and life. Is it exactly why we are all so prejudiced? Is it exactly why the Whites think they are superior to the Blacks? I have a sneaky feeling that it’s exactly so. In many cultures, black clothes are worn to mourn for the dead. The Spades cards are considered to be unlucky to cut in fortune reading.
What would happen in a society, which firmly grew up on the idea that black is the color of dignity, knowledge, wisdom, aristocracy and the sorts? Whites would be first taken as slaves and eventually, when the Human Rights commission would form, the whites would still be considered as inferior. Biologically speaking, the color of our skin is only a variation, and to be honest, black people are less prone to skin cancer due to natural resistance conferred by melanin.
If people were grown in a society where we considered Mongoloid features and broad lips as a sign of beauty, perfection and attractiveness, then beautiful men and women like Jude Law, Meg Ryan, Julia Roberts and George Clooney would be considered utterly ugly.
I love to be in the dark. Too much sunlight makes me irritated and uncomfortable. Does that mean I am drawn to the evil, dark forces of Nature? And what does it mean anyway to be drawn to these so-called dark forces???
9:40:16 PM
I am high on the Cosmic Plane. Hell knows what that means. But it surely means something or the other. It had been a busy week: zero studying, assessing human behavior, watching movies in the Film Festival and all that. I am finally reading Harry Potter, I don’t even believe myself. It turned out to be a lot better than I apprehended. Don’t know why I am not being able to read it faster. Maybe I am just plain lazy.
Something just came up my mind. The whole idea of black and white seems all very clear to me. From years of preconceived notion that black stands for the dark, which is related to mourning, fear, death and the like, we have it deeply rooted in our memory that Black is anything negative, bad and mournful. White, on the contrary, is preconceived to be the color of peace, tranquility, and life. Is it exactly why we are all so prejudiced? Is it exactly why the Whites think they are superior to the Blacks? I have a sneaky feeling that it’s exactly so. In many cultures, black clothes are worn to mourn for the dead. The Spades cards are considered to be unlucky to cut in fortune reading.
What would happen in a society, which firmly grew up on the idea that black is the color of dignity, knowledge, wisdom, aristocracy and the sorts? Whites would be first taken as slaves and eventually, when the Human Rights commission would form, the whites would still be considered as inferior. Biologically speaking, the color of our skin is only a variation, and to be honest, black people are less prone to skin cancer due to natural resistance conferred by melanin.
If people were grown in a society where we considered Mongoloid features and broad lips as a sign of beauty, perfection and attractiveness, then beautiful men and women like Jude Law, Meg Ryan, Julia Roberts and George Clooney would be considered utterly ugly.
I love to be in the dark. Too much sunlight makes me irritated and uncomfortable. Does that mean I am drawn to the evil, dark forces of Nature? And what does it mean anyway to be drawn to these so-called dark forces???
LABORATORY BLUES
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
11:31:11 PM
I did not attend physics practical class today. Although the real reason was that I had to go somewhere to collect some documents and also because my lab partner was absent today, but I like to put forward some outrageous reasons as well. First, the staff in the Physics lab is corrupted. Have you ever heard of such a thing as apparatus-involving corruption? That is exactly what we encounter here. If you break a beaker of Rs 5, you will be charged Rs. 100. That’s 20 times the actual price! These people should join the Government.
How can they still work with such ancient apparatus, I still don’t understand. I don’t think anybody will gain any practical knowledge here, because nobody looks forward to this class, far less get enlightened by it. If they think I should be content using such ancient apparatus, they must be aware of the fact that I am not Lara Croft and I don’t like working with ancient dials (hell knows why they insist that those are galvanometers) when it comes to Physics lab class. Nobody ever complains… Not even the students…very strange… Why don’t they just settle inside caves like our nomadic forefathers used to do? And guess what, you don’t have to bother about clothes too: Flintstone-style barks would do and I am sure some of the girls in this college can do without them as well (no offence to vagabonds, their idea of not wearing any clothes is completely different from what I write here).
And oh, I almost forgot to mention… The lab itself. Aah, what great architecture and maintenance: a natural spring flows out of certain parts of the ceiling healing us Myth Units of Greek origin and Norsemen as well. The spring and the gong-like sound of the Sonometer create a perfect symphony and enhance concentration of students working in the lab.
So, what do you put on the front cover? “Back to the ancient caves, dials and the barks” I guess…
This is surely becoming a pretty mournful, scornful, rebellious blog… so much so that it is dangling at the brink of getting entirely boring… and stop I must… until I actually think of something good to write about.
11:31:11 PM
I did not attend physics practical class today. Although the real reason was that I had to go somewhere to collect some documents and also because my lab partner was absent today, but I like to put forward some outrageous reasons as well. First, the staff in the Physics lab is corrupted. Have you ever heard of such a thing as apparatus-involving corruption? That is exactly what we encounter here. If you break a beaker of Rs 5, you will be charged Rs. 100. That’s 20 times the actual price! These people should join the Government.
How can they still work with such ancient apparatus, I still don’t understand. I don’t think anybody will gain any practical knowledge here, because nobody looks forward to this class, far less get enlightened by it. If they think I should be content using such ancient apparatus, they must be aware of the fact that I am not Lara Croft and I don’t like working with ancient dials (hell knows why they insist that those are galvanometers) when it comes to Physics lab class. Nobody ever complains… Not even the students…very strange… Why don’t they just settle inside caves like our nomadic forefathers used to do? And guess what, you don’t have to bother about clothes too: Flintstone-style barks would do and I am sure some of the girls in this college can do without them as well (no offence to vagabonds, their idea of not wearing any clothes is completely different from what I write here).
And oh, I almost forgot to mention… The lab itself. Aah, what great architecture and maintenance: a natural spring flows out of certain parts of the ceiling healing us Myth Units of Greek origin and Norsemen as well. The spring and the gong-like sound of the Sonometer create a perfect symphony and enhance concentration of students working in the lab.
So, what do you put on the front cover? “Back to the ancient caves, dials and the barks” I guess…
This is surely becoming a pretty mournful, scornful, rebellious blog… so much so that it is dangling at the brink of getting entirely boring… and stop I must… until I actually think of something good to write about.
DREAMING, AS USUAL
Saturday, October 29, 2005
8:38:22 PM
I woke up from a weird dream in the morning today…I saw a great scientist of our country confronting my father. When my father started defending himself, I shouted back at him, “You are not a man of science! So don’t dare speak up…All you do is stupid calculations of commerce…plus and minus…. And now you don’t even do that, all you do is sign… You are not a man of science!”
Then I saw myself leaving the scene and climbing up a stair with a little difficulty cos’ the stairs were too narrow and the steps were too high. When I climbed up, I saw a friend of mine (Deep Blue Sea) wearing a maroon full-shirt and off-white trousers.
I came down, cos somebody asked me to come down… When I got down, I found my aunt and my mom conspiring with my father…As soon as they saw me, they put an end to their hush-hush conversation and giggled away at me…I was mad at all of them, and was pretty disgusted by the steel-box my father was opening where he kept his betel-leaf and betel-nuts…I don’t remember anything else after that…I probably woke up just after that…
8:38:22 PM
I woke up from a weird dream in the morning today…I saw a great scientist of our country confronting my father. When my father started defending himself, I shouted back at him, “You are not a man of science! So don’t dare speak up…All you do is stupid calculations of commerce…plus and minus…. And now you don’t even do that, all you do is sign… You are not a man of science!”
