Thursday, August 31, 2006

Bangla blog

It's official now. Ghetufool has started his Bangla blog.

For my non-bong readers, don't get disheartened, i will continue writing in my broken English. Especially, my Piklu series will always be in this blog.

Bong-readers, comment dite bholo na jeno notun blog-e.

Thank You
Dhonyobad
Shukriya

Friday, August 18, 2006

Piklu and his Mother

Piklu was restless. His sister was still perfecting her dance moves as the dance teacher was not letting her go. Piklu is five-year-old now. Old enough to take his seven-year-old sister to the dance school. His sister is a complete idiot. She needs somebody to accompany her to the dance school. Since Piklu cannot come of his own, they think, he had to stay with her till the class is over.

Generally mother goes with her. But she is sick today. Buddha Kaku is regularly visiting her and changing prescriptions. He said if the fever doesn’t come down within this evening mother should be shifted to hospital.

That’s a good news. Nobody will force him to go to the school then. Piklu wished she stays in the hospital for the next week. He can play football for the whole day. Father is never a problem. He never forced him to study. Actually, father is a fun to hang around with. He is keener on showing how to ball or how to hold the bat. He regularly enquires about how many goals Piklu scored or how many runs he secured. Father is a darling. Mother is bad.

What if mother never returns from hospital? That would be fun! Piklu was deep in his thought. Suddenly he realized that would be actually very bad. He cannot live without his mother. Mother beats his skin out, boxes his ears, scolds him, controls his playing time with a strict hand. But…

And that’s a big but. Piklu knows it is his mother who loves him the most. More than his father. Whenever mother hugs him, he feels such warmth, so much comfort in her love. While sleeping, he NEEDs his mother. If maa is not around, he cannot sleep. All kind of thoughts come in. Like how to kick Hari in the school, or tensions like Sweta stealing his tiffin and finishing the whole cake without leaving a crump. Or Himangshu snatching his new pencil. Worst still, his sister ordering him to fetch clothes from the terrace.

While sleeping, his mother comes and touches his forehead. A reassuring smell engulfs Piklu’s body and mind, he instantly loses his consciousness and fall in deep slumber. All nice things are waiting for him there. Like mother’s pan cakes, a tricycle of his dream. His best friend Khudi almost always accompanies him there. All day long they pelt stones at the tamarind tree with their catapults. And there is no Shukli to chase them. At a distance, it is always Durga puja. You can hear the sweet drum beats from a distance. Kids are playing with pistols there. Two parties vying for the blood of each other in a war for supremacy. Fully equipped with crackers. And father is standing there with all kinds of toys, smiling and boxing his sister’s ear in one hand.

And in a corner Pamela didi is sitting. Watching them play. She looks beautiful then ever. And she is of course most impressed with Piklu’s exemplary courage.

Only mother can transfer him to this wonderland. Just one touch is enough. Piklu can fall asleep by taking mother’s fingers in his palm. It’s magic.

He looked at the sky, the cloud there looked like a great swan. He prayed to the swan to go and tell God to heal her mother soon. He doesn’t want his mother to leave him. If they want, they can take his sister and her dance teacher to the hospital.

Soon he realized his lips were trembling. Eyes were getting wet. He wanted to rush to his mother. He will go and hug her tight. He will not let anybody to take her to hospital. He had no idea what a hospital is. Must be a very foul place where they punish people for not letting kids play all the time. He is ready to be a good boy. He is ready to quit playing altogether. He is ready to go to school regularly. He will not fight with other kids ever. He will not bug his mother ever. He will be a good boy. But oh God don’t take my mother to the hospital.

He was praying fervently till the swan changed shape and became a cat. Piklu was now shaking, he couldn’t control the tears. He loves his mother. Mother is the dearest of all he ever knew. There is nobody who can replace Maa. He saw his sister coming.

“Piklu, why are you crying?” she was tensed. He knew, his sister may be foul but she also loves him very much. She is so protective of him in the school. Other kids don’t mess with him because of his sister. She also should not be sent to hospital.

