Goodbye

This is my last post here. This was my first foray into blogging,and after nearly two years, I feel a need to move in a different direction. A direction which requires a fresh start, in this case a new blog. So to the closed group of my readers who have been reading my posts, thanks. And hope to see you soon on my new blog, Carvaan. Clicking on the link will take you there. Hope you like it. Goodbye.

Postcard from Afar

A tiny box is hidden far away in a corner of a dusty cupboard. Feels like I have stored away memories of a time gone by. Out of sight yet never out of reach. Mere tokens today, what once meant so much? Yet more than just tokens. For was it not just yesterday when you had handed it to me, furtive eyes scanning the room, nimble hands thrusting it into mine? How much sand has flown through the hourglass since then? Neatly folded, fragrant with nostalgia; I rub off the dust to read. A hand I had read years ago to mock at. Only to long for it in due time. And although the turbulent land of my memories where you reside is worlds away from where I am happy and contented today, why is it that I hold on to your letter? And stranger is it not that I feel that you hold on to that copy of White Mughals? For love has died, and has burnt away all that came with it. Yet I sit reading your verses, like a postcard from a stranger written long ago to an acquaintance I'd once known.

Moss

With a pang of separation I begin

The journey to the ends of the world

Or just the corner over there…?

Down the slopes rolls the stone.

A stream the rocks have bred,

A flutter of leaves newly shed.

Pushed and nudged on its way

By the gusts that whistle amidst,

By the dewdrops and morning mist.

And the world is lovely.

I nestle among my fellows

And listen to what they say.

One’s been to the beyond and back,

The other wants to see them all

And I nestle and listen.

The stone likes his company.

Rugged and battered although they feign,

They’re straight and they’re welcoming,

They lie together through storm and rain

And together they rush downhill

Singing songs of this and that.

I swim down the river of life,

Down to the cities and the plains.

Washes me onto this bank to roll,

Alas! Without the moss I’d gathered.

It’s strange but it’s new, this new world is

And I roll on, unwillingly, grudgingly.

Under the orange heavens, the stone rolls on.

The sights odd, the sounds uncanny,

Yet can different be the stars?

Companions anew, and perspectives afresh

And love for company. And it nestles back

As the sand avalanches far off, all too fast…

I wish I could stay here, snug into the turf.

The cosmic struggle grows within.

The romantic’s hopeless dream surely

That the Universe can fail, or make an exception

Until the rock runs its course downstream

To wither at the bottom of the sea.

Weird : |

To me, weird is an enigma. The word that is. Although anything described as weird also in certain cases qualifies. Traditional use of the word as in the Weird Sisters and Macbeth’s witches implied a touch of the unearthly and supernatural. And yet, the word has certainly travelled a long way and holds a special place in the modern lexicon and more importantly in the present context, in the vocabulary of the age group I belong to. Getting back to the point, I say weird to me is an enigma. You have the ‘dictionary weird’ that covers the traditional usage of the word mentioned above. Then you have the ‘heterodox weird’; the look-down-upon weird you’d expect the kul dude to fire at the weirdo who comes single to the school Prom. Things get more abstract henceforth. Third on the list is the ‘awkward weird’. You crack a joke about Santa and Banta and then realise Sardar eyes glaring down on you till the far horizon. The “Uh-oh :-O” moment that follows right after (before, of course you hear the crunching sound of fists on nose) fits the bill of the awkward weird. The ‘unexpected weird’ comes next. That’s when your boyfriend/girlfriend’s mom invites you for dinner when you weren’t really sure you were allowed in the house. And finally comes the transcendental weird. Or keeping by the spirit of this piece, let’s just call it the ‘weird weird’. I’ll refrain from examples here. Each to his own memories then. The weird weird is that moment when the heterodox, the awkward, the unexpected and much more, all come together to leave you with a comic smile on your face, a spring in your step and a weird piece about weird in your blog. : |

