To the Deaths of Sublimity!

From Virginia Woolf to Sylvia Plath.. From Ernest Hemingway to Edgar Allan Poe.. All defecated at the face of life, endorsing death with a choice. The world (and especially an impulsive jerk like me) will always be curious about the birth of eternal bliss that grows as a fetus in the womb of suicide. What's so grand about this dismay on grounds of flesh and blood mimesis, is the void unexpectedly created by fame and reputation. Such low is the failure of materialistic mimesis. And then there are followers like us, upholding the glory. But on a wider frame, sheer inanimates to feel the deepest tears. But gladly, light is speedy enough to lit the bulb of enlightenment. Bliss for the readers sake, at the least of all dark vibes. What kept them alive, are that blotted ink of randomness and those scribbled pages of perceptions. Literature, the angel with invisible wings indeed. Arts and Immortality are perhaps the most promising couple on earth. And I salute a wow!

Friendzoned

Go search for the word 'friendzoned' at any dictionary nearest to your fingers, online or offline. All you can find is a blank page or an error. At the most you may find neighbours peeping as suggestions : friend, friendship, etc.

Not funny at all. The term bears so much pain just like the way it has been scratched red while I was blogging this. Getting back to the pains, a word so common among teens and youth. But sadly, it gets pregnant with deeper insights when one steps maturity. Yeah the sensible yet sensitive, talkative yet the thoughtful mind.

Friendzoning is a murder in disguise for the deepest emotions of a victim. Friendzoning is a slap on the face of both friendship and love. Friendzoning is brutal, it unmasks the perceptions of the doer of how degraded he is behind the veil.

So, to all reading this crumbled piece, if you can't stand for the person who feels for you (yeah the merry making lovey dovey feeling), leave the stage. Not necessarily for any new visitor. But because, monologue sounds awesome to many!

Standing Up with the DownPours

A heavy downpour it is. Every drop pregnant in its journey splashes on the surfaces and meet its doom. And like nobody cares about it. 'Cause there are too many before and after. Too many countless.

Perceptions change with the age. With the growth of the psyche. It used to be an urgency for old newspapers in the childhood. Yes, the tiny paper boats. Printed, colorful. Every variety but bloomed the similar smile. A huge one. Purest as these droplets. And the size matters. But with a twist. The twist was but too scientific to reach a child's comprehension. The big ones were trusted to be the strongest. But sigh! The big ones wretched down, wet and sooner. Tears flowed through the heart. Oh why the betrayal?

Moving on, that rain isn't that pure gained acknowledgement. Everything is not what it seems like. Romanticism triggered a storm with every uproarious thunder. Every droplet that touched the skin reminded of that special one. Music of showers playing in the background; from Bollywood to Rabindrasangeet, from country music to uncut folks. The melody ran through every capillary passing through the heart. The weather, the fondness; you ought to be with me. I ought to be in your arms. But the playlist shuffled on sad notes too, unexpectedly. Oh why the betrayal?

Having known much about life by now, the showers still retain its essence. Memories, photos, moments, conversations, promises : scattered collaged on the floor. Few got washed away by the previous downpours. Few remained. And I learned to look up at the sky now. The thunders fascinate me these days. That this nature, however brutal it can be, shall come back again and again. Splashing its love over the barren heart. No stupid promises anymore. But a pen and a paper. The wet air smells so much of bliss now. And I care not about betrayals anymore.

DE-COMPARTMENTALIZING IT !

Discussing the taboos and stereotypical practices in an Indian society, the act of compartmentalization is trains and buses is quite common - general compartment, ladies compartment, ladies seat, general seat and so on. But how bizarre can it be if I talk of compartments in auto rickshaws? Supposedly, not much an unknown issue to the regular female passengers of it. For perhaps, every two out of five women must have faced (read 'been facing') this tumult that has already shaped itself like a cliche (because I've even spectated women giggling about it).

Right from the first day of form submission at my university, I've been noticing a rush from the university gate towards the auto rickshaw stand. Attending the classes everyday, the reason for the rush eventually attained my acknowledgement. The rat-race was strongly participated by the female students who struggle everyday to win a seat at the back row of the auto. But again, I was perplexed at the thought of what comfort the back row could provide to its female passengers that the front row couldn't. Days passed by as I managed myself at the back row seats of the auto, until one day arrived that cleared the fog for me.

