Untitled #2

থুতুর মত ছিটকে থাকা আণবিক বিষ না কি 

স্তব্ধতার শুকনো লাশ স্বাভাবিক অশ্লীলতায় ঘেমে উঠেছে, ঠিকরে পড়ছে নাছোরবান্দা দ্রাঘিমায়

নির্বিকার চিত্তে গুনে রেখেছে শ্রাবণের কালঘাম 

তাকে যতই বোঝাবে সমুদ্রের স্বাদ নেই, রাগ নেই, কুটকুট্ লালচে গাঢ় মলিনতা নেই স্তনাধারে, উপচে ওঠা দুধের মতো 

বেপরোযা, বেল্লিক 

বা খবরকাগজের খুদে খুদে বয়ে চলা Esplanadeএর ভরাট ভরাট ঘ্রাণ, জ্বালাতন শিরার ভাঁজে    

ঘষে তোলা নাদি পাপোশের ওপর থেকে, আলগোছে খুঁটে খাবে যে যেমন পাবে .

_____________________________

" হিজরের ঘাম, periodএর ন্যাকরা ছাড়া স্বশুদ্ধি হয়েনি হবে না তাই যতেক রমণী আছে বেশ্যা কিংবা চেনা প্রতেকের নামে নামে একটি করে হস্তমৈথুন মানত করলুম "

Calling It A Day

And thus comes the end of seven weeks of wonderful experience at one of the most laid-back, accomodating office spaces.  Maybe I am overshooting myself with the adjectives, maybe that's how it is. However, it is all new to me and I would not hesitate with the deserving accolades.

It began with a humdrum affair in the form of a technical interview on 23rd of April in the JC Bose Conference Room at the 3rd Floor of Tower A, DLF Building, New Town, home to the Bentley Systems, Kolkata office - my first foray into the corporate world. My first interview, first formals - father's oversized trousers, crisp Jon Miller shirts, ill-fitting shoes.

6th May was when I got the offer letter. And I joined on the 10th.

And then it was more of an extended comfort-zone with a handsome stipend and helpful resources at easy disposal.

Let me not delve into the technical aspect of my internship, which was of much help to me. But I am grateful for those many cups of cappuccino and second helpings of Chicken Masala at lunch. And those blank hours where I had Youtube to give me company and I would delightfully tuck in Sunayana's earphones and immerse myself into newfound post-rock appreciation; and I did complete the hot-cake 'Inferno' and Pamuk's 'My Name is Red' on Calibre.; and honed my TT serves and arbitrary debate-skills with Somsubhro; and then we all would join in Maaru-banters/ Howrah-jokes with Dia as well. A bit of career discussions, CAT prep talks from Metya, perennial 'matha dukh raha hai' + 'bhukh lagi hai' complaints from Agarwal and pleads to leave early everyday from Dia. And those occasional sumptuous treats from the colleagues.

The concern for and reception of a Summer Intern is extremely touching. The regular inquisitions whether we are feeling at home, and the respect to our ideas and opinions in the various conversations, fun at the TT table, unmindful of our habitual lateness and lapses. The ushering to join to company in future.

And among the things learnt, found, dealt with, over these days :
MicroStation and STAAD Foundation; remainder obtained by dividing 100 consecutive positive integers with 99; tracking down Sienna Brooks in Italy's inferno; resource files and resource id; Hayriye and Enishte Effendi; DECLARE_MESSAGE_MAP() and afx_msg; Burial On The Presidio Grounds; cartoons for Environment Day and Anti Child Labour campaign; Jimmy LaValle; Nullables and Blind Bartender's Problem; resizing of dialog boxes and Equal Area Axis passing through flange section; CRY event reporting and telephonic interviews; cat.wordpandit.com and feeling of much-is-left-to-be-done; techgig and gforg; Man of Steel and absurdity of 'fantasy only for children'; using the BS notepad for Write Club write-ups, Quiz note-downs and crush(!); Yndi Halda and brilliance of Mono; ICollection and corporate presentation delivery; A Looming Resonance and Imperatrix Mundi; fixation with Quora; the first tastes of collaborative work, corporate world; and the warmth of a  group of very well-behaved people and a brilliant working atmosphere.

And the urge to start off my blog.
Which is intermingled with the alchemical touch of 'All Is Violent, All Is Bright'. Forever indebted.

And that farewell-gift. Thanks!
And that farewell-treat. Burp!

Ok, so what about a final cup of espresso and GoodDay cashew biscuits?


___________________
SDua#34e

Of 'Brotherly Love'

It is fascinating to witness the audacity of simple words to triumph all over you. Those that hand you the palette and brushes. Those that hand you the kaleidoscope glasses and sepia photo-albums. Brings forth the urge to turn back.

