Sometimes. A few moments stolen from time can be the succor for a lifetime. Then. In those moments, even reality says "Go ahead to the land of dreams".

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New Year

sheeth dhoreychey shokaltakey/kuashar shey chador dhakey/shurjyotao aaj deri korey uthlo je/moner shopno dana meley/udlo shey aaj akash neeley/notun bochor hashi bhorey anbey shey........

Regards,
Anupam De
Sr Mgr(MM),DSP

Even if the clouds veil the moon, the heart senses the moonlight. Like the fragrance of a wild flower - it fills the space in a presence of its own. And solace finds a troubled soul to soothe.

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December Rain. Random dimples on the road. Orange smudged fog lights. A light washed night sky where the silhouettes of the trees stand like sentinels of the night. A weeping sky as winter sets in.

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The sun huffed and puffed as it pulled the hearse of the night. Its breath hung as mist in the air. It sweat settled down as dewdrops on the grass. Good morning.

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The end and the beginning. You never realise which follows the other. A cyclic reference without demarcation. Like love and hate. Like birth and death. If u believe in rebirth.

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I pulled the sun by the ear. And pasted it in the eastern sky. But I did not notice. It flew high and then it slipped.fate accompli. And when I looked back again. It had left for a new address. The cold night is now knocking on the sky.

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The winter slipped in silently like falling in love. As the day picks up speed, wish could stand on a sunlit terrace and watch a dry leaf nestling down to the earth's bosom.

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White. So simple. Single tone. Presence of all colours. A melange of complexities camouflaged in it. Like all simple things should be. Deceptively hiding all intricacies. Like a two toned fabric.

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It touched the lives. And they glittered in gold. But it remained a stone. Touchstone. They call it.

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Rectangular pieces of sunlight creeping on the floor. Yellow leaves floating down from above. The first blush of winter roses. Nature waiting to exhale.

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Words. In isolation or collusion. Tantalizing to dream. In the sheer seduction of thoughts. Soaring into the chasms of unknown - in the wings of Pegasus.

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The night had walked the tired evenings. The darkness had already started to Rob it of its vision. A shrieking silence marked the loneliness of the night. It waited to rest on the dawn's bosom.

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Ad er moja dekho pari na je bujhtey, carramer gutir moto kano thaki ghurtey, rebate er chapey podey kiney ani jhola korey, dorkari jinish shob mone ashey ghorey firey.

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Random thoughts

It had to happen. I had allowed it. Forced to. But the final acceptance was mine. It was like death - inevitable. And so it came - silent, the steel gleaming in the fluorescent light, a mechanical vampire piercing the skin. A blood test.

Bhorer alota janlar pashey chup korey bosheychilo. Pordah shoratey nishobdey khatey eshey joriey shulo. Thanda ekta halka Hawa galer ek pashey dilo chumbon. Robibarer shokal. Bhortao jano olosh.

The right to live. Is it God given. Or is it the right of a human. How do you define to live ? Is the anabolic and catabolic activity enough. Somewhere the definition of euthanasia hits against the Hippocratic Oath. Somwhere medicine and values overlap.

Feelings says the scientists are chemical reactions. So the amor part is basically a complex Ph D chemical equation. Reason for this, says the researcher, is related to the selection for best offspring. So all were preset and we buy Archies cards.

Why ? Oh why ? The love triangle has to be there. With each vertices pulling in all together different planes, torques and forces - mechanical engineer's nightmare ? The son. Wife. Mother. The core of serials.

A sad baby plant stood beside a tree. The tree gave it shelter and care. The baby plant grew as a creeper and covered the tree. The tree was dying but still stood by the baby plant.

The tempest of the music. The silence of the music. The thunderous melody. The piano tinkles. The violin's melonchaly. All the colors of emotion. Expressed without words.

 mother suffers the agony of labor pain before a new life comes to earth. So is it with a poet and his thoughts.

Maybe someone somewhere at sometime had a thought. The thought was carried in the wind over the mountains, the deserts, the oceans. And a new leaf kissed the sunlight with that thought. So I write.

In dark and despair night, I asked God to show me light. An angel came and waved her wand. A dust of stars lit up the land.

Where there is a lost world where the dinosaurs roam, where there is a solar wave just waiting to crash the Gondwanaland, where the a boy and his pet tiger mouths philosophy, where the Mr Right gets Miss Right. Ah. The films. A dalliance with dreams.

