tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57577919953024205382024-02-07T00:15:52.079-08:00Opinionated BystandersRiju Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03980401288459447257noreply@blogger.comBlogger19125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5757791995302420538.post-5706373799205056252011-07-07T03:27:00.000-07:002011-07-21T11:39:13.154-07:00Terminus<div>Blog ended here. Bye.</div><div><br /></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgow2hHM-9yRzGF2gcnWbyw3gJbOw9Cs53e7Wwdg_HDyBRCHHBEVCD5TO3pRaDYailXV0QSXE2G2AP1LwSD9pSHUe9mfpIo5g4lb3nPd_IKX8qqPiwAt7p8r_Eign1GAqS9WhGzaD9UUXY/s400/Boring.jpg" style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 350px; height: 125px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626556024246657330" /></div>Riju Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03980401288459447257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5757791995302420538.post-44392455765683489172011-06-30T22:36:00.000-07:002011-07-01T01:47:56.664-07:00The Floating Room<p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Now that Kolkata’s famous monsoons have set in, the view outside the window has undergone some significant changes. No traces remain of the lively neighborhood made bright by the white, blazing streets of Mangalam Park. Instead there lay a dim world dripping with moisture, which might be considered anything between romantic and dull, depending on your mood.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span"><b>Here, I should give some credit to the peculiar position of my window. The entire scene outside is bisected by the compound wall into two equal halves- a typical Behala slum on the left, and Mangalam Park on the right. In fact, the wall would’ve run right through us, had it not swerved left at the last moment, to accommodate our building into the compound premises. Any viewer from here would get a god-like perception, being able to supervise two worlds that can’t see or interact with each other, thanks to th</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><b>e nine feet high divider (and other reasons).</b></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>The slum lanes, though obsolete, are populated at all times. On rainy days, several lazy hours go by observing the slum people wading up and down through knee-deep water, mostly cursing each other. The well-drained streets of the complex, however, usually remain vacant, except for few cars and occasional raincoat/umbrella clad pedestrians, for the rains are usually avoided.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b><span style="line-height: 115%; ">Sometimes on seeing people walk by under the protection of an umbrella, I can’t help but wonder how fun it would be to snipe them through the mock shield. Oh well.</span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Several times in this year, the rain has been heavy enough to limit one’s eyesight within a small radius. Gazing out into endless torrential rain gives nothing short of a euphoric feeling. Everything’s smudged with the downpour and its resultant mist which hovers over every possible obstacle. The spray-layered earth seems distant and faded, and almost identical to the overcast sky. As the rain grows heavier still, the panes need to be shut to restrict the water. The surroundings disappear, and nothing remains in the endless watery universe of diffused light. Except you and your floating room.</b></span></p><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA2Vz05jji_sIf4O_GOBA_Zkxw-fbnBbATKCJnI1hZdGP5cZNA6UFVo98yUWg-8y42-koS5bPzevJAEQQ2DFkuKgz46gQEuCZBa-jn2NEsqKzQUcOFVu7F3OB3cZn5YYRdNMBs5vVMj2M/s400/Window.jpg" style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 100px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624287350690187426" />Riju Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03980401288459447257noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5757791995302420538.post-51697179655010478222011-04-07T08:32:00.000-07:002011-07-01T00:53:45.121-07:00Perils of an Innocent Mind<p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Keeping the rather interesting fact in mind that the primary (and probably, the only) reader of this blog is me- myself, I’ve decided to come up with another perfectly self-centered post. Let’s just say, it’s meant to be a preservative to my current self, amidst the ever-changing state of things and mind.</b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Either this will jog your memory, or it won’t.</b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span"><b>One of your articles has appeared in a local magazine. You start reading, with a feeling of utter satisfaction, pitying the inferior beings around you, and then suddenly, the sky comes crashing dow</b></span><b>n. The cause of this unprecedented state of super-shock is simple; you've come across a fragment which goes like this- “…and so the came up the stairs…”</b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>If this satanic robbery of a ‘y’ causes no little gulp of terror or increase in pulse, you should skip this post immediately. By all means, thank your stars that you’re not a nitpicker or a stickler; that you are suitable to live in a world where no one cares.</b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span"><b>For any true perfectionist, the presence of a ‘the’ in place of ‘they’ would initiate a horrifying private emotional process similar to the early stages of mental illness, though significantly accelerated. At first, the mind goes numb. Within seconds, numbness gives way to distress, distress to agony, and agony to fury. Finally, fury gives way to hopelessness, on realization </b></span><b>that the print is real and eyes are mostly truthful.</b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>That was merely an example. The perils of the innocent mind of a perfectionist are endless. The world is full of flaws and asymmetry, both within and without oneself. Some people are born to suffer. Only last month, I had taken a painful 20mins’ auto ride to Akash’s house in order to publish “Returning Home” (my last post). I was quite happy till the glorious moment when I actually returned home, and discovered, from cell, that the starting had a serious grammatical flaw. Yeah, returning home isn’t very delighting sometimes. Naturally, the very next day, I was back at his place under the excuse of collecting movies.</b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>It’s tough to be a stickler under the present circumstances. Be one for grammar and punctuation, and you’ll see floating sentences such as “hey!!! hows u…????///”, all around yourself. Be one for punctuality and you’ll end up spending half your lifetime waiting around for other people to show up. Be one for cleanliness and… okay, I shouldn’t start describing Indian streets here; my country owes me that much, at least, for bringing home the World Cup.</b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span"><b>Everywhere one stares, there are marks of neglect a</b></span><b>nd indifference. When we try to point out a missing ‘y’, demanding correction, we are often aggressively advised to “get a life” by people who, astonishingly, exhibit no indication of having lives themselves. Obviously, we become introverts and refrain from revealing our insights, under such unreceptive conditions. There’s little hope for sympathy for pedants, as we are not the first people one feels sorry for. To be precise, we are a bunch of unattractive geeky maniacs, who have learned to tackle the cruel world by pulling the zip over their anxious lips, restricting every form of free movement.</b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>To any secondary reader, who has taken the pains to sink down this far into the post and felt any hint of self-recognition anywhere among the lengthy jumble of words, you have a comrade in me. To others, uh… I don’t intend to live twice.</b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span"><b>P.S. My apologies, but I've been randomly picking up writing styles from authors and article writers. It’s completely subconscious; I was amazed myself on d</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><b>iscovering the striking similarity in patterns. As they say, originality is a thing developed over time, and I’ll keep awaiting mine, for the time being.