Read, enjoy and do NOT forget to judge!

A dictionary of translations

A note of caution: These translations have been solely dictated by the prevailing social norms. Any resemblance to any definition that you might have come across in any academic journal or a certified dictionary is practically impossible.

1. Bhadralok (gentlemen): “educated” middle class Bengalis exemplifying the proverb- “empty vessels sound much”

2. Mohila Samiti (a women’s organization): A dangerous congregation of mostly middle aged woman with a great interest in the personal life of other people. They believe it is their moral duty as well, to keep their locality pure of all social “impurities”

3. Jogyo patri (an ideal girl for marriage): A fair-skinned, educated but not too well-educated girl of about 20s with a docile attitude, who knows how to carry out all the house-hold chores to perfection, nurse children, look after her husband and in-laws in all sorts of situations.

4. Jogyo patro (an ideal man for marriage): Well educated young man of about mid 20s with a high-paying job, preferably in the IT sector and a bhadro family background.

5. Baje meye (bad girl): Upstart, with an ability to do something other than what the society dictates her to do, somebody who smokes pot and drinks publicly, gets a tattoo or a piercing done, somebody who has the guts to be herself in front of the society.

6. Baje chele (bad boy): Messy hair with an inclination towards western hip hop, rock or punk music, somebody who sometimes dares to dress up all in black, somebody who wears a track paint paired with a Panjabi to a wedding, somebody who dares to bring her girl friend home when his parents are not around, somebody who dares to be himself in front of the society.

7. O biye kobe korbe? (when will he/she get married?) : An eternal query of all middle aged house wives and relatives to the parents of unmarried children with a hidden attempt to figure out whether the prospective bride or groom is straight or not.

Teeny tiny yarns

A slice of life

That is all she wanted- a hand to hold. There was one which held her waist. She waited for it to loosen its grip while she searched for what she wanted. And she waited...

Meanwhile, he waited for her to look at him, just once and he knew she would know. He waved but she didn’t notice; it seemed she was looking for something else. Yet he waited...

              



                                                

There was not a moment to lose. He lost her with every second of the clock. She stumbled through the dark, moving away from him...consciously... He fought tooth and nail to find her and he finally did.

This cycle went on and on. She always tried to run, he always found her back, but he never could reach her...

It was a dangerous thing to do. Training a machine which has no mind of its own is something, training something which can think for itself is something completely different. She trained him to be perfect. Perfect for her; perfect for her social standing, perfect to meet all her needs. So meticulously and subtly had she done the entire thing that neither did he or even she realise it. Everything was planned, perfect. She made one small mistake- she forgot that he had a mind of his own. She forgot that this mind defined him- the man she had fallen in love with.

He was oblivious of the fact that he had been trained. All he knew now was that his life centred round her.

One fine morning she came to him and accusingly declared, “I cannot take it anymore. You are too perfect for me!”

She gently took a sip from her glass of wine and closed her eyes and slowly replayed the moments of her passionate love-making, that she was engaged in a few minutes ago. She felt the entire thing all over again. It had been years since she had felt this kind of satisfaction; it was never this good with her husband.

A vibration from her phone jerked her out of the reverie. She took the call, “Yes baby, I am going to be home in an hour and then we can go for our anniversary dinner.” She hastily got up, put on her clothes, gathered her stuff and headed for the door. She paused for a moment on her way out. She looked back at the bed once just to catch a glimpse of her sleeping peacefully, before leaving.

Fed up with her demands he walked out of the room into the small balcony. He noticed the potted plants which hung from the railing which she had grown with so much care. The cool wind brushed against his face. It helped him to cool down a little bit. He wondered how the relationship had become so tiresome. Phone calls every hour, constant allegations that he did not give her enough time, how alone she was...God! Wouldn’t it be a bliss if she just shut up and went back to her own place? Go back to her own life...”her own life”...he wondered what her life was now. Who did she have apart from him? There had been a point in his life too when he had no one. She was the one who had found him and taken care of him then. She had patiently listened to all his complaints and provided him with everything that she could afford with her meagre income. He even remembered her doing extra shifts just to pay for his education. She, a single mother, had transformed a street urchin into a “well-bred” and “educated” gentleman.

He slowly went back inside the room. She lay there wrinkled and almost senile with age, yet her eyes still had the warmth which he had caught his attention when he had first seen her looking at him. He curled up beside her and whispered, “ma...”....A tear rolled down the wrinkled face....

Utterly confused and puzzled she looked at the woman. She was repeatedly shouting out something at her. Gradually a few others joined her too. All of them were roughly about the same age. Clad in clean and perfectly pinned sarees, they seemed to be shouting at her for doing something grievous. She racked her brains to figure out what she had done...last time they had raised the same raucous when she had had to entertain a client at her home. They alleged that it spoiled the reputation of the para...The same para which stayed mum when a drunken husband raped his pregnant wife. It was a para of bhadraloks, the same “educated” bhadraloks who chose to ignore such an act- it was a matter of the household, after all! “We are outsiders, how can we intervene?”said some, while others simply denied having any information regarding this. She wondered what was more important to the mohila samiti- the reputation of the para or the fact that she was an escort by profession?