I am always fascinated by English tales rooted deep in Bengali consciousness, culture and craft, something which tells our tales, evokes our emotions. The fascination lies with appreciating the writer's abilities to transcreate specify imageries/entities/identities of purely Bengali soul and substance. How successfully can one paint such a scene without the measured directness/subtlety (as the case may be) and tremendous flexibility of Bengali language? How much is lost between the lines, the thoughts and the printed words? Did s/he miss those nuances of understatement. or fleeting emotions, subdued gestures?

But she didn't.
She doesn't.

She speaks of brothers growing up together, supporting each other as they venture forth in this world and seek their way out. She speaks of Calcutta with its old-world charms of Adi-Ganga Tollygunge and boisterous Jadavpur and Presidency. She speaks of red-blooded, educated opinions and violent political consciousness of the '60s. She speaks of secretive, fragile love.

And brotherly love.  

' Brotherly Love ', part of the upcoming 'The Lowland' book of stories by Jhumpa Lahiri is set in her recurring pattern of immigrated Bengalis and their crisis and sensibilities, and wins over yet again. Because it is very relatable, identifiable and dear. And because of the simplicity of her words that conjure up the most vivid of emotions.

Eager awaiting for the release of the book in September.



PS : The taste of caramel is further intensified with Balmorhea's Stranger or Tycho's Dive in the background.

Untitled #1

It is the same wretchedness that attracts fireflies and dispels logic. Of being blown into smithereens by tormenting sexuality and fascinating fortresses. Of cloying euphemism of tranquility, well-being, safe. The eroticism of joy. Liberation of unseen forms and curves. Desperate taste, violent blood. Shameful taste, violent blood. Primal pain.

Left out, crossed out.
Stamped damned.

It comes rushing it, and left behind dark.
Infernal dark.


_____________________________
We discussed 'Sohagini'r Shonge Ek Bochhor' by Binayak Bandopadhyay. She liked it.
I loved it.
Just like that.

Tiny Tales : বারুদ

(WC)

সে ইতিহাসে বিপ্লব পড়েছিল - দুর্দিনে প্রতিবাদই কর্তব্য হয় ।

নকশাল বন্ধুর তাজা লাশ তাকে মাথা নোয়াতে বাধ্য করে ।

বারুদ আর কোনদিনই জমাট বাঁধেনি ।

Of Choice And Identity

(WC)

"You mean to quit, right?"

A wry smile played on his lips on meeting this inquisition. Stout, bald, bold, bereft of apparent signs of definitive masculinity. More of, what you call, effeminate.

Down below, a conglomeration of quotidian caricatures jeered, sneered and called names.

"What if I want to return back to umbilical purity, and falsify society's claim of a man's relation to his fellow man? Choice?"

"Meaning?"

"Meaning I will retire, not quit," said the silent crusader, the crowning prince - Chitrangada.

Heavens, oblivious of his shine, forgot to shower the lightning of shame; and instead brought down the mist of pity.


____________________
Cornerstones : 
'prince', 'lightning', 'conglomeration', 'relation', 'oblivious', 'mist', 'retire', 'umbilical'.
Approx. 100 words.

Tiny Tales : Faith

(136)

"Your satanic verses betrayed your faith", fumed her hijab.

Her angst ripped it apart.

And shot back, "Well, humanity never complained."

(138)

She was her dad's doll; he, her daughter's hero.

At 16, the doll was coerced into a crying bride.

Faith failed to restore itself ever again.

(133)

Any day, caramel beats chocolate, her mind asserted.

Still, she chose the second.

Inside her mouth, her faith was melting into ecstasy.