Walls and Thoughts Beyond

Walls. A feature of our modern lives. A life of closer connectivities and more confined lifestyles. Where we reach out to the world yet can't see our neighbours over the walls we build around ourselves. Cold and unsympathetic, the poor poet's mountains, that which was meant to secure lives yet sucks the life out. Walls can often seem imposingly dignified and often repressively violent. And yet, it is far-fetched for sure to think of walls as serving any purpose other than keeping those in, in and those out, out. Other than perhaps, providing a place to lean for the lonesome traveller from the north and the aspirant who wishes to see the world on the other side. So it is with wonder in my eyes that I stumbled upon the work of a certain Banksy.

There are those times when you wished you’d known certain things earlier and longer, and Banksy’s works certainly ignite those feelings. As dull, grey landscapes suddenly transformed into a work of art; as out of nowhere, the wall of your morning walks suddenly became a canvas for ingenious expression; as ordinary, mundane ideas were taken and overnight, turned into that which is significant and conspicuous; you wonder why you hadn’t thought of it first. It’s just so plain simple. And then you smile, for it is the work of an alchemist before your sight that transforms the ordinary into the brilliant.

Banksy says “We don’t need any more heroes; we just need someone to take out the recycling.” Stinging words in a world living in its own separate, walled comfort zones. Words probably not loud enough to hear over the din of the music systems and the traffic the other side of the wall. Yet words that cannot be ignored on your way back from the morning walk when they are inscribed silently and beautifully overnight, especially when you’re expecting a steaming hot mug of imported coffee instead.I'll call it quits now, but as I tuck myself into my blanket, I sure know who I'd like to have on the other side of my wall.

On the Boulevard

The night's orange and there are shadows everywhere. The dog stares into my heart, and the heart is black and the dog a shadow. I stare at the orange streetlamps, and my shadow takes me by surprise. There are assassins at my back, I turn around and no one's there. Shadows. Everywhere. Billie sings broken songs and he's a shadow. I'm a shadow. A shadow none but my shadow can see. He's the only one that walks beside me on the boulevard. But that's lame. The shadow screams. I sing like a mirror. Read between the lines, he says. The assassins stare as I pass them by, lip-syncing with the shadow. I walk on. And then, it tunnels through me. All crimson orange. I smile. It's cold. Everything is cold.

Stairway to Heaven

The roof lay strewn with
The remnants of forbidden pleasure,
Dark was the field out in front,
Dark with people, or phantoms were they?

The night, blurring the city for once
Humming a melody of whispers,
I look to the sky, and then to you
And wonder

A star, is that faraway?
Or a dot hanging in the in-between?

Orange Evenings

The fire burning in the tiny angiti,
Tiny hands stretching out to the warmth,
Sitting hunched on end
Like children around a tale-granny
Warming oranges, glowing oranges in the fire.

The warm sweet juice bursting forth
In one's mouth, the seed cast aside
And the home was such a warm, sweet place
And warm, sweet was the cold
And the heat.

Haunting Sniper on the Edge

A plane flies overhead, flies like a fiery dream...
A ghost stands behind my back, shadowy eyes poring into my scream.
He feels so close behind, yet distant like the plane.
He is my brother from an erstwhile age, and takes away my pain,
I wonder what it would be like...to be him and to be free!
So I look into those shadows...now which am I and which is he?

A Day's Worth of Thoughts

I hate see-offs at railway stations. The feeling of standing immovable as the train ambles out. Your friends wave, leaning out of the door. Plastic smiles on everyones’ faces. Then they are far away, ever shrinking. Then you watch the others, the strangers, stare with indistinguishable expressions at you and then the thing next to you. And then they’re gone and someone else is there. Coach after coach of grumbling, creaking, complaining metal and life pass you by. And then, suddenly, it’s gone. And you’re facing the semi-naked man enjoying a bath on the rail lines on the other side. Two puppies crawl in under the leaking pipes meant to replenish trains to have their own share. The man shoos them away. You look around. Life moves on. The train has left. The coolies shift base to another platform where yet another train is to leave. You look behind your back. Your friends are nowhere in sight.

