Tambourine Man

Then take me disappearin' through the smoke rings of my mind,
Down the foggy ruins of time, far past the frozen leaves,
The haunted, frightened trees, out to the windy beach,
Far from the twisted reach of crazy sorrow.
Yes, to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free,
Silhouetted by the sea, circled by the circus sands,
With all memory and fate driven deep beneath the waves,
Let me forget about today until tomorrow.

Robert Zimmerman, better known as Bob Dylan

My Weird Weekend

As Kolkata turns into Atlantis yet again, the island that was my home comp has finally decided to re-join the mainland thanks to the valiant efforts of my cable guy in fixing up my net connection.


Got a paper presentation on economics pending, have a residential seminar to attend this week. But first, have to convince my stats prof to allow me to submit his assignment a week late.
Hell, just two weeks ago I was wallowing in self-pity coz I didn’t have enough things to keep me occupied. Now I’m frantically trying to squeeze in Sunday lunch after math tuition, a photo exhibition after stats and a slab of dark Fluries’ chocolate before another gut-wrenching session on child-labour with my Head of the Department.


Always thought my life wasn’t exciting enough. Well, this Saturday was distinctly different.
The day started normally, only to spiral out of control towards the fag end. Right now it seems rather funny, even hilarious. But if truth be told, I was shit scared when it was actually happening.


Achieved a lot of firsts this weekend:

1) My first public assignment as the Assistant Head of Quizzing for Xavier’s Debating Society.
2) Calming down a guy I had never met before. I believe my first line after he seemed stable enough was, “ By the way, I’m Preyoshi”.
3) Daintily sipping lemon tea as befits a lady at CCD while a guy gets beaten up on the next couch.
4) Breakfasting on a cup of tea and two mints. Almost choking on something unpalatable.


I guess there’s a first time for everything.

Long Walk

Today I got off three stops before my usual bus stoppage, the intention being to indulge in 30 minutes of excruciating pain. I have this little ritual, whenever I get off at Dhakuria, I always buy myself a small carton of Amul Masti buttermilk and walk home instead of taking a bus. Sadly, the buttermilk doesn’t add to my waistline, rather the walk takes away a little more out of my already non-existing weight. Well, the buttermilk was over in a little less than two minutes with more than four-fifths of the distance to my house still left to be trekked. And to top it all, I was left with an empty carton in my hand and there wasn’t a dustbin in sight. That’s what you get for taking the road less traveled. Inconvenient though it was, the responsible citizen in me decided to awaken from its slumber and refused point blank to throw the said excess baggage on the street, much to the chagrin of the hand carrying the carton. Well, I guess guilt is heavier than an empty paper container.
The reason why I love walking through this area, from Dhakuria through Jodhpur Park right all the way to my place near Usha Gate, is sheerly because of the sights around me. Jodhpur Park has the most amazing houses I’ve ever seen. And I don’t mean matchbox-sized apartments. I mean proper houses, the ones that seem right out of the March issue of Architecture Today or Home and Hearth. I love walking through this area, admiring the houses, selecting the one which I’d buy when I become a millionaire. Sometimes I even go to the extent of plotting how to evict the current residents so that I can move in. But even though these houses probably have more than one car in their respective garages, the entire stretch of the lane doesn’t have a single public dustbin.
So I was faced with a choice. Throw the carton on the road and carry on admiring the houses. Or take a less visually stimulating route and throw the freaking container.
So social service it was. I decided to walk through the government quarters in the hope of finding a dustbin.
These quarters have stood here ever since I can remember. And so have their residents. After all, where else in proper South Calcutta can you enjoy the luxury of a two-bedroom apartment, all for the monthly rent of Rs. 75?
It had been quite some time since I had walked down this road. As my eagle eyes searched in vain for a dustbin, I noticed that the area had changed drastically. In place of the old dilapidated houses next to the quarters, minuscule flats were coming up. Never knew till today why the sight of grey construction cement depresses me. I now think its because they mean that another old house has been relegated to the dusty pages of memory.
A little ahead, I came across a children’s park. From the distance, a bright red signboard proudly proclaimed “Bina Shishu Uddyan”. A closer look revealed a square field overgrown with shrubbery. There wasn’t a single child playing there, and all that remained of the swings were their supporting structure.
I guess you’ll agree that it was a pretty gloomy sight. But somehow that wasn’t what I felt. I’m not really sure that right now I would be able to describe what I actually felt back then. It’s like one of those rare moments of clarity, when everything seems clear and precise and this one thought rushing through your brain, floods away every other thought, memory and feeling till nothing else remains. But as soon that one moment passes by, so does that feeling. And racking your brain to recall just that one quite reflection leads only down a blind alley.
I reached home a little wet due to a light drizzle and a little late due to my ramblings. And yes, I had utterly failed in my attempt to find a dustbin. I intend to retrace my steps in the coming week. And this time I’ll make sure that I dispose off my drink container beforehand, lest it distracts me from my thought-provoking environs.



