That sissy Y chromosome

X was terribly in love. So much so that X would compromise on her life and her happiness just to steal a moment with Y. But Y was a busy man, having an arm-candy to show off was enough for him. He loved her, but not with the determination of William Darcy or the passion of Florentino Ariza, figures which cluttered the brain of X.

X wanted more than the charm or the token appreciation of her looks. X did not desire the bodily pleasures which were always on Y's mind. A little care, a little concern, a subtle gesture was what she looked for. But such things don't happen in real life. She knew a Rhett Butler waspish charm was not humanly achievable, yet, she hoped.

Y was a free bird, flippant and casual. He flirted easily with other girls raising X's scorn but never pacifying them. It ruffled a lot of things in X, passion and eagerness were a few as Y had slyly anticipated, but a steadily growing insecurity and dissatisfaction which he was ever blind to.

While X pined each day for a Paris who would have his eyes only at her and would risk all for her. she would have to settle for the cool logic and fluffy humor.

X would settle for what she got but she soon saw that everything served Y's convenience, and though they were supposed to be on the same team, she never got what she wanted. So X spoke out and that was the end.

A woman can never speak up. She is good if she is looking pretty and smiling and adhering to what the man wants. The moment she demands something for herself she is cheap.

In older times the outspoken women were tagged witches, whores and insane. The labels remain to this day, perhaps a bit subtly. If X said Y was her priority, it does not mean that she does not have a life, it just means she can put her life on a hold for sometime for Y, she loves him that much.

Logic is not what matters of heart are to be judged by, they never were they never will be.

What exactly did Sylvia Plath go through? She had a life, and damn right its better than that sissy Ted's.

The Broken Nail

Once upon a time there was a girl and she had a right leg with a big-toe which had a brightly painted nail. So this girl was on a bus in calcutta which was being driven by a a person who thought none less of himself than Michael Schumacher. Whirling through heavy city traffic the bus danced its way, slamming on the brake anytime it pleased the Schumacher incarnate. Now it so happens on these prehistoric buses that metal protrusions are aplenty.
So the girl is chirrupping away happily when the fatal brakes are slammed. Her legs which were poised on one of these metal protrusions as a manner of comfort fell with a jerk and went under the metal, only the nail from the big toe refused to go under. SO it went up , up over the metal and with one quck sharp jab the nail and the flesh was open. Her white slippers went red. And there was the rebellious big-toe nail holding its head high; High above the flesh it is attached to the normally.
And all that blood.

Waiting for Godot

I face a ritualistic existential crisis each day. It is quite ridiculous when I think about it in retrospect, but I feel the same virgin trepidation each day.
I take a bus which my office provides each morning, from the same bus stop at the same time every day. Since I am a bit of a hyperventilating punctual I happen to reach the bus stop well in advance, almost ten minutes before the bus arrives. With the cobbler spreading out his modest shop on the footpath and the a few regular people scampering into overpacked buses the day has just begun.
The other people who avail the bus with me have not arrived at this point in time. Though I know in my heart that they would be coming sometime soon, I have this weird feeling that I have surely missed the bus. Invariably I am late and the bus has left without me. Whether there is some deeprooted Freudian explanation to this I do not know. But somehow it is as if my existence at that place and that time is validated by the presence of my co-passengers. Until the others are around there is this gnawing sensation of discomfort eating at my heart.
The regular school children pass me by. Still I keep a lookout for whether a familiar face has come. If even one person reaches I heave a sigh of relief. I must confess that I have never spoken to any of these "familiar faces", except for a cursory hello or a seasons greetings. Mostly they are quite unfriendly, shoving their faces (which are as it is hidden behind his thick glasses) into pink newspapers or happily lost in the sweet melody of their iPods. Yet I look for this detached sense of reassurance from these very people.
Now I know who Godot is; finally, when I don't have to write out answers anymore.

Possessed, by plastic

The credit card is the bane of my existence, that is why I do without it. However, I have realized that the debit card can be as injurious to health.
I guess it was people like me who walk into flashy malls (read into the attractive snares set up capitalist commercial giants) and end up becoming quite lighter, pursewise, that the subprime crisis hit the world. People like me, only ten time more like me, who didn't think twice (which is by the way the number of times I think before that shopping binge).
But then again life would surely be quite bland without the plastic money.

