The namesake

When I was a young kid, I remember calling an ancient lady as "Mahabharata" because every few alternate days she used to come to our house at dusk and then read out verses from the Mahabharata and explain the stories to me and my elder brothers. She normally used to come in the late afternoons and chat with my grandma, mother and my aunt about the going-ons under the different roofs which she used to visit, just like ours. Once she was done with her renditions and comments on the worldly issues, she would take out the old, dilapidated thick volume of the Epic from the room where our family deities were kept and worshiped. The thick volume, I vaguely remember now, used to be covered in a maroony, moth eaten velvet cloth which might have been red when it was first wrapped around the book. Then she used to place the volume of text on an X-shaped wooden cross, and carefully unwrap and open the book to the page where she had taken her break last time. I don't remember to have seen her ever starting from the first few pages and my memory tells me I never saw her finishing the last pages. It almost always used to be the three-quarter of that thick volume where she started. The bounded volume was in itself a testimony of the times and generations of readers who have gone through it's sheets of wisdom and tales, and in the process had gained an ivory tint and tunnels for bookworms. I lifted it occasionally and it took a real strain on my back to do so.


So by the time the dusk set in, and our mom,aunt and grandma had finished the evening Puja, me and my two cousins were all huddled up to listen to that day's tales. Even the ladies joined us and then "Mahabharata" with her wrinkled face and strained vision started reciting from her namesake. It was a shrill voice but which was equally apt at describing the modern tales of common households as well as the ancient tales of valor and betrayal, the myths of lords and larger-than-life humans. She used to chant the Sanskrit verses and then after every few lines explain it in vernacular. Many a days, the power would go out and we'll be sitting around a kerosene lamp with shadows playing with the mythical characters which seemed to come alive with "Mahabharata's" hypnotizing portrayals. And soon she would finish yet another episode of magnificent fable, leaving footprints on our impressionable minds.


I don't remember when she stopped visiting our house, which was such a gradual process that by the time I really noticed it, I had grown up for B.R. Chopra's epic TV serial. In all those years I never really got to know her name, certainly she had an existence beyond the gossip circles and the Epic but for me she'll always be the lady who illustrated the mythology in all it's grandiosity and detail.

A session of boredom...

Following the tradition of torturing the students to mental-numbness by the boring lectures and the extremely uninspiring academic sessions, our Dept. arranged for a seminar by a certain Indian professor settled in Australia. Although not totally skeptical, still I have certain reservations in accepting that this chap will fly all the way to deliver lecture to a bunch of intellectually retards. I don't know the specifics of how the authorities managed to rope him in, my best bet lies on that, he might be on a vacation here and grabbing this opportunity somebody from our College requested him to do the honours of paralyzing the hapless students minds for a couple of hours, as if the contribution by our esteemed faculty to this effect were not enough.


Thus after writing a test and hoping for some relief, we were lured into this trap of a seminar, in the name of attendance and getting to interact with a supposedly academic figure. As it soon turned out, we were boxed with a huge bore whose supremely entertaining idea of the seminar was to present us with some lame Powerpoint presentations. Within half an hour all the students were dozing off to his monotonous lullaby of a lecture. But definitely they couldn't afford to sleep it off, what with HOD and all the staff fixing their hawk-eyed gaze on all of us. We were given an hour's break for lunch and told to return to attend the afternoon session, or else forget the whole day's attendance. As most of us are totally attendance-starved, so we returned back with full tummies and eyes loaded with sleep.


The farce of a lecture started again and that Australian-imported-incredible-bore again started off with his perpetual grin. I was wondering throughout the whole session what he was grinning at? Maybe at the thought of getting so many scapegoats for audience who wouldn't buzz even when subjected to such lengths of inhuman test of patience, which I'm pretty sure all his Aussie students avoided, even if that meant chopping of their limbs.


The seemingly infinite session finally came to an end and everybody started clapping out of relief, at the thought of finally getting out of the same room, shared by one of the most intellectually-pathetically-bored person we ever came across. And thus ended our excruciatingly paralysing tryst with the Australian-imported-boring-specimen of a lecturer. Hope we never cross each other's roads again. PHEW.....

