Adventures

What are adventures? Lexicon-wise: 1. a. An undertaking or enterprise of a hazardous nature. b. An undertaking of a questionable nature, especially one involving intervention in another state's affairs. 2. An unusual or exciting experience. The adventures I had in the past few days were not of an hazardous nature, nor did they involve intervention in another state's affairs. They were unusual activities, of an questionable nature, maybe, given the time, place, and circumstance. They didn't excite me in any way. They did keep me occupied and distracted, though. From my blog, from that corner of my mind, where everything leads to fear and depression. Firstly, I finished with the sit-com F.R.I.E.N.D.S. Watching the ten seasons were an adventure in itself, given the undulating emotions and opinions I had throughout it. When I'd started with it, it was unpleasant comedy. After three seasons, I was in love with the six people, and I missed them when I didn't watch them. After six seasons, I hated them again. After the seventh season, I was irritated with them, for two reasons. One, it all seemed horribly wrong. Two, no matter how much I disliked the episodes, I couldn't get my mind off them, after watching each. I wanted to finish off with the series as soon as possible. I spent four whole days at home, without food, bathing, and minimal excretional activities, on my swivel chair, watching the episodes one after the other. That was another adventure in itself. I was cut off from the rest of the world, well, almost nearly. I kept my cell in silent, and tucked it away from sight. I avoided all forms of conversation and social activity with people (including my father). The night I finished it (and found that patience had paid off, the ending was not too different from what I WANTED), I had the most enlightening conversation in years. Too much of information, too much of unexpected facts stared at me in the face, literally (it was an online chat, you see!). F.R.I.E.N.D.S started making sense, gradually. The next day, I went to Durgapur, without informing my family in Durgapur about it. This was a first time. The old habits of travelling on the roads, keeping an eye for my Mum's car, walking close to the alleys, so that I can duck into them if I happen to run into Bhai or Ma, paid off. I had gone to meet Sritama, primarily. I couldn't stay more than a few hours, thanks to my "tuition" check on freedom. I went to her place. Sayak joined. We had a good lunch (wonderful fried rice, and well-cooked home-made chicken by her Mom). We met Shraboni Mukherjee afterwards, a person who had an immense role in the stories that I had once pictured in my mind night after night. The four of us went to watch a low-budget film called Love, Sex, and Dhokha (LSD). Till then, I was expecting the movie to show how love, sex, and dhokha (betrayal) and the Lethal Seductive Drug are similar. The movie wasn't so. Later, Sayak told me that the main reason I found the movie exceptionally brilliant is because I haven't watched Tarantino's Pulp Fiction yet. That would explain the screenplay. Sayak also pointed out why it was a brilliant movie; it's the first of it's kind in our desi industry. Screenplay apart, the way three stories about love, sex, and dhokha, respectively have been interwoven, is a creative marvel in itself. The use of unconventional cameras is meaningful too. Including the down-to-earth dialogues, everything in the movie was ambiguous, thus lending it more intellectual value. Sritama and Sraboni hated the movie completely. I felt bad for having tortured them into experiencing such painfully real complications, on reel! I came back, heard about the massive fire-break at my second favorite place in Kolkata. The building on Park Street that houses places like Peter Cat and Cafe Coffee Day. Places that have witnessed some of the most important events of my life. Puspen put it right: it's like having my own home in fire. A lot of people I know witnessed it. And I was shocked at the mere fact that such a thing could happen in a matter of a few hours, a few hours that I wasn't "home"! I read about the unusual number of casualties, I also heard about one of them being close to someone I know! It's traumatic. Meanwhile, I'd been reading the book Dr.Zhibhago. I'm reading a classic novel instead of paperback fiction, after a long, long time. The imageries of the snowy streets and the windy meadows, coupled with the ones of the house interiors, of both the rich and the poor, takes me back to those days when I used to read Charles Dickens and likewise. A socio-politico-economic analysis of a certain historical period, shown through the eyes fictional common men; it's definitely better literature than what Chetan Bhagat and his fellow engineer-turned-authors can ever write. My mini-adventure through Russia also makes me contemplate on what "literature" actually is. Last night, I watched a dark humor movie Annie Hall by the famous Woody Allen. Every dialogue and circumstance of the movie is quotable. My favorite one would be the one where life is classified into horrible and miserable. The ones with diseases and handicaps are the horrible cases, while all the rest are miserable. Wish I could throw it on the elders who always told me that I should appreciate my life when I see the "horrible" ones. Sayak came to Kolkata. Anshul is leaving for Darjeeling today. He'll be away for more than a week. We're planning to make full use of this hard-found freedom. We're planning something. But, finances and other responsibilities withstanding, I wouldn't like to get my hopes too high. The splendor of our Mondarmoni trip lay in the fact that it was sudden. It scares me if any other trip would be as successful, since the "suddenness" will always be missing, and as I often say, the first is always the best. Another adventure ahead!

