Snow

Out there in the depth of the night,
Along the snow washed city streets
Resides a cello, amidst fiery winds
A new dawn awaits, cold and burning.

I write for the thousands of hands
Within each of us, writhing in pain
And suffering from mutation; psychotic
Violins hysteric in lost words; unsympathetic.

And the letters will tumble upon you
As the Sun rises to shine on the golden Earth
Future and its toys are waiting ...
The prison keys are dinging; blood symphonies.

White reflects your need and your sorry deeds
Flakes defy only to match steps to gravity
Runs the blade through my soul, Holy Trinity
Purged of and in my sins, I wake to chastity.

The notes are high again
The drums are keeping up
Sirens run through four strings
In each submits the other three.

Cookie

Do you want a cookie, my friend?
A soft, juicy one to fill your mouth
I still have one left in my pocket
My cookie is cute, alone it lies.

FUck off.
It's mine.

A Toast to Amsterdam!

Singing to you for just another bite
Another rainy afternoon, another Amstel
Another Ouderkerk, another tart-de-apple
Another Rumbaba snack, another bike ride.

Another windmill, another fight
Another two-Euros show, another night
Another wrong left, another missed right
Another waffle,  yet another red light.

Another flea market , another green field
Another story-telling, another 'American dream'
Another Tropen, another Apotheek,
Another Flixbus, another Sloterdijk.

Another Travis shot, another red Berlin Sky
Another John Mayer, another Laser Night
Another Czesc, Another Canal, Ethiopian style
Another -8400, another Burgerij.

Another breakfast, another green parantha
Another scolding, another smoking Salmon
Another slow tram, another Science Park
Another Harem, another length-over-breadth.

I know you're tired of my anothers
But not just another 29/01, each in fact ...
Unique in its staging of diversity
May everyday shine your Amsterdam.



p.s. May be next time, I Amsterdam

Irodion, Tiramisu and David : And a fabric

What does a good piece of art actually do? Apart from completing the hyperspace puzzle, it lends us hints for further pieces. We, the artists, the puzzle solvers let our fingers dive into the labyrinth. This is one such moment. I am experiencing immense power. I know I'm about to write something powerful. I also know that I have no idea about the content.
I have travelling for the last one month and finally at this hour of the night the calling has come. I now realize that I have travelled a lot recently. Dresden, Amsterdam, Berlin and now Tel Aviv. If that's not enough, I will be at Jerusalem tomorrow. Each place has enriched my experience in its own way. Sadly, experience kicks out innocence. But well, I still am innocent as far as being street smart is concerned. Anyway, this post is not about my experiences or experiments. It is solely about a new form of art that has engulfed me from every dimension. My first tryst with this friend was in a restaurant named Irodion Pallas. Now I'm infatuated by its intoxication. The friend is Greek music. A simple fish salad, ouzo and the music. It is quite a place to be in. The next meeting was in the same place when we had gone to try a slice of Tiramisu. Again, that Greece and Italy go hand in hand was brilliantly experienced!
Cut to three weeks later.
Tel Aviv ( a solid place!) : Prof. David Andelman decides to take us out for dinner. His treat, his choice of restaurant; a Kosher restaurant that serves fish. He surely is a man of resources, David. The restaurant, Meatos has two branches side by side. One serves only two kinds of fish courses along with a variety of Kosher food. The other branch not only serves fish but also plays 'loud' Greek music on Monday nights! This loudness made David take us to the other branch. It was exquisite, the place!
In a restaurant all you need is a good staff and great food. It was more than great on both fronts. An after dinner trip to the other branch finally inserted Greek music into me.
There is sensuality written in every note. Ancient to new, the thread is too long to talk about now.
It is in these varieties of art that we find parts of ourselves. There floats somewhere in the fabric of abstracts a detached soul that looks back at us, smiles and turns away. We recognise the missing part, the past that left us when we grew up. In each jumps of growing up, we released certain energies. There still remains an unexplained connection with us which, we will always be chasing.

Sona ma

I question myself often why I write my blog. The most common answer is that it helps me connect my present with past. On a bigger scale, this means that I write for myself. This post for sure is for myself only. My aunt passed away today. 4th of February, 2016. I don't remember when was the last time that I had talked to her. I never had a fight with her. I 'm sure in my heart that she would have wanted only happiness for me. But alas! Such are human relations and the cobwebs which fabric them are too thick for me to dilute. I wish life was simple. I wish people could forgive easily. I wish we all understood that smiling and letting go is the best and the easiest thing to do. Life is difficult by its choice but it has also given us the freedom to make our own choices.

