leaving...

I've never felt this scared of leaving before.it's not really fright,but this sense of lingering discomfort.maybe because i have exams to take once I'm back there,but that's not the whole of it...there's more to it.and the worst part is that i can't fathom what it really is.
i am scared of planes because they crash.it would be unpleasant to die knowing that someone you really like,hates you.i can't die with so many questions left unanswered.
questions populate my head and they,somehow,lose their way in search of answers...into the nothingness the plane floats in.
i don't want to leave...not this time.

Untitled

These days have been misty-
Every naked truth had foggy dresses to wear.
They pranced around the hidden alleys of the mind,
Wearing blue roses in their hair.
It was a foggy night,
And the radio played sad songs.
I ran my fingers trough the album,
And saw sepia eyes talking of joys yet unborn.
A beaten grey Ambassador screeched to a halt somewhere,
The headlight gleam pierced through the fingers of night-
It twisted and turned in the long necked refuge of the red wine.
It moved and it churned till it could churn no more-
The wine painted designs of love on the white marble floor.
I think I wrote my last wish on the shards of glass with cigarette smoke,
Before I walked out into the embrace of the night, and-
Heard the whisky coloured snores of the city folk.
I walked on and I saw those dresses being shed,
All the truths, now, danced around naked-
Naked, in my head.

For Dida..

i went visiting my grandma yesterday-my Ma's Ma.she looked better than the last time i saw her (touch wood!)
considering that she always lived faraway,i never really got very close to her.but there were times when i went there and went running out into the "uthon" and invariably ran into ant hills.Dida always used to put "choon" over my feet as an antidote for the ant stings.
she was this woman who ran around that huge L-shaped house-managing the kitchen,looking after the "uthon" and "pukur" and attending to Ranga (my grand aunt) and Aku (my grand dad).Dida always brimmed with energy...so much so that she managed to dislocate her hip joint twice and fracture her leg!
but all that changed when Aku passed away.within days of his death,she became recluse-like...reading spiritual books and centering her day around "pujo".with Aku,my Dida died-she became this another person who was nothing like my Dida-she chopped off her waist length hair and ceased to be the Dida i knew-the huge bindi was gone,her hair parting looked bare without the streak of red.she looked pale in her white saris.
yesterday,when we sat chatting over our cups of tea,she spoke of Aku.she didn't cry but i knew she missed him.I knew this was what they call "love".here was this woman-who was born much before St. Valentine became a celebrity,before white teddy bears holding red hearts became famous and even before love letters became an institution in themselves-who felt lost without her husband,even years after his death.she made me read his letters (he was in the army,and had been transferred to Kashmir and Burma a lot of times)-none of them qualified as "mush".he asked her of their children's health,whether the house was been properly looked after,whether she needed money and other such mundane things.so what was it that "drove" this love?i can't say...probably because i have been born to these times.
it's been 3 years since Aku and 10 years since Ranga left us...that huge house,with just 2 people living inside, looks scary now...except the little space where my Dida sits in silence and reads,sews and,perhaps,cries.the house has remained strong-witnessing births and deaths.it has been my Dida's haven.it was this house she came into as a child bride,it was this house she breathed life into and,maybe,this is the house that will be handed over to promoters after she,too,is gone.
as i left,she hugged me and i,for some queer reason,cried.i cried as i silently prayed to Dida to be there the next time i come down.she doesn't have to be active,she doesn't have to run around,she just needs to be there...she just has to be there.

Tagged

A is for Amnesia. Of the selective kind. So that I can forget all the shit life has thrown up at me.

B is for my name-Bedatri. I hated it as a kid, but love it now for being one of its kind. And Blue. The colour.

C is for Citrus. The smell. Especially when it comes from soaps. And for Calcutta and Courage-two things I shall try and stick to unto death.

D is for “Duh” and “Dodo”-two words which punctuate my sentences.

E is for Eggs. In any form-poached, fried, scrambled, with cheese, without cheese, omlette....

F is for Finding money in some trousers' pocket when you’re broke, and for Faith. In yourself.

G is for Gariahat...the pavement libraries, Iceberg rolls, cheap clothes and cheaper jewellery...

H is for “Him”...God and “him”...the two most important people in my life.

I is for Irish Coffee, Inshallah and Ice creams...the first because I love the cream topping, the second because the word exudes hope and the third because they are man’s greatest creation after safety pins.

J is for Jealousy. The green monster strikes me anytime, anywhere.

K is for Kitsch Art.Specially when they’re on tees :)

L is for Love and Lollypops...one cant live his youth without the first and childhood without the second.

