nonsensical ramifications of a lazed out mind

The period post project submissions at law school. I love this time, when there's just no pressure, no work, nothing to look forward to and around second trimester, more so; there are no fests happening, no exams ensuing. A time which could be well spent in whichever activity you want. For me, it's contemplation, more than anything else. For some people like Ambasta, this time of the trimester is a bitch; such people need work, projects, something to keep themselves occupied. For me, I stranglely love it when life has no surprises to spring, there's no element of excitement; I am quite a dullhead to be thrilled with such ideas of spontaneity.
Thankfully though, Sonal had asked me to read this book called "English, August", which I am still reading. I am quite slow at the business of reading, though I quite like it (however, I despise being the avid, voracious, pseudo-intellectually hungry reader). Abhishek Sinha, a quack palmist, had once seen my hand and said, " You see the multiple lines jutting out of that main middle line? It's an indication that you can't think of one thing at a time. You think of a number of things at the same time. Also an indication that you are very analytical; while we notice one particular thing, you notice various things in that one thing." I had for some strange reason, loved it. More so, related to it. Much like I had felt like when Suhas had written a testimonial in Orkut, years ago, and describing me had said, "More at ease with Tagore's world than today's dog-eat-dog world." I more often appreciate people who somehow see sides of me which most others cannot.
Sonal, while persuading me to read the book had said, "You will identify yourself with the protagonist Agastya; the guy doesnt know what on earth he's doing being an IAS officer in a godawful dot called Madna, he smokes up, has weird sexual fantasies, likes Rabindrasangeet....."
I was quite fascinated, again. The idea of relating myself to some character seemed nice. And it's a splendidly written book. Every line is interesting. The guy, August, especially is a treat to read. Disdainful, disinterested disillusioned. I could see shades of me. But all the same I knew that Agastya in normal life was what I am in my private life. Strangely reticent, not bothered, weirdly fantastic. Thus, I knew that a lot of people wouldn't agree when I'd tell them that I could identify with the character. "Please", said Ambasta, "you're nothing like him."
I knew that the world knew, or thought it knew me; I won't blame it. That's what I am in public life. Funny, entertaining, stupidly nautankic.
However, I would probably have loved the life which August had disdain for. I would have loved the idea of staying at a place where I was a stranger to everybody. I would not have the botheration of family, friends, acquaintances. I'd loved those three days at staying at Tangail in Bangladesh. A small village. My internship with Grameen Bank had seemed dull in Dhaka, which was an extended version of Dankuni or Nagarbhavi to me; God alone knows what made it the Capital of a country. But anyways, Bangladesh. But Tangail had new shades to offer. I could relate to the way Agastya was reverred by people. I had experienced some part of it during my 3-day stay in that village. The manager was mesmirised by the fact that I came from Calcutta, was city-educated, in an English medium school, and was studying law in Bangalore. His reaction was like people in Indian suburbs have when they hear from NRI acquaintances in the US. The villagers understood nothing of it. But I was some sort of a babu, and they felt some sort of obligation to rever and be in awe. So they were.
I could relate to it all. I could also feel a sort of joy Agastya might have felt, despite the so-called disillusionment towards the people. I liked Agastya's contemplative self, and the things that went on in his mind, from finding Mrs. Srivastava sexy to loathing a forced meeting with a college acquaintance.
My phone rang. Dad. "I hope you are not on the roof smoking. You know your voice is in such bad state that you can't even speak. Get well, and then you can resume."
"No. I'm not smoking." I lied to him.

nonsensical intellectual masturbation

Law school is perhaps a queer place. We call each other pseudos, we slime, we bitch about, like women (even men {I am an MCP}). And we take part in discussions which we think are illuminating, which make us different from other 'dumb' people, who do not participate in the same. Such discussions may take place, even if wehave exams the next day; we cannot leave opportunities like these. We HAVE to prove ourselves superior to other universities, other people of our age, but most importantly, to prove ourselves as better than the person we are 'debating' against. We have to argue till he succumbs to our logic, and the problem here is, the other party thinks that too. Good that SDGM prohibits causing bodily injury, otherwise methinks most of these discussions would have ended in fights.
I am just reminded of Indian Coffee House, Calcutta. You say adda is a bong phenomenon?
We can go to any extent to make ourselves win, from quoting non-existent 'scientific proofs' and Supreme Court judgements (and all parties have such authorities to cite from, and debates may just turn away from the main topic, and move on to which authority is better), to being loud enough to suppress the other. We come up with weird notions, perhaps ones we wouldn't have believed in at some other point in time, but right now, we need to rebut the other, so any point which does that, is good.
Whats more, we believe that such discussion is beneficial, since we are lawyers, we need to talk in hypersensitive ways; we aint egotists, we actually believe that all this is constructive. We forget to sleep, and forget that other people need to sleep. Debate zindabaad.
"All we are saying, is give peace a chance" - John Winston Ono Lennon