Suffering from Blogger's Block, that sounds like mutilating a phrase to it's corpse, but that's how it's going on for the last one month. Hope to get well soon.

yraiD

The title is the mirror image of "Diary", though not exactly, but the reason I spelt it reverse will be clear soon. This post is for those of you who maintain a diary, others can also go through it but it'll be a little dull for them. Many of us maintain a diary in some form or the other which means "a daily record, usually private, esp. of the writer's own experiences, observations, feelings, attitudes, etc". Some do the chronicling in hardbound executive diaries while others may opt for a more casual notebook kind of approach. But its really not the package but the content in it that really matters. Now I for one happen to keep a diary, which I can't really attend to regularly, rather I return to it occasionally. Now it so happened that the other day I was organizing all my books and among them found my last year's diary. I skimmed through the pages and felt like I was reading a page from somebody else's. I started recollecting the events which I had almost forgotten but happened only a few months ago. Then in a certain section I was a bit pensive when going through a particularly emotional phase. Then a pang of disappointment hit me when I realised that I have looked over so many things that I had promised to do last year. Then I stumbled upon a few nice days where I was having great fun which uplifted the gloominess.

It really felt a bit nostalgic and quaint revisiting the days gone by. Do you guys go through your old diaries? If not then do it and when you open it, go to a random page and start reading it. It just feels like being transported in a time machine, the difference being that we know what's in store for us. Still it refreshes the old memories, some trivial events which might have felt so consequential at that time but so insignificant now, the broken promises and the abandoned hopes, the achievements and the pleasures, all come rushing back. Visiting old memory lanes, I wonder what it'll be like when I'll reread the same pages maybe after another thirty odd years.

Distant notes

It's been quite a few days since my last post and there has been a few instances which I thought of blogging, but eventually surrendered to my laziness and procrastination. Whenever I think of a new post, the ideas in their rudimentary form appear reluctant to shape up, which can be attributed partially to the fact that I have to write it in a language which is still foreign to me. The vocabulary and the articulation of the sentences still eludes me. Though I have come a long way in adopting a foreign language in which there's a conscious effort on my part to channel the thoughts in those non-native waters; still I grapple with the problem of finding the appropriate synonyms to accurately portray a situation, the right words describing the emotions, the exact adjectives to illustrate something or somebody. I do admit that its still a bit cumbersome for me to introspect and reflect in English which is not the case with Bengali, my vernacular tongue.


As I found out gradually that acquiring a decent vocabulary or learning the grammar never leads you to a state where you can learn the intricacies of carefully expressing the subtleties or enjoy the play of words in a conversation, it only prepares you for that; but the proper usage and picking up a dialect with the right accent can only be learnt through sharing with other people who are fluent in it. The tons of books and newspapers and movies can only make you comfortable with the form of communication but will never embed it in you until and unless you really get to interact with those for whom it comes spontaneously. I have been staying in Chennai for quite some time now and though initially I was quite reluctant to learn the tongue twisting vocabs of Tamil, but through regular interaction with the locals and gradual eagerness to exploit a new culture, I have managed at least to communicate the necessary exchanges of daily life. To be perfectly honest, only the idea of exploring the rich Tamil literature and understanding the interesting Tamil-movies have inspired me to learn it.


Its always an exciting and en lighting journey to learn a new language and the pleasure of interacting with the locals in their native tongue certainly has its dividends.We truly get to know the people of a place through their language.Hope to learn a few more of the south-Indian lingos before I move to a new place.

An evening well spent

If you'r dripping wet and waiting for some form of transportation for 45min in an almost deserted bus depot at night, with no company, how do you feel? Irritated initially, then gradually fuming at your helplessness and after a while sombre when you realize that you can't do much to change this.