 I give my head a shake and try to get used to the idea. I walk. It’s a long way. People push and shove me here and there. I assume my vulture mode, head buried in chest. Long face. Maroon 5 is on today’s menu. I wish I could wear my jacket. I like hiding behind its high neck. Alas! I never thought November could be hot... anywhere.

 “How I wish... How I wish, you were here/ we’re just two lost souls, swimming in a fish bowl...”

 I take a bus. Not the one at the front of the queue. The one behind. It’s empty. I get a window seat of my choice. It takes its time to get filled and then grumbles across the Bridge like a wounded tiger on the Hooghly.

 There’s a lot in my head. I wonder how all of that can simultaneously hold my attention at ransom at all odd hours of the day, in all odd places. It’s like I started a slideshow on loop and lost the remote. How foolish of me to lose it! But I do lose it every now and then. The remote, that is! So here I was, presently descended from the bus, with a bitter-sweet-bitter-nice slideshow on. A tram buzzes past. So stoic, so dignified in its passage, unmoved from its path even in the maze of traffic. I try to do the same on the pavement, vultured. I fail miserably. I’m such a sucker for being the anti-hero.

 “...it’s not over tonight, Just give me one more chance to make it right/ I mean I’ll make it through the night, I won’t go home without you.”

 The traffic is like the train, and yet it’s not. For while the vehicles keep moving on and faces keep getting replaced, yet you’re never left stranded at any point of time. Somehow, the roads seemed to be filled with these herds of goats. I wondered why.

 After two stops to drink sugarcane juice and at Chini’s (where Thapa Da had raised prices post-Puja), I was at 68/9. That’s my room by the way. My own humble place in this great city. I like to compare it to the inside of a giant wave. Right there in the thick of it, and yet so remote and distant. It’s what symbolises me. It’s not perfect; for that matter, nor am I. Today, it is in a mess. Friends have left. The room is still suffering from a hangover. My entire luggage, my trunk with my name scribbled untidy on it, sits on one side. A couple other bags as well as my old NCC kitbag lie sprawled next to it. The bed has its legs up in the air. One look at it and it implores me to restore it to its normal position. Not yet, I say. Somehow, I can talk to everything in my room. The preserved bottles, the bookshelf with its ever-increasing load, the run-down table, the tiny mirror, my posters of Slash, Alonso, Federer and CRY, all have something to say. A betel-nut hunter climbs a tree on my home state’s calendar fluttering in the fan air. Quotes by Rousseau, Orwell, J.S. Mill, William Henley, Vikram Seth, Bismil and a certain Rajat Roy litter the walls. A mat is spread out on the floor which serves as my bed. I do the cleaning and sit down to surf the Internet. Through the window, I can see the University building with their gaping windows. The sight of that ghostly white building on a full moon night with vacuum-like arches can be creepy enough, even if you’re not sitting in a 125 year old hostel known for a bloody history. I have goose bumps on my arms as I write this.

 Mom calls up. I am promptly reminded that tomorrow is Eid. I just drop my head, knowing I had absolutely forgotten about the festival. After all, this will be my first Eid away from family ever. Despite the busy college schedule, I have always managed to sneak home for Eid. Not this time. So I go about the business of contemplating how to spend Eid. Going for prayers on Eid has always seemed hypocritical to me, for I hardly showed my face in the mosque the rest of the year. So on that front, a lonely Eid meant less double standards. I log into Facebook. Immediately, a friend asks me how many cows I am sacrificing tomorrow. I don’t feel the need to reply. There’ll be a lot more than animals sacrificed on my part tomorrow, I feel. Even if I can’t match Abraham’s standards, I do have sacrifices to contemplate that go way beyond animals (with all due respects).