the nonsensically nostalgic city

"Dabangg was such a let down!"...Yes, my paara friends refused to believe that such a movie could be made just for the sake of trippiness; to trip on the nonsense the 90s had produced. They still have no idea that people are beyond that phase, and poke fun at it. Quite simply because they aren't. They have not moved on; nor has their city, my city, the city of joy and of palaces.
Calcutta (and we still unanimously refuse to call it Kolkata, or as outsiders would pronounce, Call-kataa) is stuck, in the 70s, the 60s, perhaps even further, in the 50s. It is difficult though to fathom whether the city is stuck in that era, or simply reminisces the beauty that it possessed back then. Be that as it may. That era, where it saw the intelligentsia. The dhuti wearing babu, moving with those patented black rimmed glasses, with a bag tucked under his underarm, and a pen decked in his half-shirt. Or the poet, baatik kurta clad, sporting a beard, sitting alone, sipping coffee at the Indian Coffee House on College Street, and writing down wonderful pieces, with no hopes of succeeding at getting them published. Or the bekaar fellow, chatting away in incessant, non-constructive adda sessions, with fellow accompanists.
The thought of the loser poet urges me to make the observation that there is still a white board at the coffee house called the 'voice of the mass' or some such thing, and where you can write any random thing, ANYTHING. It is just that the mass have become conscious enough not to dirty the city; even the board remains clean.
But people still refer to Mother Teresa Sarani as Park Street, and Shakespeare Sarani as Theatre Road. Bongs are proud Anglophiles. Breakfast tables at Flurys still thrive with Anglos, and the SS Hogg market is still the New Market; my grandfather was in his childhood taught to refer to the market by that name. There still exists the Golbari where the mutton kasha tastes exactly the same it did forty years back; the entrepreneurs have made it a point to pass on the legacy. Big cinema halls still run at profits, despite mushrooming multiplexes.
The scent of Pujas still brings people of all communities close; we don't give a fuck about fundamentalism. Much as we give a damn to work, labour and the fruits of it; Bandhs are still relished, no matter whoever calls it.
You can still wear polka dotted shirts and pink shades, and I bet you won't get the attention that you are seeking. People are that cool with the 70s.
There still exists the middle class.
Not to say that LPG has not touched the city; just that it has not eaten into the nostalgic aura. Everything here remains, well, happily primitive if you will. The city of nostalgia remains happily embedded in its state, wishing luck to metropolises which compete for flaunting modernity.