The last of the idols are in the trucks. Frenzied dance from not-so-sober gentry. The portable fluorescent lamps highlight the curling smoke of the bursting crackers. The "Tasha" belts out evergreen oldies - a mournful rendition. Adieu mother.

Fragments of old songs juxtaposed to percussion. The ratatat of crackers. The swoosh of fireworks. I look at the Goddess with her tongue sticking out. Somehow it seems She says - Look what I have done. The sound smoke was this what I wanted as devotion ?

A loner does not have to suffer from loneliness. There is so much to hear from the morning birds, the sounds of life getting live, the chatter of the rains, the tinkle of the dew, the smell of the night. His world is full. (inspired from Antaheen)

The last strokes of a chrome yellow setting sun stripe the wind torn banana leaf before it loses itself in the pink and mauve sky. The day's wait for the night is wearing off. The evening plunges in.

riends punch a hole in the space of your life filling it up without your permission. And when they are not there, even nature fears to trespass the sanctity of the emptiness.

Wren & Martin. A thick red grammar book. Teaching the nuances of Queens English. Thirty years ago to a boy. Now the boy is a father and the book links the Generation Gap. Space time warp as Mr Spock would say.

Another year passes. The burnt smell of crackers wash the jetsam of memories to the consciousness. The flickering lamps finally fall asleep into the womb of the dew drenched night. Happy DIWALI.

Sometimes a situation stands before you. A dream you were wishing for. Then you stop and ponder. Is this it ? Is this what your life had been waiting. Like the Russian roulette, you press the trigger. And pray God does His best.

It is a classic dramatic atmosphere. Psychedelic lights. Three quarter sleepy people in divine stupor. Time moving in slow motion. The priests mike spiritual somethings which presumably rises the devotional quotient. Me ? I am sleeping on my legs.

God tests his disciples. I have no doubt. So at twelve in the night, when I should be in horizontal bliss. Here I am in a temple chauffeur to my pious family. Devotion is a lethal cocktail when multiplied among masses. May God bless.

Did the earth shake or the sky lit up ? Did the cherubs sing or the flowers bloom ? It was just a incidental accident of two people meeting. A comment on Jab We Met now on POGO.

The marriage of emotion,creation,passion and pure engineering - Howard Roark. Ayn's Rand - Fountainhead

Even as the violins flirt, and the piano tiptoes into the realms of delicacy, as the clarinet peeps in and the flute rises to its meloncholy, the percussion holds it all in the Rhythm of life.

Bhorta ashbey rater sathey ekka dokka korey. Halka golapi ghomtar fyakashey neeler parh tana. Raat jaga klanto Tara. Bhorer kuashar hatchanitey tarao shadha diyechey. Ghasher upor shishirer bheja Kanna Shurjer alo eshey muchey diya shokal hobey.

Any Time Money. The devil incarnate. I am standing in front of one. As the coffers get filled. The shutter is down and the queue is peeping down for that glimpse of the evil. A Disinterested guard with a bolt action rifle chats.

In 1917, Franz Kafka wrote in The Silence of the Sirens, "Now the
Sirens have a still more fatal weapon than their song, namely their 
silence. And though admittedly such a thing never happened, it is still 
conceivable that someone might possibly have escaped from their singing;
but from their silence certainly never."

Raat kokhon esheychilo bujhini. Asholey diner tibro Roder alotey rater chayatakey dekhtey pai ni. Bujhini je godhulir alo diner stobdhota noi. Chilo nishiter ahoban. Dine dekha chehera gulo tai tomoshatey- ekakar tartomyoheen manusher protichchobi.

Rains. And the weeping skies. The first itch of winter in the air. Like a sudden smell of a rose seeping in. And u don't know why or how. Just as it is supposed to be. Just another change of season, the know-alls nod. A ruddy nosed poet smiles.

Specks of light dot the houses. Forced mirth of a joyous time. Some staring in enlightenment. Some confused in a blinking state. Edison shrunk into twinkling LEDs.

 

The cold has taken the night in its warm embrace. The night sky has a shade of faded luminous red. The sadness of the day has dripped down in gentle tears on the grass below. The night darkens silently like the sigh of a lost love.

 

Fantasy is not truth. We call it filmy. But imagine the love and labour if someone can make a fantasy come true.

