The Pidhi.

At another routine day back after the Pujas in the library today, I was staring off into nothingness, looking back at my research of over two years now, mentally restructuring and simultaneously trying to come up with a world-stopping theory, when I realised that for quite some time now I had been looking out of the window at the astrologer sitting on the pavement, complete with his parrot.

Now I had never quite shared the disdain that quite a few of my peers have for him- overt or covert.Rather, I quite like him. His bread is as much an honest living as any one else's. And it is a hard living. Imagine trying to make perfect strangers believe in obscure, inscrutable forces and unfelt energies in the fragmented, disillusioned and marketed world we live in today.

And as I looked at him again, I realised that but for his very, very benign looks,he could have been a terrifying figure.Would I really want to have his well-trained parrot choose a card for me and me come to know of an insipid or perhaps even painful future? Have the knowledge of the yet-to-come shadow my small beautiful moments? Even if the knowledge comes with the assurance of remedy, really, who in their right minds would want it? Because what really, really worries me is the question of whether we have the power to shape our own futures. Of course, over time I have come to understand that unless we look at it theologically, our answers to this would be directly dependent on the measure of success achieved.

But, again as I saw a man sit down on the pidhi  beside the parrot, I reflected that there is, after all a very fine line between foolishness and bravery, and till I manage to find the courage  to  make my way towards the now occupied pidhi, I remain sitting on a fence.

(Posted at 11:28 pm)

No Poetry Is Poetry Enough.

What I concieve is poetry, what I write is a poem and between them falls a shadow so dark that it seems enough to plunge one into cynicism; A shadow so large that you seem to never reach its edges.

Forever Young.

Today I subjected myself to a reality check. My last post had been on May 9.I have been putting off writing posts for so long I had now begun gliding over all thoughts of blogs - mine or otherwise. Not an unusual phenomenon when something piles up. But back breaking work now finally at a respite I must dive back into the multi-dimensional life that is more usual.

And I was in for a surprise- seems like it wasn't only me who had been putting off stuff. Most of the regular blogs I read( which aren't very many by the way) have litteler than usual posts. And always because of extra workload. And though it feels nice to be included, that is not the point of  my post.

The point of my post is the one advantage of Windows over DOS that was revolutionary : Multitasking.
Many a summer ago I moved from laziness to work. Then came the transition from mere work to hard-work. Then from hard-work to the point where no more work was possible. At this point dawned the realisation that efficiency must be stepped up. Now comes multi tasking.

So in a sense, there are really no reasons for the gaping holes in my blog calendar. Only excuses which seem to sound more and more like cribbing each time you go over it.

Inspiration does not die : Ever. It only gets clouded over by fogs of our own making. And till the time you have the strength to keep clearing those fogs, till then, you remain young and un-disillusioned.


P.S: Out of practice, I took the liberty of coining a couple of words- I am no poet, so forgive me. :)

The Circle of Life - It has no Beginning, no End.

I wanted to do a mother's day post, but realised that I  wouldn't know what to write.

Of mothers perhaps.

There are loves that we are born into, and there are loves that are born of us. And painfully enough, the loves that are born of us, find, in some strange way, a precedence over the loves that we are born into. Perhaps its the love, perhaps its the responsibility, let greater minds debate on that. But it is the same primeval instinct that
makes a mother love her child.

That is what a mothers love would be. An instinct. And so, in a sense, a mother's love is also tragic.Because, an instinct must wean away from her the object of her love.

And when you dwell on things such as these, better left mingled in your being and uncomprehensive to rationality, you'll realise that the tragedy is heightened when the instinct is pure. Undiluted by learning and education enough to bring an awareness of the emotions undergone.

This is the point where you think of the millions in  your country,  the unsung heroines who haven't heard of a Mother's Day.

And even though you feel an anguish, the pain is washed over by a soothing balm as you watch your child play with the waves.

Kal Baisakhi.

Just had the 'Kal Baisakhi' of the season. Was studying when the balcony door banged open and my room was filled with a cloud of dust. Of all the Nor'westers I've seen, this was a first. The smell is the best thing about rains, but believe me when I say that this smells different from all rains.Its just that much more of dust, that higher velocity of wind, and that much more of parchness awaiting it which makes it different. Was reminded of the beautifully shot scenes in The Japanese Wife: Kal baisakhi on the river, Kal baisakhi in the village.You have to watch it if only for a glimpse of the river Matla: It was life: Ebbing and Flowing; Tranquil and stormy.


Will have the first Mangoes of the season tomorrow while right now,I am off to have my customary bath.
*Debating if I should sweep my room before crashing*

Probably  will.

Hope the weather stays same tomorrow at Dawn.

A Tag Taken Up.

The tagger said that it just might turn out a fun thing some late night. It's more of early morning now, but let that not hamper my mood. :)

1. I'm allergic to Lux. Makes my skin itch. Badly.

2. Low-flying Aeroplanes make me happy. I feel a bubble rise inside me growing bigger and bigger, finally vanishing as the plane disappears.

3. I'm using the mouse-keys right now because my mouse is broken and I don't have the required 200 bucks to get a new one.

4.I don't drink aerated drinks because they are too strong . The fizz hurts my tongue. I no longer remember the taste of coke.

5. I have witnessed the winters here in Kolkata get warmer and warmer these past 4 years, And every summer breaks the record of the last having 'the hottest day of the decade'.

6. Friends come and go, but in some ways, they also stay on.

7. I have a vivid imagination. Sometimes vivid enough to be classified as hallucination.

Writing.

Just through a blessed Easter weekend, it hit me.I've hardly taken out  an hour over the past two months for something that had transformed into a love: blogging. With my PC out of order, I had a ready excuse, but then again, I could have used the one at the library. It 's been a mad, mad time, but I haven't complained even one of the very, very, many days I've woken up with a throbbing pain in my body. "A body as young as mine can adapt"- I told myself every such morning, but there must be something wrong with work that consumes you so that it has started weaning you away from what you love.

It's heartbreaking that I no longer find an inspiration to write, and the few vague thoughts that cry for expression don't find willing hands. I've always believed that fatigue at the end of the day is awesome. It gives you sleep that is therapeutic.I'm not too sure anymore.

I'm not particularly gifted. My posts often come out garbled at the end of the day, but its a release. But glancing behind I  realised  something else too- my posts form a pattern: A pattern of growth.
Its amazing how starkly obvious this pattern was. In the one and a half year of journey this blog  has seen me through, it has amazingly chronicled personal growth.

And with that realisation, came another: You take a large credit for it.
For all my strong belief that I write for myself and my knowledge that I would continue writing even if  there was no one who read it, as indeed I did for almost the first eight months of my blogging, I know that you reading pushes me on to put an effort to make my words readable. And I know that you reading compels me to draw from a reservoir I didn't even know existed, in times such as these.

Someday, I'll find the courage to write as if no one is reading. To strip to an ugliness that's me. But before that I must continue writing what I write, in the process sketching out my imperfections.

And before that someday comes, I'll keep returning, to this lost corner of the cyberspace,drawing comfort even in its imperfections.