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The Floating Room

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.

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 the nine feet high divider (and other reasons).

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.

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.

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.

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.

Piano Man

Author: Billy Joel

It's nine o'clock on a Saturday,

The Regular crowd shuffles in,

There's an old man sitting next to me,

Makin' love to his tonic and gin.

He says, "Son, can you play me a memory,

I'm not really sure how it goes,

But it's sad and it's sweet and I knew it complete,

When I wore a younger man's clothes."

Sing us a song, you're the piano man,

Sing us a song tonight,

Well, we're all in the mood for a melody,

And you've got us feelin' alright.

Now John at the bar is a friend of mine,

He gets me my drinks for free,

And he's quick with a joke or to light up your smoke,

But there's someplace that he'd rather be.

He says, "Bill, I believe this is killing me",

As the smile ran away from his face,

"Well I'm sure that I could be a movie star,

If I could get out of this place".

Now Paul is a real estate novelist,

Who never had time for a wife,

And he's talkin' with Davy, who's still in the Navy,

And probably will be for life.

And the waitress is practicing politics,

As the businessmen slowly get stoned,

Yes, they're sharing a drink they call loneliness,

But it's better than drinkin' alone.

Sing us a song you're the piano man,

Sing us a song tonight,

Well we're all in the mood for a melody,

And you got us feeling alright.

It's a pretty good crowd for a Saturday,

And the manager gives me a smile,

'Cause he knows that it's me they've been comin' to see,

To forget about life for a while.

And the piano, it sounds like a carnival,

And the microphone smells like a beer,

And they sit at the bar and put bread in my jar,

And say, "Man, what are you doin' here?".

Sing us a song you're the piano man,

Sing us a song tonight,

Well we're all in the mood for a melody,

And you got us feeling alright.

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.

Very funny, huh?

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.

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--

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.

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.

They got scared.

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.

She was crouching there, on top of the almirah, chewing the hand.

That's what frightful shocks can do to you. She had to be taken to a mental hospital.

Moral of the story: All tricks are not funny.

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. ^__^

Anime

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.

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.

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.

Many-a-times simple anime scenes have affected me deeply. I’ll relate two such events.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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).