Then I saw myself leaving the scene and climbing up a stair with a little difficulty cos’ the stairs were too narrow and the steps were too high. When I climbed up, I saw a friend of mine (Deep Blue Sea) wearing a maroon full-shirt and off-white trousers.
I came down, cos somebody asked me to come down… When I got down, I found my aunt and my mom conspiring with my father…As soon as they saw me, they put an end to their hush-hush conversation and giggled away at me…I was mad at all of them, and was pretty disgusted by the steel-box my father was opening where he kept his betel-leaf and betel-nuts…I don’t remember anything else after that…I probably woke up just after that…
Sunday, October 30, 2005
Tuesday Blues
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
7:22:14 PM
People. I am so sick of them. All they talk of is other people. And not about great people mind you… All they get to talk about is ordinary, stupid people with equally stupid ideas and leading equally meaningless lives. More irritating is that when someone talks to me about ‘people’…I mean, have they nothing else to talk about? I recall a friend of mine wondering where are all the elves gone from this world…At least, we would then have some other topics to talk about. Elves. (Reminds me of Elvis…damn, included in the set of people again!).
Where are all the ideas gone? Or events, for that matter. Carnivals are great events, I tell you. And nobody talks of that either. I can’t lead this bleak life, lack of Revolution, full of limitations and failure and frustration. Sometimes I wish I could change my sex. Really. I don’t like being a girl sometimes. Makes me feel so stereotyped. And hey, that’s not me. I feel comfortable being a vagabond… Are there any female vagabonds out there??? I don’t think so. Even if there are, they can be grossly misunderstood and hence misused as whores.
I have finally started sketching…finally got hold of it again… I am looking for a model…any volunteers out there with Greek features? I don’t understand why I don’t identify much with abstract art… It’s too personal…but you can actually pass abstract messages through impressionistic art, somewhat like Leonardo (not De Caprio, especially if Hugh Grant is by any chance reading this post)… That’s much more intriguing than directly painting something abstract…you can conceal and reveal so much in impressionistic art at the same time. But as a starter, my intentions won’t be so grand and colossal…I’m just a novice.
7:22:14 PM
People. I am so sick of them. All they talk of is other people. And not about great people mind you… All they get to talk about is ordinary, stupid people with equally stupid ideas and leading equally meaningless lives. More irritating is that when someone talks to me about ‘people’…I mean, have they nothing else to talk about? I recall a friend of mine wondering where are all the elves gone from this world…At least, we would then have some other topics to talk about. Elves. (Reminds me of Elvis…damn, included in the set of people again!).
Where are all the ideas gone? Or events, for that matter. Carnivals are great events, I tell you. And nobody talks of that either. I can’t lead this bleak life, lack of Revolution, full of limitations and failure and frustration. Sometimes I wish I could change my sex. Really. I don’t like being a girl sometimes. Makes me feel so stereotyped. And hey, that’s not me. I feel comfortable being a vagabond… Are there any female vagabonds out there??? I don’t think so. Even if there are, they can be grossly misunderstood and hence misused as whores.
I have finally started sketching…finally got hold of it again… I am looking for a model…any volunteers out there with Greek features? I don’t understand why I don’t identify much with abstract art… It’s too personal…but you can actually pass abstract messages through impressionistic art, somewhat like Leonardo (not De Caprio, especially if Hugh Grant is by any chance reading this post)… That’s much more intriguing than directly painting something abstract…you can conceal and reveal so much in impressionistic art at the same time. But as a starter, my intentions won’t be so grand and colossal…I’m just a novice.
Friday, October 07, 2005
Tagged!
Well, that's exactly 55 words of rubbish too...
Long ago, some entities were tagged to “write” in 55 words, causing mass failing in exam, a heretic act of murdering creativity, (=which is the only means of survival at present). The chain of events has followed till today, where certain individuals were born with a recessive allele Factor M, making them mushy by nature.
Long ago, some entities were tagged to “write” in 55 words, causing mass failing in exam, a heretic act of murdering creativity, (=which is the only means of survival at present). The chain of events has followed till today, where certain individuals were born with a recessive allele Factor M, making them mushy by nature.
Monday, October 03, 2005
Just Being
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
1:06:53 AM
How is it that it is more important that I sleep less and keep my bed done when we don’t know a thing about how big the Universe is or why it exists? The Ultimate Question seems to be less important than what I actually do or don’t. It’s not even funny, man.
I like to be untidy. No, no, I luuuvvvv to be untidy. Gives me more time to do all sorts of things. I don’t need to spend time in keeping things orderly. And there’s so much fun in finding out stuff, cos’ you know exactly where something is. The complex structure of untidiness reminds me of pre-impressionism, post-impressionism and everything in-between. There’s a certain sense of aesthetics which we can only see in the paintings of Van Gogh, although I don’t like his paintings much. He has a signature in the piece itself, which makes him so special. But I can’t take my eyes off Renoir’s perfection and Cézanne’s glowing details.
Just a while ago, my mom came in for inspection, thinking I was typing a love letter. Thanks heaven that I was only being assertive of my limited knowledge of Fine Arts. Anyway, I wouldn’t be typing a love letter, I would rather write one. What’s the charm in writing a love letter electronically? The depth, pressure and flow of handwriting as par your emotions are lost.
Am listening to Dylan Unplugged. I wish I could be like him. I wish I could be Dylan, Jim Morrison or Bob Marley, any one of them. Then I could curse anybody on the microphone and people would find it quite interesting, and even aesthetic. Plus I could be untidy without show-cause. I could travel from place to place, and read any book I wanted to. There are a few lines in Dylan’s “Simple Twist of Fate” that I often ponder:
People tell me it’s a sin
To think and feel too much within
I still believe she was my queen
But I lost the ring
She was born in the spring
But I, was born today!
Blame it on, a simple twist of fate
Watch the rhyming...it’s so lovely! Dylan is still alive, unlike Marley and Morrison. I wish I could meet him someday. I wish I met him accidentally, like I won’t even recognize him when I come across him, and he would simply chat on with me...and I would only know it’s him when we bid adieu to each other. I wish I was born in his time, and that he never knew Joan Baez.
1:06:53 AM
How is it that it is more important that I sleep less and keep my bed done when we don’t know a thing about how big the Universe is or why it exists? The Ultimate Question seems to be less important than what I actually do or don’t. It’s not even funny, man.
I like to be untidy. No, no, I luuuvvvv to be untidy. Gives me more time to do all sorts of things. I don’t need to spend time in keeping things orderly. And there’s so much fun in finding out stuff, cos’ you know exactly where something is. The complex structure of untidiness reminds me of pre-impressionism, post-impressionism and everything in-between. There’s a certain sense of aesthetics which we can only see in the paintings of Van Gogh, although I don’t like his paintings much. He has a signature in the piece itself, which makes him so special. But I can’t take my eyes off Renoir’s perfection and Cézanne’s glowing details.
Just a while ago, my mom came in for inspection, thinking I was typing a love letter. Thanks heaven that I was only being assertive of my limited knowledge of Fine Arts. Anyway, I wouldn’t be typing a love letter, I would rather write one. What’s the charm in writing a love letter electronically? The depth, pressure and flow of handwriting as par your emotions are lost.
Am listening to Dylan Unplugged. I wish I could be like him. I wish I could be Dylan, Jim Morrison or Bob Marley, any one of them. Then I could curse anybody on the microphone and people would find it quite interesting, and even aesthetic. Plus I could be untidy without show-cause. I could travel from place to place, and read any book I wanted to. There are a few lines in Dylan’s “Simple Twist of Fate” that I often ponder:
People tell me it’s a sin
To think and feel too much within
I still believe she was my queen
But I lost the ring
She was born in the spring
But I, was born today!
