Is there another tide?

Is there another tide?
'Have waited for a long time,
The stills of dying sun-shines
Reflect a young me, passing by.

Wish I had a horse to ride
Along the beach, they call Paradise
And a gun tied to my seat
To wake up from the dream.

I see pages raining before me
And I chase with an uplifted spirit
Without fear, thoughts and anxiety
Is there another tide left for me?

Wouldn't I lose myself in its arms?
Rise with it to the imposing heaven,
Heel myself with the touch of life
And be thrown back down to die...

Till the next poem;

'Where is my mind?'

Hello time-wasting, self-destructing brilliant scholars of India! Welcome once again to my blog where you can safely spend the next few minutes of your fruitless existence in some bizarre hope of entertainment. I am a self loathing hypocritical narcissist. Well, you aren't, are you? Surely not! You are the blessed product of evolution whose grey cells are no better than scrambled eggs. Wait! Am I putting you off? Don't leave.....please.. I need you. You are my audience. Please listen to me...Please, I beg you. I hereby declare without a hint of sarcasm that this writer needs readers like blood needs the eighth element. How much ever full of shit you are, whatever disaster you cause through your observations, you are my reflection.

Do you want to hear a funny story? I live in a country where from our very childhood we hear about the great history of the pre-historic times- how the Vedas are the source of every knowledge, modern or ancient, how Mahabharata mentions nuclear weapons, how meditation allowed sages to live for centuries... a knowledge basket, as if the very purpose of being born was to be born in this country. Such values...such traditions, such benevolence, such violence, such deceit and such shameful portrayal of laws! Laws never change, so we must write epics underlining these 'values' to run a civilized society! Truly, the way to go, dear forefathers! Job well done.

We bask in the glory of our past and we worship dishonesty as the virtue of our existence. Take for example a premier research institute of India. The government has been kind enough to rain money on this institute in figures of hundreds of crores each year! Hundreds of crores, Each Year. Today, for some reason the same institute can't afford to pay its phone bills and electricity bills. Two days ago it threw out 140 temporary workers in a 2-days' notice. 140, fucking One Four Zero people made jobless in a day! Surely, something has been going horribly wrong here. But who gives a fuck, really! Our values have led to this day, haven't they? All lines coincide at one point. Power. Some have it, others don't. Those who possess it can lie, cheat and steal (I remember you, Eddie!) and strike off the names of those who don't have it. The funny cycle of reality. I saw this once before. I remember when all of a sudden the two best teachers of my school were thrown out without notice. I am watching the disgusting misuse of power once again!

I helplessly ask myself, what if Tyler Durden was right? What if God really doesn't like us?

How about some fiction now? There is a state in some country called I-NDA. The state is known as Filthy-United-Cartoons-to-Kill-and-Eject-Democracy-by-Useless-Painter or FUCKED UP in short. FUCKED UP is ruled by a drama-queen named Satota. Satota has many brothers, most of whom are either in jail or in hospital. Today I-NDA is a host to not only diverse cultures and religions but also a variety of Waves. Some prominent waves have names such as 'hawa-bodol', 'moody wave', etc. For some miscalculations that took place on either side, the central and state leaderships are now at loggerheads. If compared to a human body, in I-NDA, Centre would be the brain and FUCKED UP would be literally one of the sore middle fingers. The finger needs an antibiotic treatment and thus one has the medicine, a Central-Crime-Fucking-Unit (CCFU). I-NDA is also a terror-struck country with utmost hatred towards terrorists. To make matters worse, FUCKED UP also appears to have links with such culprits! In this fiction, I hope for a happy ending, Tarantino style. Blow up the motherfuckers to dust! It should be done in such an elegant and convincing way that it should evoke no pity whatsoever in the audience but a satisfaction so extreme that the theater should ring with deafening applause.

The End. Piss Off.

                 p.s. : 

140 people made jobless by those who themselves caused the deficit of money! So much for the Vedas.

A Ballad of Promises

The knife hit me and I died
And then flew a drop of my blood...
                I never saw it leave
                I never sensed it could
                Fade the pages of time
                And gather wings on road.

                It never mixed with dust
                It never held a sword
                In a never ending dream
                Formed a world of its own.

And then my darling stood on me
She took aim for one last time
I could see the trigger slide
And I looked into her eyes.

                Deep, dark, beckoning eyes
                A promise, another disguise;
                The trigger rolls back in time
                That bullet shall never fly.