</b></span></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; font-size: small; "><b><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdZXMCAR0kZKctqMe_ukBEG9yq9AgzLAxaMJ9R_QOpLZ_hYCiUszblr9bzXxF9jVBSzRl-cPsf1DXTegrORB4GNwc81vTLhzhTuXWPeAXKCckslqb95KYNDHvPCm9TpG7MfOU76RAvdJ0/s400/Teeth.jpg" style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 350px; height: 125px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5592865874823913378" /></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><br /></b></span>Riju Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03980401288459447257noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5757791995302420538.post-62458866198535480582011-03-17T05:08:00.000-07:002011-07-01T00:54:50.368-07:00Returning Home<div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >Misty, winter twilights have an unconventional way of overwhelming me. It’s sadistic. On 9th December, I knew that the last homewards journey from school would be more memorable than the last day itself. It’s not that anything special happened. In fact, a premature darkness had set in due to an overcast sky. By the time I got off the bus, the world was lit, mostly, via blazing streetlights and shops.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >There is a 15min walk from the main road to Mangalam Park, through a twisted network of alleys. Unfamiliar people are bound to get lost, but once you get used to it, the locality is worthy of appreciation. It’s through these lanes that I’ve been returning home for the past 7 years, and attachments do develop.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >I wonder how the very idea of returning home changes over the years. Initially, it’s bliss; walking away from the horrible educational building, hand-in-hand with mom. A little later, it’s about rushing back in a desperate attempt to catch the last bits of your favorite cartoon, the timing of which is always just a bit too early. Then, slowly, as these compulsions begin to disappear, it’s just about returning home.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b><span class="Apple-style-span">On a warm, summer dusk, you can walk back slowly, arms supporting the back of a thrown-back head, whistling softly to a tune of the season, </span></b><b><span class="Apple-style-span">with the red sky radiating a soothing heat and a warm breeze fanning the untidy hair, messed up with the activities of the day. A beautiful picture. Just that: neither can I whistle, nor does the heavy backpack allow much luxury. And I actually mind weird glances from fellow pedestrians. So, it’s not as perfect as one would want it to be, but nevertheless, enjoyable.</span></b></span></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >There’s the monsoon, when it absolutely HAS to rain every day, during this short period of ‘returning home’. Being a lazy person, I find it easier to enjoy the shower, than to open the backpack and take out the neatly tied-up umbrella. According to the norms in Kolkata, it’s seldom more than a slight drizzle, and there’s nothing like the pleasure of bathing in a fine spray. Heavy rains are best avoided, as they tend to spoil the books inside the ‘waterproof’ bag.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b><span class="Apple-style-span">However, the best attraction of the monsoon remains the sight of people on the glossy streets. There’s nothing more fascinating than a figure concealed from head to toe, with a firmly held umbrella hiding the face from the </span></b><b><span class="Apple-style-span">halogen lights. Reminds me of detectives in some distant way.</span></b></span></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >During winter, the retreating light is bothersome, and you can’t help feeling a sharp remorse for spending another useless day at school. There are so many things to be done. More than what can be done in a lifetime. And here we are, wasting perfect days learning shit in school; most of which would be forgotten within days. Or hours, perhaps.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >It is this lonely remorse, which is unbearably addictive, and what made 9th December memorable.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >I remember, back in lower classes, I had to tread these walks for all my tuitions too. The lessons would conclude by 9:30pm and we would be free to fool around till 11. Of course mom would get terribly mad initially, but then she yielded, giving up all hopes of the bright future she had planned for me. I miss those carefree, happy days.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >Yes, I probably won’t miss school that much, but I will definitely miss returning home.</span></b></div></div><div><br /></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVnRFOUnDsIrnO737Hf39MPdCAHzQwcizCXJ2KdqqnF1FqUI9GZnfiVbha_Rj4xm7uldQyiu6yNkYpRp80aCqNgLqJq2eqtsfkiDYA-CljC4sdtiGr90iEeyJE077stb4jvI8VhmDC35o/s400/Home.jpg" style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 350px; height: 125px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5585020287527649890" /></div>Riju Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03980401288459447257noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5757791995302420538.post-14143485170521192092011-03-14T05:12:00.000-07:002011-07-01T01:29:34.477-07:00Feathered Clouds<div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Once again they scatter; a whirlpool of randomness.</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Lazy, searching eyes drift across and rest,</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>On a form akin to avian wings.</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Concrete soothes my back, firm and still,</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>High, surrounding walls bind me to a world unreal,</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>A world of queens and kings.</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Wings they were, no doubt; what use were wings to clouds?</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>I gazed and wondered from the highest part of my house,</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Wondered at the subtle tease.</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Somewhere deep inside, a promise was made,</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>That of great heights; a skyscraper built in a head,</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>One that won’t be ascended with ease.</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Yet come down, I must, and so must those clouds,</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>But they will have had the gaze of a million crowds,</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Gazes of awe, from people aroused.</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Gentle panic sets in, dampened by thoughts of people,</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>The majority; who think they see,</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>But are yet to look beyond the concrete beneath me,</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>The highest concrete of the house.</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Once again they scatter; a whirlpool of randomness,</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Lazy eyes observe the mess, the wings were gone,</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>There I rested on the terrace, till the day was done.</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b><br /></b></span></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>(A tribute to Pink Floyd)<br /></b></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b><br /></b></span></i></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0cEi0hT-fBMEVsRHS-jFW0G82dQxsgkWJkgw6Q2pQ3mKBj0NRJkzAVyqe1xShFpymJ5440BTrd8fr31tLd3-G3-X8-p-UWMzpd5bkkCtU17_s10xNaOlZ_F38AiqPpRBi63e3syXz_no/s400/Poet.jpg" style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 100px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624298099902174226" />Riju Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03980401288459447257noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5757791995302420538.post-53834465286370137752010-12-03T01:24:00.000-08:002011-07-01T00:56:47.011-07:00Piano Man<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Author: Billy Joel</b></span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b><br /></b></span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>It's nine o'clock on a Saturday,</b></span></div></span></span><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>The Regular crowd shuffles in, </b></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>There's an old man sitting next to me, </b></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Makin' love to his tonic and gin. </b></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b><br /></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>He says, "Son, can you play me a memory, </b></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>I'm not really sure how it goes, </b></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>But it's sad and it's sweet and I knew it complete, </b></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>When I wore a younger man's clothes." </b></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b><br /></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Sing us a song, you're the piano man, </b></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Sing us a song tonight, </b></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Well, we're all in the mood for a melody, </b></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>And you've got us feelin' alright. </b></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b><br /></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Now John at the bar is a friend of mine, </b></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>He gets me my drinks for free, </b></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>And he's quick with a joke or to light up your smoke, </b></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>But there's someplace that he'd rather be. </b></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>He says, "Bill, I believe this is killing me", </b></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>As the smile ran away from his face, </b></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>"Well I'm sure that I could be a movie star, </b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>If I could get out of this place". </b></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b><br /></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Now Paul is a real estate novelist, </b></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Who never had time for a wife, </b></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>And he's talkin' with Davy, who's still in the Navy, </b></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>And probably will be for life. </b></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b><br /></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>And the waitress is practicing politics, </b></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>As the businessmen slowly get stoned, </b></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Yes, they're sharing a drink they call loneliness, </b></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>But it's better than drinkin' alone. </b></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b><br /></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Sing us a song you're the piano man, </b></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Sing us a song tonight, </b></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Well we're all in the mood for a melody, </b></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>And you got us feeling alright. </b></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b><br /></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>It's a pretty good crowd for a Saturday, </b></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>And the manager gives me a smile, </b></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>'Cause he knows that it's me they've been comin' to see, </b></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>To forget about life for a while. </b></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b><br /></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>And the piano, it sounds like a carnival, </b></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>And the microphone smells like a beer, </b></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>And they sit at the bar and put bread in my jar, </b></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>And say, "Man, what are you doin' here?". </b></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b><span class="Apple-style-span"></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></b></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Sing us a song you're the piano man, </b></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Sing us a song tonight, </b></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Well we're all in the mood for a melody, </b></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>And you got us feeling alright.<br /></b></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheeBGbXyJtdWnJrAYldeEhAVexyXmKUDELCAxGKTK5VkM_Xg5nVz7McWjgogIXcS2qI3NiyRJAhY6_S0v0Wl1sPuf3tfbelaM045A6_kyqx4eq3LjC4fX2110hAHqwv3Ei46Ko-VWQGQg/s400/Piano.jpg" style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 350px; height: 125px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546385718054543282" /></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Riju Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03980401288459447257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5757791995302420538.post-37034575865129912742010-11-10T04:19:00.000-08:002015-03-15T00:54:40.599-07:00Just a thought<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>Foreword:</i><br />
<br />
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></i></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><i><span class="Apple-style-span">To start with, let me tell you, this is just an expression of some wild ideas I had yesterday.</span><br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span">Don’t tell me stuff I already know, like “it’s crazy” or “it’s dumb”. My logic goes like this- We always talk about ghosts as supernatural beings formed after our death. But it defies me what reasons these entities might have to harm us.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></i></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><i><span class="Apple-style-span">Why can’t there be other invisible, supernatural species altogether, which has no connection to humans at all? Maybe there are, and maybe ‘our’ ghosts protect us from them in some und</span></i></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><i><span class="Apple-style-span">efined way. And maybe we keep saying we’re scared of our protectors.</span><br /></i></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><i>Few days ago, on Halloween, we were on the C-1 terrace of our complex with night vision cameras and all, trying to make a ghost movie. We found an empty bed and few bundles under the rooftop tank. Somehow, I decided to write this cracked story on the same setting.</i></span></span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span">*************</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span">“Eew! Don’t tell me we’ll sleep here!” Katie said, making a horrible face at my precious makeshift bedroom. Well, it didn’t actually qualify for a bedroom. Just a folding bed tucked under the water tank of a terrace, with clothes bundled together to serve as pillows</span><br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span">“Yup, this is it.” I sighed.</span><br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span">We had gathered after almost a year. With the ever increasing study-load, we didn’t get leaves at all. So we decided to make the most out of the Halloween holiday. Obviously, I wouldn't have been allowed to let her stay over at my place due to strict parents, and her place was full with relatives as usual. We had no choice but to come here, which had been my childhood hideout.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></span></b></span></span></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">“This place is scary!” She said, looking shocked.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></span></b></span></span></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">“Uff, I’m there with you toh.”</span><br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span">“Aren’t YOU scared?”</span><br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span">“I didn’t have the liberty to be scared away from a creepy place and have you at the same time. So I picked the latter.” I smiled.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></span></b></span></span></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">At this, she burst out laughing and gave me a quick kiss.</span><br /></span></span></b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">“You’re so irresistible at times” She said, putting on a sexy pout. We entered the dark place, stooping uncomfortably to save our heads from the low ceiling. But once we got into bed and started chatting, we were quite easy. Katie had this amazing ability of keeping any conversation lively and interesting, irrespective of the topic. We talked for hours. Then, just when she was about to start all the good stuff, the entire place lit up suddenly.