Who Moved My SCRAPS !!???!!??? :X

MISSING!!!!!

7000 scraps from my Orkut scrapbook!!!!

Only the other day it read 27,800 something and now its languishing at a measly 20,348 and I don't even know who is to be blamed for the dastardly act.

There was a time, not very long ago, that I used to pride my colossal scrap-count ( Ya, that sounds "childish" but that was a secret fetish of sorts around that time). It used to fill me up with immense joy to see, sometime around mid-2006 I think (early days on orkut, those), my scrap-count booming by 1000, sometimes 2000 every day. I remember having "orkut friends" then - people I never met in real life and perhaps never will. Then one fine morning I felt strange that I had befriended aliens in an anonymous medium and hacked them off my friend list. After half an hour a 530 strong friend-list was reduced to 250 - each one whom I knew in person. I felt curiously relieved after I did that. The reason behind that relief is still a mystery to me for I am not particularly known to be a rabid misanthrope in my circles. After this incident scrapping dwindled and day-long presence on orkut came to occasional visits - the act which the avid orkutian calls "scrap-check" these days. The direct consequence was disinterest but still I never moved onto "greener pastures" i.e Facebook, the true Orkut loyalist that I am. But, now when I see my hard-earned scraps snitched all of a sudden I feel terribly annoyed and offended. After all, 7000 scraps is not a matter of joke! People who don't even have 5000 scraps after being on orkut for the last 3 years would know their true worth, I am sure.

So, Whoever moved my scraps this is the last reminder:
Return what is not yours to keep and it all shall be forgotten.

Or, Brin and Page might just have to step in to look into the matter.

Challenge-d to the hilt!

Why should I go buy a ticket to a Bengali film if it cannot even command 15 minutes of attentiveness from its audience?

Well, I don't have any rational answer to that after I laboured through the screening of the film which was being touted as the next-big-budget-crowd-puller from the Tollywood stables and yes, it was none other than the much publicized/marketed (courtesy-t2, The Telegraph) - Challenge.....nibi na sala.

People with even a feeble grasp of Bengali would be hard to convince regarding the "respectability quotient" of a film with such ruffian leanings in its nomenclature itself. Still, I ventured an audience in hope of "some mindless entertainment" if not a "memorable love story" told "differently" as is always promised. Needless to say the company of friends who would give any film a chance in their idle weekends made it sort of inevitable for me. One of them travelling half the city to watch the opening show of "Don Mutthuswami" is a case in point.

A detailed review would be a waste of cyber-space so let me put the slush succinctly, if ever there was such a phrase i.e. Shipping tycoon dad's (Rajatava Dutta) overprotectiveness about pretty daughter(Subhashree) meets fierce, fun-loving, goon-bashing brawn of college boy (Dev) and the "challenge" is born. The inanity of the proceedings is exemplified by the fact that the only dialogue evoking ceetis and taalis in the entire film belonged to the Mithun-starrer "Mohaguru" (explains why the last Bengali film I watched in a theater was "Tiger" by Mithun). The newcomer pair does little except pose prettily or murderously as and when required by the invisible script, if any. The saving grace of the film is some definitive moments when Biswajit Chakrabarty ( hero's father) helps us to some laughs in his encounters with the caricature that Rajatava Dutta has come to make of himself with every passing film.

In short :

People who went to see gravity/logic/physics/biology-defying action sequences came back disappointed.
People who went to see a cute/cuddly/teddy-bearish love-story with fresh faces came back empty handed.
People who went to check the "promised land" of micro-minis, hot-pants and tank-tops (as in the film posters) came back frothing at their mouths - demure salwar-kameezes being the chief culprit of them all. Traitors! Frauds! Thieves!


So, next time any director promises a "different" film make sure you send in your friends ahead of you to get the right review and not the ones doctored by newspapers to give trash any semblance of respectability. After all, hard-earned money is not best-spent in buying boredom of a darkened auditorium, that too empty.

Did I mention that my ticket was paid for by a friend.
Yes, the same one who went for "Don Mutthuswami"'s premiere.

Prem Porihaash

Haatey aaka hridoyer haatchhani dekhi
money bhoy, eto noy porichito lekha
kotha kichhu dey dekha, majhe aka-buki
kolomer haath dhorey bhalobasha sekha.

Rongeen kaagojey mora upohaar ghirey
sajano royechhe daami golaaper tora
onek niraash hoye gechhe bujhi firey
bhalobasha-pakhider feriwallah ora.

Hoyto onek aalo, kolaholey metey
bhoole gechho, paglaamo gechhe bujhi theme
Hoytoba sobtai bhool shuru thekey
Jei shuru thekey tumi porechhiley preme.

It's amazing how time flies.

I was having a look at my old posts on this blog when I realized that it has been almost 3 years that this blog had become 'operational'. The first post is dated 14th May 2006.
It seems like ages but the number of posts till date cut a sorry figure.
99 - including this. That figure surely does not make me a prolific blogger by any means. Add to that the recurring affliction of 'Blogger's Block' and you get the picture, even if vaguely.
Even now, I don't know where the 100th one is going to come from.
And when.