Blame it on, a simple twist of fate
Watch the rhyming...it’s so lovely! Dylan is still alive, unlike Marley and Morrison. I wish I could meet him someday. I wish I met him accidentally, like I won’t even recognize him when I come across him, and he would simply chat on with me...and I would only know it’s him when we bid adieu to each other. I wish I was born in his time, and that he never knew Joan Baez.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
Rushing Thoughts
Friday, September 02, 2005
9:13:41 PM
I am a number 4 person…no, no, no I don’t mean I am cunning, deceptive or live illicitly (although I am not sure if I haven’t done anything I ought not to do or not)...Its just that I was born on the 4th of a certain month…so I am a number 4 person, or so it seems...according to Cheiro...which makes me very much fated to destiny...even if a little less definitely than number 8 people, which makes them painfully fated to destiny...but all the same, the letters of my name makes me a number 8 person...so there u go again! Try harming me any time, u will be successful, guaranteed...but wait! Why would anybody harm me for no reason...or even if they wanted to, why would they buy my invitation??? Well then, try that for a good cause- such as crane me away as human subject for research on regenerating nerve cells…cut up my spine and extract all those fluid and nerve fibers, ultra-centrifuge them, or dispose them off to CERN and keep your fingers crossed till my cells give rise to anti-particles in the humongous synchrotron, do anything...u will surely be crowned with the Nobel Prize.
I don’t know what Destiny has in store for me...well, duh! Nobody does…but it leaves me awestruck when I find myself ‘destined’ to take up this surprisingly alien subject (at least for me) instead of Genetics, Medicine or the like, of which I was so sure of landing myself into...nothing intrigues me more than a karyotype of a trisomy 21 Down’s syndrome human cell or the microscopic photograph of blood containing cancerous cells...or even the physiology of the Nervous System… “The” nervous system…Heavens! How much I revere what I passionately love to study about...and oh the microscopic devils: Salmonella typhi causing typhoid; Candida albicans causing Candidiasis (commonly known as ‘thrush’) in humans…and hence associated with commensalism…I don’t even care if people think I am trying to ‘jahir’ (couldn’t find the English word for that! I won’t even apologize for that) my knowledge by naming all these organisms...(by the way, I just remembered a sickly pathetic joke some hooligans cracked about hearing “orgasm” when I was talking about “organism” in the biology class in school...u can laugh your heads off too and sign the hooligan membership)...so as I was saying...or rather rambling on and on...right, RNA retroviruses, involved in both AIDS and Cancer…and a rare symptom, Kaposi’s Sarcoma, a certain tumor seen in people with HIV positive...And those lovely variety of proteins, I was mostly interested in tropocollagen and tertiary structures, which include the haemoglobin molecule...and all that...huh, I am hungry for more details, but who cares! (hey wait! I forgot the organism causing tuberculosis...I know now, that’s exactly why I’m not into Bio anymore...WHAT A LAME EXCUSE!)
I wish I knew somebody, anybody (straight, gay, lesbian…with special preference to all three), as passionate as I am about biology...anybody out there in this vast web of virtual insanity, trapped in dossiers with fancy names such as Cookies, History and Temp, addicted to Biology? (This is cheapstake beckoning, just like the ones who call up Jimmy every Friday after midnight in some forlorn FM station to put their pseudo-sensitive, artless, so-called ‘feelings’ on air...and not to mention the even cheaper beckoning (or coaxing?) of the jockey to the listeners to pour out their pseudo-tales of woes and ‘feelings’...squeezing water out of hard rock)
Now, I am tired of the nested brackets I am delving all ye mortals to strain your eyes into…speaking of mortals, I always felt that there are always immortals at any given time, prying into blogs and chat rooms…I definitely had such a feeling of déjà vu when I entered into this oddly named chat room in MSN years back...yes, when they still let us mortals this side of the planet to log on to MSN chat rooms...and I was sure they were not mortals, cos they had electronic and/or lord-of-the-rings-and-mortal-combat genre of nicks and they talked in a language I had no way of comprehending, albeit they were in English...the language of the colonizers...But anyway, I miss access to those chat rooms cos I used to be a regular chatterbox at a room named “Philosophy” at one point of time...not that people talked of Bertrand Russell or Socrates...plain simple people, simply chatting...no slang, no stupidity whatsoever...they had disciplined Bots, and even cared to give their Bot-ship away to other deserving people joining the room. I remember explaining to a Swedish what “shon papri” sweets look and taste like...hay-like and all, grainy and sugary, with a soft crunchy feel on your tongue...And then there was this chat room where a middle-aged guy talked of a book called the Matrix with its url, which has the same theme and philosophy as in the movie, but not the movie itself...he also advised me that it wasn’t healthy for nature to let births to babies in “the matrix” cos in “reality” there are not many souls...most of them are rotten, exhausted and don’t want to enter the Matrix, i.e. be born in our eyes, which is embedded in Maya. The man showed me his picture, which I had no reason to believe as his...and even if he was being true, I couldn’t care...but anyway, the picture was weird...he had certain kind of eyes which compelled me to think of those aliens lurking inside human-skin in the movie Men In Black...He might have been an alien, who knows...I am an alien too, to some could-be creatures in Epsilon Eridani and also to the homo-sapiens of this planet...if NASA keeps secret documents of homo sapiens living in outer space, to them too...
Monday, September 05, 2005
7:52:11 PM
This is a strange planet...it indeed is...people are busy spreading anxiety and bad vibes all around. It gives them immense pleasure to keep asking questions...and mind you, not any important questions like “Why do we all exist at all?”...but it’s more like: who fucked who...I am compelled to quote a few lines from my diary:
This is all so weird…the whole damn idea of existence. When we are so illiterate about all these enigma, we fight over simple matters and turn the whole life into an albatross. People blame each other, they are too poky, and both dictated at and dictating themselves. The equilibrium of yin and yang seems too dull a concept. I mean, it isn’t that simple; can’t be. The Cosmos is filled with mysteries to be unraveled and we spend our whole lives solving the non-mysterious and idiotic social problems. It’s all a big farce! It all is…(7th June’ 2004)
I don’t know how I succeeded in building up a fiery image of myself in front of many people...I mean, am I really hot-tempered? Have I not been extremely unlucky? Some even think I am outright devilish and a culprit, and worst of all, that doesn’t even make me famous! It’s like Laden (as in Osama bin Laden, no pun intended) without any publicity...Some think I am dumb and stupid, which is a big relief...that way, I don’t have to live up to any expectations...If somebody asks me, “Why couldn’t you do it?” or “Why are you behaving like that?”, I can manage a broad grin and say, “Remember I am dumb and stupid???” I also have a good laugh when I think of some who fall into my trap and go beyond their limits to establish that I am dumb and stupid...I can give a censored version of an instance:
“Are you interested in PEEEEEEEEEP?”
“No, I don’t really understand...I am so dumb...hehe”
“Oh yah (somebody else goes on)...she doesn’t know a PEEP about PEEP...and she is PEEP(dumb) and PEEP(stupid)...well, blah blah blah PEEP PEEP...she peeps peep from peep...”
Anyway, some people are so lucky that they can spare time for such a foolish pursuit...Meanwhile I will get back to my Tarot cards and eventually to Galvin...I need to plan ahead, you see...lest I tumble and topple one more time for the n+1th time like The Fool...which I surely will...again!
