I am really really sad and anxious and in despair. I had this sudden urge to hear Ja hariye jay- a Rabindra-sangeet that I had heard only from my music teacher. It is a beautiful song about coming to terms with the losses that assail mortal life. And the melody is equally beautiful and completely in tandem with the lyrics. Now I searched the net for a reliable and faithful rendition of the song but came up with nothing. Faithful adherence to the swaralipi (notation) as put down by Tagore is a must with me, being well aware of and a strong believer of the fact that the full import and beauty of the lyrics and Tagore's genius in writing and composing songs can be comprehended and appreciated only when one follows the notation faithfully. This has been an issue of much debate between me and my friends, thankfully without acrimony. But the fact remains that most of the singers nowadays, even those blessed with a really good voice and marvellous singing capability have taken it upon themselves to work their 'magic' and 'individuality' in the songs of Tagore, openly, audaciously and odiously flouting the notations and sometimes even the lyrics. Why can't these creative people improvise on their own works rather than try and improve on Tagore's? But they are popular because people have now no or very limited access to faithful renditions of Rabindrasangeet. So who's Subinoy Roy, who's Nilima Sen?There's not one song sung by the either of them available on the net. But look for Indrani Sen, look for Srabani Sen- you will be flooded with numerous horribly mutilated renditions of Rabindrasangeet sung by them.

True, many say music obeys no rule. Please let them write their own songs and express themselves to their heart's content. But try obeying rules of Rabindrasangeet for once, diligently, sincerely and if you understand music, it will be evident that the freedom of expression lies not outside the purview of these rules. If we call Tagore a man of all ages, let's be true to our word. Let us take him as our contemporary in his terms.

I'm afraid we'll soon forget what true Rabindrasangeet is.

:(

I think more than sad or anxious, I am angry. Seething in fact.

Here's the lyrics:

Ja hariye jay ta aagle boshe roibo koto aar

Aar parine raat jagte he naath, bhabte anibar.

Achhi ratri dibash dhore duar amar bondho kore

Aste je chay sandehe tay tarai bare bar.

Tai to karo hoyna asa amar eka ghore.

Anandamoy bhuban tomar baire khela kore.

Tumio bujhhi poth nahi pao, eshe eshe firiya jao.

Rakhte ja chai, royna tahao, dhulay ekakar.

Class tests and Term-papers galore. I hate to let the last week of my life in JU be so hectic that I'm left with no leisure to gather memories enough for later. And though in retrospect, I'll love and sorely miss this excitement of last-minute pouring over books and notes, writing fervently on white sheets of paper against a rough wooden bench, the handwriting deteriorating as the invigilator announces the barely few minutes left in which to cram the major part of the answer, and a sense of jubilation even after a terribly bad exam- right now I believe I'm dying under the pressure And I hate the lack of opportunity and time to indulge in sweet afternoon nostalgia and going over fond, fond memories again and again and again.

At the cost of sounding EMO, I am now wary of trusting anyone. Everything is just made of words. GODDAMNIT.

Every relationship demands a transparency, a mutual trust and scope for respect. When either of these demands is not met, the relationship fails. And accepting falsehood and dishonesty is never a condition for ideological flexibility or liberalism. I have always hated lies and I will not compromise even if it means letting go of people I value.

Today I did two things that made me sad afterwards. As is a common practice with me, I sprinkled water on a friend's face lovingly after washing my hands. And as I was walking down the corridor, I saw a poor little dog turn its face towards me, wagging its tail happily and I sprinkled water on its face! Immediately I felt bad when I saw it cringe away. I apologised and it seemed to understand. It seemed to smile at me and wag its tail more vigorously than before.

And when I was waiting for a bus, a young boy came up to me and said 'Didi ekta chop kine debe?' I gave him the money, but didn't buy him a chop. And for some reason he didn't go up to the fast-food stall and buy what he wanted to. He just kept asking others to buy him a chop. I don't fel strongly for able-bodied beggars, but something about this boy, something about the way he kept staring at the food from a distance, waiting very patiently for someone to buy him food, hurt me. All around the stall there were hungry faces, but shining faces and his was the only greasy, hungry face and lit up only once in a while. My bus came and I didn't wait to see if he ate. I'm sorry.

:(

People play foul games. Right Left Center. Painful. Tiresome. Bestiality is two minutes away. And never to become man again is a possibility that is eternal.

