He stands alone

My first blog this year. An attempt to translating "একেবারে একলা এখন ". 


Does he reach office on time ?
Eat well in the morning?
Carry the lunchbox along?
Or manage at the canteen?

Who washes his clothes ?
Or make tea like before?
What time does Dugga's ma come for work ?
I had to wake  up early.

Does he wear that shirt still ?
The one in outrageous blue.
His taste was just bad-
I gifted one in olive.

Which road does he take home:
That which winds left to the shop;
                         -shiv mandir
I could see by the window-
When the rickshaw halted.

Does he get straight home from office ?
Or stop at friends'?
To play cards and other bad things-
Or friends come home ?

The table covered floor,
littered with cigarette ash-
The glass rolls, so does the bottle-
They cling after a  while.

What if the bottle turn to shards?
His feet would bleed bad-
He wouldn't be in his senses-
Who would tend to him at that hour?

Why? There that girl is.
With who he swung in drunkenness-
Which girl ? That one ?
She fled long back.

 Very well ! He deserved it!
Who stands all that nonsense?
That girl was never right-
I got that long time back.

Who stays with him then ?
Family ?(Brother, mother sister)?
Never had one in three generations.
He stands totally alone.

Who lays his plate of rice ?
Or wake him in the mornings?
Who opens the door at night ?
Stands his nonsense of a thousand types.

Whose bed does he sleep in then ?
Who does he beat up in rage ?
Who does he beat up in rage?
He stands alone.
He stands totally alone.




'

I don’t know and I don’t have a way to know.

A year back my Thami (grandma) left me. As a child, I was very close to Thami. I shared the same room with her and sometimes when I felt scared , the same bed . Thami for me is a bunch of repeated fairy tales, rhymes, her childhood stories, late night mischiefs, complaints about Ma, how dad was so helpless in front of Ma. I can go on ranting endlessly about my relationship with Thami. But that is not what I want to do now. I want you to understand, She , I think, is the closest witness of my senescence.

I had not seen any close deaths before. Both my grandfathers passed away when I was 10.Too young to perceive death. Meaning, when my Dadubhai left us I just felt, sad because he would no longer be with us anymore. It’s as if I was supposed to wear a low key life for some time .But honestly, I did not miss him as much as I miss Thami.

Not saying the least, that I completely understand death now. But I probably have a better sense of it.

By now you must be wondering, of all things why did I start talking about death ? Its this genuine question that I have in my mind. Say, if your favourite author or musician passed away , would you feel sad ?The answer is yes. So my next question then is , what would you feel sad about ? And then, would you feel as much sad, as if it were a personal loss ?Or just…isssh ?

I gauge the answers would be very diverse and probably lead to one final question, “If  I am appreciative of  some piece of art, is it just the soul and content of it that I am attached to or also very personally  bonded to the face behind the creation ? And if I am not bonded personally is that indicative of a very superficial appreciation?

All of this soul searching comes to me after it’s been almost a week that Rituporno Ghosh left us. I am sad. Very sad. I just could not go to work the day I heard it. But, right now  I am leading a perfectly normal life. Why today? Two days later, I was back to my old fold. But it still shudders me to think that we will not have another film like Chitrangada or Khela or Doshar.

  Its best not to go into an attempt to write ornate lines about his work. That’s another thing. A task, which I don’t think I have the ability to put my pen to or may be bereft of words to perfectly articulate.

 When I saw the videos of his last journey I did not cry , I was just numb.

So am I bonded to him or not ?

Am I even supposed to be bonded or not ?

If I was , was I supposed to be grieving a little longer ? Or just because I was back to my daily chores in the next two days makes me less grief stricken. I don’t miss you Rituporno everyday. No, I don’t. But I definitely feel your loss more than any of your “Isssh” saying fans. You are definitely more mine.  Only because I share a personal relationship with you through the same piece of art that you created for thousands. Its like the same reason that I miss Thami more than Dadubhai. But let’s not get emotional here. If I was not personally afflicted by your untimely departure, would that make me less appreciative of your work ?  I don’t know. And I don’t have a way to know.

