Saturday, June 18, 2016

Happy Sad...

As You Like It 

Act I

Scene II. Lawn before the Duke's Palace


Dear Celia, I show more mirth than I am mistress of; 
And would you yet I were merrier? 

Life is being lived at the moment and I need some time to put it all into a coherent perspective. 

So instead of long rambling blog posts I'll leave you with a happy picture: 

The sun was shining just right...

Sunday, June 12, 2016

Breathe In, Breathe Out

A Midsummer Night's Dream 


SCENE I. Athens.The Palace of THESEUS


Four days will quickly steep themselves in night;
Four nights will quickly dream away the time;
And then the moon, like to a silver bow
New-bent in heaven, shall behold the night
Of our solemnities

If I charted out this week in terms of events and general sense of merriment, it would reach a peak somewhere in the middle and then dip low, very low over the weekend. If the week were a person, she'd be the one bustling with the nerves and the pressure of entertaining until she finally gives up, takes off her pants and raises an ugly finger to the world. I try to calm her down. I do not enjoy the socialising myself.

The nights are perhaps the only time of the day that are utterly mine, now. And I've never been happier chasing dawns. 

Monday, June 6, 2016

Unlocking Time

"Jaoar shomoy toh eshe i gelo" - ( Your date of departure is creeping in closer every day), they say. 

I shrug because that's how days work. 

Wouldn't it be cool if I left without a fuss or tears or any nostalgia to haunt me- nostalgia about my life, my world and this beautiful city I've lived in for 26 years now? I might just pull it off you know, just pretend I am home the whole time- stay in denial-  easy peasy right? There's a part of me that's waiting for a last minute dreadful mail where they say, "Oh that was a mistake, sorry we didn't mean you when we sent that mail about the application being accepted." Is it weird that that's making me terrified and hopeful at the same time? 

John Green writes, " It is so hard to leave - until you leave. And then it is the easiest god damned thing in the world." The hard part though? Is not figuring out what or who are the people I will miss. It's those little unobtrusive things that I've taken so much for granted the, "..unnoticed and the necessary" as Margaret Atwood puts it. 

Making a list of these things felt right, because these are those little blocks that will create my world- there.If I don't know the bases and the concepts, much like my academic career, the picture will remain incomplete..forever. 

 Not recreating the entire list here, sharing snapshots though.  

Kaalo Jam. I don't think this has an english equivalent for a name. Sprinkle
some rock salt, sugar, salt and refrigerate. Summer is sorted B-)
I think you could call it burgundy berry that is a beautiful purple inside. I refuse to settle for it's literal translation - blackberry - that it isn't. Kaalo Jam and I are old buddies, so much so that the shade of kaalo jam is my favourite thing to wear - my spectacles, my favourite shade of lipstick, all have a smear of kaalo jam in them. 

Where life goes by...
This picture is not about the stuff in it, it's more about what it represents for me. Mom is always out and about- the house, is mine most of the time. And this is the place I've lazed around, watched endless number of movies or just fiddled with my phone or laptop, studied, chatted with people who drop by on rare occasions - we are not a very social people. You can tell by the size of that couch :P The light would stream in from that window and the birds would go about their chattering, the faint rush of the breeze, the smell of freshly laundered cushion covers (fresh cotton cloths have a heady smell, try it) - I'd call it idyllic but this was just...normal. 

A little bit of my domain and a whole lot of mummy's- my love for the green and nature springs entirely from her. That little sturdy hibiscus plant is the latest addition. The flowers are white, ethereal, I'll miss watching you grow. 

When trees greet you in the middle of your walk
My city has a gentle soul, like a mother's. It would make my mother remark, "Get off its lap, it's spoiling you. " Lap in Bengali = kol. Short name for my city = Kol. In Bengali, it roughly translates to "Get off the kol of Kol." and everybody would nod gravely. ~sigh~ 

I wanted to memorise every leaf and remember once how I was gifted a twig of this beauty, because I'd fallen and hurt my head. I'd taken the twig and wanted to wear it wedged between my ear and hair like hippies did in movies, it had fallen off. As disappointing as that was, it also taught me how everything may not be as real as they seem and sometimes, beauty can't be captured and made a part of you, no matter how hard you tried. 

