Yes. I officially went crazy. Guess I needed some banality to combat the cruelty I endured.

I drove a car. For the first time. Crashed it. Wrecked it. And it wasn't even mine.

But, for the record, I made a perfect turn around a pretty tricky corner.

And I realize now that I have been lamenting without a cause. Lamenting has become second nature and all this has happened so often that I have taken to lamenting each time without even thinking whether it actually deserves all the attention.

Bleh. Closure.

Cleaning Up

It came. And went. It's 2:37 am on Thursday, October 9th, and Dashami, as the proper English tea-sipper would note. As I sit in my room and type away on my keyboard, bleary-eyed, and too tired and dazed to sleep, I can hear those last half-hearted blows on the cheap trumpets balloon vendors hand out to kids, I can see tired people trooping home in twos and threes, their new clothes crumpled and sticky from the sweat. But the looks on their faces say it all. The promise my city held when she prepared for the Big Show--the make up, the rehearsals, the build up to the stage performance-- has been fulfilled. They all look deliriously happy. Another one slips by. Another little addition to the Memory Log Book. A new set of faces to mark these memories by. All dear. All along. The last blasts from the mic fitted over the Para Pujo Pandal. Strangely alliterative that. The man shouts about a lost umbrella. Does anybody really care? Really? A petty worry. Yet perversely comforting. Yes, I am home. Incomplete my home is. But I still belong.

Soon the city will be dusted clean. The hated bamboo barricades will be taken down. All kinds of people will rush to their respective work places like these five days never existed. That's the beauty of this city. No one will repent though. There's always so much to look forward to. My city of joy. Joy.

As I ponder, tottering on my swivelly chair, vaguely aware of the distant buzz the heat has given me, I arrive at the conclusion that it is always more productive to regard every experience as the last of a kind. That is only way you get to live. And that would be the closest you could get to the Upanishadic complete life. The cliched carpe diem. We all say it at least once in our lives, collectively, or individually.

You are not here. And I live my half life mechanically. But even that has fallen into a pattern.

Soon it will be dawn. Another day will begin. And like usual I shall spend it in sleeping stupor. This

too shall pass.

Friends and Some...

We ask for so much in life. A break from monotony. An escape into stability. Opposite conflicting desires and emotions course through our minds and hearts incessantly. Among such petty nitty gritties are the occasional moments of sheer selfish bliss. And within these fall the random unplanned getaways with friends. Core friends. Not regular occurrings. But that's what makes them so special.

For the sake of valour I shall practice honourable discretion and not implement real names. Instead I shall affix them with special pseudonyms which hopefully will reveal their identities when those others who are already acquainted with the people I shall be talking about read this post. This exercise is mainly for the sake of reporting an intriguing conversation we had (three of us to be exact) at Mocambo while we waited for two others who had embarked upon a sincere and valiant expedition to find an ATM counter on a bank-strike-day. I need not rename myself. The other two yclept The Flying Charmer and His Girlwonder.

The topic of discussion was a brothel. Not any particular one. Just one in general. The Flying Charmer (hereafter FC) revealed his express desire to visit one, simply to sate his curiosity about the whole affair. Then his philosophical banter got the better of him and he launched into a fanciful tirade on his views on love and its appendages. Here I must drop a remark, by way of passing, that FC had indeed let slip that his desire might not be limited to simply curiosity. But, in all fairness, he did use "might".

FC clinically circumcised sex from love maintaining that neither one can "piggy back" on the other. Both were independent entities and actions and their execution could be safely separate and unconflicting. He said that to love he would not necessarily have to initiate it with sex. Or vice versa (do correct me if I am reporting wrong). The gist of what he said was that the Human rationalising about being physically faithful would perhaps be a spiritual constraint, much in Jungian fashion. A social taboo that civilization has indeed enforced us to abide by, albeit reluctantly.

Here His Girlwonder (HG) and I made vehement protests. Incidentally, FC and HG are staunchly devoted to each other, perfect sweethearts and a beautifully synced couple. Us women were unable to take FC's liberalism about the intimacy of sex. As he said he could love separately, and his love would have nothing to do with sex, I asked him, "Say HG grossed you out physically. You were unable to have sex with her. Would you still be in love with her?"

The debate remained unresolved sadly as the whole conversation upset our HG (and justly so) and she shed a few plaintive pearls.

Why am I talking about this? Because I AM indeed intrigued. Like, if there were to be a poll, how many people would vote for the right to sexual freedom despite being in a relationship? It's all very easy to associate the possibility of such indulgences with yourself. Would you however be able to accept the same in your partner? Many of you would say yes, but would you mean it?

Love includes all sorts of weird complications. Demands. Expectations. And more often than not, we create issues regarding reserved space and liberty without realizing that we impose the exact same restraints ourselves. Where can I find one such perfect relationship? Maybe our perception of perfection is faulty. Maybe what we perceive as mayhem is what makes a relationship so perfect. Everlasting. Not much unlike little girls, I still do believe in soul mates and happily-ever-afters. Would not the relationship be perfect if you could always feel a possessive desire for your beloved? A karmic pull if you will. The sort that scorches you. Jealousy. Never a good thing. But does it not express the quintessential fact that you want your beloved for just yourself? And would it also not necessitate the fact that you are yourself so fiercely in love that you do not even desire another, physically or spiritually? That I believe is a complete relationship. And yes, love and sex, more often than not, DO "piggy back" on each other.

