She said, “You are the butter to my bread… the breath to my life…”
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Butter.... the best thing to happen to mankind
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Saturday, May 02, 2009
Tanya
We leave on Sunday for Himachal to get Tanya married to Sandy. I met her today and roamed the Esplanade streets in what seemed to be the last page in this chapter of our life.
Post her wedding, life will be different. Though we didn’t meet regularly for the last few years, when we were both in Kolkata, we still knew we there for each other- staying in the same city, breathing the same polluted air, passing the same places on our way to work or play.
We didn’t meet each other, because we didn’t need to- the mere knowledge of the other’s presence and the assurance that we could meet up whenever we wanted to, was enough to keep us going in our individual lives.
An odd movie outing, or a hot cup of coffee on a cold winter afternoon were the innocent pretexts of our meetings, and at the end of each shopping spree or adda, the goodbyes came naturally- without much thought or a sense of loss.
“She’s just a phone call away, and we can always meet up for dinner next Saturday”, was what I thought on those occasions. But the weekends obliviously rolled into Mondays and the din of the city and the weight of our responsibilities sucked us into a vortex of mechanized, frantic struggle for a living.
Summers turned into winters and raw, sour mangoes gave way to sweet oranges, but our meetings never increased; nor decreased. A chat on the phone, a stay over at each other’s house was how we connected, but the real source of sustenance of our friendship went way back in the past when I had shared my life with her in a faraway hostel room in an alien city.
She had been like a sister to me, sharing my joys and my sorrows, laughing at my jokes, teasing me for my extra fat, taking care of me, fighting with me, staying up late at nights, so we could munch on Haldiram’s ‘Salted Kaju’ and watch ‘Remix’ on TV after I returned home from work at 5 am. She even cleaned our usually unkempt beds and the room we shared, as a birthday surprise for me. It sure was a relieving and welcome sight. A neatly made bed was unimaginable those days.
She played her guitar those mornings, as I sat listening, smoking a cigarette. Sometimes I would join in and sing a couple of lines of the song she strummed on her guitar.
La la la ra la la ra la la ra la la la ra
La la la ra la la ra la la ra la la la ra
La la la ra la la ra la la ra la la la ra
Bhalo lage shopner maya jaal bunte
Bhalo lage oi akasher tara gunte
Bhalo lage meghla dine
Nishpoloke ramdhonu khujte....
Bondhu!
She tried to learn the tune of ‘Coffee houser shei adda ta aaj aar nei aaj aar nei, Kothay Hariye gelo Shonali bikel gulo shei, Aaj aar nei’.
But she failed.
So we sang the ‘Bondhu’ song again and again, until tired and prodded by the gently rising sun, we would wind up our music sessions and drift off to sleep.
We worked nights then, and slept days.
Today I know why she couldn’t learn the tune, and why her fingers wouldn’t pluck the strings in the then unfamiliar way.
Tanya, you fool, how could you think you could play the song of loss and fond recollection, when it was time to make happy memories?
We were full of vivacity then, like rivers in their youth, gurgling past boulders and pebbles, gushing towards their destiny, on a path already set for them, but their innocence keeping them blissfully unaware.
But my dear friend, the river has reached the plains now, the pace slackened, and on the path destined, it flows through towns and cities, its responsibilities to nurture civilizations stripping it of its restless gurgling. It’s a stability long desired, but acquired at the loss of the wild youthfulness of yonder.
As you turn over a new leaf, I can only wish you my purest best, and pray that your dimple works overtime.
Try strumming the guitar now. You might be able to play ‘Coffee House’ finally.
Post her wedding, life will be different. Though we didn’t meet regularly for the last few years, when we were both in Kolkata, we still knew we there for each other- staying in the same city, breathing the same polluted air, passing the same places on our way to work or play.
We didn’t meet each other, because we didn’t need to- the mere knowledge of the other’s presence and the assurance that we could meet up whenever we wanted to, was enough to keep us going in our individual lives.
An odd movie outing, or a hot cup of coffee on a cold winter afternoon were the innocent pretexts of our meetings, and at the end of each shopping spree or adda, the goodbyes came naturally- without much thought or a sense of loss.
“She’s just a phone call away, and we can always meet up for dinner next Saturday”, was what I thought on those occasions. But the weekends obliviously rolled into Mondays and the din of the city and the weight of our responsibilities sucked us into a vortex of mechanized, frantic struggle for a living.
