LINED JARS OF PICKLE

End of Winter

2012-02-06T22:01:00.001+05:30

Blankets in the sun.

A Public Affair

2011-11-26T13:58:00.003+05:30

This is a story I wrote for our Writing in Practice class. Now that the semester is over, the time is ripe to post it here. We were given five words and had to write a story including those. Mine were: ash, car, black, sunset and rejoice.

Someone once said that the old are in a second childhood. I could not agree more. Memories of a life never lived flood you till you start believing that it is not the wrinkles that make you old, but the weight of the recollection of moments that live inside you. At this age, it is difficult to resist talking about the past. No amount of education or pension can make me forget what I most enjoyed being – a young girl. But this is not the story of a young girl. This is the story of a sunset. This is the story of a sunset who was born a little after 6pm on the 13^th of February many years ago and who died a few minutes afterwards. I was fifteen years old at that time and was bathing in what remained of the dried up river Rufiji which flowed through our backyard. I had discovered the advantages of bathing in the shelter of the ebbing afternoon and was happily scrubbing soap on my woolly hair when I noticed the sunset glistening on the droplets of river clinging to my jet black body. At that age I knew sunsets like the back of my hand. ‘Sunsets are like men,’ I used to think. ‘If you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all’. But this one was different. Of course, he was not the first sunset to flirt with me. What made him different was his shyness. I decided to take matters into my own hands.

‘Hello,’ I said timidly.

He beamed for a moment and then said, ‘I love you’.

Whatever surprise I might have felt, I took care not to show.

‘Oh you do?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Will you marry me?’

‘But I am only fifteen!’ I said coyly.

‘So am I,’ he said. ‘But I am going to be older soon.’

Of course, I knew that would die in a matter of minutes. Besides, marriage was a public affair. I could not get married just now. This made me a little sad. I kept silent.

‘Will you at least travel around the world with me?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know. Do you have a car?’ I asked.

‘No,’ he said sadly. His eagerness faded a little but returned fast enough for him to say, ‘I used to, but it broke down the other day and I haven’t repaired it yet.’

I laughed in mock shyness. It embarrassed him greatly.

‘You are beautiful,’ he said finally. ‘Your parents must have rejoiced greatly when you were born’.

‘Not at all,’ I replied. ‘I am their seventh daughter. They weren’t happy. And anyway, my father left soon after. He has four sons with his third wife.’

‘But…,’ he stopped.

We looked at each other for some time.

‘Will you remember me?’ he suddenly asked in desperation.

I could see that he was dying.

‘Yes, if you want me to,’ I said.

‘I will remember you all my life,’ he said.

He watched me as the sky grew ash-blue near the horizon. With one last attempt to bathe me in his glowing embers, he died. I could do nothing to save him.

Lalala

2011-09-17T17:01:00.001+05:30

I am glad I went to Kerala.

Momentous Discovery (1)

2011-07-11T11:00:00.006+05:30

I suffer from prosopagnosia. Prosopagnosia is the eloquent's name for a disorder which causes an inability to remember faces. I obviously exaggerated when I wrote 'suffer'. On some days it is a blessing not being able to remember what one looks like. But even I could see the spooky similarity between the faces of Asin and Mania Akbari. Between who and who, you ask?

Asin is our very own. She has played second fiddle to two Khans in Ghajini and Ready and some other movie. Her surname of 'Thottumkal' has not hindered her in the least -- a fact you can check by watching an ad of Clinic All Clear shampoo.

Mania Akbari is Abbas Kiarostami's muse and protagonist in his 2002 film 'Ten' where she drove around Tehran through ten successive scenes and therefore became a part of one of Iranian cinema's most introspective products. She is the director of a sequel to 'Ten', called '10+4' which depicts her battles with cancer.

Asin and Akbari are almost alike.

There are very few pictures of Asin where she is not posing sleazily and very few pictures of Akbari in general and so I could not find any pictures where one was in a posture like the other.

I think this is a momentous discovery.