You see my gun, o yeah!
And you know your last ride
I didn't choose the bullet
But the magic of surprise.

              You fall on your knees
              You look at me as if I've sinned
              But I never chose to be
              Just another memory.

So my love, here I leave
We part till we next meet
In some shady hut, some frozen street
I'll kill you as you please.

The N-Galaxy: Object F9

-Dad, can we land on the stars up there?

-Yes, son. We can.

-But grandpa said that it's impossible!

-Do you see that star over there? The brightest of our sky. There's someone who reached beyond that.

-Really?

-Yes. Would you like to see how?

As the eight year old kid nodded in awe, I carried him in my arms to my study. I opened my DVD drawer and smiled back at him. It was time for his initiation.

                         ****************************************

As human beings are we simply meant to reproduce and keep populating the planet or is there something worthy of being chased that we should seek, even if without answers, till one generation merges into another? Speaking in Christopher Nolan's language, we always have a choice. Nothing but our own actions determine our future. WE get to decide what we'll have. Surely a privileged class, aren't we? Spoiled with more chances than we can handle what if there comes a day when the choices are suddenly taken away? 

Voila! Welcome to the grandeur of Nolan Galaxy. This galaxy, like any true galaxy is mostly dark with dots of light scattered throughout in order to pave way for the signature of life - you know right what it is? - hope.

In this darkness we are asked repeatedly not to go gently. May be the creator never meant mankind to be gentle - hence the arrogance, ambition, wars and civilizations; progress manifested through layers and layers of evolution.

Oh you saw a man being trapped inside a Black Hole (Big term!) and then getting rescued as well! Stupid, right? But did you consider replacing science with hope and man with mankind? Did you even bother to think that there was a time when man would only know about killing wild animals for his survival? The man back then would not know that the moon was reachable but why would he care? You surely know where I'm getting at, don't you? O, the comparisons of past and future! Does it really matter whether the totem falls or not ? A Black Hole - something that doesn't even allow light to escape... Oooo...scary!! How dare the director allow a freaking human being to escape? Cancel, we must his artistic license! How dare he believe that a powerful conscience (Do not go gentle, remember?) can rescue humanity from the clutches of Ignorance? Film lovers, we are. At least, we claim to be.

I thoroughly enjoyed a film that took me back to my childhood when everything was assumed to be possible. But then, reality has served dust over dust over decades. A child's universe had long since decided to hibernate until someone docks at the relevant station and wakes him up, even him momentarily.

What is reality? The mathematics that we are able to solve, the lust for power, the moving life forms all around us, what exists in our textbooks - isn't our reality just what we believe it to be? Why is then an imagination, a dream not equally real? If your sub-conscious shows you images of you steering a spaceship or living inside the Sun, how can you even call it unreal? Doesn't just the choice of believing make all the difference? We speak of science, of Einstein, of relativity. What about the reference frames in the Imagination space?

Memento. Inception. Interstellar. The Choice is the reality.

Do I believe in the subsequent giant leaps of mankind? Oh yes, certainly. I'm probably one of the optimists, one of the "Greater Fools (for reference, watch The Newsroom, Season 1, Episode 10)" of this generation(- an interval along the time axis where the higher dimensions are neglected for the ease of calculations, for the laziness of the privileged!). 

 Edmund, eh? Mt. Everest, anyone? Can't we hope that our next leap at least takes us to the highest point, which is yet firmly grounded?

                     *************************************

-I wish I landed on Miller's planet, Dad.

-Would you not be afraid of the waves?

-If I know when to take off, what's there to be afraid of?

I was about to say, 'An improper take off ,may be'. But I caught myself. I saw an optimist in him that I never was. 

-What about the Gargantua? Would you pay it a visit?

-Only if you come with me!

-I might have to leave for Edmund's planet.

-Then I'll either come with you or stay here with mom.

Someday son, I thought, you'd have to visit the Gargantua on your own! And then he asked the question of all questions...

-What's a sphere?

Fair is foul and foul is Shakespeare.

Hai apna dil to awara, na jaane kis pe ayega!

I have heard this song innumerable times; Dev Anand, with his andaaz wooing a more than beautiful Waheeda Rehman. By chance, I happened to see a link which read, 'Hai apna dil to awara (sad version)'. Now, I haven't seen Solva Saal (the movie, info for the hatke cinemawalas). So I was a little intrigued on seeing the link. Can a song that has always been associated with happiness and carefree attitude be also portrayed in an entirely opposite mood? Only then did I realise that it's how you sing that makes all the difference!

