Naming of the Shrew

On the strangest of Saturday afternoons, of no high-school, no tuition, no TV, Bhargavi made the strangest of observations: people hardly try to belong to other sun-signs, Maths is useless in real life, rain is over-romanticized. All of 15 then, she never lived in her present, Bhargavi perused now. She had sketchy memories of her school days, but strong ones of her many misadventures. Like the time, she wrote a letter to a boy named Pallav, overwhelmed with the beauty of his name. When she needed loud music to immerse herself in. Her first kiss inside a car with the neighbour's visiting grandson. Childhood remained in sepia-toned pages of an album lost in heaps of gathering dust.

Bhargavi's smile faded when in one of her first online chat sessions she came to know that an extremely fancy "Cadbury_Boy" was actually Gokul Roy. For her, it was a worse than the stale equivalent of Neha and Puja and Priyanka, and Sandip and Arindam and Saurav. Where do people with fancy names reside? With whom? While she did settle for "Sindbad_the_Sinner" who turned out to be a Rishi, her heart went back to Gokul. What could she do now? She was having stimulating exchanges with him, both intellectual and otherwise. Yet, she couldn't allow herself a Gokul in her life.

Cut to three years later, in an inordinately decked mandap where Bhargavi was taking the ceremonious seven rounds with Gokul. In her mind, she was listening to conversations of the guests.

What an awfully loud person she has settled for!
She went for the package. Do you really think she loves her?
Her make-up is too casual for a wedding.
Their age difference is terrible.
What an awful name! 

Unable to concentrate, she hardly had any honeymoon, and slided into a habit. She resumed her chat sessions under a new name, "ColdCoffee" for herself and settled for "Disco_Dancer" and "Hot-Chocolate". Aware of her virtually successful infidelity and crushed by the raging good governance from her now husband, Bhargavi was twice distanced and thrice dead already. She needed a change, a new detachment to attach herself to. Ably, she fought and also won herself the divorce.

With no Gokul in her life now, she did not need to alter his persona. Instead, with a very deep look at herself, she rechristened as Jennifer. Truth could often kill with its kindness.

Love-Letter (LXVI)

Manav,

I have been spending hours at a stretch on the silly screen of the smart phone, till angles, plains, shapes, patterns started speaking in circles with me. As I maximize efficiency in chores, my observation highlights the inherent nature of your science underlying everywhere, and the fuel of my artistry which sets it in motion.

In the delicious blend of a cocktail, or the alignment in the clothesline, the brunoise and batonnet for a given recipe, or the placement of curtains so that sun-rays are blocked but sunshine isn't, I think of billions of reasons why I don't take your calls anymore. This crisis has certainly made us independent. While social messages speak of familial ties, and spending time with loved ones, I am relieved that I have been blessed with my own space, with none of your 7498261 asks of the day, and night to bother me with a face and a smile to put up.

As the first round of the lockdown neared, I feverishly prayed wishing for it to extend. The mirror stands garlanded in fairy lights, as I solemnize my being without you, as I learn from my mistakes of youth, and as I prepare for a resolute next-term. It is surprising when we survive social expectations only to be outwitted by our own feelings, our deepest demons. Do you remember Malti, our morning maid? We share same lives, partners abusing us relentlessly, shamelessly and continuously. What have we done to deserve it? If it is love, it isn't enough, and it isn't love.

Hence, this stays written to you, to celebrate a life with love for oneself, and enough letters to convey that your share is erased. Do not return to break the symphony of my geometric life.

No more yours,
Pallavi.

Be Careful of What You Wish For

Gurkeerat and Ekalavya's love challenged their cultural divide. It was what modern legacies were made of. Sailing through college fests, stalking social media, incessant cups of coffee dates and dinners later, they moved in together. There was no question of marriage, as neither family would understand. It would lose them precious time, and with their full-time jobs, they couldn't afford the drama of anticipation, exaltation, and lack of resolution. Having spent a winter together, spring announced the extended lockdown. 