 

 Passion was never understood. The spewing foam crowned waves know it. The hysterically laughing winds know it. With passion is pain. The incompetence of unfilfilment. The pain and joy of self destruction.

 

The first chill kissed the air today in the morning. A sadness like a mild dew settled in. The sun was downcast gloomingly looking at the grey clouds around. By evening the cold had the world in a warm embrace.

 

Look at the sky. The stars that light up the smile in your face had burned themselves billions of years back.

 

From the first stroke of the brush, from the first scratch of pen - the joy of creation. To the first kick felt of the unborn baby, to the first rose that blooms-- you celebrate the ecstasy of giving life.

 

English. An imported item. However we have tried to Indianise it, the essence remains like an obstinate chewing gum. Rampant comas, substituting Indian sentence with English words - we tried all. But Sir never turns Mohashoy. Neither does Thank you.

 

A dream never sinks like the Titanic. Rather it is a steady etching of the belief which you just watch happening stupefied. It sinks without protest but as a fait accompli. There is just a bubble escaping of the underlying hopelessness.

 

Passion. YOu cannot set a rule to it .Neither can you set a boundary. It's a wildfire that engulfs, burns to embers for the joy of burning, its creativity seeding teh seeds of its own destructin. Passion. Talked about. But not understood. Degraded to madness.

 

Now the hobgoblins plod the earth. The fairy was could not find a soul and went to the stars. God said, "Oh my God" and jumped to heaven.

 

The poet and the programmer both trying for the perfection. To one, it's illogical emotions. To the other it's logical devoid of emotion. One living in the annihilation of the other.

 

A conversation. Spinning another. One word. One thought. Pulling in another. Incoherent connections. But somehow the melange of thoughts conglomerate into touching one's soul.

 

Something takes you , pumps in the adrenaline in the sweet rush of sheer ecstasy. Suddenly at the moment of glory - you realize it is just that- a momentar. Like a drag on a fag. It's after all a multicellular organism fighting for existence.

 

Tears. Exquisite emotions crystallized in sparkling dots tracing the contours of the eyes, waiting for the others to join, and then eroding away the pain inside in silent sympathy of a kindred soul.

 

Just scratch the Christine Diors, Guess, Gucci and the D&G. What stays is the culture and education which created the self. "if you prick us, do we not bleed ?" - Shylock from Merchant of Venice.

 

he problem of a poet is that he does not even leave the conscience also - let alone the mind. An omnivore that does a tango with the words and thoughts.

 

One searches for a dream. To believe , to trust, to hold tight, to put faith in, to fall back up on, to escape, to rejuvenate, to put a smile in place of a frown. Sometimes the dream turns real and you have touched heaven.

 

The idiosyncrasies, the imperfections,the moles in the characters make us not absolute, but human. So u can then love an imperfect human being perfectly. Absolute is what u respect in awe.

 

The kites do not fly. At one point they soar languidly in the vertical drift. A black speck in the smudged blue sky. Lost in itself. Lost in the primal pleasure of being just itself. A creature of nature.

 

hings have memories. Somehow immortalized in time. In the scratches of the desks, in the broken dolls, in the handle less cups, in shirts we have outgrown, in the ink stained Atlases, in the beads of a broken necklace.

 

The sky is a faceless blue today. A texture less blue slaty dullness propped on sap gteen trees zebra striped with shifting shafts of a fading sunlight

 

The Apple is a curious thing. First it makes Adam fall from heaven. Then it falls and Newton applies for patents. Then it loses a bit and gets frozen in a Mac. And now scares the doctors away.

Oil. Oh my god. Mustard oil does a tango with cholesterol. Refined oil is supposed to be kind hearted (pun intended). That leaves the tel (oil in Bengali) that just leaves u brain dead. Aantel - the intellectual.

 

When we were kids, we used to have clubs where they showed movies on 16mm projectors. More than the movies, we enjoyed the comments of our kakus, kamas, dadas & boudis. TV was not there. The whirring of the reels, the anxiety of reels not arriving - all added to the charm. No, with choices, that charm is gone. Adieu childhood and its innocence.

 

In a theater. The movie is a fantasy. For truth would be a documentary. Just a momentary escapade from reality. Interval. A brief transport to the series of heads peeping above the chairs. Popcorn punching. Suddenly u wait again for the fantasy to be unfolded. The reality is then too drab in this moulin rouge atmosphere. Back to reality. Bullets do not fly here but flies do. Men do not have n packs and neither do the women walk with hour glass figures. It is the same old story - the fight for love and glory. And there is no black or white. Only grey.