Well, that was the prologue AND it has absolutely nothing to do with whatever I'm going to write now.

I am a Senior Research Fellow of this blessed country- the sentence can be read with as much cynicism as one likes but it has been written with absolute conviction.

I am a  narcissist. I love myself. I am not necessarily selfish.

Recently there was an announcement by the Government of India about modified research scholarships. Well, in a society where money dictates the amount of respect for someone's work, this seems like a welcome change, doesn't it? I remember being asked by a person just after I had got into my PhD program, ' toder okhane basic research koto ta hoy?' The person I'm talking about teaches at some neglected college in my state. He never even went for his PhD. I was angry, a little disappointed even but I remember having replied with 'hoy motamuti'. Contrary to many people's beliefs, I do have some social values.

 Well, a few days later, a classmate said to me, 'Saha te kano thakbi? PhD ta gnaare mara jabe.' I was angry and I was extremely disappointed! I had my own personal problems to deal with at that time and I chose not to reply.

Time and again I have heard so many negative things about the PhD process. A good student once told me that PhD life is nothing but boring! I was dumbstruck. This made me wonder whether there is something seriously wrong with the process or is there a problem, albeit small, with the mindset?

Honestly, who cares? I love what I do. Personally speaking, amar dwara r kicchu hoto na! Precisely, there isn't anything else I ever thought of doing with my life. I love my life and I mean it. I value every single breath that I take. Sala ekdin morei jabo... tokhon ki chera jabe amar icche, anicche, akankha, bhalobasha diye? PhD life does not suck. It keeps me and many more like me Awake and Alive.

Simple living and high thinking, eh? I am yet to understand what 'high thinking' means. About 'simple living', well, there isn't anything to be said.

Talking about Physics, Interstellar is about to hit the screens worldwide. Unfortunately, everyone would be understanding time warps in a week. If only they understood that Pi had a great Life!

"Nothing is just... Nothing." Read, for reference, the prologue, again.

Is winter really coming?

Britter o-par

Dupure kheye uthe amar beriye porar abhyesh
Rod er ashirbaad-e moner asha bol pay
Chokhe apekkha ektu ektu kore byasto hoye othe
Halka bhoy er aanch buke kamaan dage.

Keshtopur-e niyom moto ekhon jibon cholche
Koto manush bus theke neme khal perote prostut
Dhulo, bali, hawa sob nijer niyom-e boddho/mukto
Sudhu buk-tai aj shitol hoye muchre ache.

Jodi hothat abar shei daak sona jeto
Pa jekhane nije thekei chhute chole jay
Jokhon prithibir uposthiti upekkhar soman,
Ek ek muhurto dekhay nijer amulyatar proman.

He Gotanugotik jibon;
tomar britter gayeo chidro ache jantam na.
Boro shunyer hawa
ebhabei meshe choto shunyer sathe;

Choto shunyo! Shunyo hoyeo bartaman.

Punye kon paap?

Aj ekla boro kobi

sobhyota gaye lagche na

soundarjo mekhe nite chay

shorir er protiti kona-y

uttap chhorate chay shantir bashay.

Bichaar korte chute elo ei sobai

Kobir ki shei adeem nesha chai?

toyakka nei; toke chay pranpone

keno chaibe na? kobi ki poshu noy?

Dupurer grihodahe toke chay

Raatrer sheetolotay toke chay

R(h)arer nasokotay toke chay

Snigdho chumbone toke chay

Rokter agnisrote toke chay

Deergho alingone toke chay

Osther barnanay toke chay

Tor premiker thoke jaoyay toke chay.

Sarboshantoh hoye ja ei kobibakhye

Lutiye de aboshisto naritwer sambal

Kiser tor laj? Kor churno mithya saj

Paaper chorom ponthe hok na punyo aj.

Anarchy's message

Listen, listen to the whispering wind
Streets are about to burn, they say
Remember the pages you once tore apart
The liquid walls are giving away.

Set your clocks for the sunset alarms
Covers are flying away never to return
Peacocks are celebrating the first fire,
The painted world and its golden sepulchre.

And yet, you scream on about your wishes
Wish you were aware of life's disguises.
Alike we are, yet you were too busy to see
Anarchy calls me now, is it the time to leave?

Shei sabdo ra...apatoto

Notun kichui kokhono bolar thakena
Ja chilo, ta thakar ageo jeno chilo
Achomka paoya asroy alga hashe
Jeno ghum bhangiye majhrate ulka-brishti.