Their Sunday was same, uneventful. Their Sunday nap was same too, shared with a common dream. The field was shining golden, and the sky was swaying with green leaves. From afar, they could both see each other on the field together, racing towards a well. The rusting bucket yielded them with two unassuming India-Post envelopes. Addressed "Gur" and "Luv", the neatly handwritten names took them by surprise. Who could know them by the names they called each other?

'ASK FOR A SUPERPOWER AT YOUR BEHEST.' Gurkeerat, tight-fisted, clasped her eyes shut to look for clarity.

'ASK FOR A SUPERPOWER AT YOUR BEHEST.' Ekalavya, tight-fisted, smiled at his own clarity. 

"Are you ready to ask, Gur?"

"Let's, Luv."

Luv asked for freedom. He could think of nothing better at that time. Gurkeerat completed hers.

The evening had spread out with no deliberations of an ensuing Monday. With the second sip of tea, they found out about their same dream. Mildly taken aback, and not knowing whether to believe the other, they stretched into time's silence.

"So what did you ask for?" He hurriedly added, "I bet you said something like flying, or becoming invisible, my sweet Gur?"

Sure, just like with your commie attitude you couldn't have thought of anything better than elusive freedom! As Gurkeerat smiled, Luv interrupted, "Oh wait! I know what you are thinking!" 

"Tell me, Luv, what was I thinking?"

Luv enacted out her mannerism, "Luv knows me best! Should I really tell him that I did ask for my favorite superpower - to become invisible!"

Gurkeerat broke into a riot of laughter. Her prayer was, "Luv should never be able to read my mind."

Do dreams come true?

Sweet Gur was going to ensure a peaceful end of lockdown where Luv didn't have the slightest inkling about her long phone-calls with Hasan. And once it was over, Luv would have his freedom from the web of lies she had weaved. Be careful of what you wish for.

Business

I remember certain memories from my childhood rather vividly, one where my biggest victory was in finding means to avoid studies, spending afternoons on the terrace counting colourful kites, cycling into lanes and by-lanes, playing cricket with cousins and breaking numerous window-panes (and being thrashed by mother thereafter), participating in quizzes just to get out of my girls' school and meet the Don Bosco and VKV boys, have  Re 1/- Tasty ice-candies'; sneaking into the kitchen at midnight to sketch on pumpkins, gourds and eggs weird expressions in an attempt to scare my mother, the next morning! And, waiting for the weekend to travel one hour on super-fast buses to the other town to meet grandma (for the first hour) and sit (like a princess for the rest) in my uncle's shop, on a wooden bar-stool kind of seat of honour.

While at my uncle's stop (fancily named "Three Leaves" but renowned as "Babul Da'r Dukaan" [in Assamese]), it would fascinate me to observe the variety of small talks customers would have with my uncle, or his assistant. Once they left, I would urge them to tell me more about the customer. My favorite thing in the shop was not the glassed-Cabdury box, nor the variously sized jars holding various candies. They were the many-sized brown paper bags upon which I would unendingly doodle as I listened to the conversations. Yes, they were my formative years in gathering gossip, amidst learning how to pack tea (he was also a tea wholesaler), and expertly opening caps of Gold Spot, Thums Up, Limca. The giggling girls of Womens' College would crowd at our shop for their daily quota of drinks. I think it gave them a high to have a drink at the college Librarian's husband's shop. His shop was the smallest on that road, but the busiest, and in retrospect, I conclude it was because he has been a great conversationalist. That impressed me too. From my mother side of business, shoes are their specialization, and I used to be engrossed in watching the sales-guys pulling out exactly the pair from the dark and mysterious godown behind the well-lit showroom (another fancy name "Half & Half"). As I kept cash here, I could not understand the maths of profit, and remained fixated at how happy and content a customer would leave with a new pair!

While academics happened to me, I would love to believe that business runs in my blood. No, I am not good at bargaining with vendors (primarily because I respect them way too much, literally putting myself in their shoes), nor am I good at calculations.Yet, I think I do have a certain art of negotiation needed for the most democratic act of conducting business. It is my dream, and now in spite of my degrees, my aim is to own an all-purpose store where customer is god. S/he isn't discriminated on the basis of religion, caste, nationality, gender and/or hierarchy.

