Do-odle...

3 crepe bandages,
1 screwed back,
Drug allergy and cough;
There’s not much I lack.

BUN-DE-LEY :)

Bundeley’s bangles…
Do not dangle
From her dolloppy wrists
Daintily onto her fists…

Bundeley’s bangles…
Do not match with her sandals
They are wristy-goldi-locks
Adding shine to her pink-blue frocks…

Bundeley’s bangles…
Soon she’d wear them out
Stubborn, they do not learn

And remain size-stern…

WHAT NOT TO DO WITH MY BODY AFTER I AM DEAD:

What prompted such a thought in me?
A Bengali story I read lately (in translation) called “The Red Saree” by Ashapurna Debi.

I’ve always maintained I cannot carry the shakha-pola-loha-shidur with the same grace that I perhaps would do to a blue earring or a white watch or green shoes! I do love decking up in a saree, I feel very “nice” in it…and yes sometimes I do give in to the fact that a shakha may complement a dhakai saree remarkably.

Where does all this fit in?
Here: AD’s story (I don’t remember exactly now) was more or less set in very early 20th century Bengal, but it didn’t fail to scare me. True to it, a much- married Bengali woman (and unwidowed) on her “last journey” (to the burning ghats) is dressed up (uncomfortably) by her grieving fellow-females. Please note: relatives first, friends can wait.
In the saree she had wedded in; which in most cases is a pathetically red Benarasi one. I succumbed to all these rituals (esp the “redness”, gold, sandalwood etc.) rather in a procedural manner: denial-defiance-bargains-begging-aloofness-acceptance. Huh. The shade which was finally bought was an over-expensive (why oh why?) “kaalchey-laal” and while I did drape it once, for no number of while-on-earth Tissots and Fiats and Tiffanys and Diors would I ever agree to embark on my oh-so-divine-journey in that legendary-arty-weave.

Tell me; amidst all other corpses wouldn’t I look awfully out of place clad in a 6 yard of exquisiteness!!! Yuck, I wouldn’t be able to rest in peace :)

So, I wouldn’t like the following things to happen to me once I’m no more verbally-reactively-responsive:
1. No burning of my body please. I am afraid of fire and burns.
2. No keeping it back for ‘x’ number of hours for visitors to cast a ‘last look’. I don’t much enjoy looks even now.
3. No decking me up in the “notun-bou-saaj”. I have been enough non-reticent to display my dislike for laal shaaree, shakha pola loha shudur, and oh yes, even the aalta. I mean they are so loud.
4. I would like my specks in my clutch. I feel incomplete without it.
5. No holding of the traditional “shradhha ceremony”. Relatives bitching around have always disgusted me. Friends can have a farewell-treat, on me.
6. Play any of the ‘dj kents’ playlists on my i-pod. I love listening to music while traveling. Always.

I do not know if any one would ever register these or who would abide by my wishes.
I do not also know if at all I would rest in peace.
I do not know. And do not want to be known.

It is nice to be unknown, to un-belong.
To be. Even after being.

RECLINE:

The above is a Jayasri Burman painting; i love her love-affair with details.
It is very similar to Kahlo's "Roots".
The protagonist in both cases in a comfortable recline.

I recline too.
And watch TV, read, gather gossip.
Tele-talk, doodle, think what's true.
It's when I become the protagonist.
To myself. Unbelong.
True.

Humdrum Housewife:

I met a gaze on my way,
Today.
This to me she did say-

"Cigarettes, celluloid, chewing gum?
Single malt, lime on rum?
Blasphemy, blasphemy!!!
You are not a housewife humdrum."

And the gaze continues to stay...
Today.
Everyday.

From a favourite play:

...Nora: I believe that first and foremost I am an individual, just as much you are-or atleast I'm going to try to be. I know most people agree with you, Torvald, and that's also what it says in books. But I'm not content any more with what most people say, or with what it says in book. I have to think things out for myself, and get things clear.
... ... ...
Nora: Well, that's the end of that. I'll put the keys down here. The maids know where everything is in this house-better than I do.

---A Doll's House, Henrik Ibsen.

ps: What did the key have to do here? Does 'shahityyo' (literature of all sorts) really change one's skin? And become a second skin? Or is it, like reel is for me, the only thing real?

BAAH-BAAH BLACKSHEEP

Baah-baah Blacksheep-
Chao tumi ki?
"Shobbar mon-e firiye aante,
Ek-mutho haashi."

Baah-baah Blacksheep
Paa/rbe eta ki?
"Paarbo jodi peye jaai,
Chomotkaar er ek chaabi."

Baah-baah Blacksheep
Only with a Key?
"Yes Ma'am, Yes Ma'am,
Named Kuntala3!!!"

"Kuntala3
Scribbles Haabi-Jaabi;
Seriously, religiously.
Not for a BAFTA, nor a Booker-
Nor for the desire
Of a shiny pressure cooker.
On her wish-list-
A working-wrist,
A fun-filled fist;
That's the Key-
In a gyst!"

Baah-baah Blacksheep
You beget Kuntala3;
Lets hit the roadside
For a two-buck bhaarey-tea...
Or would you like a coffee?

Then wait for "Coffee wi Key"

Is the name 'Swing' justified?