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
5:55:40 PM
I keep asking the same question myself over and over again...I mean this whole business of life and being born...The first things I remember when I gained consciousness into this world were two vivid memories of my childhood. I remember once when my mother came home from Calcutta (where she went for her dissertation) after 7 days, I was pretty mad at her...but at that time, I hadn’t developed much of a vocabulary...I remember her bringing to the bed where she rested while I kept on pulling her hairs so as to hurt her and cried out of anguish...and second, I remember once running just out of a bath naked and suddenly this strange feeling of embarrassment enshrouded me...I don’t know how I got the feeling...I was just a kid, and there were no signs of maturity both in my mind or physically.I also remember clearly climbing on the stairs of the flat we were living and at the very last step my mother caught me and brought me down...she came to me as silent as a tigress to her prey...I was climbing the stairs without anybody’s knowledge to the forbidden rooftop, without any railings...
I shouldn’t have been born...With all the mess around me... “You have a messed up life” they say...And I read somewhere that the feelings associated during conception determines from which cosmic channel a soul would be born in this world of Maya...I guess that did it...I don’t think I come from a very high level of cosmic channel...no wonder, my whole means of existence is a big question mark.
But there’s no end to my dreaming big, far and wide...I sometimes savor the thought of living in a house all by myself...I would have a bedroom with attached study room and of course nature’s call has to be answered nearby with style and décor...the dining would be with a couch and a TV, with an espresso machine at one corner and a smuggled guitar...and of course the kitchen, although my culinary skills would only compel me to visit the MacDonald’s more often than not (carcinoma would have just about no problem in finding their way through my blood stream).
I want a reading lamp...and the study would overflow with all the books I have bought and want to buy...I would own a bike...as in a bicycle...so that I can go off anywhere at a moment’s notice, putting the nice helmet on my head...I would always have a backpack ready with all the dire necessities, including a compass and an atlas, and maps and cash...and of course, Patrick Moore’s guide for star watchers...my star dial...My stock of pencils, pens and markers should never run out...and paper too...lots of fancy envelopes...and more papers still...And the telescope...yes, it has to be there...without it, life would be so bleak and unfinished...and a microscope, that too...the telescope would be mounted at the rooftop...and the microscope in the study, just near a centrifuge machine...and slides, petri dishes, beakers, graduated pipettes, suction pump, cylinders...an aquarium of some fishes and crabs...and oh, I need the refrigerator...a small one would do...loaded with Pepsi, Cadbury, cartons of Iced Tea, some samples that need to be at low temperatures...in short, the bounty of supplies...The pc should be companioned with lots of hardware, junk and useful...with CDs lying everywhere...Well, that’s my den...and I prefer to be alone without any distractions...occasional company is understandable and somehow tolerated...in times of sickness, I can romanticize pessimism like wine savored sip by sip...wrapped in a piece of cloth, wondering if this was heaven...then my pc would ring, and I would just be informed of an alien landing and I can rush to the spot with my backpack riding my bike, shoving a tablet of Nise under my tongue...
I want my studio at the rooftop, where the smell of turpentine oil would enamor me and linseed oil would please and grease the canvas...Brushes of all sizes, with extra large tubes of White and Ultramarine blue...and Prussian blue, and Cobalt blue...The bedroom can have charts of important formulae and theorems hung on the wall...and a big sized skeleton, standing and mocking me at times when I would become totally useless...
9:13:41 PM
I am a number 4 person…no, no, no I don’t mean I am cunning, deceptive or live illicitly (although I am not sure if I haven’t done anything I ought not to do or not)...Its just that I was born on the 4th of a certain month…so I am a number 4 person, or so it seems...according to Cheiro...which makes me very much fated to destiny...even if a little less definitely than number 8 people, which makes them painfully fated to destiny...but all the same, the letters of my name makes me a number 8 person...so there u go again! Try harming me any time, u will be successful, guaranteed...but wait! Why would anybody harm me for no reason...or even if they wanted to, why would they buy my invitation??? Well then, try that for a good cause- such as crane me away as human subject for research on regenerating nerve cells…cut up my spine and extract all those fluid and nerve fibers, ultra-centrifuge them, or dispose them off to CERN and keep your fingers crossed till my cells give rise to anti-particles in the humongous synchrotron, do anything...u will surely be crowned with the Nobel Prize.
I don’t know what Destiny has in store for me...well, duh! Nobody does…but it leaves me awestruck when I find myself ‘destined’ to take up this surprisingly alien subject (at least for me) instead of Genetics, Medicine or the like, of which I was so sure of landing myself into...nothing intrigues me more than a karyotype of a trisomy 21 Down’s syndrome human cell or the microscopic photograph of blood containing cancerous cells...or even the physiology of the Nervous System… “The” nervous system…Heavens! How much I revere what I passionately love to study about...and oh the microscopic devils: Salmonella typhi causing typhoid; Candida albicans causing Candidiasis (commonly known as ‘thrush’) in humans…and hence associated with commensalism…I don’t even care if people think I am trying to ‘jahir’ (couldn’t find the English word for that! I won’t even apologize for that) my knowledge by naming all these organisms...(by the way, I just remembered a sickly pathetic joke some hooligans cracked about hearing “orgasm” when I was talking about “organism” in the biology class in school...u can laugh your heads off too and sign the hooligan membership)...so as I was saying...or rather rambling on and on...right, RNA retroviruses, involved in both AIDS and Cancer…and a rare symptom, Kaposi’s Sarcoma, a certain tumor seen in people with HIV positive...And those lovely variety of proteins, I was mostly interested in tropocollagen and tertiary structures, which include the haemoglobin molecule...and all that...huh, I am hungry for more details, but who cares! (hey wait! I forgot the organism causing tuberculosis...I know now, that’s exactly why I’m not into Bio anymore...WHAT A LAME EXCUSE!)
I wish I knew somebody, anybody (straight, gay, lesbian…with special preference to all three), as passionate as I am about biology...anybody out there in this vast web of virtual insanity, trapped in dossiers with fancy names such as Cookies, History and Temp, addicted to Biology? (This is cheapstake beckoning, just like the ones who call up Jimmy every Friday after midnight in some forlorn FM station to put their pseudo-sensitive, artless, so-called ‘feelings’ on air...and not to mention the even cheaper beckoning (or coaxing?) of the jockey to the listeners to pour out their pseudo-tales of woes and ‘feelings’...squeezing water out of hard rock)
Now, I am tired of the nested brackets I am delving all ye mortals to strain your eyes into…speaking of mortals, I always felt that there are always immortals at any given time, prying into blogs and chat rooms…I definitely had such a feeling of déjà vu when I entered into this oddly named chat room in MSN years back...yes, when they still let us mortals this side of the planet to log on to MSN chat rooms...and I was sure they were not mortals, cos they had electronic and/or lord-of-the-rings-and-mortal-combat genre of nicks and they talked in a language I had no way of comprehending, albeit they were in English...the language of the colonizers...But anyway, I miss access to those chat rooms cos I used to be a regular chatterbox at a room named “Philosophy” at one point of time...not that people talked of Bertrand Russell or Socrates...plain simple people, simply chatting...no slang, no stupidity whatsoever...they had disciplined Bots, and even cared to give their Bot-ship away to other deserving people joining the room. I remember explaining to a Swedish what “shon papri” sweets look and taste like...hay-like and all, grainy and sugary, with a soft crunchy feel on your tongue...And then there was this chat room where a middle-aged guy talked of a book called the Matrix with its url, which has the same theme and philosophy as in the movie, but not the movie itself...he also advised me that it wasn’t healthy for nature to let births to babies in “the matrix” cos in “reality” there are not many souls...most of them are rotten, exhausted and don’t want to enter the Matrix, i.e. be born in our eyes, which is embedded in Maya. The man showed me his picture, which I had no reason to believe as his...and even if he was being true, I couldn’t care...but anyway, the picture was weird...he had certain kind of eyes which compelled me to think of those aliens lurking inside human-skin in the movie Men In Black...He might have been an alien, who knows...I am an alien too, to some could-be creatures in Epsilon Eridani and also to the homo-sapiens of this planet...if NASA keeps secret documents of homo sapiens living in outer space, to them too...