Adore the little meet and greet taking place between the trees here. Reminds me of the rare times that I meet people and the good day that it always ends up being. 

That's it for now....I'll update this as and when I take pictures, which I'm sure I the run up to  days being days and bringing me closer to a bitter-sweet parting. 

Sunday, June 5, 2016

I am trying something new here- Shakespeare Sundays. Don't roll your eyes at my original and creative thinking!

The rain is like an actor on stage, thumping and hammering out the lines with an intent to prick us to the core, unsettle us, think of dark wishful thoughts.

While I've let my blatantly pin-pricked-reverse-of-a-bubble-wrap soul wander and find its kinship with the rain, I've entered the "long dark tea time of the soul" as Douglas Adams would call it. 

"In the end, it was the Sunday afternoons he couldn’t cope with…
as you stare at the clock the hands will move relentlessly on to four o’clock,
 and you will enter  the long dark teatime of the soul."
Image Source:

It is precisely, four o' clock at the moment. An extremely mediocre idea has brewed my mind an ugly fuming shade, so here  goes nothing. 

How about a little Sunday routine for the blog?

Introducing-  Shakespeare Sundays- And while my skin roils and reduces to feeling like the rain soaked mud outside, because I can hear you saying "how unoriginal and boring!" Let's just say, you're reading a blog that has a page entitled "Music and Me (Because I suck at Page Titles).  You have been warned, my friend.  Indeed, I am terrible at naming things- there's a certain finality to it that is hateful. 

Maybe I won't keep at it, like the several abandoned things and projects that my life encircles and eddies out of, under the pretext of "convenience"

So here's the plan - every Sunday I'll put up a quote by Shakespeare here, something that reflects the week that's been, the things and ideas that have been topmost on my mind and other such sundry sources of inspiration- as simple as that. 

Unlike today, there will be Sundays, I am sure, where I just put the quote up without such a long preamble. Some Sundays, I will ramble. C'est La Vie. 

Why Shakespeare? Sir Ian Mckellan says, "Anyone who finds studying Shakespeare difficult should remember that Shakespeare didn't intend you to read these plays."

 So here's the thing, let's not "study" him? (unless you're in school, study away then, this is an interesting time to study Shakespeare. Seriously, I envy you. ) Let's read him. Let's give him a chance to get off that pulpit and sit next to us, nod his head at the tedium of life and say something clever about it- enormously clever and beautiful, but that's just Will. 

This week I am quoting from :

The Tragedy of Macbeth 

Act I
Scene I. A desert place. 
Thunder and lightning. Enter three Witches. 

First Witch 
When shall we three meet again 
In thunder, lightning,or in rain? 

Second Witch 
When the hurly burly's done, 
When the battle's lost and won. 

Third Witch 
That will be ere the set of sun. 

Do you hear it? The crazy thunder? Does it make your heart beat faster? Are you scared? Don't be. Listen to them. They have a timeline- a reassuring calming timeline.  And you let the rain pour and sweep through your being- waiting for their prophecies to, one day,  come true. 

Friday, May 27, 2016

Crowdfire: Or maybe they're just really happy to unfollow you. ~Sigh~ Fair Point

Dear Crowdfire, 

I love you, but maybe when you do a little system re-design next time, do think about the unfortunate placement of the negative sign next to "Recent Unfollowers" . 

Give the poor souls the dignity they deserve! 

The Girl Who Clearly Doesn't Have Much Of A Life/ The Girl With the Broken Brain/ The Girl Who Is Maybe A Bad Combination of Both 

Wednesday, May 4, 2016

Neil Gaiman Nudging Brilliant Ideas Into My Head & Saving Me A Little. The Usual.

