"You need many a crowded mainlands to be able to appreciate an island" - cb

Genius

We met last week

For the very first time

Genius and I

I had seen him in the crowd before

This time it was personal

A short, yet passionate affair

3 days to be precise!

I heard him talk

Pour out his heart

They documented it, his life.

I giggled with him, cried too.

He wrote a song to comfort me

Then I heard him sing…

That song. And the other one too.

He said he loved kids

And dogs. Quite in the same breath.

We connected instantly.

I believed him.

Pure and child-like,

He was the moon walker.

The genius – Michael Joseph Jackson.

Poro Ninda. Poro Chorcha

No…it’s not a sweet. In fact, it’s a not-so-sweet term in Bengali which when loosely translated means “idle gossip and discussions about people in general.”

In our country, this seems to be our favourite pass time. And I thought it was only a small people disease. But boy was I wrong! Or was I?The gossip sessions my housemaid indulges in does manage to retain some innocence. But when I see educated people from well-bred families rip people apart in the most unquotable manner, I stop to wonder. The cool breed, some even those you can put in the wild-child bracket, have such small minds when it comes to people other than themselves.

Celebrities, of course form a major part of these discussing. Being a part of the media world ourselves, and therefore apparently close to the ‘inside sources’, most of us have dirty stories to share. Some so atrocious, unbelievable and at times so inhuman, that it makes me cringe. The general character assassinations and speculations on people’s bedroom deeds are the biggest points of debate. Like they were to help change India’s economic condition. And mind you, these gossips are shared with utmost conviction (Oh! my friend’s friend’s friend’s grandfather saw her go into his vanity van). Right.

“Oh have you not seen, she is always holding her father-in-law’s hand!”...or “Such things happen in high society yaaar”, even something as low as “How else do you think so and so became successful?...must have flashed…hahaha”

I have never found myself questioning the scandals; all that upsets me is general negativity, the mistrust, the unnecessary curiosity and the complete shallowness. Sometimes I think we would have been better off as animals. At least we would not have the brains to be self proclaimed judges.

It's time you got pregnant.

I'm talking to you. Yeah...YOU, with that gun stuck below your belt. It's time you bled every month. Grew melons on your chest and a pot around your waist for 9 months.

If I am the cursed one, I have been through enough. Eve, you greedy canine! For centuries you spineless sperms have told me to live by your norms, cover up and behave like a ‘good girl’. Even as you pinch my butt when I walk, and talk to my tits like they were eyes.

Yes, it’s time the tables turned. It’s time I passed sleazy remarks at your filthy body. Hissed like a hungry snake at your every move, bore you to your soul with my eyes. Oh... I hate you. I hate you...you moron. And I am not even a bra burning feminist. No I am not. I am just a regular woman who knows it’s not easy being one.

P.S: This is after reading an article on the devastating life stories of some unfortunate counterparts.

November Rain...

“We are born alone, we live alone, we die alone. Only through our love and friendship can we create the illusion for the moment that we’re not alone.” – Orson Welles

Different?

Some years ago, when I was still a teenager, someone I much respected gave me an interesting piece of information. ‘The problem with teenagers of all generations’, he said, ‘is that they are all making a constant effort to be different. To be a rebel, not quite knowing what the cause it. Which is why they falter so easily; and it takes immense strength of character to say no to your peers and stick to your beliefs.’

His words stayed on with me all through those years. I took immense pride in the fact that I had managed to stay away from the cancer stick. I never used the f word in school, even as my friends seasoned their sentences generously with it. My most frequently used cuss word then was as innocent as “spineless jellyfish”!

Then I had these strong views, or so I thought, about various other things - for example tattoos. Now since they were ‘cool’ and therefore wannabe (ha ha) I was averse to the idea of inking myself. My favourite line those days used to be, “Tattoos are a no-no. They are too permanent for me.” (I am so sure I must have read it somewhere, but I loved to own it.) So while I was ensuring in every way that I didn’t turn out to be a difficult teenager, I didn’t quite realise that I was behaving exactly like any average teen. Making an effort to be different.

The realisation struck when I was amongst wannabes of a different kind. Pseudo intellectuals.
I saw myself in them to a large extent, and suddenly my once individualistic lines were not so unique anymore. That’s when I think I loosened up. And trust me, it’s fabulous to feel that free. From you own restrictions, your own barriers. Because that’s when you begin to accept and learn the golden rule, “to each his own.”

By the way, I love the idea of tattoos now. May get one soon. And not so proudly, I also confess that my cuss words have graduated ;)

Moolah Rogue!

My father is a businessman, and may I say that he earns enough to give us a little more than a comfortable lifestyle. Yet, all through my growing up years he made me believe that there is nothing fabulous or even remotely good about having money. He kept telling me that professions that are more noble, a teacher, a doctor, an artist or a writer, you earn respect. And that earning is more valuable than any amount of money. So, all through my childhood I thought that my father had the worst job in the world. Only money. What was it any good?!

Then I grew up, went to college, made friends - “Your father is a businessman. Wow!” (I found nothing ‘wow’ about it, because I never got any extra money to splurge. I want through the usual students’ routine of saving up through the month, sometimes cutting down on my outings to buy things I really fancied.) I also remember an atrocious, one-time acquaintance recount her break-up story to me. “Oh come on, it was never meant to be”, she said, “He works in a bank and my father is a surgeon!!” I was suddenly being exposed to a whole new way of thinking; something I was completely unfamiliar with. Had my father fooled me all this while? Is money the only important thing in life? Could it also buy enviable kilograms of respect?

Today as I keep my increment letter in front of me and read it over and over again, I really want to believe that my father was right. Money is not everything after all! It’s the respect you earn from a noble profession that matters. Like that of a teacher, a doctor, an artist or a WRITER!!

Something for the soul

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5OuZEUC5tFg&feature=related

Pencil on Paper

Have not touched the sketch book for nearly two years now. But here are some pieces very close to my heart.