Ami duto katha boli, duto lukiye rakhi
Nidrar obhabe bujhi jwala ek matro sakkhir
Ajosro odorkari sabde tader mukti di
Bartaman bhorche sudhu kichu itihasher chobi.

Tukro sabdo gulo tukro bhalobashar motoi hariyeche
Khnujte chaina r, dorkar o nei; biporit srote bheseche
Haate ajo agunti rekha dekha jay sudhu, proticchobi nei
Sedin o chilo na, jedin kopal chapre hatu jole hnetechi.

School palano baccha chele lukiye thake
Ei bodhoy meye tir chokhe pore galo she
Ice cream gole jay, kothin protikkha roj
Ek jholok dekhbe, keu jante parbe na.
Se kichui chaite sekheni, sarolyer tej chokhe
Ei prithibi sudhui tar, ek jon kei ta deoya jay.

In the mood?

Hoods and cloaks protect the neck
As bullets fly to equate payback
In the mood for love, you say
Having lost my leg, I could care less.

Stories, ringtones, pills and mistakes
Drifting in a space without a face
Counting backwards, time dilutes pain
Save your truth, strike another day.

The Phase Space

Hyperbolas near an unstable fixed point (FP) are super awesome! For an observer, the phase space cannot look anymore beautiful. They provide no bounds and stretch to infinities on all quadrants. But the poor, untrained physical world loves ellipses.  Small, closed objects with limited scope, these ellipses just end up constraining the philosophical output. Yet, the Royal Society has such an elliptic foundation that infinities, although powerful, are yet struggling to find admirers.

A few days ago, the unstable FP was sitting happily in his static position while a particle rolled towards it from the second quadrant. The particle, being close to its minimum, didn't want to move any further. The FP liked the fact that he had someone to meet after a long time. But he has seen many a particle along the same trajectory. They come, they leave. Nature's laws don't change. But unusually, this particle wasn't showing any intention of leaving. The FP knew that someone must have tampered with the action. The FP was now angry. No one messes with his phase space.

The mathematician looked at the screen with a cunning smile on his lips. Watching the changing phase structures with each change of parameters gave him a super-human happiness. He looked at his finger tips. He felt powerful. He peered into the screen. The equations have changed. The point has been tamed. An ellipse has locked it in.

Yellow Roses

The petals are the same,
But colours matter, you said
If there was a green Sunset,
Yellow roses would have a lot to say.

Residue drops

The final few drops get ready
To leave the broken ceiling
One by one, like clockwork
Reality settles over dust, humiliates.

The poet is dead, his study's awake
Literate paintings await footsteps;
It rained last night while the scotch ran out
Empty fireplace, sandalwood's costly.

Winter's paradise, a promised land;
The land that never existed; thus
A promise that never was kept
Fragrance yawns through the fields.

And yet, a few drops remain
They see the shining Sun while falling:
Evaporation, another daily process
And they fall with a wry grin.

Pay a Visit, don't Stay

It's easy to run for a while,
Easy to trust another smile
To speak the truth while lying,
Curse the accused for your crime.
But for the patient wrath of time
By the Godfather's words, I live, I die.

Papers and dust lie on the wood
Each waiting only to be removed
Belittled is his presence today,
For his memories have turned grey
A silent knife seeks blood, sniffs prey
Thirsty dead winds howl over a grave.

Kill me twice, let's taste the sour grapes
Kill me in the name of your helplessness.
For I am unbreakable, I'm invincible;

Are two different coins, life and death
I will belong to only one like I always have
The other is welcome to visit but not to stay.

Thank You, Breaking Bad

All good things come to an end, they say. But this was Bad, and it wasn't just good - it was the absolute Best!
4th July, better known as the American Independence Day would be much more significant in my life, for this is the day I started watching Breaking Bad. Today's date is July 24th. In a matter of 20 days, this 'fiction' has turned my life upside down. For a guy who had forgotten to live for himself, this series has been a new lease of life. Words will always fall short to convey the feelings hidden in the tears running over my cheekbones.

Who is Walter White, exactly? Is he among everyone of us? No, he isn't! He is present in a select few in today's world.  Wodehouse once wrote, 'The Right triumphs in this world much more often than we realize.' It is funny that in our world that stands on foundations of modern twisted logic, we say right and wrong are relative. May be a little introspection will always tell us the absolute difference!
In this bullshit civilization, sacrifice has to hide in love, honesty is met with ridicule, morality is questioned by the immoral.

