I have an idea what fanatics feel now.. how an obsessive hate drives people to maim and kill. My dear dear colleague, after screwing up on work, and he does it really well, believe me…was creating a racket. So asked him to pipe down a bit, as I couldn’t think straight.
To which, his answer was “u think? Wow”.. in a tone that mingled contempt nicely mixed with condescension.
Counted till about a million, till my curls bounced with the electric current around me. Didn’t deign to reply (too much) as I believe some people don’t have the basic intelligence to comprehend even a retort. I would call him the missing link, is it wasn’t such an insult to Darwin, the big bang and all of that.
I think if I had a good sharp knife, and an opportunity, I would have of all that precious hair from the Punj head of his. And would feel damn good if he was blown up by rabid gun toting freaks, from wherever. Please note here, that this is NOT against Punjs in general, I have some of my closest friends of both sexes, in that category.
However, not this one.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Home (in Calcutta) is..
..my doggies. They are my babies, and what/whom I miss the most, in Bangalore. Everything, and anything else, including family, friends and sundry loved ones, comes in a second by a wide margin. To be greeted at the door by tails wagging so fast, its almost a blur, hear whines of petulance/love which mean “where were you all this while..its so wonderful to have you back with me”. Fresh clean fur I bury my face into, and draw a deep breath in. Only another animal lover may be able to understand and appreciate what I’m rhapsodizing about right now.
..being woken up with bed tea, at random hours, depending on my whims. And the kind of biscuits I like.. little flaky and crisp. Gitadi, who has worked with us for years, asking me what else I would like, and then in the same breath telling me “don’t eat too much.. u’v gotten a little plump”. I love her concerned understatements.
..Calcutta sunshine. I sit in what was till a year ago, my dida’s room, and a year later, is now just another room. I bask in the crisp sunshine that filters thru the windows. It makes nice geometric patterns on the floor. A storybook, churan to pique my taste buds, a good book, and I laze like a cat in the sun.
..books. Old books, from almost another era, opening a floodgate of childhood memories. Of a relaxed, stress free life, lay days spent on my stomach in bed, feet kicking the air, reading voraciously. Enid Blyton, Tolkein, Christie.. anything I can lay my hands on.
..reunions. With friends, near and far. Friends lost and found again, after years and years. Those who sailed mighty seas to study, work, live.. and when we meet, it’s a jumble of joyous faces, bear hugs and delighted exclamations. Its like the years melt away, and we pick up where we had left off, in some cases, as much as 12 years ago. The group is now much bigger, as most of us have significant others who have mostly meshed within the lattice of the group, with a gentle and happy ease. And there are solemn promises to DEFINITELY keep in touch this time around.
..being woken up with bed tea, at random hours, depending on my whims. And the kind of biscuits I like.. little flaky and crisp. Gitadi, who has worked with us for years, asking me what else I would like, and then in the same breath telling me “don’t eat too much.. u’v gotten a little plump”. I love her concerned understatements.
..Calcutta sunshine. I sit in what was till a year ago, my dida’s room, and a year later, is now just another room. I bask in the crisp sunshine that filters thru the windows. It makes nice geometric patterns on the floor. A storybook, churan to pique my taste buds, a good book, and I laze like a cat in the sun.
..books. Old books, from almost another era, opening a floodgate of childhood memories. Of a relaxed, stress free life, lay days spent on my stomach in bed, feet kicking the air, reading voraciously. Enid Blyton, Tolkein, Christie.. anything I can lay my hands on.
..reunions. With friends, near and far. Friends lost and found again, after years and years. Those who sailed mighty seas to study, work, live.. and when we meet, it’s a jumble of joyous faces, bear hugs and delighted exclamations. Its like the years melt away, and we pick up where we had left off, in some cases, as much as 12 years ago. The group is now much bigger, as most of us have significant others who have mostly meshed within the lattice of the group, with a gentle and happy ease. And there are solemn promises to DEFINITELY keep in touch this time around.
Friday, January 13, 2006
Road Trippin'
Neil Diamond croons on my headphones. A relaxed sigh and my thoughts flow through my fingers.
I’m on my way to Shantiniketan. The land where once Tagore made poetry, under a famous banyan tree. In the recent and less famous times, it’s the place where my aunt has a divine farmhouse, where we escape to. I’m going there after two whole years. It will be a good experience, I think.