not necessarily nonsense

For all those people who think that the Bollywood industry is a forum of fools, and is just a way of entertaining life when you have no better, please read on. Others interested may kindly do the same.
The first image that would come to one's mind when the word Bollywood's uttered is probably that of a girl running between trees playing catch-me-if-you-can with her boyfriend, while some songs go on in the background, describing the naughtiness, the beauty, the happiness, and love. The scene would be in some hill-station probably. Or perhaps to yet others, the word that would simultaneously ring in their ears along with Bollywood would be 'dhishoom dhishoom'. These are certain commonly ascribed, commonly accepted perspectives.
And yet, just a rethink would reveal what my mother would tell me films are: "samaaj ka darpan", or reflection of the society.
The 50s' films (at least many of them), for example, were characterised by the commonly perceived social problems and issues. While a Raj Kapoor movie would go on to show the image of a village boy, migrating to the city in search of a job and getting lost under the big city lights, films like Naya Daur and Upkar conveyed the aspirations of the youth of a young India. Dev Anand's Baazi shows a guy who takes the other route, since the normal one doesn't promise him a future. The country was poor then, much poorer than it is now; the people still uneducated, unemployed. Social welfare schemes had not set in. Guru Dutt portrayed yet another side of society and urban culture through films like Pyaasa and Kaagaz Ke Phool.
Mother India was a reflection of so many issues the society was burning with - absence of banking, lack of faith in the judicial system, landlordism, problems of a panchayat system, lack of education, lack of healthcare, the general status of women, lack of irrigation facilities, social support and so on. Yet the film ends on a note which shows irrigation, greenery, hope.
The 60s were the happy eras, globally, for whatever reason. Though there was the China War, which stirred things up a bit. One just has to see Haqeeqat or Hum Dono or some such film to get that feel.
However, despite such tinges of black and white, we generally see colours, not just on screen but even in the dresses people wore, the songs that were sung. Happy-go-lucky, relatively tension-free times. The youth seemed to be bubbling with a dash of new hope and energy. Those were the days of romance, of Shammi Kapoor and then Rajesh Khanna.
Enter 70s, rather mid-seventies. A term seemed to have entered the Indian social dictionary- 'Naxalism'. A war had been fought with Pakistan, and won. But an internal war was happening, and Mrs. Gandhi had the emergency in force (see Aandhi, 1976). There was now the educated, disgruntled, unemployed youth, born a little before independence, and thinking, "This is what independence has given me?" And therefore, people could so well relate to the term "Angry Young Man" the moment it was coined. Amitabh Bachchan had become a superhero suddenly. Society clung to his character. There is in fact a scene in Deewaar where Shashi Kapoor comments on how the world has turned into a third class compartment, with passengers far outnumbering the number of seats available. The film shows how one brother goes on to become a smuggler and the other a cop; yet both want to fight poverty, howbeit in their own ways.
The hero was now more often than not a police inspector, resolving to fight all evil, all the smugglers, the people who stole away social wealth.
Gloomy? Not always. Those were still days of contentment, with the middle class existing in its own happy world. Hrishikesh Mukherjee never made a movie which was not believable. Amol Palekar was once asked recently, "You were once the image of the middle class guy. Where has that image disappeared these days?", to which he replied, "Where do you think the middle class has disappeared these days?"
The 80s grew a bit darker. The era of art films; people insisted on seeing more of reality, even if it wasn't pleasing. Naseeruddin Shah, Raj Babbar and Om Puri played characters just out of everyday pages of society; footnote: Khandahar, Katha, Sparsh et al. Those were the days of Shabana and Smita. Feminism was beginning to find its niche. Rajesh Khanna pioneered in showing through films like Avtar and Amrit how the middle class man had begun considering his parents a liability. He could not sustain them anymore. His wife was learning to have demands, he loved her. His parents could be sent to an old-age home, because the home now needed place for the washing machine and the television. I just hope that people who've seen those times would relate to what I am writing, and not consider me anti-feminist, and thus read on. Kader Khan and Govinda movies carried this tradition into the late 80s. There was perhaps a need of a superhero too. A different kind. A saviour of mankind from social villains. There was a need for a Mr. India.
The 90s saw the development of the youth. The chocolate boy looks would work this time, since the hero was no longer a man, but a boy, a school/college goer. An Aamir Khan, A Shahrukh Khan. Privatisation was setting in. People had enough. Prices had not risen much. No war had been fought. This was time for love. Society was responding positively to privatisation, Bryan Adams and English movies. College-goers began modelling themselves up as lover-boys. India had been independent for a long time now. Things were probably balanced if you had a job. And college was the hub of love.
Something changed in the middle of this millenium. Something urged society to think on lines it had not explored. In came the issues of globalisation, of nuclear families, gay rights, of Life in a Metro, of the Fashion or the Corporate world. The modern society had to identify itself with the modern DevD. Society would no longer be just cheesy. The youth would be equally receptive to a Rang De Basanti as it would be to Dil Chahta Hai. Three Idiots and Taare Zameen Par held out yet other problems like cut throat competition and parental aspirations. Such is the demand for showing reality that even SRK had to do a Swades, and what's more, this gesture was appreciated.
Offbeat films which show some sense go well with the metro crowd, while the suburb and mofussil areas still identify with lovers and stuntman heroes and cheap humour. Education and realistion of the ill-effects of a privatised economy have not reached a mass that is yet to experience all such effects. Yet the prediction is that all this won't stay for long. But courtesy new problems, new issues like terrorism etc., a new superhero is required, who has all the qualities to be the world's Krissh, to save the world, with absoltely nothing stopping him.
I nowhere suggest that there have not been films which bear no image of the society, and such films could have been made in any era, for entertainment sake. It is just that Bollywood has in its own way, knowingly or otherwise, conveyed social messages and aspirations over the years. It has not been a world of just dhishoom dhishoom and the loser lover.