I was listening to A Phone Call From Paul - A Chat With Neil Gaiman (a neat little format if you ask me). 

So Neil says something quite interesting there and I quote, "Nobody in a story  gets to really look around and understand the story. The joy of our lives is that actually where we make sense from is not only afterwards but from the outside. And it's that point where somebody can say, "Ah! so, so and so, his discovery of this, changed the world!... So and so who had this life where he thought he was a failure- actually this is what he threw up to the world! This person made this happen.. and suddenly you take a step outside and you understand how things fit in, you understand  the shape of the story- you understand who were the heroes, who were the villains, who were the supporting characters, who were the love interests. And you also understand, of course, that that's not true, that's a lie because you'll just have to take one step to the left and all the love interests change, the supporting characters change and the hero changes....he's the story in which Charles Darwin who was the guy who discovered evolution and he did this and he did that and then you take one step towards the left and no, now you're talking about the other guy who went out and kind of figured it all out, but he never got famous.And now he's your hero." 

I must have re-played that a dozen times. Because this man...just said something in a way that I never would have imagined. That sometimes, when it feels like someone is hurting you to the point that they have acquired the features of a fire breathing dragon, and said person is making you want to question your very existence- wouldn't it be cool to believe that you, my friend, have stumbled into someone else's story? Oh what a sense of relief, that...isn't it? 

 The more I think about it, the more it makes sense, really. Because in his story he is the hero, with the whole fire costume thingy. I wouldn't pick that costume for me where I'm the hero of my story, I'd probably pick something cuter and in shades of pastel, but that's my problem. Also I'm so immersed in his/her antics that I've confused myself to be more than just a "supporting character" and I'm trying really hard to own a future chain of events that aren't even supposed to be mine! It's someone else's D. Take a hint! 

All my life I've been trying to be so careful about who could hurt me and who is perfectly safe and who has "jerk" potential...when all I had to do, was figure out when my plot is starting to look foreign, and realise oops, this is someone else's. So it wasn't ever about people being "bad" or "good" but only about recognising when it isn't your story any more. It's an honest mistake. And there's absolutely no need to get so worked up about it. Instead imagine a really uptight English butler telling you, "it happens all the time, Miss" and run along. 

Now I'll give you an example. If Neil Gaiman were to read this post (keep dreaming, D) and say, "but that's not what I meant at all you silly wench, you have nice hair, though." I shall curtsy and say, "Thank you Neil, but in my version of the story, this is how what you said, makes sense" and run along. :) 

From one of my favourite books by Neil. We're all in it together.
We're all in it alone. And that's how stories are born. 

Tuesday, April 26, 2016

The Threshold

She tries to picture him. He has probably made a check-list of important things he must take back home. The list is long, each thing a tiny puff of anxiety at the base of his throat. 

His shoulders are graceful, like a bird's. They are abrupt though and one can't quite match it with his neck. It's thicker but his voice is soft. It's mellow. Aloof. There are many questions waiting to burst out at the tip of her tongue. But she reins them in. They'd make her sound like she cared. 

A stray remark of when the flight is, is made. Evening, the tight lipped answer comes. He had mentioned it was in the morning, she had written it down. Another stray remark had to be made., "Oh? I thought it was in the morning." This conversation was taking place at 3:29 a.m, his time. 

She wouldn't put a label of "nocturnal" on his innocent forehead. He couldn't sleep at nights. There were nightmares, she knew. But he never talked about them. She'd picture him clawing at his pillows and waking up longing for a drop of water. Right then in her head, a threshold had been crossed. 

"You are awesome" he had written with three busy yellow mouths spewing out garish red hearts when she had described what she'd like to do to him after he stepped out of the shower. He would never cross that threshold, she had realised. 

He falls asleep mid sentence. She wonders what tires him out so much. 

She waves at him from the other side of the threshold, he waves back, not quiet able to make sense of why there are tears patiently melting her face away.