Two Years

I complete two years at Accenture today. They say your job is not your life, it's not what defines you. But I can safely say I was never happier at a job. 

Spending two years at a job is a milestone for sure, but somehow it does not feel like it. 

While the world has undergone a sea of change, I feel like my life has never been more tranquil. Right about now, I LOVE my life. 

Some days are better than others for sure, but then again isn't that how life is supposed to be. 

I think this is a very good place and today is a very good day to reflect on my journey. When I first joined I was not very sure if I was a good fit for this role, and I was just about learning the ropes when the entire scheme of domestic life changed. 

Earlier, my day started with getting up and getting my son ready for school and then rushing back, having a quick breakfast and heading towards our individual offices. The nest one or two hours would be spent in our cars, cursing the traffic and listening to mindless radio. The day would rush past and then the evening would see me scrambling to pick Koko up from daycare, getting home and preparing for dinner. So went the days. In a flash a week had gone by. 

But then things changed and I paused. Koko does school in the corner of the room now. There is no traffic and no rush as such. But is it really so?

My learning curve has been amazing, I have learnt so much and really honed the art. I can safely say I have created a space for myself and people know me for what I am and what I do. I am not afraid to say I love my job, because I really do. I am so lucky to be able to be in a position where my decisions can really make a difference in someone's life and at the end of the day, even if I am stretching - if I am able to see that I have made a difference for the better, it makes me a happy person. 

Does it not have it's low days - of course not! Some days I feel like shit, but I have learnt to take it in my stride, and most importantly, today is not that day :)

The Return of the Prodigal

 Oh my God! It is not like I had forgotten that I had a befittingly named blog existing somewhere on the web, but just life happened - grey hairs happened, marriage, moving cities, horrible bosses and a child later I returned to a time when I used to actually write down the random thoughts that I keep having. At any given time, my head is like a browser on my computer with at least fifty open tabs - what to cook for dinner, what to order in groceries, I must remember to get tooth paste and soap for the guest bathroom, did the maid say she needs dish washing liquid - wait what to cook for dinner? Tonight, sitting in the mellow light of my iPad while the husband and child gently snore away in the background I discovered/unearthed/chanced upon a bygone time. This was literally a blast from the past!

As I went through the posts (a veritable rabbit hole that) written till date, I cringed at some, laughed at others, could not recall having such emotions at a movie the last time, was overwhelmed to find that some friends just stick and some just don’t, judged myself for some sentiments expressed, but largely understood that I have not changed much. Well, yes, expect for the grey hairs and motherhood apart. The dream of becoming a novelist is still dormant somewhere I guess. For now let me write here? I still get kind of antsy around my birthday. I am still undecided about my hairstyle. I literally discussed getting a new haircut with my husband this evening! I still have major FOMO about work. 

But I think (and may be I will laugh at this one night thirty years from now) I have become a little more compassionate, a little more ready to let go and a little more forgiving. Also, I don’t have a terrible boss anymore. More importantly, you could get a haircut for sixty bucks in 2010.

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.

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.

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.

Ash face-powder

I would rather read a book or sleep than go to a party. Any party is but a glamour war for wannabe aunties. I may come out as a procrastinating lazy bum, because any number of times anyone would urge me to accompany them to a party I would put it of for that elusive “next time”.

I really pity this class of less educated women who were pretty faces in their heyday and had been married of to well educated, fat salaried men, the metaphorical “good catch”. These women feel horribly out of place when they are first exposed to this drink guzzling, beauty parlor frequenting, well groomed designer wear flashing breed. Soon however they are taken up in this dream torrent and they transform into beings they are not.

They watch BBC when their husbands are at work to perfect their English accents, they visit grooming classes to know the table manners and they dab on make-up when their husband casually asks them to accompany them praying they would stop to give an approving nod to the arm-candy they have dolled themselves into.

When they return to their parents, mostly in small towns they cannot be comfortable any longer without the AC neither can they understand what is the huge attraction their children have in the Playstation. They have left back the Rabindrasangeet and they pretend to enjoy the Bach their husband’s enjoy and cannot understand what Iron Maiden is all about. They cannot get their hands on a piece by Jibananda and they’d rather not read the Keats on the shelf.