Tumi chole gele
Hoyto bohu dure
Shoto samudrer pare
ei samudra ki kore peroi?

I have very few memories of my childhood. I do not remember her scolding me much. The strange thing is I failed to know you as a person. I started becoming my own person after I left Balurghat. But even since leaving Balurghat, I do not remember interacting with her. Nine years. I grew up in this nine years. I developed my own thinking in these nine years. I stayed away from her during this time. As a person, she thus will remain unknown to me forever. I do not know how my sister is doing right now. For her, her parents are everything. I know I will always be there for her. But will she ever be able to come to me given the screwed up family we share?

I am sitting in Germany doing nothing while my family bleeds today. What achievements do we brag about? What are the gains in our lives? I grew up in her arms and then I didn't talk to her during her final years. May be I am right in not making close interactions with anyone. It is may be better to remain aloof. It is better to not let people know that you do not care. In my heart, the truth lies.
To remind me of you, I will be eating fish during the next ten days. If the customs are there to respect our loved ones, these customs should be individualistic. I loved you. You will always be my family.

Deep

gaachh

Bheja abohaoay shukno gaachh pran khonje

pata charai aj bnachte hocche tader,

sobai bole ei to koto jol, ashubidha kothay

gaachh bojhay na kichu, dariye thake opekkhay.

abar thik Surjo uthbe, ful futbe

chiroka- i dhoirjo dhoreche thanday

manush ra ei thanday jeno pran pay

gaachh tai manush der nirjib bole.

A Hateful tribute

Christmas Eve.

A few bells could still be heard at this hour of the night. It was cold, just like every December has been. The fireplace by the reading table provided a piercing solace in the darkness. He sat by it, pipe in his mouth, an old letter in his hand. It was a letter from one of the most acclaimed film-makers of his generation, praising him for changing cinema once and for all.  

Letters, he thought. How manipulative they can be.

The present age has deprived humanity of this imagery. But he did not belong to this age. In his mind he was a man of past, sent to the future to correct it. In reality, he was an aging man, with the first few steps over the line of his prime.
He put the letter down on the table; removed his pipe and stared at the ceiling.

"Hello Mr. Tarantino!"

Quentin sat up with a start. Any voice inside his house was an impossibility tonight. What he saw in front of him nearly choked him.

Standing  ahead was a deerstalker wearing, face covering, overcoat dangling figure with a smoking pipe. Shocked as he was by the presence of this intruder, Quentin reserved his poise and en-quired, "Who's this?"

"An immortal", came the reply. "And I've come to kill you."

Quentin rose halfway from his chair, "What the fuck!"

A gun came out swiftly into the hands of the figure from within the overcoat.
"Why don't you just calm down and relax, Mr. Tarantino. You and me have got a hell lot to talk about tonight."

The figure took a step closer, freezing the director on his chair. The gun came down on the letter. "You've got a nice place in here, sir. " The hat was removed, revealing a thick growth of hair. Then the face was introduced; bright eyes,a size 3 stubble, a long nose, smiling lips.

QT: "What's the meaning of this? Who the fuck are you?"

"I have disdain for people's stupidity or what they like to call lack of intelligence. But I take you for one of my kind. I will still let you answer who I am"

QT: Some crazy guy breaking into my apartment with a gun.

"Oh! Most of your deduction seems to be good except for me being crazy. But again, opinions like any other human tendencies have a right to exist. So, without further ado, let me introduce myself. I'm Sherlock Holmes."

QT: See if you've got to take anything just go ahead. No bullets, no talking. Just do your job and leave.

SH : I understand you doubting my ingenuity. I haven't been convincing enough, if not at all. But you must have heard me when I said that I'm here to kill you, right?

QT: Hey hey. I don't even know you. Is there anything I can do for you? You have a grudge against me or something?

SH : On the contrary my dear Quentin. I have nothing but respect for you and that is exactly what brings me here.

Quentin shifted uncomfortably in his chair as Sherlock brings his palm on the table.

SH : Ah! A letter from Steven Spielberg! He praised you for Pulp it seems. Why wouldn't he ? We all did. You are so good Quentin; you are nearly as good as me.
Do you know what it means to be as good as me?