 

he holes on the ground mark where the pandal had been. Strewn paper cups and plates. Remains of joy and laughter pasted on the forlorn trees. A tired wind picks up the leaves and drops them half-heartedly. She has left. Shubho bijoya.

 

God has great plans. He let's people meet to know that they exist. He let magic happen. And in the deepest night, we see Him in the flush of dawn.

 

Dashami. It's best that is. Each one to his own defences. Or offences, whatever u choose. For the idol has immersed. Redemption is one year hence. So be happy being mortals again. In all the shades of splendid greys

 

Like the first ray of sun, an idea shoots up. The words stand in queue like obedient students to express them. I do some permutations and combinations. The FB post is born.

 

hichdi. Literally it means a mash of everything. But add the devotion, add a hungry stomach fasting for being pious and a wee little bit of ghee. And u have a lip smacking item from the cordon bleu chefs.

 

Sometimes a friend appears in a moment in life. Who shows u a world that also existed in parallel. You enter that world and touch a sense that never existed. It is best that the worlds exist separately. (phatikchand)

 

And God said what did you pray ? Oh. I said. All the things I was supposed to pray. And that ? That was a shloka. I said. I did not understand. And could I? God asked.

 

ujas. The REndezvous of the Adonis and the Venus. In their homo sapienic avatar. In the best adaptation of the barks (read clothes) to impress. And suppress the billet doux that will follow. And the aahs and the ishshs. :-)

 

After all the pilgrimage to the holy pandals, a righteous halo seems to be emanating from my head like a police beacon. :-)

 

A puja is like a program. The main priest goes on in the main thread. The supporting classes spawn the associated jobs.

 

 Sometimes u get a sense of deja vu. Like u have lived the same life before. The same days. The same talk. The same reactions. Like the film The Groundhog Day. But it changes if u have a twin. For u enjoy this sense of companionship of empathy.

 

Sap tami. The day twinkles into a mauve evening. The lights cheer up. The dhaka come to life. The Goddess smiles with benign kindness at the melee. And man searches for spiritual upliftment.

 

Sanskrit. Very few understand. But all communal prayers are in this. So we pray without understanding in the hope that being the carriers of the secret communication between priests and God, our souls are getting a spiritual spring cleaning.

 

Sorry god. Not only have u to listen to a plethora of demands of all and sundry but also bear the brunt of mindless composers trying to achieve musical nirvana. And bless cars whose spritual (no puns ) connection is yet to be comprehended. Amen.

 

Heaven is but a temporary space. To breathe and exhale. Like the sheer joy of seeing the shaft of sunlight breaking through a break in clouds. Transient. A function of time. Let it go. The camera could never capture that. And the words also failed.

 

The clay. Easy to form shapes. Experimenting. But once the pyre is lit. It is moulded. In the form destined. To breathe back into the moist earth you wait for the apocalypse. The idols are formed.

 

When the body is tired, it lets the mind go. The mind is another wanderer. It peeps into the crevices of the mind, clearing the cobwebs of memories and spawning away thoughts on its own. And I type these ephemeral colours.

 

I have a grudge against the poets. How can they create beauty and leave them before the uncaring eyes of the world ? But then God did the same, didn't He ?

 

The spirit is never broken. It may lie subdued, camouflaged in the mundane life. Then one day a bird sings in an unknown tune. The spirit soars high rising to heaven. Resonance says physics. Nightingale says the poet.

 

Sometimes the cause is not worth the fight. The tragedy is that when you realise it, it is too late. You continue still for the sake of appearance. Or maybe Nweton's Laws of Motion

 

I am always fascinated by words. Letters in collision,in collusion, in confusion, in tandem, entwined, encircled, encompassed, infused to impart a sense to the thoughts that had dawned. As I type this, the same dance of life I see in the letters.

 

It is a mystic dance. All dancing to the same tune but in different formats, different styles but in the same rhythm. Brownian movement but all synchronized in chaos. Dedicated to the mesmerized masses that throng the Pujas.