A Tune That Died Young

There is too much noise outside
Drilling into my head
And I can’t just write on love and life
They jar out notes that were in me
Strangling them in one stampede
Of music of undead.
I shut the windows,
Kill the lights
Still, there is this soaring sound
Of all that’s lively, all that blooms
Hounding me for all that’s left
No place to hide
No place to run
And while the noises bang my doors
A voice in me calls out for more
And strangely strangers lift their heads
To look in corner rooms.
Searching for their piece of cloth
They find it nestling in those crypts
Wrapped in which my music slept
Long forgotten.
Long dead.

Refinement in Confinement

BSNL gets on my nerves sometimes and so does the KMC. The latter's trigger-happy ( or should that be 'shovel-happy') grave-diggers keep digging at our roads with unbridled joy as if it was the only job in the world that needs considerable merit and rigorous practice at the same time. So they keep to it like HS appearing candidates attending to their calculus. Sometimes they dig even when the tar on the roads has not even cooled. And I don't need to tell you how mutually fulfilling both parties find this exercise to be. In fact, they should, since their symbiosis disadvantages none but the average man who aspire to walk his stretch of road and make his share of calls. Make calls ? Yes, sir! Calls! That's precisely what KMC and BSNL colluded to deprive me of. Telephone calls and Internet.

How? Well, one of their more industrious exponents kept digging someplace near my house a tad too overzealously. Might be a case of family feud or a bothersome overseer, but instead of gold all he hit and ruptured in his frenzy was a cable which contained amongst many others' the telephone line to my house. As a result I have been making do without my internet connection for the last 10 days. Yes, you read it right, 10 days! The first couple of days were suffocating. No people to chat with, no blogs to read, no mails to forward, no people to disturb! Then of course calm descended. Instead of 'deathly' the proper adjective would be 'filmy'. A filmy calm.
Watched about a dozen films in these 10 days, one of them being the much touted Slumdog Millionaire ( the review to which I posted here). Found it to be a tad too "fishing-for-applause"-type, unauthentic, almost synthetic film on slum-glum.

I digress! I digress!

So, every day I come back home and check my phone to find it in its sorry state of disrepair. No hum. Ho hum. So I end up watching endless films like 'Gone With The Wind' and go to sleep.
But yesterday the stars shone down on me and the line was restored. What a relief!
And I am back to blogging now.

Take that you Bloody Scoundrels of Nether Land!!!!!

( Will soon make something out of KMC too. Soon).

2009 and Me

Its 11:30 now according to my computer and before I am through with this post it will be 2009.While people are bursting crackers, thronging "happening" places around the city, partying, dancing and getting sloshed - all in the merriment of welcoming the new year I wonder what "change" the new year will actually bring in for me. Oh yes, I know I sound like Ebenezer Scrooge, miserably wringing hands at the utter waste of human enthusiasm in celebrating something which is as obvious as the passing of another year but the type of mood that I am in these days, I sincerely admit, " I can't help it".

So, if this seems to be too morbid a post for 'you' ( yes, you - the person at the other end of this cyberspace staring with disgust at this 'depressing' rant) pray do 'redirect' your attentions to someplace rosier or less gloomy to ring in the new year.
It will only get downhill from here.


People say that one becomes philosophical only when one has all the time in the world to do so and not a thing to care for in life, or, when unknowingly one attempts to take refuge in it to stave off stark and unpleasant realities. Realities which are in a state of flux before they settle down, consolidate and then invariably stagnate in the hope of attaining permanence someday. But, I have never ran away from reality, of that I am sure. Yes, I have never jumped out of my way to invite "innovation" into my life but then, I never thought it was necessary. To me, the word 'permanence' bears an inexplicably pleasant consonance with meanings as disparate as stability and strength and I was always afraid that a little tugging and pulling, a little experimentation with its form and format would snap that delicate balance. Forever. I have always abhorred the thought that one day I would come back to a place, a person I so loved once and find it/him morphed into something or someone completely unrecognizable. I can almost sense how it must feel for a man with eyes to reach out for something he expects at a familiar place and end up groping in thin air, with the lights all on and glaring; to feel the cruel joke of "sight" and its attendant ironies. When people around you change, one by one, you start to question if you are the same person that you have been all these years or who you thought you were. It's a strange feeling to look at your own shadow sideways and see it moving farther away from you. It's almost what people call an 'out of the body' experience.
You start asking questions to yourself :

Shouldn't you have changed for "convenience's" sake too ?
Why isn't it that easy to be pleasing yet indifferent?
Why couldn't you have had that smile of tacit approval even if you were incensed inside?
Why did you "always" have to act yourself?

These are some of the questions with hundreds of others that I intend to find answers to this new year.

I know that this could have easily been the text of a letter to my best friend and not a midnight rant with pretensions of being a meaningful discourse published in the true traditions of shameless exhibitionism. But, I want to look back at this post whenever in the coming year I find answers to any of my questions and reflect on " What else..." rather than " What if..."

