birth (day) of the narcissist

For the umpteenth number of time I am saying this to myself and my blogs and my family and friends, some of who ask, some who don't--That I am very very busy..I'm awake most nights, because I can not get work done during the day (its either too beautiful outside, or I am too sleepy, or my boyfriend's at home, or I'm too lonely or stressed..)..Now going back the last 12 years..I think its always been that way..I am always more productive at night.

But that was a different time altogether. Someone had to push me to get things done. Strange it seems, those "someone"s now ask me to take rest and take it slow (I smile and laugh to myself)..

I'm still pretty much the same. Swindling between average and good, sometimes an outlier reaching to an almost "best" position...but mostly the curve fits at "good".. I still get distracted easily, I still have weird thoughts, I still daydream about weird incidents (and people), relive single moments of pleasure in my head, I still give too much attention to people who shouldn't get that much, I'm still as far from "what I want", still nowhere close to "what I'd like to be"...and 12 years have gone.

12 years, 3 long term relationships, another 4 flings and fangs (which seemed to last 'longer'), adolescence (+ pre and post), quarter life crisis (pre and post), leaving home, getting back, wanting to get back..well...a lots gone by.

3 years since I realised, its more about someone else than about me. My birthday that is. Its more about the one who took the pains to give birth to me. She should be wished not me. She should be congratulated, not me. I mean, what does it even mean to me? Being born? So what? I could celebrate the first day I talked or walked or painted or wore a contact lens or drove a car or had sex or gave birth...not being born! Its pre-consciousness!

But My birthday had to be a happy birthday! Like you're given this one day, make the most of it!! It has always been very very important to me. Very essential rather. Like something special has to happen, exactly the way I want it to...what way do I want it? I don't remember my fantasies anymore..all I know is I was never satisfied..don't get me wrong there! I probably got more than anyone ever did..I mean when its a party, I wanted only family, when its a family I wanted more friends, when a dinner I wanted a daytime outing when a surprise party I wanted my special friend to call when next year he wants to spend it with me I want to visit Big Apple...it never ends.

And this year I'm too busy to even think, but am I not thinking? Well no, I didn't buy myself presents..I am not going out anywhere, I don't have the time to. I don't have too close friends here that I'll invite (I'm too lazy to cook/clean anyway) I don't want people to wish me with the help of birthday reminders..I don't want my friends to forget it (secretly)..I don't want people to miss me too much and think how sad I must be..

So yeah I am thinking and guess what? I heard 3 roars of fireworks outside..its 4 am now, the night before my birthday..and stars are falling from the sky. No its not a game night and no I did not know, who/where it is. No I did not go out and see the fireworks. I'm hunched up in the couch, writing (what I'm supposed to do)

I guess I got my present though...a message I am special..weird, stupid, surreal and very un-24ish but its a realization I guess. and it helps. especially now. yes it helps. A message that says stay alive and keep going, a message I am not expecting, a messenger I can not identify not even in my weirdest of dreams.

Remember Carpenters..it was always a favorite and now suddenly it all falling into places..

Why do stars fall down from the sky
Every time you walk by?
Just like me, they long to be
Close to you.

On the day that you were born
The angels got together
And decided to create a dream come true
So they sprinkled moon dust in your hair of gold
And starlight in your eyes of blue.

Some Narcissist you'd say..well yeah! Its my birthday after all..

rambling

agreeing to disagree

You Are A Hazelnut Tree

You're a charmer with a killer sense of humor. You are very demanding, but you can also be very understanding. No matter what, you always make a lasting impression - you're quite popular. Passionate, you are an active fighter for social causes and politics. In general, you are moody, honest, a perfectionist, and very sexual.

Soldier at another war

There's a fire in the sky
And some acid in the rain
There goes a dead man's hopes
And a mothers pain

There are mobs on the streets
A war on your country
Burning houses, raging flames
and people going hungry

There are children who are winning games
Intelligent design in schools
There's a plan on everybody's mind
And blood in your swimming pools

There's a soldier fighting another war
the pilot I'm waiting for
there are battles he has to win
before he can clean your scars

There's a preacher in another land
the savior I'm waiting for
there are lessons that need to be taught
before he can rule your soul

There's vermillion all over the walls
And sweet camphor melting on my roof
There's wine below the wooden floor and
meat roasting in a pot

We're all waiting for the war to end
for our heroes to come back home
we're all waiting for the feast to begin
for peace lilies on the tombs

We're waiting for new crafts of
new sails and aeroplanes
we're ready for the hot balloons
that will fly you to heaven and clouds higher than those.
____________________________________________
There's fire in the winds and a pilot I'm waiting for and I know he has to win his own battles first before he can tend to mine.