The More I Learn, The Less I Know

It was my friend Sayak, err..Swami Sayakananda who quipped "The more I see, The less I understand" when we were walking down memory lane, literally. The road in front of the Srishty Complex at Durgapur. On a March evening. He didn't know how he formed the words, except that he was trying to recall a song, which had a similar line in one of its stanzas. Twenty four hours later, when I was turning over his statement in my mind, I came up with "The more I learn, the less I know." I didn't mean the same thing as he did, even if the two sound structurally similar. I meant it in a more academic way, seriously. Later, I found out, much to my disappointment, that what I came up with is exactly the line from the song that Sayak was trying to recall. Filmy, that I am! Why have I stopped keeping track of what I do? Because, these days, I don't do much, except depressing myself, with my own actions. Be it buying sweets for my extended family at Durgapur, or not going to my pseudo family's place for dinner, without a warning. Or, cycling in a breezy summer evening. Each time, I did it, and I realised that I should have known the outcome! But, factually, I didn't. When I bought the food for Ma and Dida, all that was on my mind, was filmily-happy imageries of me boasting "Here's my first income...this time you don't have to pay me back." I had forgotten, exactly why I had stopped bringing stuff for them each time I came from Kolkata. I had forgotten all the depressing drama that used to take place, that had prompted my "a-part-of-me-turned pollution" to ask me to stop doing it. She always knew what I should do. Like I always knew what she should do. I guess, in some ways, the aforesaid couple of sentences would hold true, even if they were in present tense. Chucking her out of the scene, as I've learnt to do, I should have remembered at least this, that Ma had asked me not to tell Dida about my new vocation: teaching kids. I spilled the beans, myself, and that resulted in a disaster, whose effects will never be erased, like everything else in my family. No one forgets the past; forgiveness, therefore, is unthinkable. Wait a minute, what am I hoping to be forgiven for? To try and introduce some cheer in my life, so that I don't have suicidal urges like I did in January? Hell, yeah. Dida, who unbelievably, is my own blood, retorted "You need to cheer yourself up? Tell me how money you need?" Next Day. Disha, and her family, which in the same tune, would be the Kolkata extension of my family, asked me to come over for dinner. I agreed. Then, I watched my first match in a stadium, yesterday afternoon. It was a well-chosen day. When my bus from Durgapur arrived at Esplanade, I was blinded by a purple blaze. Everyone was sporting the purple KKR jersey; everyone, everywhere I looked. The crowds spilling out of the metro exits looked like schoolchildren from a school, with mono-chromatic uniforms. The craze seemed to be worthier of my notice than the match that I was already late for! The bus had delayed, and I had to change my original plans. I had asked Disha to get the ticket from my place and deliver it to me at Eden. She came, after a lot of struggle (a kilometre on foot, in the sweltering Sun, and then a hot, dusty cab-ride in a typical tropical afternoon of Kolkata). It would be unfair if I went into the stadium without her. I got her a ticket at a slightly higher price, from one of the aimless people with tickets waiting outside the stadium, for exactly such opportunities! The first half of the match was essentially boring, more, because I had to depend on the screen to know who's who, than because the Royal Challengers of Bangalore were playing slow and stupid. The second half of the match was essentially an exhilarating experience, more, because Kolkata Knight Riders played a thrilling innings (one over I was sure they'll win; the next over, I was scared that they'll screw up), than because, by then, I could identify the players on the ground with my naked eye. Later I realised that I'd never enjoy a match on a television, after this experience. The cameras missed most of the action, that I, myself, deemed important. Later, I changed my mind about the