A time to build up, a time to break down
A time to dance, a time to mourn
A time to cast away stones
A time to gather stones together

Still Single

She is a thirty-something investment banker.
He is a forty-two year old corporate lawyer.

She reads business plans.
He recites Pablo Neruda.

She drinks beer, and doesn’t care where it comes from as long as it is chilled.
He not only drinks wine, but traces its vintage back to the type of manure used in the vineyard.

She grooves to boy-bands.
He prefers jazz.

She likes to watch chick-flicks.
He likes to watch silent-era Russian cinema.

She likes to party.
He likes to cook.


This is the story of Sunita and Karan. This is the story of Still Single. A play that made me laugh a lot, scared me a little and think a little too much.
Staged as part of the Hutch Odeon 2007, Still Single is about a successful career woman “ who is also successfully single”. I guess this is the point where I have to describe the plot to you. But sorry folks, this ain’t a review meant for the pages of some theatrical magazine. This piece is about how I found some more questions to add to the list of that eternal puzzle that had Freud baffled, “ What do women want? But since this just happens to be my blog, we’ll change that to, “What I want”.
It’s like this. Sometimes I know exactly what I want. But most of the times I don’t have a single clue. Just like Sunita, who becomes tired of Mr. Perfect just because he is "Oh-So-Perfect".
This is why chocolates are so much better. I know for certain that I absolutely love Bournville and that I absolutely hate Fruit N’ Nut. But when it comes to men I like them deep and dark, yet nutty at the same time. Can’t think of even Willie Wonka coming up with a combination like that, let alone the human gene pool. But then again, Johnnie Depp does kinda fits the bill, doesn’t he?
If my Orkut profile is to be trusted (which is a little risky given the heavy concentration of weirdoes per square inch of Orkutland), I look for just three qualities in my perfect match:

1. Must love dogs and must not be one.
2. Cooks, cleans and sings.
3. Just happens to look like Ralph Fiennes.

If you just happen to satisfy these criteria, feel free not to apply. They keep changing with the lunar cycle and my mood swings. I remember I had once put up something so insanely difficult to achieve in the same space that it had led an older guy friend to remark, “ Mamoni, jonmeyyo pabe na!” I admit that I was indeed asking for too much: “Mature, sensitive, a good listener”.
Point is, I am not really waiting for Prince Charming to sweep me off my feet. The wind does the needful every time I open my umbrella.

The Me Bird

I am the Preyoshi Bird,
bird of a single feather,
a flier in the clear shadow
and obscure clarity,
my wings are unseen,
my ears resound
when I walk among the trees
or beneath the tombstones
like an unlucky umbrella
or a naked sword,
stretched like a bow
or round like a grape,
I fly on and on not knowing,
wounded in the dark night,
who is waiting for me,
who does not want my song,
who desires my death,
who will not know I'm arriving
and will not come to subdue me,
to bleed me, to twist me,
or to kiss my clothes,
torn by the shrieking wind.

That's why I come and go,
fly and don't fly but sing:
I am the furious bird
of the calm storm.


................................Sorry Pablo

Rebirth

I feel so heavy, yet so light
I feel numb, yet strangely alive.
Drowning in emotions, yet washed ashore
A new feeling, but I’ve been here before.
Lost myself, but found what I was looking for.

Solitude

Not a leaf moves

Not a blade of grass shows its life

Time reveals its sleepy face

Only in the fading daylight.

In the sky, just a tiny speck

Though distant, yet never cold

Enough is her light to keep me company

Enough for my pen to move.

Lone star watching over me,

My silent glass muse,

Before morning calls my name

I write just for you tonight.