Nothing unusual nothing strange
Close to nothing at all
The same old scenario the same old rain
and there's no explosions here

So I dreamt the other day… my dreams, of late, tend to be tepid replay of everyday situations… me queuing up for a movie ticket, minutely observing the dandruff on the shoulders of the guy ahead of me and the likes… but this time, it was different…

Then something unusual something strange
comes from nothing at all
I saw a spaceship fly by your window
did you see it disappear?

Fuelled by everything on television and a movie I’m in love with (Angels in America), I saw a scene from the film- the scene where Mary Louise Parker’s character talks about souls rising, from the earth far below, souls of the dead, of people who had perished, from famine, from war, from the plague, and floating up, like skydivers in reverse, limbs all akimbo, wheeling and spinning. And the souls of these departed joining hands, clasping ankles, and forming a web, a great net of souls, and the souls were three-atom oxygen molecules, of the stuff of ozone, and the outer rim absorbing them, and being repaired…
Amie come sit on my wall and read me the story of Of O
Tell it like you still believe that the end of the century brings a change for you and me
Nothing unusual nothing's changed
Just a little older that's all
But then that’s what life is all about isn’t it? It’s about painful progress. Longing for what we've left behind, and hoping for a better tomorrow…

You know when you've found it there's something I've learned'
cause you feel it when they take it away …
Maybe this is the threshold of revelation…

Mellow...


If you happen to be anywhere in Kolkata now, I would urge you to take a moment… before the gaudy festivities of Diwali take over, before we start welcoming a frayed, watered down winter (purely out of sentimental reasons), take a moment and breathe it all in … the delicious melancholy of “postpujaness”…
Look around, observe a city overwhelmed with a bittersweet hangover— the skeleton of pandals looming comically large over ever para more, the weary, dark-circled eyes of its denizens, the solemn dismantlers who guiltily go about their work of normalizing the façade of the city and the heaps of crumpled silver foils in street corners which bear mute testiomomy to the city's ravenous appetite…
I am ill-equipped in the philosophies of life, but I can tell you one thing, feeling mellow does you a lot of good…

Memories ...
It was supposed to be a quiet afternoon…ma and me will take the afternoon metro to New Market, where she will shop for "parsi lace" (whatever that means) to lace her saree with… enamoured by the quaintness of the endeavour I centred my entire weekend around the trip… after purchasing the parsee lace, we decided we will catch the evening show of Mama Mia…ma will soak in the memories of her ABBA youth, while I sought solace in the collective memories of the 1970s (how I romanticise the 70s)… dinner at Nizams, where ma will tuck into biriyani …I will gnaw at chunks of panir in eerily orange gravy…
Early Sunday morning, we bickered and fell apart as usual… the plan was cancelled… but I have vivid memories of it… an afternoon that never was….

The drip, drip of the long-haul…

Weekends are awful…a prelude to future… though I would lead myself and people around me to believe that there is dignity in loneliness, I do realise that there is nothing noble in being so chronically untouched that a mere whiff of a man standing next to you sends shivers of longing sraight down to your groin…to catch a flash of a young, lean man in the rear view mirror of an autorickshaw and wonder what his mouth tastes like… It’s not just lust, mind you, but a longing for human intimacy… to be held, to be wanted…
When I was younger I had such a vision of a content life… of warm libraries and bare, stark bedrooms… I also, in moments of weaknesses, would dream of finding someone… but one learns one’s limitations... Slowly and kindly it dawns upon you, that at the end you are all alone…

It’s you face am looking for...

If there is one lesson I have learnt in my 27 years of existence, it’s the notion that repressed passion does no one any good. It turns ghosts out of vibrant men…

The sweet and the lowdown

If I were ever to write a novel, this is how it would begin...

It was a Kohima of fond memories that I was born in. Before insurgency, before the gurgling brook that ran through it caught fire. We were four. Ma, Baba (was that what I called him), Mithu and me. We lived, fought and fell out in a rambling 3-bedroom cottage, with two cavernous, perpetually wet toilets. Our house was quaintly perched on a hillock, and there was no concrete road leading to it. Only a neat pile of stone steps that connected it to other hillocks and civilisation …