 So here I am, sleepless on the mat, thinking of words to fill in the blanks. How tomorrow goes is another story, but I guess this will be enough for a day’s work. Wishing you all Eid Mubarak. Enjoy the festivities for those who are celebrating, and a happy holiday to the rest. Stay safe.

Two Mynahs

There's a sting at my back and a glare in my face,
A glaze in my eyes and in my mind, a daze.
Two singing mynahs would sit on my shirt and look,
While the weeping world around them shook.






*Written sitting idle in Sreeleathers, Esplanade.*

Cardiology

"I open my eyes, I try to see/ But I'm blinded by the white light/ I can't remember how, I can't remember why/ I am hee..re tonight!"

 So sang Simple Plan half a decade ago. You must be thinking what's with me and punk lyrics. I wonder too. It's a wonderful feeling when you think that an artist has composed something especially for you: when you turn the last page of a novel and go "Hey, that sounded familiar!" or when a stanza from the latest national chart-buster resembles your oh-so-modest life. It's a wonderful feeling. All through high school, I thought I had a secret deal with Green Day to write songs for me. And when the vagaries of love showed its face in subsequent years, Good Charlotte seemed to fit the bill. I found it uncanny - the regularity with which their songs came to mean something more than just a collection of emo lyrics to me.

 But then came college, and life was good and busy. Intellectual even! Punk took a backseat as Floyd, Nirvana and GN'R took centrestage. I was expected to appreciate the 'good' music. Not that I didn't like it. But then, the lyrics always spoke of somebody else. It wasn't too difficult listening to Denver to imagine golden countries and brilliant sunsets. Or to listen to Floyd and dream of smoky Sherlock-Holmesque living rooms and a life bordering on the surreal. Or to sing along with Axl Rose and feel a wonderful high. Or to listen to the songs of a Bengali bard and feel the rustic tension in the air. But somehow, they were never about me.

 At this point, I won't even blame you if you were to stop and impatiently enquire what all the fuss was about and why I even wanted these musicians to sing for "me"! After all, I am nobody. But then, you always have a soft corner for that one book, that one song that you feel is biographical. As such, I would continue beseeching your apologies for the writer's vain narcissistic fancies.

 And then I came home. And things were different. Suddenly, I wasn't in the 'league". All those beautiful memories of lazing down Jacob's Ladder with heavy schoolbags teasing a heartbroken friend how he was "Sorry, I can't be perfect"  seemed but memories. And when I went back to school and stole a quick glance through the window at that bench I once  sat on, and remembered how 'Boulevard of Broken Dreams' was such a craze back in Classes 9 and 10, I couldn't but smile at myself and recall all the weird interpretations we made in our attempt to decipher the lyrics of 'American Idiot'. (Those were of course the days when instant Googling of lyrics wasn't yet possible, thanks to our Northeastern status of being disturbed regions where such things as easy Internet access weren't a priority for our Shining India government.) :).

 At once, I came back home, turned my music library upside down and filled my cell phone with all the old favourites. All Black, Everytime, Jesus of Suburbia, Dance Floor Anthem, I Just Wanna Live and similar titles which would make any pseudo-intellectual rush for air, once again adorned my collection. And it was just in time that Good Charlotte released their latest offering in years, "Cardiology".

 It was a happy return to the (g)olden days. As the night lit up with brilliant colours and for once, the stars disappeared entirely from the Shillong sky in a haze of Diwali smoke, I quietly put my earphones on and pressed Play.

 It took a while to sink in. The music was so like 2002. And no matter how much I had changed over the years, there are some things that never do. If the title song was memorable, Harlow's Song  left me utterly heartbroken. And then it came. It almost felt as if the entire vacation had been building up towards this one moment. As if everything that had happened over the fortnight had in one way or another, led to this instant. And with this pagan belief between my ears, Benji whispered those words into my ears that made me look up at the sky and shed a silent tear...