____________________________________________

sun is in the east

the rusty wire that holds the cork
that keeps the anger in
gives way
and suddenly it's day again
the sun is in the east
even though the day is done

I need you to know

I need you to know
I'm not through the night
Some days I'm still fighting to walk towards the light
I need you to know
That we'll be OK
Together we can make it through another day

You should know you're not on your own
These secrets are walls that keep us alone
I don't know when but I know now
Together we'll make it through somehow

I'm on fire

I walked strange shores in search of my country
I been away talking to the aliens
If we don't do something soon
The earth is gonna look just like the moon


I'm on fire
Falling in love in times of war
I'm on fire

Love Boat

soon will be making another run
The Love Boat promises something for everyone
Set a course for adventure,
Your mind on a new romance.

Blowing with the wind of change

The future's in the air
I can feel it everywhere
Blowing with the wind of change

dreams sailing by ::flickr

Ship on the horizon, originally uploaded by Kolika Chatterjee.

From the quite beach of Milcreek at Presque Isle, Erie.
A picture perfect moment of your dreams sailing by.

Author’s Manuscript

I woke up with the smell of burnt tobacco. A cloud of thick smoke was hanging low in my one roomed apartment, as I lay dazed on the couch. The news was buzzing on the radio. As my vision cleared, I could discern a figure slouched on the mat in front of me. Smoking. Half-smiling. Behind a silhouette of burning stationery, mainly sheets of paper.

The next few nanoseconds choked me with so many questions, that I was unable to ask any of the Who—What—Why-s. I was trying very hard to speak. To demand an explanation for everything that was going on. But I couldn’t. I wanted to scream.

And I woke up in cold sweat to realize I was dreaming.

The radio was actually on. And I, on my couch. But this luxury, I could not permit myself for too long. My eyes fell on the wall clock and cursing my way to the bathroom I remembered it was a Sunday; and probably last night’s loner’s party had a higher spirit level than my brain could take; hence the dream.

Coming back to m realization, I gave a jig, that it was a Sunday—a holiday and I could procrastinate breakfast if I wanted to and then go to Hashmi’s for a obligatory bite or simply satiate my hunger with some chocolates. I was glad I wouldn’t have to cook and then double the misery by having to eat those cold noodles for lunch at office and again reheat it to suffice for my evening meal. Suddenly I longed for someone to cook and clean for me. And just quite that.

Right when (halfway through my bath) I was philosophically reflecting that unhappiness is caused by not getting your heart’s desire and then by getting it, glimpses from my nightmare drifted back to my memory plates. Like the color of that man’s pants. Brown. I rebuked myself that we do not dream in color, but the glimpse refused to agree and obstinately sat back.

For the rest of my bath I kept wondering why did I have such a dream; who was the man and what was he burning. And why? Reflexively, I had set the macaroni to boil, much beyond my bliss that it was Sunday. And now stirring butter into the simmering breakfast, ‘what’ gained predominance over the Who and Why. Almost immediately, a voice inside my brain answered, one I didn’t quite want to take.

Carrying the bowl wit one hand and blowing the spoonful cold with the other ( as if that would blow away the apprehension as well) I squatted in front of my cupboard. In search of my manuscripts. The fabric folders were turned inside out. Every cubicle rummaged. Old bills, memoirs, greeting cards, lost keys, dried-out pen refills, old sketches tumbled from all corners. Even a few poems showed up tucked neatly inside pages of a diary.

But my manuscripts were nowhere to be seen. Nowhere. It almost felt like losing your passport and traveler’s check in an airport ignorant of the only language they speak.

I tried philosophizing. All of this, I told myself, must have a meaning, a significance, I am not being able to fathom now. Maybe, it meant I should start afresh. Steal some of myself from that 9 to 5 and start afresh just for myself. Maybe but why? Why—such a dream? Why—my manuscripts? Who was that person? How is he related to the actual disappearance? What else was included in that burning heap?

Re-disheveling my shelves, I knew one more thing was missing. A fountain pen. Handed down through generations. Almost as precious as my sanity. May be more, ’cause even bankruptcy couldn’t make me trade it for anything. The only piece of gold I have ever owned in my life was it’s nib.

***********

How does gold burn? How does it smell? What color does it get? And Iron? These shackles? Those that now tie my feet to the bedpost of my cell?