Ilish

A friend of mine has a blog called ilishmaach. At first the name comes across as weird at the most misplaced. Then I wonder, why not? Come monsoons the east of this country is inundated by this phenomenal speciality cuisine. It is a freshwater fish which is easily identified by its silver color when raw and its captivating aroma when cooked. It is a common kitchen byword that you cannot go wrong with the ilishmaach. No matter how bad you try to cook it, the flavour itself will elevate the dish to perfection.
Cooking the ilishmaach has caught on the fascination of the Bengali female as much as writing poetry catches on to every Bengali male! It is an art, a form of expression which is unique to every individual. No cold salad or caviar or lasagne can compete with the magnetism of the ilishmaach.
Be it the dish with the mustard seed paste or the baked one or the crisp fries or the jeere-diye-jhol or the plain dish with eggplant or pumpkin or the spicier treat with pulses or spinach, every avatar promises to be finger-lickin’ good. It is the safest dish to fall back on to impress the in-laws or show off your culinary skills to your friends.
As the raindrops make you feel like curling up like the house cat, munch on an ilishmaach bhaja this year. That’s what I do every year.

My mango tree, I miss you

Every summer I miss the mango tree in school. It is ridiculous when I say “every year” as if I am an 80 year old! But undeniably a couple of years have passed since I have been under the inviting shade of that mango tree.

I flinch at stepping out into the sun now. I array myself with the sunscreen with a specific SPF count, my glares, an umbrella or may be a cap. However at school I could not wait to step out into the sun, away from the cool confines of that classroom. It was not the proverbial soaking up the sun but more of a kind of independence we enjoyed. Away from the controlling eyes of parents who would rather have us in a library or guzzling down glucose water in those summer months.

I along with all my friends were of a contrary opinion. We played our favorite games, ran about the arid playground till our shirts stuck to our very skins wet with perspiration. Neither did we bother to run for the deodorant nor did we ever grow tired.

Only after a bout of intense games we would rush to the washroom and splash water on our faces and necks. It would reasonably leave the floors flooded which would sufficiently tick off the cleaning ladies. They would even shout at us, but how long can you reprimand absolute cherub faces? We were always good at putting up the act.

But the pinnacle of our summer games was not in the sun. They were in the cool shade of a tree. Our school playground was a square field. The sides of the field were under careful landscape gardening having several coconut trees and small bushes and shrubs. We would play hide and seek behind these! At one end of the square was a small patch of rectangular protrusion which served as our high jump landing patch. Diagonally opposite from here stood our benign mango tree.

We would rush to its shade when panting our lungs out. We would stand on the sitting porch built around it when addressing a large crowd (read more than 5 people). This is where friends would sit and discuss trouble. This is where rebellion against almost anything, ranging from parents to government, and boyfriends to traffic were plotted.

Also we would have raging competitions of “who can fell the mango?” by hitting pebbles and such. And when that awesome juicy mango would dash on the concrete we would swoop on it like cunning eagles. Safely this was a more delicious treat compared to the choicest ones served at home.

This is where I fought and made up. This is where I would stand holding ears when punished and have the most engaging adda sessions with the other felons. This is where I made friends. I truly miss my mango tree every summer.

bored

This is irksome. I have an empty word doc open in front of me for the past couple of minutes and I just cannot bring myself to put a line on it. I scratch my head a little. Will something pop out yet? No, nothing there; bit my lower lip and cringed my forehead in absolute concentration. I minimized the window to look at the Donald Duck wallpaper. I could see myself in the black background.

I took a look at myself. This is supposed to be my worst look after hours at work and bored to death. The eyeliner from one eye had gone off. Why can I never manage with my makeup I wonder? There are a good number of girls out there who manage it just fine. A friend messaged a slew of tips just this afternoon. My curls lay hither thither. Why couldn’t I have a more manageable hair?