Autumn in Paradise City

There's something intriguing about autumn. The in-between season. Neither here nor there. Neither the warm love of the summer nor the bitter cold thrashings of winter. And especially, autumn in Shillong can be a wonderful treat aesthetically. On one hand, jacaranda flowers bloom along the roadside trees, adding that touch of soothing melancholy to the air. While looking around, there is that sense of apprehension in Nature, the slow giving away of life to the harsh strangles of death and winter. Nature seems to be at war with itself. It is not unnatural or unlikely or even bizarre to go through an average autumn day here where you have harsh sunshine till noon, rain in the afternoon, a gloomy evening suddenly broken in by a brilliant sunset and all this followed by a windy and treacherously cold night. Indeed, the seasons do play out a celebration of their diversity, all in a day's work. What comes out of all this chivalrous and chaotic natural play, is again a wonder in itself. As winter begins to win the battle of the seasons on the battleground of autumn, there is a renaissance in the air. While the ordinary among the beautiful give way and perish, the evergreen symbol of Shillongite beauty, the pines, gear themselves for the rough ride. And indeed, they stand green and bountiful, lending colour to Paradise City (The GN'R number might well have been written for this sleeping beauty of a town!). Then the walk along Ward's Lake becomes all but just a walk, and the greens of Golflink bring more than just the piercing wind to you. Then Shillong becomes a cloudy paradise till Nature wakes from its slumber...

Up, away.

Up, away from the hopping crowd sit I,

Looking down into the merry world. 

A bird of thought in my mind was nigh;

It flew away, its wings unfurled.

Down below, I can see a city

Hop its way from here to there.

Boys, girls wanting to be pretty.

While I sit alone without a care.

A Walk Back...

"Empty spaces fill me up with holes/ Distant faces with no place left to go...."

Unknowingly, this Backstreet number comes up on shuffle on my phone's music player. I'm unaware. I impatiently push the volume tab higher. Alas! 14 is all that stares back at me. Sealdah can be quite a melee at all sorts of odd hours of the day. The blaring horns of the run-down buses above; the colourful, loud shops below - selling anything from a pin to the most outrageous copy of the latest gizmo. People hollering all round - someone running to catch his train, a tired worker returning home, head buried in his chest, a jewellery-laden, not-so-beautiful boudi tripping on a lethargic street dog. Judging by the screams that emanate, it's hard to decide who's the victim and who the perpetrator. A chivalrous dada kicks the bewildered dog away. The boudi walks away without a look. The dada looks disappointed.

All around, a milieu of people engage in a plethora of such incidents. I walk on. I'm unaware. Damn the headset. Wish the volume would blare louder into my drums...

"I tried to go on like I never knew you/ I’m awake but my world is half asleep..."

The orange rays from the streetlight filter through the overhead web of wires - cable wires, electricity wires, telephone wires, wires grey, wire black, wires thick, wires thin, wires that look weathered and old, wires that appear new and shiny and slick. Somewhere in those wires, the light gets trapped.

The traffic signal turns red. Creaking buses with jostling passengers screech to a halt. A hand-pulled rickshaw slowly ambles its way across the street. By the time it has crossed three quarters of the way, the signal has turned green again. The buses roar to life. A young man on the rickshaw looks nervously back towards the buses, pulling his hands in as they speed past him, almost as if reprimanding him "Bloody loser!"

The Surya Sen Street crossing brings with it a handful of dirty kathi roll stalls and even dirtily painted prostitutes...

"Voices tell me I should carry on/ But I am swimming in an ocean all alone..."