Actually yesterday evening started off quite well for me until me and my friends decided to hit the beach. We went to Besantnagar Beach(in Chennai) to eat some delicious fish, prawn and squid fries. But those of you who live in this part of the world will agree with me when I say that the Chennai beaches really give the Rio carnival a run for its money on the weekends. To appreciate this jamboree we joined a mixed group of youngsters and middle-aged not-so-romantic people who were happily trying to play their part in the marine population control. We guys had barely started on our first round of prawns when all of a sudden a tempest hit us. The scene quickly resembled the bull-run on the streets of Spain, with everybody in sight running for a cover. Reluctant to abandon our delicious prawns, we decided to put our feet down against the downpour(cheeky, ehh), having our faith on the lack of stamina of mid-July-Chennai-monsoon. Soon enough we realised that the clouds have prepared themselves well for this assault when we were soaked to our bones. But I can say this much that we showed our doggedness by cleaning off the plates. Then we lit up our cigarettes and went to the edge of the water. Here I would like to point out to the skeptics that it's really tough to lit a wet cigarette, but once lit you can puff it away under a waterfall. So shivering in our wet clothes, we guys discussed grave issues like how fast we can run in the wet sand when the first signs of Tsunami are visible. Just then we noticed a group of guys digging around in the sand. Somebody in our group suggested that maybe they are taking new measures for rain water conservation while another one came up with an even more brilliant idea that they are digging the small trenches to catch some fishes by trapping them. It turned out that one of them had actually lost a ring and the whole group was searching for it by plowing the area. As the word spread around over enthusiastic volunteers braved the rain to join them. As I had to reach my room so I started off wondering if it might would have been easier for them to find the proverbial needle in a barn.

Now drenched and cold I reach the Gandhinagar bus depot to narrowly miss my bus. After that I realised how utterly frustrating and disgusting it's to wait in soaked socks with half your clothes covered in sand. After almost 50min of this ordeal I finally got my bus and tried to make myself comfortable wondering whether I have developed webbed feet or my skin will peel off when I will finally roll down the socks.

Printed words...

When was the last time that you read a book and truly felt connected with it, the last time that you wanted with all your heart that you could emulate a character from that book, wanted that the storyline prolongs itself to include infinite plots, subplots, characters and whatever is necessary to continue the flow of narration? Well SHANTARAM is one that has captured my imagination in more ways then one. Though I was rushing to finish it, savoring the unexpected twists and turns, but I was feeling guilty for hurrying it and pensive that like all good things in life the book was also destined to be read its last words, sooner or later. The lyrical narrative and the arresting turn of events just got me hooked for the last few days. Though there are only a few books that I have reread, I was quite sure even before finishing that this one would be certainly in that list. The book is going to be made into a movie, but I'm sure it'll be impossible to capture in celluloid the wildness of the protagonist's character or the philosophies he has attained from the exploration of his soul. I once heard that "words corrupt the emotions" but I can't strongly agree with that now.

Whenever we read a book we're trying to have a view of the various situations, and emotions from the author's perspective and it's like sitting in the head of that guy and watching through his eyes. This reminds me of the film BEING JOHN MALKOVICH. It's not necessary that we should always agree to the author's angle but it certainly gets us to look at things in a different light. What mesmerizes me more is not the word play but the way of simplifying the complicated stuff. For me books can be the best friend, guide and teacher that a man can ask for. They helps us to understand the things in a better and profound way. They guide us not to search the best answers in life but to ask the right questions.

I still remember the time when I was a toddler and my mother used to read me stories and I was anxious to explore the hidden treasures concealed in those printed pages. Still I feel the same way and hope that this yearning and fascination for the printed stuff would never wane.

Let's have a fag...

I took my cigarette and took a long puff. The cauterizing air filled me and then I deeply inhaled, feeling the slow toxin coursing through and filling my lungs. The smoky thoughts started swirling as I pondered over a question one of my friend asked a couple of days back, “Why did you start smoking again?” Actually, it was not a conscious decision, rather an answer to my escapism and loneliness. I had abstained from smoking for 9 long years. The first time I started when I was a teenager, just to get the kick out of being macho; to try and impress others in some silly way, convinced that it'll make me appear older than my peers. Boyish fascination for attaining early manhood. Then after a few years I quit, for no reason in particular and now the old ghost is back.

