Confessions of an empty wrapper

By the time you are 20, people tend to associate you with things you do, it’s like an added sub clause to your very being, which is diligently remembered in the mental “good at doing directory”. It doesn’t really matter if the person is a virtuoso in his field of doing or just plain lame, as long as you are able to draw some semblance of an association. Ah, A, the debater, B, the stud mooter, oh c, she’s a slut, and d, have you seen the number of publications he’s had? And the list goes on and on, he plays the guitar/drums/synth/etc etc, he’s got great formatting skills!!, he/she is her/his boyfriend/girlfriend /Ex (they are after all “things you do”, or have done at some point of time, don’t make that face, you fucking hypocrite), his poetry opens up a whole new dimension, he is good at painting, he writes pretty well, and blah blah blah, to make an account of the entire list, would certainly take about the same time, as it took to write the Constitution, and round about the same number of people, or going by the present day parliamentary standards, double the number, triple the time. My profuse apologies to all those who have to face a predicament on my account, “oh, Prantar, eh, ermmm……..hmm,*sigh*”.
Do you remember how sometimes the toffees we bought as un-sub claused kids, were nothing more than a shiny wrapper that had been sealed air tight? No, not the ones which had say one or two less, but the ones that had nothing but nitrogen filled in them? I came across one of those empty pompous inflated ones a couple of days back (in what was to turn out to be another vain attempt at quitting). I never noticed as a kid, but then it had a consumer complaint number, hardly worth the effort, unless you are, say, a child labourer, and spent half your days earning on it, in which case there is a good chance you wouldn’t be able to read it. But still it was good to see that it was there. Not getting into the whole debate of whether there is heaven or hell, of whether I don’t give a fuck, or whether I don’t give a fuck, if and when the gates of heaven or hell open, I do hope there will be someone sitting with a complaints register.

ephemeron...

The scent fades away;
I wish the memories could,
Maybe in another time and place,
Where roses grew without thorns,
And the shade gave warmth,
We could belong,
Maybe in another time and place,
Your scent would stay;
And your memories; not necessary.

Strangers on a Bus.....

Yeah, so where was I, yes I was talking about this random person who had been sending me random messages, in case u don’t remember or what is more likely, haven’t read, refer back to ‘tharki and proud’, though I would strongly suggest doing something meaningful with your life, instead of wasting it reading this stupid blog. So a couple of days back I receive this message, by far one of the lamest one of the lot till then, but it strangely made a lot of sense. I was reminded of my last night in Bangalore. I had been travelling quite a bit during the vacation, a couple of days in Hyderabad, a couple in Bhubaneshwar( dads posted here, I feel sorry for him), a couple in Delhi, and a month in Bangalore. My ‘friends’, who were supposed to work with me in Bangalore unceremoniously ditched me, so I was kindof all alone. I used to leave for my lawyers chamber at around 8 in the morning, get back usually at around 9 30 at night, Saturday Sundays were off, which I spent comatose on my bed or drunk at Pecos. Wasn’t as bad as it sounds, there wasn’t much work, as any fellow 2nd year law intern would know. And at the end of the day it helped me kill time, and time I had plenty.
Strangers in a strange place make great friends, as I was soon to find out. On my way back from the chamber one day I bumped into this chap, who seeing my plight with bus routes, took pity and decided to intervene. He gave me a list of buses that I could take to my requisite terminus, from where I had to board another bus; turns out we took the same bus route. I bumped into him a couple of more times, and our circumstances acted as a catalyst, I overlooked the fact that he was a Delhite, and that he cracked lawyer liar jokes and we ended up being pretty good friends, over the course of four five such bus rides. His name was Tarik Feroz, he was from Noida, was a software engineer, who was presently looking for a job that would pay. From the looks of it he came from a very humble background. He was paying a firm to let him work there, in lieu of a certificate that would show his work experience to be a year while it was actually say 6 months, and maybe a job if they like his work. He had to get to office by 8 30, work till 9 at night on most days, the few days he got let off early he bumped into me. He works weekends, gets one sick leave and one casual leave every month, which he never took, for he wanted them to accumulate, for a trip home, and look for a job there. We sometimes take it for granted how privileged we are. Well I had the good fortune to bump into him on my last day at work. I had gotten kind of late; saying goodbye can be a rather long process. He was ending his shift a bit after 9 as usual. He seemed a bit disheartened at the news of my departure, as if he looked forward to our fortuitous bus stop encounters as much as I did. By the time his stop arrived it had gotten pretty late, but he didn’t get off and we kept on talking, quite a few stops afterwards, he looked at his watch and said, “ab chalta hu bhai, iske baad adha ghante se uper chalne mei lag jayega.”(I have gotta go now brother, any further and it will take me over half an hour to walk back.) I knew he wouldn’t get a bus back that late, I am certain he knew that too. Some how those few stops he lingered on for was one of the most touching gestures I have ever been subject to. People I have know for years now, people for whom I have done everything possible, reasonably and unreasonably, wouldn’t have done as much. No wonder the random message made so much sense. “Never get tired of doing little things for others, bcoz sumtimes those little things of urs may occupy the biggest part in their heart.”

