Black Out.

Maybe sometimes, just some times, it's okay to lose sight of the big picture. And stare at the wall, right in front of you, and stare at it, and stare at it.
Black.
Black out!
I'm all out of smirks, and sarcastic smiles.
Yes, you win, you silly.

Re-freshed.

Just when I was feeling dead, just when I felt the need to take a break, and re-arrange my priorites, I opened one of the refreshing blogs I'd ever read. And, it refreshed me, once again.
For those who don't know Inam Hussain Mallick, I haven't met him, but I know him, and I admire him. And no, it doesn't hurt my ego to admit my admiration.
I envy him.
No matter what, he always refreshes me. I don't care if he himself knows that, if he himself refreshes himself, by his very words. But he does to me. And if a poet, by the very words he writes (or speaks), can re-direct the course of my life, back to where I'm me, I don't want anything else from her/him.
This person is on the same pedestal as one's favorite author is. For me.

There's a difference, though.

There is a difference, though.
I am the dumb-founded kid, once again.
The kid who was disobedient, whose parents had to be called because he won't listen to the basic rules of the school, like closing hands while praying, or NOT playing music on the desk, when the teacher is teaching. And then, when he lost, in his battle against rules, he observed silence, for days, not responding to anyone, or anything. He didn't have any friends, seriously.
Till, everything changed.
I can't attribute it to love. I'd lose all that I've built for myself, if I surrendered to love.
I'd lose all my friends, and all my family.
One more mocking-me-at-the-moment-read, Growing Up, and not growing up.
What dumb-founded me, was the rules, that some people, by virtue of authority/age/experience/education, set for others.
What still dumb-founds me, is the definitions of the un-defined words, that we all claim to know, and expect others to know, as well.
I am narrow-minded too, I realise that.
So, I'll shut up.
Once again.

Paulo Coelho versus Ayn Rand

I spent a sleepless night. It was strange. I was with two other people, both of whom were fast asleep. I was not too sleep-fed. Yet, I wasn't sleepy. I was tired. Too tired to sleep, maybe. After spending a couple of hours, wide awake, the story had come. Then, things happened, we all woke up. More things happened. And all the words and sentences that had formed in my mind, in the waking hours of dawn, were lost.
And just so as to mock me, I just read this blog's first post today. About wasting the words away.
Never mind, though.
Yesterday, I spent a good amount of time, contemplating on the picture of Narcissus on Paulo Coelho's blog. I sat on the king-sized couch, and just wondered, what it actually meant. The explanation provided by His Honour, didn't seem satisfying.
Humans. Huh!
I am involving myself into two complicated, contradictory-to-each-other emotions, all over again, only to see which one wins. This is not the first time. The last time I did it, love had won.
Yet again, I am fighting against love. Hoping to prove that love isn't the final winner.

One of my "special" ex-classmates made this post today, analysing the hormonal dynamics of love. I was so happy, reading the stuff that I already knew, the stuff I always knew. I was happy, hoping that he would only prove my point. Love doesn't exist. Alas, he let me down! He couldn't explain, why the illusion of love exists, even if the emotion of love doesn't.
My battle against love.
It has torn me apart, already.
But then, I am not torn apart, enough, yet.
There's this incident, I often talk about.
Few months ago, when Kolkata was experiencing the scorching most summer afternoon, I was bankrupt. I had to ply on a bicycle. I had taken up the careless challenge of travelling on cycle that fateful afternoon. Fateful, because other unpleasant things had happened. but they're immaterial, as usual. They don't last. I'm talking about what lasts.
I went out at 1pm. I cycled non-stop, for three hours.
Penniless, water-less.
I remember the last fifteen minutes, the other-wise unimportant stretch from Jadavpur, to Patuli. I thought I would faint. I thought that all my visceral organs have dried up, and even my salivary gland can't secrete saliva enough to keep me going. My eyes were closed, fatigue or delirium, or whatever.
Every turn of the pedal hurt. With every turn, I thought, I would fall dead. With every turn, I thought, this was the last bit of energy left in me, I can't go on any further. With every turn, I thought, this was my limit. I can't go on any more. If my legs tried to turn the pedal, once more, I would drop dead.
Then I decided, that I won't stop.
If I drop dead, that is the end, but I won't stop till I have the energy enough, to think at least.
And miraculously, for me, I reached my destination. I realized, on reaching, that I wasn't even too late. I got some water on my face, into my throat, and gradually, I regained all my energy back, while sitting under the fan.
I learnt something about myself.
Even if I think I can't do it, I can do it. Even if I think I can't take it anymore, I can take even more. Even if I think, this is my limit, it's not my limit. Even if I think, I won't get it, I always get it. I always get what I want.
The trick is never to give up.
Never.
My battle against love, will take me to my limits. I'll survive, I'll come back, and know what kept me going.
What if, it's love that kept me going?
I'd still win.
It's Paulo Coelho versus Ayn Rand. Both believed in love, mind you. But, it's the definitions, we have always talked about.
Is love everything?
Or, is love the one thing, that adds meaning to everything?
Paulo Coelho versus Ayn Rand.
What a pity, that Rand is dead.