Pause.

SH : Immortality.

Sherlock picks up the gun and points it at Quentin's face.

QT : Hey please put it down. We are talking, ain't us?

SH : You do not talk too much tonight. You got it?

QT : Yes.

SH : Say "I got it".

QT : I got it.

SH : See, Quentin you have served your purpose on earth. You have always been Great. And you must know the curse of greatness, don't you? You are not allowed to be good anymore once you're great. But your last or as you prefer calling it, your Eighth, was far from being great. As a matter of fact Quentin, I have to ensure that you do not take a step more that deprives you of greatness. You see, this world we live in has seized to understand greatness. You are the sole flag bearer at present. It is imperative that you revel in your glory. For in all the ages, the ghost greats live on in the present ones. Killing you will ensure our survival. And hence my dear friend, I have explained my purpose. Now, you can speak.

QT : I..I...aaah..I don't know. What is this all about?

SH : You have been chosen to be great and I am here to deliver you with justice.

QT : What?

SH : You will receive a treatment that is fair, trust me.

QT : Whaat..what?

SH : Motherfucker say what again and I swear on your films that I'll grind that knee of yours. I dare you!

QT : What have I done to you?

Bang! A shriek bombed into the silence of the hour.

QT : Oh my God! My knee. My knee. Oh my God!

SH : Now do you understand why I'm here? You've even forgotten your own lessons! You taught the world to break free and you today are hung up on showing westerns! You were a visionary. You lived in the future. BUt now you are neither in the past nor in the present. Where the hell are you then? You sure as hell are not in the future! I know because I am! And I have been sent because if you live you will certainly not be in the future.

QT : You psychopath! Just take me to the hospital.

SH : Oh you are funny Quentin! Of course you are. This is your forte. Fun in violence, right? Your signature. That reminds me of two more signatures to be done on you.

Sherlock takes out a knife.

SH : Let's pay you a tribute, Quentin.

Amidst shrieks, the knife carves out an ear.

Twenty minutes later...

 Blurred images slowly start to clear up. Quentin opens his eyes, his head dangling on the opposite side of the slashed ear. A hand oscillates in front of his eyes; a ear, his ear held by two fingers.

Quentin slowly looks at his captor.  A smiling face, the satisfaction of enjoyment. He knows this expression. It is the same as the one he gets from people at every climax of his.

SH : I'm sorry I cannot kill you Pulpy style. I mean that would be best, won't it? I think I would just blow your face off. That I'm sure would be worth a hell lot of Pesos!

QT : You're a fool. I'm not against Mexicans!

SH :  Excelente Amigo! Now we're talking! Ain't this a fitting Tarantino climax?
So now you know who I am, right? Tell me who I am.

QT : I don't know.

SH : Don't you go back now. You just solved the damn puzzle. Tell me who I am!

QT : You're a Mexican that's all I know!

Another gunshot. Another shriek.

SH : I AM AMERICAN. I HAVE A NAME AS WELL.

A fading Tarantino still looks at his nemesis.

SH : What was your movie all about Quentin? Racism they say! Unification some others say. Unification of democrats and republicans. Unification of white and black. But unification at what cost? Your answer is Mexicans!
                           You are smart. You really know what's coming. So what do you want? Well, again since you might want many things, I'll just give you two choices. You get to pick your ending style from any of your movies or you get to apologize for your Eighth movie and leave in peace.

QT : Cocaine.

SH : Oh! No apology. You choose cocaine? But cocaine didn't kill Mia!

QT : Please. Only wish.

SH : You remember writing your dingus monologue, don't you?

QT : You Mexican scum!

Tarantino spits.

SH : Well, Quentin, as promised I will give you a fitting sayonara! (laughs) Don't worry it's not going to be five-point-palm-exploding-heart technique. It's going to be as shameful as your last climax. I am not Sherlock Holmes. My name is Sebastian and for you, I am Sebastian, the Hangman!

*********************************************************************************
Christmas Day :

New York Times

Brutal Homicide shocks Hollywood : Quentin Tarantino slashed, shot and hanged on Christmas Eve!

The Sun

Quentin Tarantino : An artist's worst nightmare!

The Times of India

Karma bites the greatest director of the generation!

