and on a very cold evening of kolkata winter. my frail, old grandmother finally dies.
December 27th, 2010.

i am not home yet.


My grave inability to follow orders has got me thinking that if life was a long servitude then i would make a bad servant.
On my 23rd birthday i finally accepted that my ambitions were far more dismal than that of my parents for me. that their little improvisations of my very ambiguous plans are in fact now beginning to hurt.
Blameless, those poor souls had served and saved for their family and prayed so that one day the little mortal should rise to their mediocre heaven.
But I being me, am lost in the count of one to ten, unable to comprehend why each must come after another.

Someone once said, that in the history of our existence there had been no inventions, that we had only discovered what was already there in other forms. I had always wondered, if that was true then how did we ever think of Freedom, something that doesn't exist in all celestial nature where everything is bound to one another, how do we actually feel it while running wild in an open field?

It is way past my bed time, tomorrow i shall be summoned once again to turn a wheel in the world's machinery.

And having created my own moment of freedom, i feel like an Inventor all by myself.


The walls are off white and there are soft lights, hung from the ceiling or clamped on the floor.

In it we are two.

The house is full of things bought with little money and a lot of love, every patch put together with a lot of trial and striving.
so much so that its commodities are like little children that demand care.
you have do it everyday without fail.

and Love,Its acknowledgments are now as obvious as the day and night. There are more important things to remember, life's machinery to run.

It is said that Euphoria can only last a moment but sometimes while traveling back from work, as i see faces resembling people i already know..

I do wish to have remembered myself seeing my very first sunrise and what i must have felt.


That was the very first night, something got taken away from me, that night of our adolescence which we were so eager to grow out of.
When we first kissed in the closet. you were impatient and i was fascinated,
trying to gather all the romance from the kiss even though it was mutually experimental.
Then came love, and then the end of it, life happened, livelihood emerged, prerogatives, desires, complexities, struggles appeared and I got baked and toasted like a nice cookie.

in small measures some parts of myself loosened and dissipated.I left some of myself in numerous places, countless nights and days.

Sometimes I think that i am no better than wild cattle trying to outlast the desert
Just when i remember that one day in early childhood when I had tightened my fist and held it over my heart.

Even if the entire being dissipates, I don't think that fist could ever be opened.
That part of myself safely locked away.


Untitled, as you have changed from decades to centuries and still remained without a name, so have I wondered around all through these years in search for your namesake.
When you were a woman, I was a shy sophomore. I was unforgivingly romantic and shuddered at the idea of taking my clothes off. I was punch drunk in love and I couldn’t put my feet together at any instant.
When you were anonymous friends and fleeting lovers, I was bright, aspiring and pompous. I was a trickster, cheating over cards on the table. I moved along with the lights and the gypsies.
When you were the man, I was the woman. I made a home and lit it with lamps. I gathered and waited. loved and remained at my place, stationary. I suffered irrevocably.
Untitled, I have left with a note. In it I promised you love and remembrance. I am not a seamstress otherwise I would have sewn my biddings together instead of making them into a bundle with a knot.
In all these years as you changed from man to woman to life and to me, I could not name you as you. But all my biddings, my hopeless romances, my letters, my poems remain yours undoubtedly.
Keep them. They are for keepsake.


I am in the process of taking back. giving away some and letting some go.


As you destruct everything you build eventually, find new things and meticulously construct again. I wonder how naively i hold on to the sand and gravel and every thing that gets worn and worn and worn.

I had always thought of you as the Dreamer and of me as the Courageous, turns out that it was you who had been brave while i clutched on to my dreams which needed closure.
Last night as we spoke i was amazed at how self sure you were with disentanglement.

I wondered if i could ever disentangle myself or stop loving the man who crosses seven states, takes 38 hours of long general compartment train journeys every month to come see me and be with me.

I'd rather have him leave me, one day when he realises that he doesnt love me.

I wish you an eternity of such courage and even greater happiness. and some for me so i can be less miserable tomorrow, lesser and lesser each day.

Here in Life, I can only think of my smallish little house in suburnban Calcutta and My ailing grandmother reaching her end.


and there were days of extreme clarity. those days were few but were memorable.
the mind was agile and the heart, restless to remove all clutter from life.
On such days, I could say No, say Yes, be definite, be assertive.
See life as if i were detached from it.

Till night came and I swung back pendulum-like to the larger meaninglessness of life.
to all the blur and lull again..

