Hola...

Sometimes I like to talk to you this way. I mean, of course you would listen to me if I called you directly, or even sent you an email. But sometimes, I dont know, I get sick of the new tabs, new windows and different account for blog, e-mail, networks etc. If I could do all with one explorer, whether mozilla, opera or microsoft, I would choose this. Yes. More Likely.

And it makes things more interesting, you see. Isn't it fun to look at somebody from the corner of your eye for a change rather than staring directly? But of course, if you tried that all the time, you could turn cross-eyed...then, it surely wouldn't be interesting anymore...

I was just wondering about the movie "Guru". I can't decide whether to praise Abhishek's acting or notice his resemblances to Ratan Tata!

My days are spent in a suspended waiting condition. I'm becoming a couch-potato. It's sickening. You should really see Cyrus's spoof on Simi Garewaal, mocked as Semi Girebaal...It's hilarious to the point of being ridiculous...or vice versa...whichever.

I'm not being able to read books at the pace I should, now that I have so much time to spend in solitude...It's always been that way.

I hate BSS! What does he think of himself? He thinks he can get away with such petty crime? He neither has quality nor grace. Neither honesty nor intelligence. And surely has zero personality. He is disillusioned into thinking he has a penis but I'm sure he has an ass stuck up just there, I'm NOT sorry to say that...His age doesn't/shouldn't call for any respect, cos' he has no self-respect either...I'll barge into his Bank one day, and tell everybody what he did for 200 rupees...I would even spend 300 taka just to make him feel bad...Reminds me of "The Mummy":

Eveline: I would pay 100 pounds to save this man's life...
Egyptian Jailor: Madam, I would pay 100 pounds just to see him hanged!

My keyboard isn't working...the key for letter A isn't working...So am having to type these in some other comp...

I don't want this visa anymore now. I really don't...I want to know what you saw in the last CD of the Woodstock video...

That evening

On a bandh day...over a bridge...

Where's my cheque???

Damn...I miss those days so much...What is BSS doing??? Why can't he just pay us for our service? Mr. Ghosal, why can't you just threat this guy to give us our earned sum of money??? May be you should contact DSS to coax BSS to give us what we deserve...

Talking John Birch Paranoid Blues

(there ain't nothing wrong with this song...)

Well, I was feelin' sad and feelin' blue,
I didn't know what in the world I was gonna do,
Them Communists they wus comin' around,
They wus in the air,
They wus on the ground.
They wouldn't gimme no peace. . .

So I run down most hurriedly
And joined up with the John Birch Society,
I got me a secret membership card
And started off a-walkin' down the road.
Yee-hoo, I'm a real John Bircher now!
Look out you Commies!

Now we all agree with Hitlers' views,
Although he killed six million Jews.
It don't matter too much that he was a Fascist,
At least you can't say he was a Communist!
That's to say like if you got a cold you take a shot of malaria.

Well, I wus lookin' everywhere for them gol-darned Reds.
I got up in the mornin' 'n' looked under my bed,
Looked in the sink, behind the door,
Looked in the glove compartment of my car.
Couldn't find 'em . . .

I wus lookin' high an' low for them Reds everywhere,
I wus lookin' in the sink an' underneath the chair.
I looked way up my chimney hole,
I even looked deep inside my toilet bowl.
They got away . . .

Well, I wus sittin' home alone an' started to sweat,
Figured they wus in my T.V. set.
Peeked behind the picture frame,
Got a shock from my feet, hittin' right up in the brain.
Them Reds caused it!
I know they did . . . them hard-core ones.

Well, I quit my job so I could work alone,
Then I changed my name to Sherlock Holmes.
Followed some clues from my detective bag
And discovered they wus red stripes on the American flag!
That ol' Betty Ross . . .

Well, I investigated all the books in the library,
Ninety percent of 'em gotta be burned away.
I investigated all the people that I knowed,
Ninety-eight percent of them gotta go.
The other two percent are fellow Birchers . . . just like me.

Now Eisenhower, he's a Russian spy,
Lincoln, Jefferson and that Roosevelt guy.
To my knowledge there's just one man
That's really a true American: George Lincoln Rockwell.
I know for a fact he hates Commies cus he picketed the movie Exodus.