M is for Maach and Mishti...in any shape, form or colour. And Momos...steamed.

N is for the “New” smell-the smell of new things-new books, clothes, houses or rains. And the not so new New Market.

O is for Oshos. Specifically from Janpath (the 90 bucks ones with flat straps)

P is for Phuchka, Park Street and Pandara Road

Q is for Quirks...these make people worth loving.

R is for Rains.they do something to me.

S is for School and its insanity.

T is for Tea. Darjeeling with a dash of lemon, 1 teaspoon sugar and no milk...Heaven!

U is for Unidentifiable...there are times I wish to know no one and to be known by none.

V is for Violet. The colour. And Violins in a rainy night and funerals.

W is for “What re?”...something Delhi has done to my vocabulary and I love saying.

X is for the kisses in XOXO,the red marks which plagued me through school and for mystery.

Y is for Yes...it’s amazing what all this little word can express!

Z is for Zeeshan rolls and Biryani...Slurp!

I tag Fishy,Pongy Papaya,Neel,The Mad Girl and Onnesha.

And thanks to Mandy for tagging me.

whispers

fake?hurt?stupid?bitch?
am i?
maybe...
memories? oh bullshit.
friends?
lots!many!one?none?
just get lost...i don't need your sympathies.i really don't.
close your eyes and pray hard...things will get better.
you think?
yes.

Back

Airports are the only places which have become constants in my life. Living dual lives in cities tucked away in two different corners of the country, change has become a part of me. The chic flyovers give way to the potholed roads through that one journey made from one airport to another. At times, I feel like Ila from Amitav Ghosh’s “Shadow Lines”-I begin to understand her confusion at having to switch lives as she traverses a journey connected only by two airports. Places condition a life. Thus, with places, people change and lives change. Coping with changes are always difficult, especially when these changes are thrust upon you suddenly. But then, somehow, you live on. Airports become the only places which stand looking similar, even in different places. They, thus, become the only constant tile in the shifting mosaics of one’s life.They say, the only thing constant in life is change.
Things at home have changed, people have changed...or maybe, I have.

I had met this girl when she was three-I used to pull her cheeks really hard till she cried. There were times when someone had to put some antiseptic on her cheeks after the session of rigorous cheek pulling was over. I saw her grow up-from the chubby quiet little girl to a woman of words. She spoke with a conviction unmatched by anyone else. We had walked the same path for quite sometime-refusing to let change come in the way. But today, finally, change has brought down the house of cards we built and tried to guard against the winds of change.

I feel stupid and wronged. But maybe, even I have wronged.

Someday, after years of silence, a stranger will find this piece of writing and read it. All that will remain are these words-no masterpiece, but just a string of disjoint words.
For now, I move-just move without a meaning. I forget her. I forget that there was someone I walked this road with...till we forced each other out of our orbits. But somewhere, sometime I look at a shooting star and wish...wish that that long forgotten person would forgive me. Once again, forgive me. Forgive me for making it my tragedy.

P.S:huge problem with formatting

on the run...

its amazing how we get used to things.i always thought that i couldn't live without blogging,but here i am-not blogging for over a month and alive!
i have been traveling...Agra was good.i loved Fatehpur Sikri.It exudes a certain kind of mystery which is absent in the Taj Mahal.with all my respect to the monument,i feel that wasn't left spellbound with its magnificence-probably i was expecting a lot more of it.i remember Ma telling me that she had begun to cry when she saw it first.through some tv channel or the other,we have seen the Taj-within and without.that's why,perhaps,the sense of mystery,the experience of comparing the real Taj to the Taj i built up in my mind and the feeling of becoming speechless eluded me.it is undoubtedly beautiful,but somehow i had expected it to be something much more than just that.
Bangalore was fun...the weather was a welcome change from the sub-zero temperatures we are subjected to,here in Delhi.the weather reminded me of home.i felt a weird sort of freedom when i walked alone-down Brigade Road-M.G Road manoeuvring my stroller over potholes and relishing the huge tub of "Drath by Chocolate".in a strange sort of a way,i grew up.i loved getting road directions in a forced and heavily accented hindi-i realised that i'm not the only prospective cast member for the latest series of "zabaan sambhal ke"(if they decide to start one,that is) in the country!
delhi failed in all its attempts to freeze us to death.the NSD theatre festival was an experience in itself,and getting to perform in it still seems like a dream.the Delhi Book Fair started a few days back.it's nice and all,but not quite like the one back home.the collection of books is great,but a book fair is not a book fair at all without serpentine queues and chaos.
"Book fair",for me,has beem a dream which came true every year-it was a dusty dream,it was a dream where people sat on newspapers spread on the ground,the dream smelt of the faraway candy floss vendor spinning out pink webs out of his magic pot.they didnt let it happen this time,i heard.i dont know if the people there miss the young boy who sat with his friends and played guitar over endless rounds of tea,but i do.i miss the sudden smile smiled after bumping into a familiar face in the crowd.in this cold city,i miss the waft of Benfish fish fry mingling with the excited breath of a crowd which doesnt know how to stop.a book fair out of home,is not a book fair at all.
things keep happening but life,somehow,goes on-much like the images which zoom past your eyes when you look through the glass eyepiece of those big colourful tin boxes.i saw them at the Surajkund Handicrafts' festivalbut dont know for sure what they're called...i think they call it "talkey baksho" in bengali.i had seen children in old movies watching "Agre ka Taj Mahal aur Dilli ka Qutb Minar" trough them.i saw through one at Surajkund-watched those images zoom past the eyepiece till suddenly the guy told me that my time's up.
maybe life's like that too-maybe it will stop suddenly while i'm in the middle of watching the world zoom past my eyes.