Anandabazar Patrika


"Keu kicchu koreni! Sob amrai korechi" : Mukhyomanti


p.s. Any view expressed here is solely for entertainment purpose and this post in no way discourages you from watching the Eighth movie by QT. In fact it should also be added (just to ensure that the feds don't arrive at my doorsteps for harmless humour) that any resemblance to any character, mentioned here is purely by coincidence. I hope the response to this article isn't hateful at all. All we need is peace and yes, of course, love.

Away from the alluvium (dedicated to Roy Orbison)

All thoughts leave for the subway
As the temperature equilibrates
He sang that this life fades away
I write, precisely for that day.

She is listening to the winds of shore
Western classics; running out of stores
The optimist he was, lines he chose;
Are floating through the waves of yore.

And as the Sun comes out
Bathed in a sea of hopes
She sees a surfer far away
Wind, his companion; dawn, his day.
Ocean welcomes her feet
As the firm hand catches hers;
They speed towards the Sun
To the other side; of approaching dusk.

Violence addiction : Humans; past, present and future

The hammer rose up, his hands were mere means. There was a pause at the top, pause that raised expectations of a beautiful fatality; and the hammer came running down right on the back of the pig's head! The pink pig squealed, it's last anguish on Earth; it's youth draining away through its slit artery.

I hungrily watched the video till the end and then calmly clicked on a cow slaughter video. I went on like this for about an hour, surfing through various animal murders until I felt a deep urge to watch human slaughter. The age we live in, the Age of Information provides us with every luxury one can dream of. Thus, in front of my eyes, a man was butchered on the streets of Iran!

It is at this point that the realisation hit me. Violence is addictive. I have always been a firm supporter of peace and non violence. But I never knew the true flair of violence. Given our upbringings (covered in the civilised veil of education), initially violence feels like a repellent. But it's all abput sitting through the initiation process. Then, like all deep secrets of science or arts, the deeper truth gets revealed. Human beings are meant to be the most violent creatures on the planet. An animal can only become advanced if it knows how to score over other forms. We are the smartest and the most cruel life forms. But unlike other animals, we were different. Nature, on the process of creating diversity, made an exceptional choice. She created us. What is so special about us? We think God exists only for humans, we think there are aliens just like us out there somewhere, we basically are deluded. The specialty of human beings is that we are our only competition. Unlike other life forms, nature pitted humans against each other in the race for survival. The more advanced an animal is, the more violent it has to be. But this is a game of cheques and balances. Nature supposedly mistook the optimal level of smartness to be ascertained to us and just poured in cruelty along with grey matter.

And this is where, everything went wrong! Humans figured out that to keep on existing, they would have to let go of violence. But they also made out that this non violence has to be directed only at themsleves. Ever since, Mother Nature has tried to eradicate the chaos of humanity from her universe and yet have not succeeded. Human beings might be easily wiped out someday or it just might be that creating us was an experiment gone horribly wrong. Humans have always figured it out.

 It seems that Mother Nature was the real Frankenstein!

Q.E.D. ??

 Anshuman : I don't care, man! I feel a strong apathy towards everyone.

Rahul took a deep puff before throwing the cigarette away with a smirk, " Amay bol, how can apathy be strong?"

Anshuman : ki jaata bokchis! kano na hoyar ki ache?

Sunandan : Ekta bondhu biye korbe bolche r tui ei "don't care" attitude dekhas ki kore ke jane.

Anshuman : kano bal? Ritam jemon chele, I expect ei boyesh-e biyei korbe. Sala bochore 10 lakh
taka maine pay. ki abar korbe?

Rahul : I still don't get it. How can apathy be strong?

Anshuman : Amar kicchu jay-ashe na. And it is a very strong feeling. Na bojhar ki ache ete! Du pata gaanja tene high hoye achis naki!

Rahul : Then it's an enforced apathy; which is again not really apathy.

Anshuman : Eh eh, tui baal cher. oto explain korar amar kono compulsion nei.

Rahul (laughing) : Are tui chote jacchis kano?

Anshuman : hyar baal!
(to Subhas : edike counter ta de)

Subhas (handing over cigarette to Anshuman) : 10 lakh salary paay bolei biye kore nebe? R kicchu korar nei jibone?

Anshuman : Na nei. He is not a dreamer and he is not even a delusional dreamer like you guys. He is what they call "Practical".

Sunandan : "Like you guys" mane ki? Toke ke boleche amra delusional?

Anshuman : tora ekdom tai. Ekhon bolbi tora modern, onek kichu achieve korte chas, bullshit. du bochorer madye sala sob biye kore nibi.