With over a dozen years in the service industry, the being answerable part is extremely demanding. In shops, people come, ask, take goods, pay money, leave. Additionally, for the writer in me, they'd bring in as many stories :) If you disbelieve my story, this photo below is from one lunch break at my last office. I never smiled this bright during my tenure there.

Alas, good results ruined my life. 

Day 1: Tomorrow

What is tomorrow? Another set of 24 hours.
What will be tomorrow? A new set of possibilities.

Decisions have made days, and now months dissolve with the collective economy. Yet, they don't stop tomorrow from turning in, for the sun sets only to rise. And the rivers would flow. I do not know if I will continue with these countdown blogging, or finally have a sip of the miniature gin which I magically discovered from a safeguarded shoe-box. But I have definitely decided to harvest, like in my beloved Assam, Punjab and well, WB, crops are, a better version of myself. I didn't hear any Rongali Bihu pepa, or Baisakhi dhol nor did I have any mishti indulgence, yet we owe it to ourselves, as if someone willed this global lockdown to introspect what we had/have become. Will it change my habits? I doubt. Will it accentuate my tastes? Hardly. Tomorrow is certainly filled with uncertainties.

Yet, for all things that tomorrow might be, it won't be a number. In my blog :)

#LockdownExtended

Day 2: Working Out

I am in a constant state of working out. If you disbelieve me, am I not stretching the tendons of my brains to make the wisest permutation combination of vegetables and grains? Even as I reach to Day 2 of my blog-entries, counting-down the end of lockdown, I have prepared well for an extension declaration tomorrow. I miss placing and winning bets.

Contrary to Day 21 jitters, we have enabled our senses to adjust to newer environments. I should not be saying it, but I quite like this social distancing - no unnecessary meeting people you end up judging as foolish, no mandatory appearance issues, no proximity with immaturity in general. Oh! the things we used do to battle boredom pre-Corona.

Only, you must have a tremendous appetite for self-motivation. And trashy movies. Over the past two days, I have heard Ek Hi Rishtaa, Dosti: Friends Forever and Jhoom Barabar Jhoom. I might take up Caliphate tonight. The deal is 3:1, and your sanity is safeguarded! What are your plans?

Stay home, stay hydrated!

Day 3: Sign

Around evening, exhausted from a day well-spent in procuring groceries and cooking (inclusive of planning, cooking, boxing, cleaning, and well, eating), I found my eyes heavily drooping, and my attention wavering away from today's Sunday Suspense on Radio Mirchi. I asked M, is it me, or are the birds extra chirpy today. She didn't have an answer. I even stressed that this was the kind of chirpy unison I remember from the Janta Curfew evening. And then I felt it. A distinct rumble in my tummy, which I was certain was not of any hunger pang. I went out to the balcony, to be greeted by this sight:

M confirmed the earthquake, as was trending by now on groups, but we were more focused on the sight. Scores of new birds, brown on the top and yellow around their stomachs were swaying on the branches of this tree, right across our balcony. Incidentally, my favorite one :)

And momentously they flew off, right after about five minutes into the earthquake. Just as magically they had appeared, the entire lot of friendlies flew into an oblivion. It does sound abstract, or possible that they screeched because they were aware of the tremors. It really doesn't matter that I neither know the name of my tree or them birds. They did pull me out of my trance-like siesta state, but not for once I have a complaint. As the leaves weave music, they added an uncharacteristic and unforgettable charm, which I have failed to capture with my embarrassingly unsteady hands.

Do you believe it was a sign? 

Day 4: Bhutan - The Kingdom of Happiness

Around August of 2014, on a once a month phone call with Elkay, I suggested a trip to Bhutan. It gained surprising momentum from her, she was proactive in online ticketing during that time and we planned the trip with inputs from previous travelers for October. Yet, the tickets weren't confirmed until the last minute. 

