Movie-View.

When a movie runs into the 3rd week, in Kolkata, expectations are unnaturally raised.

The Expendables

Story: Predictable. (Or am I growing old?)
Dialogue: Very good. Mainly because it was a little different from the usual action-movie-types.
Background Score: Usual, nothing noteworthy.
Screenplay: Engaging.
Camera-Work, Editing, Graphics etc: WOW.
Cast: With guest appearances by Bruce Willis and Arnold Schwarzenegger, imagine the budget. Stallone, pleasant as usual. Statham, different, good. Jet Li: Ok. Others, are they among the Expendables too?

Delirium

A river.
Low light
Light breeze.
A boatman and his boat.
The former, watching. The latter, wondering.
Two people lying on their backs.
Their eyes are filled with one thing. Just one single thing.
One single entity.
The sky.
A deep blue velvet sheet with silver glitter sprinkled here and there.

The vision clears.
The ceiling glows in the dark.
The street lights stand still on it.
The car lights keep drawing, and re-drawing patterns.
Dots, circles, oval-shaped, elongated, squeezed, stretched.
No light.
No breeze.

The music starts.
The thoughts entangle.
The weight leaning on him has a face now.
A face with a pair of eyes.
Eyes with a stare.
A stare with emptiness and eloquence.
Contrasts. Conforms. Contrasts again. Hesitates a little. And conforms again.
Confirmed.

The music amuses. The very power of it. How dare it?
Each strung string that is touched and vibrated, tugs at other strings.
Strings that have been desperately tried to hide.
Strung tight. Yet vibrating.
Producing vibrations elsewhere, again.

The eye-lids lift themselves up.
The eye-balls move around.
It's still the the same.

Delirium: 90 minutes of god-knows-what-happened.

And, I hit the wall.

Okay, let's come down to the basics.
Love is an understatement, maybe.
But, this is the picture of perfect love they talk about in the movies.
It won't do any harm at all, if we just closed our eyes to that picture.
We would still be.

S. Mashi

She was a widow.
Her daughter was a widow.
Her grand-daughters, were 8 and 13 respectively.
And the elder one, was a widow.

She had come to the city to a hospital.
She had met this man and his wife, who took pity on her; old lady in rags, and had brought her to their home.
She has lived there ever since.
It has been twenty years. Or maybe more.
She was illiterate, she didn't exactly know how to count.
She didn't even want to learn.

Today, she was being thrown out of the house.
Dadababu's son said she is too hard to live with.
He said she was stubborn.
He said that he can't live with someone who can't even read the time on the clock.
He said that she didn't know how to cook.
She was being thrown out.
She looked at Dadababu.
He looked back.

Father: She has been here, even before you were born.
Son: I know, I have tried my best to adjust.
Father: This is my house. I need her. You can go out.
S. Mashi: I can't adjust. I hate the city. I am leaving.

A Copyrighted Conversation

"Full is my heart;
Half is my heart
In pockets n pieces
Is torn my heart
Where the eagles dare
Is his nightmare."

“Here i am to hold you tight
To hold your pieces in the rain
So that when the sun is back
You find yourself again.”

“Twish is typing-
the story of my life-
he is writing the story of my life-
O Twish! What is it?
That lies in the next line?
For I can't see,
over your shoulders
my pages
my destiny
In your trembling hands-
neurotic despairs-
you write you tear-“

“I am not dictating
I am not inside the story
I will observe, and watch the star
And just record every thing.”

“You are my scientist, my astronomer.”

“And you're my telescope's focus.”

“But you know what your name means?
Twinkle..twinkle...”

“Worse than that, my dear
It's twilight, not light
It's the beginning of the night
The end of the bright.”

“Twilight
you never twinke, is it?”

“No, Never a little bit.
I am the ‘dying light’,
Don't you get it?

“No, no
Not dying light
Only the beginning of the night
And nights can be beautiful
Don’t you ever see it?
Its when people get back home
It’s when lovers make love
It’s when darkness falls.”

“It's the red light in the evening
In Sanskrit
But, it's the dull pink hue
In reality.”


