When shall we meet

There they lay your reading glasses, right over the scribbles of your unfinished love song.
There, the silent embers of your post-lunch smoke.
The car seat adjusted precisely to nestle you back in.
The warmth of the covers of our chatty nights, perfectly intact.

Remember the red ketchup blotch on the lace table cloth that was blushing like a bride, on the day you accidentally smeared it? You know today it is so dull with displeasure, it shies away from the burning eyes of the world.
My toothbrush now, once a twin of yours, resembles a hag frenzied by the years.
While yours, stands still in the pavilion waiting, never to bat again.
And you know, I swear, sometimes when I am not trying too hard, I can smell your perfume right around me. Feels like if i close my eyes you will come and kiss me.
Your voice is still so fresh in my mind that I am often deluded beyond control.
"Oh! Baby come with me", sometimes I say it out aloud after you. Then a deep sense of pain runs across my heart because I don't sound like you and you would never say it again.
But will you believe if I told you, that now I never cry. The gush of feelings that once charged through my veins at the drop of a hat, now remains unshaken by the greatest of the thunders.

And amidst all this (that I find very little) there is some of me still left. I know I am just waiting for you to call my name. I am in a hurry to join you and that's my prayer every night.
"Oh! Baby come with me", are all my ears desire.

The Queen of the Crescent Bed

In the darkness of the night it was all shimmering and shiny.
There was a crescent shaped bed with gold silk covers and embroidered throws.
It was queenly, the ambience and the moonlight. The bed gyrated slowly almost in a drunken delight. And as soon as his footsteps fell upon the tinker of the bling, a thousand glowing lamps suspended their heads from the hook of the sky.

He cleared his throat and loosened his tie. Like a goddess she appeared from behind the flowing drapes. Dressed in her famous crimson robe that had gold thread work, embroidering the story of her life to the minutest detail. Rosey cheeks, full red lips and dark cascading hair. Her beauty was captivating. Her charm inescapable. He stood there watching her as the music began to fill up the place. And as he smiled, she took it as a sign. Dropped her robe to reveal her black lace garter and the scarlet corset. Jazz music was her favourite and it always brought out her best moves. She moved like a diva, she shimmered like a star. She took his hand and made him climb the fourteen stairs to the Crescent Bed and then began her act, in the blanket of the balmy night.
With the bed gyrating in mid-air, they moved rhythmically to all that jazz. The gold of her eye-shadow sparkled around, her powdery blush sprinkled down. It was like magic bursting out.

Then the glowing lamps turned into fire crackers, magnificent upon the sky. They made love till the moonlight was shy. Her heavenly aura fused with his masculine cologne and it smelled like love all around. So while she lay within his tender embrace, catching time in the net of her lashes, she sang softly ta-da-la-la-ta-da-da-da. But there it was, her crimson robe upon the invisible soil, the dark floor. She noticed the curse was awake. Just around the corner of her breast pocket the gold thread worked upon a new tale. That was her story. Colour, in the dull of monotony. A tramp by profession, an angel by desire.

Just, by the way.

Girl: Okay, so what if I was an old woman. 88, wrinkled, very very sick, scanty gray hair and even fewer teeth?
Boy: (Thinking)
Girl: What if I was a man? Potbellied and content.
Boy: (Sniffles)
Girl: Maybe a hooker in a vibrant attire, with big full lips?
Boy: (Shrugs)
Girl: A young girl who could be so much but is nothing more than lonely?
Boy: (Knits eyebrows)
Girl: A killjoy. Just a very very bitter man?
Boy: (Shifts in his place)
Girl: What if, I was a stranger?
(Bit of a pause)
Boy: (Sighs and smiles.) You are but what you are now, and all of this in a lifetime. If this was a puzzle, I would never solve it. It is in our nature to be impregnated by multiplicity. It is, who is in the lead at a given point of time, that matters. The stranger, the hooker, the old lady or the killjoy, your essence is permeable. Dynamic like a kaleidoscope.
Your essence must be felt and rejoiced. Not killed in a grotesque attempt to capture it. Tic-toc, tic-toc and its time for another lead.