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></span></b></span></span></span></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">“What the….!” Katie jumped up, and ended up banging her head against the ceiling. It was a group of teens with flashlight</span></span></span></b></span></span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">s and handycams!</span></span></span></b></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /><span class="Apple-style-span">“Don’t you think it’s strange that there’s a bed here?” one of them asked the other.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span">“Yeah” the other replied.</span><br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span">They kept swinging the flashlights from side to side, exploring the place. I saw Katie’s bewildered expression turn into that cute devilish grin, which I was so crazy about.</span><br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span">“Well, well, well! You never said living humans wander willingly right into your hideout!” I could see her canines glowing in the light, and her eyes lighting up in excitement.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></span></b></span></span></span></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">“This is the first time I’m seeing them here. Anyway, you know we can’t eat them, honey” I said gravely.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></span></b></span></span></span></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">“Why not?!” she looked at me incredulously, as if I had gone mad.</span><br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span">“Don’t you even read the newspapers? There’s so much hype over this particular article.”</span><br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span">“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></span></b></span></span></span></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">“You must’ve heard that we’re slowly lo</span></span></span></b></span></span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">sing our grip on the war against ghosts. A group of scientists working on humans proved yesterday that new ghosts aren’t born from darkness, as was previously believed, but when humans are killed. The government says we can’t afford to deal with more of those horrible creatures. So killing humans for sport or consumption has been permanently banned.”</span></span></span></b></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /><span class="Apple-style-span">“You must be shitting me!” she looked on in disbelief.</span><br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span">“No dear. We had been actually ‘creating’ the enemy all along.”</span><br /></span></span></b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">“There’s nothing interesting here guys. Let’s check the other side of the terrace” one teen from the group concluded. With this they left, leaving us in darkness.</span></span></span></b></span></span></span></span></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPTYyQv-boy6eijQMqv6fs6A8kg9cXucKivAsgZqE-nMZdfXvm1B9q7W_QT9y9tk4yzI-L1ZoHs5jWuLXD-I_fuC58k8-4t5skuYVaJMcmemF0qJok61niIcN4vPGzZ53qVTj7p71YMws/s400/Invisible.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625407240379006578" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 100px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 400px;" /></div>
Riju Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03980401288459447257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5757791995302420538.post-80620804916167069372010-10-31T22:07:00.000-07:002011-07-01T01:01:01.963-07:00Happy Tales<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">Looking down at the millions of living people from this lonely spot by the window, it seems like everyone is playing up to a sick joke. But have we ever taken a little time out and asked ourselves, why? Get best grades in school, get into the best college, get the best job, take good care of family, and then…?</span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /><br /></span></span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b>Basically, we all just want to be happy. “Happiness is not the goal, it’s a by-product” – is a highly misleading statement. We keep doing things blindly, believing they would help us achieve a happy future. Trying, working inhumanly, giving up everything for the cause – all good, but the thing is, is it really worth it?<br /></b><br /><b>I’ve never believed in sacrificing the present for a better future. Looking back at my life till 10th grade, I don’t regret all the disappointing report cards, but the fact that I’ve missed out on so much. Learning guitar, swimming, good books, etc. And now I’m too busy. Even now, I feel pathetic when my parents urge me to sacrifice almost everything for studies. ‘It is the main goal, rests are useless distractions’ – they say.</b><br /><b>Ultimately, we tend to forget the real goal. Happiness. And compromising is the last thing that can ever make you happy.</b><br /><br /></span></span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b>Preserving the best for the last. Our happy tale. Unfortunately, humans have evolved away their tails. And now we end up with nothing but a sore butt.<br /></b><b><br />Frankly, I don’t get the point of this post. Baseless grievances on something out of my hands, I guess.</b><br /><br /></span></span></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" >"Imagine all the people living for today…</span></span></i></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" >You may say that I'm a dreamer,</span></span></i></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" >But I'm not the only one.</span></span></i></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I hope someday you'll join us,</span></span></i></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" >And the world will live as one."<br /></span></span></i></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></span></i></span></span></span></div></span></span><div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOEDq9lcAmxHQ4jS29ILrAtnjxtKofwf_oeaE15bvQ46yK8X-YZD9Dp3CV2DRIO4xpikr9tEnJSEM_tEge72g-KFX7F_K-wNACbi4jxIk3tYLbOwmT7fpLlejQb7Y4r3wDZvRuq1WxbKI/s400/Window.jpg" style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 100px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624290370888321218" /></div></div>Riju Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03980401288459447257noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5757791995302420538.post-49241077058999658892010-10-18T00:39:00.000-07:002011-07-01T01:01:59.422-07:00Very funny, huh?<span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b>This Nabami, a large group had gathered, and we were having discussions about supernatural stuff. Things were getting quite creepy. The elder guys were telling real life stories about few strange things that they’ve witnessed. We heard about a worker, who fell through a lift shaft while Mangalam Park was being built, and got barbequed on a rod below. We heard the story of strange noises on A2’s terrace at night. We heard about celebrity ghosts caught on tape. And many more.<br /><br />Abesh da came up with an incident which really gave me chills, for the first time in the entire conversation. Believing it is up to the reader. I’ll narrate his words--<br /><blockquote>When I was in fourth year of Medical College, a strange happening was published in the college’s weekly editorial. It was about ragging, which was pretty common in our hostel. The seniors would make the girls do embarrassing stuff like erotic dancing, smoking etc. One girl came, who was kind of a daredevil. She openly refused to do as the senior guys said. Because she was a girl, the seniors could not beat her up, as they would’ve done in case of a boy. So, they planned something else.<br /><br />Unlike the boys, the girls had single rooms for themselves. The seniors obtained a severed hand from the lab and kept it under her bed sheet. When she entered her room at night, the guys bolted her from outside and switched off the main power supply of the hostel. After few minutes, she started banging the door desperately from inside at first. She must’ve discovered the hand. The guys went off laughing and returned in about fifteen minutes. The banging had stopped. Finally, they unbolted the door and asked her to come out. But there was no reply.