 Or am I just over sensitive? Because even without you knowing it, a part of me is because of you.

When I have said, all that I had to, now, almost at the end of my blog, I think I know why I said all of it.

 I had to let it out.

  

The art of crass writing

Bad writing is an art form. Just as any other form of art it comes to some naturally. Others can only try.
What prompts me to write this particular blog is the deluge of  highly creative  but crass FB status updates. Of all other cyber spaces and print papyri that harbour such figments of creativity, this vexes me the most. Although a naive person can fall a victim to such literary terrorism anywhere: billboards, bookstores, TV and of course the internet. At the outset, I give you the choice to call it quits before you go through this personal intellection.
Does one start reciting all their woes when greeted with a polite “How are you?”. Shouldn’t real-world social etiquette guide one’s virtual manners as well ?
Is it too much to assume that FB users not take it’s provocation of “What’s on your mind?” too literally ? Evidently so. On good days the FB notifications about a few particular connections of mine, and always these chosen few, are merely badly written personal trivia, on bad days they range from banal observations about life, after life and everything in between to fatuous harangues about the same. One thing that these updates cannot of accused of is a lack of variety: a moral lesson,  a literal word  substitution of a proverb in a language other than English or a highly melodramatic romantic or pain filled palaver to name a few. A conspicuous feature of such updates is its yokel tone often tapestried with meaningless punctuation marks and smileys. Might I take the liberty of pointing out that any of it is hardly decipherable through the grotesque grammar, ludicrous language or puerile punctuation, I shouldn’t be accused of profanation. Surprisingly the responses to such updates are not few. Indeed they are welcomed with many a cheer!
I will venture my pet theory to explain what actually goes on. Their urge to write possibly stems from the need to communicate and the decision about the worthiness and style of the content resides with them and them alone, I admit. In most such cases, I believe though, the need to communicate is overshadowed by the need to proclaim that they can write. This blog with its declared objective of criticising the crassitude of  personal social media updates had come with a fair forewarning. It is a semi private introspection. It is open to criticism and I would appreciate a counter critique. What does one do however to express a literary indignation and a mental concussion? There is unfortunately no dislike button on FB.
When I was young,  reading comics or watching cartoon was not encouraged nor reading the Telegraph rather I would be encouraged to read children’s versions of the classics and  The Statesman newspaper because of perceived differences in the quality of their language. That does not mean I missed my share of Tintin, Chacha Chowdhury (multlingual comic strip well known in India) or Tom and Jerry or the gloss finished Sunday Graphiti with Suhel Seth’s survival strategies. What was important, which I did not realise then, I do now, is that the sly reading induced a sense of guilt and simultaneously  instilled a sense of taste. It is that taste which probably let’s one discern the good, the tolerable, the mundane and the violently sappy. Since what one reads influences what one writes, good reading and writing form a symbiotic pair. A bad show in either is usually a good indicator of poor taste in both. As a friend said “One needs to be acquainted with artlessness to be appreciative of good art”.
Social media networks were meant to socialise and  connect  with others rather than  provide a real time commentary of your daily chores. One’s overall well being might be of interest to one’s friends but publicising the minute agenda of the day is probably extremely melodramatic for the purpose. For example, I believe the expected response to “I was too lost in thoughts of my love and hence burnt the curry on the stove” is lots of appreciation for the purported intensity of love or a justifiable portion of sympathy for the burnt curry. I can probably let such an update once in a while pass. Give me two of these a day and for days on end and you have one very grumpy friend. Just like not all films find a universal audience, all  stretches of one’s personal anecdotes might not be apt for a social  network. Along with the right of freedom in cyberspace one needs to accept their responsibility there too. It is  imperative thus that one exits and knocks again on the content before hitting the “enter button “  and slamming it across the social network.
One can of course argue, why not just turn off these  notifications? This when translated to the real world picture would be akin to not talking to the friend. I don’t want to be doing that. Also in this shrunk cyberworld I can never be sure where the messages get rerouted to me from. Also just as most FB users, in all honesty I confess to my acute  gluttony  of cynicism which keeps me hooked to infuriatingly inane and tantalizingly tempting drivel for a blog like this !!! :P (see I am trying to learn the art !!)