Monday, September 05, 2005
7:52:11 PM
This is a strange planet...it indeed is...people are busy spreading anxiety and bad vibes all around. It gives them immense pleasure to keep asking questions...and mind you, not any important questions like “Why do we all exist at all?”...but it’s more like: who fucked who...I am compelled to quote a few lines from my diary:
This is all so weird…the whole damn idea of existence. When we are so illiterate about all these enigma, we fight over simple matters and turn the whole life into an albatross. People blame each other, they are too poky, and both dictated at and dictating themselves. The equilibrium of yin and yang seems too dull a concept. I mean, it isn’t that simple; can’t be. The Cosmos is filled with mysteries to be unraveled and we spend our whole lives solving the non-mysterious and idiotic social problems. It’s all a big farce! It all is…(7th June’ 2004)
I don’t know how I succeeded in building up a fiery image of myself in front of many people...I mean, am I really hot-tempered? Have I not been extremely unlucky? Some even think I am outright devilish and a culprit, and worst of all, that doesn’t even make me famous! It’s like Laden (as in Osama bin Laden, no pun intended) without any publicity...Some think I am dumb and stupid, which is a big relief...that way, I don’t have to live up to any expectations...If somebody asks me, “Why couldn’t you do it?” or “Why are you behaving like that?”, I can manage a broad grin and say, “Remember I am dumb and stupid???” I also have a good laugh when I think of some who fall into my trap and go beyond their limits to establish that I am dumb and stupid...I can give a censored version of an instance:
“Are you interested in PEEEEEEEEEP?”
“No, I don’t really understand...I am so dumb...hehe”
“Oh yah (somebody else goes on)...she doesn’t know a PEEP about PEEP...and she is PEEP(dumb) and PEEP(stupid)...well, blah blah blah PEEP PEEP...she peeps peep from peep...”
Anyway, some people are so lucky that they can spare time for such a foolish pursuit...Meanwhile I will get back to my Tarot cards and eventually to Galvin...I need to plan ahead, you see...lest I tumble and topple one more time for the n+1th time like The Fool...which I surely will...again!
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
5:55:40 PM
I keep asking the same question myself over and over again...I mean this whole business of life and being born...The first things I remember when I gained consciousness into this world were two vivid memories of my childhood. I remember once when my mother came home from Calcutta (where she went for her dissertation) after 7 days, I was pretty mad at her...but at that time, I hadn’t developed much of a vocabulary...I remember her bringing to the bed where she rested while I kept on pulling her hairs so as to hurt her and cried out of anguish...and second, I remember once running just out of a bath naked and suddenly this strange feeling of embarrassment enshrouded me...I don’t know how I got the feeling...I was just a kid, and there were no signs of maturity both in my mind or physically.I also remember clearly climbing on the stairs of the flat we were living and at the very last step my mother caught me and brought me down...she came to me as silent as a tigress to her prey...I was climbing the stairs without anybody’s knowledge to the forbidden rooftop, without any railings...
I shouldn’t have been born...With all the mess around me... “You have a messed up life” they say...And I read somewhere that the feelings associated during conception determines from which cosmic channel a soul would be born in this world of Maya...I guess that did it...I don’t think I come from a very high level of cosmic channel...no wonder, my whole means of existence is a big question mark.
But there’s no end to my dreaming big, far and wide...I sometimes savor the thought of living in a house all by myself...I would have a bedroom with attached study room and of course nature’s call has to be answered nearby with style and décor...the dining would be with a couch and a TV, with an espresso machine at one corner and a smuggled guitar...and of course the kitchen, although my culinary skills would only compel me to visit the MacDonald’s more often than not (carcinoma would have just about no problem in finding their way through my blood stream).
I want a reading lamp...and the study would overflow with all the books I have bought and want to buy...I would own a bike...as in a bicycle...so that I can go off anywhere at a moment’s notice, putting the nice helmet on my head...I would always have a backpack ready with all the dire necessities, including a compass and an atlas, and maps and cash...and of course, Patrick Moore’s guide for star watchers...my star dial...My stock of pencils, pens and markers should never run out...and paper too...lots of fancy envelopes...and more papers still...And the telescope...yes, it has to be there...without it, life would be so bleak and unfinished...and a microscope, that too...the telescope would be mounted at the rooftop...and the microscope in the study, just near a centrifuge machine...and slides, petri dishes, beakers, graduated pipettes, suction pump, cylinders...an aquarium of some fishes and crabs...and oh, I need the refrigerator...a small one would do...loaded with Pepsi, Cadbury, cartons of Iced Tea, some samples that need to be at low temperatures...in short, the bounty of supplies...The pc should be companioned with lots of hardware, junk and useful...with CDs lying everywhere...Well, that’s my den...and I prefer to be alone without any distractions...occasional company is understandable and somehow tolerated...in times of sickness, I can romanticize pessimism like wine savored sip by sip...wrapped in a piece of cloth, wondering if this was heaven...then my pc would ring, and I would just be informed of an alien landing and I can rush to the spot with my backpack riding my bike, shoving a tablet of Nise under my tongue...
I want my studio at the rooftop, where the smell of turpentine oil would enamor me and linseed oil would please and grease the canvas...Brushes of all sizes, with extra large tubes of White and Ultramarine blue...and Prussian blue, and Cobalt blue...The bedroom can have charts of important formulae and theorems hung on the wall...and a big sized skeleton, standing and mocking me at times when I would become totally useless...
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
WRITING WITHOUT INK
Saturday, August 06, 2005
I wanted a telescope when I was in class-1. I was told that if I stood 1st in class, I would be gifted a telescope. I topped but no telescope came to me.The next year I was in class-2, and the same thing happened. Thus I stood 1st in a row till class-8. Afterwards, I never became first till now. Once I was taken to a telescope shop, given false hopes for the nth time, but still no telescope at my disposal. I guess I’ll have to do it with my naked eyes. It’s okay by me, I guess. As long as Alpha Centauri and Proxima Centauri keep sending light waves to my retina.I once observed a certain kind of planet, which moved quite fast, in retrograde motion up in the evening sky. I noted down each detail of the event, believing it was a UFO but later learned it was in fact an artificial satellite.