Have you ever asked yourself what you're really good at? You must have, haven't you? Well, if not then better quit reading this article and fuck off.
So what are you good at? Take a moment. Yes, Now! A little thinking does no harm.
Are you then spending most of your time doing what you just thought about? If you are, I envy you. In case you are like me - doing something you can manage, say in an above average way, are you happy?
Here's a free question : If you're doing something you love with your life, would you ever be able to give it up? When have you felt that you can do something better than anyone else?
 As Walter says, it is rare! If you feel you're the best at something would anyone else asking you to shut your operations matter at all?

I, for one have found a reason to celebrate my life. Yes, I was living my life holed up in a pit, chained with a thousand misgivings. After 20 days, Mr. White has let me drive through the closed gates. No, he hasn't taught me to live his life. Never once has he asked me to be him. He has gifted me a freedom and taught me to value it for the rest of my life.
Being a murderer isn't that bad a thing. It was important to kill my fear.

I am not Walter White. I can never be. I can only learn from him. I am the one who wouldn't listen to him and yet he would persist with me. I hate him for thousands of reasons. Yet I love him without an idea why. At the end, when well wishers fail to rescue me, he always turns up. He will save millions like me, silently and yet he will be prosecuted for being on the Nazi team. Yes, the world will prefer to call him Heisenberg. And I will prefer to call this world a Bitch!

So who am I? I'm everyone who was born Post WW2. I am anyone born with a freedom a few great men thought I deserved but didn't win for myself. It somehow perfectly makes sense now. True, Heisenberg was never in danger, he was the danger! Danger to the danger.

I'll knock when the curtains forget to roll
I'll take my caravan on a desert stroll
Dealers of death will buy what they sell
Crystals will come alive in a reclusive blue
I'll teach you how to love, kill and count
My days are numbered yet my life is new
I'll leave behind a legacy while you're asleep
I opened the cage for the bird that flew.

Dedicated to the loving memory of Walter Hartwell White

Raat

Nijhum raat night-lamp jwele boshe ache
Koto kichu bolar ache tar, sobai ghumonto
Se likhte chay kintu muchtei pare sudhu
Chonder shoshane akkhhor er ahuti bartaman!

Jodi keu jagto tar sathe ki hoto?
Ei bhebe raat ektu dukkho pay;
Keu to karor janyo kore na kichu-
Raat jane, kintu shabdo korte pare na!

Alo raat ke mukhchora bhabe
Raat naki spontaneous noy tar moto -
Kintu se ar ki jane, Bharat barshe
First Order transition physically unacceptable.

Tai raat kauke kichu bole na
Khola janlay proticchobi dyakhe
Samay er katha bhabte shuru kore
Sudhu samay i jane tar gopon sob kichu.

X,Y... A

Wish I had a learner's license
And my sins would be forgotten!

I write and erase my lines. Rarely for the erased lines do I feel sorry. I wonder why people blame the creator when they are hurt. The Creator simply does not have the luxury to care about all His subjects.

You speak of broken dreams
While buying love for a dime
The world swims into your grip,
Few birds are not born to fly.

I don't have much to say today. It's an usual morning with a tinge of unusual. The very fact that I'm writing at 7 a.m. is not such a common phenomenon at MSA II. Well, seasons change in a cycle and so does life. If only our so called love lives followed a similar circle! ;)

The goal keeper is the only one who loves the football. While everyone's desire is to put it in the net, it's the keeper who stands against all in order to prevent the trapping. The football doesn't do anything at all. Yet, it keeps you alive, inside the net or not.

I can only smile to myself,
Conclusions are always hard to find.

After the End

The bullet leaves as she sings a lullaby
Drops of blood and rain turn alibis
The heart starts the process of stopping
His footsteps splash water all over the railings.

The ignition signals for redemption
For each crime the deceased signed
Windscreens keep clearing the view
Tyres roll; the radio hums the rhyme.

Smells and stains evaporate in time
Into the sky for a cleaner breath;
Seasons change and the city turns pink
A famous bullet dies a forensic death.

He finally reaches their tree house
She's there, the lullaby on her lips
                        And he lets the gun fall,
                        Circling through the void;
Night dawns on their world slowly
Exit wounds would soon be forgotten.

Re-constructing (A Breaking Bad Tribute)

The creator looks through the smoke
In search of the mythic blue crystal
The ventilator awaits an oxidant
The exhaust pipe burns crimson gold.