I had never made a new year resolution in my life before this.
I intend to start this year.


For the patient and the kindred:

Wish You All A Very ENLIGHTENING New Year - 2009 with all that's Lovely and Precious.

May all that you wish for long for you instead.

Peace.

How much are you worth this night?

In coins and crumpled notes I count

The leased out pleasure of your arms

And lights that waver off your face

No shame, no haste

No pride to lose

That never was for yours’ to be

But for us to own and kill

And stab into our flesh in glee.

I can’t make out your smirk from smile

Which stems out from some putrid depth

That owes some of itself to me,

The other half to blurred out lines

Of fate and life and health that run

On your palms that now are mine.

I think I will just hold you in

Or look into your eyes to see

That hint of pain, that trail of love,

And who blinks first, you or me?

The night is wilting, slow and still

As withered petals float in air

I find myself, as if in dream

Sleeping mired to your hair

Last night I bought a part of you

When you drew the curtains close

Unknowingly, I sold you then

A part of me I never chose.

Power-FOOL People

It sometimes feels silly how we all revel in the "sense of power" that we think we wield in our tiny little spheres.

This feeling that makes us feel worthy, formidable, respected and more than anything a little "powerful" is much like a heady drink. But not knowing where and when to stop pushing the buttons can only hurt one's ego. And 'powerful people' generally have a 'super-strong EGO'. And a hurt ego is like a festering wound. It never heals, no matter how much time has passed or how much rubbish has been heaped over it, just to keep it from surfacing every now and then. A strong ego along with a strong memory is recipe for "injury" - A injury which never heals and in many ways is proudly self-destructive.

Again, there are people who feel "powerful" just by being manipulative. They think they can prevail by the virtue of their high office alone. "Bosses" are often labeled under this category. But out of the hundred odd whose future this 'one' boss smugly believes himself to be fashioning, sitting in his plush cabin, there is always one who takes it all with a self-assured smile that indicates that 'the legacy of feeling falsely powerful' has been furthered. And the cycle goes on.

But there is a certain obvious pride in having a consistent character. Not having one only makes the associated 'EGO' look out of place and ludicrous.

As they say, somethings are just meant for " Neighbour's Envy. Owner's Pride".

Blog Make-over is the new Cosmetic surgery for the Poor

As an acknowledgment of the present monotony in my life I took an entire day just to change the look of my blog.

The lessons taken (once again, as this is its 2nd time since its birth) from the exercise are as follows :

1. You get to know how difficult it actually is to get your blog a "make-over". Hats off to people who endure that kind of ordeal to change their own look once in a while. And hats off to those cosmetic surgeons for their effort.

2. For a technically challenged individual like me it was a learning experience of sorts to actually change the XML/HTML codes of the template as there were lots of "trial and error" involved. One cannot afford to be complacent as the harvest of so many hours of ennui and inspiration over the last two years run the risk of getting obliterated at a single wrong click.

3. The choice for the new skin (or template as they call it) of the blog is of pivotal importance. It must preserve its previous identity while giving the general impression of a resurrected facade. And choosing a template, keeping in mind both these factors, necessitated an expedition covering 20 odd sites, 3 trials, one mistrial and finally "the eureka moment" accounting for 4 hours, 175 MB and 1 packet of Good Day biscuits in the bargain.

4. The template-switch process can gobble up your entire blog-roll and sadly the same has happened to me. The easy-to-remember/curiously named/old favourites/recently book-marked links(URLs is the more technically apt word, I learned in the process) are all that I could manage to reinstate, albeit after taxing my flagging memory for quite a while. To my other good blogger friends, whom I might have missed most regret ably amidst this confusion, I ask for some time before I can retrieve their links by means as inept as random blog-hunting. In the mean time if some of them happen to chance upon this "redone" blog of mine I would be glad to get back their links....errr.... URLs.

Waqt ne kiya ............

My play-list seems to be stuck on "Waqt ne kiya kya haseen sitam........" .

The latest version of Media Player Classic doesn't stop when it needs to and the song plays on and on and on....... endlessly, and it fills the air with a tender pain which slowly makes it too thick to breathe in.

The soulful rendition of this timeless melody by Geeta Dutt in 'Kaagaz ke Phool' figures high up in my list of all-time greatest sad-songs. (Many say the palpable despondency in her voice was because of the intense turmoil in her personal life at that time regarding the Guru Dutt-Waheeda Rahman affair.) There was a time when the first lines from the song used to be a standing joke amongst us, selectively employed to tease the living daylights out of the Devdas-types at school. Then it seemed almost funereal, a song which by its very tenor of abominable melancholy attracted our collective distaste and scorn. Later, with life and its little lessons in 'disappointment' (not of the Devdas genre though) those very lines have acquired a completely different meaning , its lyrics a profound resonance with the very feelings of love, truth and pain, all enmeshed together to melt into a heady concoction of unstated grief. Some may find the plangency in the song belonging to defeat and distress but let it play for a few times in solitude and the spirit of human helplessness will quietly seep into you and make you drink the bitter sorrow with a ironic smile of grudging acknowledgment. Then there is the breath-taking climax of a nascent love throttled and the mournful acceptance of it.