So many families live their lives in such pretensions. And at night when the lights go off and she wipes off her make-up looking into the mirror in the dark as the tired husband sleeps on the bed she might hum a song and have her own moment, but just that and no more.

Falling out of love

Sometimes things happen in the lives of other people and you realize how effervescent the nature of life essentially is.

Like a friend moving out of the city. She has to go into an alien land. She has meet new people, make new friends, and learn a new language. Like my friend moved to Bangalore and my cousin moved to Paris. I keep wondering how they will cope with these new challenges.

Perhaps it is my fear of the disturbance in status-quo. Perhaps.

Life was going on just fine. Everyone was happy but, like a drop on the face of the mirror still pond, things change. And it is the inherent quality of life to change. The question is whether this change is desirable.

Like break-ups. I have noticed this, whenever someone close to me, or even someone I know has to go through a broken relationship it shatters me at some level. This is not an exercise in baring wounds but a self-reflexive discourse. Why do I have to let things which happen in other people’s lives affect me? Why do I have to identify myself in a similar position?

Boy meets girl, girl meets boy. And then they are simply hooked on to each other. So much so that being around each other becomes more of a habit than anything else. So when do you know you are in love? Not making this into an Yash Chopra inspired gimmick it is a serious question. Are two people just sticking to each other because they are simply used to it or because of their love. Do they miss each other because it is a habit to be around or because of love? And what is this concept of falling out of love?

Then there are these various romances and break-up types.

There is the school-time hook up-break up. Here the two meet during school. Perhaps in the sixth-seventh standard, when you are just exploring the concept of getting attracted to the opposite sex. You are curious, and you want some first hand experience. Friendship is taken for love, and by the time they have grown from children to adults they have had enough of each other and they fall out of love, ideally when you are in the tenth –eleventh standard.

Then comes the high school hook up-break up. You meet people from different schools during school fests or during common tuitions and you fall for that elusive girl who wears short skirts and ties her hair in the cutest ponytail or that sweet boy who is as good on the sports field as with the guitar. You fall for an image, not the person per se, but an image in your head. Then you meet the person, go out on a couple of dates. Most probably you find out she is the dumbest chick or he is the most boring lout and you fall out of love.

Then is the hook up in school-break up in college story. You were friends when you were in school, and you were together for a while. Then you went to different colleges. This is more complicated, because as we grow up things do tend to get more complicated. We change as people. Our personalities are defined. And often we realize that the person we were with during school has grown up to be a different person altogether. Their interests are different, their friends are different and you simply dissociate from each other and you fall out of love.

Then of course the most famous the college hook up-break up. You meet someone in college, he/she is enchanting and different from anyone you have ever seen and you simply cannot be without him/her. You are with that person day in day out. You discuss movies, music, sports, life , politics, food and everything on the planet and beyond and as with all the other types one day you suddenly fall out of love. Perhaps someone more enchanting captures your sight or you are bogged down by silly socio-economic pressures.

So why do people fall out of love? Only to fall in love again? Or is it the destiny of every individual to fall out of love at some time. How do you know it is the real deal?

Pujo

It is that time of the year again. I wonder what is with this particular time of the year that my heart still flies out of the window like a balloon as it used to ten years ago. I would not do math then and I cannot for the love of God concentrate on my work now.

There is something mysteriously romantic about those bamboos being bored into the footpaths cordoning off pedestrians from flooding the streets. It is that time when the city dolls up like the bride, and the people come out in their best finery for four days of being caught up in the frenzy of festive joy.

Durga Pujo is here. Today is Panchami and from tomorrow this city is going to live up to its carnivalesque best rising above the fumes of the two-stroke autos, political colours, shabby buses and broken dreams. For people who call it the choking city, you are not invited. But that is just a way of speaking. I notice this striking similarity between the Pujo with it's authentic city flavour and one of my favourite places, Jadavpur University (JU). It has an all embracing quality which is unique to it. I have known many people who crib about the city, and maintain they would be happier in any other shithole than here, but come Pujo they are the same people who are at the fringes of the whirlpool of festivities more eager than anyone else to be at it's epicentre.