jobless nonsense

I very candidly accept that I love the feel of sheer joblessness which the scent of vacations promises. Courtesy my advertised 'hectic' schedule, my parents tend not to interfere with my state of inertia, nowadays even to the limit of not asking me to have a haircut or meet my relatives. I have the bliss of the television, books, music, food, scotch, and the internet. In all, everything that makes life so less complaining. I have all the time in the world to think about insubstantial things; to think about not thinking about anything at all.
This reminds of similar thematic poems: Robert Frost's "Two tramps in mud time", Wordsworth's "Daffodils", "Leisure" by William Henry Davies (i don't know who he is; had to surf the net to find out the poem's author). A common contemplation in these poems is about the abundance of time, and its multifarious benefits. And so true are they!
Ma, still sometimes, pesters me quite hard to meet my friends, and calls me an introvert (which I vehemently object) for not doing so. She is, rightfully, more bothered than I. There are these times when you feel that even two is crowd and not company. Call this being 'loner-like' if you will; methinks there's nothing wrong in that. I feel it's an effort to carry myself over to meet some goddamn friend, and in the process get drenched in Calcutta humidity; too much of an effort!! Not that I don't love those friends and reunions, but it's a question of prioritizing things; I do precisely the same. The joy of reading Jawaharlal or listening to the baritone voice of Don Williams scores over matters like meeting mortals. And YES - THE HARMONIUM!! Damn dolts who don't know the pleasure one can derive out of a musical instrument! Doing these things makes me forget that my results are not out, and that corp law is still waiting to sting me in the ass.
I become a 'recluse' and retire to the AC bedroom; dad is so cool, he cannot tolerate AC's much, and yet has them fitted in for a member of the family who comes over to stay here during intermittent vacations. I sometimes feel that I lose out on hanging around with my parents. Perhaps having a drink with Dad or bonding with Ma in the kitchen in just not enough. And i know I would feel it all the more once I am back at NLS. I feel for the poor old woman who cries over the phone saying how much she misses her son, and cooks absolutely splendid meals during his stay. And what does the wretched son do? "Ma, leave me alone. I am doing things you won't ever learn to appreciate". There's this lawyer who toils hard to get his son happiness. And doesn't complain even when that asshole refuses to accompany him to the bazaar, and chooses to spend the hour shitting. No, I do not intend this blog to be a repentance speech, which clears my heart. I just wanted to write some nonsense about the pros (and subconsciously also wrote the flip side) of being absolutely jobless during these much desired and deserved vacations. And I guess this narrative's already long enough.

the nonsensical law school

So there was this student, certain years ago, who, despite being a 'lawskulite', had ventured to do an internship with Prof. Balgopal, a social activist in his own right; and what's more, was all praises for him on returning. Prof. Madhava Menon, the founder of our institution retorted, "It is you who have to make a choice, whether to be Balgopal, or KK Venugopal". He left it at that. Lawschool conveniently added AMSS, Luthra, CC et al.

And yet, the mandate of this 'premier institution' was, in fact is, to increase the quality of the Bar and the Bench, or something to that effect. Professors here boast of the first ten 'glorious' batches; we guys seem to have lost it. I do not want to get into petty controversies by naming people, but they seem to be primarily proud of facts like some alumnus is partner, AMSS, or someone at some other law/corp firm. These are the guys who've made lawschool what it is. Rank 1. Something NALSAR aspires for, other colleges don't even do that.
But I ask it to myself, what is the significance of Numero Uno? We earn handsome salaries, and it ends at that? I guess the first ten batches were better not because of what they have achieved, but because of what they aspired for. Recent batches come to law school with clear, defined aims of a high CGPAs, stunning internships, moot competitions, client counseling, anything that looks studly on the CV to procure them a lucrative offer at the end of fourth year. Not because they wanna learn the law and love it. Oh yes, these are idealistic aims. But then, why have such mandates? Then why have "Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high" as the cherished value? What is all this if not idealism?
And what does NLS teach us? To work with given deadlines, to crib about it all, to digest volumes of reading material courtesy a packed-up curriculum; in short to make us all 'studly'. But definitions differ. Does this institution create any social studs? No. It is supposed to create legal ones. Apparently, intense workload does that. Or does it? And also give rise to depression due to increased repeats? And also an intense drug culture?
But why should NLS be bothered? This is the oh so negligible deviant behavior, which perhaps has no correlation with the workload? The institution asks, "Why did you join if you can't take it?"
I submit, "Why did you have mandates you don't believe in?"
I do not wish to sound like a Ranchoddas of 3 Idiots, but sometimes, one can't help asking. Where is all this going? What are we proud of? Pay packets? Only pay packets? We anyways leave those jobs after 3 years. Alas, even 5 intense years of rigorous workload at law school (four at least) do not seem successful in helping us tackle pressure; we get tired of it. Yes, after making money, agreed.
I remember Prof. Rahul Singh telling us once, that medals and all that stuff one aspires for doesn't really matter at the end of it; it doesn't really take one anywhere. This, from an alumnus who was one of those great studs our institution has proudly produced over the years.
What else do we learn? Courses like Law, Poverty and Development seek to educate us with the problems engulfing society today. The course acquaints us with problems, perhaps solutions too. It aims at encouraging us to serve the society in some way. We, by virtue of being the 'cream of law students' are perhaps better equipped to do that. Perhaps not, mentality wise. We are done with all that no sooner than we scam the course at the end of three months. How many of us actually do anything for the society post passing out, or fight for human rights? Even the ones who are ostensibly so shocked after watching documentaries upholding the naked truth? What do post-viewing class discussions lead to? Does the work stop at realization? How many of us work for ideals we believe in? Rather, how many of us believe in any ideals? Or do we just equate chumma subjects like LPD and HR and Socio as Scams we've gotta pull off?
Which brings me to another important point. SCAM. I'm not sure whether the word is an invention of this place, but ya, 'faff' seems like one. We do all that. During projects, during vivas, during exams, in fact, wherever we can; even for attendance make-ups.
Are we to blame? I daresay not. What is it we are aiming to achieve by rigorous attendance? Physical attendance seldom coincides with its mental counterpart. And this is visible; one just has to go and attend a class. I won't even urge you to do that during project time, lest you get disappointed with the approach of students towards learning. Learning if I may say, is not a bitter medicine, which you thrust down the throat of a student; even if he is studying at National Law School.
A lot of papers have this tendency of being long, deliberately so. We are better than the rest, that should reflect even in our handwriting speeds. Does a brilliant handwriting speed have anything to do with legal education? Or legal practice in the long run?
Smoking on the terrace used to be permitted unofficially. People were cool with that; would go to the roof to smoke. But hello, isn't smoking supposed to be bad? A crime? And just like attempt to suicide is contemplated as an offence under the IPC, smoking was sought to be banned. Prohibited. So we smoke in our rooms, lest we are caught on the roof. Institution: "You want to smoke, go out of the gate and smoke. But yes, even if you want to do that, you cannot possess cigarettes; you've gotta go out, buy a cigarette and then smoke. Possession of cigarettes is a 'deemed' offence." When law is stringent, it can seldom be enforced.
I seem to have been 'bitching about' and 'sliming' my institution (These words are so commonly used here, you cannot do without them). That, I clarify, is not my intention; nor is it to project stark , depressing realities. It is just that the shortcomings of this institution make me re-think about the ideals embedded here, about the ideals I joined this place for, about the ideals society is dying to see in students like us.

