In a typical bengali man's life, there are a few things that is a must do, in fact have to do. Without these, you are risking yourself losing the citizenship of the most intellectually advanced pauper country of Bengal.
First, take birth (after taking natural birth…a conspiracy by the heavenly bodies and your parents, you should rebirth as a Bong…Satyajit Ray’s Gupi Gayen Bagha Bayen being the priest initiate and Rabindranath’s Jaal pare pata nore being the mantra.).
Second, somehow get into a good school and get out of it with a star mark in your class ten board exams, making your father boasting indifferently about you in friend circle and your mother distributing sweets with moist eyes.
Third, get into a college, a co-ed one and hook a class mate within a year. Within two weeks, kiss her in a cheap resturant cabin…two months, feel her breast. No sex before marriage please, that's against morality. Go to Victoria Memorial and get caught by police in compromising position.
Fourth, write some poetry, pretend to be a poet. Grow long hairs, don’t comb, don’t shave, wear a kurta and don’t wash it for fifteen days. Glasses are a must (if you don’t have any, watch TV from really close and get your eyes screwed). Start reading little magazines to distinguish you from the average lot.
Seventh, get into communist party. Start shouting at the imperialist powers of west. Shout in the highest pitch, so that the sound becomes inaudible. If you shout too much this will happen to you.
Sixth, get a government job. A government clerk has more power and prestige than a scientist. You can never thrash a government servant.
Fifth, marry of your mother's choice.
Sixth, go to Digha for a honeymoon. Possibly you had already visited it with your parents when you were very young, but revisit again and complain how dirty the place has become. Each time you visit, it gets dirtier than the last time. Don’t forget to say to your partner during your visit here for the first time, it was a heaven. Pretend, it was so clean that after finishing your dinner at the sea shore, you drank the water deposited at the pothole next to you. It worked as mineral water. And of course, don’t forget to crib at the hotel food. You should at least say, the fish was stale. Otherwise, you are insulting the Bong trait of never-ending dissatisfaction. A bong can go to heaven and put God to eternal shame by pointing out to the filth in his scepter. So don’t forget to crib.
Seventh, have your baby. Digha is the injection point, you will soon feel the bubble, and it should burst at a government hospital. Don’t go to private clinics, those are too expensive. Mind it, you will be going against the Bengali trait of over spending on unimportant things. Save all your money for daily kingly feasts (that bongs call lunch) and for organized India tours (dream of Shimla, you should dream big).
Eighth, grow your baby up and as dutiful Bong parents, let your son repeat the above seven.
Ninth, go for a trip of India. First stop being Puri. Marvel at the intricate work of Konarak chariot wheel and realize for the first time, YOU LOVE YOUR COUNTRY.
Tenth, get heart disease and again go to Digha. Crib again. After you get back, store the sample of your stool and urine and head for the laboratory and crib to the doctor and neighborhood how you are holding on to the ground and not letting your daughter-in-law rule you out from the house. Tell everyone that your wife, son, daughter, daughter-in-law, son-in-law everybody is conspiring for your bank balance of 1 lakh Rupee and you are using that as the carrot to them. The only person faithful to you is your grandson. He is exactly a carbon copy of your father, who was a great man. At the evening-meet of frustrated men of your age, half of whom had retired due to health reason, start discussing about the new Yoga that guarantees you an elixir for youth. Then like a magician, bring out a singara (samosa) from your kurta pocket and start sucking it (in the absence of proper teeth). After it melts down, take a gelucil from the other pocket and start chewing it religiously. Again complaint that the world is in topsey turvey and predict accurately that dooms day is within a hundred year from now. Feel assured, you will not live that long.
These are the ten most important things that bongs should do in life. For rest, go here. That’s the ultimate guide to a bongs life.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Monday, November 20, 2006
artist
I am getting a little worried by the passing days. All my creative power is eluding me leaving a frustrating blank on my mind.
It’s nearly three or more months now that I didn’t write something innovative. Earlier, I never had to think, ideas use to flow in as soon as I typed the first word. Now, the situation is quite different. The fact that I have to write this boring post establishes the fact that my grey cells are dying (if grey cells control creativity…otherwise it must be the heart, if mind is controlled by the heart). Nothing happened really that should leave me alienated and hankering for a proper outlet. At least I cannot remember anything. Yet, just as death comes to an ailing dog, silently, assuring…the cold shadow of non-creativity is engulfing my life. Assuring, because, I feel, creativity is a kind of curse. You spend the whole night sleepless; screw your system methodically by not eating anything or taking proper rest. Just to labour out the baby germinating and kicking you from within yourself.