A Very Mundane Picture Post

2011-05-12T08:13:00.004+05:30

Of all the ridiculous pictures I have taken of myself, I like these two best.

Prime Time

2011-05-01T17:56:00.004+05:30

It’s morning. I know because on the window sill two crows are anxiously cawing about life. I open my eyes and the first thing I think of is you. I shut them again. I turn over and bury my face in the pillow. And I feel you. I let out a soft squeal in pain and turn over again to lie on my back and after a moment, wipe my moist eyes. When I touch my face I don’t feel my skin. I feel you. It aches. Your touch. I sit up and face the mirror. Misery drowns me anew when I look at what stares back at me. You have left me scarred. You have left my face unrecognisable. I am not sad. All I feel is anger. Overwhelming anger. I don’t want you, I never did. I have tried everything to remove you from my life but every day you make your presence felt like never before. You are a million volcanoes, constantly erupting and making a wreck of me. You are unwelcome. I don’t love you. Just wait till I find the perfect anti-blemish cream.

The early summer outbreak of Pimples stimulates a variety of emotions.

Debauchery

2011-03-08T21:07:00.002+05:30

(1)

'I just overheard, Moumita Ghosh of 8B knows what 'fuck' means!'

'What?!'

'Believe me! Mother Father Red Cross!'

'Oh no! What will happen now? Don't tell Pallavi, she always tells everyone everything!'

'Arrey I wont but Moumita Ghosh knows! She SAID right in front of me that she knows! We have to stop talking to her! We cant talk to her anymore!'

'Okay, but first let's go and ask her what it means.'

(2)

'Now that your life sucks, Soumashree, I hope you will write a poem or two.'

'...'

The conversations (1) and (2) took place between the same two people with a gap of six years in between.

Please dont sing.

2010-11-04T20:17:00.002+05:30

I live my life in cool abandonment. In laconic pleasure. In severe concern for all who don’t.

I love you and the way you carry yourself. The way you know the perfect pitch for saying, “What?” after I speak to you, the way you walk, the way you never manage to get crumbs of biscuit on your clothes when you bite into it. I love how you repeatedly throw all your creativity towards the sky with the hope that people will catch parts of it as they fall. I love how outspoken you are. I love how you never seem to run into quarrels with auto drivers. I love how you turn down offers to strike up conversations from people you know little. I love how you never get harassed. I love the tick of tension you put inside me as soon as you greet. I love the relief after a conversation with you ends. I love watching you.

But most of all, I love the fact that I am not you. You irritate me.

Limerick (1)

2010-09-16T22:37:00.003+05:30

There once was a woman in Joo,

Who wanted to make it too,

So she wrote a wee verse,

Which made things worse,

And all her life she wrote literary review.

Ode (1)

2010-09-16T22:11:00.003+05:30

You are a chair,

Unaware, lying there,

With no design,

Except to seat

Diners who dine

While resting feet.

There is a Vincent on my bed!

2010-05-02T22:00:00.003+05:30

O Santa,

2010-05-01T23:31:00.004+05:30

I want sneakers that fit.
I want a room where the walls will be covered with Venetian Secession style drawings.
I want a chin piercing.
I want to go to Mongpu with my best friend.
I want to be praised endlessly for my skills.
I want to be able to paint.
I want a gramophone.
I want you to think that I am a very good person who has only good intentions in her heart but sometimes comes across as a very rude and self-centered and manipulative and disgusting individual.
I want Oasis to get back together.
I want to write dark poems which have words like 'my lips bleed when I utter your name' and suchlike.
इ वांट तो स्पेअक फ़्लुएन्त हिंदी
I want to live inside the First Year classroom.
I want a pet dog.
I want wit.

"Beware", I had said.

2010-03-01T00:14:00.002+05:30

To my 18 Day Old first cousin,

I am here to advice you because the world is a big, bad and harmful place full of Maoists and people who support Manchester United.