“Didi are they going to take Maa to the hospital?” Piklu knew his didi has all the answers in the world. She never fails him. She knows which kite is better to fly and which bat is the best for cricket. She also knows how to make beautiful aeroplanes that floats and gently lands even when there is no air around.

“Don’t cry Piklu,” didi hugs him. Piklu spotted some hints of tears in her eyes too.

--No tell me, are they going to take mother to the hospital, tell me…tell me.

“I don’t know…I really don’t know.”

At that time if you were passing down the road you could have spotted two kids crying frantically hugging each other. Both trying to console each other, but had no clue how. You could see the tears were real. More precious and shiny then pearls. Priceless.

If you were a little eccentric to care about nonsense trivial things like a cloud, you could have seen a giant cat in the sky was slowly slowly melting down. If you could have waited there for a few more minutes you could have seen it was drizzling.

Thursday, August 17, 2006

...

Last night the pain came again. Out of the blue. Paralyzing me for the whole night. I couldn’t sleep. I tried concentrating on the latest Angel of Darkness puzzles. I need to get Lara out of the louver museum. I am not getting the exit.

I was wondering how hopeless Lara is in this game. Just like me. She is running around, hiding herself just to prove that she is not the murderer of her mentor Werner Von Croy. Similarly I am also running around, hiding…trying my best to convince I am not guilty of anything. But I can’t. You cannot hide from your conscience. Somebody in me is continuously shouting out “you are guilty of everything…” he is not convinced with my arguments. If somebody cares to dig deep in he/she will find the wounds. So fresh, even after so many years. It’s so obvious beneath the layers.

I am dying by this mental trauma, I cannot make anybody understand. I am an introvert. I try my best to stay cheerful. Pretend that I have started a new life. Pretend that nothing happened, pretend nothing was wrong. Try to console myself saying things like ‘almighty has the last word, we are mere mortals. Can’t ride over the fate’ but I fail every time. The world becomes meaningless when suddenly, like a storm, past emotions start pouring in. Everything darkens. It’s almost like a cancer. If cancer was ever mental.

I pined to reveal myself to somebody. Somebody who is magnanimous enough to listen, listen and understand. But I just cannot unburden myself. Several times I decided to fall in love. Just to mould my life with my girlfriend’s whims and fancies, just to remain busy with somebody and get involved in her worries. That way I can forget my worries, my fear, my guilt (if there was one). Several times I made up my mind that I will propose this girl or that girl. Will court for a while. And if I find her deep enough, slowly slowly I will unburden myself to her. I heard a woman in love can absorb anything.

But then I truly believe that girls are shallow. Almost everybody is shallow in nature. If they think they are serious, they will behave like a Martian and forget there are moments when being serious is a crime. If a girl thinks she is funny (duly and religiously told and repeated by her friend) she will act funny even when shutting up is the need of the hour. There is absolutely no difference between girl A and girl B. they behave and reflect the environment they grew up in and thoughts they were fed up from their childhood. But before branding me a male chauvinist pig I would like to clarify, I really look into a woman with some kind of respect. They might be shallow in feelings, but they are also pure. You can trust even the most so called ‘vilest’ of woman with your life. They will never cheat you. Women don’t cheat. It’s how you behaved with them. They just return what they saw.

Observing a person is a passion that lived with me from my childhood. I zero in on a person, I follow her/ his every move…body language, behavior for a month or two. I come to a definite conclusion about their character, and then I move on to observe a different person. Most of the time I can predict what a person will do given a situation, and most of the time they do what I predict. It’s fun, a dangerous passion I am nurturing from my childhood.

This is this observation that tells me that you really cannot expect a girl to understand you, a woman is a simple creature. It’s this simplicity that makes them to try to be complex and behave in a ludicrously complex way, when it is evident that a spade is indeed a spade. And since men are indeed complex and are tired of their complexity, they tend to behave in a very simple manner. You will find a guy, who pretends to be a complex one and perplex people, has a girlie nature. He is indeed a fish of shallow water.