So when was it really?

Sometimes things lie right before you and you fail to recognize them. Feelings, most often are the biggest scams of 'em all. I have a memory of a memory. Memories that unveiled the truth before me.

That night when we were sitting on the floor with a half empty bottle of wine, when right above our heads the roof turned into the sky. When talk fused into a shimmering song and we got consumed by its magic. Right at that moment I remember, I fled back to the day we were on the big blue bus. When we were listening to Jesus the Mexican boy. When my hair was falling over my face and you blew it gently away to look into my eyes. A moment of nothingness turned around and looked straight into my face.

Then I came back to where we were and had an unconscious smile spread over my face. Now, when I think of it, I know it's that moment when I fell in love with you. Yes, it was then that I lived a lifetime in a moment without even knowing I did. It was then that I fell in love with you.

Notun Bou II

Two continuous days of relentless downpour and a house arrest is what perfectly describes our first two days in Calcutta. Top that with a sudden disruption in the normal digestive functions leading to a ban on eating any of the mouthwatering delicacies that were being whipped up morning noon and night, and you have a real bummer. No it wasn't Paris, it was me who was betrayed by my solid Indian digestive system, right after a gluttonous attack on the shingaras presented before us on the very first eve of our arrival.

Yes, right after the major drama over the Grand Old Man's coughing fit both Paris and I were taken away from the scene. I don't know if we were being protected from the wrath of the Old Man or he from the sinners. Whatever it was, he soon recovered after seeing the family doctor who adequately assured him that he was not going to die in the next hundred years. By late afternoon he went back to believing that Paris was English. He said she reminds him of Queen Victoria and smiled a toothless smile. Yeah right! None of us wanted to mess with the Old Man so we nodded and smiled.

At that moment the overcast sky climaxed violently in a deafening roar and let down heavy rain showers. What a relief from the sultry weather. Hot and crispy shingaras were ordered from the corner tea stall. "Dekhe baba dekhe." (Go easy honey!) Warned Jethima as I pounced on the Shingaras, greedy for the sweet crunchy peanuts that surprise your taste buds in every alternate bite. The greed paid off.

I had to place our old antique easy-chair close to the washroom and settle there with my laptop. Paris was sitting on the bed and enjoying sinfully aromatic topshe maach bhaaja. She had acquired a taste for the quintessentially Bengali food cooked in our house rather quickly.
"Let me sign into facebook. Please!"
"Let me eat the maach bhaaja. Please." I snapped.
"Look I'd give it to you but I don't think Ma would appreciate it." She spoke in a devilishly sweet manner.
I was supremely annoyed and decided to take my mind off the fish. I lit a cigarette and chose to concentrate on my dull e-mails from work.
"Oh my God! This is revenge right? You are doing it deliberately, aren't you?" Suddenly Paris lost her calm.
"What? What did I do?"
"You are smoking."
"So?"
"So, I want a drag." She said in a sulky voice.
"Look I'd give it to you but I don't think Ma would appreciate it." And that was the end of it. Paris got up and left along with the plate full of maach bhaaja. I was certain that I had guaranteed myself a couple of sleepless nights on the floor. But what does a man with a super rapid bowel movement really do when he has exotic home food all around him and silly family members running around to feed all of it to his wife. But then I had to concentrate on how to make it up to Paris. I had a plan. Only a cigarette could make up for the rising smoke of anguish. I knew that the bado chaat (big terrace) had a spot where no one usually ventured and that could be easily assigned to her as her official smoking hideout. The only problem was that I would have to get up from my strategic position and show her the place. At that time I just couldn't trust my gut!