I would appreciate it if you do not listen too much to adults. They are insane creatures (and almost universally acknowledged to be very frustrated) who want to go Paris. They will tell you to stick to principles that they themselves have failed to adhere to since they were in white towels with pink borders. Like, ‘Don’t be dishonest’, ‘Don’t tease a lesser mortal’, and the like. Lie if you can get away with it. And tease Liverpudlians to death.

You will encounter all sorts of people in life. Some of whom will want to convince you that there are painters who are greater than Van Gogh and Gustave Klimt. You will tell them to kindly fuck off.

Recognising the fact that you will have no grandfathers, I will cough violently once in the middle of May every year and then tell you to quickly put on a sweater as the non-existent Nor’wester is hazardous for health. I will also get you out of sticky situations of all kinds in return for promises of pickled mango.

Always cover borrowed books with newspapers before reading them and creasing their covers.

You must never pester your parents for things you will be ashamed of in later life. Like Bugs Bunny clip boards and foot long Santa Claus pencils. I also think you should read Macbeth and Poetics as soon as you start making sense of words as the vast number of references to these works in later life will kill you. Unless you are planning to plunge into Physics. Or kill yourself.

Please don’t smoke or sit for long hours in front of the computer, playing Age of Empires. Be a human. Blog.

Don’t develop the irritating habit of not untying your shoelaces before plunging your foot into a shoe.

When you watch a movie, dont be a critic. Remember that the director and the producer and everyone who was involved in making it, made it to entertain you. And to satisfy the underworld.

Don’t fall in love before you turn 18. And make the girl support the team of your choice.

Of course, a time will come when you will forget all your passwords and smile for totally inexplicable reasons. Then. You will not need my advices anymore.

The State That Looks Like Emmylou Harris

2010-02-12T09:42:00.016+05:30

There and Back Again.

2010-01-11T21:15:00.003+05:30

Once upon a time I went to the Rajasthan.

There were many sands there.

There was also a camels.

I rode on the camels backside with my mother and with my father.

They were very happy.

(I was driven by an irrepressible desire to smack the camel owner but that is beside the point)

We ate lot of bajra and saw many fort.

We sitted under tent and saw many pretty ladies dance around blazing fire with talent.

In Jaisalmer, my parent gifted me golden stone bowl.

Then I got up on a railway track and returned back home.

Koeschens

2009-11-08T16:58:00.002+05:30

I am tired of writing lengthy introductions. A blog is not a Hard Times assignment.
So I’ll arrive at my point without much drama:
I have many questions ( eternally pronounced “koeschens” by unnameable persons of my academic past) and they are:

1. “You know what your problem is, Finch? You get carried away with your own importance--but not far enough.”

Where would we be without DC and Marvel?

2. Why did my father look like I was throwing up metal yo-yos when I asked him exactly what people found objectionable with Silvio Berlusconi?

3.Why do the edges of carpets curl peculiarly against gravity, thereby creating very clever traps for ones abnormally long toes, thus making one fall nose-first
on the hard-unfriendly marble floor when one would like most to be discovered hurrying to college?

4.What is Dipankar Lahiri doing in his current Facebook display picture?

5.Why do I not have the good fortune of waking up one fine morning to hear that a freak molten meteorite visited the earth while I was dreaming of talking kettles and hit Sir Alex Ferguson square on the face thereby obliterating all chances of survival of the victim?

6. Is there anything that Arshdeep Singh Brar does not know?

7. I use Lux Soap daily. So why do I not look like Priyanka Chopra?

8. Where is the five rupee coin I once hid below my mattress in an attempt to start saving up for a visit to London?

9.Why is it never cold enough for me to wear that gray tweed jacket my Uncle got from a swank air-conditioned place in California?

10. Why is it that when defenders score goals, they have no idea how to celebrate?

11.Exactly what were the students doodling on their spare parchments when Thomas Carlyle was reading out 'Hero and Hero Worship' to them?

12.If Barack Obama could win the Nobel Prize for Peace, could the Embryo within my pregnant aunt’s tummy be far behind?

Win or Lose...?

2009-11-03T23:22:00.006+05:30

My desk.
Because this afternoon I made a lot of intricate hand movements and explained to DeepteshInFlames that Chelsea have been relegated mid season.
And he believed me.

