flavour: personal

MASTIFF BITCHES: M.A. English

Where do you find,
Such a combination?
A doverman, an alsatian,
A shepherd so german?
Of course in a class,
Modern, post modern;
Trying to be authentically american.

A variety of barks,
Thoroughly sounding like farce;
Howls, growls, bow-wows,
No difference between metaphysics and moo-cows!

The doverman- silently eloquent;
The alsatian- bombastically displaying talent;
The german- terribly tiny but never latent...
Mastiff bitches- unbelievable entertainment.

pre-marital confessions...

HITLER & CHURCHILL:
Mrs. Mom and Mr. Dad,
Both of them,
They make me sad.
We shout, we fight,
With all our might.
I revolt, I accept,
I complain about fate…
Everywhere, I’m just a misfit,
Like with Porter’s protests,
None cares for mine a bit.
I want money, I want fame,
Success is wild, I want to tame.
Runaway into somewhere, I will,
All their expectation, I want to kill.
A life for myself, I want to live.
In my own decisions, I want to believe.
Mrs. Mom, you’ll then repent,
And Mr. Dad- you’ll only sigh
At the so-called ‘values’
You had to me lent.
Gosh! I just want to be…independent.

ME- THEIR DAUGHTER:
I’m putting up with pages,
To avoid mom’s rages.
I’m not allowed to shout,
Coz I live in my dad’s house.
I retaliate-it’s the ‘English’ syndrome.
I keep mum-
Cursed is the Calcutta chromosome.
Watch TV- star plus.
Listen to music-their class.
Wear a dress-the ‘society’ way. oof
Behave consistently- come what may.
This cannot be me…
I am, but I choose not to be.

ME- THE INDIVIDUAL:
I don’t do,
What I dislike.
I speak up against,
Paralyzed rights.
I want a car,
Which I would drive.
And my very own flat,
At any time to arrive.
A job satisfaction,
An impulsive reaction.
A man to love, joint surnames,
Children to cuddle, their games…
If heaven for me is such,
Do I ask too much?

Shaky sequel:

Making of COMEDY OF ERRORS II:

Shakespeare visited my dream,
He pleaded, persuaded and screamed.
“Write something that’s a sequel”,
He said. “And write it really well”.
Shakespeare must have been out of his mind-
To even ask me to be one of his kind.
I certainly could not fulfill his desire,
But I felt sad at how he had to retire;
So in the great Shakespeare’s honour,
I wrote another Comedy of Errors.
Not that I had read it earlier,
Just the title appealingly reappears!
And hold on! This is COE II,
With its ancestor, it has got nothing to do.

COE II is a completely new version,
Packed with my and Bill’s mini-sessions.
Yes, you have guessed it right;
Ours too was love at first sight.
It speaks of how Bill came up from his grave,
(Of course, that was quite brave)
To meet me in the middle of the night…
When romance lingered in the eerie quiet.
Our talks were like thunderstorm,
Hindered only by the sight of dawn.
How, Bill had made his intentions clear,
That in loving me, he had absolutely no-fear.

You could say, COE II is a duo-biography,
Spanning across our unique love story.
Of how we thanked our luck when we met,
How; together we had laughed, we wept…
We saw the beautiful birth of the moon,
And felt that each to the other was a boon.
There was this chemistry between Bill and me,
Easily sensed by everybody, you see.
Bill was a darling- sweet and nice,
His dark, good looks; adding the required spice.

Don’t regard our love as funny,
Recall the magic when Casper met Wendy.

Did our love become immortal?
Was Bill influenced by the City of Angels?
Did I ever have to shed a fearful tear?
Did I become or not- Mrs. William Shakespeare?
(My love, what not for you I did?)

To know what ultimately came true,
Don’t forget to read-
Comedy of Errors, Part II.





COMEDY OF ERRORS: II

This not is a novel or fiction,
This but a real life event.
When error created comedy,
And began a strange love-story.

The hero, William Shakespeare;
Yes, yes; the author of Macbeth and King Lear.
The heroine, Nilima Dasgupta;
Of course, you haven’t heard of her.
She neither has a dignified personality,
Nor has she the status of a celebrity.
Just another face amid mortals,
Here’s her characteristic in detail:
Hated competition, loved reading books.
Admired men with stubble and good looks.
Had a concept of love of her own-
That her heart would not be by conditions won.
And Shakespeare, you must be knowing it all,
Handsome, understanding, witty and tall.