Redemption was necessary for survival. So I said a small prayer and left my chair. Viola, I made it through the courtyard, two side passages and a climb of sixty six steps to the bado chaat with only a slight feeling of uneasiness. I had Ghontopotol, our ancient household help Raghu da's recently adolescent son, usher Paris to the chaat. I was hoping Ghonto would act quickly but I don't think he understood my urgency. I was leaning against the rickety wooden door and running my fingers through the marks of its age, the fractures running down its body, as I waited.
I heard footsteps. Two pairs to be precise. Paris appeared from the darkness of the staircase to the sunlight impregnated porch. I was just about to whisk her off to the backside of the thakur ghar (little temple in the house) where we piled up relics of our lives but she stopped.

"What's up?" I asked her.
Breathless from the exercise, she looked into my eyes with a sense of alien intensity and said, "Who's Dola?"

Scribbles

June 24th
Just before leaving for office, as I chew on my solitary jam sandwich.

Thought attack!

Dear Wife

It's that time of the year again. (Do not fear my opening line.)
Let us go just you and I to some solitary place where love resides!
Pack your bags and we shall be off to any place of your choice. (Do not fear the dreadful rhyme.)
If you do not like the mountains, I shall be pleased to understand your love for the sea.
Wake up my dahlin and make up your mind.
Let us travel. Let us explore. Again.

Yours

In a new shade

Changed the old template of my blog.
Though I really liked the previous look, this one's not too bad either.
I love the colours.
So maybe this new look will inspire me to write more, write better.
Here's to a new start...of life in a new shade!

Notun Bou

Notun Bou, a term typically used in any bengali family for the new bride in the house. From in-laws, distant relatives to her very own husband, anybody can call her Notun Bou. It's a generic term really but sometimes when the Notun Bou happens to be the last one of the family (as in married to the youngest son after whom no other boy from that generation is to be married) she maybe christened as that for a lifetime. As far as my traditional bengali family is concerned, I know that each notun bou in our family is carefully scrutinized like each and every chingri (prawn) that comes home for lunch. I can say that because I have witnessed two of my uncle's marriages while I was young. Once married, then quite like the chingri the notun bou too is brought out like a priced dish before the members of the family, who then (depending on whether she caters to their taste or not) pass a judgment about the selection. In short, she must appeal to a whole host of people before being accepted as a member worthwhile of our great Bengali brahmin family. I always wondered what made them so proud, so superior that a large section of the society was considered as unworthy association.

Anyway, here I was sitting in a yellow Ambassador Taxi after seven whole years with my Notun bou by my side to meet my family. I was nervous, I was jittery, I felt I should have never flown down or even told them about my white skinned American wife Paris. For starters it took me a couple of hundred dollars to call home and explain that Paris was her name and not where she belonged. My father had maintained a strict silence policy on the topic of my marriage with a Non-Bengali, Non-Brahmin, Non-Indian girl. It was however my grandfather who for some freak reason believed that his great associations with the British must continue in the form of an English Notun Bou. (Give me a break, I sent six e-mails saying that Paris is American not English.) However, the man was ninety-three already and pretty senile to say the least. Though it did work in my favour or should I say in favour of my blasphemous marriage. According to my parents, their handsome scientist son had been robbed off from them by a strange colonial force. Paris had laughed when she heard this. All I could say is, "you have no idea."

Enter home, freshly painted in a coat of pale ocher yellow. Dark green windows studded on the walls and a gigantic iron gate with intricate art, right in front of us. They had no idea we were coming home. I had deliberately not informed them of the correct date of our arrival. Maybe I was just trying to delay the great rendezvous. Even if by an hours journey from airport to home.

Before my family could find out, our neighbours had already collected in their balconies and were quite shamelessly ogling at my Paris. Paris remained unshaken like a pillar. She even made eye contact with them and smiled. Soon my entire family swarmed the gate to welcome us. More like they came to check out the great foreign specimen brought back by their very own son.