The road is long.. and wide. Smooth and sinuous, it winds along roads that glimmer in the sunlight. Both sides of the highways are marked by fields. Clad in autumn colors, they are shades of gold and brown and very dusty washed out green. The lack of water is evident. Sometimes the fields give way to a copse of trees, all huddled together as to escape the sun.
Shonajhuri gaach. Tall thin trees, with square-ish leaves. A whole forest of them, on either side. Leaves glinting gold in the light. Inviting shadows that beckon one to stop and stay a while. I seem to remember the forest stretch being more than this, though.
The heat haze gets to you, and the road shimmers in the sunlight. Suddenly, you think you’re driving into water. But Moses, we are not…
The wind whips through my hair, and it’s a tangled mess as I run my fingers through it. We stop at a random point, to refuel with lovely piping hot coffee, and samosas. My sister’s joke about a “somash’ (a Bengali grammar thing) runs through my mind, and I laugh silently to myself.
Our car screeches to a halt in surprise. A procession of camels. Easily an odd 200 of them, walking across in stately procession across the road. A very unusual sight indeed, on the NH1. They are better suited to the sand dunes of the desert, than to the dusty roads of the city. And through it all, they still manage to look elegant, carrying themselves with an odd lanky gaited dignity.
And I say to myself, it’s a wonderful world..
I’m on my way to Shantiniketan. The land where once Tagore made poetry, under a famous banyan tree. In the recent and less famous times, it’s the place where my aunt has a divine farmhouse, where we escape to. I’m going there after two whole years. It will be a good experience, I think.
The road is long.. and wide. Smooth and sinuous, it winds along roads that glimmer in the sunlight. Both sides of the highways are marked by fields. Clad in autumn colors, they are shades of gold and brown and very dusty washed out green. The lack of water is evident. Sometimes the fields give way to a copse of trees, all huddled together as to escape the sun.
Shonajhuri gaach. Tall thin trees, with square-ish leaves. A whole forest of them, on either side. Leaves glinting gold in the light. Inviting shadows that beckon one to stop and stay a while. I seem to remember the forest stretch being more than this, though.
The heat haze gets to you, and the road shimmers in the sunlight. Suddenly, you think you’re driving into water. But Moses, we are not…
The wind whips through my hair, and it’s a tangled mess as I run my fingers through it. We stop at a random point, to refuel with lovely piping hot coffee, and samosas. My sister’s joke about a “somash’ (a Bengali grammar thing) runs through my mind, and I laugh silently to myself.
Our car screeches to a halt in surprise. A procession of camels. Easily an odd 200 of them, walking across in stately procession across the road. A very unusual sight indeed, on the NH1. They are better suited to the sand dunes of the desert, than to the dusty roads of the city. And through it all, they still manage to look elegant, carrying themselves with an odd lanky gaited dignity.
And I say to myself, it’s a wonderful world..
Road Trippin"
Neil Diamond croons on my headphones. A relaxed sigh and my thoughts flow through my fingers.
I’m on my way to Shantiniketan. The land where once Tagore made poetry, under a famous banyan tree. In the recent and less famous times, it’s the place where my aunt has a divine farmhouse, where we escape to. I’m going there after two whole years. It will be a good experience, I think.
The road is long.. and wide. Smooth and sinuous, it winds along roads that glimmer in the sunlight. Both sides of the highways are marked by fields. Clad in autumn colors, they are shades of gold and brown and very dusty washed out green. The lack of water is evident. Sometimes the fields give way to a copse of trees, all huddled together as to escape the sun.
Shonajhuri gaach. Tall thin trees, with square-ish leaves. A whole forest of them, on either side. Leaves glinting gold in the light. Inviting shadows that beckon one to stop and stay a while. I seem to remember the forest stretch being more than this, though.
The heat haze gets to you, and the road shimmers in the sunlight. Suddenly, you think you’re driving into water. But Moses, we are not…
The wind whips through my hair, and it’s a tangled mess as I run my fingers through it. We stop at a random point, to refuel with lovely piping hot coffee, and samosas. My sister’s joke about a “somash’ (a Bengali grammar thing) runs through my mind, and I laugh silently to myself.
Our car screeches to a halt in surprise. A procession of camels. Easily an odd 200 of them, walking across in stately procession across the road. A very unusual sight indeed, on the NH1. They are better suited to the sand dunes of the desert, than to the dusty roads of the city. And through it all, they still manage to look elegant, carrying themselves with an odd lanky gaited dignity.
And I say to myself, it’s a wonderful world..