“So
It makes others look more beautiful
‘kone dekha aalo’"

“Okay, besh bhalo
your optimism
Or whatever, I dunno.”

Courtesy: Thinking Beans

The New Car

He was sitting on the yellow colored bench, with his hard-mustered patience. His six year-old heart heaved heavily with excitement. He just wanted school to end. He just wanted to run out and meet his Papa, who had promised that he would bring their new car to school, for the first time, that afternoon.
He didn't want to listen to their new Irish Ma'am anymore. He liked her a lot, but not today. Today, was very "important". Their new car.
It's very important, his mind told him. He can't waste time sitting here, with his giggling friends around him. He must be with his Papa today. "Ma'am doesn't know anything", he thought.
Ma'am gave them ten words to write the opposites of. He wanted to do it fast, and be the first one to submit it today. He was not in the mood for scoldings. He had other "important" things to worry about. Their new car. He submitted the worksheet and went to pack his bag. He hurried with the books, and stuffed them inside his small red-and white bag. He couldn't be bothered about them today.
He patiently waited for the bell to ring. His best friend was talking to a girl. He was scared of girls. They had such long hair, he didn't understand why. But, no, he had other things to think about today.
Finally, the electric bell outside the class trembled with its own sound. It rang in him a pang of pleasure, and he sprang up, and started running towards the door. His bag hit others, but he didn't bother; he just ran.
Then he bumped into something. His head hit something soft, and he looked up. Ma'am.
She held his arm tight and asked him to go back to his place. He felt a lamp inside him being extinguished, by force. He held his head low, and walked back, slowly. Ma'am asked the rest of his friends to leave, in a line.
Then, she came near him, and handed him his worksheet back. She said something in illegible words. Ma'am took his ID card, and asked him to stay inside the classroom. He couldn't go home. He wanted to know why Ma'am was in a bad mood, but now, he didn't have the time. How could he explain it to her? He wanted to be with her tomorrow, but not today. Their new car. Papa was waiting.
He looked at the sheet handed back to him.

Big - small
Dark - light
Heavy - thin light
Near - far away
Day - night
Pretty - ugly
Below - stairs above
Cold - hot
Bad - best good
Dry - wet

He wanted to ask Ma'am if he could do it tomorrow, but she was outside the classroom, talking to another Ma'am. Helpless, and feeling defeated, and swallowing tears (he was a big man, he couldn't cry), he sat down on the bench, pulled his bag away from the shoulders, and opened the zip. He took out his pencil box. He thought about their new car. Papa will be so angry.

Delayed Disclaimer

This is necessary.
Every post on this page, since the 31st of May, 2010, is fiction.
Not the type of fiction that is inspired from real life, you have to trust me blindly on that. It's the type of fiction that has been formed in the mind (not always mine), before I found how my AND other people around me might relate to it, if they wished. There's always a big obstacle preventing us to do so.
I have violated people's privacy before. I don't regret it or apologise for it. That was me. And this is me, albeit grown up. I don't need to "vent out" on my blog. I have other means of ventilation. More secure and permanent than a webpage.

Clicks.

Start.
My Computer.
Local Disk (E:)
Music.
English.
Enrique Iglesias.
Escape.
Play All.
Back.
Back.
Back.
Bengali.
Rupam Islam.
F-3.
Phire Chaulo.
Add To Windows Media Player List.
Back.
Back.
Back.
Back.
Local Disk (F:)
Personal Documents.
Saved Chats.

The Carpet.

