..and it was called Yellow

Where will I be two years hence?
The rain,railings, and the moonlight from behind the trees; this is definitely not one question I want to think of now.
Where was I two years hence? Struggling to look good for saturday night dinner? Combing my hair the extra stroke?
Where were we one year hence? Sitting on that broken bench under the neem tree close to the cycle stand. It was called yellow. We have fallen in the vortex since, we haven't moved a bit since, we have crossed miles. Life could have been different, life should have been different.

Teachers' Day

What is it? The 5th of september? Its two months ahead of time. I think of those who taught me the table of 7, the different Vitamins, the tenses, letter writing and questioning. 19 yrs now, I first went to school, wearing a mickey mouse set of shorts and tee. The elastic was loose and I held my pants tight. "What is your name?", "My name is Putku Resham Sarkar". That was it, two years of kindergarten , and a lifetime of friendship, even after she was gone. Ms. Meenaxi Verma.
This evening was a double decker bus, I went up the deck. Four seats ahead were a couple, cootchie-cooing violently, three rows behind me were two school brats, extra-energised after hours in class screaming and screeching over some electronic game. I sat looking at the raindrops on my window. With every falling drop, it was growing foggier. The lush green poking its arms into the view of my reminiscences, I figured those face which I had forgotten. I still don't remember what she looked like, what they all looked like. A wheelchair, a play-room, a doll house, a huge swing, the sand below it, a rocking horse, those windows...

Little Bo Peep has lost her sheep

And can't tell where to find them.

Leave them alone, And they'll come home,

Wagging their tails behind them

They didn't come back, they don't come back.


Standard V. Yellow walls and tin thatched roof. We repainted the carrots and apples on the cardboard, we learnt the vitamins. Do you still live at the end of the lane?
I will go there to find you. How many daffodils have bloomed since?
The yellow is gone, the thatched roof isn't there. There stands a dungeon of bricks, blue light streams in from the roof, ther aren't too many left whom I know, there are still lesser those who would remember.

A thin face, a nasal screech. Oh! I made so much fun of her. There were no reasons, I was just too happening then, and I didn't want the happenings leave me. But, she fought me, she fought for me, she taught me to walk like a girl, she asked me to comb my hair. She stood up when I was in utter teenage despair of being deliberately unheard in the ghetto of the influential.

Thay are all gone. Some I can search for, some I can email, some about whom I can just think and sigh.
All lost in the maze of memory, faceless, moments frozen in time.

Deception Point

Why I stand to loose,
why you won again?

Is this the end, my friend?
Or must I loose again?

Dil Nahin Chahta Hai

When I first saw this film, I was 16, and not sweet. But I thought that the film was cool, defining by the parameters I then considered to be cool. The concept of independence and not inter-dependence in relationships, the freaky idea that somebody might remember every step you would take. But, then I had also not heard of the song, "I'll be watching you" by Police. All said and done, I enjoyed evry bit of the movie, loved the gigs, frankness, irresponsibility, smart clothes and HAIRDO.
Now its approaching to be six years thence, and I still remain cramped in the shell of the movie. The only difference is that now its stuffy inside. Wherever I go follows the slain evil, Subodh. And boy, was he uncool?! ABSOLUTELY.
He remembered the date and time he proposed to his girlfriend, which by this day's norms is not in vogue really. But then I believe when I shall be a parent, I probably will remember sharply (perhaps also capture on celluloid) the moment my child will first stand up by himself or walk. But again, it'll be my child for heavensake. And ofcourse, lovers and romantic liasons should be kept apart from particularities of dates and times.
I would love to be more of Shalini, the quinessential urban chick, who looks independent and well dressed, if nothing else. And she also believes in the independence of individuals in love. I would also love to have some traits of Akash, who believes in , "jo apni zindagi jiye, aur mujhe apni zindagi jeene de".


Unfortunately, I am neither a bit of Shalini nor Akash. I am but all of Subodh. I interfere, I crib, I depend and I remember. I fill Gigabytes of my memory with whens, whats and hows, instead of formulae. And in return I expect to be appreciated. I also try to direct, off-stage, instruct significant others about what to do, how to behave, and what not!
I am totally uncool. I am a misfit, I am a looser. Ironically, I assert firmly to myself that I am not. I also claim to understand and appreciate music, again my reach is arms less of the entrance gate.
Plain simple, I am uncool, or perhaps I am that Ugly Duckling whom H.C.Anderson loved and nurtured.

Dear Bloggie,

Sorry to have embellished your dress overnight. I don't think you liked those shades of pink much. Are you comfortable with the new things I stitched on the sleeve?
I am still stuck in Serampore because the country is going crazier by the day. BANDH. I couldn't even see the doctor. My doctor is an attrociously funny man. It took me two fifteen minutes to get through him on the phone (mind you, he receives calls only between 7a.m. to 9 a.m.). After a hell lot of digging, I got another appointment, to miss another lab.
Did I tell you, I messed up the last sem 'orite. But, that is fine, routine. I will certainly miss being myself once I miss messing up things.
Unbelieveably, I spent the whole of last evening humming Rabindra Sangeet with my young cousin and grandparents. Now that is AMAZING! because I happen to have been born and brought up far far away from bong-land, and my knowledge of bengali litreature surpasses all limits of embarrasment for my parents. But paradoxically enough, I absolutely have my heart and soul embedded in rabindra-sangeet. The words, the tunes, the feeling of them falling on my ears push me to another world. A world where pain is joyful, where sacrifice stands out for selfishness, where autumn brings the smell of little white shiuli flowers, where autumn brings in the fragrance of Rabindranath's poetry (I was luckily forced every autumn to learn dancing on his pieces for cultural shows on Durga Puja) , where God and beloved are reached out to by the same piece of poetry. And I also learnt that there have been many musicians who had sworn by Rabindranath to an extent that they vowed to never sing anything other than what he wrote!
The works of Rabindranath are so vast and varied that it is commonly believed that one cannot read and understand at the sme time his complete works in a lifetime. And it is so beautiful that there is no parameter or situation in life that cannot be described or be drunk by his words. It is one of those small things in life that I have personally realised, and if I could do so with my meagre breadth in the subject, then I wonder how much is the span of that man. He lives on in any life that has ever touched his words.
Thank you Sir for making me one of the blessed ones to be touched.

naa chinitei bhalo beshechhi