Rahul : tor mone hoy dreamer hoyar janyo biyer icche thaka jay na?

Anshuman : amar to nijer janyo tai mone hoy. Nijer dreams er janyo, yes!

Rahul : hya! seta tor personal opinion. amra ki chai na chai tui ki kore bujhbi?

Anshuman : kano tui ki chas? Bou eshe tor somosto dream puro korbe?

Rahul : e abar kemon katha? of course, amar biye niye kichu fantasy ache. sobar thake..

Anshuman (interrupting) : amar nei..

Rahul : hya kintu amar ache aar amar mone hoy 90 percent loker ache jara biye korte chay!

Anshuman : tui basically tor jibon theke bored hoye gechis. tai tor mone hoy je tor ekta transformation proyojon.

Rahul : hya chai to. ami jani amar jibon ta thik kon track e ki bhabe jabe. ami jani professionally ami kothay jabo. amar tai biye ke jibon er sob theke important jinish mone hoy. aar hobe na kano Bhai? amar nijer je samay, jei samay ta ami enjoy kori, shei samay ta ami ek joner sathe share korbo. eta important na?

Anshuman : seta tor mone hoy tor aar achieve korar kichu nei, tai. aar biye just ekta contract. ekhane meye r chele holo goods. Initially the girl makes the payment, rather investment so that for the next 30 to 35 years, the guy promises to look after her. aaro Jodi kichu bolis, biye holo just a social permission to have sex.

Sunandan : Eta kemon katha? Investment mane? Tui jeta bolchis seta ei generation e hoy na. At least, amader circle e to meaningless. Ami to emon kauke biye korboi na je financially independent na!

Anshuman  : I don't respect marriage. Amar mone hoy eta demeaning. Ami bolchi na amar partner chai na. But biye na! Jodi for legal reasons, amar baccha ke amar naam dite hoy to debo. But otherwise amar ei biye byapar ta ke hollow lage.

Subhas : Accha Anshu, tui ekta katha bol. dhor tor ekta meye ke khub bhalo laglo aar meye tar o toke pochondo. ebar situation emon holo je meye ta toke biye na kore tor sathe thakte parbe na due to various types of  pressure..

Anshuman (interrupting) : ami chere debo. break up kore nebo.

Sunandan : Even if you love her? amar mone hoy na.

Anshuman : accha tahole bol konta tor kache beshi important, to love someone or to be loved?
(questions everyone)

Sunandan : I think for me , to love is more important.

Subhas : Equal, I guess.

Rahul : If I love someone, I love someone. It doesn't matter if i'm loved back or not. But nischoi chaibo je amakeo bhalobasuk.

Anshuman : What if you never receive the love that you give? What if your entire life passes and yet she doesn't love you back? taholeo thakbi to ?

Rahul : kokhonoi hobe na kano? ek samay na ek samay to bhalobastei pare.

Anshuman : Se to kukur pushe Jodi take bhalobashis seo toke bhalobasbe.

Rahul : hya bhalobasbe. kintu amar jei bhalobasha ta chai seta sudhu ekta meyer kaach thekei paoya jete pare. kukurer theke na.

Anshuman : amar to mone hoy kukurer bhalobasha enough hotei pare. tora jebhabe biyer katha bolchis tate ami kukur pushbo seta better hobe.

Rahul : dhur bal! tui ekta kukuer sathe ekta meye ke compare korchis? baal kothakar!

Anshuman : hyar bal! tui ja bolbi tai thik hobe naki? amar mone hotei pare.

Subhas and Sunandan : Baal gulo chup kor ebar. ja icche tai korish.

Anshuman : bhaag sala! o ja bolbe tai mante hobe naki! Dekhbo koto ki hoy jibone. boro boro dialogue bara!

Rahul : gandu maal sala! (to Subhas now) : kuttar sathe meye ke compare korche bokachoda.

Anshuman : kukuker sathe meye ke korini baal. Na bujhe katha bolish na.

Sunandan : Accha tham tham! Puro nesha ta namiye dilo bokachoda gulo! Chol sala bari chol.

Subhas (to Sunandan): Ami toke chere di chol. (smirking) Aar Rahul Anshur cycle e jabi to?

Rahul : hya amay bari char to. Sala deri hoye galo be!

The two cycles take opposite directions after a while.