Word-less-ness.

There are times, when, every song has some word, or some line, or some stanza that makes sense, to me, in that state of mind, and some how, the song becomes, well, endearing.
Well, that's what happens most of the times.
That is, precisely, the reason, I can never specify a particular song, or a particular genre of music, as my "favorite".
There are "song-of-the-day"s, when one particular song stays on your mind like a parasite, right away, all day. But that has nothing to do with its being your favorite.
Strangely, or otherwise, I remember the first time this happened to me.
In class 7.
I was a nerd back then. I had watched the movie Gadar (Sunny Deol, Amisha Patel) on the eve of the Independence Day. I had watched less than ten movies, in all my life, till then, so, as you can guess, I'd been "affected" by the movie, a lot.
The next day, though it was Gadar which had me in a trance, I was singing a sad song from the movie Dil Chahta Hai (Kaisi Hai Yeh Rut), in my mind since the morning. I remember realising that late in the day.
That was the first time, I woke up with a song on my mind, reason-less-ly.
Now, I have grown old. Music, has lost its magic on me. I treat all songs as pieces of creation, and have no personal feelings for any particular song, unless, it does for someone else. Some friend, or some one entirely else.
Yet, sometimes, some songs penetrate this self-set-up barrier of age, and apparently, enters my blood. And makes it flow in its own rhythm. And flushes everything away. Everything else, that is. All dreams, decisions, desires, except one. One feeling fills up every other sense-organ.
These are the songs that I can't classify into 'lyric-specific' or 'melody-specific'.
These are the songs I can't critically analyse.
In fact, these are the songs I can't even call 'my favorites', because calling them a name would only be a understatement.
Most words are understatements, in fact.
Maybe, expression would be easier, in a word-less world.
Yes, Sayak, I know that feeling too.
But I am too wooden to admit it.
Believe me, I cry less, when I'm alone. I cry more, when I'm with others.
I'm talking about frequency here.
I miss my computer. I miss music. My music. Not Power FM.