I guess these are those end of day blues. I would have to get out in some time from this air conditioned environment, take some sort of torturous transport back home. Where I will have the same dinner, watch an episode of FRIENDS I have watched so many times before and then talk a lot of nonsense and go to sleep.

This is what life has come to.

One of my favorite poems by one of my favorite poets.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines. Write, for example,'The night is shattered and the blue stars shiver in the distance.' The night wind revolves in the sky and sings. Tonight I can write the saddest lines. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too. Through nights like this one I held her in my arms I kissed her again and again under the endless sky. She loved me sometimes, and I loved her too. How could one not have loved her great still eyes. Tonight I can write the saddest lines. To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her. To hear the immense night, still more immense without her. And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture. What does it matter that my love could not keep her. The night is shattered and she is not with me. This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance. My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her. My sight searches for her as though to go to her. My heart looks for her, and she is not with me. The same night whitening the same trees. We, of that time, are no longer the same. I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her. My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing. Another's. She will be another's. Like my kisses before. Her voide. Her bright body. Her inifinite eyes. I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her. Love is so short, forgetting is so long. Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms my sould is not satisfied that it has lost her. Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer and these the last verses that I write for her.

The quarter century circus

Twenty-five. Twenty fucking five, quarter of a century as someone mentioned on Facebook.

As I was reading Murakami on the night of 4^th May, I had this ominous feeling that the best years of my life are past. I am not a young free spirit any more. Words like old, mature, and responsibility crept into my brain-room like gloomy school principals with sinister canes in their hands. They peered at me with their eyes which had slits like those of a goat. I felt like a Beckettian character, waiting till the clock ticks the twelve and my time runs out. Time to have lived a quarter of a century in this world.

I had almost dozed off on the couch when the phone buzzed. I knew it was Gargy. She always calls, at twelve. My birthday begins with her wishing me. But it was not her. It was my cousin. I spoke to her for a bit. It felt as if I had swallowed a stone as I kept checking the phone for her to be on “call waiting” but she never appeared. If it had been school or college I would perhaps make a sad face and throw my temper at her. Instead, I was a bit worried. What was wrong? Is she alright? Afterall the girl is in a different town.

Proves I am getting old? Thinking negative and stressing. Some Freudian explanation?

There were some other calls I attended. Cousins, friends from school and college. There was another call I expected which I never received until the next morning. I did not even meet that caller yesterday.

Honestly I woke up with not the broadest smile. As the sunlight pierced my eyes that morning through the gossamer curtains I was greeted by my parents. Papa and Ma had got me this brilliant dress which I wore to office. I received calls and replied to birthday messages on my way to office.

However it was at office that that I was in for a surprise. I am new employee here so I did not even expect anything there. Perhaps that is why it was so special. Ruchira, my colleague from work, had baked a cake for me. A homemade chocolate cake, soft and just the right amount of fluff. It was completely crazy. We put a tiny candle and did the entire birthday routine. Accommodating tiny pieces so that no one is left out was truly amazing. I cannot remember being so moved by any gift in a long time.

Everyone was so nice, getting gifts, cards, chocolates and other stuff for me. It was a truly special day. I was flooded with messages on my phone, on Facebook, on Orkut. A school friend who I was not particularly pally with suddenly put through a call, people from my old office rallied their need for a treat from me. I guess there is this child in us all who love the attention they get on the day they started off.

Of course there were people who forgot to call. People who were such close friends once. People who sneaked into gtalk and wished. Perhaps people for whom I am not important any more. Or is it?

At the end of the day as I was taken out to dinner by my parents and it rained like the limp of an old man, I sat back and thought, it is not so bad being twenty five. Not so bad to have known so many people so that even after so many people call, you can still think of people who didn’t and feel bad. Not a masochistic streak, just a thought.

I received that call from Gargy. I received the call I expected at midnight too. And the wish from my vegetarian friend. Also the mother of the cutie pie in Dubai. All of them remembered me. It has been an honour to know and be a part of this circus for a quarter of a century.

It is not often that I am demonstrative, i love all of you.