(perhaps) corny (nonsense)

"So, you guys must've kissed, didn't you?"
"And what kind of question's that, Rahul? We did. I mean come on, I dated him for a year and a half. I couldn't have been a saint, could I?"
"I wasn't on sainthood and all Sujata; I didn't even want you defending yourself. That was, well, just inquisitiveness. And sainthood's anyways got nothing to do with a kiss."
"Just inquisitiveness? Born out of an apparent insecurity? Rahul, lets get this straight. I love you. I am not bouncing back to that bastard. So why do you trouble me by asking all this?"
"Trouble you?! Ah! There you see. See, if you hadn't been bouncing back, you wouldn't have been troubled, would you?"
At that moment, an earlier version of Sujata would have definitely felt like slapping him for getting on her nerves. Most girls, at least of this gen, would have. Rahul was one of those 90s-lover type people. Insecure, primitive, far from knowing the crap about chivalry. But not like the ones who'd beat up their chicks. A bit of a panzied sissy in today's world? Yes. But Sujata was not gonna dump him. She knew he loved her. A love different from the ones she had seen, or perhaps, as she thought, she never had.
"Can we please stop this for God sake? I mean, please. This is like too much. You don't trust me, do you?" And no sooner had Sujata said this than she realized that she was actually playing his 90s counterpart. Shit. But then, this senti crap did work on Rahul most times. This was not an exceptional occasion.
"Hey look, I am sorry. I mean I am. But it's just that I don't wanna lose you. And I am scared."
This seemingly corny stuff to the viewer actually made sense to this nonsensical couple. Sujata didn't mind any of this now. She had had a taste of the 'fun' life so many girls aspire to experience. She was beautiful.
"I have dated these 'cool' guys all through high school. I dated that fucking NRI bastard in 1st year. Rahul is different. He makes me believe there's this love which is conveyed through the eyes; Bernard Shaw was an idiot. Horny bastard." She would delve into too much of such thinking all the time, a characteristic of her zodiac - Virgo. She had seen it all, done it all. And she knew he'd always love her; just the way he always had. He couldn't think of fun and all. He was boring, non-cute, uncool, honest. She somehow felt a stupid passion in his feelings. Random dating and making-out sessions with people had made her get bored of it. She'd matured before age.
Yes, she was right. Rahul was all she thought he was. Girls have this antennae which makes them good judges. Rahul was primitive to an extent that he had no tiff with relationship vocabulary such as crushes and flings. It was only love. He didn't know how to carry on discussions and all. He was all for looking into her eyes, getting lost and such jazz. This boring nature of his was his greatest quality; the source of security for Sujata. She wouldn't find him in the arms of her best friend, making out with her in her absence. College goers of this generation are products of the 90s only after all.
They dropped the matter; for a change Rahul not promising he wouldn't bring it up again. He had decided not to lie to her. Another virtue associated with this nonsensical love thingy of his.
A tear drop fell. Sujata reciprocated. Experience had softened her, matured her. They embraced. "I love you so much". More tears.
" Jag ne chheena mujhse,
mujhe jo bhi lagaa pyaara;
Sab jeeta kiye mujhse,
Main hardam hi haara.
Tum haarke dil apna, meri jeet amar kardo".
No translations.