আত্মচরিত

আর তোরা নাকি বলবি যা-তা, sofo-হীন, বিশবাও, uncouth, সুযোগহীন, ঘুমন্তি, গাঁজা-হিট, আঁশটে রোমান্টিকতা জ্বর’এ হাউ-মাউ উদাসবাচক, তীব্র আকাঙ্খা মাইনস-power’এ স্বপ্ন-লোলুপ তপ্পি-তরোবল ধরাস-ধরাস, যার name, প্রেম, ছবি’র ফ্রেম ভেসে গাছে pizza-হাট’এ-বাজার’এ, দু-দশ-হাজার’এ, Berger লেপটে মার্জার ন্যায় সেফ ডিফেন্স substitute, ফীল্ম চর্চা’এ, বাজে খরচা’এ mall ভ্রমন বা/এবং মনোবল সেবন কিন্তু গুড়ো vacuum বাতেলবাজি কারণ আজ’ও থাকে মারাত্তক হিসি-ছাপা আর্তনাদ, মূহুরমূহ ক্লান্ত নাকানিচোবানি , তীব্র ফোকস-ইচ্ছা ও ঢলেপড়া ধীসুম-ধাই ধাক্কা’এ চড়-থাপ্পর, random শীঘ্র-পতন, ঈর্সা-রতন, স্বেচ্ছা-যতন আবার তখনই তেলেভাজা ও মহীন’এর ডাক’এ “হাত-বাড়লে-কাছে-পাবি” মিথ্যাচারিতা’এ sexuality’র ধংসাবশেষ, কিন্তু smash-মারা আর কুমারটুলি’তে photography’র দপদপানি’কে বাধাকপি ও পাশবালিশ দিয়ে neutralize করার কথা শুধুমাত্রই ফেনীল পাপোশ আর কার্যসিদ্ধিদাতা হিসেবে; বরং এ কথাও মন’এ রাখা উচিত যে স্কেটচপেন, দোআতদানি = ফাকা বিছানা’এ গ্নোগানি-চাপা “শীত-করছে”-রব equation’এ ওনেক constraints মজুত, তবুও বাষ্প জমে রোজকার মতই, ঘুম ভাঙ্গে সাড়ে-ন৉টা’এ, দৌড়ে’এ পেরোনো হিসেব-নিকেশ’এ মান্না-রফি-লতা ও আশা’এ ticktocking, subtitle’এও স্বস্তি নেই যারপরনা’এ Saridon’এও ঝিমঝিম, “কেমন আছিস”-এও চোরাগোপ্তা villain-বাজি, স্মার্ট না হবার ulcer, ব্রন খোটা’র আনন্দ ও ঝিমিযে পড়া thermometer, তার সাথে প্রাণপণ সমুদ্দুর দেখুম, হিমালয় চাপুম, Louvre হাটুম, কূটনো কাটুম; but মোহনবাগান জিতবেই constipation মরবেই, সবাই গহীনজলে নাইবেই আর অনুপমরায় গান গাইবেই.

ব্যাস এতটুকুই.

Of Hurried Hopes And The Lonely Shelter

Firstly there was faith, incongruous, traumatic, inhumanely sodomized. And you had to wait for the nightbulbs to bring forth the patience. 

Then there were nightclubs where tired currency drank to vaginal monologues and rapid insecurities. 

There used to be nails in those fingertips and breaths in those parched intestines. Spread across the breadth were stings of tried jargon and unknown raagas. Mutilated by terrible numbness of red bricks and blind plastics, they too survived. They never needed a reason to feel unwanted. Or even awe-struck. 

Hoardings shoved bitter tastes up the palate, Even the taste of dirt has melted into bitter nonchalance. Finest pork is still elusive, time, patience and polythene. 

No, not polythene. 

He took the turn at the wrong track and got himself brutally loved. How I don't know. Maybe the ever-hardworking AC machine can tell more. It's your Nu York against my moist underbelly. She hardly understood Profit and Loss still managed to kiss the boy and got 83 in Biology. 

Maybe I need to keep the silly faces cheerful. 

And dumb faces? Tch tch.

The panorama was too good a sight, in that haze of dust and shroud of spring. They shouted their sensitivities and gave up their honour in the tiny confines of elusive freedom. 

Regular screams are still regular. Previously they were from boxed, shelved, cocoonized orgasms. Now, from the anorexic, the hypersensitive, the starved and the kohl-lined caricatures. The neo-liberals, the masochists, the pigs and the pariahs. The dreams, the dames, and the dooms. 

I shivered at the staggering loudness of the ego and baffling tenacity of today's economy - momo centres and yellow pastries. I never took those changes - never gave the beggars any chance to shake my conscience. 

 It's still dry, rusty, unclear, till the monsoons come and mix the dead dogs and indifferent idiots, in an affair of hiccups and hurried homes. 

They never returned my calls. Maybe the shiver has subsided. Or, better, has it been carefully maltreated? Dunno. I heard they do a good job on that front, these days. 

Cheers,

Someone named Calcutta. 

On The Newness Of Being

And perhaps we were staring straight into the automaton feed, dances of pretence and pornography, your grief, my graffiti, our refuge and lingerie and bloodstreams. Of one that commits suicide and remembers the last tune exactly.

If you have never slept on slow highways and touched the narrow whispers, I know not.

Perhaps we were thinking about our sudden lapses of alchemy in the face of black. Of one that eludes Northern Highlands and lands up in the mist of the plastic eyes.

If you had never seen a seashell bargain for infinite horizons, I know not.

Perhaps we were blackening mazes and coloring sandstorms in the face of shining screams. Of one that hides  my childhood in ancient touches and nocturnal bliss.

If you have never seen time stare hard at the falling leaves and empty butterflies, I know not.

And yet, perhaps we were safely caressing and cajoling, telling and tormenting, shaking and suffering, being and becoming the most unassuming inaction. Of hate. Or of casual vice. Or of the infinity of being there, all violent and all bright.  


If you have never tricked the devil, killed the pattern and brought yourself back, I know not.



Credits : Everything till date.