Amidst all the gloom and heartrending pathos there is this lesson- The lesson of Acceptance which is feeble yet redeeming - a sagacious resignation before one's own fate.

"Waqt ne kiya kya haseen sitam
Tum rahe na tum ham rahe na ham
Waqt ne kiya…

Beqaraar dil is tarha mile
jis tarha kabhi ham juda na the
Tum bhi kho gaye, ham bhi kho gaye
Ek raah par chalke do qadam
Waqt ne kiya…

Jaayenge kaha sujhta nahi
chal pade magar raasta nahi
Kya talaash hai kuchh pata nahi
Bun rahe hain dil khaab dam-ba-dam
Waqt ne kiya…"

Get this widget | Track details | eSnips Social DNA

widget : esnips.com

Of Blocks and Bloggers

As 'blogger's block' afflicts most of our brethren I suspect that it has recently found a victim in me too.

With lots in mind to give vent to and loss of choice words when in front of the white-screen, the symptoms are just too telling to miss. But, as I would advice any friend of mine to "go scribble!" in the vein of popular soft-drink ads when in such a situation this is my lame attempt to do just that. Scribble.

Its very surprising that how once you start to write, even if you are short of ideas, short on plot-material or feeling too lazy to develop on the dream-sequence that you had while dozing off in the theater last time it all just seems to fall in place after scribbling a few erratic paragraphs. Yes, the body of your work at the end of such an exercise might not appeal to your tastes when after many years you decide to read your own posts to recreate 'the same feelings' but it will keep your blog on a steady drip and that's something. Moreover 'blogs' are so-not-places for content-specific cataloging. They are meant to be this mad child born of your thoughts, momentary and meditative alike. Sigh that I can't pull myself into ranting on the virtual-space. And I stand to lose in the bargain. Entirely. Two fully functional blogs at my disposal and not a single rant-post till date. I feel terrible! Or should I ?

But then, the thoughtful side of me calls for restraint. Why sulk and shout on a web-page when you can keep all that to yourself. Yes, its therapeutic, I know, but what if it turns out to be counter-productive. The occasional footloose surfer might just lose his appetite reading your blog and "it's my space!" logic sounds too very arrogant an explanation. 

Not everything is "fine and dandy" anywhere. Every one at the end of the day has a 'blog personality'. Right ? Knowingly or unknowingly we reach out to people through what we post So why draw 'the scziphophrenic' in loud colours for them. It becomes a tad too confusing. You always have 'poetic devices' to express yourself. Even if none of it is for real and just for the effect'. Keeps both ends intact that way.

Meanwhile, I have just completed posting a perfectly worthless blog-post and scribbled my way to inglory. And I feel I have written enough rubbish for a day.

Cheers to that!

He Leaves in Style

and proves his point.
And there's this void too large to fill.

Dada will always be missed.
Cricket for me won't ever be the same.
My tributes to the man here.[link]



photo: googleimages

In Search Of Better Things

If you think you are tired reading truckloads of articles on such trivial occurrences as the U.S Presidential Elections I have just the 'Newzzzzzzzzz' for you. [click here]

Museless

How long should you, the poet, wait
before you know its all in vain
to wait for some worthy subject
to whisper life into your pen.


Or is it wise to please the mob
with hackneyed verses, cliched lines
and go about doing your job
making lifeless words to rhyme.


Let the seething silence seep
Fling open the windows wide
Drawing from the frozen deep
Let the thaw of itself write.





photo: gettyimages.com

Things people do ...........

With the vague intention of keeping my other blog insulated from all things considered frivolous I post this here :


A pretty girl waits for a bus at the depot. After waiting for some relevant announcement regarding the allotment of the bus (which does not happen) she approaches the depot-office and not unexpectedly draws a blank. Meanwhile a young chap eyeing the beauty for a while now approaches her and inquires about the bus. She, with all the politeness of a stilettoed waitress, says she is as clueless as the rest of the people. In a few minutes the loudspeaker announces the bus which is to be boarded. The girl moves a few paces towards the allotted bus when compelled by some curious quirk she decides to turn back, arc her shoulder most nonchalantly to beckon 'that young chap' with a gesture that would rob the saccharine of all sweetness. The average onlooker should have been forgiven for suspecting some prior porichoy amongst the two at this juncture. I suspect even the unsuspecting chappy for a moment decided to believe in the existence of such an invisible link and indulge in some harmless 'suspension of disbelief'. A careful cricket commentator who knows how the cookie crumbles in such situations might have said, " It looks a promising start......... but then upsets are never too far away at times like these." He just walked in a trance towards the bus. But, good Mobil and torn upholstery in state-run buses are useful ingredients to shake one out of any trance and under their heady influence he took a seat diagonal to the pretty lady in question. As soon as the bus started moving the very possibility of some fat, middle-aged bugger getting his 'lucky ride' this afternoon made the chappy act quickly. With startling alacrity he lunged onto the seat besides the girl. The girl already having engaged herself in the now national obsession of listening-to-FM-on-mobile-phone-while-travelling seemed a little surprised at first, later easing herself to the reassuring fact about 'lamps and flies'.