The Night

She stormed out of the room. She was fuming with anger. He had no right to behave so rudely with her. Her mind searched for the justifications, hoping to find one excuse to forgive him. And then, she realized that searching for justifications wasn’t being she. That was him. That was him, she repeated to herself. She never tried to justify everything around her. That was him. She never tried to justify every wrong as right, from someone else’s point of view. That was him. She never tried to find something good in the ugliest of things. That was him. Her anger only came back in a bigger surge. He could not treat her like this. Why did he? It wasn’t justified.
She threw the things back at him. She noticed that he lay crawled up in a corner of the bed, almost shaking. She chose not to consider it. His anger was his disease. He had no right to let it affect her.
A flashback came to her mind. He had thrown a bottle of deodorant at the wall, and the bottle had got dented. He sat on the side of the bed, shaking uncontrollably. She walked up to him, and stood in front of him. He looked up at her eyes, with innocent guilt in his torturous eyes. She brought her face close to him, and, gave a tiny pinch on his nose. “You look more attractive when you’re angry”, she said, and kissed him on his nose. He flung his arms around her and held her tightly. He cried. She kissed him. He had calmed down like magic, within minutes. He had apologized, repeatedly.
Once again, she chose not to consider it. She can't let her mind find anything in his favor, not anymore. He can’t expect her to have anything left for her at all, after such rough abusing. She looked back at the shaking body on the bed, just once, before turning back, and storming out. She went outdoors.
A pub was open down the street. She walked in, hoping to get a beer, even at this late hour. She hoped the beer would help her to feel sleepy enough, to pass the night off, somehow. This was the first time. She had never come here without him. She went to the bar and ordered her drink. The bartender knew her face, and gave a questioning look at her strange state of "not being accompanied by him". Worse, she was not smiling and laughing, like every other day.
She broke into a hysterical laugh, in response to his look. He was taken aback, and sat opposite her, as he served the mug of beer. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll close the place. You can take the mug and go outside for some air, if you want.”
“Oh. Okay. Fine.”
She went out with the mug in her hand. She imagined herself looking like a lunatic lady on the road at night. The man at the bar came out no sooner, and joined her. He put his coat around her, just like she was used to, only, by someone else.
“What happened?”
“I can’t take it anymore. He throws tantrums every week, over little things. I’ve given up on him. I can’t be his doctor. I am his wife. I can’t take it anymore.”
She broke into hysterical laughs-with-tears. He put his arms around her. She continued.
“I’ve always tried to understand him. But, he has crossed his limits. I can’t be immune to injuries forever. I have broken down. He has broken me. I can’t be with him, if he continues to be this way forever.”
“So, why are you with him? You deserve someone better.”
The very words seemed to hit her like lightning. She had never given any one the right to tell her what to do. Anyone, but him, the one back there in her bedroom. Who was this man? Flabbergasted, she stopped and looked up at the man’s face. Yes, she knew this face. She has seen him almost every day, she realized. Yet, she felt, as if, she was seeing him for the first time, tonight. She peered deep into his eyes. Wait, she thought, she had never looked at this man, right at the eyes, ever before.
The man turned to look at her in full length. He looked at her with intensity in his eyes; he tried to transfer some meaning it seemed, through the very eye contact in that moment. He took her face in his hands, and pulled it closer. She didn’t resist. He kissed her on the mouth.
“You deserve someone better.”
She stood there stiff. He tugged at her hand; her eyes still stared at the man. He pulled her lightly; she didn’t resist. She was led to his car, like some animal obediently follows its master. She gradually came back to senses, and tried to find sense in what was happening. The engine of the car started. She found herself sitting beside the man. Her mind was racing. The insults thrown at her some time back, came back to her. She remembered worse incidents; a glass being broken, a bottle of her nail-polish being thrown out of the window, a door handle being broken out, and more and more violence.
She remembered a number of things. She didn’t remember anything else.
She looked at the man beside her once again, as the car raced through the empty streets. This time, she smiled at him. He touched her hand and pressed it gently. He returned her smile.
She didn’t remember anything else.

THE PLATFORM

He wore a faded blue leans, which was torn at the knee.
One wouldn’t say he couldn’t carry it. But, somehow, he didn’t seem the type who wore torn jeans for the hype of it. Nor would anyone say that the pair of torn jeans didn’t suit him. But somehow, he didn’t have the rugged look that complements a pair of torn jeans, apparently. Nor would anyone say that he looked like a country-side cowboy. He was a dark boy, averagely built, with a starved look on the otherwise handsome face.
Something was missing. One could almost feel that, but could never reach out to whatever it was. He stood on the platform, leaning on one of the pillars. Unlike most of the passengers, who crowded around the television, he just stared into space. He stared deep into the tunnel from which the train was expected to slither out any time. Nor did he join the people who came sweating and panting, from the sweltering heat outside, and fought for the few fans on the platform. He was sweating profusely. But he seemed to be completely in peace with the increasing beads of sweat on his upper lip. He seemed to be in agreement with the beads-turning-into-runnels of salty water that ran down from his forehead, down his face, into his neck. His shirt was soaked wet. But looking at him, no one would feel that he was in distress. It was as if, he had his own source of cooling agent, somewhere around him, which no one could see, nor share.
He didn’t show the slightest of care.
People were tired. The most of them, who didn’t manage to get the seats, or the fan, tried to blow dust away, in patches from the floor, and sit there. He didn’t even seem tired. But, despite being or doing what no one else around him was, he didn’t attract attention. He didn’t stand out. He seemed to be a part of his surroundings, more than any of the daily train passengers around.
He was unnaturally unobtrusive.
A siren rang, shrill and long. There was an announcement. Someone had jumped into the tracks, a few stations away, and committed suicide. All trains would be cancelled on that line, for the next half an hour.
Within moments, the noise of people murmuring rose above the loudspeaker’s blare. Some people were worried about the near and dear ones of the life lost. Some people were worried about their own travel plans. They blamed and cursed the person who had decided to die, and thus brought upon everyone, this misfortune.
Most people started shuffling around towards the exit. The crowd on the platform gradually thinned.
Some still squatted on the floor, or sat spread-legged on the wrought-iron seats. To wait for half an hour, or more, was not a big deal, for them.
He still stood in the same posture, with the same expression on his face. Without moving an inch, he took out a cell phone from his shirt pocket. He pressed a few keys, and put the phone to his ears.
“It’s done. She’s dead.”
After less than a minute, he put the phone back. But, this time, not into the chest pocket of his shirt. He put it into the pocket of his jeans. The phone dropped deep into the linen pit.
He squatted down on the floor.