It’s funny, once I contemplated to renounce the world. I went to Ramakrishna Mission for a life of a monk. I am ever indebted for the Swamiji there who, in a matter of few words unfolded the true meaning of life. No scripture can guide you the way a guru can. He asked me a few questions and explained my answers. I was myself astonished to find the explanations. How true those were, yet so illusive. It needed a guru to make me realize the true me. I realized I am not an ascetic material. I love life! He told me to settle down, to raise a family. He said life is a jig-saw puzzle, everything falls in place eventually.

I am a kind of person, who can mix with anybody, but generally don’t hold on to a person. No wonder, I have a very limited number of intimate friends. Here in Bangalore, I met two persons who are deep enough to share my pain; I told them…at least part of what ailing me. They were thoughtful enough to remain silent. I was also comforted, because I knew silence is the only comfort. They are like my elder brothers.

One of them even has the id and password for this blog. And he promised to edit my book if I write one. In words…at least I can seek refuge.

Friday, August 04, 2006

Perfect life

Life can’t get better than this. My brother got into engineering today, my sister…slowly but steadily… carving out a name for her as a criminal lawyer.

I always knew my brother would be an excellent electrical engineer one day. He opened up our TV, tape-recorder, radio, watch, computer, even washing machine just out of curiosity. When he was small, he used to wait eagerly for a new gift. Whenever he used to get it, he would disappear in some obscure corner. Half-an-hour later he would return back the gift with thanks. Piece by piece.

As for my sister, she is a born lawyer. I know, it will take a Taliban to pacify her argumentative zeal. Criminals and lawyers, mere mortal that they are…do not stand a chance to her arguing prowess. I realized it first hand when we were very young. She used to perfectly pass on her folly on my name. I was always on the receiving end of my father’s ear-boxing experimentation. For no fault of mine.

My father, after fulfilling a Herculean enthusiasm to expand our house is now happily concentrating on his second and third wife…a 1970 Lambretta and an equally old Fiat.
We have a huge army of people to keep our old mothers running. To run the scooter, you need a battalion of children. It’s a scene. Father alights in the seat with all his macho ness imprinted on his face (he still thinks he is a shorter version of Vinod Khanna…the one and only true hero, embodiment of ultimate MAN ever to set his sacred foot in Bollywood). Platoons of children, turn by turn, then pushes the antique for about one kilometer to get that first pumped up revving sound….grrrrrrr….the vehicle then repeats the same growling sound for one more kilometer. Finally when it start off, it alarms all its future servants…those who are still in their nappies, because all of them in our locality hails their future master with a perfect cacophony…all of them wake from their lazy sleep. Since they are not very advanced in their language skills…they start off with loud cries.

Same treatment with my second mother. Only this time…we have a squadron of dedicated adults.

My father every week take my beloved mechanical mothers (I guess he does not remember his first wife’s name by now) for a medical checkup and come back all smiles emptying his pocket. True love.

His first wife, my human mother is now happily basking on the glory of being a mother of two jewels (they never considered me as someone to talk about, you know. Anyway, I was always the black sheep in my family, a blot in illustrious Roy-family). She spends most of her time in the custom-made designer worship-room.

If the last report is true, my ailing dog Bonny…who was suffering from occasional paralysis can now lift his right hind leg and thus pee on his own natural style. A marked improvement from last when I took him onto my lap.

As for me, I am having a blast these days. I am assigning stories to newcomers. Occasionally threatening them with an authoritarian aura (I am one year senior now). I don’t shout and assign stories. I walk to them and ask, “Are you free?” they had to say “Yes”. Yes, I get a kick before assigning them stories.

Weekend, I slosh myself in Karnataka Club. Hail to the man who invented whiskey. Especially ‘Signature’. Signature and Sprite goes together. Almost like perfect lover. Poetry. I immerse myself in this poetry for the next two days. Mirza Ghalib…ahem. Hick…

Life can’t get better than this. Perfect. Amen.

Of Cricket and Other Sports

I have started playing cricket after some thirty years. I can't claim to be the best bloke around in cricket, far from it, but I am one ...