4 stoppages later the Gods cried "Action!" and action there was.

The smart chappy in an attempt to launch a charm-offensive of sorts decided to buy Ma'am a ticket ( not even waiting to ask where she would get off) while Ma'am was busy switching FM stations. Unaware of such an abrupt benevolence coming from unexpected quarters, when she herself wanted to buy a ticket she threw a fit. With a sudden deluge of Hindi and English which bordered on the fact that "Strangers don't buy strangers bus-tickets" the chappy woke up to the realisation that he didn't follow any of what was being said. With all sheepishness of a sheep in disguise of a man he only pleaded with his eyes and his outstretched hand ( that had the 10 rupee offered to him) that pretty-girl would take this as a gesture of good-will. But the weak-willed can never hope to garner any good-will. He had to relent in the face of relentless appeals by Miss Pretty-face.



All paona-gonda settled, the two looked at ease with the world, unaware of the curious onlookers travelling with them while I was having a hearty laugh (albeit muffled) at the fate of the failed advance.

Things people do to woo .

Shuvo Bijoya

......... everybody!!!!

It is Ekadoshi today. As I write this bijoya post, beats of dhak and tunes from banjos rend the air. They mean that the 5 days of festivities and fervid merrymaking are over for the year. They mean that the Goddess will now leave for Kailash and won't be back before another long wait. They mean that it is now time for bhashaan and mishtimukh and kolakauli.


The pandals which grappled with jostling mobs till a few hours back now look decrepit relics of themselves. Slowly as the banners are pulled down and the decorators' people climb up to dismantle laboriously put together structures people will go back to their 'normal' lives and face the mundane, but, with a renewed zeal. That is what festivals are essentially meant for - Taking a break for making fresh attempts.


I would rather not rant about ( or describe in vivid details) my travels/travails of the last few days. In short, Nobomi and Doshomi were very hectic affairs, the result being that I can now proudly say that I hardly missed a notable pujo this year. Give or take, hopped around a hundred or more pandals, spent a fortune ( by my fortune's standard in the first place i.e) in the last 5 days, a sizeable amount of that on my pet-hate - soft-drinks.


My Ekadoshi was going all well with a Kwality lunch followed by Tutti-Frutis and Banana Spilts till I was forcibly dragged to the evening show of the film - 'Hello'. Except for a few corny lines here and there we couldn't spot anything which was even remotely laughable. Adapted from 'One Night @ Call Center' by Chetan Bhagat it had one of the weakest cast one can dream of. Add to it Atul Agnihotri's fixation with casting Salman Khan and family, howsoever unwarranted it may seem, and you get the picture of how the picture may actually look like - a terrible dud. I could have launched into a review but the lingering festive spirit forbade me from doing such a thing. So, shuvo bijoya Atul Agnihotri.


Shuvo Bijoya, you all.

The Oshtomi Post

Oshtomi brings a certain feel of religiosity to many and I am no exception in this regard. I remember how pushpanjali made for my quota of annual prayers for easy question papers ( and good marks). But now its only the "sobaike bhalo rakho" routine that the elderly follow. One's perspective widens with age, perhaps.


This Oshtomi morning was the usual panjabi-pajama routine in the parar pandal. For the last 7-8 years it has been the only day when I go there for the maiden dorshon of the Debi and that's it. No more ties before or after with the parar pujo. I feel too guilty at times, thinking of those good old days of childhood when the para pujo meant the world and I would not budge an inch from it. The lines, " chhera dhuti apnar dher beshi daam tar

bhikkey kora shartin-er cheye"

rings loud inside my mind sometimes when I weigh if its only the grandeur of the mega-pujos which keeps me hopping from one end of Kolkata to another or is it the simple fact that I hardly have any somoboyeshi bondhu (same age-group friends) in the para. The only ones I have, I only meet rarely on my way, going in or coming out of the para and that isn't much to hold me back during pujo.


Anyways, luchi-torkaari is another ritual at home on Oshtomi mornings and as soon as it was done away with I was off. Off with friends to cover the Central parts of Kolkata, the traditionally big-crowd pullers and by Heavens didn't we get to see some crowd! The entire Ganesh Chandra Avenue was swarming with people. Subodh Mullick Square looked more like Brigade Parade Ground on rally-day and once we joined the serpentine queue that seemed to go on forever we felt like microscopic cogs in the giant wheel of human enthusiasm that was so visibly ubiquitous. We joked that when pandal hopping in Central Kolkata all you have to do is join a queue and the queue guides you,there's hardly any effort required from your end.


First stop was Md. Ali Park. They have over the past years attempted the unconventional and come out with the outrageous but this time the theme was clear at least. It was a medley - a mixture of pollution awareness and deforestation that seemed inspired from the Pachauri Nobel initiative. But, the double chinned Shiv overlooking the Goddess was a hilarious hit. We could instantly draw parallels from our circle of knowns. Also the sundered head looked more like Barack Obama's for some inexplicable reason. Some political overtures there.