 

Prepositions - a necessary evil. No earthly reason for their amorous attitude towards certain words. Like chicken pox, it happens to all. You just grin and bear its atrocities

 

Words sometimes are like magic. In the tantalizing beauty of metaphors,puns & similes, they appear just the way the writer wants them to be seen. And like the magic, the sense is somewhere else. (Hirok Rajar Deshey)

 

Sometimes you wait the whole day looking at that moment when you stand alone in front of your image, your twin and analyze yourself. You are then free of the make believe bondage and ego. Sometimes when you miss the moment, the day just turns listless.

 

We meet each other for we were destined too. And then realize that our roads had crossed like ships passing in the night. Dedicated to all my lost friends in FB.

The day drags on, hanging precariously to the seconds hand pushing the seconds to their limits. The sun glares furiously at the day's laziness. The wind had called a truce and decided to wait and watch. A Sunday.

 

The night sky has a beauty of its own. There is a tinge of red. A light wash from the city lights. And the stars, suspended in twinkling animation have a song of their own. A song they had sung when the first Neanderthal man had looked up.

 

Pandemonium. Puja shopping. Wondered why grey hair turned black. And how could clothes make people beautiful when beauty is skin deep ? I guess in the world of Garnier all is make-believe. Even the hysterical spirituality.

 

Listen to a composition. The main instrument plays a truant - flirting, nearing the edges of the rhythm's precipice but then hanging there for a languid moment falls back in tandem. (listening to Louis Banks )

 

As we grow up, the spirit of the Pujas take a pragmatic approach. The fairy tale appears as surreal as a Dali painting. Maturity has its growing pains.

 

I wonder when a positive number turns to negative. I mean, after you crossed zero, you go on adding decimal places and voila - there is a changeover. Intense feelings is similar - there is a sudden predictable metamorphosis. The problem lies with the insensate.

 

The romance of listening to Birendra Krishna Bhadra early in the morning,when even the sinful night appeared pious,is gone. Instant availability removes the yearnings of the heart, the expectations and the fear of loss. And mahalaya lost its charm.

 

A complex man is like a perfume with a base tone and when u unravel u sense the overlying tones. Sometimes like a Christie's novel it may appear to simple to be true but that is the coup de grace. (Towards Zero by Agatha Christie)

 

For the sake of familiarity and practised response, how often we try to categorize people and situation in acceptable norms.

 

Meetings - small eddy currents of pet notions,theories and ideas - sometimes washed down by hysteria but always resulting in hysteresis loss.

 

 voice is not just a manipulation of vocal cords. It brings in the essence of the culture,education to it. The intonation has its plethora of speaker's intentions. Communication ? To hell with it. A voice needs to sound good.

 

The cypress has a sad song to sing. When the wind whispers wistfully. And the moon sheds its silver tears and the night stands as a sentinel in some pagan ritual. The soul seeks a resonance with a spirit long lost. It wanders.

 

Sunday lunch. Always used to be tender lamb cooked in "handi". Now it is first Googling on exotic recipes and finally loosing the comforting sense of familiarity. "but the joy & fun like the seasons have all gone. " (Kingston Trio)

 

I asked the beautiful stone "who made u". "The sun burnt me. I cried with the rains. The wind scratched me. And I survived to be what I am. " (Looking at rock formations in Grand Canyon)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It had to happen. I had allowed it. Forced to. But the final acceptance was mine. It was like death - inevitable. And so it came - silent, the steel gleaming in the fluorescent light, a mechanical vampire piercing the skin. A blood test.

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Bhorer alota janlar pashey chup korey bosheychilo. Pordah shoratey nishobdey khatey eshey joriey shulo. Thanda ekta halka Hawa galer ek pashey dilo chumbon. Robibarer shokal. Bhortao jano olosh.

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The first chill kissed the air today in the morning. A sadness like a mild dew settled in. The sun was downcast gloomingly looking at the grey clouds around. By evening the cold had the world in a warm embrace.

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English. An imported item. However we have tried to Indianise it, the essence remains like an obstinate chewing gum. Rampant comas, substituting Indian sentence with English words - we tried all. But Sir never turns Mohashoy. Neither does Thank you.

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Things have memories. Somehow immortalized in time. In the scratches of the desks, in the broken dolls, in the handle less cups, in shirts we have outgrown, in the ink stained Atlases, in the beads of a broken necklace.

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Oil. Oh my god. Mustard oil does a tango with cholesterol. Refined oil is supposed to be kind hearted (pun intended). That leaves the tel (oil in Bengali) that just leaves u brain dead. Aantel - the intellectual.