"Eta-e ki Paris?" (Is this Paris?) Asked my Jethima (Father's elder brother's wife).
I wondered what they were expecting, the Eiffel Tower? Before I could answer Paris dived in for her feet hiding between the pleats of her traditionally draped, off-white cotton sari and perfectly executed a pronam. (Plus five for spontaneity.) Inside in the huge courtyard remained the unenthusiastic members of the family like my father, Jethu (father's elder brother), and Naroo Thakuma (Grandfather's unmarried younger sister who was famous for making naroos or coconut laddoos). We were presented before them like convicts before the court of law.
"Meye na chele?"(Is she a girl or a boy?) reacted toothless Naroo Thakuma. I don't blame her as Paris had short cropped blonde hair, an athletic body because of her tennis obsession, she was almost 6 feet tall like me and wore pants. Quite radical for the 1920's generation. Paris smiled on. I almost felt criminal for inflicting this torture over my darling wife. So many hours in that flight and still standing before the jury...I mean my family.

"Shotti biye kore phelli?" (So you really got married?) Said my mom in a strange tone of disbelief.
"Ta biye korli to bou ke ekta sari poriye aante parli na?" (But atleast you should have brought home the new bride in a sari.) Interjected Naroo Thakuma.
"Sari ta porato ke? Aami?" (And who would have draped the sari for her? me?) Well spontaneous-me was never good news for my family. The younger bunch giggled while the elders just cringed further. My father cleared his throat in a rather frightening way and instructed the ladies to take us to the Grand Old Man of India. Paris did great at holding that smile amidst the overflow of Bangla and sublime hostility.

When we reached inside we saw the Grand Old Man resting on his bed. He had shed so much weight that I almost couldn't recognize him at first. But that majestic demeanor would certainly take nine lives to shed. So, the Grand Old Man was far far away from being the poor old man!
"Welcome to India young lady." He cried out from the bed. Finally someone spoke her language.
"Thank you. How are you sir?"
"Very well. I see the English are back."
(Honey just smile and nod. Just smile and nod!)
"But now you are married to an Indian boy. It is all because of my good relationship with the British officers posted here. But when I was in England my friends used to tell me that I would marry a mem sahib. I was very handsome, you see. But marriage is a matter of fate so never mind what happened after that."
Paris and I were both dying to laugh but the seriousness of his tone made us hold back.
"So I hear you are from Paris?"
"Actually my name is Paris. I am not English. Or French."
"You are not English?" Grand Old Man sounded furious. Like he has been cheated.
"I am American."
"American?" He said with a strange sense of disgust, made his eyes small, shook his head and started coughing violently. It got worse and turned into a mad coughing fit. I had no idea what was happening. Everyone came rushing and surrounded him like the paramedics. Paris was now officially kicked off from her "hold that smile" mode and I was just plain puzzled.

to be continued...

Musing

Where are we? What are we doing?
It's time we stopped asking these questions.
Because no matter how hard we try, no matter what, there will be no answers.
It all starts with a "want", a desire. And there is a pattern to it.
Haphazard maybe, but everything has a pattern.
So, we never love what we have and always want what we can never get.
This is a strange power equation that chance or destiny exercises on us.
In order for chance or destiny to exist there has to be this gap between, "wanting" and "having."
It is the crux of its existence.
But what is being minced in the middle is the existence of a form that is termed, "human."
We have all these words that express the presence of so many things. Words like "table" or "hand" or "love", but the truth is that words can never establish their being. Words produce sounds and sounds may differ even every time you say it. So is it a table or is it a thable or thaible? Is that four legged thing lying around in the house any of this? Or is it all of this?
So does this thing really exist? Does it exist only because it is there in front of you in physical form? Then what about love, pain, anger, angst? Do they not exist because they are intangible, because they don't exist in physical form? So if we question the existence of any one, we are questioning existence itself.