<br /><br />They got scared.</blockquote><blockquote> She might’ve got a heart attack or something. They scanned the dark room with torches. But it was empty. The bed sheets were on the ground and the room was in a mess with books thrown all over the floor. She must’ve jumped from the window. They were discussing whether to look down, when someone’s torch fell on the almirah.<br /><br />She was crouching there, on top of the almirah, chewing the hand.<br /><br />That's what frightful shocks can do to you. She had to be taken to a mental hospital.</blockquote><br /></b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b>Moral of the story: All tricks are not funny.</b></span></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b><br /></b></span><div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxxxo_QSJ9LhDqd_xH5yJcGMNlewTquGTlmnpGQyKku1woKQFlO2wsAvizz3HyluODlTKm-bnm4eySqLV_kqb1ouojDswC3_R8KvhOASkVAr26Zu8eaM0nS1mOSMnjgbUNJJ7CebXxg4M/s400/I%2527m+hungry.jpg" style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 350px; height: 125px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5547102955789620098" /></div></div></div>Riju Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03980401288459447257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5757791995302420538.post-26297009617955539732010-10-17T23:41:00.000-07:002010-10-17T23:42:17.756-07:00Pujas at Mangalam ParkPujas at Mangalam Park are always special. Partly because I get to see my complex mates only during festivals. Durga Puja provides the best five days of the year. Yes, I do have to face ridicules from school mates and relatives for not going pandal hopping or on trips. But these ridicules bring a strange pleasure, the kind of pleasure you get while being mocked for listening to The Beatles, while others are praised for loving Miley.<br /><br />This year was the best and the last. Our group was not as lively without Vishu, but we enjoyed nevertheless. And I can feel people around me maturing. The change is just too intense to be ignored, especially in people whom you meet after a gap of 365 days. Well, I have enough reasons to miss MP after I leave, and I’m glad about it. =)Riju Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03980401288459447257noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5757791995302420538.post-76758694372701932552010-09-27T00:39:00.000-07:002015-03-15T00:40:00.877-07:00Solitary musings<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span">It’s a quarter after 12, and I can’t sleep tonight. I’ve been listening to a radio program which gave its concluding speech, promising to return next Sunday. So, I switch to some Coldplay music instead. It is barely audible above the clattering of rain against the window pane beside me.</span></span></b><br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></b>
<br />
<div>
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span">A white sheet of paper is spread out on the table in front of me, under the lit table lamp. I’m sitting with heavy eyes and a pen in my hand. All ready to start writing.</span></span></b></div>
<div>
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span">The atmosphere of the room brings a pleasant chill. Mostly, it is engulfed in darkness, the faint lamp being the only source of light. The packing boxes and the huge pile of books throw enormous and awkward shadows behind them, creating obscure dimensions on the feebly pale walls. Frequently, dazzling flashes would submerge the room, killing all shades, followed by ear-splitting thunder, which would leave the glass panes trembling.</span></span></b><br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></b></div>
<div>
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span">If you look outside the window, you see a prevailing reflection of the lamp along with your own dull face staring back at you through the watery mess. Beyond that, you see the smudged yellow rays of glowing streetlights. They sca</span></span></b><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">tter to new patterns of randomness with each strike of raindrops. You notice a delicate layer of mist on the inner side of the glass. You can scribble non-sense with your fingertips, and laugh at your own silliness as the results fade away. Laugh, by yourself.</span></b></div>
<div>
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></b></div>
<div>
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span">I stare blankly at the paper in front of me. I have always felt a peculiar sentiment towards blank papers and canvases. No matter what marks I make on them, I can never match my own expectations. Sometimes, I prefer neat, vacant exercise copies to some story books, dreaming of greater things that can be created on them…</span></span></b><br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></b></div>
<div>
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span">This abnormality in me has led to a hobby of collecting unused diaries of passing years. What should’ve been written in them, are stacked up in MS Word documents instead. Often, dad would rebuke me for wasting such nice diaries. But I’ve never cared. There were times, few years back, when he would take a diary without my permission, and use it to scribble down notes for career exams. That would make me real mad. Later, I would collect the discarded, half-filled diaries, and cut away the used pages, like a doctor amputating an incurable leg of a patient. It all seems so childish now. I still collect empty diaries, but not with such devotion.</span></span></b><br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></b></div>
<div>
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span">The screen of my silenced cell appears suddenly out of the darkness, amidst the pile of books. 1 message received. I have no wish to reply though, but it reminds me of the existence of people in the world. Assured by the fact that I’m not the lone sinner, I decide to waste the paper in the worst way possible. Sketching my haphazard mind.</span></span></b><br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></b></div>
<div>
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span">And now, I have a blog post.</span></span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></b></div>
<img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0WF0dG42s9bks-fajgXE_CC8VbQkk58m-hIPU_1uGdICADXXsc9t5cQD9Fy4hmn5l0-9dM12P5cYMbdKzFTsfbqQMzuP3ttyvKfzqxKrlk4lwc_OQ7ST5oZH0xy2HvAdRlFSFrBNDzd4/s400/Calvin.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546087761806997650" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 125px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 350px;" /></div>
Riju Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03980401288459447257noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5757791995302420538.post-59566724583509971402010-09-13T10:12:00.000-07:002010-09-29T04:39:06.837-07:00Down the fantasy lane<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It’s astonishing how my dreams and realities find a way to merge themselves at the back of my head. This is due to my strange memory, to some extent. When I suddenly fish out old, deserted memories, I often find myself confused whether it’s a real one. It has happened numerous times, but never as commandingly as the story I’m going to share.<br /><br />When I was in class 10, I had a sudden urge to continue my coin collection, which I had given up due to boredom. I found the dusty pouch of foreign coins at a corner of my shelf. I emptied its contents on the bed to survey what I already had. Two small, golden coins caught my eye. They were coupled together with a rubber band, which had turned into a molten, gooey mass due to the heat of confinement. I could have sworn I had never seen them before.<br /><br />‘Royal Government of Bhutan’ – I observed after getting rid of the messy band. I remembered, vaguely at first, and then clearly, as if it were yesterday.<br /><br /><br /></span></span></b><blockquote><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We had gone to Bhutan in 8th grade, I think. Another family had accompanied us. Uncle Arun, his wife, and Leena (his daughter) who was a year younger than me, and who looked a hell lot like Ankana. Uncle Arun was Dad’s colleague at work.<br /><br />I had just started my coin collection back then, and was quite obsessed with it. I decided to bring back one specimen of every Bhutanese coin available. But I was highly disappointed when I found that only one variety of coins was available – 1 Ngultrum. I could get a thousand of those (in fact I brought back dozens), but not a single different model. People mostly used notes.