It was Ashtami in Calcutta, Elkay had landed in the morning, and though our train was from Sealdah, we opted to avail the Kanchankanya from Bidhan Nagar, where it halts exactly for 1 minute. Considering Elkay's suitcase size, I was slightly pessimistic, but her logical reasoning (something about converting a minute into sixty seconds and how many students can board a train in that time etc.) won over. My friend Abhijit, magically, helped us with the confirmation of the tickets, once the chart was prepared, and we now planned whether to take an auto, or cab to BN Station. I faintly remember it was an auto and me telling Elkay, that way she could pay a fleeting visit to Goddess Durga as well! Needless to mention the mysur pas she had got were almost all consumed by Ritoban and others. After my socializing with common platform vendors (I used to go to Barasat via Bidhan Nagar station), we stood at the point where we expected our coach to be. The rest is a blurry until we sat. We had made it, and were on our way! The joy erased all my pessimism. 

On the 3rd at Hasimara Stn, we were greeted by long-haired Deepak and his white Wagon R, which was to be ours for the rest of the trip. As we drove to Jaigaon, we checked into the horrible Hotel Kasturi. Devastated, we fought with our travel agent, and to get away from the crowd we made the 5 minute walk into Phuentsoling in Bhutan. As D helped us with the permit, among other things, we dined there with the famous local beer, Druk.

4th as early in the morning as D would agree with, we started from Phuentsoling to Paro. He gauged the kind of travelers he was carrying as we stopped at waterfalls with no name. We then walked endlessly on the highway, and spent a lot of time grazing alongside Chuzom-Chu. For lunch we stopped again at a roadside shack for ema dasi, with a wonderful dam view. Next we put up at Mandela Resort, and went to hit the town. Here, we had experienced the amazing Paro airport view, with road, river, runway - an image which stays on.

Just as we were being happy with our resort, we got to know that our agent lied about complimentary services. We tried to curb our temper, but found that the Monastery was closed. We went to TOger's Nest, but didn't trek, went to National Museum and were bored. Didn't even make it to Dzong with our sour moods. Post lunch we stopped by Paro-Chu, and spent a lot of time on the riverbed. I believe we soaked in the beauty in silence, and were determined not to stay pissed anymore. With Elkay developing her migraine, and an approaching thunder, we were desperately looking for coffee. Having found none, we made D stop at GREFF, of Indian Army, where after exchanging gestures on finding a closed canteen, we ended up making our own coffee and dosa, For this we were charged no money, and I remember Elkay leaving the person some murukkus. As it started drizzling, I took the front seat and the road was now a friendly companion of the mighty rocky mountains and now Thimpu-Chu bathed in moonlight. We reached Thimpu and checked in a hotel which said our booking was not for the night (Chophel Norkey resembled Hotel Decent of Jab We Met). Our travel agent now realizing the already scores of errors, set us off to Peaceful Resort. Beautiful and true to its name, we walked through the last night of Chuzu festival, an overcrowded flea market.

We spent the 6th in Thimpu, where we began late with the National Zoo and completed our trip just seeing the national animal, Takin. We had more adventure outside, as we ventured into tasting a fallen fruit, which turned out to be a peach. (I did this in Prague and Kodaikonal too, guess I have a thing for fallen fruits!) After mandatory visits to National Library, King's House, Ladies Monastery, Heritage Museum, we were asked to shift to Hotel Taktsang. By this time we had genuinely gievn up on our fate with hotels, and resolved to waste no further energy creating hatred in the trip. The next day, we were greeted by a monstrous sized Buddha statue at the Buddha-point, overseeing the entire city. Thus completed, we were on our way to Punakha. 