The other questions are immaterial now. I have learnt to prioritize.

borrowed ramblings

And as the windshield melts

My tears evaporate

Leaving only charcoal to defend.

Finally I understand the feelings of the few.

Ashes and diamonds

Foe and friend

We were all equal in the end.

Visual DNA

Read my VisualDNA™ Get your own VisualDNA™

Boxes

Boxed up inside painted walls

Of the square thing you call home

You have the softest bed the prettiest sheets

And a wooden box to store your memories

The box of color that you gulp down in

Helps you sleep

And kills the dream

A deep deep slumber counting on numbers

Of sheep being slaughtered.

A box of fame with your bolded name

You try to live up to that square piece of metal

Hanging outside your door, which is always closed

Guarding your thoughts and squares of gold.

The square machine you delve into

Is your window to the world,

Enhanced colors enhancing shapes

But all you see is a square with the four walls

Moving in on you.

There’s a key hole in that door of yours

If you get up and see, you’ll get a view of a world

that’s a different shape--Small and meek

And trails through a box that you seem to know.

Yes it’s that house you grew up in

Yes it’s that box you keep under your bed

It’s that square that has your Dad’s name on it

It’s the world that sucks you in.

You’re on a farm

holding Grand Daddy’s hands

You’re swimming beside a paper boat

That your sister made

and the skin of Mom’s arm feels warm

There’s lemonade

And a yard of joy

There’s beer and the college band

And there’re dreams of making it big

You’re standing on a round green thing,

with a blue curtain hovering

It’s called the world and you want to see it all

You breathe it in and smell the pollens

You see all of them, all of a sudden..

The little girls from middle school

Are all fine women now

In their boxes, counting squares

Of paper bills

And fluttering wings,

That want to fly

A different shape

A different sky

Another world

Another time.

Vir Sanghvi on Kolkata

An article many have read, I have loved.

Vir Sanghvi is the editor of The Hindustan Times.

Most modern Indian cities strive to rise above ethnicity. Tell anybody

who lives in Bombay that he lives in a Maharashtrian city and (unless of

course, you are speaking to Bal Thackeray) he will take immediate

offence. We are cosmopolitan, he will say indigenously. Tell a

Delhiwalla that his is a Punjabi city (which, in many ways, it is) and

he will respond with much self-righteous nonsense about being the

nation's capital, about the international composition of the city's

elite etc. And tell a Bangalorean that he lives in a Kannadiga city and

you'll get lots of techno-gaff about the internet revolution and about

how Bangalore is even more cosmopolitan than Bombay.

But, the only way to understand what Calcutta is about is recognize

that the city is essentially Bengali. What's more, no Bengali minds you

saying that. Rather, he is proud of the fact. Calcutta's strengths and

weaknesses mirror those of the Bengali character. It has the drawbacks:

the sudden passions, the cheerful chaos, the utter contempt for mere

commerce, the fiery response to the smallest provocation. And it has the

strengths (actually, I think of the drawbacks as strengths in their own

way). Calcutta embodies the Bengali love of culture; the triumph of

intellectualism over greed; the complete transparency of all emotions,

the disdain with which hypocrisy and insincerity are treated; the warmth

of genuine humanity; and the supremacy of emotion over all other aspects

of human existence.

That's why Calcutta is not for everyone. You want your cities clean and

green; stick to Delhi. You want your cities, rich and impersonal; go to

Bombay. You want them high-tech and full of draught beer; Bangalore's

your place. But if you want a city with a soul: come to Calcutta.

When I look back on the years I've spent in Calcutta - and I come back

so many times each year that I often feel I've never been away - I don't

remember the things that people remember about cities. When I think of

London, I think of the vast open spaces of Hyde Park. When I think of

New York, I think of the frenzy of Times Square. When I think of

Tokyo, I think of the bright lights of Shinjiku. And when I think of

Paris, I think of the Champs Elysee. But when I think of Calcutta, I

never think of any one place. I don't focus on the greenery of the

maidan, the beauty of the Victoria Memorial, the bustle of Burra Bazar

or the splendour of the new Howrah 'Bridge'. I think of people. Because,

finally, a city is more than bricks and mortars, street lights and

tarred roads. A city is the sum of its people. And who can ever forget -

or replicate - the people of Calcutta?