Coincidence of Mind & Location, Together.

6th June 2010
6:20pm.
Jadavpur.
I was thinking of calling my mother up, on my own, for a change.
The dust storm less than a couple of hours ago, had made me have pity for those who can't have clear vision without glasses (spectatcles or lenses). I didn't update it on Facebook, for fear of offending a few people. But then, I did feel pity.
In my younger days, I used to consider the spectacles an object of great fashion and fascination. I used to take my myopic Mum's specs and wear them, and see myself in the mirror. And Mum used to say, that if I wish to have glasses, my vision will deteriorate soon, and I would be forced to wear glasses. And then, I would realise how painful they can be; then I'll realise how inconvenient they are, actually.
Years later, when one of my bespectacled friend had mentioned to me how he couldn't go out with his bike in the rain, even though he longed to, I had appreciated my mother's words.
And yesterday, when the dust storm hit the auto I was travelling in, when I was running across the E. M. Bypass with the rain pouring down in torrents, I appreciated my mother's words, once again.
I was glad that I had clear vision, without any aid. I wanted to call Mum up.
A couple of hours later I saw two people conversing on Facebook, and was surprised.
A couple of hours ago, we were thinking the same things. With our different points of view, of course. The clear view, and the blurred view.

Raajneeti: an analysis

This is the review that got approved by IMDB. My first comment on IMDB, in fact.
Here, I've pasted it, with the typographical errors omitted.

The movie is three hours and ten minutes long, yet the screenplay is SO engaging, that I didn't realize the time, unless I looked at my cell.
The movie has a huge number of characters, some of who have more screen space than the protagonist himself (played by Ranbir Kapoor). Yet, each character is very well-defined, and I couldn't find a single role that could have been done without. The story is long, but given the nature of the film, it was necessary to go into the intricacies and detailing of people, places and situations. If the movie was shorter, I'd find it abrupt. Katrina Kaif did't suit the role she was supposed to play, from her very fist scene. Arjun Rampal and Manoj Bajpai were good. Ajay Devgan didn't have to act; his personality suited the character he was playing, perfectly. Naseeruddin Shah plays a middle-class communist, who has the least screen space, but his character kick-starts the story. Nana Patekar's character is the best; he plays an uncle to the family, who gets involved in everything, but manages to remain stoic. Therefore, we see the story unfolding, through his eyes. The best thing about the movie is that it made me think. What is "Raajneeti"? What is politics? It's not about a few people trying to rule and work for the millions. It's a battle amongst the few people themselves. Ego, ambition, revenge: these ruin lives. Not politics. But then, who defines? Maybe, THAT is politics. Stay out of it.

A Metaphorical Dialogue

Part I
A: Every song ends. But is that reason enough, not to listen to music?
B: No, it is not, for the song ends only in the dimension of time; in the metaphysical dimension of the mind, it plays on.

Part II
A: But, even in the mind, over time, don't new songs overlap old songs?
B: Yeah, they get overlapped. They don't vanish. They often surface up, when you're not listening to music.

Part III
A: But, doesn't memory have a capacity?
B: No.