dinner at Disha's, due to the chain of events that my match-watching had brought about in Baba's life. I didn't inform Disha's Ma. I informed her almost after dinner-time, and said that I'll come over the next day, that is, tonight! Amongst the other noteworthy things that happened in the meanwhile, Payal called me last night. And that too, at the very moment, I was having scary realisations about her role in my life. She relieved me. She didn't have any "new" news to give me, though. Life on the other end is still the same, pretty much as I expected. Then, today afternoon, when I was getting ready to go out to teach Anshul, very very reluctantly, I realised I don't enjoy doing it anymore. In the language that was used in my childhood, I practise "faaki diye porano". I have started responding to SMSes while I'm teaching. I have lost the desire to give him all I can, like I used to. I treat it as a liability, and want to leave their house as soon as the minimal 90 minutes of teaching is over, even if I haven't taught anything effectively, in those 90 mintues. Even if I ignore that, what I hated most about it was the compulsion. The barrier to my freedom of time. Now, I have a duty: to keep myself free for a certain amount of time, every day. I knew I hated that, didn't I? That's why, I never took tuitions myself, that's why I preferred to stay at Scottish Church College. The freedom of time, and movement that my lifestyle could afford, was my most valued possession. And I've lost it now. I started thinking of stories to use as excuses to leave the tuitions. But, now that Anshul was my responsibility (I can leave Mehan any day, it wouldn't be much of a problem) I had to think about other people too. And that, precisely is what I hated. Attachments, personal or professional, that bring about responsibilities and duties, that in the end, encroach on my very concept of freedom. Fortunately, Anshul's father paid me my half-month's salary today, thus making 'money' a good excuse to hold on to, to stay on. Next, I was at my favorite haunts Jadavpur 8B Bus Stand, and then, South City, respectively. After a long, long time (more than two months, almost) I travelled the stretch from 8B to South City with an un-swallowable lump in my throat, and an un-relievable sickening desire to burst into tears. It was the mild summer breeze that I let myself feel while having a fag at 8B, that brought out all these negative biochemical reactions within me, like a reflexive automatic reaction. I wasn't even thinking anything. It's as if, the breeze was some milder form of tear gas, with some more side-effects on the psyche. I had only one word on my mind, one word. I went to South City, and learnt that tickets for the IPL match that Payal had asked me to get for her, weren't going to be available till the end of this month. I went to Pantaloons, and emptied my wallet there. Money doesn't buy happiness, but it does buy off unhappiness. Both Alfred Hitchcock and Swami Sayakananda put it right. I came home, and Picco came too, to chat with his "someone special". The chat ended on a sad note, depressing me further. Baba, taking advantage of Shochi Mashi's absence, came home after having two mugs of vodka, leaving me to my own. He refused to have whiskey with me, obviously. I'd completely forgotten to inform Disha or her Mum that I'd decided not to come. I presumed that when we had talked in the evening, since I didn't mention anything about dinner or a night stay, she must have presumed, that I'm not coming. When Disha's Ma called me, and asked me, I had nothing to say. "Sorry" seemed to be an understatement, and so I didn't apologise. I didn't give any excuse either. I admitted it was my fault. I heard Disha screaming at me in the background, something like why should her mother wait for me with the food everyday, and why couldn't I at least inform them. I ended the call, and had that sickening I-am-in-tears feeling for a long time....in fact, till I started writing this. My blog to my aid, as usual. I have to think of something to make up for my insensitive irresponsibility towards the people I call my pseudo-family. Everything will be okay, as long as I don't give up. Academically or otherwise!