Hate thy neighbour

Why has God created neighbours? Those nosy, know-it-all, humbugs who think it is their birthright to pass judgments about your life, your friends, your decisions. Back off, I do not allow my parents to tell me whether I should do this or do that who the hell do you think you are to just walk up to me one morning and give me a sermon about life?

I was never great around preachy people, and this morning a particularly surly man totally ruined my day and there came a point in between Lords and Rashbehari when I actually was torn between an urge to strangle him, throw him off the bus or get off myself. Finally I just put my glares closer to my eyes and looked out of the window into the sun.

He has this great notion about which job is good and which is not, when a person should get married, who a highly educated and revered person in a society is. And all coming from the father of a son who is a school dropout and a daughter who is a slut who should have graduated by now but is still in school.

Why cannot these people simply mind their own business?

He gave me a slew of examples to prove that studying and studying alone can exalt you in this life. According to him Bill Gates is a brilliant scientist. True enough, but if not for his business sense Bill Gates wouldn’t be who he is. Also if you think studying business is bullshit you don’t know anything about life dear. If you think business is so trashy then don’t go do the audit firm you work for each day, because *clap clap* clarification… auditing falls in the purview of business.

Also one of the greatest scientists of all times, Thomas Alva Edison, was also the founder of the greatest company in the worl GE Capital. Have you heard of that? Why am I wracking my brain, he doesn’t even know who Narayan Murthy is and why I was comparing Bill Gates with Steve Jobs.

And it is sad because he is a JU alumni. I believe he supports all those clandestine value paths he cannot explain but thinks he should be part of just because it is a fad. And he has always been this way. Yes I know the type, I met a few during college.

Tears

Tears

Saline, meandering

subtle

soak my pillow tears

silent

stab my heart tears

desolate

need a friend tears

red

puffy eyed tears

tired

sleepless night tears

hurt

I-Do't-know-what-I-did tears

blinding

cloud gazing tears

cathartic

pain easing tears

tears nonetheless

and they shall flow

Writing

Writing is an exercise we are coerced into by our junior school teachers assisted duly by their invariably fat spectacles and equally fat wooden rulers. All Bengali parents think their child to be a protegee who will grow up to be either a Rabindranath Tagore or at least a Sukumar Ray. However jokes apart reading and writing are institutions we are luckily introduced to very early in life.

Unlike most people I began life with, i.e. cousins and nursery school friends I quite liked writing. I loved to see my name featuring in the index of the school magazine each year. I would run my fingers on the printed page where perhaps a half page poem or a two page story had been published. Call it self-idolatry or whatever other fancy term, I just loved it. And I still do. I would love to see my name at the end of any piece of writing. Just for that, if not for the sheer joy of writing itself, of the secret music my words played or the fierce duels they fought, i will write.

To express myself, to have my catharsis, to be as disagreeable as ever, to have my silent fight, to move away from someone and bear the pain with a smirk, to unconsciously fall in love or out of it, to put the right words in the right place and have that orgasmic thrill, to have my own adventure, to live I would write.

If only I had some more patience

Why are women never satisfied with their haircut? Or is it just me? No, this is not a frivolous observation of a lazy bum. It is a serious concern. I just looked up into the mirror after washing my face, and i invariably frowned at the curls on my head. Is it about the grass being greener on the other side syndrome? Isn't there some very serious sounding clinical jargon which I can flaunt? Like I suffer from serious-compulsive-psychological-hairstyle-dissatisfaction-syndrome.

When I have short hair I wish it as longer. When I have long hair, I feel what the heck? this is so high maintenance, why can't I have a chic short crop? When I get to highlight my hair I wonder why I gave up the natural brown, and when I have the natural tinge on I think it is so odd.

So how are some women so smug with the mane they don?

Or do they have the perfect parlour? To be very honest I really do not have naything against my beauty parlour, the girls do a pretty decent job. And everytime after they shampoo, and give me a haircut and do the entire spa-hot steam routine topping it up with a blow dried set hairstyle I do tip them quite handsomely. I am happy with what just happened for a couple of hours. Believe it or not it happens every bloody time I go. I am happy for a couple of hours and the I realize that perhaps its too short, or perhaps its not uniform or some other oddity about it.