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Sometimes I don’t understand myself. The statement is in no way meant to raise any importance, and neither is it rhetorical. I really don’t understand myself, and the more I try to, it gets me nowhere, so I resolve in understanding others. The great thing about that is, you don’t even need to know if what you think is true or false. You can mercilessly flirt with the idea and take no sweat about what anybody is thinking whatsoever, but with yourself, you always have to look for clarity. You can lie to yourself, be as illusive and confused as The Hanged Man (consult Tarot Cards), but you can never be sanguine about it. You expect so much from yourself, you see….you don’t expect so much from others. You may really understand others and it doesn’t matter even if you don’t, but you must give a good try to understand yourself….now, now…am I drunk or what? I am repeating the same thing over and over again. What else am I supposed to talk about then, Harry Potter? I don’t know what to do with that book…I mean, I never read it though, but that’s beside the point…someday I will write ‘Hari Puttar’ and read it myself….I think my nose has started running, wonder where my cod-liver oil tablets are….seven seas….why did they name it Seven Seas??? Cods from all the seven seas of the world were butchered, their livers ripped out and oil extracted? Or, a single cod whose oil travels far and wide across the seven seas, I have no clue…meanwhile, the viruses are finding their way through my immune system…wish my lymphatic system did not lay any red carpets for them…I once read a story about an aspiring doctor who could talk to viruses…he felt happy to host for them coz that’s the only way they can really live…poor viruses…
We all try to know so many things…most of us are so curious, yet we never think of death. It’s so much better kept sealed with the deepest fears of mankind. I really wonder why I do things I do. Does it really mean anything, whatever we do? I have an uncanny feeling that it’s all farce. But more important, as of this moment, is that I should really go to sleep now…perhaps, that’s similar to death. Once in 1994, the day we had carnival at school (I had a stall and sold many stuff, and I remember I did have a runny nose that day, might also have had fever…oh and I also remember I bought the audio cassette of the movie Rangeela…that time, I used to listen to lots of A. R. Rahman music…I still do…oh dammit, I even remember the clothes I was wearing that day…It was December, and I was wearing a white cardigan on top of a maroon top with a black crepe long skirt that had prints of western cowboys riding horses…it was my first real carnival, or more commonly “meena-bazaar”…I had a crush over a really stupid guy, six feet two inches, who even treated me phuchka for free from his stall…) I was sure I would die as soon as I would fall asleep…so I was afraid to sleep…I kept awake as long as I could, but the next morning I woke up from a safe sleep…sometimes, you can be so sure of something, but it never happens, which basically means, never be so sure of anything…
Tuesday, August 16, 200511:51:30 PM
I saw a wonderful movie today, Ella Enchanted…there’s so much fantasy into it…I just loved it…I haven’t seen a purely fantasy movie for a long time…I loved the elf in the movie, who hated to perform, and wanted to be a lawyer…but his fellow-elves won’t let him…and there’s Ella whose fairy godmother gave her a gift, as good as a curse, which made her obedient by default…and there were the Giants…
I am also reading a book called Life of Pi…The style of writing is good…I mean, I can read on without having to skip lines…I have become so impatient these days…I want to bite more that I can chew…I once read a comedy novel by Stella Duffy called “Eating the Cake”- it was pretty hilarious…a woman trying to find meaning in life, tries out everything from infidelity to homosexuality…then realizes none of these meant anything whatsoever…The author is Brit…Are all middle-aged Brit woman somewhat like Bridget Jones?
I did manage to squeeze some time for Data Structures…for the first time in my life, I actually opened the book by Tenenbaum…For once I have been able to erase any resemblances with hashish to Hashing. But it still seems pretty obscure to me, at a certain point. The thing is, I understand the language of Biology so well, but it’s difficult for me to adapt to the terms and language of computer science…or mathematics, for that matter…strangely though, I am beginning to find some interest in that recently…moreover, I might really miss on something really important about Life, which only mathematics can probably show me…but of course, I can’t forget my Lingua Pura, the language of Biology.
I wanted a telescope when I was in class-1. I was told that if I stood 1st in class, I would be gifted a telescope. I topped but no telescope came to me.The next year I was in class-2, and the same thing happened. Thus I stood 1st in a row till class-8. Afterwards, I never became first till now. Once I was taken to a telescope shop, given false hopes for the nth time, but still no telescope at my disposal. I guess I’ll have to do it with my naked eyes. It’s okay by me, I guess. As long as Alpha Centauri and Proxima Centauri keep sending light waves to my retina.I once observed a certain kind of planet, which moved quite fast, in retrograde motion up in the evening sky. I noted down each detail of the event, believing it was a UFO but later learned it was in fact an artificial satellite.
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Sometimes I don’t understand myself. The statement is in no way meant to raise any importance, and neither is it rhetorical. I really don’t understand myself, and the more I try to, it gets me nowhere, so I resolve in understanding others. The great thing about that is, you don’t even need to know if what you think is true or false. You can mercilessly flirt with the idea and take no sweat about what anybody is thinking whatsoever, but with yourself, you always have to look for clarity. You can lie to yourself, be as illusive and confused as The Hanged Man (consult Tarot Cards), but you can never be sanguine about it. You expect so much from yourself, you see….you don’t expect so much from others. You may really understand others and it doesn’t matter even if you don’t, but you must give a good try to understand yourself….now, now…am I drunk or what? I am repeating the same thing over and over again. What else am I supposed to talk about then, Harry Potter? I don’t know what to do with that book…I mean, I never read it though, but that’s beside the point…someday I will write ‘Hari Puttar’ and read it myself….I think my nose has started running, wonder where my cod-liver oil tablets are….seven seas….why did they name it Seven Seas??? Cods from all the seven seas of the world were butchered, their livers ripped out and oil extracted? Or, a single cod whose oil travels far and wide across the seven seas, I have no clue…meanwhile, the viruses are finding their way through my immune system…wish my lymphatic system did not lay any red carpets for them…I once read a story about an aspiring doctor who could talk to viruses…he felt happy to host for them coz that’s the only way they can really live…poor viruses…
We all try to know so many things…most of us are so curious, yet we never think of death. It’s so much better kept sealed with the deepest fears of mankind. I really wonder why I do things I do. Does it really mean anything, whatever we do? I have an uncanny feeling that it’s all farce. But more important, as of this moment, is that I should really go to sleep now…perhaps, that’s similar to death. Once in 1994, the day we had carnival at school (I had a stall and sold many stuff, and I remember I did have a runny nose that day, might also have had fever…oh and I also remember I bought the audio cassette of the movie Rangeela…that time, I used to listen to lots of A. R. Rahman music…I still do…oh dammit, I even remember the clothes I was wearing that day…It was December, and I was wearing a white cardigan on top of a maroon top with a black crepe long skirt that had prints of western cowboys riding horses…it was my first real carnival, or more commonly “meena-bazaar”…I had a crush over a really stupid guy, six feet two inches, who even treated me phuchka for free from his stall…) I was sure I would die as soon as I would fall asleep…so I was afraid to sleep…I kept awake as long as I could, but the next morning I woke up from a safe sleep…sometimes, you can be so sure of something, but it never happens, which basically means, never be so sure of anything…
Tuesday, August 16, 200511:51:30 PM
I saw a wonderful movie today, Ella Enchanted…there’s so much fantasy into it…I just loved it…I haven’t seen a purely fantasy movie for a long time…I loved the elf in the movie, who hated to perform, and wanted to be a lawyer…but his fellow-elves won’t let him…and there’s Ella whose fairy godmother gave her a gift, as good as a curse, which made her obedient by default…and there were the Giants…
I am also reading a book called Life of Pi…The style of writing is good…I mean, I can read on without having to skip lines…I have become so impatient these days…I want to bite more that I can chew…I once read a comedy novel by Stella Duffy called “Eating the Cake”- it was pretty hilarious…a woman trying to find meaning in life, tries out everything from infidelity to homosexuality…then realizes none of these meant anything whatsoever…The author is Brit…Are all middle-aged Brit woman somewhat like Bridget Jones?