Chuck Norris

I was, and am watching the opening night match of IPL Season 3 on YouTube (Kolkata Knight Riders versus Deccan Chargers). Why not on TV? Because, well, as much as I hate to admit my dependence on gadgets, it's true, when I have the internet at my home, I'm glued to it. And thus, I came across some International Day Of Awesomeness, that's on March 10th, because it's the birthday of Chuck Norris. I Googled him, and read all that was there on Wikipedia about him. This is something interesting I came across. Rules from Chuck Norris's personal code. They are: 1. I will develop myself to the maximum of my potential in all ways. 2. I will forget the mistakes of the past and press on to greater achievements. 3. I will continually work at developing love, happiness and loyalty in my family. 4. I will look for the good in all people and make them feel worthwhile. 5. If I have nothing good to say about a person, I will say nothing. 6. I will always be as enthusiastic about the success of others as I am about my own. 7. I will maintain an attitude of open-mindedness. 8. I will maintain respect for those in authority and demonstrate this respect at all times. 9. I will always remain loyal to my God, my country, family and my friends. 10. I will remain highly goal-oriented throughout my life because that positive attitude helps my family, my country and myself. I disagree with the last three. But the first seven were really stuff that I'd love to propagate myself. So here it is. Good luck to SRK and not KKR! Back to watching the game!

The Pollution

All imaginable puns intended this time. Puspen's style: double meanings, always. She is like a pollution now. An unwanted, unnecessary intrusion on the mind. Even the places, Kolkata, Durgapur. My birthplace, my hometown. The places are all polluted. Because, being in these places are mentally hazardous for me. She has polluted it all. She is the pollution. What happened to my Aal Izz Well plan? One thing outside the plan led to another thing outside the plan. Someone I know gets drunk for the first since I know him. What happens next? One weird night of weird chatting with this weird someone, who kept saying "I'm not going to answer that", thus answering me indirectly; and then the two hours of weird "conversation" the next day, at a weird venue, with a weird someone again. The former happened with me, the latter, not with me. The latter, followed by another weird thing: not by me, again. Removing me from Facebook was intentional. Leaving Orkut was UN-intentional. Blocking me from Gtalk, why now? Why not long ago? Will Buzz follow? Intentional, yeah. But indifference, and not "intentions" was my plan! Then, me. Let me introduce Suchishmita first (not sure of her name's spelling, yet). She was my voluntary date for New Year's eve. I liked her. Her boyfriend shared his name with a weird someone. Never mind. I liked her. Very talkative. Very cool. Very cheerful. Very considerate. Very intelligent. And, she thinks. What more can I ask for? Still, I never bothered to get her number, because I had forgotten about her. I met her after that for the first time yesterday. She kept talking about her boyfriend, asking me to tell her about the other person who has the same name. Then she was flirting with me. Rather, she was responding to my flirting, which seemed to come naturally at the sight of her! Unusual, yeah. But the first thing that came to my mind after I "scanned" her, was The Pollution. Then, she told me that she wanted to meet The Pollution. I told The Pollution's friend about her, and her "desire". Fine, I'm fine. I go to sleep. I have a beautiful dream, which is unfortunately, under the real life circumstances. The other person, the metro, everything, and the passion, to make it beautifully worse. When I dreamt that I was making out with Sritama, a friend, I felt "good", then it felt funny, then it felt nothing. It was a matter of an hour. Period. When I dreamt of making out with The Pollution, I wanted to go back to sleep again, and again, just to re-feel it all over again. It upset me. It made me THINK, goddamn it. I had stopped thinking, hadn't I? That's why I'd stopped blogging, after all! And the plan comes back to me. The dream was just a scene from my plan's visual blue-print. It upset me. If someone makes you want to sleep more than 8 hours a day, what is she but a mental pollutant? Fuck man! Anyway, let's dig deeper and find if there's anything better in life right now. Sayak just said my thoughts aloud. textually. After all these days of "I don't feel it anymore", then BANG, it hits you unaware, the polluting feelings, out of nowhere. If it's anything, it's unfair. No, that isn't good too. I decided to start studying. Sayak was very helpful in this. He volunteered to discuss computer with me, and thus get me into the mood. When I was distracted, I saw Sayak's offline message that reminded me of the computer science practical. I downloaded Turbo C++. I tried installing it. I failed. Now, what's good about it? Nothing. Dig deeper. I watched 1947 Earth, a Deepa Mehta movie. A good movie, because it had a good impact. I dreamt that I'm trying to kill The Pollutant. What else? The poem I've been working on is going on well, though I'm taking 24-hour-breaks between each stanza. Dunno what happened to my two-poems-a-day days! I went to Kumartuli yesterday. Was a good experience. Rode a tram for the third time in life. It was depressing, as usual, so, it was good. That's where Suchishmita comes into the scene, in fact. Abhik's words and deeds were depressing. I lost my data cable, so I can't upload the Kumartuli pictures, which is depressing again. I dunno how much marks I got in the re-test. That's not depressing, that's just sickening. I'll be watching my first match in a stadium this Sunday. That was the only good thing in the last few days, till last night, when I learnt that, like the Mondarmoni business, I have lost a score in this business. Only the highest point of Kolkata has been my winning score so far. The first tram ride, and the Victoria Memorial were poor winning scores. What am I doing? I'm still as immature as I was in class 11. Treating love-triangles as soccer matches. Who gets to score more goals, me or the other. I did that with my previous relationship. And I'm doing it again, ain't I? Damn. Depressing again. Just that, last time, I was conscious of it every moment. This time, I realise it only while I'm writing this. That's neither depressing, nor enlightening. That's just a theory, to be kept in mind. I shouldn't stop thinking. If I do, I won't be the person who knows me the best, anymore. But, why? Why the hell should I want to be the person who knows me the best? What good does it do? All this planning thing is pathetic. I shouldn't even try to have a control of things. I shouldn't even hope. I shouldn't even try to achieve anything, anything on these frontiers (I'm still not letting go of my Identity Disorders and creative ambitions). So, for all other purposes, I don't need to know myself, do I? I don't need The Pollution, do I?