How often does one sit on road blocks and create stories revolving around a mother (Elkay)-daughter (me) and a father who left the mother? As peddlers screamed "mechhoo-mechhoo", we started enjoying life in Bhutan. I have never been more in love with the Himalayan range than when we glimpsed the Dochula Pass, where the never-ending terrain against the pristine blue was quite intoxicating. The Kochu-Mochu rivers meet by the Dzong at Punakha, and the melody of the river is as enchanting even in my memory today. Here, D's niece took us on a dirty-trek to the deep river from which I was anxious to get back. On our way back we saw the moon-mountain :) 

The lesser spoken of, the better. Seeing a moon-rise from the intersection of two huge mountains on lakhi purnima is rare, a perfect painting. Her restaurant felt like running one of one's own. Soon, Elkay and I were chopping-cooking-cleaning there too. At Wangdue's exclusive Dekiling Hotel, we resided next to a bedside of mountain. 

On the 8th we started from Wangdue for Bumthang and basically spent the whole day in car, stopping at almost all waterfalls. The stretch to Pellela, of insanely unbound mountains - do not ask me to explain the drive (post 4 pm after making Maggi at someone else's restaurant again in Thromsa). Once night fell and the mist/fog/cloud touched us, it was the most terrifying drive I have ever undertaken. I kept speaking shit with sleepy D and were paid a surprise visit by a Takin. With only the sound of the river for company, we got off at the first sight of a plain, switched off the car headlights and were illuminated by the amazing, almost magical moon. Traveled another 20 kms or so to finally arrive at this woodhouse called Tashi Yangkhel. I can still hear the river, in extreme motion. Arrested in the extreme emotions of the front seat, of "terrifying beauty" it is a memory I will cherish for my lifetime.

We woke up on the 9th with the most beautiful window to the world! Warm within the mountains' embrace all through the night, I say out of purposeless joy. The turquoise river sings along, the pebbles glittering it up and emanating an immense delight of tranquility. We went to the Burning Lake and trekked down to a place they say is protected by mermaids. As we got back from town, I wished the world the peace of the mountains, and the mountain range. I could have died of the beauty in that world of no-wifi, no-tv, no phone. It was overwhelming.

On the 10th we traveled back the length of Bumthang to Thimpu. At enticing landscapes, we halted and lay on the green grass under the blue sky. Elkay put stones on my back for relief from backaches. Our spirits were surprisingly rejuvenated even as we predicted another miserable property waiting for us at Thimpu. But we were miraculously transferred to Bhutan Centennial, the room size of a mini baddy court. We were excited at the damage control, yet, we were sad. Our trip was nearing its end, as the next day we went to the Station. As we witnessed the Jimjo slide, the fog-mist mountains bid us the perfect farewell. It was such a world of difference to take one step back to India, the air heavier, the people unhappier, the roads dirty. 

To say the least, never again trust a travel agent blindly. And, I am still there Bhutan, I love you...

Day 5: Lessons

As we mentally prepare for the lull of the days to extend, it is well to say that we have all had our fair share of learnings, and I'd like to share some of mine. I think the greatest takeaway would be that as a race, we adapt well. We have travelled from our collective complains to greater understanding, from panic attacks to wise living, and from delayed days to productive ones. My most favorite takeaway -- cost of living is not as expensive as cost of lifestyle.

Having said that, I will endorse certain time-tested beliefs:

1. Any addiction is really based upon accessibility: my last drink was on the 10th of March, Holi.
2. Nyakras (torn pieces of never to be used clothes) are essential: used extensively for cleaning, they are companions for life.
3. Hygiene is a habit we must internalize: even for post-corona era.
4. It is okay to dilly-dally to your career call, but be determined to find your passion and meditation: you have to understand this without any explanation. 
5. God is within us and our innate goodness: and propels us to be kind.
6. Life is uncertain, style is eternal: hope you are wearing your favourite watch and dabbing your signature perfume.

For what is life if you can't turn your lemons into lemonade? The gin and tonic will wait. Cheers!

Day 6: Common App

Not my best, but one of my quickest, and one which made it to multiple colleges. Ironically, I love empty drafts wherein I fill in a story built around mu understanding of the student profile. Enjoy!


Time: Summer Vacation.

Character: Me, 9 years of age.

Ext. London street. Unusually crowded, with cast, crew and cameras.