We all know that. Somehow. Somewhere. Some time. We had that. Didn't we all? ;)

Here I say goodnight ladies and gentlemen. Sleep well. And love well.

My essential Bangaliness compels me to write about this particular, much too cliched to discuss comfortably, yet indispensably important event that is etched on the Bangali calendar. Yes Durga Pujo. All my Pujos have been so drastically different from each other! Every year I have a new set of "Pujo special" emotions. Happiness. Sorrow. Excitement. Boredom. Anticipation. Predictability. All a part of the entire hype. Package deal. It is so surprising that despite what each Kolkatan goes through separately in her/his individual personal space, the collective emotion, Kolkata's emotion, is uniformly consistent every year without fail. It's a single mad uproar of celebration. The ultimate assertion of life, of the vitality of life. And no matter how stressed, how tired, how depressed, angry, sick, even dying, all Kolkatans, and here I have to include the entire non-Bangali section of my city as well, feel that vitality coursing through their veins like a steam engine pounding ahead. Full steam. Full power. Even poverty melts. All children look the same. Happy. Delighted. Diabetics who obey their dietary constraints religiously all year through, cannot but indulge in the regular all-year junk food that suddenly tastes new during those five days. Frenzied? Yes. Bacchic? That too.
This comes way pre-Pujo. But I already feel the energy building up. The unbeatable masses at Gariahat struggling along, pushing-shoving-pushing-trampling their way into shops and miraculously discovering inch-spaces amidst throngs of other equally sweaty, equally smelly shoppers, and screaming their lungs out for one new piece of clothing. A token for Maa. A sari for Thamma. Baba's notun panjabi. Bhai-er t-shirt. Didibhai-er salwar kameez. And this war pleases me. It indicates the stability, the lovely, beautiful, incredible stabilty that life still has. We are all together. All alike. All struggling. Similarly. And our collective happiness gives us strength.
Yes there is the dismal post-Bijoya gloom looming large ahead. But there is also the reassurance of another Pujo. Another attempt at this collective happiness we all strive to achieve, and succeed in acheiving every time. I love my city. And my people. And I love the vitality with which we covet the happiness all our lives.

Hey JUDE...

This one's long overdue. It's a lover's tribute. I have always wanted to do this. But it was so overwhelming. I'm not sure I'll ever be ready to write about you. But I will try. Because people deserve to know what you mean to me.

Five years were too little. But then again, they were more fulfilling than a lifetime of ecstasy. Lifetimes. I still remember my first day. Stupid ragging session. 50 scared teenagers. Scared and excited witless. Wasn't it just wonderful? Yes it was. Those first few days of slow growing-up. Little jolts of friendship. Some became eternal promises. Others will always remain. As memories. Pleasant, beautiful, sunny rememberances.

My first class with Professor Swapan Chakravorty. Swapanda. Everything about him is an enigma. Separately and as a whole. He inspired every kind of positive energy within you. I was no exception. Fell under his charm immediately. Haven't been able to get over him yet. Will never be either.

Amlan Dasgupta. Lycidas. And the way he calls "Satan" "Milton" when he is engrossed in teaching Paradise Lost. Professor Sukanta Chaudhuri. All living legends. And you gave me all of this. And so much more.

Those were the days. Days of bunking classes and cramming 8-all in a cab to go to Nandan. Desperately short on cash. And watching a film I didn't understand at all! Film Studies. CCB. Fear of getting caught. Yes we had those fears!

Yes. I won't ever forget a single moment. Let alone a day.
Those days at the Maath. Tipu remembers. I do too. :)
The Bridge. Well. Can't say enough. Will not try. Grudges lifelong. Never to sit there again.
And now comes the loveliest bit. This is where I talk about all those wonderful people you have given me. Those I can call friends. The best. All of them.
Aveek, no words. Only feelings. Ever to be loved.
Amartya, the man.
Bibaswan, the experience. The growing up.
Bodhi, my love. :)
Aritra, steady. Rock solid. Friend then. Friend now. And friend forever more.
Saumava, the first. Always the instigator. Himself the saint.
Srijani, the lady.
Azeem, the dude.
Jogu. Well. Just that.
And.
Sunayani, the eternal. The family. The topping. Your biggest gift.
There were so many others by association. All through you. Some were wonderful. They still are. The ones that aren't weren't worth the while. And hence no regrets. Never any.
I had the most fulfilling, the most remarkable love affair with you. And I know we will always be in love.
She and I. An eternity passed. My Elysian Field. My Paradise. Never lost. And Regained everytime.

some perfect day.

some perfect life.

the day has gone.

but the life remains.

and strangely, so does the perfection.