You see, I wanted this to be about those days that stood out like brighter spots
but i cant not dedicate to the dim as well.


on certain days when she paid close attention to her inner voice. she discovered that she hated slamming doors, stepping on dog poo, things spilling over. hated the voice of her landlord, mouth blisters, friends calling in on weekends, spitters on the road and RnB.

she discovered that she liked her t.v on mute, songs in foreign languages over and over again, the piano,baby cat paws, eating mango pulp, not speaking, an empty house, frizzy hair, bubbles and her grandmother's memory.

she realised that the only things she was passionate about were the monsoons and that fish were her favourite pet.
and on evenings when she sat all by herself and paid close attention to her inner voice, she felt really happy.


I had always wanted to do special things for you, even in ordinary days I wished to take you by surprise and make you something wonderful.

I have loved you in my reluctant-mediocre self consciousness and dreamed of the sunny mornings when we shall be together again.

Happy Birthday.


I have learned lately that steady and changeable interact and inverse themselves in everyday Life.that in some university, kids with above 180 IQ are trying to crack the math of it all by the application of Calculus.
I always crack up with articles on Modern life and Loneliness whenever they mention the Happiness Index to validate their theory. If I could really have a measuring scale for happiness then perhaps i would have put it out in the living room. It would have been more welcoming than the three little Manchurian fellows on the mantle.
A very drunken friend once explained to me how life was a random order of chaos and that we were all at collision with other beings, creating a permutation and combination of circumstances.

the world gets more ridiculous everyday and thus even if hope runs out someday humor never will. I have had many changes in life lately but i wish to speak nothing about them. I'd rather just doodle aimlessly and i am happy with that.


I wind-up my clock, so it shows the South African time. count the number of days till it rains so i know exactly how long i waited for it. In all Life, I had found very little ease in sharing greif. Telling of it never really changed anything, it just made me uncomfortable. So i always sought peace in my own recluse actions.

"Fear feeds on Fear and Pain too...and then its all a downward spiral" I said to someone a while ago. and each day as i go through High-Low's and brief hopeless interludes. I say " Dont be Afraid - Dont be "

To all this I have come to think How hopefull am i really? How fearless am i?

would all this unsolicited fear and each of my rebuttals denying the fear ever really sum up to something sizeable?

Do the brave really win? or is it mythological as is heroism and history? To that effect could I be called a brave one?

Whatever happened to objective reasoning free of passion.


you lived across the street on the hill ward side. over there, the sun sank in splendor every evening. I'd often look up at the orange sky and wonder if i'd ever see anything more beautiful.
i lived in a tiny hut with a fig tree growing near by.

On one such splendid evenings i decided to walk up the hills, i was about to lose my little hut as i had discovered cracks on the roof and depleted walls. I suspected that they would be washed down to somethings resembling little mud pools, by the next rains.

You stood there amidst the clouds settling on the slanting trees on the hill top.
I spoke with you and perhaps hoped to share my misery in the fear of losing the only thing i had built.
You looked at me with a strange sort of kindness and appeared majestic- God like.
Took out your shepherd's stick and said " Not unless I poke the clouds".
And i had feared you ever since.


It was as if all had to mean everything it could, at once. all had to fall in place and this was the very instant being waited for.
I wondered whether i was naive to feel pity for the meaningless excesses that would be left out.
In a utalitarian world, things began with a purpose. it had to be a fixed commodity, could be measured and assessed in terms of more utilities.
And here i have been, forever putting more punctuations than needed and staggering along a longer route home.

Most of the life that i have lived so far, i had been preoccupied with my daze and day dreamings
As an adult i was encouraged to make friends and be more participative in such social functions.
I realised that there was this crazy interdependance involved in each one of them and that they too are misjudged on the basis of outcomes.

I am post collegiate. I ought to find a job and a place in the world.
And all my wavering thoughts gather amidst the holy mess of my room and unsyncronised life.

These are the most unproductive days..:)


The Blog page looked bare for a bit today, i realized i had gotten too used to see it the way i had arranged it. I thought perhaps i should change it.

My 90 year old delirious grand mother had gotten even more delirious. she had been moving around in circles from one room to another, looking for my school bag.
I heard of that over the phone with maa and chuckled.

as a kid, i lay nights awake, picturing-imagining her die. i used to cover my mouth and sob silently with god-awful fright.
over the years i presumed that i'd gotten over it and when the day came i'd get by and be just fine.

In the end, after hanging up, i covered my mouth again... and cried.

My Blog, I have decided to keep it the way i had arranged it.. i couldn't possibly live in its absence.


Like a very long story is unimaginative, i wonder how to write one for you. :)