I walk on. Dinner is to be thought about. How easy it is, when things are placed in front of you on a platter. For months on end, dinner isn't something to contemplate on. At the stroke of 10, half a dozen fellow hostelers bellow at you to pause the game of FIFA10 and move towards the mess. Then, you amble across the field with badly cut, uneven grass, crossing a couple of rats that look like they would easily gobble down the average cat and make your way to the mess. Yesterday, I was asked why a mess is called a mess. I do not wish to know. You sit down. Reserve a few seats for your friends by keeping keys there. Symbolic. Then you're served the same food that you've eaten for ages. You hear the customary complaints regarding the food. You worry about how the meal rate has climbed by a whopping 20 paise. You try to chatofy everyone around you to prove some silly point. And at the end of it, you go back to your ward, wondering what to do when you wake up hungry at 3 in the morning (that is, if you've slept by then!).

Today, however, is different. The Pujor chhuti have begun. The mess is closed and the famed cooks of Hindu Hostel have taken unreserved journeys home to Orissa. Dinner is suddenly something to contemplate on. An upset stomach traced to Zeeshan means it's a vegetarian night. The corner shop is open. I buy 10 rotis and a bowl of Palak Paneer. But then, what to do about the late-night hunger. I change the order. 15 rotis and two bowls of Palak Paneer. I await my turn.

"...I pray for this heart to be unbroken/ But without you, all I’m going to be is incomplete..."

The pujas always bring imagination and creativity into the air. A para has erected a gate with puppet idols of various gods hanging at different places. :-) The paneer sizzles in the pan. How the festive season can bring people together. Marx had said that religion was the opium of the masses. An oft-misunderstood and oft-quoted line. For, in Marx's times, opium was not a drug of intoxication, but a medicinal drug that brought relief to the people. Two centuries down, I agree with Marx. Religion indeed heals people's sorrows. Alas! I don't believe in religion. My food is ready. I hand over sixty one rupees and get three packets containing my dinner and "after-dinner". I walk on.

I enter College Square, that famous meeting ground of the Romeos and health freaks and intellectuals and everything else of College Street. The puja pandal is almost ready and brilliantly lit up. A couple of interested gentlemen discuss the salient points of the pandal's design vis-a-vis that at Mohammad Ali Park. I glance back at it. I walk on. The university building stares down at me against the glowing sky. There's a giant bear placed at the front entrance of the square. A handful of boisterous children force their way into its arms and pretend to be scared. Kids! I bend down through the small exit and onto College Street. I suddenly realise it's Good Charlotte that's playing now. Strange. When did the last song end? And when did this one start?

"Give me the truth....give me the truth... give me the truth..."

I mime-shout with the lyrics. The cool breeze hits me. I stop. All I can hear is the music. Suddenly, the world seemed to have turned on the mute button. As GC scream their lungs out, I can't hear a thing other. All alone this night, having just dropped a friend at the railway station on his way home, I feel like I'm in a ghost city. A city I can see, but not hear. I suddenly become one of its many unknown ghosts, wandering the streets like a phantom. The lighting adds to the feeling of being alone in a crowd. A tram passes by determinedly. A Toyota overtakes it. With one last look at this phantom city, I turn the corner onto the street on which Hindu Hostel has, for 125 years, stood. It is deserted. Deserted like it's someone's funeral. All brilliantly lit up. And deserted. The end of the street seems like the other end of the river of the dead. I walk on. GC sings on about the truth...

"So here we are, we are alone/ This weight on your mind, I wanna know.... the truth...."

Hooghly Ghat at Shobhabazar

Article in Presidency College Magazine 2010

SIX MONTHS IN PRESI: A CLASH OF CULTURES???

Excerpts from my Mental Diary

Saturday 11 July 2009:

A frantic morning date and lunch with some school friends later, I left my sleepy hometown behind for my initiation in the clichéd “real world”. Finally, after having dreamt of this day almost all my life, it had arrived on me in quite a hurry; I was on my own at last, in what would have been the hero’s voyage for treasures in some of the fairy tales we were introduced to in early life. Like David Copperfield, I was yet to find out whether I would be the hero of my own life, or whether someone else was to occupy that station of honour, or something to that effect. Well, I was to find out over the course of the next three years as an Economics Honours student at Presidency College, Kolkata, one of the premier educational institutions in our country.