I'll be your pillow, I'll be your shoulder, I'll be the ear you can whisper into. But I'll not support you. Not when you are wrong. I'll stand by you, I'll believe you, I'll love you still.But I'll not speak for you. Not when you are wrong.

My M is getting married. When we were very young and we believed in a Utopic world, we decided to give marriage a miss and stay together as 'nuns'. Somehow we thought that being a celibate was equivalent to being a nun. As adolescents, we were less rigorous and I pictured M getting married in an opulent manner, in a carnival of red and gold and saw myself posing as the principal bridesmaid. M is getting married. I am happy for her. I am sad. It feels weird, unsettling to see your best friend marry a man of whom you know so little. M is happy. I'm happy that she's happy. But inside my heart there's this nagging fear of finally having to let go of her.It's a fear of unbelonging. M will make a beautiful bride. She is a beautiful woman. But I won't be there. I could never have imagined not being with her on her wedding day, not sitting tight by her side throughout the day, not eyeing her in-laws with a little apprehension and more abhimaan but I am going on a trip. Somehow it feels better to stay away.

I'm probably horribly selfish and possessive, but M is still so much a part of me, despite the physical distance,that it's almost as bad as alienation from the self. I'll miss the M who has always been such a constant factor in my life. Love you. Wish you a very happy married life.

Why must I always make sense? I declare I will not.

Saw 4 lovely puppies. Reminds me of a weird song from long ago- a song my friends Sree and Tanusree had made years ago. ' amader birisona sohinididir skirt taane/ skirt taane na pant taane/ke jaane bhai ke jaane'. This text has no basis in any preceding event for its creation and the performance was an exaggerated one for 'Biri' the dog had only just sniffed me and never accosted me in a violent canine fashion . Biri was a dear little dog, despite the obnoxious name.This reminds me of yet another song 'Panapukure snan kore mor sordi legechhe.' The first time we heard this was when Sree and I were seated by the window, trying to pay attention in class, of course in vain. Such poesy lifted us up from the mundane atmosphere of the classroom and allowed us to wiggle through the narrow windows to the music recorder that was playing it. There our souls fluttered around the recorder, like thirsty bees around flowers, or flies over entho. :)

Bajey bokey shanti holo.

What's 3 weeks to 9 months?

I don't want to understand. I'd much rather sulk and cry.

:/

It is raining. The green around me has turned a shade darker, wetter and better. I ride huge waves of nostalgia and love for the 23 year old world.

Who on earth would like to study Amilcar Cabral and Benedict Anderson on such a day? I'm sure they themselves wrote these voluminous pages theorising culture and nationalism on nameless, mundane days, not on such green days as today when the world turned a little older than 23.

This is what terrorism has done to us.

We find a purse lying abandoned near the steps in front of the Worldview Bookstore, a regular hangout of many. We suspect it as a potential carrier of bombs, however minuscule, though it is pink and has teddy bears on it. We try to finish our lunch quickly and move away.

I was taking pictures in the department today, randomly, looking for moments of frivolity in a serious life, and I was focussing on the students in a classroom when the class was in progress. I hear a girl enquiring her friend if I were a terrorist. At other times, this might have sounded funny. Today it didn't.

My friend A, one of the craziest friends I've ever had, one who has pulled my hair innumerable times in class,has hit me with fat books in tutorials, calls up from Madhya Pradesh, his voice taut and helpless at the same time, asking me to take care of myself, because he lost two of his batch-mates in the German Bakery blast. I had never heard him sound so broken.

Nothing changes. Nothing will change. Power will always be a love, stronger than love itself.

Memory is a yellowing photograph.

Madness is fun. Madness is fashion. Madness is the sign of genius.

Madness is scary.

Undesirable.

Disorienting.

Take it from me. I'm the mad girl.

Sweet lover

So why is it that lovers must address each other as 'honey' or 'sugarplum' or 'sweetheart' and such stuff? If I had to call my lover by a name that moistens my mouth and creates just the mood for loads of love and mush wouldn't '4 number gate-er fuchka' be more apt? Or 'Biryani' for that matter? If you insist love is sweet and so is the lover, why I'd much rather call him' kaju-barfi' or 'jilipi' instead of honey or such like. In any case you can have only about a spoonful of honey or sugar before it makes your mouth cloy with a sickly sweetness.