I did manage to squeeze some time for Data Structures…for the first time in my life, I actually opened the book by Tenenbaum…For once I have been able to erase any resemblances with hashish to Hashing. But it still seems pretty obscure to me, at a certain point. The thing is, I understand the language of Biology so well, but it’s difficult for me to adapt to the terms and language of computer science…or mathematics, for that matter…strangely though, I am beginning to find some interest in that recently…moreover, I might really miss on something really important about Life, which only mathematics can probably show me…but of course, I can’t forget my Lingua Pura, the language of Biology.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
ARE YOU A 'BANGALI'?
“Are you a Bangali?”, the security guard asked me, trying to put up a conversation while I was waiting to meet a distinguished official in the Writers’ Building. I was very puzzled to hear the question. I just told him I was from Bangladesh, and now he is asking me if I was ‘Bangali’ or not! Wasn’t I speaking perfect ‘Bangla’ to him? What kind of a question was that?
For a moment, I thought he was implying if I was a ‘Bangal’ or a ‘Bangali’, but that seemed a bit too far-fetched. The fact that I am a citizen of Bangladesh rules out any possibilities of me not being a ‘Bangal’, as we know it so fantastically from the anecdotes of Bhanu Bandopaddhay.
I answered him yes quite nonchalantly but he asked me again, “Maney, Bangali Bagali tho?” Very strange. ‘Bangali’ itself is an adjective and a noun in itself. Why add a redundant adjective to an all-encompassing noun? I turned around at him and told him the fact that Bengali is my mother-tongue and I was born in a country where ‘Bangla’ is the national language, how can I be anything else except a Bangali? He seemed a bit impressed with my answer, still leaving me confused as to why my explanation was at all impressive anyway. I mean, wasn’t it pretty obvious?
“What’s your name?”, he asked me, trying to dig out every bit of information about me, as if my name was in his dossier! I began wondering if my accent was anything like Marwaris or not. I told my name and then there was this sudden glow on his face. He told me, “I am also ‘pucca’ Bangali. Brahmin.” Now I was alarmed. So, is this what he was implying? That I actually answered all his questions made me feel so fooled and ashamed of myself.
It is unfortunate that Bangali is used for referring Hindus who originate from Bengal. Isn’t that selling the word too short? This guard wanted to know if I was a Muslim or not, since majority of people in Bangladesh are followers of Islam. But does that take away their right to be Bangalis? Does that mean people of Bangladesh are not Bangalis? And what about all the Muslims who originate from Murshidabad or any place else in West Bengal, do they lose their right to be identified as Bangalis?
‘Bangali’ is a regional and a lingual classification. It has nothing to do with religion. In fact, the word ‘Bangali’ has no room for classification religion-wise, for there are no synonyms for ‘religion’ in the Bengali Language. The word we use mistakenly for religion is ‘Dharma’. But the word ‘dharma’ is derived from the Sanskrit ‘dhree+mann’, which literally means the vessel, which contains our mind. Or put simply, it means the way our mind is or our nature is. To be precise, the English word for dharma is ‘properties’ or ‘characteristics’ and not religion.
I feel helpless and unable to do anything to stop this mindless propaganda of a word, which is so dear to me. What will I answer to the insatiable souls of the martyrs, who died for this language refusing to accept Urdu as their national language?
For all we know, four names- Salam, Barkat, Rafiq and Jabbar- will be always engraved with gold, first and foremost, in the history of the Language Movement, among all the youth, who bartered their blood for ‘Bangla’ on 21st February, which eventually baptized my country as Bangladesh from the then East Pakistan.
For a moment, I thought he was implying if I was a ‘Bangal’ or a ‘Bangali’, but that seemed a bit too far-fetched. The fact that I am a citizen of Bangladesh rules out any possibilities of me not being a ‘Bangal’, as we know it so fantastically from the anecdotes of Bhanu Bandopaddhay.
I answered him yes quite nonchalantly but he asked me again, “Maney, Bangali Bagali tho?” Very strange. ‘Bangali’ itself is an adjective and a noun in itself. Why add a redundant adjective to an all-encompassing noun? I turned around at him and told him the fact that Bengali is my mother-tongue and I was born in a country where ‘Bangla’ is the national language, how can I be anything else except a Bangali? He seemed a bit impressed with my answer, still leaving me confused as to why my explanation was at all impressive anyway. I mean, wasn’t it pretty obvious?
“What’s your name?”, he asked me, trying to dig out every bit of information about me, as if my name was in his dossier! I began wondering if my accent was anything like Marwaris or not. I told my name and then there was this sudden glow on his face. He told me, “I am also ‘pucca’ Bangali. Brahmin.” Now I was alarmed. So, is this what he was implying? That I actually answered all his questions made me feel so fooled and ashamed of myself.
It is unfortunate that Bangali is used for referring Hindus who originate from Bengal. Isn’t that selling the word too short? This guard wanted to know if I was a Muslim or not, since majority of people in Bangladesh are followers of Islam. But does that take away their right to be Bangalis? Does that mean people of Bangladesh are not Bangalis? And what about all the Muslims who originate from Murshidabad or any place else in West Bengal, do they lose their right to be identified as Bangalis?
‘Bangali’ is a regional and a lingual classification. It has nothing to do with religion. In fact, the word ‘Bangali’ has no room for classification religion-wise, for there are no synonyms for ‘religion’ in the Bengali Language. The word we use mistakenly for religion is ‘Dharma’. But the word ‘dharma’ is derived from the Sanskrit ‘dhree+mann’, which literally means the vessel, which contains our mind. Or put simply, it means the way our mind is or our nature is. To be precise, the English word for dharma is ‘properties’ or ‘characteristics’ and not religion.
I feel helpless and unable to do anything to stop this mindless propaganda of a word, which is so dear to me. What will I answer to the insatiable souls of the martyrs, who died for this language refusing to accept Urdu as their national language?
For all we know, four names- Salam, Barkat, Rafiq and Jabbar- will be always engraved with gold, first and foremost, in the history of the Language Movement, among all the youth, who bartered their blood for ‘Bangla’ on 21st February, which eventually baptized my country as Bangladesh from the then East Pakistan.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Tuesday Morning
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
It’s strange how simple things can piss one off right from the morning. I wake up late at 8 o’ clock, when I should be having my shower at 7am. I always set an alarm for 7am and a reminder for 6:30am (that makes two) the night before. But every time the cell phone vibrates, I conveniently wake up, put it off equally comfortably and resume my slumber. The next time I find myself awake and finally alarmed, I barely have time to attend my 9 o’ clock class…especially Da Silva’s English class, as of today’s.
Anyway, I brush my teeth, rush for a quick bath taking only 10 minutes. I iron my white top, which earned me quite a scolding from my mother for not having done it the night before. I leave out the drier considering the rush, and in the process forget my punch clip. Then comes the real part. Food. Sad and revolting, early in the morning, when you are served boiled egg with rice. I somehow manage to squeeze them all down my sleepy and not enough dilated oesophagus.