Sunday 12 July 2009:

Coming from the serenity and tranquil of Shillong, where vast green expanses were interspersed with oft-painted cottages, velvety hills and style-conscious (mind you, not necessarily fashion-conscious!!!) people, Howrah station was quite a shocker in the early morning gloom. Blank rear-sides of shabby buildings, political propaganda-ridden walls and an unforgiving blanket of heat were the first impressions I had of my adopted home. The idea of a sea of people embarking on their daily chores seemed unfamiliar, yet somehow thrilling as I stepped into the ‘urban jungle’.

The yellow Ambassador taxi was a far cry from their accessorised counterparts in Shillong but they had a sense of purpose the latter lacked and I liked. Within minutes, I was at the hotel, with the prospect of an idle day in the searing heat. All in all, I had mixed feelings towards the city of Kolkata but in my enthusiasm of a new and promising life, I was more than happy to ignore any minor (and major!!!) problems and rather look at the larger picture.

Monday 13 July 2009:

Having attended two Pass classes and bunked the following Honours ones (Huh!!!), I made my way across the street to Hindu Hostel, expecting the usual dry and boring admission process. Instead, the melee I was welcomed with would have done justice to any Filmfare Award winning movie. Like cattle being bid for in a weekly countryside market, the first-years were herded out to the different farms err... wardsJ. And thus, began life in full earnest.

Older or Younger? Which way do you wanna go?

Coming from a culture where everyone at least 5 years younger and older to one preferred to call and be called by each other by their first names alone (with no prefixes and suffixes), calling people just a couple of years senior to me as ‘Dada’ came quite unnaturally to me. Respect demanded according to me, was no respect at all. But I played into the system; rebellion wasn’t foremost on my mind. While my mates had to be coaxed and intimidated into shaving, I found moustaches and beards a disturbance anyway. While everyone else wore formals, I hardly had any of them in my wardrobe, even when I seriously needed them. Now, before you think I’ve lost my mind to bore you with my blabber, let’s get to the point. I had encountered the first of many culture clashes between my old life and my new. With all due respect, while people in the Northeast loved to be young, look young, live young, Kolkata was (in general) obsessed with growing older. On the one hand, I had seen a 60-year old Lou Majaw (a local country musician) walk the streets of Shillong looking like just another music-struck teenager, and on the other hand, I had teenaged Presidencians looking well beyond their prime. Now, I had no intentions of landing home for vacations looking like a 30-year old “Uncle” and so I decided to draw the line. I realised I wasn’t gonna turn into a full-fledged Kolkatan after all.

And even if I wanted to, I would have failed miserably on one vital front. Compared to the loquaciousness of my contemporaries, I was pretty much a quiet kid, more interested in getting the work done than to go publicising about it. And deep down in my heart, I preferred it that way.

Carefree vs. Intellectual

Now, my hero’s voyage in the troubled waters of my adopted home was taking a very ‘ ”We” vs. “Them” ’ turn. But thankfully, Intellectualism came to the rescue like a knight in shining armour. While back home, the world outside was one messy yet promising universe that we didn’t think much about, a few months in Hindu Hostel introduced me to one of the most endearing aspects of Kolkata: The ability of people here to think, and think deep and logical; think intellectual, as it is called. And as I watched my hostel seniors engage in late-night debates on topics ranging from religion to Maoists to communism and back to the latest Bollywood movie, I felt engrossed. If the last six months have changed anything in me, it has surely been the ability to think deeper than I ever have been able to. And for that, I am also thankful to the handful of debates I participated in, in the college. But despite this awakening, the college politics that seemed to capture the imagination of other so-called intellectuals continued to seem to me like a cobweb of personal interests, illogical confrontations and negligible genuine concerns. Maybe, I wasn’t intellectual enough, or at all! Or maybe it was something else I could not fathom.