It is quite a similar story in case of JU. I have known numerous people who think only dopers and drunkards are on the campus, but they are the same people who die to be part of it. Since they cannot by right of a student they enter in various forms. They may be the wannabes at the canteens, the pseudo-hippie on the grounds or the painter/poet on the bridge. We do not have any qualms in embracing them and the sundry as one of us. The broad outlook which allows us to gracefully treat people of alternative sexual preferences and poets muttering to themselves makes us accept them too.

The Pujo brings everyone together. The pallette is just one colour on those days.

I do not know the logic behind all those mad moments, the often senseless laughter that we indulge in. What I do know is that I would not leave the city on those days for the greatest treasures in the world. An article by my friend Insiya actually prompted me to write this. In the article she says she doesn't quite know what is this madness all about. When I initially read it i was stumped. How can someone be living in Calcutta and be aloof of such a major event. It is like going to the Olympics and not knowing about it's history.

Then again i questioned myself was I not caught up by the excitement of the games, the taut tension of the sportsmen when I did not know about Heracles? Yes, I thought, of course I was just as excited. It is true that knowing more gave a certain framework or fabric to the excitement, but it was similar.

The same with the Pujo I think. I cannot claim i understand the near manic frenzy in which the days go by, or why I love to hear the mahalaya at 4 in the morningwhen I cannot understand half the things said, or why I am taken in by the majestic pandals and sore my legs by walking from one to the other. I do not understand... I do not think I ever will.

I love the Pujo but. It's manic traffic, teeming people, totally unhygeinic food, queues in front of restaurants, jammed cell phone networks, not finding a friend in a ground full of strange crowds when she's just a stone's throw from me, passing comments of fashion disasters of the year. Yes I live in a shithole, as some think, but that's life. Life is not about driving around in an A.C. car and looking at people from behind the safe confines of glass. it is about getting on the road, walking with the people, the dirt and grime of rickshaw and smoke of the scooters, and dingy roads and people and more people.

And it is at these times that I realize that the Pujo is what you make of the Pujo. It can be a religious sojourn where you are one with the almighty. It can be a welcome vacation from work. It can be some lazy days for gluttony and debauchery. It can be a non-stop party. It can be discovering yourself and people you know, or you think you know. It is a time to think, rethink or may be not; may be it is time to just relax, lay back and let your heart take control.

It is time, Panchami, just this night and the festival begins. Cheers!

Tribulations of a child

Power relations in a house hold take strange and often surprising dimensions. My latest discovery is the wardrobe.

Now mothers have a general characteristic in thinking that their children are their property. And funnily enough this sense of ownership transcends unto their kid’s belongings as well. They absolutely love the institution of deciding what the child will wear, how they will wear and how they will carry themselves.

“ The green belt does not go with the blue jeans”

Ma, it’s called colour blocking, like contrasting, a colour stands out.. that way. Please don’t make me wear that obnoxious leather thing.

“Tie your hair with the hairband”

Ma, I want to keep my hair open

“Put oil on your hair”

Please Ma, oil stinks, I’d rather shampoo

“This skirt is too short; I told you the bigger size fits you”

Ma, this is the correct size

Etcetera

Often have I waited for myself to grow up so that the oversized Tee my mom bought would fit me. More often than not, by the time it would fit me, my mother would decide that either it’s too old, or it is discoloured and should be thrown away.

So when the tattered jeans were in fashion I would wear ironed and clean ones. When stilletoes were the cool thing to do, they were just too these-are-worn-by-grown-up-ladies-in-parties! And now that flats are in fashion she wonders why I have lost interest in stilletoes.

Just yesterday my mother and I sat down at night to do a Pujo-is-here-so-lets-get-rid-of-old-clothes cleaning of my wardrobe. She wants to throw away the pajamas in which I get the most comfortable sleep. Ma, they are my sleeping clothes, I do not have to look like a princess in them. She wants to throw away my school uniform, on which a lot of..ahem.. unparliamentary stuff had been written by friends on the last day of school. She thinks it is all trash.

And a hideous red skirt is something she thinks I will wear again. Then there is this brown flowery shirt she had bought which I think I wore one and a half times( once she forced me too, and second time I complained that the tag was itching near my neck so my dear dad politely allowed me to change).

