Koeschens

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...?

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

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

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')

"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.