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The holes on the ground mark where the pandal had been. Strewn paper cups and plates. Remains of joy and laughter pasted on the forlorn trees. A tired wind picks up the leaves and drops them half-heartedly. She has left. Shubho bijoya.

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Nobomi ten o clock Short Road.

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Modhyom anchol nine p m nobomi

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Shivaji Road nine p m nobomi

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Fine Arts Club nobomi three thirty afternoon

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Steel House ten minutes past midnight

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Anand Vihar five minutes past midnight

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Fuljhor eleven thirty. The idols are from coconut fibre.

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Anand Vihar twelve in night oshtomi

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Fuljhor more at eleven p m

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Chandi. The metamorphosis of Godess Durga before destroying demon. It is then that life comes to the idols. The most auspicious moment. Between oshtomi and nobomi.

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Chamunda puja. Oshtomi evening

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Aryabhatta Oshtomi

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Einstein avenue oshtomi

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Oshtomi short road

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Vivekananda Road. Saptami evening

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Sail employees abashon city centre. Photographs prohibited.

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Bhiringhi Kali bari saptami

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Son waiting for his dosa in Kerala Cafes

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Saptami Kamalpur Plot Benachitty

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Metamorphosis

Akashbani Kolkata. Khobor podchi Debdulal Bandopadhyay. Aajker bishesh bishesh khobor holo.

The place has changed. In leaps and bounds. In terra bytes and lumens. In concrete and steel. In glasses and chromes. In decibels and tenor. In lies and statistics.

But still the heart aches for the italicized words. Romanticized in its rich baritone as we ran for the school bus.

Like the pathos of the Doordarshan title track.
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A quotation

By believing passionately in something that still does not exist, we create it. The nonexistent is whatever we have not sufficiently desired. -Franz Kafka.
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Miracles

Wish. The only power that makes miracles. A wish so strong that makes you forget hunger thirst and sleep. A wish that empowers the world to do as you please.

A wish that is a belief and confidence. A wish we call God's miracle.
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Spider Man

The original spider man was Robert Bruce. Remember that guy who got inspired by the spider , metaphysically speaking of course. The cartoon took it one step. It let the spider bite - that too a biologically modified one. And voila ! You have a world web web.

But coming back to Mr Bruce. He got such a kick watching that he just went out and smashed all.

Point is that we are supposed to learn from this. Perseverance. But let us come to the rider. That guy had nothing to do in that God forsaken cave. But watch how the web broke.
This was not told in clear terms.

I mean if you have nothing to do, you can mug up the grammar of Sanskrit. But being good boys and girls, we left the unsaid to learn the lesson of infinite trials.

And man we paid. We all became literate but not learned.

As my son digs his own niche , this thought hit me.

Poor child. And her short sighted teacher. May God give him marks and the teacher her salary.
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A tribute on a happy teacher's day

Dear Miss,

I am so happy that you are my teacher. For i have learnta  lot. Not only what is in curriculum, but also what is outside. Let us take mathematics. We have learnt to skip chapters and makde all courses complete - so fast that S C Sircar would flusha deep red in embarrasment. YOu taught us to fight for ourseleves - so you leave the class giving your botes to one of us to teach to the others. Just imagine madam, teh delight we had in self reliance. The maths process you said did not end up getting the result as printed at the back of the book. But what the heck ! It is the adventure of going on wrong trails that's intyerseting, is not it ? And mam,, look at the family cohesiveness you have brought. Our evenings are spent together trying to decipher what you taught. Just imagine mam, we now have dads searching other dads out to compare notes. And mam, the English ! Wren & Martin is obsolete english , that I know now mam. And my classwork copy would send Chambers and Oxford in a suicide pact. But do not worry mam, like maths - the true reader knows what we wanted to express. And thrid language - I know mam, it is a third degree torture. I appreciate your teaching or lack of teaching- after all what is it's use ? We are all going to be engineers & doctors , right ? Thanks mam, for asking for peculiar handicraft projects. It's really helping our economy - the shopkeepers are happy mam.

And in the eventuality that we end up faltering in adding or writing something that appears to be English words, we would always have our projects to fall back.

Happy Teachers Day.

On a story

Always wondered how a story should be. When I was a small kid, a story was always a walk into a wonderland. The castles were then not built in thin air. And reall there were Rapunzels and you did not wonder what Garnier magic that was. Humpty Dumpty really was a simple egg shell fellow who just broke. There were no other connotations.