Here’s how the story geared:

The legendary writer, his ghost appeared.
By Nilima’s bedside, sad at how she neglected his works.
Surprised though, Nili answered not in shrieks, but in words.
Moved was Bill, (Nili called him so)
At her gesture and his heart go…
A mortal girl and so small, (eighteen then)
Celebrate! Their friendship and love speedily began.

For Nili, her dream came true,
Her love to her when, no boundaries drew.
Bill was a ghost and oh! So old,
But loyal and clever and really bold.
Better than those mortal ‘cool’ young boys,
Who played with hearts as with toys.

Theirs was a destined meet,
Their love so definitely deep.
But cruel world termed Nili mad,
At her story; making both of them sad.
Bill revolted against lot,
When they said Nili would soon rot.
They had to find a way,
Where comments and criticisms would be far away.
They wondered at what lay ahead,
Only if Bill were alive or Nili dead.
Their love surpassed all vanity,
Beyond time, beyond reality.
The dark was pleased and honoured too,
That with his help how their love grew.

Decided Nili to gift Bill-
A precious something which would their permanency seal.
Out went she, happy with every sight,
Even the day was cheerful and bright.
Laughter was the icing,
In the cake of living.
Nili searched through gifts,
A watch, dress, Sheldon series?
Busy and carefully wondering was she;
When devoid she became of feelings suddenly.
Amidst all noise, crept through her a peace,
Nobody would now complain, nobody tease.
She was no more, she was killed;
But that would take her forever to Bill.

And where was Bill, all this while,
When killed was Nili, stationed away at miles?
His heart knew that very instant,
That something was wrong, for he felt unpleasant.
He was waiting eagerly for the dark,
When his vision was suddenly marked-
By the strangeness of a sight;
That flying was perfectly; yes HIS Nili alright!
How did this miracle happen?
It had only one possible solution:
That now his love had no mortal existence…
Meaning, together would they be, free from pretence.

Happiness overflowed all curiosity,
There would no longer be an entity.
Both were speechless, both not cold,
Oh! It was a sight really to behold.
Through years, they are living together-
The would-be authoress and the great author.

Bill encouraged her to write a sequel,
But Nili knew nothing except the title.
Hence, written, written was their duo-biography,
Of me, Nili and Bill’s strange story.
This is the birth of COE II,
Which has got nothing with its ancestor to do.

Hope Bill is pleased with my effort,
This is all that Mrs. William Shakespeare could with come forth.
With COE II, nothing no longer would remains hidden,
As You Like It: praise or condemn.



absolutely: kuntala sengupta

lines that rhyme...?

Paradox

Yes, this but is true,
Red, green - their hue,
The variety of blue
Nature offers me no clue.

My problems have no solution,
Possibly coz I have none.
Lazing around, having fun;
Life is wonderfully done.

I need not the skies-
No answer to the whys
No stupidity over to cry;
Yes, I'll live through all the lies

POEMS...and me?

By the Sea

Watching the vermilion
Lose itself in the horizon-
I stood by the sea
Alone and lonely.
Seeking life's meaning-
Probing and searching
When along came a loud wave
And gave me a firm shake
Returning me to reality
Miles away from eternity-
Reality; life to be lived
And by fate be deceived.
Deception, rejection,
Outlet of emotions.

Purely painted

I robbed off
Its virginity-
In search of
My escape;
Dreams, illusions,
Reality-
All with which
I adeptly faked.
In the parameters of
I, me, myself
I was confined,
Entwined-
And it kept seeking help;
My canvas, my media,
My being it defined
How could I free it,
I wooed, won; I own.
It blossoms with ideas
Of the seeds I had sown.
It frees me, it reflects,
With me, it relates

The Evolution of a Poet

Paper in front, pen I grasped,
Wow! At my thoughts how I had clapped.
I wanted to write a poem-
Yes, yes; a thunderous poem
That would speak volumes on-
Dear, dear, the problem began.
I had no subject, no topic-
The thought itself was highly critic.
A poet who looked like one,
Whose specks a headband had become.
Who already had a pseudonym,
But alas! Not the least poetic instinct!
Love, life, humour, self-pity,
Fantasy, nature, maturity, beauty-
Oh! The range was wide,
Yet, why couldn't I firmly decide?
I realized I knew nothing in full-
The great poet was just charged,
Like a raging, over ambitious bull.