the nonsensical adda

"Cholbi?" "Chalo tahole :)"..wanna go? lets go then.. :)
I cudnt resist... not when there was the prospect of a kickass adda session, I had time, and sufficient money in the bank to nail a quart. Dad had filled in money today. So no sooner was I asked by this senior of mine, whether I was up to an adda session, with milds, anjan dutta and bp accompanying us did I jump into a Yes. It being a Saturday, the project submission on Monday seemed a distant prospect.
To non-Bengalis, an adda in the crudest explainable definition is the bongish romanticized rendezvous... in fact, you actually need to be in Cal to know how it actually is romanticized...Bangalore was a consolation... but Bangaalis have this ability to make any place seem enjoyable so long as there is cigarette, alcohol, music, and the familiar Bangaliana.
And what could have been the lawskulite's dream cheap alcoholic den but Surya? The place which is an institution in its own right, howbeit alcoholic.
But a Saturday evening meant Kannadiga crowds... nah, not the place today. The place we chose next was, rightly or wrongly, called Mangalore Paradise (perhaps Haven would have been a better name.. anyways).
And so it started. Discussions. And just like a river, an adda flows, ignorant of the paths it's gonna traverse. It just needs a trigger, perhaps a 'cheers' serves just as well. So then we had discussions, rambling about law school for no more than thirty seconds. And then it was a unanimous subconscious decision to bunk it; we had more important nonsense to talk about. IPL (no Sourav, an adda is seldom on beaten tracks), alcohol, addas in Calcutta, Calcutta rains, Communism and 'Trinamoolism', schools, teachers, badmaashis we missed, fests we flirted in et cetera. Then came literature, Tagore. And that was it. The river was now calm, settled on Tagore. The man, his life, his works, his views, his philosophy; what he wrote in 80 years could be enough material for a century-long discussion perhaps. Tagore is, at least to Bengalis till today, a figure larger than life, a philosopher who had experienced and expressed life in every form. And his music became his short hand for emoting things words perhaps can never attempt. I have always lamented my inability at not being able to read Bong really well. But nonetheless, I love the discussion when it happens, contributing whatever little I can.
It could have gone on. But the silly waiter was taking tooo long to get the 3rd quart. The cigarette was finishing.
And if Tagore could be subjected to so much dissection, another illustrious Bengali could not be left out. Satyajit Ray - a man of as high stature as his height. And his films. And the beauty. And the inevitable comparisons with Ritwik Ghatak and Mrinal Sen. Again, not having seen as many bong films as i ought to have, I devoured the discourse given by my senior. The talk on films took a general turn, and then we were talking about Roshomon and Viridiana, Deewaar and Hey Ram. Any film that had discussion material would have done.
Somewhere in the midst of the adda session I realised that this was one of those so very infrequent situations which did not necessitate bitching and sliming to pass time. Time was passing , without your getting to know how.
Then there was a topic closer, much closer, to heart - music. In its various forms, classical, both eastern and western, country, the Beatles, rock and roll, trance, Mohd. Rafi -Kishore Kumar and Lata-Asha dichotomies..and Bangla jobonmukhi gaan. Rabindrasangeet definitely had to peep in.
And finally, the waiter signalled it was time to go. The extension of 'fifteen more minutes', which had run to another half an hour had also run out. The paradise was getting pissed. We paid, and left; a little high, and wanting a little more of everything, cigarettes, whisky, time, adda. Whisky there was not to be found, even the illegal dens were inaccessible now. 12:20; no chance.
Never mind inscrutable Bong blood! Cigarette is just as fine. All these adda accompanists are pretexts.
So up on the Cauvery roof again, screaming songs to the heart's content, high but still not sleepy...and then, the inevitable. Cigarettes got over. Shit. Agreed that these accompanying guys are pretexts, but you need them, just like you need a fucking pretext for almost every other thing you do. Adda was over for the night. There was this promise that since this adda remained incomplete (like every other adda), we would meet tomorrow. More cigarettes; no more alcohol, the pocket wouldn't allow. But then, promises made during an adda are forgotten, no sooner than it ends that day. We guys knew this characteristic as well. And yet, 'yes yes, we must meet tomorrow... no work, give me a call, i won't be sleeping or sick or anything'... The better things in life aren't really repeated; I mean it's great if they are, but we shouldn't hope in such impractical directions.

the daily chronicler of nonsense

• a saturday... i never remember dates.