Divine Nocturne

2009-10-17T20:35:00.000+05:30

Beauty.
The splash
of the first autumn rain
disturbing the dust of the street.
The nascent scent.
Of dormant clouds.
Of sleeping winds.
Of older beginnings.

Surprise.
The change of the bright red light,
to blue,
to green,
to yellow.
Against the twilit redness
of the seldom-blue sky
Of the seldom-blue mind.

Awe.
The macabre idol.
Worshipped in the act of killing
all that is cruel,
while her children smile.
While their children laugh.
And theirs.

Freedom.
The soft rhythmic drip of
night into day
and day into night
(amidst the bedlam)
And the orange ice lolly
planning a plunge into the
unstarched pink salwar.
While the consumer giggles
(amidst the bedlam)
at two in the morning.

Love.
Under the nine-tier chandelier,
of the brilliant tent
on the edge of every road.
Every shining stone
of every shining bangle.
Every iris of every third eye
on mud.
Every conch blown.
Every tear dropped.
Every splash on the Ganga.

(This could be my first attempt at writing civil poetry. While the attempt will undoubtedly make Deeptesh and his flames very proud, I might just have ensured my acceptance into LoserLand with this.
And yes, this was written during 'Durga Pujo 2009'.
And yes, because I was happy and giggling like a donkey this Durga Pujo 2009)

DOs

2009-09-30T23:43:00.000+05:30

This morning, while brushing my teeth with Colgate Active Salt (one cubic inch of it is just enough for completely ruining the entire day, thank you ), I realised that now that I have made a blog, I have to write in it. It is an obligation. An added pressure. I use 'added' because I am 18 and support the Chelsea FC and (much to my own surprise) go to college. The point is being made that I am thus living the sunniest heydays of unadulterated pressure. Thus this blog will ruin my life. You will one day discover me lying prostrate in a garden of petunias, sporting empty eyes and white knuckles, clutching a laptop and muttering 'fill my blog oh fill my bloggie' to the tune of 'We all follow the Chelsea'. I am officially bringing about my own decline.
Henceforth I will forever try to grab inspiration from anywhere and everywhere ranging from Mamata Banerjee's most recent diss-them-Marxists comment to Alex Ferguson's most recent Chelsea-are-never-winners comment, and include them in my blog.
I will make a big deal of everyday matters like cleaning (and breaking) ugly china vases or fishing cornflakes out of a bowl of milk, and record these as if they were extra-terrestrial experiences which someone as mundane as you will never ever have the fortune of having. All in my blog.
I will even comment on Rakhi Sawant's chosen fiancee who has the name of a fish.
I will go to places like Mukutmonipur and pretend that it's the latest Venice and that it humanely will not be possible for any one to have the same amount of fun as I will have there. Then I will aptly mistake this blog, my blog, for a travelogue and give every gory detail of my travels and seduce you into commenting on my ramblings.
I will surpass your wildest dreams with macabre accounts of my macabre looniness and never-ending-forever-surprising flow of madness. In my blog.
I will raise a hue and cry if a classmate borrows my pencil. Such matters obviously have to be included in my blog.

And you only have to wait till I have a break up. Then. I will turn this blog black.

The Birth of a Blog (affectionately called 'bloggie')

2009-09-27T23:14:00.000+05:30

"There are several ways of committing suicide.
Producing a blog is not one of them."

Today. I thought I could do with a blog. The reasons being:

1)Peer pressure. To quote the Countess of Guile, 'Everyone has a blog'. Amen.
2)Further peer pressure. Read DeepteshInFlames.
3)I was walking down Bijon Shetu when a huge drop of rain hit my head and the sound it made sounded like a definite and solid 'blob' or yes yes, 'blog'.
4)The prospect of owning a site all to one's very own narcissistic self is very fulfilling. Still.
5)The Chelsea FC needs celebrating. And I will do just that. Here.

And so that's official. I have given in. I have lost all control. I blog.

Therefore I exist.