He drove as fast as he could. He didn't dare to take his right foot off the accelerator. The car was already in the highest gear, so his left foot was jobless. And it was shaking bad. He hoped the speed would calm him down. It didn't, yet.
They say that right before you die, you get flashbacks of the most important moments of your life.
He was scared, now. He couldn't see beyond the windshield, because of the uncontrolled things that just flashed before his eyes, the uncontrolled voice kept deafening him. He couldn't be on the road, he had to go home fast, he needed to sleep, it was the only medicine he had ever trusted. He jabbed his leg down on the accelerator. Still, nothing blurred enough.
She was never important, he had known that, always. So, her face can't be a death knell.
She was never important enough.
She was just the carpet.
She wasn't even related to his life, to what he did, to what he thought.
She was just his carpet.
To be trampled upon, sat upon, and slept on, sometimes. She wasn't anything more.
He would always have other women to hold his hands.
He would always have other friends to listen to his poetry.
He would always have other men to be with him through thick and thin.
She was just his carpet.
But then he saw her with him at the party, that he didn't know she was invited to. He had taken his usual escort, and entered in his usual grandeur. And then, he had seen her. And his feet had disobeyed him, his hands had disobeyed his years of training. He freed himself from the girl's grasp, and rushed out to the car.
He had to sleep.
He pressed the clutch and the brake together.
He opened the door and slowly, climbed out. He could see the river beneath the bridge. He stood there, imaging how cold the water must be. He tried thinking of the fishes. Fishes were known for their infidelity, he thought, and smirked. He tried to grasp it, was he so, or was he not. Was she so, or was she not?
His cell screeched out loud "You have an SMS!"
He didn't bother to look at it.
He walked back to his car, and started the engine. His cell cried out again.
Irritated, he took it out, to switch it off.
It was his escort-girl calling. He let it ring, till the call ended. Then he saw the SMS.
"Come to the hospital. She cut her hand, she might not survive. Come ASAP."
He didn't know what to think next. He kept staring at the words, sitting there in the car, as the late-night trucks swerved around him, and passed away.
Now the flashback theory made sense, he thought.
His legs had stopped shaking.
He was her carpet too.

The Steel Stud

He woke up, on his bed, bathed in sweat. The nightmare was tiring. He could actually feel that he had been running. He lay still for sometime, and then, he reached out for his cell, to check if there was anything. Silly of me, he thought. There hasn't been anything for a long time.
He dragged himself out of the bed, and went to the wash-basin. He stared at the man there. The sweat beads on his forehead, running down the side of his face, a vein in the temple, throbbing visibly, and his Adam's apple going up and down in restless jerks. He wanted to scream his lungs out and smash the mirror and tear his organs apart, one by one, with his own hands, with the sharpest piece of glass. Shut up, and stop it, he told himself. Don't be dramatic.
He splashed water on his face, and washed his mouth thoroughly. He didn't like the smell of the toothpaste, it was too fresh. He looked at the food his maid had prepared, and then a churn in his stomach, drove all his appetite away. Hungry that he was, he hated the very sight of food. Forget it, and just go to work, he kept muttering under his breath.
He didn't change, he just wore his slippers, and grabbed the wallet and went outside. No cellphone, no keys. I have nothing to hold on to, nothing to let go. He didn't need to plug in headphones, there was always a song in his mind, a song that would plague his sanity all day, every day.
He walked slowly, pausing before every next step, and taking in the air, the colours and everything around him, as if, everything hurt. Every face he saw, hurt him even more. Every eye that looked at him, seemed to pierce him with the glance. Even the breeze was smirking at him, trying to fool him by running through his hair. It's not her fingers, I know, he retorted back to the wind.
He walked to the station, and bought a ticket. There was a steel stud in the coin pouch of his wallet. He touched with tenderness. It was the button of someone's long-discarded pair of jeans. He felt the pang, and squinted, he didn't want it there, but didn't know how to get rid of it. He put the ticket inside his pocket and walked away. The trains were too painful.
He bought a Coke, and a packet of cigarettes, and took a cab to his office. The song was still there on his mind, he needed to get rid of it. He asked the driver to turn on the radio, and borrowed his lighter.
The song inside was deafening him. He shifted from the left window to the right window of the car; there were too many people on the left pavement. Too many people, too many stories, he thought.
He closed his eyes. He was running. The same road, the same city, the same route. They always met there. He was always late. He always ran to her. Only this time, he couldn't find her. But he kept running, and running, throwing his bag away, not noticing that his wallet has fallen out of his pocket, he just kept running. He was out of breath, but not out of faith.
The cab reached his office and stopped. He opened his eyes. He had to pay. He put his hand into his pocket, and searched. There was no wallet. Only a steel stud came out of his pocket.
Then, he remembered.