Of the Hyde Parks and Tate Musuems that I could be in, I landed up there, at that time. Someone had rightly said, “timing is everything.” It would be wrong to say I wanted to be an actor ever since I wanted to become something in life. No. I wanted to be a Superstar. The superstar who would open his arms, and all would be happy and well. The superstar who could redeem one out of their sufferings. There he was, Shah Rukh Khan, shooting for the accident sequence in Jab Tak Hai Jaan. His presence commanded the audience’s and passers-by’s awe.

Time: Present day. Dusk.

Int. Crouched over a laptop, room decked with posters of world cinema.

I too wanted to be like SRK on the big screen – either fighting off the bad guys or romancing the prettiest ladies in typical Bollywoodesque songs, in exquisite locations. I would often try to replicate what I saw in the cinemas by balancing myself on a tall chair, in front of my dad’s old handheld camera. Soon, I auditioned for small roles but I could never be as good as I imagined myself to be. One of the reasons was because I never had the confidence to deliver a dialogue in its essence.

It changed when I got my first iPad on my 12th birthday. I had access to a high definition camera at all times, so I started shooting my own short films on it, just to be a part of the spotlight. I would often convince my cousins to help me shoot, but I was never really satisfied with the final product as I couldn’t replicate those starry childhood images. This made me search the internet extensively in order to learn to make those images come to reality. I started discovering apps that helped me use special effects, and enhancing my in-depth knowledge of basic editing softwares like imovie. Soon, with experience behind the camera I started to not just perform better as an actor but make my films look seamless and fluid. I started spending extensive time on YouTube, watching, and comprehending the narrative of film-making from tutorials and fancy travel videos to brilliant short films and intricate animated ones.

Inspired to make an aesthetically pleasing film myself, I shot my first travel video in 2017, named _________, and there was no stopping me after that. What felt like minutes was actually hours, perfecting every shot with its color correction on a software which I somehow managed to download for free, as my parents weren’t willing to spend almost INR 25000 on it! Once the video was out on YouTube, the appreciation and attention I got from my friends and family was overwhelming. No gift or love had ever made me feel quite that way, not even acting itself.

Film-making enabled me to look at life from a different perspective, create various stories and make my audience live them with me. I was learning about something that I had fallen in love with and I actually recall calling my camera “my soul mate”. My parents even sent me to New York Film Academy for a week long summer course to be sure if this is what I wished to do all my life. I interacted with like-minded people from all over the globe and heard everyone’s stories. I learnt to value money, time and most of all, support. I became more confident and developed my acting skills at the same time. The craft has shaped me into the person I am today. To sum it up, my path did change slightly, but only for the better. In the words of my favorite superstar SRK, “Confusion is the route to all the clarity in the world.”

Day 7: Flight

29th February. Yes, it's true that it comes once every four years. So do such incidents. Moving around in public transport in Calcutta during my years at college and university, and even as I began my teaching career, I gave in to WB government's annual saga of monsoons. It is the same story - same water-logging, same blame-gaming the then opposition, and same solutions to be launched for the next year. To no avail, of course. A great thing about Calcutta though is, it is kind of limited merely to the monsoon exclusive months. Delhi, is a different story of extravagance. One rain, of any kind, and the result is not Calcutta-style poems overflowing on social media, but unending prose of traffic, even though there ain't any visible water-logging. With this introduction, I return to the 29th Feb of 2020.

Dear readers, I was flying back from Calcutta to Delhi, supposed to land around 5.30 pm-ish. I've a thing for pre-booking my seats, and having overcome (rather, found resolution to my nerves in movies) my flight anxiety, which I had suddenly developed about five years back (how time flies), I found myself sandwiched between - excuse my racism here - two Chinese/Japanese/Korean passengers, well-covered in masks. It was the beginning of corona precautions, and I hadn't taken any. I had downloaded Beta (the trashier the movie, the better) though, and DDLJ was my back-up. It was a wonderful flight, with the superbly miserable movie. The girl on my left even indicated if she could watch it too, as there were subtitles. Obviously, I had no problem, and we laughed (co-ordinated on Dhak Dhak Karne Laga) - she without listening, and me having listened intently. We were approaching the climax when the pilot announced descent, around 5ish.