Be original. Remember Pantobhutni.If you must commend the sweetness of your lover, let it be in the name of a sweetmeat you like truly. [ But please rosogolla and mishti doi are way too overused by 'oh-I-love-kolkata-drool-drool-ohthemishtidoiandohtherosogolla!!!' celebrities. But if you must, who am I to stop?]

BON

Sometimes I am just a huge ball of nerves (Not that I'm huge, why one must have lied shamelessly if he told you I'm huge! Nor am I spherical. Again you misunderstand. All I mean is-sometimes I am just a huge ball of nerves.That's that.) Nerve ends prick the inside of my skin, eager as fishing-hooks to catch the slightest of slights and insults and cold shoulders and you-name-it. In short I become sensitive to insensitivities. God save my friends on those days.(Now I have three classes of friends-college classmates, school friends and club friends. With the latter two this ball of nerves phenomenon occurs very very rarely, if at all. These are the people I'm most comfortable with despite their teasing me ceaselessly on the most delicate of matters. But it would be a falsehood to say I'm not comfortable with my classmates because with some of them I share a rather strong bond and can discuss the most delicate of matters. But most of them are formal, entirely civilised, very prim and propah, horrified at the idea of teasing someone about what one would rather keep a secret... why then am I a ball of nerves around this super-sensitive, uber-sensible bunch?)

So I'm upset if they forget to wait for me at the canteen, or leave without saying bye, or snap at me if I ask why they feel bad...oh you get the drift I'm sure. Now this is extremely idiotic, but at the same time rather painful.

There are also a kind of people whose nerve ends are probably so entangled in zillions of knots that they fail to carry any impulse at all. In short, they are insensitive to sensitivity. Now I could cite instances galore, but would refrain. It's rude to criticise, won't you agree?

(Between you and me, I can't give such examples-was only looking for a chance to say half clever things.:D.)

So on some days I occupy the middle ground and on one such day,because I had asked her to stop rubbing her shoes, each against the other, producing a noisy distraction in class, a classmate glared at me with her really scary glare, , which I failed to notice. :) Lucky!

(That nonplussed poor dear D. isn't this habit of quipping in parentheses rather infuriating? There's only one thing worse than reading stupid quips...Chetan Bhagat is a pro at that-making stupid quips I mean,not reading them. D'UH!! He makes you want to say that every time he tries to make a wisecrack. Okay so getting back to the point-there's only one thing worse than reading stupid quips, that is being told your own quips are stupid. Now dear readers, surely you won't do that to me? REDALERT!! I start feeling like a ball of nerve already!)

Are you a BON yet?

P.S with reference to quip no 3.-I'd like to add that I remember one example at the least-the man driving the car that hit me this saraswati puja. The front wheel kept pressing onto my leg, despite my loud screams. The man just stared vacuously. Poor man! his nerves need stronger medicines than my injury does. Oh, and that part of my leg is now blue and black and red.

Day before yesterday, on the phone, he said."but you never write of me." and I realised with a pang that indeed I haven't ever written truly about him, my boyfriend, except some rather stupid mushy and to undo the mush, cryptic posts. It has taken me a while to realise that like so many others, like in so many relationships, I have perhaps taken him for granted. I don't always realise the urgency in his across-the hemisphere calls-just to hear my voice, I don't always deal patiently with his need to feel my presence, even virtually before he goes to sleep, whereas he doesn't fail in taking some time out of his uber-busy schedule to call me as many times a day as I want him to. There are so many beautiful little things that he does, so many natural little flourishes here and there to make me smile, even though he can't see me smile across the oceans, so many times that he tells me I'm pretty (which is untrue) and so honestly, so earnestly that I start thinking I'm beautiful... It is he who is really beautiful. But I let him be the mirror and revelled in my beauty, and rarely ever let him revel in his. Strangely I sound like Martha in 'Who's afraid of Virginia Woolf?' I don't know how to end my post. He's the support. I could have lived without him but I don't want to. Love you Souvick.

I had a nice day. Took some nice shots that made me very happy. The only bad part was getting shouted at by a beggarly woman sitting alone picturesquely, poetically on a small flight of stairs,when I tried to take her photo. The language she used wasn't poetic at all. Very scary in fact it was. I fled.:( Truly, poverty and insanity might seem poetic to us but it is not to those who suffer under their yoke. Sorry woman.