<br /><br />One evening, Leena and I were left waiting at a restaurant for some reason. Our parents were away somewhere. I noticed an young European sitting alone at a table. He was slowly stirring a spoon in his coffee absent mindedly. He seemed to be the timid type and after a great deal of hesitation, I approached him, dragging along Leena with me.<br /><br />“Sir…I…I collect coins. Can you…um…give me any coin of your country?” I have issues with spoken English at times when it really counts.<br />He smiled apologetically and said, “I’m carrying only Bhutanese currency at this moment. Foreign money is no use here.”<br />“Oh…it’s fine”, I said disappointed.<br />“But sit down. I have something interesting for you”, he said gesturing at two seats facing him.<br /><br />Foreigners, especially Western people, have this extraordinary ability to develop short, enjoyable acquaintances, which most Indians miserably lack. I have noticed this every time I’ve interacted with them.<br /><br />We sat down. He took out his wallet and produced two golden coins. “You might not have these. They’re not very common.” he said.<br /><br />Both coins were identical in all respects. One side had an abstract pattern which looked like two dumbbells overlapping at right angles. On the other side, an intricate design was engraved, which showed two fish kissing each other, with silky strings spiraling around them, holding them together in a tight embrace. Inscribed near the circumference in small letters were- Twenty five Chhetrum, Royal Government of Bhutan, 1979, and few words in Bhutanese language.<br /><br />“I have a small story behind this”, the European said, smiling, “Care to listen?”<br />“Yes… tell us.”<br />“Ah…” he cleared his throat and began. “I’ll brief it. Two years ago, I got married. We came to Bhutan for our honeymoon. My wife took a fancy in these…” he said indicating the coins.<br />“These are supposed to be symbols of love. She made me keep one in my purse, and she kept one in her handbag. That way we were supposed to be eternally bonded” he chuckled, as if mocking the silliness of his own words.<br />“We went back home. The </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">eternal bond</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> lasted a year and half.” he stressed on the words ‘eternal bond’ sarcastically; “We developed some problems and got divorced. And her parting gift was her damned coin,” there was a hint of anger in his voice. Then he burst out laughing again. I was beginning to feel scared. He must’ve been mad with grief to be laughing at something like that.<br />Finally stopping his laughter, he concluded calmly, “Well, the point is, I’d like to get rid of them. In fact, I am re-visiting Bhutan for the very purpose. Take ‘em.”<br />“Thank you. We’ll pay when dad…” He stopped me with a gesture of his hand.<br />“You’re doing me a favor, kid” he said with a playful wink, “Have a nice day.”<br /><br />As soon as we were out of his audible range, Leena turned to me.<br />“What did he say?” she asked. Then, seeing the incredulous look developing on my face, she added in a matter-of-fact way, “Couldn’t understand his accent.”<br />“Good for you.” I replied, completely bored.<br />“He gave you two. Give me one.”<br />She extended her palm, expecting me to hand over a coin, as if it were candy. ‘You don’t know the first thing about coins’, I wanted to scream. However, I controlled myself.<br />“I can’t do that.” I stated solemnly.<br />“Why not?”<br />“Because they are love coins. He said a man gives one to the woman he loves, and keeps the other.”<br />“Oh! Never mind!” she said, snatching away her hand and blushing violently.<br /></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">* Winks at readers. ^_~ *</span></i></span></b></blockquote><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /><br /><br />A mentioned earlier, this memory came back to me in class 10. I told everyone about the incident, and didn’t forget it again. Now, 2 years later, while I was cleaning my bookshelf, I found a pocket diary. It was a record of the Bhutan trip. I had totally forgotten about its existence. I went through it and made a strange discovery.<br /><br /></span></span></b><blockquote><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">From the diary -</span></span></b><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></b><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">14th November 2006: bla…bla…bla… Today I finally got a new variety of coin. A guy at the temple gave them to me for free. Leena couldn’t understand his accent…bla…bla…bla…<br /><br />15th November 2006: bla...bla…bla… I had a strange dream last night. I saw that the coins I got were love coins with a past attached to them. In the dream, the same guy from yesterday gave me the coins, but in a restaurant. He told a story of him getting divorced and all. It’s silly really. By the way,..bla…bla…bla…<br /></span></span></b></div></div></blockquote><div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />So you see what I mean? I had been living with a fake memory for two complete years. But fake or not, they’ll be love coins to me. And I </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">will</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> give one to that special person. ^__^</span></span></b></div></div>Riju Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03980401288459447257noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5757791995302420538.post-16101518152428794822010-07-10T12:47:00.000-07:002010-09-29T04:40:39.363-07:00Anime<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Regretfully, I haven’t been able to get involved into anime watching as much as I want to. I’m limited to the shows of Animax, and very occasional internet downloads.<br /><br /></span></span></b><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Nine out of every ten people will discard anime as something childish and meaningless. Just because it is animation, and not real-life. However, it’s something quite different, I assure you. In many ways, it is greater than what real-life is and what it can possibly achieve. Like a fantasy land, where every bit of emotion is amplified, every bit of action is intensified, full of perfect, yet proper romance, and moments full of tears and belly-aching laughter. I’ve often found myself craving to exist in that virtual world as an anime character rather than this one.<br /><br />One negative point is, definitely, lack of diversity of ‘quality’ anime. You can find countless amazing real-life movies, but you can count amazing animes with one hand. But the best ones are so excellent, that they compensate for the rarity.<br /><br />Many-a-times simple anime scenes have affected me deeply. I’ll relate two such events.</span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br /></span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">First, in 5 centimeters per second. The two lead roles, Akari and Takaki, had been living separately for more than a decade. They had been past lovers. One day while walking down a road, they presumably pass and recognize each other, across a train crossing. They both pause and begin to look back, but the passing trains quickly cut off their view. Takaki waits for the trains to pass, but when the view clears, he sees that the woman is gone. She had not waited. After a pause, he smiles to himself and continues walking. Thus the brief chance of reunion vaporized.</span></span></b><br /><br /><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjFEhJyXNt11ZYg_rMgHW8vp9VD_k6rqqEsIIFbtvBaXuT8RrsdWMlQHkvHK1xXbs8c31Y17efDp8qeGtpuHSjQq8zUd0oDhqZeUZ9NdQi0IhPYCq4ROBbxWmfJbNQr5t2pyIAfXyBLKo/s400/070825_01+copy.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 231px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492545732502639058" /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Second, in Honey and Clover. Yamada had been in love with Mayama for quite a while. She had never confessed it, but Mayama knew. One night, Mayama was carrying the drunken Yamada on his back, to drop her home. He was mumbling about how precious Yamada was to him, and he didn’t want to hurt her by turning her down. Just then Yamada whispered “Mayama, I love you” and burst into silent tears, moistening his coat. She kept repeating the line for about 8-9 times in a trance. Mayama’s reply was simply “Yeah”. He knew that she would forget this once she’s sober in the following morning.</span><br /><br /><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5hFP60Z2dyfAzn5Q3jhr4x5YxUbSAN7965FFTKDyJdLFEBkTZ4MVDmvHY1t4e_RzBe-6Favtt_NQIc0V4_QKqIhgNAED63znMP-i9xblIWX7KSejdEXnfx11AYdEEqM-b4BHYsNAdv_4/s400/snapshot20100711122845+copy.