Next was College Square which figures on every ardent pandal hopper's list due to the sheer visual spectacle it offers after nightfall. Between our slow progress within the sea of humanity I noticed that the tuni-bulb lighting had made way for the power efficient LEDs. Inside, the dazzling sight of the mammoth Jhaarlonthon was breathtaking. Ekdalia Evergreen can't hold a lamp to such an imposing collection of....ummm......lamps. One could just sprain one's neck looking up and getting lost in its splendour.


Santosh Mitra Square was next on the list. It was a 20 minutes walk away which ultimately took more than half an hour because of people getting lost midway. Couple of old friends joined in on our crusade there. The 'Nata Mano' theme based on the Singur fiasco had attracted people by hundreds of thousands and we were now one of them. A locked-out factory does not make for a pleasant sight in times of festivity but reality finds favor with many and no one's complaining. After all its just a theme. The awareness part is just an appendage, a sure-shot crowd-puller.

What followed afterwards was a harrowing walk through the very characteristic narrow lanes of Central Kolkata to the Chandni Chowk Metro Station which took us 20 more minutes. Then there was this Big Debate. The topic 'To be or not be in Maddox Square'. I was very much against it but public opinion ( which started as a whimper and ended as a roar) sealed it for Maddox. My point was, " Why Maddox?" They said, " What else ?". How was I to reply to that without breaking into a discourse which would end up as futile as the Singur initiative, and I for one did not want to end up looking like a statesman Governor with no takers or backers. So we were now at Maddox Square ( yes, again!). The melting pot of pandemonium is always at its manic best on the Oshtomi evening and today was no exception. Newspapers, which are rarely ( if ever) given a first look were being bought from vendors at 2 rupees per double-page (i.e the 1.5 rupee Hindustan Times I did not find time to read in the morning was being sold back to me for 14 rupees in the evening) so that people could spread it out on the ground and sit on them. Silver sand looks bad on branded clothes, I guess. And hence the little precaution.

Anyway, the 8 of us managed to get hold of a good spot and took possession hurriedly. Life would be tolerable with some promise of adda emanating, I thought. Two hours later, when it was time to leave we found to our disappointment every semblance of an eatery struggling to keep order in the wake of imminent riots. We managed to push into a dhaba and got ourselves a reasonable dinner considering the situation. With full stomachs and aching legs we headed home, only to meet tomorrow. To celebrate the beginning of the end of the pujo.


Nobomi can be painful.
Thinking of all those lights, banners and barricades evaporating in just two more days.
All the multitudes of people suddenly vanishing into their secret burrows not to surface for another year.
It can be very painful.
Rather, it is.


I guess one has to be in Kolkata to feel that.
One has to be a Bangali.

The Shoptomi Post

Shoptomi was already half over when I crept out of bed. I was supposed to meet friends at Tollygunj Metro at 4:30 and I was already running late. To top it I also had to prepare 50 Quiz questions which quiz master-Harry would try his neighbors with the next day. It was not before 5:30 that I reached Tolly and saw our usual thek occupied. Though the numbers were mere microscopic as compared to any other day still the chaa-er nesha sorbonasha had attracted quite a handful. My plan to go pandal hopping in Central Kolkata was promptly pulled down almost unanimously. No one wants to end up at the wrong end of a stampede, I guess.


As an alternative Khiddirpore was given serious consideration before it was decided to first visit Maddox - that abiding emblem of the enterprising youth, that annual edifice of 'continual search', that vibrant epicenter of bizarre bedlams. Maddox Square holds a special place in each and every body's memory who has ever lived in Kolkata during the Pujo. In all the 7 years that I have religiously visited this ''shrine of tempting illusions" I have noticed many consistent traits that identify the place. The culture-cauldron where mere 'birdwatching' meets Martian dress-sense, long lost loves find new found likings, old foes meet and hug like friends - it defines in essence what pujo with all its attendant revelries really mean to the Bangaali youth. I have also noticed the gradual change in the crowd composition which with every year becomes more telling. The necklines plunge and the hemlines rise, the outre amaze and the bold inspire awe(and sighs). No wonder the boys are left all excited and edgy, especially the singles who like captive Gauls looking at an elaborate banquet can only drool and curse their luck but never taste the 'boar'. The intellectual adda that once defined Maddox Square has long gone fishing for better suitors and quieter provinces and sadly, it hasn't reported back till date. Instead banners and hoardings advertising mustard oil and vodka crowd the place while the attention-starved Goddess stares in mock surprise (from her centrally 'cornered' scaffold) at her altar, the entry to which has slowly been reduced to an initiation rite into adulthood for the urban youth.

For me it was mostly meeting old friends who always seem to get pulled out of hats on a regular basis when I am at Maddox Square. School, college, tuition. Sometimes, I might find it embarrassing that even after an hour of conversation which merely struggles past the beats of the dhak by a millionth of a decibel you cannot put a name to the face. Now that many of our classmates/batchmates have flown out in search of greener pastures Maddox holds little if any charms for us.