And then education stepped in. Spitfire questions on a carpet bombing mission. The only anti aircraft battery we had were our memories where formatted answers snuggled in to fetch marks.

Tennyson's Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead was a Class five misadventure. A oxymoronic Noun leading a sentence lost its nuance on a moron trying to figure out why would a mother cry when the ciild is placed in her lap in front of her dead husband.

It's like a chef having a dinner somewhere while trying to figure how the dish was prepared. It resulted in tasting without feeling.

Then we were made to understand appreciation of poetry - a peek a boo into the author's life or rather appreciating the compulsion that compelled him to do so dastardly an act of recording feelings for posterity. Why should we be asked to feel what he had felt. In hindsIght, it somehow exposes the inadequacy of words in expressing such ephemeral things as feelings. A Phantom of Delight would rarely ever evoke the flutter of a heart that the poet ever had felt.

Why not stories be as they are ? A melange of tastes that seduce the reader as the words unfold ? Let the words take their time to tantalize the reader in their understated delicacy as the reader delves into the myriad colors of imagination. And if some meanings are there to be excavated , let that be the residue of the fragrance after you have savored the base smell.

Written on Shatabdi while going to Ranchi.
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A change of job

Head officer bodobabu lokti bejai shanto. Tar je amon mathyar byamo ke konodin janto ?

So we Xaverians have to be like Carmeltes in this confusing united colours of unisex world. Or else why am I collecting sequins and colored plastic bits to stick on a penstand that would be some social utility public project.

Or for that matter why should I rummage through discarded shoe boxes that would metaphosize to a first aid box. At the end of night twelve to be precise I appear to be the first patient to try out the box. Only thing morphine is not in that box. Or for that matter the scalpel is not there. A buitcher's knife would have helped and I would have happily been a martyr saying : How I wonder what we were.

Do not be surprised if I turn up decorating Ash in her next Cannes work - by the pace I am in, one day I will be swtching my T square for a set of measuring tape and mannequins for a soulmate.

Amen.
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Idiotic thoughts on a gloomy sunday

Seen on a tshirt in benachittyt : good girls go to heaven. Bad girls go everywhere.

Found in bakery shop _ lombu russian anarkali. Anyone remembers ?

You can see things as they reflect light back. Are we heard when we parrot something some great ones have thought.
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Raater preyoshi (in bengali)

Raat kokhoni pareyni tar shunyota ke dur kortey. Je raater nistobdho shantitey moner klantir oboshan, shei raater poripurnota bhorer prothom alotey. Je raat tar nishobdo byathar oboshan khoje prothom probhater sfurtitey, shei raater ositto bileen hoi tari preyoshi surjyokironer ullashey. Nishi tai chutey choley bileen hotey tar premikar hatchanitey bhorer anonder morichikayey. .
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When the market turns to a mall

There is something about a market. I mean you even have a phrase like fish market - a synonym for sheer pandemonium. Guess the gora saabs got disgusted enough. But then look at life. Is it not confusing enough. There is the same essence in the market percolating through the fries and the sweets - the chat and the fuchka stalls. The slimy fish bazaar, the veg shops that somehow in their haphazardly manner mirror the informality of life. The challenge of identifying the freshness of the produce or the masterstrokes played for the best price - all fall in the rituals of life.

And then it mutated into the gorges of steel chrome and glass. Gone was the rustic aura - all changed to the sanitised world of arranged boredom.

would a Howard Roark stand up and bring the essence of life to a breathless steel monstrosity.

Inspired from.a comment of a friend who left durgapur long time ago.
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Saucy treat

There is a new sauce. God knows what it is till you reach the end of commercial. Now this stupid ad is being repeated ad infinitum in a plasma tv in raipur airport. All is well till the girl in the ad tastes the sauce. There is a voice over of extreme delight as the sauce hits the taste bud. In the general sound of luggage moving and listless whirring of fans the sound is distorted. It is a crossover of T Rex cry and the mumble you receive when your mobile vibrates on a wooden table. And the bored passengers care a damn.
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The noise of music