Height of Misfortune

2pm, 5th June 2010

Two band-aids on two minor injuries, on two different parts of my body.
Forty-eight hours of food-less-ness, and periodic spells of starvation.
Reasons: bankruptcy, absence of father, absence of house-maid.
Found a cube of Maggi.
Cooked it.
Tried pouring it in a bowl, in my usual fashion.
Something went wrong with the forces of physics in action in my kitchen.
The cooking vessel slipped from the holder.
The precious food succumbed to the forces of gravity, and shot downwards.
Few fell on my feet.
The rest, lay scattered in dollops, all around the floor.
The floor which hasn't been cleaned for more than forty-eight hours.
The floor on which I've been walking with my outdoor slippers on.
The floor on which the dustbin had spilled out a few hours ago. And had not been cleaned.
My right foot hurt.
I ate the food, and cleaned it with water.
It still hurt.
I leaned closer to get a better look.
It was turning purple.
I took my cell, and clicked a picture of the mess.
I squatted down on the floor, and started having my favorite Maggi.
Somehow, it didn't taste that good.
It didn't taste that bad, either.

Wondering Aloud

The Virgin Blog

This blog is a wonderful "sight". Can't say it's a wonderful read, because it's the layout and the pictures that attract me more than what's written. Pictures speak more than poems, sometimes, because they make you think more, wonder more, about what "else" might they depict, than the one explanation already mentioned.
So, when I opened my Blogger Dashboard today, and found a few new posts on the aforementioned blog, on my reading list, I opened it. And going through it, I found something, that even a friend of mine has started doing on his blog. Use blogging for good. Registering on certain sites, getting readers, participating in contests, etc. When he was the only one I knew, who was doing it, it didn't matter, I didn't give it a single thought. Except, of course, when he asked for something, or about something, related to any of those activities. Seeing someone else doing it, and more people, doing the same, it occurred to me why I don't do it. I am online for more than half the day. I spend more than twelve hours on this keyboard. So, I can't complain I don't have resources.
The point is that this blog had its origins in my previous blog, which, despite having started off as a "blog", with random posts, poems, and film analysis, had soon turned into an emotional dump. And no matter how much I say that my private life is public property, I never allowed my private life to be "understandable" by the public. The blog was meant for a few people to read, and know what's going on with me. It was never meant to be a professional blog.
When this blog started, I had never said that this won't be personal. This was a perfect a e-diary. Then, Facebook, a social networking site, conquered my online life. It had the facility of text-messaging-your-status-updates. The result, as is visible in a couple of posts last month, was that I did not need my blog any more.
Then, I grew up a little more, in the course of a couple of months. Facebook status-es could show only that what I was doing. Physically. It wasn't possible to showcase the thought-webs that run up and down in the brain, every moment, faster than the speed of light. I needed to blog-out the mental activity.
Then, I grew up a little more, in the course of a conversation. And I decided to make my blog readable for people who know nothing about me. That is, around a week back, maybe.
So now, I can register and participate in all online blogging hubs. So, why don't I?
This reminds me of an instance (or more), where someone told em that I put my skills for understanding-and-analysing-people to use, and become a psychiatrist/psychologist. I didn't understand why I had retorted back furiously. I had said something like I don't want to get paid for something I love doing. That was the silliest and most unjustified thing I could have said. So, today, I talked about it with someone. The thing is that, reading people's minds is not something, I do because I love doing it. It's something I feel I need to do. To keep me going. It's more of a personal thing for me. If I understand someone, firstly, I don't want to tell it, to the person itself, or others (with a few exceptions), because it's never ever possible to understand a person correctly. My evaluation, is one that satisfies me alone. Why should I convince someone else about my opinion, when I know that it's not absolute? And that, no matter how much I learn textbooks and techniques on understanding human beings, it can never be absolute. Because, me, and everyone else, are bound within the limits of being a human being. And the mind is as adaptive as the body can be.
So, no can be right about reading a person's mind. If I do, it, because I need to do it, I won't like getting paid for it. It's like getting paid for shitting in public. Same goes for blogging, as far as my present mind-set is concerned. What I've decided to do, isn't the question. I haven't got used to doing what I've decided to do. I haven't got over the feeling that my blog is me, unmasked. I can't sell my mind.
I have started writing impersonal stuff, but in way, somewhere, they are still, my mind, laid bare. I can put it up for public display (that's why there are no security issues on this page).
People can see it, and comment on it. They'll help me, in a way, to get to know them, to get to know myself. But I can't sell it. Not that I'll lose it if I sell it. But it will be treated and commented upon by other people in a fashion that might not help me.
My teacher had once told me that he can never sell his paintings. He can put them up for exhibition, for everyone to see, and rate. But he can't let go the canvas boards. Each of them contain a piece of his heart.
I don't paint-out. So, I can sell my paintings (except one, again!). But I do blog-out. I think aloud, I wonder aloud.