When I think I have forgotten nothing to take, including the keys, I am vexed by the perpetual dirt, which had accumulated on my shoes. I take one moment to make the wrong decision, wear my new shoes, the one with the funny keys and step out into the unknown. And the unknown bolts into a drizzle from the heavens and also under my feet, the muddy water ever malicious of my shoes, and it starts raining harder. It’s now 8:30am and I am still trying to hail an auto or a ricky. Finally, I get on the rickshaw, cursing the rain like hell, because it only drills a hole through my wallet, as the pullers always charge you extra when you need their service the most. I get to the bus-stand and when I am waiting for the goddamn bus, some zealous driver splashes the filthy water on the streets all over my clothes. I wish I was wearing my raincoat, no matter how much I am teased for wearing it and making an entrance of sort.
The bus takes me to Kasba Post-office stoppage, and I run to chase another bus, which will actually take me to my college (not quite though, since I still have to walk a while…) and when I have in fact run to catch the bus, I discover that it belongs to some other route. The bus can be deceptive, you see. The bus with the same name may have two routes.When I find my bus, I find difficulty saving my white top and my bare hands from being brushed by a filthy oil-head, who would not budge an inch. I am lucky to get a seat though, after a while.
The grand finale is inaugurated by three ‘loochchyas’, who made the mistake of walking close by me and eyeing me top to bottom. I shout at them, threatening to dump them at the police station. I seriously don’t understand how men can manage to be horny at any random girl, when the road is hustling due to the office-going passengers. I mean, what a way to start a day: get molested by any random guy on the roads! And not to mention the interminable vista of ogling B.Com all-male students in the college, who refuse to acknowledge that they really don’t know me.
It’s strange how simple things can piss one off right from the morning. I wake up late at 8 o’ clock, when I should be having my shower at 7am. I always set an alarm for 7am and a reminder for 6:30am (that makes two) the night before. But every time the cell phone vibrates, I conveniently wake up, put it off equally comfortably and resume my slumber. The next time I find myself awake and finally alarmed, I barely have time to attend my 9 o’ clock class…especially Da Silva’s English class, as of today’s.
Anyway, I brush my teeth, rush for a quick bath taking only 10 minutes. I iron my white top, which earned me quite a scolding from my mother for not having done it the night before. I leave out the drier considering the rush, and in the process forget my punch clip. Then comes the real part. Food. Sad and revolting, early in the morning, when you are served boiled egg with rice. I somehow manage to squeeze them all down my sleepy and not enough dilated oesophagus.
When I think I have forgotten nothing to take, including the keys, I am vexed by the perpetual dirt, which had accumulated on my shoes. I take one moment to make the wrong decision, wear my new shoes, the one with the funny keys and step out into the unknown. And the unknown bolts into a drizzle from the heavens and also under my feet, the muddy water ever malicious of my shoes, and it starts raining harder. It’s now 8:30am and I am still trying to hail an auto or a ricky. Finally, I get on the rickshaw, cursing the rain like hell, because it only drills a hole through my wallet, as the pullers always charge you extra when you need their service the most. I get to the bus-stand and when I am waiting for the goddamn bus, some zealous driver splashes the filthy water on the streets all over my clothes. I wish I was wearing my raincoat, no matter how much I am teased for wearing it and making an entrance of sort.
The bus takes me to Kasba Post-office stoppage, and I run to chase another bus, which will actually take me to my college (not quite though, since I still have to walk a while…) and when I have in fact run to catch the bus, I discover that it belongs to some other route. The bus can be deceptive, you see. The bus with the same name may have two routes.When I find my bus, I find difficulty saving my white top and my bare hands from being brushed by a filthy oil-head, who would not budge an inch. I am lucky to get a seat though, after a while.
The grand finale is inaugurated by three ‘loochchyas’, who made the mistake of walking close by me and eyeing me top to bottom. I shout at them, threatening to dump them at the police station. I seriously don’t understand how men can manage to be horny at any random girl, when the road is hustling due to the office-going passengers. I mean, what a way to start a day: get molested by any random guy on the roads! And not to mention the interminable vista of ogling B.Com all-male students in the college, who refuse to acknowledge that they really don’t know me.
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Feelings from the Crypt
Saturday, July 16, 2005
“Are you going to Scarborough Fair?”, could I not ask him that. This seething urge fills my very depth of abyss. Really, could I not ask him that? Could I not tell him that my hands are of no use anymore, I can’t paint anymore. I see him clearly. Lucid, and sparkling with rays, that dance out effortlessly from his holy aperture flanked over three-sixty degrees with drapes of brown iris.
Click and flash.
Say hello to illusion.
I offer him a seat and play about, wondering if I am wandering for a decade or so. I can’t think anymore, as I am completely left out blank. Thought is a ship, which is always sailing through, and often carried away by pirates. I try to light a fire on the water, hoping to scare the pirates away. What time is it now? Good or bad? Slow or fleeting? Could I not ask him all that. I could be sitting with him right under the gorgeous saucer, bathing in the beam that the UFO blessed us with. I see us running into a bar, the wildest thing to do. I could take only a sip of gin tonic, take a furtive glance around the rest of the people, throw away my drink and act as if I am helluva drunk. I could gaze at him shamelessly and pull him to dance with “I wanna get close to you”.
Fizz. The champagne bottle is uncorked and there’s no letting go off.
I see him now staring at the center of his field of vision, the concrete- his bed and the book- his pillow. It’s all the same from every angle. Isotropic. Concealed by the sharp edges of objects in space. He sees electrons drifting in space, with his X-ray vision. Funny that he is not Superman. I see his hands, which can create love at the slightest provocation, a living, talking example of order. Makes me want to have freshly made chocolate cake from those human tentacles, which strictly follow the chaos theory, and can lift me up in the air, the sandy breeze floating beneath me.
The ship is fighting through a storm, and Noah is nowhere in sight. The flame flickers vehemently on the salty water, cries frantically for some wax, and dissolves. I can see him now waiting in absolute darkness, with a pair of searching hands and a burning heart.
“Are you going to Scarborough Fair?”, could I not ask him that. This seething urge fills my very depth of abyss. Really, could I not ask him that? Could I not tell him that my hands are of no use anymore, I can’t paint anymore. I see him clearly. Lucid, and sparkling with rays, that dance out effortlessly from his holy aperture flanked over three-sixty degrees with drapes of brown iris.
Click and flash.
Say hello to illusion.
I offer him a seat and play about, wondering if I am wandering for a decade or so. I can’t think anymore, as I am completely left out blank. Thought is a ship, which is always sailing through, and often carried away by pirates. I try to light a fire on the water, hoping to scare the pirates away. What time is it now? Good or bad? Slow or fleeting? Could I not ask him all that. I could be sitting with him right under the gorgeous saucer, bathing in the beam that the UFO blessed us with. I see us running into a bar, the wildest thing to do. I could take only a sip of gin tonic, take a furtive glance around the rest of the people, throw away my drink and act as if I am helluva drunk. I could gaze at him shamelessly and pull him to dance with “I wanna get close to you”.
Fizz. The champagne bottle is uncorked and there’s no letting go off.
I see him now staring at the center of his field of vision, the concrete- his bed and the book- his pillow. It’s all the same from every angle. Isotropic. Concealed by the sharp edges of objects in space. He sees electrons drifting in space, with his X-ray vision. Funny that he is not Superman. I see his hands, which can create love at the slightest provocation, a living, talking example of order. Makes me want to have freshly made chocolate cake from those human tentacles, which strictly follow the chaos theory, and can lift me up in the air, the sandy breeze floating beneath me.
The ship is fighting through a storm, and Noah is nowhere in sight. The flame flickers vehemently on the salty water, cries frantically for some wax, and dissolves. I can see him now waiting in absolute darkness, with a pair of searching hands and a burning heart.
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