Perils of an Innocent Mind

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.

Either this will jog your memory, or it won’t.

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 down. 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…”

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.

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 that the print is real and eyes are mostly truthful.

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.

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.

Everywhere one stares, there are marks of neglect and 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.

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.

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 discovering 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.

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.

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.

Down the fantasy lane

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.

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.

‘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.

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.

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.

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.

“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.
He smiled apologetically and said, “I’m carrying only Bhutanese currency at this moment. Foreign money is no use here.”
“Oh…it’s fine”, I said disappointed.
“But sit down. I have something interesting for you”, he said gesturing at two seats facing him.

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.

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.

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.

“I have a small story behind this”, the European said, smiling, “Care to listen?”
“Yes… tell us.”
“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.
“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.
“We went back home. The eternal bond 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.
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.”
“Thank you. We’ll pay when dad…” He stopped me with a gesture of his hand.
“You’re doing me a favor, kid” he said with a playful wink, “Have a nice day.”

As soon as we were out of his audible range, Leena turned to me.
“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.”
“Good for you.” I replied, completely bored.
“He gave you two. Give me one.”
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.
“I can’t do that.” I stated solemnly.
“Why not?”
“Because they are love coins. He said a man gives one to the woman he loves, and keeps the other.”
“Oh! Never mind!” she said, snatching away her hand and blushing violently.
* Winks at readers. ^_~ *

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.

From the diary -

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…

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…

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 will give one to that special person. ^__^

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!)

Sikha and Tina

“We are really boring you, right Riju?”

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. Till then, the trio was gossiping away to glory, while I was busy texting (yeah, I’m really rude).

“Absolutely not”, I lied.
“Okay, we are doing all the jabbering. Now you say something”, Tina said.

‘Now you say something’- that’s the best way to put a quiet person like me in a false situation.

“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. =|

“Ooh, life’s great! What about you? Can you dance?” – Sikha

What the hell! Where does dancing come from in here?

“No. I hate dancing.” – Me
“C’mon, show us some bhangra steps.” – Tina
“Yes yes, show us some.” – Kornica

I wondered how people would react if they found a Riju-shaped hole in the adjacent wall. [-_-]

“Sure, come back in 200 years.” – Me

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.

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.

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. =)

Finally, after spending the day together, it was time to say goodbye.

“Do remember us” Tina said while leaving.
“I will” – Me

And this is my way of ensuring the fulfillment of the promise.

That second every week

19D, 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.

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.

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)?

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.

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.

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.

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.

Though no record has been kept, the Physics tuition have been blessed with 100% attendance from me till date. ^_^

1st post

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).