What mattered was that life that was looking bleak in early days had started to emit shades of hope. And as I started studying and enjoying the Social Sciences like they really should be, with enough references to the real world they are meant to serve, I found time in Kolkata a productive investment.

As for the fun I had so cherished in the hills of Meghalaya, hostel life gave me enough alternatives to be satisfied with. From late-night multi-lingual Antakshari sessions that included songs Hindi, Bengali, English, Assamese, Marwari and Khasi, to wildly celebrated birthdays to midnight walks down the Howrah Bridge to the occasional shopping outings (which ended up being less of shopping and more of dream-shopping), fun wasn’t hard to find, especially if you looked for it! And I looked for it literally all the time!

An Interesting Future Ahead!

Presently back home for an extended winter break, I find the next two-and-a-half years in Presidency and Kolkata as a period of promise and enjoyment. It is pretty much going to be a case of enjoying the best of both worlds! While holding on to my carefree and unique Shillongite roots, a Kolkatan maturity seems like a potent combination. Interesting days lie ahead as my adopted home feels more like a home with every passing day. Of course, there are compromises to make, and frustrations to endure, but there is light at the end of this tunnel of varying cultures, and it doesn’t appear to be that of an oncoming train!!! Signing off from the Scotland of the East, this is Mohammad Waled Aadnan.

Out of Comfort Zone

The last race has been run,

With glory and triumph, the Anthem sung;

The champagne spilt, the accolades deserved,

Humbly accepted the adulation served.

As the curtain falls, the world readies to go,

The celebrations now a receding echo.

The champagnes emptied, the adrenalin down;

Reality dawns with a frightened frown.

Darkness awaits in the unknown future,

Hollow! A vacuum, the heart does nurture.

Through mirrored love and joy have I grown,

But now it’s farewell to my comfort zone.

I cry! I weep! The world disappears.

Oh! What’s to become of this child’s tears?

The empty bottles recall genies of dreams sown -

Empty! For I am here, stranded all alone!

Yet one such genie stands out tall,

And beckons me to spring from my fall:

“It mortifies, but don’t be prone

To weakness; come out of your comfort zone.”

And thus the child grows into a man,

Willing: to voyage for wonders yet in hand,

To start afresh; this time for higher grounds,

For a new romance beyond his bounds.

He moves on to struggle with eager ambition

From the mighty river to the mightier ocean.

He moves out on his own;

Out, out of comfort zone.

- M Waled Aadnan (pH2)

M Waled Aadnan | Create your badge

Dan Brown's 'The Lost Symbol' and 2012

Till 18 hours ago, I firmly believed that the entire 2012 propaganda was a figment of our over-enthusiastic and fear-psychosis prone media. Alas! Some beliefs do not last long!!!

As I read my way through a duplicate edition of Dan Brown's latest offering 'The Lost Symbol', I came across a startling and shocking viewpoint into what 2012 truly holds in store for mankind. As Brown unveils the secret of the lost symbol (for details, read the book; I assure you it'll be a worthwhile experience), the reader is made aware of the hidden, true meaning of the concept of Apocalypse.

Contrary to the popular belief that Apocalypse refers to the end of the world, the 'Apocalypse' is in fact derived from the Latin word for ' to reveal'! Nothing destructive at all, or so it seems. In fact, the true significance of Apocalypse is the revelation of something that hold the power to change the way we look at our world. That is, Apocalypse will bring about the end of the world as we see it, and create a new world as the Revelation will show us.

Pondering over what I had read, I came to identify movements in the direction of this Revelation. The so-called Big Bang Project at CERN is likely to reach its climax in the next two years, unveiling to us secrets about our universe we had never comprehended before. The exponential developments in disciplines like Noetic Science that link modern science to mystical beliefs (e.g. the existence of the human soul; proved by Noetic Science that the human soul has mass) are truly signposts to a breakthrough in human knowledge on the horizon.

This thought gives me tremendous hope that I may be witness to a spectacular happening that may change the course of human history forever. Looking forward to 2012........