My ,mother is the most sweetest sweet. She does not want me to wear torn clothes, so she quietly donates a pair of jeans which I had toiled an entire afternoon to cut and design. What she doesn’t understand is her and my definitions of style and comfort and very very different.

cherub or madman?

O, beware, my lord, of jealousy;
It is the green-ey'd monster, which doth mock
The meat it feeds on.

Why could Othello not contain his feelings though he loved Desdemona so much? Iago might have acted catalyst but the insecurity which drove Othello was there from the very beginning. Desdemona was loyal. She had not for once given Cassio a thought which would perturb Othello in any fashion.

Cassio was an excuse. Also a poor soul at that. He just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. He had no fault. Circumstances conspired against him. He was killed mercilessly and he could never understand what sins he was penancing for.

What was Desdemona’s fault? That she loved Othello? That she rebelled against her father Brabanzio and walked out with the man she loved?

Such is the beauty of the Shakespearean tragedy, it is really no particular person’s fault at all.

Iago is driven by ambition, Othello by great jealousy. It is the fault of this last mentioned emotion which becomes greater than everything else.

For Othello jealousy is like an all pervading tide, which makes any monument of love and geniality it finds in its way fall. Like a wild wanton urchin it uproots the emotion of love from the heart of Othello and crowds it with jealousy, envy, vengeance, anger and revenge. He is blinded. Neither can he see the friendship of Cassio nor the love of Desdemona.

But is Othello wrong? He has loved, he has loved Desdemona too much. He is extremely possessive of her. The mere thought of her betraying him irks him. Critics have evaluated the play as the inferiority complex of a dark skinned moor. Would it have been any different had Othello been a white man? Does not a white man have insecurities, or is he incapable of such passion? Conflating the Appolonian and the Dionysian may or may not be one of Shakespeare’s agendas, but the idea is interesting.

Reading the play on those lines is not what is on my mind. I simply want to clear the name of one of my favorite literary heroes. A lot of loose words are said about the flippance and insecurity of Othello. The love, and the almost wild passion which Othello has is overlooked. He is not a great man. He is the perfect tragic hero. He has the shortcoming of common men. He isn’t God-like , nothing of Oedipus shadows him. He is a common man, who loves his wife too much to see or even think of her with someone else.

How many of us have not had similar feelings? All those Archies Card quotes of letting your love go is as I said effervescent as Archies’ Cards. The love, and degree of love of Othello is quite another thing, perhaps to be understood only by people who feel similarly. Cupid is not the blind cherub, but a blind raging madman.

Virus

Arpan is not my best friend. And this write up is not about him anyway. It is more about me and this overbearing fear which has taken the shape of somewhat of a psychosis in me.

It was a lazy afternoon when a friend of mine informed me on Gtalk that Arpan has contracted Swine flu. Now there have been occasions when I have addressed him as a swine but him having this dreaded flu seemed as impossible to me as pigs having wings! (Funny that was the only simile which suggested itself in my head). Arpan is a nice guy, and so full of life, always jumping up and down. The clown in the class, cracking jokes at all times.

It is quite impossible for me to think that such a person would be ill. And the fact that someone I know has got the disease makes me uneasy. Makes it seem like the virus is closer than I think it is. First the news and the net told it was in Mexico. That is so far away I felt safe. The cases in Mumbai and Pune were reported and still I felt safe. There was a slight trepidation in my heart when the cases in Kolkata were being reported. But there was an ostrich emotion in me which said, “It cannot happen to me or anyone I know”. And then, this. To confirm that the news was a rumour I called Arpan, hoping to have a good laugh at it, only to hear that he was in that terrible place called the I.D. Hospital, Beleghata.

It is a government hospital, another one of those things I am so scared of. Leave alone the disease, the very thought that I would have to stay in a government hospital Would kill me. What is scarier is the fact that no matter how much money I can spend I have no option but to go to that government hospital. Like a dungeon’s stories became legends, similarly government hospitals in our times. And it seems closer and closer still.