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492545725347022306" /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Both scenes have unexplained sadness attached to them. And both are accompanied by awe-inspiring background music. The first one had an incompleteness about it, which would haunt you for a good many days after watching it. The second one specially, made me want to be in that situation. For a while, I wanted someone to love me that much and to cry for me that way (it was an impulsive thought, mind you). Only, I wouldn’t have been so indifferent like Mayama. At least that’s what I like to believe. It’s a kind of scene which gets your heart desperate for seconds, till your brain pacifies it again.</span></span></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I know that I have been the cause of a few teardrops here and there. Sorry to the concerned people for that, but I assure you that they were the results of simple misunderstandings.</span></span></b></div>Riju Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03980401288459447257noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5757791995302420538.post-64372433925275926572010-06-28T23:15:00.000-07:002010-09-29T04:41:26.231-07:00Nocturnal tears<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg51r_gI-CEH0EM1dWA5RaIG8BpQ0wMXNDR0fhAMKmBdHX2AGiF7WZ-usNAZtEW7EDaCMCOXkG86MT67DwEbd1XbfZtCKZ8EefeBvOL0dkVB9lOMCmo26_xOgye8H0HAy-dJyL7ovDln20/s1600/Rain+copy.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg51r_gI-CEH0EM1dWA5RaIG8BpQ0wMXNDR0fhAMKmBdHX2AGiF7WZ-usNAZtEW7EDaCMCOXkG86MT67DwEbd1XbfZtCKZ8EefeBvOL0dkVB9lOMCmo26_xOgye8H0HAy-dJyL7ovDln20/s320/Rain+copy.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488081273904091010" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Late night showers always bring along a sensation of loneliness, so terribly painful, and yet so addicting. A solitary room and a window is all you need.<br /><br />But she notices. She notices me gazing intently at her nocturnal tears. Probably out of embarrassment she breathes foggy raindrops onto the glass. The outer world slowly fades away, and I’m left with my own reflection facing me. Thus concealing herself she weeps on, while I see only a pair of dry eyes staring back steadily.<br /><br />Was she mocking me? Women have the power to shed tears, willingly or unwillingly. Men don’t. And it’s not always due to manly pride. </span></b></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">There have been several occasions when I’ve tried to cry (when alone of course), but in vain. I would have assumed that my tear glands are out of order had it not been for chopped onions, and open ammonia bottles in the lab.<br /><br />It rains, clouds dissolve, and before long it’s morning and the sun is out again. It’s only then that she removes the watery curtain from my window, to reveal herself in her natural merry mood.</span></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">(Note: Since some dense people asked me who the weeping girl is in this post, let me tell you, I'm talking about Nature here, and no human being. Gawd!) </span></b></span></div>Riju Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03980401288459447257noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5757791995302420538.post-34567055875598066382010-06-08T00:06:00.000-07:002010-09-29T04:39:06.838-07:00Sikha and Tina<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“We are really boring you, right Riju?”<br /><br />I looked up from my cell to see the three of them staring at me with pretended seriousness. I was at my cousin, Kornica’s place. She, two of her schoolmates, and I were sitting on a divan melting in the summer heat. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-weight: normal; font-family:Georgia, serif;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Till then, t</span></span></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">he trio was gossiping away to glory, while I was busy texting (yeah, I’m really rude).<br /><br />“Absolutely not”, I lied.<br />“Okay, we are doing all the jabbering. Now you say something”, Tina said.<br /><br />‘Now you say something’- that’s the best way to put a quiet person like me in a false situation.<br /><br />“Umm…” I tried to think of a topic while they kept their large, expectant eyes fixed on me, as if children in a circus waiting for the monkey to perform. “How’s life?” Thirty secs, and that’s all I came up with. =|<br /><br />“Ooh, life’s great! What about you? Can you dance?” – Sikha<br /><br />What the hell! Where does dancing come from in here?<br /><br />“No. I hate dancing.” – Me<br />“C’mon, show us some bhangra steps.” – Tina<br />“Yes yes, show us some.” – Kornica<br /><br />I wondered how people would react if they found a Riju-shaped hole in the adjacent wall. [-_-]<br /><br />“Sure, come back in 200 years.” – Me<br /><br />The conversation followed smoothly after that. It wasn’t boring at all, like it is with most other girls. In fact, we bonded quite well. We exchanged numbers, talked about our love lives, school, and all other crap. The point is, they were successful in making me open my mouth.<br /><br />Sikha is the more sarcastic one. Nice sense of humor. Cracking jokes all the time and an expert at putting on an innocent face by doing the puppy-eyes thing (her large eyes compliment the action). Tina is a little more sedate, having an accented Bengali, seemed to be a good observer and a person of some profundity.<br /><br />One of them, I must say, is noticeably pretty. [Name withheld so that I don’t become a quarry of the other] The latter has decent looks as well. =)<br /><br />Finally, after spending the day together, it was time to say goodbye.<br /><br />“Do remember us” Tina said while leaving.<br />“I will” – Me<br /><br />And this is my way of ensuring the fulfillment of the promise.</span></span></b>Riju Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03980401288459447257noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5757791995302420538.post-4490999605896939952010-05-18T10:57:00.000-07:002010-06-28T23:27:09.460-07:00The best and the worst<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">As I look at my life, it becomes clear how much it has changed over the past years. Old photos and diaries bring out the physical and mental contrast between the boy then and the teenager now.
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<br />Sometimes I wonder, wouldn’t it be great if I could turn back time? But what difference would it make? One day. I’ll find myself back in the present state wondering the same thing… like an endless and pointless circle…
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<br />Childhood is undoubtedly the best part of our lives. Sadly, we realize that only after its gone forever. Isn’t that highly unfair?</span></b></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">
<br /></span></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The worst thing about childhood, is its immaturity, or so I believe, the immaturity which prevents us from realizing the specialty of our age.
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<br />What if I could turn back time AND retain my maturity?
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<br />No… it would be only a physical childhood then. Imagine a (mentally) 16 year old being forced to go to bed at 10, without a cell. HORROR!
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<br />What is it that makes childhood so special anyway? Lack of pressure? Unlimited free time? I think there’s more to it than that.
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<br />As children, we tend to take up a much simpler view of the world. There are separate, clear cut pathways of the right and the wrong. Every incident is attached with pure joy or pure sorrow. The world seems to be full of 2 types of people – the black and the white.
<br />
<br />But as we continue to see more of the world, we begin to mix up everything in life… resulting in mess. Some moments come where we even have to consider whether to be happy or sad. People tend to take up different shades of grey… making choices difficult. The same ground which had once provided a surface for crawling, seems so far away…
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<br />So the basic question… what causes things to mix up? Experience makes us grow matured, a result of us trying to make ourselves more suitable to the people around us… but does that mean that we become more suitable to ourselves?