Summers turned into winters and raw, sour mangoes gave way to sweet oranges, but our meetings never increased; nor decreased. A chat on the phone, a stay over at each other’s house was how we connected, but the real source of sustenance of our friendship went way back in the past when I had shared my life with her in a faraway hostel room in an alien city.
She had been like a sister to me, sharing my joys and my sorrows, laughing at my jokes, teasing me for my extra fat, taking care of me, fighting with me, staying up late at nights, so we could munch on Haldiram’s ‘Salted Kaju’ and watch ‘Remix’ on TV after I returned home from work at 5 am. She even cleaned our usually unkempt beds and the room we shared, as a birthday surprise for me. It sure was a relieving and welcome sight. A neatly made bed was unimaginable those days.
She played her guitar those mornings, as I sat listening, smoking a cigarette. Sometimes I would join in and sing a couple of lines of the song she strummed on her guitar.
La la la ra la la ra la la ra la la la ra
La la la ra la la ra la la ra la la la ra
La la la ra la la ra la la ra la la la ra
Bhalo lage shopner maya jaal bunte
Bhalo lage oi akasher tara gunte
Bhalo lage meghla dine
Nishpoloke ramdhonu khujte....
Bondhu!
She tried to learn the tune of ‘Coffee houser shei adda ta aaj aar nei aaj aar nei, Kothay Hariye gelo Shonali bikel gulo shei, Aaj aar nei’.
But she failed.
So we sang the ‘Bondhu’ song again and again, until tired and prodded by the gently rising sun, we would wind up our music sessions and drift off to sleep.
We worked nights then, and slept days.
Today I know why she couldn’t learn the tune, and why her fingers wouldn’t pluck the strings in the then unfamiliar way.
Tanya, you fool, how could you think you could play the song of loss and fond recollection, when it was time to make happy memories?
We were full of vivacity then, like rivers in their youth, gurgling past boulders and pebbles, gushing towards their destiny, on a path already set for them, but their innocence keeping them blissfully unaware.
But my dear friend, the river has reached the plains now, the pace slackened, and on the path destined, it flows through towns and cities, its responsibilities to nurture civilizations stripping it of its restless gurgling. It’s a stability long desired, but acquired at the loss of the wild youthfulness of yonder.
As you turn over a new leaf, I can only wish you my purest best, and pray that your dimple works overtime.
Try strumming the guitar now. You might be able to play ‘Coffee House’ finally.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Summer Salvation
Let your tongue feel the smooth coolness… your throat savour the taste of the liquid, as it makes its way down… flowing like a lazy river... touching different parts and bringing them alive with its rejuvenating freshness, the slight pungent taste, bringing a welcome change in your mouth… Feel the sheer pleasure when it begins its journey down to its destination… flowing, halting, touching parts of your mouth, you never knew existed… It begins from the slight opening of your lips, from where it pours itself into the welcoming warmth of your mouth, cooling every place it touches, bringing relief like the first nor’westers to the parched, waiting earth… creating havoc with your senses, as they struggle to cope with the unexpected yet pleasantly surprising taste of the fluid…
As it continues on its chosen path like a carefree little girl, gurgling her way through the banks of a river long dried, hopping on boulders, chasing the grasshoppers, laughing to herself… the liquid finally reaches the youth of its journey… it takes on a pace- fierce and passionate, and without a second look at the dreams of its childhood, it takes the plunge of its life. Flowing down the throat it numbs your mind, body and soul for a moment, when nothing else feels true but the union of the inexperienced orange drink with the very wise and experienced gullet… and when pro meets novice, the effect is dynamic. Each has something to learn and something to teach. The tyro has the world to learn and in turn teach the experienced renewed innocence; the innocence that is left behind in the rollercoaster of life. And it is this union that sings the swan song of the orange drink… it carries on in its way to the final destination, where it meets its final destiny… oblivion.
And then it is time for another gulp of your Glucon D!
As it continues on its chosen path like a carefree little girl, gurgling her way through the banks of a river long dried, hopping on boulders, chasing the grasshoppers, laughing to herself… the liquid finally reaches the youth of its journey… it takes on a pace- fierce and passionate, and without a second look at the dreams of its childhood, it takes the plunge of its life. Flowing down the throat it numbs your mind, body and soul for a moment, when nothing else feels true but the union of the inexperienced orange drink with the very wise and experienced gullet… and when pro meets novice, the effect is dynamic. Each has something to learn and something to teach. The tyro has the world to learn and in turn teach the experienced renewed innocence; the innocence that is left behind in the rollercoaster of life. And it is this union that sings the swan song of the orange drink… it carries on in its way to the final destination, where it meets its final destiny… oblivion.