"Your life is what you make." (Waking Life)
But life is like the time spent on a treadmill. You can walk, you can run, you can speed but you ain't getting anywhere. We all choose our pace and some choose to go against the direction (So much more effort needed) and that is probably the capacity to which we can design/make our life. The problem is that whoever the hell put you on that treadmill, now you've got to run. You give up, you end the show. So what are we crying over, what are we searching for so frantically? In reality we are what is the junky sitting around the trashcan, the gypsy on her next bus, the stock broker in his glass cabin, the mother of impossible children, the senile old man, the infant, the brave, the broken, the righteous, the sinner, the saint. We are the owner of infinite futility and It, my dear friends, is called life.

One of many

It was a simple plan. There was nothing extraordinary about it. It wasn't meant to be either.
So she reached his place at 6'o clock, a little blank and a little filled with anticipation. Her plain sky blue dress brushed against her knees. She tugged at her dark chocolate coloured belt before she pressed her fingers upon the doorbell. There was something very simple yet rich about her attire. Though her hair, as always, lay scattered in random curls, wildly over her shoulders.

This was the first time she was going over to his house. Until that day, she had only imagined him walking past a couch, a pillar, a kitchen counter, while he spoke to her over the phone. Then, in just about ten seconds, her train of thought found a completely new track. She was in his house. His house. So unlike how she had imagined. It wasn't that amorphous space that she had always thought it to be. Or was it just her thoughts that were amorphous? This house, his house was more of a place that she as a little girl had always wanted to be in. There were beautiful paintings over the walls. Photographs, not brilliant, just honest, hung along with them. A splatter of colours, and warm ones that too, built up the mood of the place. Plants with big blossoms and plants green faced sat here and there. She was too shocked, yes shocked, to even notice his smile.
His house smelt of lavender blossoms and freshly squeezed grapefruit juice. Ah! She loved it.

She never realized when she let a concealed smile slip away. She looked almost childlike, when he caught her twitch her lips. She felt airy, ethereal almost, in that house. He was talking to her. She had no idea what he was saying. Then she suddenly shifted gears and went afloat to Vatican with him. Oh! That's what he was talking about. How lovely his world was. How beautiful she felt there. She stood up on her toes, with her hands behind her back and looked around from side to side like a curious little child. Then he took her to that side, from where one could see the entire world. But she didn't care what lay on the other side of the glass wall. Her gaze had settled elsewhere. She couldn't believe what she saw there. It was a Gustav Klimt. Der Kuss or The Kiss, her favourite painting of all times, hung large and lovely over the wall. She couldn't believe she never mentioned, never spoke about her favourite and yet they thought in one breath.

They sat there on the couch, right before Der Kuss, drinking all that vodka and grapefruit juice. She was sipping carefully and consciously, as he kept talking to her. She had downed seven drinks, each with equal precision and care. She was always scared of things getting stuck in her throat and this time she was sure there was a chance. Seven down and the eighth drained to the last drop, she found it hard to hold her ground. No there was nothing there for her to fear. Nothing got stuck in her throat. There was nothing in the glass. Nothing at all. She no longer felt airy or ethereal. Just numb and truly blank.

Before she knew they were on the mahogany table, dancing with her shoes kicked off.
Then there was just music. Of what? She never knew. Hands on hands, skin on skin, breath entangled, perfume infused timeless time. It felt like another universe, yet another track for her train of thought. And then when she felt the axis tilting, the sky rotating and the moment penetrating into her soul, it all came to a sudden standstill. She was BLANK. Tabula Rasa, as Locke would put it.








She woke up breathing heavily. She almost jolted out of it. She was in a silent room curled up against a floral sheet. She walked over to the Der Kuss wall. Thank God, it was still there. Just expressionless she felt, like a corpse hanging off a nail. There were no empty vodka glasses, no perfume of lavender and grapefruit. There was nothing and no one around. Where was he? She thought. Lost and searching, she looked behind every door. Engulfed in nothingness, teary eyed, she stood before the mahogany table. Yes, there it is. Her footprints from last night. A sense of familiarity filled her up when she frantically searched for another pair. Footprints there were, footprints of just her. There was nothing. There was no one. Only emptiness in every corner of her heart. And then suddenly she felt something. Something stuck in her throat.