“Mr Madan Mohan Chakraborty” is the kind of name which I would usually, and still, associate with a serious-bespectacled-government servant. One, who wears boring blue full shirts and uninteresting black trousers without pleats, is dedicated to his work and is a heavily responsible family person, is least interested in the cars flashing past him as he patiently waits for his bus to arrive. Goes home to his cup of tea and puffed rice tossed in onions and mustard oil.

Unfortunately the Madan Mohan Chakraborty I was to know is a shocker. Yes his wardrobe indeed was boring, loose shirts, bland hues, just too much knowledge “x-number of stitches-per inch shirts” rather than being stylish. But he adopted to my liking, started wearing colours, stripes, fits- his heart on his sleeve!!! I call him Mm. Happens to be my legally wedded husband, but I confess I like the friend in him more than the family-man.

His specks are many, and please do not hold him responsible if he happens to leave it at your place alongside his age-old “real leather” rip-curl wallet, and an extremely crumpled one-day old white handkerchief. And, his mobile phone, with the pathetically loud nostalgic ‘once upon a time we had black big telephone’ ring tone. He is passionate about his photography, proud of his achievements, loves his music- the handful chords he knows suffices for the many songs he efficiently harmonizes with wrong lyrics. Accredits Jadavpur University as if it were not just what made out of him and his popularity, but also sometimes for the right reason, his degrees.

Swing suited him. He is mad about food, irresponsible about timings, loud with his “I-used-to-do-this…”, “in-our-times…”, “I-would/n’t-have…” huh. Forgets everything that is asked out of him to be done, and somehow, in spite of all such characteristics, is tremendously ‘social’. Knows his to-do’s and not-to-do’s (and mine too). And thus keeps the mashi-pishi-kaka-jaetha-shoshurbaari happy. He swings from one ‘dhop’ to the other with panache. And spells it ‘p-a-n-a-a-s-h’. Is calm in crisis. Making him ‘The’ suitable groom. I am sorry I have digressed.

The story starts when we find that apart from his work circle the rest of the world knows him as Swing (and as I add “Da” as the surname). And each of us we ask him what made him beget this note of affection that stayed. And he really quite honestly answers back “When I was young I used to bowl swing deliveries in our cricket matches in Golf Green; they used to say ‘ei swing ta eshchhey!’ and thus you see, ‘Swing’”. Oh ya, we see. So much for his bowling abilities, right.

Yesterday there were many cricket matches being played at DKS, in the white team Mm registered himself. The entire gang- me, DSR, MSR (in gold), BSR, Abontika & family, Monish & family, Aadit, Alpy- we all awaited to see how true to his name ‘Swing’ would be. My mind was too distracted to fling a laugh at his now small-face as his game-time neared.

The Rafael Nadal made popular Babolat lemon-yellow ball left Swing’s hand…took two drops to reach the batsman, four times in the over. We cheered. Abontika patted him “tui gaan ta e bhalo korish Swing”…couldn’t have agreed more! Swing justified his name not in the talent of the adjective but in the motion of the adverb.

BLACKSHEEP I, February 08, Dubai

REFLECTIONS I:

Yours and mine,
On the sands of time.
Clear, clean, cozy,
Soft, distinctly lazy;
Like a ruler’s reign,
A gambler’s gain,
You became my greed,
My caste, critic, creed.
And…in the reflection saw I,
The hand that waved a ‘bye’-
Was it yours?
Was it mine?
I don’t have a clue…
An image apparently fine-
Was it a dream?
Was it true?

BLACKSHEEP II, October 08, Istanbul

REFLECTIONS II:

Of the soul,
An integral part
Comprising the whole.
Of the self,
The material aspect
Defying all help.
Of the heart,
Its various manifestations,
In itself an art.
Of the eyes,
That seldom can hide
The truth, the lies.
Stable, calm, composed-
Reflections, creations;
What/who were those?
Shattering shackles,
Breaking barriers,
Melodious musicians, or,
Consolation carriers?

MICRO!!!

ek j chhilo micro-mini
had she stayd a littl longr
i wud hav fed her
milk, paan n chini...

big-big glassy eyed microli
whom did u seek
wen u ran away from mummy

dnt play hide n seek anymo
i declare u r d champ micro

BLINDFOLD:

Blindfold to the daylight of memories,
She slept adamantly.
Hugging her companions-
A mobile, the television remote,
A cordless phone, a Calvino.

A blanket “full of warmth”
When it had been sold.
A laptop, a pen, a notebook;
The day’s newspaper supplement-
“Which film- when and where” it told.

An everyday afternoon,
Dozing over overdoses of news,
Here was death, and here how the channel sold.
The daylight of memories started fading,
Stories stayed untold.

Blindfold she was as she slept,
Shutting out being shot at;
Snugly, cosily, even sadly-
She tried catching up on all the sleep
She had missed.

That would be safe indeed,
Being blindfold.

on buyin' "the tenth rasa"

aami kinlam ekti boi
aftr cryin in colleg st "koi-koi"
shei park st er oxford e
humour section e
cash countr man
tumi haasho kaen
aftr roger's aus-o loss
i needd dosh nomobor rosh!!!

HAABI JAABI

On wat is haabi-jaabi (hereon HJ)...
it is your window to know-nonsense
it erases all apparent pains
you can begin anywhere
and definitely end at your will
if a smile uncannily appears
at the sides of your lip
and slowly extends to
the ends of your cheek
i will have achieved
HJ's goodness:
out of nonsense-
laughter to be spread
enjoy the scribbl
wi ur tea & bread!