*******************************************************************************
Sunandan : Uff, eder dujon ke ek sathe rakhle Bhai! Ekhono jhogra kore jacche dakh.

Subhas : Na, ekhon kicchu korche na!
*******************************************************************************
Rahul : Eh, kal Walking Dead ta ansih kintu Bhai. kicchu dekhar pacchi na barite.

Anshu : Thik ache. kal bikele niye nish.

Another lazy evening

"To Gladiators", announced Rajdeep as Anwar and Priyam raised their glasses.  The atmosphere was dull this evening and the three friends were stuck in Anwar's apartment, their plans of the weekend being erased by the shower outside. Priyam shook his head, "Raj, bring me something aesthetic from Italy. I don't want any alcohol shit. Something small and worth keeping would be great."

Rajdeep : You sound like Sreya. I'd get you something cool. A Facenti, perhaps?

Priyam : I'm serious, dude. Who knows where each of us will end up? I would like something that time won't touch.

Anwar, scrutinizing into his glass spoke up, " Boss, bring me a bottle extra then! He's right; we don't know where we are gonna be after a year. So bring me my liquor while I'm still alive."

Rajdeep chuckled. Life had turned out to be good in Kolkata. Rajdeep had figured out a simple truth. If you hurried in a slow city, you were sure to finish first.  He got up and walked up to the window. The drenched Jodhpur Park- Mod was not its usual self, with its emptiness penetrated by a few cars. He had too many dormant memories of this place; which he knew will forever be in that phase.

He turned towards his friends. Two talented, lazy Bengalis. 

Rajdeep : Hey Priyam, when am I going to get my book back?

Priyam : Don't worry. I still have it.

Rajdeep : I know. I'm not worried. I had lent it for a reason, dude. Someone else should read it. Bring it the next time we meet, please.

Priyam : Okay, man!

Anwar : Which book are you talking about? The God and Devil one?

An irritated Rajdeep let out a grunt. He shook his head as Priyam couldn't help laughing at his scowling.

Rajdeep : Just bring it back, okay?

Anwar emptied his glass and winked at Priyam.

Anwar : So Raj, tell us about the book.

Rajdeep : Yeah, fuck off.

Anwar : No man, please. Whether we read it or not, we can discuss the philosophy. Anyway, we are wasting time. Let's talk about your experiences from the book.

Priyam : Good idea.

Rajdeep : Okay. The book essentially says that any man can be God, given how he reacts to his situations.

Anwar : And? Do you agree?

Rajdeep : Well, if God is perception, then yes.

Priyam : Hmm. Well said. But then, what happens to the Man once he becomes God ?

Anwar : He fights with himself every moment to remain God, I suppose. What does the book say, Raj?

Rajdeep smiled. "The book never dives into this part, you know."

Priyam : But what would you say?

Rajdeep : "You either die a Hero or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain."

Priyam : Alright Mr. Dent. So being God has nothing to do with spirituality and everything to do with power?

Rajdeep : When perceptions dominate, truth is far from the actions.

Anwar : Let us keep perceptions aside. Islam defines God as undefinable. Your religious books have associated Him with everything one can and cannot see, virtually making him undefinable too.

Rajdeep : You cannot keep perceptions aside while speaking of the unknown.

Anwar : Well, you're right. So how will you bring spirituality alongside God?

Rajdeep : Well, people can do certain things in certain ways. That is essentially how God is viewed in religions. Whatever your path might be, if it's right then it will lead you to Him.

Priyam : Yeah, among so many paths it's also possible to chase illusions.

Rajdeep : Exactly. Coming back to your question about the Man, I think when a Man sees himself as God, he has taken the path of illusions. Hence, he will falter.

Anwar : Wouldn't you say that only God can truly become the Devil? No mortal, I think can achieve this feat!

Rajdeep : Yes, but he is the God of illusions.

Priyam : Wow! Scriptures are starting to make sense. Raj, just bring me a solid bottle of Amaretto!

Rajdeep : What happened to your senti-wala gift?

Priyam : I've just stepped on God's path, man! I need liquid. Liquid, my friend.

Anwar : The rain has stopped.

Rajdeep : Yes. It has.

Priyam : Chalo then! One last movie together !

The three friends walked out into the light drizzle accompanied by their umbrellas. A tiny thread of ideas went alongside, submerged into the unseen dimensions of this chaotic city; a city wrapped on its own.