I’m on my way to Shantiniketan. The land where once Tagore made poetry, under a famous banyan tree. In the recent and less famous times, it’s the place where my aunt has a divine farmhouse, where we escape to. I’m going there after two whole years. It will be a good experience, I think.
The road is long.. and wide. Smooth and sinuous, it winds along roads that glimmer in the sunlight. Both sides of the highways are marked by fields. Clad in autumn colors, they are shades of gold and brown and very dusty washed out green. The lack of water is evident. Sometimes the fields give way to a copse of trees, all huddled together as to escape the sun.
Shonajhuri gaach. Tall thin trees, with square-ish leaves. A whole forest of them, on either side. Leaves glinting gold in the light. Inviting shadows that beckon one to stop and stay a while. I seem to remember the forest stretch being more than this, though.
The heat haze gets to you, and the road shimmers in the sunlight. Suddenly, you think you’re driving into water. But Moses, we are not…
The wind whips through my hair, and it’s a tangled mess as I run my fingers through it. We stop at a random point, to refuel with lovely piping hot coffee, and samosas. My sister’s joke about a “somash’ (a Bengali grammar thing) runs through my mind, and I laugh silently to myself.
Our car screeches to a halt in surprise. A procession of camels. Easily an odd 200 of them, walking across in stately procession across the road. A very unusual sight indeed, on the NH1. They are better suited to the sand dunes of the desert, than to the dusty roads of the city. And through it all, they still manage to look elegant, carrying themselves with an odd lanky gaited dignity.
And I say to myself, it’s a wonderful world..
Thursday, January 05, 2006
I’m leaving on a jet plane…
[a bit I wrote while sitting at the airport, disgruntled]
….Only, not quite. The flight has been delayed by a whole fucking hour.. thanks to some strange flight delay from the Calcutta end. It’s miserable. I’m sitting at the lounge, feeling most piqued.. and that’s an understatement.
All around, are passengers in transit.. as the case should be. People who I saw sitting once I had first walked into the place are all gone now. a whole new horde have come in to take their place.
And with all my luck, this new horde brings with it.. kids.. all around me.. swarming.. yelling for “mamma, teetos”.. that’s cheeto’s for the uninitiated, being fed chocolate by dear mom and granny.
Into the valley of death, rode I..
Babies to the left of me, babies to the right of me, babies to the front of me..
Hollered and thundered..
I’ve chucked my shoes. Sitting with laptop comfortably on my knees, and busily tapping away. It’s a way to vent, without VENTING..
Not that I have anything better to do. I have, in a flash of brilliance, put my bag, with all cash and cards, into my luggage, which is now happily along with other luggage, wherever. So, I cant even buy a book or a coffee.. THIS is true urban riches.. the woman has a laptop, but no money.
People around me.. all looking ahead with blank faces, and dazed expressions. When they get tired of that, they look around surreptitiously, to see, what other people are doing. Bangalore is probably the place where one sees the maximum foreigners.. all in a state of flux. Tall white, short white, fat and thin white.. and the occasional yellow, blank and brown. What I have to give them is that ability to carry off the worst outfit with shabby-chic flair. In front of me is a tall blonde woman with this ghastly skirt, and top. If I wore it, my own mother might disown me. However, on her it looks pretty good.
A kiddie stuffing her face with peanuts peers with great interest into my laptop. Maybe she thinks it contains the more important secrets of the universe. If she comes too close and tries to touch my laptop with saliva coated fingers, and I wont be responsible for my actions.
The boombox just told “passengers traveling to cal that “they will be served snacks at gate number 3”. Immediately, mass exodus to gate number 3. Bongs just cant get enough of food.. even totally crappy flight food.
Currently, I’m ok sitting here tapping away.
….Only, not quite. The flight has been delayed by a whole fucking hour.. thanks to some strange flight delay from the Calcutta end. It’s miserable. I’m sitting at the lounge, feeling most piqued.. and that’s an understatement.
All around, are passengers in transit.. as the case should be. People who I saw sitting once I had first walked into the place are all gone now. a whole new horde have come in to take their place.
And with all my luck, this new horde brings with it.. kids.. all around me.. swarming.. yelling for “mamma, teetos”.. that’s cheeto’s for the uninitiated, being fed chocolate by dear mom and granny.
Into the valley of death, rode I..
Babies to the left of me, babies to the right of me, babies to the front of me..
Hollered and thundered..
I’ve chucked my shoes. Sitting with laptop comfortably on my knees, and busily tapping away. It’s a way to vent, without VENTING..