And never to save my life can I replicate that perfect styling they do. SO whats the point? I spend some good money, but I don't get what I want. People say, You have not changed your hairstyle in like forever or when was the last time you had a different haircut.. and my defensive answer is, I don't really trust strangers with the scissors on my head, and I would love to have long hair. Only I don't have the patience.

Going back to Eden Gardens

The last time I had been at Eden Gardens was to watch a match between India and Pakistan. It was a Test match and Shahid Afridi had bashed up the dignity of all the Indian bowlers left, right and centre. As in all Indian families, cricket is considered almost hermetic and the results dependent on totally irrelevant and illogical coincidences and superstitions. So since I had been on the field that day, everyone beginning from my parents to friends assumed that by a great turn of fate it was my presence; yes my presence and not the shameful presentation by our bowlers, which led to such a grand batting show by Afridi. Yes, I agree that I had been a bit, a tiny bit, loquacious about Afridi. However that could not have led to such results, rationally speaking. When it comes to cricket, none speak rationally.

Anyway that is not the point of this article. Last evening I went to Eden Gardens again. This time there was no national sentiments attached so I believe my family did not create a huge quandary just because it was not a match which India was playing. It was just another Kolkata Knight Riders match, and according to old school cricket watchers T20 is not cricket at all. It is a curious and vulgar mix of cricket with crass entertainment not the classy and king's sport which they would love to watch.

I don't care much for that, for me it was more going to Eden Gardens than watching a match. Honestly I had not hoped we would win. The fact that we did was great, but I had had no hopes.

However the spirit of T20 at the Eden was absolutely brilliant. The crowds going on an endless Mexican Wave loop, totally drooling at the cheerleaders, comely aunties breaking into a jig at every fall of a wicket, people accommodating totally irritable kinds on their lap so that they can watch the match, totally nondescript urchins doing an impeccable lip sync to Black Eyed Peas, trying to spot Katrina Kaif, shouting out at Kallis as if he were their school friend, hugging complete strangers after the victory.

There was just one not-so-feel-good incident which happened. The crowd at Eden has some great inexplicable, primitive almost hermetic relationship with the basic elements. Earlier there would torches at the home turf victory. Fire-checked. Now it is the water. After that famous World Cup debacle with SriLanka, taking bottles inside the stadium is strictly prohibited. Now they sell water in pouches. Yes plastic pouches with water, which people hold up to their mouth as if it were a conch shell they were blowing announcing the commencement of some epic battle lost in the sands of time. Now just as Manoj Tiwary started showering runs some smart guy had the bright idea of spreading the water around. InHindu tradition we have a tradition of spreading Holy Water on people after worshiping God, which is called "Shanti-r Jol" or "The Water of Peace. Now we did not really mind all the water being sprinkled on our heads that scorching March evening when someone got carried away and started throwing the pouches. Now a plastic pouch with water filled when thrown at random with certain amount of force and comes and hits a person can be quite a pain in the neck (as a friend of mine was to literally experience). So after this small H2O carousal, the policemen came into the picture and beat up a guy pretty bad.

Though some would say it was pretty harsh on the boy I think that was the only way you can control a crowd at Eden. So the water revelry subsided for some time.

The fun and real charm though was when the match ended and we cleared the stands. At a distant cha-waala's shanty at off Esplanade you could watch the lights at Eden; Like diamonds on the embellished tiara of the princess they shone. A stadium spectacle is a more ancient tradition than a proscenium theatre, and even more ancient than the movie theatre. Perhaps in its primitiveness lies its ability to bind people closer.