Movies, mainly.

I think I've lost something. Earlier, I used to have loads to write, each time I logged into Blogger, even if that was thrice a day or more! And now, I can't find what to write. I'll start with the first thing that happened after I logged out of Blogger 12 hours ago, last night. I watched District 9. The movie had defeated all the Steven Spielbergs and Robert Emmerichs by it's sheer way of narration, and not just technical brilliance or emotionally wrenching events. The most believable alien movie that I've watched till date. I also know why people like Deshraj didn't like the movie. Because of the way of narration! It didn't have the "movie" feel to it. Which brings me to the question that Baba and me hit on, while discussing 3 Idiots. Why is it necessary for a movie to be of a commercial type to be a success? Thanks Maa was a movie with a social message, and a good story (good, not great), and a great screenplay. The camera work was bad, especially because it's a low budget film. The music was touching, but not scoring! There was very little of perceivable editing, and dialogue writing, because they just showed things as what it is, they didn't improvise anything, just for the sake of the camera. Therefore, the movie releases with only one show a day in a couple of multiplexes, and it won't be there next week. In spite of the critical acclaim, it's not a success, because it didn't reach out to the masses. For a movie (especially one with a social message) it's essential to reach out to the masses, to be a "success" according to me! So, that's where 3 Idiots wins. It had spicy song sequences, it had superstars in the cast, it had melodramatic dialogues, it had a big, big budget! Result: it became the talk of the town for over a month. Everyone watched it. The movie became a movement (which affected me the most). Maybe the message it had to impart wasn't hammered into every brain around, but there's always hope that it's just the beginning of a change. Coming back to the Robert Emmerich/Steven Spielberg movies and Neill Blomkamp's District 9, the latter had a good budget too I'm sure (camera-work was more down-to-earth, though, there were considerable uses of special effects) but the movie wasn't promoted at all. I have no idea why. Moreover, it didn't have a plot, though there was a climax, and an anti-climax. It was more of a descriptive-type narration. Like My Brother Nikhil. I remember that I didn't like My Brother Nikhil, because of the scenes-interrupting before-the-camera monologues by each of the characters. It still remains a good movie, for me, because it had the usual effects of a good movie on my psyche. Just that these scene-interrupting interviews irritate me, during the course of the movie. It would have worked for D-9 too, if they weren't vital-information-givers. I think both My Brother Nikhil and D-9 wouldn't have been unique movies in their own respective genres, if not for this "lack-of-a-movie-feel" type screenplays. The fact that it doesn't click with me, or someone else, doesn't mean it doesn't click with everyone. But the experience of watching a movie should be an entertaining experience too, so a way to compromise the two contrasting types must be figured out.