She merely wanted lines that rhymed,
She wanted herself to be well defined.
But poems are not written,
To reach pre determined destinations;
They are lines that express-
Vivid, genuine imagination.
They come from within,
Willingly, spontaneously;
Unlike me, the great poet,
Who leashed them out forcefully
Maybe, some clear, fine day-
'A great poet she is'
People will say.
Not for the words-
That she merely makes rhyme,
But for the emotions,
That evoke in those lines.
And still, over ruling conditions
A poet will evolve-
This today an amateur,
Solemnly resolves.

My Quarter Half

Ah! My illusions and me-
How happy together were we
With dreams and daisies,
And bubbles rising at ease.
With angels, with mermaids,
And paths of hope they laid.
With freedom of expression-
In fact, with all His creation.
Across vast blue skies,
Breaking beneath: bondages and ties,
Oh! How high we had flied
My illusions and I
With wings that are clipped,
With every desire whipped;
Restrictions imposed on imagination,

Emotions far surpassed by reason.
With smoke and soil,
And a long day’s toil
All that remains,
Of us together;
Each to the other-
A question mark,
A stranger.
I’m lost, all alone,
Not even tears, my own.
Eclipsed now is my-
Self and soul;
By pain; by reality-
As a whole.
Ever again will happy be we?
Searching each other unendingly,
My illusions and me

A blogger’s request:

im a typical ( vernacularly speakin) “middle class curiosity oriented person” which cud appropriately b referred to as sum1 wi a partial bent 2wrds PNPC. In Bengali d full form is poro ninda poro chorcha. Well d reason which makes me type dis out is d girlish gossip rush s well!

People, thank u all soooooo much for reading my blogs, if at all, and more so to those who have commented upon it. im sure u guys wont believe it dat I keep checkin my comments count wi d same degree of greed as a diabetic has 2wrds sweets, hmmm, I like d sweet words.

But oh my curiosity…y did sum of u leave comments anonymously? Oh why, why, why? It’s nice to have a name n im offerin u all a chance to flaunt it. im open to enthusiastic encouragements, constructive/deconstructice criticisms, flawless flattery, ruthless remarks…u name it.

And hence I leave d forum open for all intelligent commentators. D difference between naming urself n keeping urself itchingly unknown is jus a click away, so an ardent request 4m me to click on d name option. U c dat way at least my curiosity will be under control if not my pathetic fallacies!

And a special note to dat person who wrongly added dat KENTS was my invention. It was given 2me by sum1 who was disgusted at my “horribly long n bong name”. No names will b mentioned s to who christened me “kents”. And I was too lazy too refute it so I fell in luv wi it and hence d affair continues…

Thanks for sufferin d lack of punctuations and short forms, d mobile culture is 2b blamed and THANK YOU for reading.

The world of M:

This is the letter that began my speech I guess with the word “Ma” which began with the letter M. The next thing I evolved to at being a single child was the entity comprising me, beginning M. my books, my tv, my pencils, my cycle…oh it was in me not to share!

People started entering my life: Tanumashi, the m in the mashi; Milimami, my friend Mitali, my 1st declared guy friend Mintu. Infact if I scroll down to the list of M’s in my molile phone’s name list quite a few hold a position out there.

Finally abbreviations began to rock. I was in college. My name became from kuntala to kents. All lecturers were addressed with their abbreviated forms and thus mm mam whose name mandira mitra sounds such a world apart!

Marriage with the letter m, as in, the man I married is fondly called MM by me coz it’s again too long an actual name. Marriage, music, movies, momos, men, they all have an inevitable connection withy the word m.

And then the noticeable advent of M. One day I was on the phone speaking to MM mam when my mom commented that when would MM (her son in law) speak to her. So I cleared out the confusion that it was not MM I was on the line with but MM mam. When the call ended she enquired how was Mishtu, my sister in law (just for the records I don’t call her that but Nonod) and when would she come to Calcutta.

I replied she had her priorities holding her back at where she was stationed. “Which is?” mom asked. I said “BM” (bhaskar mahanayak). “Oh, is he staying over with her?” “No mom AM is with her” “AM?” Yes her colleague arundhati mukherjee”. “But then as far as I remember was her colleague not referred to as SM who lent you her notes?” Gosh was my mom super confused…well SM happens to be swaty mitra, another colleague of my sister in law, simple.

And that day I only laughed and casually promised to myself that come what may im not gonna name my child anything that begins with the letter M. An alphabet is controlling my life like some ruling planet. And I can’t let it go on. So irrespective of the fact that I love Mitsubishis and Mercedes, and mocktails and meat, maybe I could just about do with a little more of parkers and pizzas and porsches!!!