Never mind my business, Electrolyte
The battery is dead, as expected
They teach about the soul that's humane
But this death's no hangover, it's real!

Melodies cry out in writhing pain
Chains of lust dig nails in your brain
A shiny knife draws blood on sand
Pretty wife licks the blood beforehand.

Oh yes, I'm high! Soaring over your lows,
A bastard's mother just sold him to the crows;
The air outside my van is such lush green
My teeth sink into the tongue until you begin to bleed.

Heisenberg, Player marks his territory
Bones of winter fight for heredity.
A taste of what you create is yet to come
The monster, set free will never be quiet.

So congratulations, I'm still awake
But the eye lids have already started to beg
What if the long awaited nap starts now?
What if the monster rises, silently before you?

Liberation

There's something behind the bush
Something cold, dark and sharp
The cold north wind has come back to town
To haunt a few, to pay forgotten dues.
A boy waits for the bus as a predator stalks
The Grim shoots a glance towards the clock.

The guitar jumps to the sharpest tunes
Ripples come alive in a near-by pond
Cigarette burns between locked  fingers
As letters burn to wash away the past
A distant song about an unknown Hotel
Swims through the senses deep into the blood.

The knocks get a little louder on the door
Pen and paper make love once more
Desires loop out into yet another nothingness
An embryo forms in the womb of the Goddess.
Water breaks on the universe, here comes the rain
No matter how many days you live, live without shame.

Kolkata, A lover's Tale.

Kolkata. A city. An entity. A culture. A song. A romance. A graveyard.

Being my mother's home, Kolkata was the fairytale city of my childhood. Even though I never had the typical Bengali Kolkata-prem, my destiny has always sent me spiralling into the chaos of this city. Be it the choice of St. Xavier's or my PhD life, Kolkata unfortunately will bear the stamp of my gain and loss, more loss than gain.
A school friend once said, "Kolkata kills ambition!" How vehemently I had disagreed with him at that time! I must say this guy was well ahead of his time. Kolkata slow poisons its prisoners and does so beautifully. It gives you hope, provides you with a ladder, even allows you to throw the dice but it never shows the snakes on the board! You can be this close to victory and yet so far.
The funny part is that you cannot blame anything else but yourself.
This is the city that gave me freedom and snatched it away . I find it amusing how Kolkata lets you breathe, yet chokes you at its will. This city gave me a friend for life only to slowly reveal chinks in the friendship armour!

At times, when I've felt defeated, this is the city that took me in her shelter and gave me new hopes! Yes, Kolkata has shown me life like nothing else. She has been a mirror, reflecting the inner turmoil as well as the light that lies buried inside. For all my disturbances, she has always drenched me with the western wind. She has shown me the Sun breaking the veils of darkness and she has led me to darkness when I had wanted time to stop.

I have lived in her glory, smiled with her when change set sails on her banks. I feel helpless today as the wind reverses its direction. I want to stand right up against the wind and claim her for me. But she never was mine to protect. She belongs to the history books. Writers will load College Street with stories of her desires, lovers will pack shelves with collections of her pictures. She doesn't need to pose, my Tilottoma. At least, in my world of words, do I get to call her mine. If I were the phoenix, she would be my fire and my hopes, the ashes.

I am just another admirer, like thousands before and after me. I wish I were one of those blessed ones who actually had something to give to this city.

Someday, my dear safe house, I hope you know there lived a guy who loved you.

The day he turned Fifty : Part I

Year : 2039
Date : x/1/39

The alarm gave a violent kick to the beautiful morning dreams of Neel. He slowly pushed open his sleep deprived eyes to check the watch. Yes,  5:30...time to wake up.
There was one trait Neel had acquired from his father- sleeping late. But he knew well enough that Dad will be enjoying a sound sleep at this hour. Neel smiled to himself. He had so many things in common with his father...love for parents being the primary one.
At seventeen, Neel was matured for his age. The main reason for this would be his father, again. It had always been his father's priority that Neel understood from an early age how the world functions , something he wished that he himself had.
Neel had been a bright boy since childhood. Being good both in sports and studies, he was a favourite among most in school. But it was his understanding of social issues that made him the star in his father's eyes. This was a father-son relationship that bordered on friendship but dived deep into protectiveness, a fact Neel understood all too well.