1. ideal music to be played in:
   

shopping malls, the shopper's stop types: backstreet boys
restaurants: saxophone
in your hostel room, with the headphones on: lucky ali

2. Jesus did not die for our sins. At least he didn't die for mine. He just challenged the institution and got F'd. Reality. Similarly, Ram was just a king. Just a king. We just try insisting he was God, to keep our faiths strong. Krishn was a good flirt, a damn good one at that.

3. Typing on MS word is easier than typing on this stupid forum. The autocorrect shit is essentially absent.

4. I miss those days when cassettes would come for 28 bucks, movie tickets for 48. Though ya, the quality has improved. But then, so has the price; and in a much greater proportion. Income sadly hasn't.

5. Actually, it'd be more appropriate to say that I miss those days of 90s middle-class demands and life-style. The mobile phone is a boon though.

6. I just remembered someone saying that this style of writing of mine is called 'Stream of Consciousness'. OK.

7. I'd try updating this post daily; I manage to think up enough nonsense to keep up to my promise; remembering it is difficult though.

8. I wanted to limit the number of posts to 6. It's a lucky number. Didn't happen. 8 is not a lucky number. I've thought of one more. But now, I am forgetting it.

9. Yes, I don't talk to myself or the wall perhaps, 'cos I blog the nonsense.

• a Tuesday/ Wednesday midnight...

1. Satya Sai Baba remarked, "Love seeks no reward, Love is it's own reward".. He is under a mistaken conception...Love, as Robert Frost had opined, is 'an irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired"...

• friday, may.

1. if u can't define humility, search for definitions of hypocrisy; they're synonyms.

• thursday, or wednesday perhaps...such bother this!

1. they bitch about the cigarette... it's bad for health and all such health-conscious rubbish... but ever thought that as against that, there are so many pros? You are alone. Grab a cigarette. With friends. Cigarette. Busy, tensed. Cigarette. Happy, no one to share. There's our small friend. Sad, she's fuckin left you. Blow it out. Tired, did too much work. Relax on a smoke. Bored, did nothing. Have one. Projects? SUTTA. You fuckin need it even to reassure your self that you've had a good sex session. Phew! I should've probably thought of a career in salesmanship. :P

• 14.05

1. it's perhaps too late, but i still miss the innocence of yestertimes...memories i relive, thanks to the bliss called Music
2. no i don't want to look at your pictures; i wish to preserve the ones in my mind

• dhorajaak aaj robbar, kono kaaj nei. - Suman
  

"let's assume it's a sunday; there's no work."

1. writers (most) have an inability to differentiate between their 'good' and 'bad' works, unlike readers who do it oh so well. The writer just assumes that the reader couldn't understand the piece he tagged bad; well, his problem; my job ends with writing.
2. So these writers love all their works. Go fuck yourself, stupid reader/reviewer. Perhaps like the good father, who still loves the son people consider a waste.
   
3. Both seem justified to me.

• it's a monday, and thus the last week of my vacations has begun.

1. i haven't been a quitter regarding anything in life. Perhaps I should have been one regarding many a thing in life.

• the saturday before project submissions

1. i hate this suo motu restoration of memories from the recycle bin onto the mind.
2. wonder what's happened to the word 'poison'. I mean i used to listen to this word as a killer when i was a child. Nowadays i hear of so many novel forms of deaths that people invent, and take pains scheming. Poison, where's your importance? It's so difficult to be simple. To think of a simple life, and a simple death.

• the following Sunday; a working Sunday; and I think
  

1. where the mind is without tensions, where there are no project submissions, where smoking on campus is allowed, where the teacher doesn't mind you walking out, into THAT freedom of heaven my Father, let my college awake