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<br />Is there a way out of this? I guess not. Life is already set in the best possible way. So just be happy about it. :)
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<br />
<br />
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<br /></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I want to go back to the time when..
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<br />
<br />"gettin high" meant "on a swing".. ^_^
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<br />when "dad" was the only "hero".. *_*</span></i></b></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">
<br /></span></i></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">when "love" was "mom's hug".. <3</span></i></b></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">
<br /></span></i></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">when "dad's shoulder" was the "highest place on earth".. :)</span></i></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">
<br /></span></i></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">when your "worst enemies" were "your siblings".. x)</span></i></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">
<br /></span></i></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">when "candy" was the only "sweet thing" that made you cry.. :')</span></i></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">
<br /></span></i></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">when the only thing that could "hurt" were "skinned knees".. :(</span></i></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">
<br /></span></i></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">when the only things "broken" were your "toys".. </3</span></i></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">
<br /></span></i></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">and when..</span></i></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">
<br /></span></i></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"good-byes" only meant "till tomorrow".. -_-</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">
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<br />
<br />The best thing about childhood, is its immaturity, or so I believe, the immaturity which enables us to just live, laugh and cry.</span></b></span></div></div></div>Riju Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03980401288459447257noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5757791995302420538.post-4705154678153480682010-05-08T02:35:00.000-07:002010-05-08T03:01:58.888-07:00Akash<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">There are very few people whose personalities I actually admire. And ya, Akash is one of them. Reasons:-</span></span></b></p> <ul style="margin-top:0in" type="disc"> <li class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">He is smart</span></span></b></li> <li class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Calm, not short-tempered</span></span></b></li> <li class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Careful observer</span></b></span></li> <li class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Humorous</span></span></b></li> <li class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Probably the only person who can digest my sarcasm and jokes (ok ok, they’re a bit harsh sometimes)</span></span></b></li> </ul> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></b></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">First meeting: Class 10, in maths class.</span></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></b></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Class 11. Sourav sir changed my place (policy of divide and rule).</span></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Find a seat for yourself beside Akash”, he said.</span></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“There’s only ONE seat beside him, sir” I would have liked to shout back.</span></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Ok, so here’s a guy, with whom I’ve never conversed before, but whom I’ve known for almost 1 year. Apparently he seemed timid and quite. But soon… he he… sir had to change my place again. ^_^ </span></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Place change? Phuh! Even the section change in class 12 hardly bothered us. \m/ </span></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Most of the time we do nothing but fooling around. Here’s a sample.</span></span></b></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></b></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Sms chat :-</span></span></b></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Me: online aye</span></span></i></b></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Akash: khachchi</span></span></i></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Me: menu?</span></span></i></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Akash: bhat, dal and chicken pieces</span></span></i></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Me: yuck. Amio khacchi. Amar menu better</span></span></i></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Akash: ki?</span></span></i></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Me: fresh air. From my ceiling fan</span></span></i></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Akash: I’m jealous</span></span></i></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Me: dekhbi ar jolbi, ruti r moto fulbi </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">(popular dialog by maths sir)</span></span></span></i></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Akash: amar fan ta fresh air dey na. oke tor fan er bpare bol</span></span></i></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Me: amar fan er toothpaste e namak ache</span></span></i></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Akash: you’re like the breath of fresh air, you don’t move, you rotate… I love you…</span></span></i></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Me: don’t try to woo my fan. She’s mine. Besides I can’t change her name to i10. I already did that with the living room fan.</span></span></i></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Akash: khawa sesh. Online aschi</span></span></i></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></b></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Did that make sense? No? That’s the point. :) </span></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Riju Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03980401288459447257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5757791995302420538.post-12516575075560647132010-05-04T09:49:00.000-07:002010-09-29T04:41:26.232-07:00That second every week<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><b>1</b></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><b>9D, Golf Club Road, SBI Quarters... The place holds all my childhood memories, and beloved people with whom I’ve lost all contact. Dad’s job compelled us to leave the place while I was in 6th grade. Mobile and email were still off-limits to me, so going away physically meant cutting off all means of communication. I never heard from any of those old pals again. We didn’t get any chance to revisit the place for the next couple of years due to Mom’s serious health issues. By the time she recovered, I had settled myself in the new environment, made a new set of friends and didn’t bother much about 19D.<br /><br />But as fate would have it, I got admitted in a Physics tuition at Ballygunj recently, meaning that every Friday I would have to pass 19D on my way. This apparently was a nice opportunity to visit the old place again. But week after week went by, I never found myself ready to ask driver uncle to stop the car in front of that rusty gate.<br /><br />I’m well aware that most SBI employees have transferable jobs. What if, once inside that place, I find all the old familiar faces missing? What if my favorite guava tree isn’t there anymore? What if the guards stop me at the gate as a stranger (they obviously will)?<br /><br />I love passing by the Quarters, but I will never break journey there. It will spoil my game. I would keep the place and all the people (and of course the guava tree) intact in my memory as one single entity, rather than venture into the place and find an unknown world.<br /><br />Nostalgia is a strange feeling, almost like a drug. You may hate it, but you can never have enough of it. It gives a kind of painful satisfaction.<br /><br />People, who have read “The Night Train at Deoli” by Ruskin Bond, would call me a copycat for using some of his words in the above note. Quite justified, but I just couldn’t find a better way of expressing this on my own.<br /><br /></b></span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><b>Right turn from the main road…, a narrow alley…, a series of gates…, last one with a SBI symbol…, a glimpse of the inner-world…dark pitched path…flooded with the evening sunrays…unknown children playing…, left turn…, main road again.</b></span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><b><br /><br />Though no record has been kept, the Physics tuition have been blessed with 100% attendance from me till date. ^_^ </b></span></span>Riju Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03980401288459447257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5757791995302420538.post-10881674942269854252010-05-04T02:45:00.000-07:002010-09-29T04:39:06.840-07:001st post<span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;">The fact that how I'll use this site remains undecided. I guess I can share instances and bits of my life. Just like my personal diary (except that it's not personal).</span><br /><br /></span>Riju Sarkarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03980401288459447257noreply@blogger.com0