After all people fondly did use to call me Puchu!

Kuntala sengupta/Kents; the rest of me:

1. Crisis:

The inspiring voice,
And I;
Alone- letting time
Wash us by.
Breaking, shattering,
No hopes remain.
My soul and I-
Are lost again.
Eternity, beauty?
Love and trust?
All but loud barks-
Blank question marks…
Mingling into infinity,
With the crisis of identity.


2. Intoxication:

In schools of
Logy’s and ism’s,
Clash my own
Rhymes with reasons.

Reasons- irrational.
Rhymes- mechanical.

I let out a puff of smoke.
I gulp down a cup of caffeine.
I lose myself,
Down memory-lane.


Smoke mingles
With the unknown,
Coffee drunk
Bitterly alone.

My reasons irrational.
My rhymes mechanical.

Escaped have I,
With expressions erratic.
Or have I become-
A thinking lunatic?


3. Short-sightedness:

Like an abundance of
Atmospheric hydrogen,
I find myself burdened,
With innumerable questions.
Do we a decision make-
Or a verdict, tolerantly take?
What distances-
The right from wrong?
What takes-
A judgement, so long?
What ties the ‘e’ to motion?
Could not it be,
Just another potion?
The inertia of escapism…
A deliberate indulgence,
Or, a rupture of reason?

Beginnings:

I love my isolation, my solitariness, my holdback atti…and im labeled a social outcast. So? Can’t I nurture my narcissist angle of leading life? Me and my tanhai, my akelapan, my awaarapan…man there’s so much of a world in myself, why do I necessarily need to live a life outside it? Follow customs I disregard, do things im expected to and not coz I like to, carry on with my mask of happy go lucky?

I hate noise. I cherish the sound of silence that we often forget to interpret. Im not a romantic. Im a minimalist. I love the color of money. I love what money can buy. It buys comfort; comfort automatically pulls in peace of mind (for those who would have argued on it). Relationships? Goddamn it. Apart from the circle club ones, who cares? What matters? It’s all in our self-interest.

Marriage? It showed me how weak I am and how strong I can become. What big claims I used to make on I hate my parents, my dad to be precise. And how im now putting up with the super inferiority complex of wearing shakha pola loha etc. How am I expected to manage a sonsar when most of my time passes in the management of a chunari-chunari?

Maiden hood had its own bloody charm. The follow through of smoke, the bitterness of a biting black coffee, the control over a remote, the audacity of making own routines. Of getting up crow early to catch mtv and vh1 classic, of sleeping early to get up early next morn…of self made weird food timings, of having people who encouraged my not liking fish. Small things do make huge and large differences.

And what am I doing right now? My hubby is cooking on a Sunday, my mom in law is helping him, my dad in law is a sweetheart, and my sis in law is a blessing. Im complaining, cribbing. Something must be wrong with me. God help me if there be one…

Can’t be anyone else other than a vain, ignorant, conceited bitch like me: kents.
Can’t bring myself to say kuntala chakraborty, its painfully long. Can’t call my parents in law ma n baba etc. All im doing is living in a world of positive cannot-s and will not-s.
This piece of words just goes to show how unlike my parents im. What we inherit is not always what is inherent. I have inculcated this out of proportion let go attitude and though im sometimes worried about it, most of the times it helps me attain divinity. Catch you later, kuntala sengupta. now in a stylised manner: kuntala sengupta chakraborty

For whom the bells didn’t toll:

hare rama hare Christ-na

I am an Indian by birth, descent and other such categories. Religion to me came naturally, but the questions that aroused from it were quite unnatural. I would be standing folded-hands in front of framed photographs of at least three or four gods and goddesses daily after bath, close eyed praying mostly for I don’t know what. Was this devotion? I would see mom bathing those miniscule idols and framed photos, serving fruits and water as their lunch and wrapping it up by chanting mantras and circling them with an incense stick. Was this religion?

And then I started pelting my queries to a rather annoyed mom. Was she playing home sweet home every morning with those dolls? Was her favourite god, Shiv, going to fetch me high marks in my examinations without my studying for it? Would I get my cycle if I added a minute more to my prayer sessions each morning? One day there was a rumour that Ganesh was drinking up all the milk being offered to him and suddenly his idols and pictures were an immediate fashion statement. He was being adorned on t-shirts, pendants, wall pieces etc…you see the rock star was in vogue. Could this fervour then be religion?