Coming back to Shoptomi, half an hour inside Maddox and a few familiar faces afterwards it was time for a snack. When 10 people ask for kochuri followed by kaalakand and paatisaptaa you don't expect the unexpected. But before we were through the moiraa and all his assistants looked more than hassled. That is what we do to eateries and sweet-shops.We get under their skins.




We then got into two taxis and headed for Khiddirpore. 25 Pally and 74 Pally are the traditional crowd-pullers over there. Guest Passes made for an easy passage into the former. We weren't so lucky on the other front. I reckon 74 Pally has never seen such a long drawn queue in years and we were half tempted to join in but, at the very last moment decided against it. The Soshti pangs were still fresh with us and any excess stress tonight would mean missing Oshtomi Anjali the next morning which no one wanted. The group then got divided into two before dinner. Most opted for Biriyani ( Khidirpore being the heartland of that delicacy) while the three of us went for South Indian fare - Dosa and Uthapams. Amidst vague frameworks for the Oshtomi night-out surfacing among us we boarded taxis and headed home.

Today again promises to be a hectic affair. I have cajoled, hoodwinked, threatened people to go Central-wards tonight. How can pandal hopping be complete without visiting Md. Ali Park and College Square? Also, I have a curious premonition that I might have to give the Behala pujos a miss this year. What a shame!

Why can't the pujos stay for a few days more ?

Damn!

The Soshti Mega-post!

I sit to write this post in a state of terminal grogginess, just out of bed after one of the most pleasantly harrowing Pujo days ever.

I have had only 5 hours of sleep ( enough by my standards but yesterday was a different story altogether) after returning home at 6:30 in the morning.


I left home for Haridevpur at around 10:45 in the morning on what is now the expended Soshti. With only 'The Local Two' amongst 'The Chosen Few' for company we went into the pandals at 41 Pally, Ajeyo Songhoti, Palli Unnayan Samiti, Paschim Putiari and Putiari Club. Ajeyo Songhoti's theme seemed to me a cross between Kedar-Badri shrines and environment conservation. Pally Unnayan Samiti had polished bamboo and Putiari Club a tribal setting for backdrops. But, amongst them we agreed on 41 Pally offering the best value-for-time-wasted-standing-in-a-line. In simple words, "it's worth the toil". With branches of trees and roots chiseled to emulate different animal and human forms it also has rows and rows of babui pakhir basha hanging overhead to give that look of authenticity. And yes, we did give a moment of thought for all the unwilling displaced babuis. I was already running a good half an hour late in meeting my college friends at Rash Behari and I already felt a tad tired, taking some time off to ponder over our respective bottles of Sprite and Slice how "ab in boodi haddiyon mein woh baat nahi rahi....".


12:20 and I was in front of Mudiali Sarbojonin, this time again with a group afflicted with forced evictions owing to joining jobs in far-off lands. Still, 10 makes for quite a respectable number. Shiv Mandir was followed by a taxi ride to EDF. Then to Jodhpur Park ( which isn't doing any wonders the last 3 years), Selimpur and Babubagan. Babubagan has resurrected itself this year after a flop show the last year when an aquarium which needed nothing less than the great Douglas Adam's imagination to be appreciated was put on show. This time they have quite a LED-lit night sky with a praying Oshur waiting to be slayed by the Goddess in her flying saucer. Add to it the man-made darkness and stumbling Dadu-Didas and you get the picture.


A taxi-ride later we were in the throes of battle with a surging sea of humanity at Gariahat. First Ekdalia Evergreen, then Singhi Park. Ekdalia elicited such prompt comparisons with the interiors of Senco Jewellers ( or for that matter any jewellery shop) owing to their cut-glass interiors that I gazed up at its Jhaarlonthon for that extra minute, weighing the merit of such a parallel. Singhi Park has shed a lot of flab and its looking a size-zero emaciated specter of itself. The pandal space has been all reduced and the scaffold truncated.


Lunch was at Mirch Masala for the 7 of us ( that was all that was left of the group).
We had JUDE-an company at the table next to us. I guess it was more or less the better portion of the entire gang, and yes, I couldn't stifle a chuckle at their 'We Want Food!' table-banging - took our minds off the over-priced Mutton Pulao and Chicken Hariyali for a while.


With full stomachs and contented smiles we made our way to Somu's place. An hour of rest and a glass of jal-jeera afterwards I was ready to roll again( very much figuratively after a heavy lunch). Yes, 'I' alone, because the others were too exhausted after the afternoon's spoils and understandably so. It hadn't been a mean walk all this while.
But, I had "miles to go before I sleep" and almost prophetically, later, as the night wore out, I found to my throbbing feet and utter dismay that the 'miles' had had their say.

With only two people for company we did what is the proverbial jhotika safar (hurricane survey) of Maddox Square which yielded few known faces and fewer that could merit a 'stay order'.

If anyone thinks this is the end of it, my advise would be to wind up and close the tab, for the story has only just began.