A parable is coming to my mind which I heard from my friend D. It went like this, once Prophet Mohammed was walking through a dessert when he saw a snake dying. He picked up the snake and nursed it. As soon as the snake got better it asked Mohammed, why he had taken care of a venomous snake like him. Mohammed replied that it was in his nature to take care for any ailing life. Then the snake replied that as it was Mohammed's nature to take care of all living beings, the snake's nature was to bite anything that touched it. So, the snake asked the Prophet for permission to follow its nature. The Prophet agreed to it and the snake bit Him on His hand. The Prophet then sucked the blood out from there and spit it out on the ground. From that spit a plant grew which was the tobacco plant, and thus the tobacco has the venom of a snake and the soothing charm of Prophet.

Every time I pick up a fag, the first few drags are so wonderful, refreshing but after a while it gets boring. The smoke starts tasting bitter and then gradually the fire starts dying down leaving the last few puffs. Which is when I oddly realize that my companion is leaving me, maybe a little too early. I try to hold on to it a little longer and take the last puff, inhaling the smoke and holding my breath for those few seconds, bidding adieu until I lit my next one.

It rained.

It rained tonight.

The relief was overwhelming from the stifling summer night's heat. The signs were quite clear from the evening. The air was still, everything gloomy and the sky a shade of dark purple-orange. Slowly the clouds overcasted the stars and the slice of moon. The anticipation was building up for the climax of experiencing monsoon's first showers.

I love the monsoon and I mean I really love the monsoon with all its varied forms of drizzle, thunderstorms and every other form of precipitation. Gradually the sparks started flying in the clouds. The power went off, maybe to compliment the approaching spectacle. The dazzling white lightning streaked across the blue illuminating it with the most brilliant display of fireworks imaginable. And the rumble of the thunder that followed, ohh ho ho, the deep sonorous sound vibrating the earth with the occasional sharp crackling. The lightning and thunder, the best light-and-sound show that can be enjoyed. The wind gave them perfect company by rushing in the cool smell of the approaching showers. Suddenly everything was calm signaling the start of the show. The stage was set for the grand entry, and then it happened.

First, the big fat drops started making way like the jugglers heading a huge carnival. They started releasing that intoxicating earthy smell from the parched ground. The sweet smell of the arid earth getting soaked. The pattering of the droplets gradually turning to a torrential downpour. The deluge gained momentum with every gust of wind. I couldn't hold any longer and drenched myself underneath the outburst. The cold drops were stinging my face and bare torso, but it was so refreshing that I stood there hypnotized. The water streaming from head to toe stimulating every cell. The downpour gradually subsided to a drizzle and the wind slowing down to a cool breeze. Monsoon's first shower was leaving the stage for the coming spectacles of the season.

Wishing everybody a very wet and refreshing monsoon.

Summer of '07 Travelog.... 1

Have been very busy traveling a lot of places once my darned exams were over.

The first destination was Thanjavur, where my friend Karthick lives. He invited me to visit his place and the vagabond that I am, how could i refuse that one. So went to his place which is a very ancient town comprising of a lot of archaic temples and a very old library. The grandeur of architecture of the temples and the palace was just amazing. The old library has some of the rarest palm-manuscripts and books in its collection, but it was really sad to see the dilapidated condition of these national literary treasures. From Thanjore went to Vellangini, which has the twin claim-to-fame of having the most revered catholic church in India and the place which was worst affected by the Tsunami. We guys spent more time in the beach there then in the church.

Back to Chennai.

The next pit stop was the Maximum city --- Mumbai. The city of dreams, wealth, glitz and glamour and where the word global-village finds its true meaning. This time it was the get together of we 4 school friends after a long interval of 4 years. The trip was spicy, exciting and eventful. We had a blast during that time. The sojourn was over even before we could settle down the excitement of being together after such a long period. Anyway as every good thing comes to an end we were filled with the anticipation of our next rendezvous.

Halt in Chennai for 1 night..

End of part I...