I was growing up rather fast and my generic statements were becoming more and more specific. Religion in India meant division of nations, didn’t it? Was not Pakistan evidence enough? I remember one evening under the rather severe persuasion of mom I accompanied her to an ashram to attend the aarti, whereby the bookstore there became my refuge. As I was buying abridged versions of different holy books, the guy behind the counter refused to sell me all those books to me at a time! I was exasperated. Was this the limitation of religion?

Journeys acquainted me with various versions of gods available throughout India. Stones, books, trees, snakes, cows, sun, moon, planets all comprised the entity of god. Was this religion? I rather regard it as the belief of the simple minds of my citizens. And the strength of simplicity. On a broader platform with my dad endorsing religion as humanity, I got to see through it.

India is using religion as a political tool for obtaining communally scented votes. It is a charming business proposition. People who defy new medical entries and refuse to invest in it willingly give up a huge proportion of their income in the name of god. Till today nobody could answer me if god’s blessing was on sale. And what was it worth. Indians have been blinded a far many too times by the lure of planetary powers and so on and unluckily for the malfunctioning of those very planets they have been outsmarted by the clever species.

Devotion and religion were habit, curiosity and a challenge for me respectively. And then I took the pain of understanding it. Wouldn’t it be good if I didn’t have someone writing such an outrageous piece on my belief like this? Nobody could, nobody can. For, for me religion is the formal attire of my devotion, which is the structure of my inner belief. My belief being that my actions inscribe my fate.

I guess in the process of speaking out against god, I have completed my assignment. For those who buy god’s blessings I did get it for free. My mom still goes about her daily regime, if so, only more strictly and why not? She feels she’s got a defiant daughter like me who’s not going to do well in life because she questioned religion.

I am 22, married, pursuing M.A in English from Calcutta University. Simultaneously also attending a post grad diploma course in mass communication and journalism at Jadavpur University. Tell me do you believe her? Or would you just let her be…

changes...

Ya buddy, I can only spare u time in context of bein wi my syllabus. Mind u, satan’s charmin n he really doesn’t like d way I’ve been over-lookin him. Anyways, im writin this after reading “n” no of entries in various places as attempts to define kuntala sengupta. Nothing remains d same. In some, rebuildin is urgent, elsewhere, renovation wud b enough.

The year is 2005. long time since those good old LFS days, exciting eng tuitions, full-time entertainin sc tuitions, nearby hindi tuitions, & ah! d handsome maths tuition. Even DHSK days r over, wi a crossover 4m d boring a/c’s sir 2d cute jain sir, & bhowal sir’sn tuition bein an extended entertainment wi d presence of a brand new bubbly sangjukta bhuyan.

Awake, arise…even vids is done wi. D initial depression, d various attractions (cc, lingo, roads, bunkin), stay @ec, gully budu toton, tanumashi, kids, milimami, mem, roon, dadubhai & again-d mega attendance in final yr!! Sg rocked; cc- (damnation)2, raina, ; md-do u dare 2 look into my eyes? Mm-stratin prob but smooth drive; ss-made me cry at a foolish parents-teacher meetin!! , but ended up graduatin 2our time-pass counselor.

Pratz-fun. Shans-cute. Neils-complexity incarnate. Debs-no nonsense. Tanjita, twins, meenakshi-new findings, interesting & finally, not 2 mention mm-im endin up getting married 2 him. Even 2de, sometimes I wonder at how did time fly? Garima, again, wavelengths matched!

In more ways than 1, I’ve been a branded brat. Spoilt, arrogant, moody…natchari. D fag practise is nearly an addiction; im cool wi single moms &2nd marriages; god means nothing precise &d abstraction leads 2 confusion. Amidst it all, d new discovery abt me is d fact that I absolutely enjoy my solitude, bein isolated. Loner?!

Yup, silence has bcum my fave means of defence. I still stock those “hi-volt” short temper & “that-can-kill-you-words” but observation has bcum a new attraction 4me. I looooove bein alone, wi my books, tv, movies, cookin, sleepin…yea man sloth & gluttony. A lil bit of avarice too!! Till 2de, I remain aimless, but I kno I’ve matured. My situation handling stints hav reached new heights & I wear my hair long. My relationships are now more refined than ever.

Stayin in keeps me chilled. And once in a while outdoors never hurts. Food timings hav bcum unsocial, me too. I think I choose 2b talkative wi certain ppl & remain silent wi others…now, 4 sum1 whose 1st poem was THE TALKATIVE GIRL, life has been traveled a long way. More 2 go…