Under the bridge.....

If I were to be asked what it is, that I love about dear old Cal, the yellow Cabs, the red slogans and flags, the red minibuses, the tana/hand pulled rickshaw that border on human rights violation, the people, the smell of ‘bhar eh cha’ and coal on balmy winter mornings, which seems to reverberate throughout the city, amongst a motley of other smells, so unique, that you could call it the smell of the city itself, the sinking feeling I get while crossing the Howrah bridge to the station, and the inexplicable bliss I experience while doing the same on the way back, the maze of familiar streets I can call home, the maze of familiar streets where I can relive memories of moments long lost, the longing I feel for all of this while I am away, would have been amongst the many things I might have said, if only I had been articulate enough. Two days back I realized that there is one other thing I need to add to this not so exhaustive list; ‘bandh’, ‘strike’ or ‘chakka bandh’, call it whatever you choose to, love it or hate it, we will still have one every second week or so for no apparent rhyme or reason(we have had two so far this week itself), apart from maybe an extended weekend, which some of us would use to slip a holiday to say Puri or Raichack maybe; that is, if you are lucky enough to get yourself a reservation somewhere in the ephemeral ‘holiday season’.

But then if the whole point of your holiday is a change in surroundings, I suggest staying put in cal is the best thing to do. Why go to a new surrounding if it comes to you? Try taking a walk down the lanes, and it’s almost as if you have been transported to a surreal ghost town, not many places today where you can feel you are all alone in this world, well India’s most densely populated city doesn’t seem to disappoint on that count!!

A word of caution, if it’s a TMC called band, try avoiding the Rashbehari stretch, where didi reigns supreme, and needless to say wearing anything red would be as prudent as a black man walking into a Ku Klux Clan meeting.

Another thing, the song under the bridge,RHCP, though written about San Francisco, somehow seems to suit cal just as well.

THARKI AND PROUD !!

for the last few days, weeks actually, i have been getting random messages, of little or no significance (useless fwds generally), from an unknown number, but somehow my curiosity has not yet managed to get the best of my stoic laziness, which refuses to budge, and if ever my laziness has shown any signs of waning, my non existent phone balance has come to the rescue. Happens to the best of us I guess. Plus there is this other thing about knowing and not knowing. You see, as long as I don’t know who this person is, somebody as tharki (see NB 1) as I am, will by default assume that it is a girl at the other end. The ‘fact’ that there are now two women who have something to do with my phone, in whatever capacity, is somehow strangely comforting (of course, my mom is included). I guess whoever said that ignorance is bliss, must have had his own good reason for it. Well, now I have mine.

NB – 1) tharki (adjective) – Hindi slang, which means being horny and desperate. For example – “I am tharki and proud”. :)

2) this post doesn’t end here, I completely digressed from what I actually wanted to mention, which was kindof deep !!, never mind, will put it up in the nxt one, don’t feel like it right now, stoic laziness is a medical condition in my case.

3) dear reader, if your number is 9230839048, and you are not a girl, pls do not intimate me on the same. thank you.

HOT PANTS IN THE DESERT....

As January threatens to turn into February, and the hour for my departure to the godforsaken city draws closer, I am reminded about the last time I was there, about that eventful October night, when I did the only thing with an iota of productivity during my entire stay, which interspersed the banality of my suffering with some semblance of excitement; albeit for brief spurts at a time, my talents in the sphere I had embarked upon not being exceptional. No, I didn’t lose my virginity, I did something far less stimulating in its dimensions. In a city which seemed to be suffering from a perpetual hangover, it came as a welcome relief. This is of course, if I were to discount trying my hand out at cooking, and in the process putting the lives of many a loved ones at peril. Talking about hangovers, getting one in the city, which I shall not name for I do not wish to arouse regional jingoism (pride?), is an expensive proposition, alcohol prices being one of the highest in India, a bottle of Royal Stag costing as much as a BP would in cal!!. Such inhumanity and iniquity to be exerted by a state on its people is unprecedented in contemporary times, for analogies sake if we were to delve back a bit into history, may be the German third Reich comes close. Even the bootlegged liquor my friends in Gujarat get is cheaper. And there are only so many clandestine swigs you can take at your Dads bottles. So basically you get the picture, I didn’t get laid, I didn’t get drunk, and ergo I blogged.
Apart from the alcohol prices I don’t really have much against the city, if it were given another century or so it might just become habitable, the people are nice and sober, (lets give them the benefit of doubt, and assume it is by option), there aren’t really too many women you get to see on the streets, the ones you do make you wish you hadn’t, never mind the fact that if they looked at me the feeling would be mutual; but the Hot Pants being sold at a couple of the semi malls that have mushroomed across the place hints at the existence of an entire uncharted territory, which I hope to explore some day, so with that thought in mind I leave, with the same exuberance and hope with which the Spanish conquistadors’ stepped into South America looking for the elixir, I just hope my quest meets a different fate. Godspeed :).
I also hope its finally got a multiplex or atleast a decent movie hall by now, that way it would be within sniffing distance of giving Patna a complex. And I hope I do not end up blogging this time around too.