Returning Home

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.

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.

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.

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, 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.

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.

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 halogen lights. Reminds me of detectives in some distant way.

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.

It is this lonely remorse, which is unbearably addictive, and what made 9th December memorable.

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.

Yes, I probably won’t miss school that much, but I will definitely miss returning home.

Feathered Clouds

Once again they scatter; a whirlpool of randomness.

Lazy, searching eyes drift across and rest,

On a form akin to avian wings.

Concrete soothes my back, firm and still,

High, surrounding walls bind me to a world unreal,

A world of queens and kings.

Wings they were, no doubt; what use were wings to clouds?

I gazed and wondered from the highest part of my house,

Wondered at the subtle tease.

Somewhere deep inside, a promise was made,

That of great heights; a skyscraper built in a head,

One that won’t be ascended with ease.

Yet come down, I must, and so must those clouds,

But they will have had the gaze of a million crowds,

Gazes of awe, from people aroused.

Gentle panic sets in, dampened by thoughts of people,

The majority; who think they see,

But are yet to look beyond the concrete beneath me,

The highest concrete of the house.

Once again they scatter; a whirlpool of randomness,

Lazy eyes observe the mess, the wings were gone,

There I rested on the terrace, till the day was done.

(A tribute to Pink Floyd)

Just a thought

Foreword:

To start with, let me tell you, this is just an expression of some wild ideas I had yesterday.

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.

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

efined way. And maybe we keep saying we’re scared of our protectors.

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.

*************
“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

“Yup, this is it.” I sighed.

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.

“This place is scary!” She said, looking shocked.

“Uff, I’m there with you toh.”

“Aren’t YOU scared?”

“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.

At this, she burst out laughing and gave me a quick kiss.
“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.

“What the….!” Katie jumped up, and ended up banging her head against the ceiling. It was a group of teens with flashlights and handycams!

“Don’t you think it’s strange that there’s a bed here?” one of them asked the other.
“Yeah” the other replied.

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.

“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.

“This is the first time I’m seeing them here. Anyway, you know we can’t eat them, honey” I said gravely.

“Why not?!” she looked at me incredulously, as if I had gone mad.

“Don’t you even read the newspapers? There’s so much hype over this particular article.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You must’ve heard that we’re slowly losing 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.”

“You must be shitting me!” she looked on in disbelief.

“No dear. We had been actually ‘creating’ the enemy all along.”
“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.

Happy Tales

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…?

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?

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.
Ultimately, we tend to forget the real goal. Happiness. And compromising is the last thing that can ever make you happy.

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.

Frankly, I don’t get the point of this post. Baseless grievances on something out of my hands, I guess.

"Imagine all the people living for today…

You may say that I'm a dreamer,

But I'm not the only one.

I hope someday you'll join us,

And the world will live as one."

Solitary musings

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.

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.

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.

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 scatter 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.

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…

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.

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.

And now, I have a blog post.

Nocturnal tears

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

(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!)

The best and the worst

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.

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…

Childhood is undoubtedly the best part of our lives. Sadly, we realize that only after its gone forever. Isn’t that highly unfair?

The worst thing about childhood, is its immaturity, or so I believe, the immaturity which prevents us from realizing the specialty of our age.

What if I could turn back time AND retain my maturity?

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!

What is it that makes childhood so special anyway? Lack of pressure? Unlimited free time? I think there’s more to it than that.

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.

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…

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?

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. :)




I want to go back to the time when..


"gettin high" meant "on a swing".. ^_^

when "dad" was the only "hero".. *_*

when "love" was "mom's hug".. <3

when "dad's shoulder" was the "highest place on earth".. :)

when your "worst enemies" were "your siblings".. x)

when "candy" was the only "sweet thing" that made you cry.. :')

when the only thing that could "hurt" were "skinned knees".. :(

when the only things "broken" were your "toys"..

and when..

"good-byes" only meant "till tomorrow".. -_-



The best thing about childhood, is its immaturity, or so I believe, the immaturity which enables us to just live, laugh and cry.