Mocking jay

Mocking Jay

Most bookstores in Montreal house books in French and despite my knowledge that I would not be able to find the book that I was looking for, I still walked in . Renaud Bray ‘s (  a book shop) has just one aisle where they have “livres en Anglais” (books in english). But my only hope was that I was looking for this book called “ Mockingkay “ which is the third and last  volume of  the Hunger Games series .(For those who wonder what this book is all about wiki it and you ll know what I am talking about .)

Yeah , so I walked in,  took a stroll near  the aisle not to  find it and so walked upto  a girl wearing a badge that read “besoin d'aide ?”(need help?) and asked her about mockingjay . She looked at me for sometime and said yeah we have it “ mockingbird right “? I said “No . Not  Harper Lee’s- To  kill a Mockingbird “. And then she stole and exchanged a quick smile with her colleague to tell me that “ Mockinjay” would be in the kid ‘s section . I did not wait to see their reaction any further and walked to where she directed me to, picked up the book and darted out of the store.

While walking back home I thought. Why am I not supposed to read” Mockingjay “ at my age ? This thought led me to think” Why” I feel like being a child again  and I came up with these :

1.       So that I believe that I have no responsibilities except for studying and playing.

2.       So that I don’t have to look up my bank balance at the end of every month and be alert to pay bills on time .

3.       So that when I want something, I can just ask for it and not  calculate whether I can buy it this month.

4.       So that I come back home from school to find a freshly cooked delicious meal. And if its not to my liking, I order Ma to  make something else .

5.       So that I can polish Baba ‘s shoes and hear “Ma” yelling at me that I should aim to be a female cobbler.

6.       So that I can rely on “Ma”screaming every morning as an alarm clock .

7.       So that when I watch too much TV , Ma can come and just switch it off and I don’t feel bad .(Now there s none to stop when I while away time on facebook or youtube).

8.       So that I can cycle (and not bike) to a park and when I feel tired , Baba carries it back home for me.

9.       So that I can play with dirt and mud , and not bother to wash my hands before eating  or even changing to fresh clothes before diving in the bed .

10.   So that I can read abridged classics and not feel small as I am not reading the voluminous original works . Also read Hunger games ,Harry potter and Tintin without  falling prey to raised eyebrows or whispered smiles .

11.   So that I read Feluda over and over again, as many times as I want to.

12.   So that when I watch Madagascar ,people don’t  exclaim “ Oh ! How cute !”

13.   So that when I feel low, I can just bundle up with Ma and baba on the same bed and sleep tight .

14.   So that when I am sick , I don’t have to worry about making food and taking care of myself ………. And …

….And there I was already standing in front of  my apartment  waiting for someone to open it and take  the heavy backpack off my shoulder .

I walk  into my room, drop my bag  and then to the kitchen. Make myself a cup of tea and sit down to read Mockingjay .