In a movie theatre the experience is collective but the performance itself is thrice removed. It is based on some story which has been acted in some studio whose one singular copy is being shone on this particular screen. The theatre, as in a proscenium where a drama is enacted is twice removed. However a stadium, like the Colosseum where Gladiators would fight, is the most ancient and truest performance/entertainment domain. Yesterday, at Eden Gardens what unfolded in front of us was not removed from reality. It was s sport whose every future second unfolded in front of us as much as it was unfolding in front of the players who were on the field. Sourav Ganguly or Rahul Dravid had no inside information on what was about to happen next. This inherent quality of sport makes it the most cherished of all entertainment mankind has known.The nail biting finish, the collective sighs and ecstasy is to be found nowhere else.

writing an essay

I have realized that after two years of pure trashy answer writing in an MBA program I have manage to destroy my skill of writing good essays. Something which used to be my forte in school.
A good, logical, reasoned and structured essay. You would read through it and it would not be puffy like cotton-wool, but solid like a wall. You could find no loopholes in it. The progression of the logic would be smooth. At no point would the reader feel lost and angry because he cannot make sense of what is going on. The purpose of the essay was to get the point across not fill pages with gibberish.
There are certainly palpable breakages in the wall. The skill is tarnished. And it is not like math, that I have forgotten the formulae and practicing five test exercises is going to put things in perspective. This is high art, and diligence is required. The language cannot be jocund and frivolous. It has to be serious and the tone should bind together the entire piece as one smooth string of pearls.
I am hoping to God that I get back my touch.

Forward, Ahoy

What have I seen of this world? Nothing. For the past 24 years of my life I have lived with my parents, in one city, interacting day in day out with a singular race of people.True there are so many languages and dialects in this one state itself, but this is not all. The country has so many more languages. I have never really lived somewhere else.

May be it is time I did that. May be it is time I went away from the protective upbringing, the loving parents, the always-watching-my-back friends, the comfortable confines of home. I mean, work has been a rude shock. There are so many brutal truths of life I am so blissfully unaware of. However the fact remains that life is cruel, and saying it over and over again will never really give me a taste of it. I have to go there and face it on my own, alone. So that next time around I do not coil back in a foetal timidity to my home, my room, under the warmth of my blanket, walking randomly on the streets of my city trying to regain my sanity by looking at a familiar skyline.

Shelley was lucky. Actually all the guys who graduated with Shelley were lucky, I talk of Shelley since he is famous and I like him. He had the concept of taking life easy. Also he had the luxury of a Grand Tour. I wish I could do something like that. Visit ornate cities and write poetry. I would love to go to Paris and sit by the Seine. Just sit there watching the handsome men and the lovely lights. Or in Egypt, at the feet of the Sphynx, and think of the pharoahs and how long long back in time these were built and wonder.

I need to just get out have a brilliant time before I fade into another ordinry life bound by the clock. I need to steal some time from my life for myself, for having that one flash of extraordinariness which I shall cherish for the rest of my life.

The Hangover

Yes, yes, this article is inspired by a hangover quite rightly as the name suggests. And I never saw it coming. Now like all people I am of the opinion that I am some sort of a superhero who can take any amount of stress, strain or alcohol.

Believe you me, though most people shall not consider it important to mention or even acknowledge, this is the case. But I am more upfront about the entire thing. This is a weakness all human beings are born with.

So there I was on a fun evening with two very special friends at Xrong Place, Calcutta. No, do not give me a spell-check on that dear, it is pronounced "wrong" but spelling begins with an "x" denoting a cross or quite simply one of the last letters of the alphabet.It is a metaphor for wrong, a simple and pretty metaphor. Anyway this was my first time there so I was amused.

Now I do not know how it came to be, was it the totally wacky sense of humour on the table that night or the almost dark lights, or the oh-so-to-die for sausages, or something else that led me to take a couple of strong drinks( Ok I am not mentioning how many, because the number is apparently demeaning, but I should get the edge of not being a very seasoned drinker!). At this point I was perfectly fine, I was clicking photographs, making merry jokes and laughing at jokes as well.

It was when I stood up to visit the washroom that suddenly the guy at the other table with the beer bottle seemed to be doing a somersault. Now, given a normal situation people do not perform somersaults in restaurants. So I concluded, this guy must not be doing this, but I am seeing him do it. The entire bloody room seemed to be swimming. There were waves, and the tables and chairs and people were all swimming. At this point I just sat down and declared "Guys, I don't think I am feeling great" ; to which my jolly friends replied something, I do not know what.

