Remnant of a love

All that remains of us is that fragile phial of perfume at the top most corner of my chest; of drawers.

Well not so fragile I believe, lasted more than us. A tiny bottle of golden liquid packing away the golden sunsets from the chad, the never ending walks and the ever discovering talks.

Bottled away.

Sometimes I would open the drawer and the smell would overwhelm me and make my eyes smart in incensed pain. But hiding under mundane trivialities of life it is only a remnant of an unfinished love.

Greetings from Planet Mars : |

My last post in this blog was published on 29th December, 2009 and then again today. Had been not a math retard I would have tried to calculate after how many I am writing. Within this year, well a lot has happened I have been in and out of love, have been officially declared as incompetent in English by my university, have found a few friends and lost many more. Why am I making this feeble attempt to write? I think it’s largely because I have an exam coming up and I’m so blank I feel white inside.
When I read my former writings I feel as if someone else had written them. I would like to believe I have grown a bit (maturity wise I mean don’t snigger) and wouldn’t be blogging my weird theories and corny jokes so randomly. Besides I realized studying literature was a mistake as I would never understand what good it does to shred and look for meanings within the text. Oh yes… story books have now become texts. More story books have translated into “reference reading”. For someone who has self trained herself to read storybooks to go to sleep, make bus rides more interesting, long journey trains pleasant and to shut out bitter waves in the house…storybooks as text is indeed a difficult thing to accept. Good literature is plenty in this world is something that I have understood hence I should at least blog to increase the number of crappy reading material available.

Yell

I have never been able to ‘spell a rebel yell’ and I never understood why… sometimes the lack of conviction and sometimes the cold fear of losing or loss. Not that I don’t want. I do. In fact more often than not I even initiate the yell; then the gathering dust seems much more inviting, the calm of following and being the contented sort takes over. To demand for an ear and to urge for a glance seems obscene and loud. Thus opinions get thwarted and people drift away.

New Year resolutions …. Snigger not you foul creature.

Do not scorn me, point at me and laugh (well you can do that and I won’t care two pence because I am used to it.)I will make New Year resolutions and vow to keep them. The knight riders may actually win a match, Suhel Seth and Mamata Banerjee might have a passionate, amorous affair and Amitabh Bachan might go into a late retirement but my resolutions will not be broken.
1. I will not have fries, not in Scoop or Mac or Tasty Hotty ( a tiny yet true its name snacks store near our place) . Every time fries lure me with their smell and crispy warm touch I will try to visualize the ocan of oil they have been soaked in.
2. I will not warn random people in our college that our canteen’s chowmein renders men impotent. I will especially not say this because my only proof is a crazy dog who might have been purposefully made impotent so that our canteen owner could direct all his (I mean the dog’s) sexual frustration towards the ones who play cards in the canteen.
3. I will not go on random shopping expedition and be induced to buy clothes I will never wear just because they are cheaper than dirt (really Rs. 10 near park street metro station). I will not be lead by beautiful girls who do the similar task, but actually wear these clothes and look a million dollars in them; they would even in a sack.
I WILL study, even if it’s an hour a day, I WILL STUDY. Very soon my books would be singing “Zara zara touch me touch me touch me”
Ps: I got this joke from someone yesterday.
PPS: if I read these kinds of jokes ever again I swear I will not update them in my blog.
4. I WILL NOT fantasize about a certain professor; I will not sit the first bench of his class and ponder if he looks better in stripes or checks, purple or blue. It is vile, blasphemous, profane… but oh he is so … SORRY.
5. I will try to remember the names of all my friends’ boyfriends even if they change on a weekly or monthly basis. I will not mess up social gatherings by calling someone’s present partner by their previous’s name. If a certain friend has more than one partner I will select the right name from the list and assign the correct name to the face. If two of best friends share one guy, not platonically, I will try and admire their generosity. Boyfriends telling their girls choose between drinks, cigarette and me…girls choosing the later with pride, charvachauth mangalsutra style…I will not mock these situations anymore.
6. I will pray to the crow ‘mata’ or ‘pita’…. (Do the crows follow a matriarchal or patriarchal society? I guess patriarchal they are quite similar to us) so that the united crows of Kolkata stop shitting on me. It is amazing how united they can be, Indians should learn from them. From Jaya to Priya, from College Street to Gariahat wherever I go crows bless me from above. It is not restricted to crows now a days, a tiny baby wet on me the other day… I know I have a shitty appearance and personality but does that usher in something similar? And it’s contagious; people who are generally around me have become a victim even when I’m not around.

There a million things that I need to do… like lose weight, write blogs of substance, read good books like Camus, Kafka and quote them in the right places and get through life without falling into ruts in every second step. So heres to the end of a decade, a year and to the beginning of another crappy new year!

Of national concern

I had almost stopped blogging probably would have done so if something of national concern wasn’t pressing me. Few days ago I settled down with a piping hot plate of biriyani and mutton tikiya and a smoking hot girl in front of me to share the food with. We took our first spoonful when this friend of mine pricked up her ears and said “isn’t the song familiar?” I strained my ears expecting to hear ‘tunir ma’ but what came to ears was something sounded faintly like the national anthem. Imagine, an evening of 15 degree Celsius and you have just paid one fifth of your pocket money for a plate of biriyani when you are forcefully pulled away by your sense of patriotism and you have to stand with a spoon in your hand and a mind full of swear words.
I think we have a great deal of hullaballoo made over patriotism and things related to it. All those rich nations… say U.K, U.S.A. and Australia (I mentioned these three because I kind of get confused regarding their flags) make money out of spreading their patriotism even to other nations. Go to any local market you’ll find handkerchiefs of these nations and every Raj or Rahul wearing them to Mohan Bagan or East Bengal matches, if not a India versus Australia match. There are thongs being made out of American flags the least we can do is have our own handkerchiefs. I mean what skewered sense of patriotism makes a government declare a dry day on the Independence Day? Make liquor legal, available and earn more revenue. This weird sense of nationality plays the national anthem in the movie theatres, it doesn’t matter that the movie you are watching later is an Emran Hashmi movie.
Besides our national anthem is not even appropriate any more, already three states are not mentioned in the anthem and there are more to come. I wonder who would write your next national anthem. If I could assign a lyricist I think it would be the composer of tunir ma or Phoebe.

There are hammers singing in my head.

Mad angles … Bingo

In the traffic police box, right in the centre of our four point crossing, there stands a mad man. Somehow a mad man or a crazy person does not have the vibrancy of the word ‘paagaol’. Lunatic? It comes close… but people have saturated the word dipping it too often in Pink Floydish connotations.
The crossing, bound with morose looking zebra crossing at its four sides suddenly blooms with a burst of colours in the middle. A traffic controlling madman takes the centrifugal attention. The green, yellow, red lights do not really obey his gleeful gestures. But the orange patched pajama wearing madman suddenly reminds the people trapped behind the black and white bars of the road, of the colours of life. For a moment the ‘9-o-clocks’ are forgotten and the briefcases turn into magic kits.
I have often found madmen taking up the role of a traffic sergeant, at crossings, pointing us to the right directions , we refuse to accept.

PS: I ruin it with the title don't I?