Seems I was so disturbed by that morbid show I didn't even notice what it's called. It's called Raaz Pichhle Janam Ki and not kahani purvajanam ki. Ekta kapoor hangover. I should go and die. or may be I should go to that show , get analysed and find out why I am neither tall nor pretty. Perturbs me big time. I'm serious.

P.S.-Since he won't read my blog, it's safe to disclose that Sounak is a worse badminton player than I am.:). Readers,believe me.

Mixed bag

As is normal with me, I have been putting off writing on this blog [spellcheck wants me to change it into glob] though stories, anecdotes and emotions have been piling up inside me, not out of sheer laziness but on the contrary because of my preoccupation with other stuff such as studying,which is not normal with me. So anyway once again this post is doomed to be a mocktale of a number of unconnected events, feelings and opinions which I shall try to concoct while racking my brain frantically for witty comments and hard words.

And that brings to mind by what one would like to call reflex action a professor's wonderfully witty comments about how one should use as many hard words as one can, when young, because one is doomed to forget them later anyway and seeing that the pleasure of using hard words just for the sake of using hard words is comparable to that of having sex for sex's sake, one ought to have a fair share of it early in life. So we laughed gaily for a while today.

Okay so, 3 days into the new semester and I have started studying. Hard to believe as that is, even for me, it's true. And it felt good, to say the truth. Though I'm a little scared I am turning into a nerd, who loves studying just for the sake of it, dreams high, but aims nowhere. So be it. If only I could go on studying all my life. Oh God! that sound horribly nerdy doesn't it? I switch topics.

So Jyoti Basu is grievously ill. And he has been grievously ill before, and has always recuperated steadily and gone back home to celebrate yet another birthday. He's not 95 for nothing . So I hadn't paid much attention to his being sick now. And then this afternoon we heard he was dead. And we checked a blog which mourned his death. We are an unfeeling bunch, we are! [Sadly I'm not even too sad about that. I'm sure we can all be sad when it's really time to be sad.] We were more concerned with the speculation on whether the next day would be declared a holiday . I think I felt a little bad for him- Poor old man! He died...that way. Because all through my growing years I had heard not really pleasant things about the man and being as uninterested in Politics as I am (shamefacedly) I never bothered to clarify unbiasedly .By the time I left for home, all of us were sure the former chief minister of Bengal had secured us at least one holiday. Back at home the TV channels confirmed otherwise. It was a nasty rumour! Nasty indeed it was! Besides killing a dying old man before his time, it had deluded us into a happily tranquil state that is only possible to attain when one gets a sudden holiday in the middle of the week, the cause notwithstanding.

Buk bhora asha dhuk kore nibhe jaoa and all that!

I played badminton after ages yesterday! Lost both sets, but not without a fight! However puny my stature, however diminutive my frame I put up a fight yes![Not that it helped much, my opponents helped me better] And now

My right arm aches

My right hand aches

My back aches

My right leg aches

My left leg aches.

But I love the ache!! It makes me happy.

I admit kahani Purvajanam ki is a show that spooks me. I cannot entirely disbelieve it, nor can I accept it wholly. Mostly the stories are traumatic and the analyseds seem to be suffering during the process which makes it all the more difficult for me to dismiss them as complicit in the TRP boosting conspiracy, if there is any. It seems to be an irrational, illogical void. I myself sort of believe in birth-cycles whether instinctively or otherwise.Or may be only to dissuade myself from thinking too much about Death, which I already obsess about, to the point of morbidity. When I was young I had a belief that I was a female trapeze performer.Whether it was an original imagination- using the term in the sense of its image-forming aspect- or I had appropriated it from a story book is a question my memory can not be trusted to answer faithfully. But the show is about death and strange coincidences and it disturbs me no end.

Tunna is recharged by sucking her tiny little thumb. Tunna says the sweetest 'ta-ta' ever. Tunna is the naughtiest baby ever. Also the petukest ever. I am her fan. But she'll grow up soon.:(

Some days I feel so full of love that I find two perfectly ordinary men speaking to each other a lovely sight!

Old people without teeth look amazingly cute. I do not mean to be unfeeling.

Oh, and May seems so much nearer from this side of 2009. May is a nice month.:) Much better than August.

Emosonal atyachar?

Goodnight.