Well, I fin'ly started thinkin' straight
When I run outa things to investigate.
Couldn't imagine doin' anything else,
So now I'm sittin' home investigatin' myself!
Hope I don't find out anything . . . hmm, great God!

- Bob Dylan

When Fuser Came...

Monday, December 04, 2006
1:20:52 AM

Life can happen at the brink of repairing motorcycles…or at any such excuses…

The alibi had to go and the pitch was theirs…He sat for a while, unsure, scared of unleashing out to the woman-he-met-among-bizarre-mannequins. Could not even look at her or manage a childish hug or something…sheltered inside overt reluctance.

And then Life happened, just like Death.

Truth lay under their very eyes that had to be kept closed, for deep purple scars blossomed out of Life (or Death) have blinded them with wild, ultra-violet rays…It’s so strange to be felt au naturel with anyone, and not a single detail could be allowed to pass disregarded. Suddenly, there’s a feeling of imperfection, until he turned her towards the earth and she felt perfection again…the smell of cotton-wool, flesh, sweat, heat, blood, breath, Death…and Life longed for eternity…as if they had never known Bergman’s winter even by December…He freed her mind out of leprosy, which had so long waited for its revolutionary saviour…The saviour, who cannot be sought, must come to you…

To savour the saviour is quite a valour…

She made it sure she didn’t have to lose him into thin air, just for the heck of savouring…such was the light, feathery and almost illusive clasp of his…The translucent glass lavished iridescent wavelengths over the historical furniture of the morrow. He revelled at the glimpse of peace, glaciated with the taste of bliss…Peace is a long, dark trail into the microcosm where mysteries rule…a passage, that needs to be hued with purple sky, carpeted with red…And like crafty Persian rug-makers, he left a tiny flaw pompously, for her to pout and wonder and bite nails through till midnight…The Almighty could have almost grinned at his own mischief of creating rug-makers, who fail to offend Him…but even He dared not to prove his existence…

It’s in the ‘guessing’ that he finds his coming, playfully leaving her with a sweet little curse of finding much the same in ‘knowing’. With his tiny flaw, Death was spent and Life was packed in the most sacredly guarded doubt…

The revelation bubbled about in the room and the alibi never returned with his repaired bike…

Ghostly...

Cake Babies

When Fuser Sat On The Grass...

well...ahem...

SLIPPED...EXCUSED...

Thursday, September 21, 2006
12:25:44 AM

456? Excuse slip?Present sir…will show my slip in the next class!
……
……
…..
…..
463? Excuse slip?
(same as 456)
464? Excuse slip?
(all the more same as 463)
…….
…….
…
….
472?
Yes Sir!
474?
Yes Sir!…
….(maybe, 473 is right at the end…I hope, unwillingly…)
…
….
489?Absent (minded)!

Once again, no 473s in the register…like some elapsed convict, who was either released or have fled from jail…I raise up my arm only half-expecting to be asked for an excuse slip, even before making an entry into the register that had always been reluctant of 473…

HOD writes my name and roll no. in the register and ticks at his own veiled discretion…he is too ashamed to even ask me for an excuse slip…as if such slips can console my pain for always being left out or measure up to my tolerance level for over a year! Not to mention the occasional patience quality control team (BOB) who volunteered almost involuntarily to shuck a grin or express their irritation every time I fought for my number and my attendance, never mind the poor attention I paid in all the classes…

What’s so wrong with the number 473, I wonder…numerology would consider 473 as 4+7+3=14=1+4=5…so 5 is the number…and since I am born on the 4th, 5 is an anti-number for me…so is 3…perhaps, a 4 person is hard to be represented or roll numbered as 5.
Nevertheless, nothing does really stop for 473!

We had our elections and Linux won…any day! With the source code open for all in this laissez-faire world, Linux can win any day, leaving poor Vinay the beaten underdog, for the third and the last time in the history of BSc. Computer Science, Session: 2004-05! I say “poor Vinay” particularly because he had nothing left to even mask his shame, only to be ‘read’ by someone who taught us how to do quality control of software…

But seriously, what’s wrong with 473??? Elections, excuse slips and Vinay’s sob apart, what’s so unreal about 473 in the register??? Does it take a lot of space inside that hideous register?