After all these torture to your frail structure you realise one sunny morning that what you conceived so lovingly and gave birth so laboriously is actually a piece of crap. It has no value whatsoever in terms of art. Yet, it is dear to you only because you had sacrificed a lot for it. It’s dear to you because those were the moments when you actually lived! You soon wanted to relive. But looking at the deformed body of your baby, you almost want to kill it. So that you might not be reminded that you are the mother of this crippled child. You realise when the world get hold of your baby, they will probably torture it by a cruel laughter…a laughter that will come from the bottom pit of their enlightened heart. You wanted to kill your child. Since there is no punishment mooted out to you by the justly world sans the self suffering, you kill it. I killed most of my work I wrote for months on end this way.
I am now engaged in a futile exercise which a man, whom I respect as my elder brother, thinks is a great thing to do in life. “Taking control of one’s life’ is how he puts it. I have my fair share of cynical doubts. Nobody knows me better than myself.
You can compare my recent posts with the earlier ones. While earlier ones were rated A…an elixir for youth, my recent ones are as if straight from the diary of a condemned man. You get this type of stuff from a person whose clemency application has been rejected even by the president.
I remember my first art teacher. He assigned me the homework to draw a madariwallah (a monkey handler). For the whole evening, I drew…tore and redrew the picture. I went to show him…all grin, proud of my achievement.
The first thing when he saw my picture is to burst out in laughter. He was laughing holding his stomach. As if that was not enough to puncture a ten-year-old’s confidence, he made the picture pass the entire room including to the visiting guardians. “Do you recognise yourself which are the monkeys and which one is the man here? They look all identical,” he enquired with moist eyes, labour of his laughter. Just to dodge the embarrassment, I pointed out to the tails. I was sure at least the tails distinguish the two. Also one of the kinds was wearing proper dress. Which proves he is that of a human kind. That fuelled the fire. It became a salvo. All the fine artists of my age were now rolling on the floor.
Rebuked and insulted, with tears brimming at the corners of my eyes, I came home. I threw the picture at my suitcase, where I used to put all my broken toys, and never opened it. Till then I didn’t know that humans are the descendents of apes and technically it’s not wrong if they look similar, but that night I cried bitterly. Nobody knew that the child was sobbing under his blanket and begging to God not to send him to the art school again. But I couldn’t hide it long from my sister. She was also present there. She joined the merry-makers that time but stopped participating after seeing my humiliated, reddened face. She crept towards me and comforted me. She made comparisons of others with me and proved that others are in fact worst painters than me and that my picture was no doubt the art of the finest calibre. Only people didn’t understand it. She was confident, when I grow up I would be the finest modern artist. Those whose painting you don’t understand. She was only eight.
Though knowing she was just pretending, I slept comforted. Partly because I was tired of crying and partly because at that age you really don’t care about anything except the wrath of your father and school teacher. The physical abuse and not the mental harassment.
Since I threw my greatest art work to the suitcase and never opened it, it survived. After many years I chanced to discover the suitcase during the renovation of our house. I found the picture, intact. Indeed, at that tender age, I had established that men and monkeys are relatives. But I didn’t laugh. I tried to put on the cloak of an art instructor. A teacher. I detached myself from me and stood at a distance. I was trying to find the pain of a child-artist. I immediately find those. I found how the child painstakingly drew the skyline. Taking extra care as not to spill over the paint to the mountains. I saw how the child find out the different colour for the monkey and the man. While the man was treated with brown mixed with a little white, the monkey was assigned yellow ochre with a hint of black in it. Just to distinguish it with the colour of the straw huts. The straws are always yellow ochre, you see. Just like the grass should be green and the sky blue. That’s the first lesson you learn.
But should a teacher of fine art, the highest disciple known to the mankind, should be so rude and insensitive? The answer is, unfortunately…yes. That’s what life is. That’s why the critics are sitting there. Just to discourage people. Actually, it’s a conspiracy by God. Just to tease any effort which challenges his might. Both are creator and it is a well known fact that generally artists are not in good terms. And God is mighty jealous of those who can create. Because that is the only quality He has. Otherwise…He is plain worthless.