I am scared. I am scared to touch my eye mouth on the road. Unconsciously my handkerchief covers my nose when in a public place. Yes, I have started using a handkerchief. I am scared to rub my eyes thinking there might be virus. Goodness gracious I am scared to breathe. When I sit down to watch a movie in a theatre I am apprehensive of my neighbor. When I am looking at a book in a shop I wonder who has turned these pages before me. I wish the currency notes could be sterilized. I shudder at the thought of going shopping. This fear is not healthy, and I cannot afford to fall sick now.

Yes, Arpan is a nice guy and it is terrible to think he is confined in a ward with stray dogs having easy access. (Or was that a joke he was cracking?). I just pray to God he is fit as a fiddle soon and released from the hospital.

p.s. I request everyone who is reading this to please pray for my friend.

work

The last friends you make are when you are in college. When you are in office you do not really make any friends. You might be part of a bunch you like to hang out with but they are never your friends.

It is the same competition here. You want to be the best. Just like in school. You want to be in the good books of the teachers (bosses here). But only the p[arameters of the assesment is different. It is not marks any longer which you are talking about. Here you get to see the colour of money and you don't want to take any chances.

You are always right and the others are all wrong. There might be things you have done the wrong way but people do not think twice to make it look like somone else's mistake.

and if you are not alert you get screwed.

Its only words, and words are all they have to take our heart away

What is the one thing you do not tell you kid to do when he is learning spellings in Kindergarten?

Do not watch the rear of any public transport vehicle (auto, rickshaw, bus etc) or trucks.

Have you noticed the most inane things that are written in a quagmire of flashy and loud paintings of attempts at a flower or a pretty girl? Lets start with the most obvious.

In bright, bold letters the word "Danger" is the most common writing you are likely to find. Now the spelling or this particular six letter two syllable word is a permutation and combination of an array of different letters in the alphabet (whichever the owner or the artist takes a fancy to) starting with D and ending with R. I have seen the following variations on different vehicles at different points in time:

• Danzar
• Danjhar
• Danjeher (perhaps he thought poison must have to do something with it)
• Denjer
• Danjer (ridiculously close to "Bangal" pronunciation)
• Denzar
• Denjar

etcetera.

The next is the various words of wisdom. "Traffic aain maniya cholun" (Follow the traffic laws in Bengali) written on the vehicles like autos and matador vans which are most likely to break the rules! There are of course others trying to ward off the evil eye of people who are jealous of your vehicle, no matter how old, weatherbeaten and dilapidated your motor vehicle happens to be. some I have come across are as follows:

" Hingsha koro na, tomar o hobe" meaning Do not be jealous of what you see, you shall also have success(here ownership of similar vehicle)

"Dekhbe aar jolbe, luchir moto phulbe" meaning You can only be envious and burn in jealousy at my vehicle!!

"Bure nazaar waalon tera muh kaala" meaning The one with the envious eye will be left with a black face

Or the more funny ones, taking a crack at the world and fate...

"Ma go Ma, to e ki chholona

matha bhora taak dile .. taaka dile na" meaning Oh Great Mother, what deceptiveness is this, you give me a headfull of baldness but no money in my purse. ( Ok translating is a tough job!!)

The pining of the broken heart...

"Love is sweet poison"

"Dard- e - dil ki dawa kya hai?" meaning What is the cure of the aching heart?

"Awaara dil ko samhal" meaning Take care of the flippant heart.

However my pick is a piece of wisdom regarding road safety which I came across a few days ago which took me 5 minutes to decipher which goes.. " Much rease na dena" . The cipher: Do not raise (accelarate) more than necessary (much)!!!!

almost

It was evening. I was returning home.

I was at a juncture of heavy traffic in Saltlake, namely, Karunamoyee. there were two private buses standing at the bus stop. A kid was getting off the bus. I began to cross the road. Suddenly I saw through the corner of my right eye another bus overtaking the one standing at the stop. By this time I am already half way across the road. The overtaking bus is fast and rash. The bus which was static for so long also starts and picks up speed.

All I could see was a headlight steadily growing in size, all I could hear was the roar of the bus engines. My right ear was all noise, my right eye a great yellow headlight. I could see headlines of newspapers, faces of loved ones, people shouting across the road.. it was completely crazy. I remember turning aroundlike a zombie, and walking back to the pavement. To me this entire thing was extremely slow, but of course all happened in a matter of seconds.

Shit! i almost got run over.