When I first came to live here, I was told that the city would grow on

me. What nobody told me was that the city would change my life. It was

in Calcutta that I learnt

about true warmth; about simple human decency; about love and

friendship; about emotions and caring; about truth and honesty. I learnt

other things too. Coming from Bombay as I did, it was a revelation to

live in a city where people judged each other on the things that really

mattered; where they recognized that being rich did not make you a

better person - in fact, it might have the opposite effect. I learnt

also that if life is about more than just money, it is about the things

that other cities ignore; about culture, about ideas, about art, and

about passion. In Bombay, a man with a relatively low income will salt

some of it away for the day when he gets a stock market tip. In

Calcutta, a man with exactly the same income will not know the

difference between a debenture and a dividend. But he will spend his

money on the things that matter. Each morning, he will read at least two

newspapers and develop sharply etched views on the state of the world.

Each evening, there will be fresh (ideally, fresh-water or river) fish

on his table. His children will be encouraged to learn to dance or sing.

His family will appreciate the power of poetry. And for him, religion

and culture will be in inextricably bound together.

Ah religion! Tell outsiders about the importance of Puja in Calcutta

and they'll scoff. Don't be silly, they'll say. Puja is a religious

festival. And Bengal has voted for

the CPM since 1977. How can godless Bengal be so hung up on a religions

festival? I never know how to explain them that to a Bengali, religion

consists of much more than shouting Jai Shri Ram or pulling down

somebody's mosque. It has little to do with meaningless ritual or

sinister political activity.

The essence of Puja is that all the passions of Bengal converge:

emotion, culture, the love of life, the warmth of being together, the

joy of celebration, the pride in

artistic ex-pression and yes, the cult of the goddess.

It may be about religion. But is about much more than just worship. In

which other part of India would small, not particularly well-off

localities, vie with each other to produce the best pandals? Where else

could puja pandals go beyond religion to draw inspiration from

everything else? In the years I lived in Calcutta, the pandals featured

Amitabh Bachchan, Princes Diana and even Saddam Hussain! Where else

would children cry with the sheer emotional power of Dashimi, upset that

the Goddess had left their homes? Where else would the whole city

gooseflesh when the dhakis first begin to beat their drums? Which other

Indian festival - in any part of the country - is so much about food,

about going from one roadside stall to another, following your nose as

it trails the smells of cooking?

To understand Puja, you must understand Calcutta. And to understand

Calcutta, you must understand the Bengali. It's not easy.

Certainly, you can't do it till you come and live here, till you let

Calcutta suffuse your being, invade your bloodstream and steal your

soul. But once you have, you'll love Calcutta forever. Wherever you go,

a bit of Calcutta will go with you. I know, because it's happened to me.

And every Puja, I am overcome by the magic of Bengal. It's a feeling

that'll never go away.

Poila Baishakh greeting

I made this Bengali greeting by punching in English alphabets and numbers.. Something (!) exciting for Poila Baishakh :)

zero-two-slash-two-one-slash-zero-seven
Ring any bells?

None. Thought discarded. Concentrated on X-ray diffraction analysis of cellulose.

"j bhashar jonye, emon honye emon akul holam
se bhashate amar odhikar
se bhasha amar prane, amar gane
amar ongikar"

Since 1952, 21 February has been observed every year to commemorate the martyrs of the Language Movement of Bangladesh. On 17 November 1999, UNESCO adopted a resolution proclaiming 21 February as international mother language day, an honour bestowed by the international community on the Language Movement of Bangladesh.

"ekushe februray amar alo
amar chokh"

walking back from work towards the bus stand, I notice daylight's still burning beyond 6pm. The days have started to get longer. It is feeling warmer than it has in a long long time.
And the sky is redder.

"amar shona desher rokte rangano february
ami ki bhulite pari"

and then all of a sudden all the bells start ringing. it's a call from home. --Bhashar tan. Narir tan.

esnips

17 Borshonomondrit...

16 Amar priyaar ch...

15 Mukhokhani koro...

13 Shudhu jaoya-as...

14 Kyano je mono b...

Tomake Chai.mp3

Aji Barishono.mp3

Suman_Ekla hote ch...

01. Boker bhitor b...

bhabna amar ekla hote
chaiche eka
akash nie.

Home..just a flight away

Home..just a flight away

I was hardly a year old, so I'm told. My grandpa, Dada the then Director of Agriculture, West Bengal was always on tours, flying red-eyed till he retired.
My year old brain somehow conjured that he would fly in my pink helicopter and I banged it hard on the floor, asking him to disembark.

Today I live half-a-globe apart from him, living a dream, Dada and me share; following his footsteps in another College of Agriculture.
I don't know how and when I lost that pink helicopter and with it my juvenile sanity.

I see myself squatting on the floor banging a pink helicopter crying "Dada nam".. after all home is more a memory and reunion a flight away.