C R A S H
When I’m alone I keep the television (which is two rooms away) on at night …disembodied voices and signature tunes of shows waft in, lulling me into a very urban sense of security… it’s as if the grotesque soap opera of life is unfolding outside while I bury myself in the blueness of my room… it’s nice this way …
I don’t feel completely alienated from my reality, though it becomes difficult sometimes, to distinguish what has actually occurred from what should have happened…
At times, I spend hours trying to think about people hurtling across the hinterlands in trains at that very moment… it’s a kooky promise I made to myself in a sleep-bereft train journey between Vizag and Howrah almost a decade ago… I had promised that in the security of my home, when I am safely tucked in my bed, I will try and think about those who are
uncomfortably twisting and turning in blue-sheathed bunkers… how fragile yet potent is their existence in these steel boxes… their lives and realities, their loved ones back home and their temporary bonds with fellow passengers, equally palpable and dreamlike…

Sightings

It’s a stunningly bright day…the kind of day which can only signal impending doom …I am walking down Park street, inhaling a fragrant westerly breeze (or isit a whiff of Flurys)… and I’m telling myself —I'm in my early late twenties, my academic career is over and I still live with mom— such are the thoughts flooding my not-so-tiny head when I notice the new McDonald's that was blown up just a few months ago (or was it a year ago).. my God I deserve a break today, I sigh, all I ever get is the unhappy meal…
and that’s when he walks out of the plastic sheathed rubble that is McDonald’s now, like a phoenix rising from ashes… this guy, who is me… I mean who looks like me, so much like me that I'm breathless…
he looks at me for a startled moment and looks away… this guys, who is me…is he my other half? does he have what I don't? did he get the luck? the love? were we destined to meet or was I unwittingly trying to fight destiny by following him down the narrow Mirza Ghalib street? were we really separated forcibly or did he just run off with the good stuff? or did I? will this person embarrass me? will we indulge in awkward, silent sex? Is that how we put ourselves back together again?
Such were the thoughts flooding my not-so-tiny head when I lost the sight of the guy, who is me…

Differences …
So ma decided to renovate our "old" bathroom, you know the ubiquitous bong old bathroom—a cavernous, damp, water stained mess where we do all our laundry (maashi kapor gulo purono bathroom e dhuye nao) and which we surreptitiously guide our guests away from (no, no not that way, the bathroom is this way)… well she decided that it deserves a new lease of life…
bye, bye pink, chipped wash basin and hello gaudy glass basin and glazy blue tiles…
I try not to interfere with ma’s dealings and be judgmental about them, but what do you do when you bathroom looks like the setting of a lurid Sanjay Neela Bhansali dream…
My ma is so …baroque… and I’m so… not baroque… I remember the time ma insisted on hanging this elaborate painting of a waterfall which when plugged to a socket made "soothing waterfall sounds" *shudders* in my room and I relented simply because I wanted to avoid a showdown (we don’t believe in talking things out in the Biswas household)… it just hangs there and I avoid looking at it…the "soothing waterfall sound" however, proves to be a great distraction for my high-strung four-year-old nephew…
I hate the blue, glass basin… I hate washing myself on/in (?) it … I hate the way my foamy spit dribbles down its sides when I am brushing my teeth, it’s like spitting on your dining table…
Sigh…

Eyes...

Let me share this... of recent, i have become a collecter of what i call the "but you could have been so much more" looks... you know , the kind of look people give you when you say or do things which are not in keeping with their perception of you ?the kind of look which leads to a change of attitude? I've been plagued with those...
no matter what i say or how i say it, the shadow looms... today, after losing a battle against invincible forces that subject me to such looks i have decided that i will become a connoisseur of the "but you could have been so much more " looks... i will accept them, and grade them according to the level of intensity...
After all, all forward motion counts...

Life…
As years pass by, my doubts are confirmed… life is designed to be like a Cameron Crowe movie… a bittersweet balance that's funny, melancholic and romantic :-)

Family

They settle down in the next table… the family of three… the mother clearly the decision maker… a stately, middle-aged woman in a black salwar kurta (or was it a sari)… the husband seems defeated- both by age and life (they arent the same thing) … he bends towards his wife, displaying his dandruff-infested shoulders…black is not a colour to wear when you are fighting a losing battle against scaly skin…
The pubescent son is the object of my attention, for obvious reasons :P…he is plain really … hollow-cheeked and lean, like most pubescent boys are… he betrays a strange impatience towards his mother…he almost flinches when she reaches out in her purse to give him some money… shifting his weight from on red canvas shoe to the other…What a strange family, I tell myself… and how disconcerting it is to see them in a coffee shop at this time of the day …
Sitting there, witnessing an awkward family moment, I realise that I'm alone, not in the way this family would recognize… yet, at this moment, I yearn for the familiarity of this dysfunctional family...