Splatter

You killed it before we walked.
You never gave our quivering feet a chance.
Splatter. It's dead.

It'll be over before you know

It'll be over before you know.
The night will crawl away and the feelings too.
Will you be able to match eyes with the light?
Will you ever be the same?

What are you searching for?
Your ground will disown you.
Your heart will feel borrowed.
Let us put the pieces together.
Will you cherish the inevitable distortion?

Come along, let us go back again.
Set foot on this journey,
where familiar turns unfamiliar with each day.
Let us be resolute.
Let us start once again.

Who made me unlearn it?
Who made you forget?
Will we ever be the same?
How did we believe in the unending orgasm?
Believe. It'll be over before you know.

Penetration

Practise doesn't make it easy or any less awful.
Experience only sedates you to the extent that it doesn't feel like you're dying. Anymore.
I still feel shy, peeling off the garb of honour and stripping myself in front of absolute strangers. Standing naked. Stark naked.
It's like letting strangers walk into your home and have them go through your pictures, try on your clothes, raid your fridge or read your letters. And while they are busy encroaching every single square inch of "your" sanctuary, all you can do is pass that photo album to them.
Deep inside it is tearing you down. Ripping each part of your body, one by one in a gruesome fashion.
It doesn't work like the movies. No one ever falls in love with us. No one finds us beautiful longer than the hours paid for. Nobody acknowledges us, nobody spares a stare.
We are living, breathing machines who are everything but human in the view of the world. There is no room for our feelings, our dignity. There is no room for us.
More often than not the make-up on my skin is less meant to attract you and more meant for me to hide. Hide under layers and layers of powder and glitter. It eases the pain, really.
But why should my profession create a crater on my character? I didn't compose the music of my life. I didn't realise when i slipped a word or jumped a note. I don't know what made my song a cacophony. Honestly I really don't remember what happened.
But you must know that everyday I am wishing, hoping to be that girl in your home. The one who went to school, the one who argued for permissions, the one who had friends come over, the one who is allowed to fall in love, the one who still gets scolded, the one who is loved.
I don't need your sympathy, just a bit of accommodation. Some room for people like me who exist for real. Who are not machines, who are not dirty, who are not evil, who are not always confident, not born to be a seductress, who are not meant to feel odd or guilty for existing. You cannot shut your eyes and shy away from the truth.
Make room, make room for me. For whoever has made me like this it doesn't matter, as long as you can move away from the bed and make some room for me in your mind.

Tell me darling don't you think of me even once before you go to sleep?
Don't you ever see a glimpse of me when you are really really busy or absolutely free.
Can you hear me whisper in your dreams?
Can you hear me hum and sing?
Don't you laugh at random, thinking about some funny thing i did.
Don't you worry, don't you feel?
Tell me darling do you love me? Even for a second, even if a lie?

'Believe' is a commonly used word. A word full of meaning.
Sometimes I think it drives our lives, keeps us alive.
And sometimes I feel the problem is - we believe.
Believing is an act of escapism. Believing quite conveniently and naturally
transposes all responsibilities on another entity.
It is when we believe that action is held in abeyance.
Belief is a delusion.
It is an act of shying away by leaving things to an indescribable force.
So even when you believe in yourself, you 'other' yourself from the essence of you.

Believing rests upon the dark cloud of doubt.
It is not assertion but consolation.
So if we free our mind from belief, what should really remain?
I don't think it will be lethal. I don't think we'd die.
We have been trained to believe. And trying to unlearn that, is a prospect full of uncertainty.
It is an untraveled territory where the fear of the unknown creeps in.
But belief makes us gullible, it fools us more often than not.
We should try to step off the track and explore life minus belief.
I don't find the thought as blasphemous as it may sound.
We internalize certain things most naturally but what are we humans for if we don't explore beyond what's given to us.
Man without the ability to believe won't make a race of hollow men. It'll make us different.
I borrow this from a feminist critic - It'll not make us 'other' (from what we are now) but 'another'.