Only those who can withstand the rebuke and insults can become a man of note. Ask a successful person. Everybody tread the path of thorns.
So which people are artists? Why, everyone. Even a butcher is an artist if he loves his work and knows the technique to inflict minimum pain or some other yardstick he fixes himself for his art of knife yielding. The fact that I can’t paint or sing or write doesn’t reduces me to a non-artist. My singing prowess, which generally invites wrath and brickbats, is highly appreciated by the listener in bathroom. I put my best of emotions, I put my best of efforts, I am happy. I am an artist. So probably nobody has any right to insult my singing unless he convinces me that I am a bad singer. My art teacher never could establish the fact to me that I am a bad painter. So…I am a good painter. And I have every right not to forgive him for rebuking me.
Now if you don’t get the urge to sing at all, won’t you be assured that you are in your death-bed? Just what it is happening with me now. I want to get back to my former self. I want to whistle looking at a scantly clad chick. I know, the day I start looking intently at the bosoms of the girls passing by the street, I will be blessed. I will return back to life and will change the colour of my blog. This time back to pink. Pink is the colour of my imagination. Amen.
Till then bear with me these barley posts.
It’s nearly three or more months now that I didn’t write something innovative. Earlier, I never had to think, ideas use to flow in as soon as I typed the first word. Now, the situation is quite different. The fact that I have to write this boring post establishes the fact that my grey cells are dying (if grey cells control creativity…otherwise it must be the heart, if mind is controlled by the heart). Nothing happened really that should leave me alienated and hankering for a proper outlet. At least I cannot remember anything. Yet, just as death comes to an ailing dog, silently, assuring…the cold shadow of non-creativity is engulfing my life. Assuring, because, I feel, creativity is a kind of curse. You spend the whole night sleepless; screw your system methodically by not eating anything or taking proper rest. Just to labour out the baby germinating and kicking you from within yourself.
After all these torture to your frail structure you realise one sunny morning that what you conceived so lovingly and gave birth so laboriously is actually a piece of crap. It has no value whatsoever in terms of art. Yet, it is dear to you only because you had sacrificed a lot for it. It’s dear to you because those were the moments when you actually lived! You soon wanted to relive. But looking at the deformed body of your baby, you almost want to kill it. So that you might not be reminded that you are the mother of this crippled child. You realise when the world get hold of your baby, they will probably torture it by a cruel laughter…a laughter that will come from the bottom pit of their enlightened heart. You wanted to kill your child. Since there is no punishment mooted out to you by the justly world sans the self suffering, you kill it. I killed most of my work I wrote for months on end this way.
I am now engaged in a futile exercise which a man, whom I respect as my elder brother, thinks is a great thing to do in life. “Taking control of one’s life’ is how he puts it. I have my fair share of cynical doubts. Nobody knows me better than myself.
You can compare my recent posts with the earlier ones. While earlier ones were rated A…an elixir for youth, my recent ones are as if straight from the diary of a condemned man. You get this type of stuff from a person whose clemency application has been rejected even by the president.
I remember my first art teacher. He assigned me the homework to draw a madariwallah (a monkey handler). For the whole evening, I drew…tore and redrew the picture. I went to show him…all grin, proud of my achievement.
The first thing when he saw my picture is to burst out in laughter. He was laughing holding his stomach. As if that was not enough to puncture a ten-year-old’s confidence, he made the picture pass the entire room including to the visiting guardians. “Do you recognise yourself which are the monkeys and which one is the man here? They look all identical,” he enquired with moist eyes, labour of his laughter. Just to dodge the embarrassment, I pointed out to the tails. I was sure at least the tails distinguish the two. Also one of the kinds was wearing proper dress. Which proves he is that of a human kind. That fuelled the fire. It became a salvo. All the fine artists of my age were now rolling on the floor.