Mind Limning

Do you ever feel as if you are a part of a movie ? you know what I mean .. like you re standing in front of the subway train and when it just zips past you u feel it takes along some moments of ur life . You probably do not know quite consciously what those moments are but it did take away something with it . Or for example when you see a park blooming with colourful tulips , you start picturing yourself in one of those very unreal romantic or self satiated moments like in a movie .
It happens to me sometimes. Ok. I am undertoning this to sound sane. It happens to me quite often . And this recurrent happening urged me to look up the technical definition of a movie and its synonyms cinema and film , and categorize this happening to a socially understandable form . And what I found was this . While film and movie could be defined as a form of entertainment that enacts a story by sound and a sequence of images giving the illusion of continuous movement , cinema is a medium that disseminates moving pictures . And I guess “ my happening “ would conform more to the latter and therefore from now on I rename “ my happening “ to
“ my cinema “. Banal I know, but seemed closest to what I was trying to see it as .( I apologise to the cognoscentes in film studies for using such dim witted definitions and phrases to communicate what I want to . )
So coming back to “ my cinema “. I don’t realise or try to figure out which scene from which movie my cinematic moment identifies with . Its just cinema like and so I was wondering if it was possible to join such moments and make a cinema in celluloid . But, for a cinema , conventionally , one needs a story and a time frame . In this case , the story is life itself and no time frame can be posed unless I come across one of these “my cinematic moments “ where I die and therefore do not see any more of such moments and thats where the celluloid ends. I realise that the celluloid is not going to comprise of eventful moments (as life is always not eventful ) that could be stringed together to make a story out of it and therefore does it mean that there is no content to “ my cinema “?
Or am I getting it all wrong ? Its all these uneventful moments that are weaved together to make a film or a story or a poem or a painting or a photograph and it then serves as the magic thing that its creator uses to communicate . The weaving pattern for each form of art is different but the source of the raw content is these ”moments “ . By now, I am not quite sure if the nomenclature of “cinematic moments “ befits the purpose of what I am trying to figure out . So let’s get to call them simply “moments “ . Sorry for being a wee bit finicky about naming things .Courtesy to my lab fridge which says in bold : Label all bottles and tubes !!! .
Yes so what I understand is while a painter weaves moments in colours, a movie maker does it with cinematic moments, a writer weaves it through words in his stories, a poet weaves it with rhyme and words (not always though ), a photographer captures the essence of these moments in frames , a singer patterns it with notes(musical) and words .
And people like me weave such moments to make a blog with very little sense . Pardon me my readers, if I have taken your mind into too much of thinking for nothing . I wanted a fellow traveller to go through this dangerous mind of mine to perceive and have an affirmation to my perception of art as an entity and its delineation into different forms .

"tor janya "

tor janya jege chilam sara raat
mombatir aalo nibhe geleo, chander aalo chilo
chander aalo nibhe giye, surjyo alo dilo
tor janya jege chilam sara raat
tararao chilo amar saathe, kokhono ba megh dhaklo tader
ekhon jemon surjyo dhakche tader
kintu tara ache , thik jemon ei akaleo amar swapno bache.

strings attached

I left my city in search of a better future. So did many others like me . When I made plans for this better future I was conscious that I was uprooting myself from my home, my city, my neighbourhood and most importantly Myself .Amongst these the one thing that has affected me to quite an extent is the estrangement from my city.
Technically speaking I am not a Kolkattan as I lived across the river and so have always been called a non Kolkatan by my friends from the city(They take pride in belonging to proper Kolkata ). I would not say I grew up in Kolkata as right after my school I left the city . So my fondness for the city grew in short vacations . But didn’t realise that this microincremental attachment had strengthened enough to bring me back to the city for a year after my undergraduation to replenish what I missed. I missed the strikes, the college politics, the bunking class to go to the book fair , the street theatres, the film festival.. the whims and fancies of a college goer . So the year passed by and I did everything I wanted to . Tried forming a band, accepted its miserable failure, lost and found myself , dreamt of changing the world and then woke up to realise that time was up. I had to leave the city for good to ensure a safe future with the materialist comforts that I saw in the movies.
That makes me a Probashi(or Porobashi) now but what still makes me think why do I still feel so rooted to the city when I uprooted myself so consciously from it ? What does it have that makes me want to go back and never leave it.? What is it that makes me cry when I sing Rhododendron ? After all, I left it because it had nothing for me .What I just have on my plate is the fact that I am not the only one. There are many others like me who left the city , reasons unknown but chords tied.
Recently I saw this movie 033. It revolves around a struggling Kolkata band (as usual !!) . So,plain and simple in content but delicate and detailed in form . It touches softly on the hidden weaknesses of an uprooted Kolkattan. The traffic, the buzz of the city life, the audience’s repulsion to a new song , the band wanting to create a wave with something original and fresh, the son who left his mother in an old house on a nameless street and his story . A girl in search of her roots , a veteran bohemian musician who makes his small abode a shelter for the band members , small intricately woven love stories and all this through some colloquial dialogues(that you and I would connect to ) and some wonderful lines from....shakti,beatles,tagore,lennon and lenin .. No more.. the rest is for you to watch
I am sure you would feel the same bitter sweet pain of having strings attached
Here you go the link to 033 http://www.banglanatokmovie.com/bangla-movie/277.htm