Everyone from the afternoon pandal hopping group were now too busy or exhausted for anything but home. And here I was, taking a metro from Hazra to Tollygunj to meet my school friends( two of whom had already had a power-nap after the morning trip (remember???) for the task ahead of them). 9 people turned out and it marked one of the many exceptions in the last 7 years of our Soshtir Thakur dekha ritual.

One, it was the thinnest attendance we had ever had. The number had never breached the 15-man floor.

Two, it didn't look like we were interested in having dinner at Hatari - another tradition broken for the first time in 7 years.

Three, we were not going pandal hopping in South Calcutta at all.
An impromptu decision ( which had all my backing) was taken to take the North by storm and
"so it shall be done" was announced. The tried and tested Soshti-route: EDF-Jodhpur Park- Selimpur- Babubagan-Ekdalia-Singhi Park- dinner at Hatari- Ballygunj Cultural-Deshopriyo Park- Maddox Square-Badamtala-66 Pally- Mudiali-Shiv Mandir was dropped for a completely novel "Northward ho!" plan. No wonder, the fastidious conformists ( bordering on the OCD sometimes) protested such a deviation from custom. The mavericks cried "change!" and 'Change it was'.


Our first stop was Shovabazar. Being classmates with the Rajputtur of Kolkata's premier bonedi-baari helps when you are out to take into confidence warring factions of a trying tribe. I explained to them how the nature of customs in the Narayan Deb household are different from the ones in the Krishna Deb's ( my Prince friend being away keeping his date with his employers). Clearly, the majority were now won over because only one returned home and the rest decided to follow 'the plan' instead.


Ahiritola, Beniatola were ticked off quickly. Kumartuli Park was a neat spectacle. The Devi took centerstage with her wards gracing the four corners of a centrally mounted platform. Hunger pangs made us skip Hatibagan Sarbojonin and Nalin Sarkar Street and we had our dinner at some nondescript Chinese Restaurant at Ultodanga. Retracing our steps post-dinner, which was both pandal hopping and letting the gravy settle on stomach floor, we got as far as Telengabagan and Jubokbrinda. Both were quite good. Lines did not extend endlessly, people were chatty and the policemen were helpful. We South Kolkatans found North hospitality too good to be true. Wherever we had to wait in a queue the recurring theme of the ten headed Raabon ( Ravana) came up. Every alternate pujo seemed to be celebrating the demon scholar, the first patron of our Sharodiya Pujo.


On our way we skipped Gouribari, Sangrami and a couple more.
We took two autos ( there were 7 of us now) to Sreebhumi Sporting. I never understand why these pujo committees waste 10 thousand odd bamboos in making useless barricades which only pile on misery on enthusiasts like us. We had to walk half a kilometer before we decided it was useless to be law-abiding and find the rightful tail to the queue where there was no queue at all. So, we just jumped and slithered through the barricades into Sreebhumi heartland. There is this unique custom at Sreebhumi where they rope off sections of the crowd at equal intervals in the name of crowd control. I believe its just another way of engineering a 'record footfall' and nothing else. Anyways, their theme was the familiar 'sorbo dhormo somonnoy' ( religious confluence) with a funny change of lights which showed the pandal in violet, red and blue. Mindboggling!


We took autos to Dum Dum Park. The Bharatchakra theme was novel. The whole oshur-bodh episode was laid out in the form of a mime. All the idols looked fresh out of the Jogesh Chandra Mime Academy and they were good with large expressive eyes and beatific smiles. In comparison the Dum Dum Park Sarbojonin did so-so.


Hop-over to Lake Town now and we were near the Netaji Sporting Sarbojonin on my sole insistence. They didn't disappoint either. Durga on a high perch temple of straws might not attract prizes ( unlike previous years) but it doesn't labour under false pretensions like others.


We were again back to Sreebhumi from where we headed Southward again, making a point not to miss the Bosepukur biggies. I estimated all along we had collectively consumed soft drinks worth 300 rupees. The mental calorie count just didn't take off after that. A choked voice was in the offing, I gauged.



The walk from Rash Behari more to Badamtala Ashar Sangha aggravated the till-now suppressed ghosts of exhaustion and fatigue. Few could swear they felt blisters bobbing out of their soles "Live!". Shoulders were now drooping and feet going astray. 66 Pally had to be followed with Mudiali, that was the deal. And such is our commitment to our South and such is our disregard for pain that we indeed made our way to Mudiali. The occasional face betrayed surprise at the sight of a bunch of zombies jaywalking their way into narrow alleys.

Finally another taxi ride later we were all home and it was 6:00 in the morning.
"There goes another Saptami morning", I thought.

I only remember having a cold bath and going to bed.
Then %@#*&#@ woke me up to take directions of all prominent Behala pujos and I gave him a quite a list.
It was 12 noon when I woke up today and already 3 phone calls demand my presence at 3 different places at 3 different times in the day/night.

How will I ever manage ?


Md. Ali Park, here I come.

Behala, New Alipore and Khidirpore, I will leave for tomorrow.

Happy Soptomi everyone!