Rebuked and insulted, with tears brimming at the corners of my eyes, I came home. I threw the picture at my suitcase, where I used to put all my broken toys, and never opened it. Till then I didn’t know that humans are the descendents of apes and technically it’s not wrong if they look similar, but that night I cried bitterly. Nobody knew that the child was sobbing under his blanket and begging to God not to send him to the art school again. But I couldn’t hide it long from my sister. She was also present there. She joined the merry-makers that time but stopped participating after seeing my humiliated, reddened face. She crept towards me and comforted me. She made comparisons of others with me and proved that others are in fact worst painters than me and that my picture was no doubt the art of the finest calibre. Only people didn’t understand it. She was confident, when I grow up I would be the finest modern artist. Those whose painting you don’t understand. She was only eight.
Though knowing she was just pretending, I slept comforted. Partly because I was tired of crying and partly because at that age you really don’t care about anything except the wrath of your father and school teacher. The physical abuse and not the mental harassment.
Since I threw my greatest art work to the suitcase and never opened it, it survived. After many years I chanced to discover the suitcase during the renovation of our house. I found the picture, intact. Indeed, at that tender age, I had established that men and monkeys are relatives. But I didn’t laugh. I tried to put on the cloak of an art instructor. A teacher. I detached myself from me and stood at a distance. I was trying to find the pain of a child-artist. I immediately find those. I found how the child painstakingly drew the skyline. Taking extra care as not to spill over the paint to the mountains. I saw how the child find out the different colour for the monkey and the man. While the man was treated with brown mixed with a little white, the monkey was assigned yellow ochre with a hint of black in it. Just to distinguish it with the colour of the straw huts. The straws are always yellow ochre, you see. Just like the grass should be green and the sky blue. That’s the first lesson you learn.
But should a teacher of fine art, the highest disciple known to the mankind, should be so rude and insensitive? The answer is, unfortunately…yes. That’s what life is. That’s why the critics are sitting there. Just to discourage people. Actually, it’s a conspiracy by God. Just to tease any effort which challenges his might. Both are creator and it is a well known fact that generally artists are not in good terms. And God is mighty jealous of those who can create. Because that is the only quality He has. Otherwise…He is plain worthless.
Only those who can withstand the rebuke and insults can become a man of note. Ask a successful person. Everybody tread the path of thorns.
So which people are artists? Why, everyone. Even a butcher is an artist if he loves his work and knows the technique to inflict minimum pain or some other yardstick he fixes himself for his art of knife yielding. The fact that I can’t paint or sing or write doesn’t reduces me to a non-artist. My singing prowess, which generally invites wrath and brickbats, is highly appreciated by the listener in bathroom. I put my best of emotions, I put my best of efforts, I am happy. I am an artist. So probably nobody has any right to insult my singing unless he convinces me that I am a bad singer. My art teacher never could establish the fact to me that I am a bad painter. So…I am a good painter. And I have every right not to forgive him for rebuking me.
Now if you don’t get the urge to sing at all, won’t you be assured that you are in your death-bed? Just what it is happening with me now. I want to get back to my former self. I want to whistle looking at a scantly clad chick. I know, the day I start looking intently at the bosoms of the girls passing by the street, I will be blessed. I will return back to life and will change the colour of my blog. This time back to pink. Pink is the colour of my imagination. Amen.
Till then bear with me these barley posts.
Saturday, November 11, 2006
wish
It’s very strange how our priorities change with the passing of time. when I was a little child I used to pray for toys, and chocolates and a brand new gun, preferably from Leo, that my father was so reluctant to give me. We were very poor then and my father had to overwork for a decent living.
Frankly, thanks to this great man, we never felt the pinch of poverty. We had the best of foods, best of clothes and best of schools for education. And thanks to him, I finally got my Leo gun.
So when that wish was fulfilled, I wished for a bicycle. Father brought me a bicycle. A lady’s cycle, so that my sister, when she grows up can use that.
At the age of sixteen, being a prurient adolescent, I wished for a particular girl. I wished for her till I was 19. And I still wish her, sometimes, although she is happily married. But since, this time my father was not around to fulfill my dreams, I never got it get done. I never could propose to that girl and was devastated to know she was getting married. True to the Bollywood style, I even prayed to God that she might become happy in her life. Frankly, I wished the otherwise.
When I was 21, I wished to get a girlfriend. I got one too. Soon I started wishing I get rid of her. That wish also came true. Again I wished if I could get her back. But never tried. Was tired of my wishes. Besides, didn’t want to sacrifice that lovely soul to my whims and fancies. My weird wishes.