In another century when I was a boy Sundays were special. A thing called a transistor used to prek up 12 noon with modern Bengali songs and then from 1 there was a Bengali play. Our school bis was timned with "Khobor podchi Debdulal Bandopadhyay" (The newas is being read by Debdulal Bandopadhyay). The rich baritone voice conjured up an image of a TDH (Tall Dark Handsome Mills & Boons Hero) and that childhood association was lost when doordarshan added a face to that voice. In those days , listening to music was really an activity. I grew up on a HMV Fiesta model that played those LPS and the small discs. Every Durga Puja would bring a latest vinyl disc. It was an occassion when father used to set up the contraption and we watched fascinated as a pin danced on the grooves and a voice said "Amar Naam Kishor Kumar Ganguly". The next generation of sound was not that bad. It was a tape deck - spools that would wind up in a Grundig machine. Then came the cassettes  - a novelty , reserved for Sundays only, when listening to song was a serious method of time pass. So serious was the situation that the lyrics wiuld mean something, the voice modulations would touch you and sometimes the soft pathos of "AAye Khuku aaye" would leave the tears in the eyes. But then somebody decided that everything is either zero or one or nothing. So an analog signal turned bit the bytes. A sampling rate superimposed on a siosoidal curve, a massive chopping of end frequuencies, an averaging of frequency distribution and a LP squeezed itself to a pendrive. The delcate lethargy of enjoying music metamorphosed into an activity that just filled in the background. The delicate reciatl of Fur Elise is just an excuse to insulate oneself from the world as you concentrate on the caloreis to be burnt. The poetic magic of "Chingadi bhadke" was just a mellifluous din to be added to a trafuc snarl. Add a DJ's nonsense to the crescendo of Yanni's Aria and you have obscenity highlighted by the sheer commercial cheapness. In a way, I think we deserve innane lyrics for they are just sounds as bizarre and ineffectual as the way we made them and we listen to. It's pathetic when someone tries to put music to a poem. It is not the death of the poem, rather, it's degrading the dream of a poet - something that was not of this earth.

When the metal melts

The first thing that hits you is an orchestrated attack on all your senses. There is a shriek like a pressure cooker whistle. There is a sickening chemical smell. And there is the visual. The hot metal streaks past in a dancing fury of sparks. The sparks fly up in an ecstasy of self annihilation. Gothic looking equipments wait silently like a nightmarish science fiction film. Sand lies strewn amidst disfigured pieces of discarded metals. A tired plume of smoke wafts lazily in thin strips of sunlight. Iron is in making.

Happy valentine

It is two o clock in the night. I am still making steel. Have lost the sense of time. Feeling like a zombie. The Sights and sounds do not surprise me . A man cooler churns out some respite. A tea is in making

Dante's inferno

The night never sleeps here. The orange fog lights throw a surreallistic scene. A dali depiction of hell. Fumes rush around in a hazy fog. A deep throated roar as the oxygen rushes in. Steel girders and chains hose rises and cables all suited with suit as the night progresses. A flaming orange hole as the steel boils. I am making steel

Aaall is weeelllllllll

An idiot, dolt, or dullard is a mentally deficient person, or someone who acts in a self-defeating or significantly counterproductive way. (wikipedia) And we are not supposed to be idiots, at least when you have a degree below your belt or wherever you are supposed to tuck your degrees in. That laminated piece of paper justifies the semblance of intelligence that we ought to have, or to be more specific , people think we have. The funnier part comes next. That same scroll of papyrus also gives us the right to be foolish at times, but , alas that be represented as some esoteric thought , so profound , that it appears to be mere foolish at the first glance. The same sheet (pun intended) gives the unfair advantage to the owner to be boorish but go ahead unscathed appearing to be witty. Luckily, some people still retain the nuances of english grammer to name a film - Three Idiots.

Catch me if you can

It's sad - the games we play. We know the DNAs that make up a person and then pray that they would behave differently. Sorry, God said - your mutation powers are limited, negligible to be precise.And pray, how do you plan to clear the muck accumulated from the surroundings .  It's in layers a compost material that is now part of the DNA structure. It hardly matters that with a little education or dollops of dollars , the DNA would wake up and say - "Hey I need to behave cultured !!!" That's a pipe dream. So in the same landscape, the same actors play the same roles, mouthing the same dialogues with the same conviction or lack of it. Originality lies in wondering about the probabilities of some other behavior getting generated. But trust God - he has synchronized the behavioral settings  when the toddler first stood up for no reason at all. So, it is the same old story - enacted with neither skill nor finesse , but the exactness achieved from bored consistency.