And then it is time for another gulp of your Glucon D!
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
Our days at TARA
Path and Sin are sitting beside each other and working from the same comp. Reason? Recession.
Path: Open my Twitter account
Sin: yeah then you can write me a msg,
(Account opened. Both accounts operating.)
Sin (Twittering): Finished watching Before Sunrise.
Path(Replying to sin’s Twitter): Told you it was a wonderful movie!
Sin: Aaare have you noticed one thing? We manage to be the Biggest losers on earth! Sitting on the same comp, Twittering to each other…
Path: Lol!! Chal lets go have lunch! Or shall I Twitter that too??
POST LUNCH
Both sitting bored on the same comp again. Full and satiated, Path belches. Sin disgusted. Both sigh like the emissions of a steam engine.
Suddenly Path: Oye!! Akshay Kumar unbuttoning his jeans!!!
Sin: Lets see lets see!! (eyes popping, she starts a mad search on the internet, while Path looks on dreamily).
Sin: OYE!! THE FUCKING PAGE NOT OPENING!!
Path: F5… FUCKING F5!!!
F5 pressed, both stare at the blank screen blankly, as it takes its own sweet time to reload.
5 secs…. Still staring… 10…. 15…
Path: FUCKING F5!!!!!
Bored yet anxious, they turn their attention to the TV screens across the floor. A particularly non-descript channel catches their attention. A woman with nothing womanly clad in a hideous stool-coloured saree is jiggling and bouncing her silicones all over the screen. It appears to be a Pak Filmfare Award…
Path: Dear God! I refuse to watch that. It is a deliberate assault on my sense of aesthetics and knowledge of the arts.
Sin: Fuck! They’ve introduced terrorism in movies as well. Mr.PM was right! Pak IS the epicenter of global terrorism.
Path: Yeah! They’ve commercialized it too. Next you know, those gun-totting barely-out-of-teen guys will wear sponsored T-shirts!!
Sin: Lets’s drink to that… RINKYYYYYYYYY………… let’s go for tea!!
They pull Rinky out of her reverie and file down for tea. Card punching is a big issue here.
Path: Open my Twitter account
Sin: yeah then you can write me a msg,
(Account opened. Both accounts operating.)
Sin (Twittering): Finished watching Before Sunrise.
Path(Replying to sin’s Twitter): Told you it was a wonderful movie!
Sin: Aaare have you noticed one thing? We manage to be the Biggest losers on earth! Sitting on the same comp, Twittering to each other…
Path: Lol!! Chal lets go have lunch! Or shall I Twitter that too??
POST LUNCH
Both sitting bored on the same comp again. Full and satiated, Path belches. Sin disgusted. Both sigh like the emissions of a steam engine.
Suddenly Path: Oye!! Akshay Kumar unbuttoning his jeans!!!
Sin: Lets see lets see!! (eyes popping, she starts a mad search on the internet, while Path looks on dreamily).
Sin: OYE!! THE FUCKING PAGE NOT OPENING!!
Path: F5… FUCKING F5!!!
F5 pressed, both stare at the blank screen blankly, as it takes its own sweet time to reload.
5 secs…. Still staring… 10…. 15…
Path: FUCKING F5!!!!!
Bored yet anxious, they turn their attention to the TV screens across the floor. A particularly non-descript channel catches their attention. A woman with nothing womanly clad in a hideous stool-coloured saree is jiggling and bouncing her silicones all over the screen. It appears to be a Pak Filmfare Award…
Path: Dear God! I refuse to watch that. It is a deliberate assault on my sense of aesthetics and knowledge of the arts.
Sin: Fuck! They’ve introduced terrorism in movies as well. Mr.PM was right! Pak IS the epicenter of global terrorism.
Path: Yeah! They’ve commercialized it too. Next you know, those gun-totting barely-out-of-teen guys will wear sponsored T-shirts!!
Sin: Lets’s drink to that… RINKYYYYYYYYY………… let’s go for tea!!
They pull Rinky out of her reverie and file down for tea. Card punching is a big issue here.
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