remembering romantic nonsense

You think you are Independent. You think you are disillusioned with all that crap; and you think you've finally moved on. With nothing to look back; the past was anyways a bucket of ashes. And then all of a sudden they come, perhaps when you bump into the person or that familiar song that had once made you experience an emotion you'd probably laugh at now. Memories. I won't go into the glorification of the concept of memories, since they have already been accepted as being the spring roses you smell in winter and all that. But yes, they can shatter you. And believe me, bloody well. When you realize that all this while that you've been believing that the past is just not a part of the present, you've only been fooling yourself. The past doesn't leave you; never. To the braver, it perhaps just doesn't haunt. And no matter how 'tough' you are, you've probably had a past where you felt goose-pimples and your heart raced for someone. When you thought of that someone wherever you went; holidays, college, malls, restaurants...even in your dreams. When you thought that you were in love, and the feeling was painful. All this seems too corny now, right? Understandably.
You're probably even seeing someone now. But you could never feel the same way for this person; the way you had felt then. The way you felt sometime back when you crossed the song or the very person. You could probably never fall in LOVE again. Call it a shahrukh khan movie influence, but you do know that of all people who've specially felt about, that one person has been extra-special. That one person you could never forget, but who you wanted to bury under your present life. You've probably never had to make this hard an effort any other time. But ya, one rainfall, and you remember those times, the pure, platonic, innocent, unconditional love. And you are probably a fool if you think, "What a fool I was!" Well, almost everybody's been a fool then. Almost everybody has acted crazy about some person; almost everybody has listened to,and liked those cheesy songs once. And everybody's cried. There's nothing stupid.
Aah, Memories.Yes. You still feel like reliving those emotions when these guys called 'memories' randomly strike you. Of all the thinking about the person you did, of all the palpitating heart, and so on. For once, you feel like going back. Going back, wishing time had stopped there for a second, and you had not become so cold post that. Wishing things would have turned a better hue, the way you'd wanted them. But then, the pragmatic, justifying, rational, egotistic you thinks, "Good only it never happened. Would have been stupid". But don't you still somewhere secretly desire that the stupidity had happened?
We probably relish memories more than we relished those times in actuality. Memories, then you think, are just a facade. But whatever they are, those times were good, howbeit stupid. You still feel you hadn't become so cold and wordly-wise. That you'd stayed the innocent you, with your innocent dreams, innocent emotions, and innocent love. For once, just for once, you pray, God, get me back there again, make me feel that sweet pain. Just once, a taste of the old life. Probably it wasn't nonsense after all. Probably it was love. Period.

Beatling nonsensical Imaginations

Thought i'd just seen a face,
Seen her standing there on the Blue Jay Way,
Yes. Saw her Yesterday-ey-ay.
There was something in her way,
But being the Loser that I am,
I couldn't help hide my love away.
Then there were friends, And i got high (Tell me why),
Thought I Saw Lucy in the sky,
Saying Hello-Goodbye.
I imagined All my little plans and schemes,
get lost like some forgotten dream,
Float somewhere with a Ticket to ride,
In the Yellow Submarine.
They were with Mother Nature's Son,
Looking through the Glass onion,
Wanting me to follow them, Calling me on and on,
Hye Jude! C'mon! C'mon! C'mon! C'mon!!!
They were perhaps Following the Sun in their Magical Mystery Tour
Perhaps going Across the Universe.
Back then I just saw the Two of Us,
I was the Walrus.
Yet I thought I'd just Let it be.
Perhaps I should've known better than such misery,
But being a Nowhere Man,
I didn't want to spoil the party.
You may say I'm a dreamer, an Eleanor Rigby,
I don't care.
Nothing's gonna change my world.

nonsense in a subconscious mind

Tensed. Torn. Tempted to try that thing. Time-ful. And random things come to you over a smoke. What if there was a term called black grass? A term not invented by me right now, but there in Oxford, Websters or Google? Ms Word would, as usual, not have it. Curved red line. Black grass. Marijuana? Pubic hair? Name of a death metal band?
Ok next thought.What if you had bliss? And just when you feel you have it, it ends? *Shudder shudder*. Topic change.
I did fall in love at least once. Do I still love her? Nah, I've moved on. Cos she's not mine. Baba says, "If she be not for me, what care I, how fair she be?"
What if I made Brajesh read this? "Kyun likhta hai be yeh sab, kya sense hai"?
What would happen if i took LSD, just once. Is it possible that I'd go mad.
Am I happy? Yes I am. Cos I am not sad. That's happiness for me.
I've heard Don Williams so many times that he seems boring now.
How do I preserve all these thoughts? Create a blog, may be? I've been deferring it. But once I do, it's done no?
That's what happens over a lonely smoke on Cauvery terrace. I think nonsense. And think too random. And think too many random things. And I can't tell all this to anyone. People don't have time to hear sense, let alone nonsense.
But Carroll did speak nonsense. Or did he? Perhaps not.
Ishqiya was nonsense. To me at least. I could find no sense in it. What stupid ending! And they call it an art film.
Art film in the Indian context probably means an undecipherable ending most times.
What's gonna happen of me after passing out? Will I go for litigation? Would I be successful? Or would I end up like an idiot, working for Luthra sa'ab or Mr. Shardul Shroff? Sonal wants to be an IAS. Good. Ah, competitive exams. Hard work. Chheh! No.
Ok the nonsense is getting long. I have already blown enough CO2 smoke on the tree. Retirement.