Now that I have grown up and have started realizing that wishing is a bad thing and that you should let your life go by. Float as it is, still I love to wish. I wish I get a good wife. I wish I get good children, I wish I have a happy family of my own.
As always, I am never satisfied when my wishes get fulfilled. I am sure if I would have got that girl I looked for, I would have started hating her. and now I am sure if I get a good wife, a happy family, I would start discounting them as signs of mediocrity.
So these days I am wishing that I stop wishing altogether. Saves a lot of effort and heart-breaks.
Frankly, thanks to this great man, we never felt the pinch of poverty. We had the best of foods, best of clothes and best of schools for education. And thanks to him, I finally got my Leo gun.
So when that wish was fulfilled, I wished for a bicycle. Father brought me a bicycle. A lady’s cycle, so that my sister, when she grows up can use that.
At the age of sixteen, being a prurient adolescent, I wished for a particular girl. I wished for her till I was 19. And I still wish her, sometimes, although she is happily married. But since, this time my father was not around to fulfill my dreams, I never got it get done. I never could propose to that girl and was devastated to know she was getting married. True to the Bollywood style, I even prayed to God that she might become happy in her life. Frankly, I wished the otherwise.
When I was 21, I wished to get a girlfriend. I got one too. Soon I started wishing I get rid of her. That wish also came true. Again I wished if I could get her back. But never tried. Was tired of my wishes. Besides, didn’t want to sacrifice that lovely soul to my whims and fancies. My weird wishes.
Now that I have grown up and have started realizing that wishing is a bad thing and that you should let your life go by. Float as it is, still I love to wish. I wish I get a good wife. I wish I get good children, I wish I have a happy family of my own.
As always, I am never satisfied when my wishes get fulfilled. I am sure if I would have got that girl I looked for, I would have started hating her. and now I am sure if I get a good wife, a happy family, I would start discounting them as signs of mediocrity.
So these days I am wishing that I stop wishing altogether. Saves a lot of effort and heart-breaks.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
blood
When you spread your hands in dark…anticipating someone will hold them tight and take you out from this mayhem, probably you are cheating yourself. Because, it’s dark and your saviour probably too do not know where, in which direction to extend his/her hand to get you. Probably he/she also, from the other end of the veil, is stretching his/her hand in anticipation of you.
We both hope against hope to get to each other. We both hope that our hands get in touch of each other. We both put our bets on a probable accident.
In the process, you, in desperation of reaching out to the person of your dream, and hoping you reached him/her, grab the finger tight whoever you come across in the dark.
You realize, after many ups and downs…after many heart-breaks, standing on the lifeless body of your dream…that you both are criminals. You shattered somebody’s life. Your friend, whom you mistook for your friend, raped your innocence. You both played with each other, in a cruel play of gladiators, in which you bet your lives.
But, there is no right or wrong in this world. Both are two faces of the same coin. You wipe one face, saying it wrong…you reduce the currency to a valueless metal.
You know it very well, there is only yourself to blame. You failed because you both acted your own way.
But I still stretch my hands in dark…sometimes… I pull it back. Again I put it in the auction. I love to beg, begging is divine.
You should be fair to beggars too. You should not give him one-face-wiped out coin.
Who says beggars cannot be choosers? I love to collect metals. I choose to throw them away.
We both hope against hope to get to each other. We both hope that our hands get in touch of each other. We both put our bets on a probable accident.
In the process, you, in desperation of reaching out to the person of your dream, and hoping you reached him/her, grab the finger tight whoever you come across in the dark.
You realize, after many ups and downs…after many heart-breaks, standing on the lifeless body of your dream…that you both are criminals. You shattered somebody’s life. Your friend, whom you mistook for your friend, raped your innocence. You both played with each other, in a cruel play of gladiators, in which you bet your lives.
But, there is no right or wrong in this world. Both are two faces of the same coin. You wipe one face, saying it wrong…you reduce the currency to a valueless metal.
You know it very well, there is only yourself to blame. You failed because you both acted your own way.
But I still stretch my hands in dark…sometimes… I pull it back. Again I put it in the auction. I love to beg, begging is divine.
You should be fair to beggars too. You should not give him one-face-wiped out coin.
Who says beggars cannot be choosers? I love to collect metals. I choose to throw them away.
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