Not that I have anything better to do. I have, in a flash of brilliance, put my bag, with all cash and cards, into my luggage, which is now happily along with other luggage, wherever. So, I cant even buy a book or a coffee.. THIS is true urban riches.. the woman has a laptop, but no money.
People around me.. all looking ahead with blank faces, and dazed expressions. When they get tired of that, they look around surreptitiously, to see, what other people are doing. Bangalore is probably the place where one sees the maximum foreigners.. all in a state of flux. Tall white, short white, fat and thin white.. and the occasional yellow, blank and brown. What I have to give them is that ability to carry off the worst outfit with shabby-chic flair. In front of me is a tall blonde woman with this ghastly skirt, and top. If I wore it, my own mother might disown me. However, on her it looks pretty good.
A kiddie stuffing her face with peanuts peers with great interest into my laptop. Maybe she thinks it contains the more important secrets of the universe. If she comes too close and tries to touch my laptop with saliva coated fingers, and I wont be responsible for my actions.
The boombox just told “passengers traveling to cal that “they will be served snacks at gate number 3”. Immediately, mass exodus to gate number 3. Bongs just cant get enough of food.. even totally crappy flight food.
Currently, I’m ok sitting here tapping away.
Poush Mela
It’s just past midnight. Family is pottering around me, getting ready for bed. A husky contralto sings ‘500 miles” on the CD player. It’s been a long day, and a good one.
Arriving at the farmhouse, to be greeted with cocktail sausages and beer, is enough to get anyone’s’ mood on an upswing. A gentle, relaxed conversation later, washed down with lunch, and 40 winks, we were off to the ‘poush mela’.
This is a humungous affair, held in Shantiniketan, around Dec-Jan. It coincides with the “dhaan-katar shomoi’ (when the crop was cut) and signifies festivities for all around. One has to get down from whatever transport that one is using, and hoof it quite a way inwards, to the actual field, which hosts the mela.
The sound hits you, before anything else does. Songs and recitations, made sonorous with the mike. Its interspersed with announcements by frantic people, who have gotten separated for their group, and is trying to locate them at such-and-such place. As we draw closer, the rhythmic beats come to our ears. The streets are lined with men selling little drums. One boy starts beating out a rhythm. A few others pick it up, and soon there is a interwoven percussion being flung across the street. Deep beats, and short staccato bursts of sound, they make me want to tap out a quick rhythm with my feet.
Voices and people accost me, all at the same time. A happy, yelling, jostling crowd, that sweeps me along, without even trying. I look around to make sure that I can see at least one more of our group. Moving from stall to stall, fingers made happy examining little trinkets, silver and brass jewelry, little dolls and unusual ganesha morthis made of wood, metal, stone and terracotta. They are indigenous to this area, I have never seen any like these. I buy up things, for my friends and family and me, till my wallet tells me I have nothing left. I promise myself, to come back tomorrow, to see more stuff.
Arriving at the farmhouse, to be greeted with cocktail sausages and beer, is enough to get anyone’s’ mood on an upswing. A gentle, relaxed conversation later, washed down with lunch, and 40 winks, we were off to the ‘poush mela’.
This is a humungous affair, held in Shantiniketan, around Dec-Jan. It coincides with the “dhaan-katar shomoi’ (when the crop was cut) and signifies festivities for all around. One has to get down from whatever transport that one is using, and hoof it quite a way inwards, to the actual field, which hosts the mela.
The sound hits you, before anything else does. Songs and recitations, made sonorous with the mike. Its interspersed with announcements by frantic people, who have gotten separated for their group, and is trying to locate them at such-and-such place. As we draw closer, the rhythmic beats come to our ears. The streets are lined with men selling little drums. One boy starts beating out a rhythm. A few others pick it up, and soon there is a interwoven percussion being flung across the street. Deep beats, and short staccato bursts of sound, they make me want to tap out a quick rhythm with my feet.
Voices and people accost me, all at the same time. A happy, yelling, jostling crowd, that sweeps me along, without even trying. I look around to make sure that I can see at least one more of our group. Moving from stall to stall, fingers made happy examining little trinkets, silver and brass jewelry, little dolls and unusual ganesha morthis made of wood, metal, stone and terracotta. They are indigenous to this area, I have never seen any like these. I buy up things, for my friends and family and me, till my wallet tells me I have nothing left. I promise myself, to come back tomorrow, to see more stuff.
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