Didn’t do JGD…couldn’t stand the thought of another missed out 473!

Turn, turn, turn...

Friday, September 22, 2006
12:23:13 PM

To gripe would be under-doing…he was tired of imagination that was only to be smashed by the prosaic reality…or, was it real at all?

Let’s not think about it at all…let’s lie in the soothing arms of Chimera and alleviate poignancy.

Love rolls over the muddy broken pitch…crawls over evoked mountains and flies off in parachutes…feeds on human flesh, overjoyed by paranoia…cancels itself, and condenses into the singularity of a chocolate…damn!

A forgotten poem…
A half-remembered letter…
A crescent dream…

So much for love…is there another word for it?

Synonyms would scare you: bang, eff, bonk, fuck, passion, screw, hump, jazz, have sex, sleep with…

Sleep WITH…and not sleep OVER WITH…hmm…

Are you sick with love or cloyed with honey in your gullet???

None of the above…none whatsoever…

It’s just his eyes…paired, scorched, questioning, burning, self-evasive, giving, behind locked collapsible gates…and when they meet hers when she least expects it, she doesn’t even know how to avoid his gaze…it’s the only time he sees her true colors, or at least seems to…but then, instead of baring her soul, and instead of avoiding the gaze, she engages herself in the marvelously painful task of masking the fabric that made her, like an expert con artist...and then he talks to her like she was the one who wanted to bare his soul in the first place! In place of paired exotic eyes, she contracts a virulent strain that would make her eyes scorched, questioning, burning, self-evasive...and surprisingly, ruthless!

All of the above…all of them…

It’s strange how much clarity you can get from psychedelic paradox…

High On Grass...

Tuesday, August 22, 2006
11:13:34 PM

He rolled the filter paper and filled it with grass that he tore and grounded on his palm with much care and ardor, like a young man writhing on his beloved…the wild smell filled the nothingness around and the wind blew past them, the small group, which waited for him to finish making whatever it was that would make them lighter as grasshoppers, so that bats could walk in daylight and crows could pair with the pigeons…

The other groups stared at them, making their own grass, as though a non-verbal competition had challenged them. He made it rather inexpertly, but finished before the rest…he smiled at her and she stretched out to smoke some of it…they took turns, the girl, the boy, him, him, the girl, the boy…all destined to laugh incessantly, until they grew tired of it.

The sky grew darker and darker with cumulus clouds… The goddess of Parthenon drew closer towards them and love scattered in all directions…

“I love apple juice…how good the original sin tastes!” she said.

“What??? Are you alright???” asked the goddess.

“Nevah mind…” she answered.

“What do you survive on with such madness?” the goddess asked again hopelessly.

“Grass…my friend…” was all she said, without finding anything more brilliant to say at the moment and resumed her laughter.

She got up to the basketball court and dribbled along witlessly…he watched her with stoned eyes…

“Purotai khepa!” he remarked and the rain poured down abruptly…

The Cafe Philosopher

The absurd creatures devoured more of the absurd drink. It was not even evening, and the hysterical trunks came in, devoured and filed out to the invisible world they came from. And in between all the commotion, there was a lot of gaping, blankness and all the discussion of the world. Time froze into coma, and man was condemned to be free, as our surreal philosopher puts it.

He made the decision cos’ it’s all wrong for him. All his life, he took the right decision, and when the time was ripe it proved to be wrong…So this time he is all equipped to make the one wrong decision of a lifetime and evolve it into something very right…

“Am I the right one for you?” he asked.

“No, you are pretty much the left one for me…”, she answered.

His jukebox played on “Love Me Two Times”…and he listed all the non-reasons:

1. It’s the wrong(est) of times.
2. It’s absurd.
3. You don’t have to murder your atheism in the whole process.
4. What the hell…it’s all bloody well too different, dammit! And different for the better, mind you.

He threw the list away…took another sip of the preposterous drink and went on philosophizing the history…like some lousy archeologist digging out a forgotten UFO.

He just couldn’t stand the two women who rambled on about sun signs, moon signs and ascendants…