It was a lazy afternoon as I reached the auto stand, dead-tired attending long lectures at the university. The moving vehicle warned me to sit tight and not to lean outside. Moving on, my doziness met a sudden halt when a humerus bone hit the muscles of my left breast. Pacing myself with the motion, I felt my body and my mind jammed. It was the right elbow purposely moved by the driver, utilizing the opportunity of every turn and every crack on the road. Yes I couldn't win the rat-race that day and so was this prize for me, being hit at the breast recurrently. Stuck in motion, I could feel the blood rush to my head, boiling and fuming, like every blood cell praying for a protest! I could hear my heart beats louder than the creaking sound of the auto-engine, until when a voice shrieked : "Darao!" (My mannerism barred me from addressing him as 'tui'; oh but why?). I could feel my lips pulsating the word three to four times, growing stronger and louder with every time. Hesitatingly though, the driver looked at me like a flash and finally applied the brakes. I rushed out of the auto and dropped my bag off the shoulder to the seat. Pushing the bag to his elbow I said aloud : "Now hit my bag with that secondary organ of yours as much as you want. Good luck to you, if that may appease your desires (read 'lust')." Escorting myself back to the seat, I turned back to check the faces of the winning rats of the day. I could the read the empowered eyes among which a girl smirked at the driver saying : "I hope you're at peace now. So let's move."

I don't know what better I could've done that day. But I remember the silent fear in his eyes, as I pushed my bag hitting his elbow. Respite or remorse, this incident engulfed nothing but burned like a flame of protest. It not only created assuage to my heart for the miles left to reach my home that day, but also made the co-passengers realize, that a word of protest can bring a change to any ill-situation. Running the rat-race to escort oneself to the back-row seats of an auto isn’t a solution to the molestation practiced recurrently. If one girl gets a seat at the back, the girl left for the front row noway deserves to be a victim. If one voice of protest can stop the offender for a day, more voices of protest can eventually stop the offence.

JUICES and ?????

It happened to be in her twelfth grade. A November evening, clock hand heading towards seven. A narrow, dark lane with single dimmed street-light, and the passer-by being just her. Mathematics it was, she left her home to take tuition for, like other evenings. You better be told, this particular subject never inspired her legs to reach her sir soon. Hence she walked slow without any hurry. Suddenly, she felt something hard-touched her chest. Frozen, she stood like daydreaming. Recovering her senses after a short while, she bulged her eyes wider at something that ghast away with speed. No sooner, it disappeared into a darkness that her sight couldn't reach. Vexed, she had two questions in her mind. First, do nightmares come even on streets? Second, was that a street-dog or something else?

Eighteen was her probable age that evening. Imagining that smoggy incident, I'm twenty-four, capable enough by now to discover myself the reason of the pungency in that air. That wasn't just a chest hard-touched, but the tender breasts of a teen being preyed upon. And definitely, it wasn't a street-dog, but yet something, perhaps some worse creature that could easily lift its fore-leg to touch the juicy fruits hanging from a tree, and escape away soon after its testosterone juices have reached its heart of fulfillment.

That eighteen years old tree once happened to be me. Many may call her dumb. Well, I would argue then and call her innocent. You see, her unpreparedness to meet such a mishap could never be her fault. But every time I remember that incident, I feel the blood rush to my head, boiling and fuming. Less because that girl couldn't protest then, and more because too many such "somethings" still exist.

It reminds me of the deep words uttered by Julia Roberts in her "Notting Hill" film of 1999. "What is it about men and nudity huh? Particularly breasts! How can you be so interested in them? ... But seriously, they are just breasts. Every second person in the world has them. ... But they are looking there for milk your mother has in...and a thousand of them. So what's the fuss about?"

Giggles at Reality

When the Prime Minister visits Shillong
The bamboos watch in silence.
When the President visits my college
I count the cars of security.
Sipping tea from my balcony
I watch that little girl by the road.
Standing naked, scared and stoned,
Staring at the windy racing rush.
When the President visits Barasat
I watch, I giggle, and I do this.

REceivings

How would you define an onset of a day throwing surprises at you one after the other? A bouquet of happiness? Ummm, let’s decide that later! To begin with, it was another regular busy morning, hurrying for my university classes. Since awakening, if there’s any track on my mind, it was Shreya Ghoshal’s reprise version of Kabhi Jo Badal Barse, a soothing Bollywood number. Contrary to the fact that I’m not its regular listener, this morning I discovered myself humming it, bits and pieces, once and again. On getting out, ear-pluggs grooved appropriately, sadly found the track missing on my playlist. No time to sob! Waving my hand, the bus halted to offer me a window seat. Wallah! Co-incidences do happen. And an amazing one this time. The bus got a music system, and it played the same same similar track! Quickly removing the plugs off my ears, I curved my happiness. Suddenly the driver applying his brakes,  compelled the passenger sitting to my right dash hard against me. Oh! Too hard that dashing was. The tiny soft hands on my face with the soft curls bushying on my neck, tickling my skin with profound happiness. Aaw, it’s a baby girl sitting on her mother’s lap. Compositing ourselves as passengers, the diamond eyes kept staring at me, while she cunningly made attempts to get a hold of my cellphone. Don’t wanna remember who’s ride was the shorter one, but those moments together, attributed to my happiness. What better can one expect from life on a regular day? Pricelessness actually lies in simplicity and is sprouted with unexpectations. Well, that’s my kind of pursuit of happiness.