Retrospection

Someone, somewhere, once told me that promises are made/meant to be broken. As I strive to help this "someone" keep the promises she made to me, I break a few promises myself. Like the previous post, wherein I swore to return the same night, but I didn't. My excuses: I had better things to do. I couldn't afford to get addicted to my blog till yesterday. I had this exam, which, as much as I hate to admit, is called a "re-test". I wasn't allowed for the original "test", because of low attendance. I wanted to drop out of college ever since I entered that roomful of girls, on the first day of the University finals, last year. The event of being debarred from exams acted as a trigger. If not for newly-found "friends", and Dad's emotional atyachar, I wouldn't have given this re-test too. I didn't (and I don't) want to waste more time by NOT doing what I want to do. But, then, offsetting all my "what-do-I-want-do-with-my-life" dreams, is my identity disorder, and the five-lakh-surgery looming ahead. So, the dire need for a job, to be able to take a loan, and finish off with this ASAP. The "what-do-I-want-do-with-my-life" plans will be enforced thereafter. The homework and groundwork for the plans, are, well, already in progress. That's almost all about what has been happening to me of late. Other mention-worthy things would be Anshul and Mehan. Two kids. Anshul is five-years old, reading in Upper KinderGarten in South City International School. I teach him all the subjects, namely, English, Mathematics and Bengali. I also take art classes. I am supposed to take art classes on Fridays only, but, as it turns out, he's pretty much like me, so he needs at least 30 minutes of drawing every day, so that he can study! I meet him 4 days a week. Mehan is two and a half years old. I meet him twice a week, art classes only. It's less of an art class and more of an interaction session. What's even more mention-worthy is that both my students' mothers are pretty and hot! Holi was good, with all the sad moments. for that matter, there were sad moments even last year. Last year I had cried; this year I didn't shed a single tear. I can't use that as a measuring rod, because I know I was happy last year, the tears had come at the end of the day, when I realised the futility of the happiness. This time, I had all my emotions turned off! Holi was wild this time. We played it real unsafe. And my eyes were itching even after 48 hours of the mega-post-Holi-bath. Sreeja's birthday was supposedly an important event. But I didn't feel a thing, before, during , or after the whole day. Gublu's birthday was on the same day: 6th March. That was almost similar. I told Disha everything except the Chel-O-Kebab climax. I don't remember things these days. And I know it's because the main aid to my memory, that is my thinking-things-over has stopped completely. Wonder if it's because I'd stopped blogging. I had Facebook on the go, wherein I could update my Facebook status every minute, via Text Message. So I didn't need a blog these days. What else, let me see. I have borrowed Picco's bicycle and I travel everywhere on it these days. Everywhere. In Kolkata. That saves on my transportation costs; that saves on my transportation minutes, and finally, that makes me sweat a lot! And I have realized that I'm still in love with cycling; it's just that this love was overshadowed by other loves! Love IS forever. Cycling makes me go all philosophical and strange revelations dawn upon me when I'm paddling out my sweat. Well, summer is here, and my room is soon turning into an intolerable furnace. Sorry, not a furnace: a boiler. It's more humid than a furnace, in here! Apart from watching the F.R.I.E.N.D.S. trash, I'm watching good movies too. Watched an art film called "Thanks Maa" at a theatre yesterday. Watched this year's Oscar winner "The Hurt Locker" today. Slowly, I'm learning my Dad's way of judging movies. "To look backward for a while is to refresh the eye, to restore it, and to render it the more fit for its prime function of looking forward."