She had always stayed out of all the events that the residents organized from time to time at the para. Imposed with a strict restriction to not enter the puja pandal she had no other option but to sway to the beats of the dhak from her home. She consciously avoided any form of interaction with any resident. She wondered what she could have done this time to enrage the dangerous congregation of women again...Uff! She pulled out the head phones from her ears and tried to figure out what the entire thing was all about. It seemed that her neighbour Ramen “babu” had been caught circling around her house the previous night by his wife. They complained that her profession was raising a finger at the residents of the para, the bhadraloks of the para were finding it difficult to live with such a woman around. She had to leave, they demanded. She knew she had no other option but to change her place, again... 

diary of a wandering mind

Owning to the present circumstances I have been studying the various forms of writing that the literary world has seen till the present date. Though the classifications are convenient for our understanding, I personally beg to differ when it comes to these classifications. Whatever we put down in a piece of paper(whether the world eventually gets to read it or not is a completely different question), is simply meant for communicating and as long as one is successful in doing just that, the form hardly matters. One might argue that the form facilitates the process of expression, but is it really so?
With this question in mind, here is my entry no.2, where content supersedes the idea of "Form"-

Do the dance when I am sad,
Show me the colours when I feel blinded by the light...Be my rainbow through the clouds...
Play with my shadow when I am lost...
Come and meet me in the jungle of my dreams
Remember me by my words...

Build me my wonderland and take me there on a magic carpet
Pour me the wine from the Arabian Nights...
Let me take the long drag so that I can hear the song of the Solitary Reaper...
Give me a bed of books to rest my soul

Do not be fooled by the looks of it, it is not a poem that you read, but just a page from my diary
Do not wish to be enlightened, simply read and relate...

Walk with me a mile and smile when you want to, feel the warmth of it spreading in you
See the glow that glimmers at the end of the road through the leaves and hear their flutter
Feel the sunrise and the sunset with me...
Take me to the gushing river where the water trickles
Make the impossible, possible for me....

Play me my song when I breathe my last...

Diary of a wandering mind...

Owning to the present circumstances I have been studying the various forms of writing that the literary world has seen till the present date. Though the classifications are convenient for our understanding, I personally beg to differ when it comes to these classifications. Whatever we put down in a piece of paper(whether the world eventually gets to read it or not is a completely different question), is simply meant for communicating and as long as one is successful in doing just that, the form hardly matters. One might argue that the form facilitates the process of expression, but is it really so?
With this question in mind, here is my entry no.2, where content supersedes the idea of "Form"-

Do the dance when I am sad,
Show me the colours when I feel blinded by the light...Be my rainbow through the clouds...
Play with my shadow when I am lost...
Come and meet me in the jungle of my dreams
Remember me by my words...

Build me my wonderland and take me there on a magic carpet
Pour me the wine from the Arabian Nights...
Let me take the long drag so that I can hear the song of the Solitary Reaper...
Give me a bed of books to rest my soul

Do not be fooled by the looks of it, it is not a poem that you read, but just a page from my diary
Do not wish to be enlightened, simply read and relate...

Walk with me a mile and smile when you want to, feel the warmth of it spreading in you
See the glow that glimmers at the end of the road through the leaves and hear their flutter
Feel the sunrise and the sunset with me...
Take me to the gushing river where the water trickles
Make the impossible, possible for me....

Play me my song when I breathe my last...

assorted: Diary of a wanderingmindAn honest note of confess...

assorted: Diary of a wanderingmind
An honest note of confess...: Diary of a wandering mind An honest note of confession before I begin on this escapade of words-Keep aside all the anticipation and exp...

Diary of a wandering mind

An honest note of confession before I begin on this escapade of words-Keep aside all the anticipation and expectations that have already formed a room in your mind, thanks to the fancy title...I can promise you that this record, scribbling or piece of shit might turn out to be something really boring. However, as John Milton says - it is not the duty of the author alone to entertain the reader. It’s a two way process really where the reader too has a rather active role to play! So, those of you who decide to go through this with a little bit of patience might just find something helpful or you can simply dismiss this as a rather long and boring Facebook status update- the choice ultimately is yours!

Entry 1:

She trudged along the long winding road. She knew she had to go on until there were no more posts left. Clutching at the soft earth she tried to look up- she could make out a faint outline of an endless road littered with posts. Hungry, tired and fatigued she dragged herself on all fours towards the next post. "No! I can't give up now!", she told herself. "I have to live up to my name! I must I must!" She murmured under her breath. A loud shout broke her fatigued reverie. She looked up and saw a giant of a man peering at her with suspicious eyes. He wore a black uniform and carried a white stick with which he poked her. From beneath his cap she could make out streaks of grey hair. "Hey there! Tell me your name and get going! Bloody loser..." The sheer hate in his voice rattled her. She gathered all the strength that she had left in her and stood up slowly. She looked straight into his eyes and whispered, "Hope...". The guard noted down her name and watched her till she disappeared into the horizon...