Home.

I may walk down that unnamed road again,
meet those strange faces too.
Or maybe,I'll just stand and look-
at the raindrops drawing patterns on my windowpane.
Maybe I'll see myself on the glass then-
and maybe I'll cry or just silently live the pain.
Just when I'll be down and blue,
a lone raindrop would land on my cheek.
Memories will come rushing by,and
I'll be reminded of you.
Even as the world goes wild,I shall be in peace.
In you I shall find a muse,
in you-a refuge...

P.S: lousy poetry.kindly excuse.

and here's INGY....*drumroll*

yes,that's the best thing about the new year...
p.s: yeah,i am jobless...so there's a new post below this :)

kick ass

right when you think life is going on an ok-ish track,a short kick(with spiked football boots which feel like pins) lands up-right on your ass.
what a "kick ass" start to the new year!
nothing much to write,but dude my ass is an ass and was never meant to a pincushion.i can go on with my sad tale of an important body part transforming into something painful...but who the heck is listening?
just one note-there are people with better...umm..assets,better lives...go prick them.at this juncture i'm compelled to induce the age old question-"why me??!".even i deserve to sit on the couch of life comfortably,so why use mine for your pincushion?
and being the super optimist that i am,i end with hope that if i am,after all,life's "chosen one",the pins remain pins and never become the "achhla baash" we Bengalis are so accustomed to.

p.s: an "achhla baash" is a bamboo pole stripped of its green bark.there's no way i can explain the euphemism it holds through a blog.just ask the next Bengali in sight-he/she shall be too happy to help you out.with the explaining part and the giving part,as well.

The Year That Was

First things first...I find 31^st December highly overrated. Probably because I always end up spending it in the lousiest way possible-feeling like shit myself and crying without any reason whatsoever. Each year ends with me claiming that “this was the lousiest 31^st”, but I’m disillusioned, without fail, in the end of the next year.

Coming back to the topic...The Year That Was.

I turned 18 and passed my boards (Phew! Thank God) and then I left home-with tears and feeling like an uprooted plant.

The plant never found its roots back, but, in a real freak of nature, grew up. I learnt how to not cry over the phone even when I was dying to, I learnt you never have friends-you only think you have them. With so much of learning cramming up my little head, I had to grow up-into a person who broke away from the walls 18 years at home had built. I fought my demons-at least, tried to.

This year marked a year of meeting the most important person in my life. We’ve been through a lot of shit, probably more than we ever dreamt of. But we pulled through it all safely and still continue to create moments of magic which will go on and become the most cherished memories of our lives.

I lost friends and (hopefully) met some new ones. I lost hope that everything will be fine, because they never will be. I lost my belief that after fifteen years of togetherness, ties and bonds will remain the same. They don’t.

And yes, I lost my purse. Twice. My debit card. Once (thankfully!).And my ring (and then, got two new ones)!

In spite of the slaps, the drunken brawls, the high billirubin level and the sinking physics marks, I’m glad this year turned out the way it did. I learnt to live-on my own, without people whom I thought I can’t live without.

Thanks. For teaching me to look beyond familiar faces for answers to questions I never dared to ask before, and for letting me add on to my blue confetti dream...

So here I end, with eyes full of dreams which strive for fulfillment and a mind full of hopes that things don’t get any worse.

To anyone who’s wasting time reading this...Have a great year ahead!

P.S: Here’s to Ingy...the new kid on the block-the last drop of life which fell on a dying year...