Soulmate

Clearly, we are meant to be together… like Jonathan and Clare in A Home at the End of the World…half in love and half seriously contemplating a life together…
Both pilot and captive of the impossible sequence of events that keeps us away…But there she is, inert in a dusty corner of Hyderabad (a city which seems to be hell bent on discarding its glorious past and become a place where grotesque granite and concrete structures are considered to be man's highest form of artistic expression) surrounded by orange t-shirts, empty nutella bottles and walls of chick lits, and here I am, a hapless victim of vanity, pretending to read important books in empty Barista Cafés …

From the archieve...

a post from the Dubai days...

I am male. Wit and charm will only take me so far. What I need is to affirm my maleness. My primordial instinct demands it. A throwback from the time when men like me ruled the plains and hunted everything to near extinction. Fortunately, household chores are a perfect platform for this. So I seek out the big games in my house. Pursue the laundry. Stalk the dishes. Ambush the unmade beds. Corner the garbage bag. Prey on dust bunnies. And I do all these with such poise that it makes alpha male of every species green with envy…

Tra la la la
It goes tra la la, my mind, when I walk down the stretch of wonders that connects Kolkata’s shopping district (Esplanade) to it’s office para (Dalhousie)… It really does go tra la la, maybe the fact that I have my earphones plugged in helps…but tra la la it is… For, armed with a Barista take away cup in one hand and bag of dieters’ sandwich in the other, I play the part of the protagonist of this elaborate American soap opera that I have created for myself, and walking down that stretch, surrounded as it is with some of the most impressive colonial structures you will see in India, is the high point of the episode…and it has to be the title sequence-me walking down, unconcerned, attractive and desired, everything that I am not in real life, and the city being itself, chaotic, inquisitive and probing…sigh ...
Eventually, life happens….

Hours

So here I am then, a man in orange kurta, typing out his feelings. Nothing more, nothing less.
And there is the city outside, blazing under the April sun. Nay, throbbing under it. Everything glowing and pulsating-cars, men, women and buildings. No respite, only greater and lesser degree of brightness.
And there you are. My reader. The powerful one. Armed with the discretion to dismiss me, applaud me or simply flip through.
And we all make sense in our own warped way.

Desire…

It’s a fact most of us refuse to recognise — that you become heartless the moment you are desired. You flinch under the person’s adoring gaze, you feel suffocated by the attention. Then you consider yourself, in all your flaws –the receding hairline, the height, the stunted torso,the incessant need to be heard- and conclude that the person will be disappointed as soon as he or she gets to know you better.
Or maybe you will find the person unattractive for no logical reason whatsoever- there is nothing as repugnant as want in someone’s eyes.
You might kiss that person and it wont matter…it will be a pity kiss…something which will soon become difficult even to remember…
And inside you will feel cold and remote…

Smoke...

I gave him a prissy schoolteacher look…the urchin so brazenly puffing on a cigarette… he is hardly 13- years-old and already smoking, I tsk-tsked …is it laced, I wondered…unaffected, he took another breathy puff… his cheeks hollow… his hair matted… and his lean and hungry body sprawled on the pavement…I could feel the blood rushing to my groin …my lips parted in desire…I considered my erection…it was harmless really…the pitiful lump in my trousers…of no consequence whatsoever…I will not work on it…
But how dirty I felt…

Tears…


At times, when I push her over the edge, I see maa tremble…she is breathing, frothing, rage from head to toe …her mouth opening to say something but overwhelmed by a gush of saliva… it does pain me to see her so … helpless, pathetic and angry…
Yet I push her…waiting for her to collapse… both yearning and dreading the spasms of tears and saliva…like the time I used to take our neighbour’s 4-year-old kid for walks and pretend to abandon him in the middle of the road…he would invariably break into tears, his arms stretched out in a helpless plea… I would rush to him, and promise everlasting companionship only to repeat the trick…
How traumatic it must have been for his tender four-year-old soul…how traumatic it must be for maa’s 54-year-old soul …to be so offended by her own flesh and blood…to be reminded of all the wrong decisions she made in her life by her own son…how unnatural it is to be chastised by one’s own son …
But there is something wonderful about tears I think…there is something so cathartic to see them roll down her cheek…