I remember some talk of a drive which I refused. Then I was home. I remember I talked excessively. Definitely by my standards. There were too many things going inside my head.

Do not talk so much, Ma will get it that you are drunk.

Talk, at least it's making you feel better.

Why on earth is the TV not on the table?

Ok, I am not feeling good.

May be I should have some water...

Man, this is not happening to me, this can't be.

Anyway so I went to sleep, thinking this shall be the end. However this was not the end. I woke up, perspiring at 3 in the morning, thirsty. If I have to point out one day when I have really understood what feeling thirsty meant it was this day. I must have drank an entire bottle of water and yet I could feel a desert right from my navel to my throat, one long arid road which could do with a monsoon.And a nauseating stench from my mouth. Yuck! Went and caught a sandwich at 4. Thank God my mother was asleep at this time, fast asleep.

Next day, office, I wake up with a bad bad headache. So this is the stuff hangovers are made of! I needed one good bath in cold water on a winter morning to at least feel human again.

crescent in the sky

I saw the solar eclipse. I was told not to. But I donned my sunglass and looked at that brilliant diamond ring, prettier that any mortal rock can ever be.

The excitement all round was palpable. Be it a man of science or an illiterate brute, every soul was caught up in the sheer joy of looking upon the marvelous drama being enacted in the high skies.

I remember in 1996, when I was in school, Calcutta viewed a total solar eclipse. Oh! that excitement, that adrenaline rush, that almost orgasmic beating of the heart when I held up a photograph negative against my eye and in the middle of the day the sun was nowhere to be seen. There were mixed reactions ranging from gasps of enthusiasm to heaving of terror among the numerous neighbours of mine all of who had gathered on their terraces to witness the phenomenon like us.


The only other time I have perhaps felt close to something like that would be while snorkeling in the Andamans. Swimming among the corals and actually touching the colourful schools of fish was a huge high.


What is it about that crescent in the morning sky? Is it our habit of seeing a circle in it's place or is it our God-fearing hearts or something greater than this universe which strikes such awe?

Rocket

Stray dogs are not necessarily my favorite animals. Actually I am quite uncomfortable around any sort of animal, wild or domesticated. Like, I absolutely detest cats. I think they are wily, crafty and sly beings who are always up to some tantrum or the other.

There is this sad looking black dog in front of my office which had a pup a couple of months back. As is true with the little ones of all species, the puppy was excruciatingly cute. A small bundle of black and white, a tiny snout with a brilliant pink nose, a pointy tail wagging all the time and a milky paunch. My office colleagues readily adopted the tiny vermin feeding it tit-bits at all times. Sometimes it was a biscuit or a loaf or something else. And as is true with all adopted creatures, the dog was also given a name: Rocket.

Now Rocket played with my friends all the time. Any chance that the guys would get to escape to the smoking zone; they would sneak out and play with Rocket. Rocket could be seen rolling on the road at the direction of someone’s shoe, or run up to another if he whistled. Soon he acquired different skills and my friends were more than eager to show off which trick was taught to Rocket by whom, and how well he had learnt it.

It is quite amusing to watch this entire teacher-student role play taking place in front of you as the guys take pride in each trick Rocket can master as their personal achievement.

Rocket has grown up now. He is not a bundle of fat but a teeth-baring, rib-displaying gangly thing. It is still up to the tricks but now it has to fend for himself. The sad looking black mother of his does not find food for him any longer. Rocket has fallen in the Darwinian cycle of survival wherein he needs to beat five other dogs on the road for everything.

My colleagues still patronize him with scraps and leftovers but the grown-up dog’s tummy is not satisfied by such paltry offerings.

Today Rocket killed a pigeon. A thriving, cheerful pigeon was thrashed and life squashed out of him within a matter of minutes. Rocket thereafter cunningly moved the lifeless being from the road to a sidewalk with the feathers strewn all over the road. The sensibilities of most of the erstwhile patronizers of Rocket were deeply hurt. One felt nauseous and threatened a reprimand and another said he can’t play with the little bugger any longer.