Today his father turns Fifty. Neel left his bed and ignoring the cold walked steadily to the cupboard. He was still feeling a little unsure about what he was about to do. Was he stretching it too far? But the boundaries were never sharp enough! He opened the cupboard and carefully took out an old diary. On the top right hand side was inscribed, Diary 2014.

Neel has always known his father as a passionate person even though his father keeps mewling over exactly the opposite. He had asked his father numerous times to hold the pen again but the only response was that the passion wasn't there anymore. Yet on enquiring on what made him give up writing his father would maintain silence. At times he would read out his favourite pieces to his son but wouldn't write anything new. His father, somehow was lost in the past. To Neel this veil was an injustice to his mother. When accidentally Neel found this diary, he was so overwhelmed that he thought it best to keep quiet. But how could he? This was a chapter in his father's life which had had the most significant impact.  
Twenty five years ago, a different man existed - a boy more than a man, yet a man, nonetheless.

Neel flipped through the pages and finally made up his mind. The clock showed 6:15. He hurried out of his room and ran into his parents' whose doors were always kept wide open for Neel to sneak in anytime, he wished. He saw his parents conversing softly, as his mother's palm circled on his father's chest. They love each other. Am I doing the right thing? Should I really be demanding answers? But why not? If they have love for each other, shouldn't everything be out in the open? Dad loves the past. Neither me nor Ma will judge him, ever. He can and he should be free! Neel knocked on the door with the diary in his hands and smile on his lips.

Sujay and Anuradha looked up brightly at their son's smiling face. Here comes the boy to wish his father. Oh! there's the diary. His parents looked at each other and Sujay spoke first, 'Come here, son.'
Neel : Happy Birthday, Dad!
He handed the diary over to his father and said, 'Is she the woman of your life, then?'
Anuradha who was messing with her boy's hair let out a chuckle. Then she turned towards Sujay, "Ebar bojha chele ke! Nije pakiyechis."
Sujay took the diary from Neel and smiled effortlessly, "Afterlife."

Of a life currently influenced by Game of Thrones and Amitav Ghosh

The latest season of Game of Thrones has finally got rid of its artistic (protecting) hood. We have finally found the glimpse of a bank which chooses a side to back in a war. The bank, no, not even the bank shits gold, let alone the Lannisters! The bank will back whoever pays the debts! Today might be your time but alas! The time runs fast in Westeros, faster than in today's Earth.
Isn't it amazing how a fictionalized political drama states fact much more simply and honestly than all the so called news and information centres?
We even see characters as brutal and true as life permits. A man in love with a woman since they were kids, rather obsessed with her seta a whole kingdom on fire. What happens after the woman dies? This lover hits on her daughter! True, assholes exist. In the third season, we found love. Sadly though, all the love stories were torn apart by the end. Yes, existence calls for sacrifices. Some sell swords, some souls; the few who are driven by love end up dead - thus playing no role in the world ruled by banks. Funny.
In the sixth episode of the 4th season, we find a helpless boy searching for answers of his father's murder from a Queen who believes in justice : Is it fair to counter violence with violence?

No, it is never fair when you are at the receiving end.

Amitav Ghosh. A Bengali, who writes in English and creates spectacular magic.
By now, I have read four of his books. The first one, I recall was The Calcutta Chromosome. A science fiction spanning both time and space, the book introduced to me his amazing story telling. I followed it up with the brilliant, The Hungry Tide. This was an English novel, yet it always felt as if I was reading a fantastic narrative in Bengali! Apart from the research that forms the core of his work, the characters still win as the highlights of his books. Kanai will haunt me forever, for it was in him that I could and can still see my future. At times, it is good to watch the world as it is. May be that's what God does. He writes the code, sets the parameters and runs the simulation. Experiment. We are mere particles worrying about our existence while He cares truly about the result. Only when the result doesn't seem to be that interesting, he probably perturbs the system accordingly. So what exactly is in our hands, I ask again.
In The Glass Palace, Ghosh praises the dark room - where something is created out of nothing. Being a physics graduate who's not an atheist, I can easily relate to it. What is the source of the first ever thing that existed? Pity, the question loops in a contradiction.
The last book I read was the Sea of Poppies. We see a proud, rich Raja, also a passionate lover, lose everything only to discover himself. Yes, there still exist people who don't give in. The cruelty of the world only serves to make them stronger and smarter. They don't do to the world what the world does to them. They live on; in pages, mud and winds. Then there's Jodu. A man who rows his own boat, which breaks. But the exact opposite happens with him. He makes his way to the top of the ship, where he belongs, in the world of winds.

Yes, the name suits him, Azad.

p.s. Being a Bengali, who loves aloo posto and discussing politics, poppies and thrones make a combination one can't resist.

The Dark Room

A few open pages
Hold a series of lines
As a cool breeze
Flows in through the open window
My darkness, egulfs
All but my face
As the woman plucks the strings
In the sands located far away.

The sounds of various darkness appear
And disappear within the vaults of memories
A fusion of despair and rhythms, colourless dreams;
And a voice keeps haunting through the arteries.
Winter has left a bone too many in the paradise
The returning shephard hides sins in the eyes.

So, my dear darkness
Run over me tonight
Like a dice rolling through history
Take my hand and embrace me
Make my childhood flash
All over this silent sky
The stretches of my imagination
Are demanding to fly.

Khnuje Paoya

Sheeter dupure hnata shei pata jhora rastay
Ajo oneke hnete berai ;
150 bochorer holud sobuj bari rod pohay;
                    2tor por direction bodlano shei byasto sarani ajo one way
                    Koto goli, koto rastai na eshe or buke pore;
                    Premik, sramik, sahityik keu dam, keu naam chay.


Cha-er cup hate konodin shei chhate uthle bujhte
Sokal kake bole, nihswas kake bole;
Pollution mukto gambhirje bhora Itihasher chhite;
                                     Bohudure Howrah Bridger kuasha bheja steel
                                     Ebong rate sojasuji Eden er alo rongin;
                                     Bus, taxir awaj, 4 tolar ghor, premika r physics.


Kader je shahor tumi ami janina
Amar chotobelar smriti shuru tomar kole
ekhanei shikhechi abdar, ananda, bhablobasha;
                                  Aj bypass er gaa beye cholche roj opore othar chesta
                                  Dhulo, mosha, chitkar - nijeder tomar ango bolte chaiche
                                  Kobi gaichhen, "Tomake khnuje peye chaina harate abar."

Mone porche ei rate onek kichui,
Boyesh hothat phire takiye aj hasche
Protiti muhurto nijer kore bnachte hobe
Khnujte hobe, harate hobe notun kore
Uthte hobe, mishte hobe, jagte hobe
Kobitar Kolkatay fyataru ra mukto hok, bastab hok.

The Shadow (City of Lights)

I'm a shadow
I walk behind many leading men
and women
Along the dirty history of this city;
I don't rot, I see others choose
Hell over heaven, even earth!
I only follow, like I've since the beginning
And there might not be an end to my end.

I've seen men lose fortunes
And disintegrate into me
I have seen Venus burn
All forms of morality
And I've seen time flow by
On its own desires, unaffected
As the lanes of my traversed path
Have entangled and made the scholars say...
"History repeats itself!"

So many women have suffered heart aches
And have tried to redeem themselves with
better lovers;
So many poets have faltered on the lines
Lines of passion, of mistrust, of civilisation.
Yet does our Kolkata live, in its pale yellowish glory
With a few shadows like me, vigilantes.

 I look at my palm, lines again
Sins? Yes, there are a few
But a shadow must not investigate
Light might be quite a harmful excitement!
So why must I feel bad of what I know?
I, myself am a carrier of darkness
For centuries, of inhuman truth and lies.
But I roam in the night, not alone... not alone
If I have sinned, so have you
If I have loved, so have you
If I have dared, so have you
If you have survived, so have I.

What if a lady broke a few thousand hearts
Half a century ago?
How many of those hearts were actually pure?
What if a woman breaks another heart
Tonight, in this city?
In this age of probability, what is purity?
For a poet, may be the night is romantic
For a helpless lover, it's a stranglehold
Pages bury themselves in each brick of your city
The shadow keeps learning, keeps bluffing,
Deep inside a vault, resides its very own secret.

The Invisible Dimension

Music flows through your fingers,
And streams towards mine,
Passion, ignition, souls, desires
Have awakened within me
A long forgotten march.

A divine purity has washed over me
My sins are dancing in your hue
A light drizzle caresses the west wind,
I long for my beloved by my window.

Am I the only one enjoying
The dance of a thousand peacocks
My out-stretched hand moists itself
As distant thunders provide enlightenment.

Take me with you, O chords of time
Land me in the past or future
For I do not care anymore
Let me out, set me free, put me on fire.

Burst me into flames
For my words have left me
Where to am I floating, I know not
The need for gravity has never been so strong!