Suddenly, the flight took an almost Top Gun like momentous upward tilt, as the crew disclosed that heavy rains were lashing Delhi, and there was no way we could land now. Readers, at this point my palms would have ideally turned to water, but the pleasure of being able to end Beta in-flight delayed it. The Chinese/Japanese/Korean girl opened her mask for a bit and mouthed "very nice though tacky" (I swear) at the end titles. The flight was circling dark clouds endlessly, and as I moved on to DDLJ, the girl opened her window pane to soak in the weather (oh horror!). I tried to tell her, pull it down and check out India's best movie, but she was kind of intent on experiencing the major upheavals. At one point I think she gave up, and started following SRK and his pranks in Zurich. The pilot matter-of-factly informed to expect severe turbulence now as we were entering some godforsaken arena of stormy clouds. Passengers were jittery, noisy, disturbed and wide-awake. I was listening to Ho Gaya Hai Tujkho To Pyaar Sajna, just noticing that I needed a chocolate now, when we touched down, without any warning! I can still feel the impact, believe me. I checked the time, it was around 6.25 pm and the flight taxied for another good deal till we finally got off the flight around 7ish. On landing, the pilot did extend an apology for his decision, but when I got to know later that as many as 14 flights were diverted to Amritsar, Lucknow, Jaipur and Ahmedabad that evening, I did not have any complaints. It took another good hour to get an Uber, and I finally reach home around 9.30 pm.

To think of it, this was barely a month ago. A time when the most effective solution to any of my frivolous problems was Bollywood. These days even the experience of buying grocery feels more turbulent. With the lockdown extension now looking more and more probable, and needed, god knows when we will be landing suddenly into safety. Till then, readers, please find your own Bollywood, and stay home!

Day 8: My Family & Other Animals

It is no secret that the only animals I like are well, human beings. Yet, today, given the happenings of the day, I am compelled to share an instance. Call it habit, call it luxury, first thing in the morning I like the door to the balcony wide open, and the curtains pulled apart. The sheer curtain is enough to stream in enough sunshine for my liking, and normally, I sit here and work on the table, or more often on the bed.

Owing to the lockdown though, I am using the other room frequently, with the TV playing the choicest of pathetic movies on one of the free DEN channels. M, has been practicing a song since last night, and was doing the same in the living room, with earphones snugly tucked in. Amidst the clash of her Rabindra Sangeet and random hindi songs on the TV, I suddenly heard a scream. It was definitely a sound to which I responded, not a word. I ran and found M scream, "Monkey! Monkey! Monkey in the room!" After implementing various micro-second strategies, we could finally lock the balcony door. Here's an account of what exactly happened:

M was deeply engrossed in listening to a Suchitra Mitra song (I am assuming eyes tightly shut). When she blinked them open, she found a full-grown monkey daintily seated atop our makeshift dining space, apparently supervising the house intently. She was so shocked that it left her silent. Next came her scream (the sound, not the word), to which the monkey, now confused at why should a human scream, picked up two eclairs toffee of four, and made its way into our balcony. As M chased it with an unnerved soul, a wooden ladle, and a semi-immobile me, the monkey rested on the balcony railing holding onto the door-knob, not allowing her to do the door. By this time, my tulsi plant had witnessed the monkey dutifully and diligently unwrap the two toffee wrappers and have them. It must be the chewy taste which made it leave the door-knob finally (I do not have any better explanation). M rushed and pulled the door. Ever since, of course, she is on a double duty of sanitizing the entire monkey-route, and digging out her most elite invective to my affinity for "let the sunshine in!"

After some uncontested listening, I returned to the TV room, pale and troubled. I opened the door to this end's balcony and saw local dogs chase something wildly. Yay! They were barking the monkeys (yes there were two!), who were now on this side, out of our block. The last I saw they were mingling with the tall trees, and the dogs were on car-rooves in their loyal attempt.

Dear readers, a week-old table mat, several bottles, the bedsheet, and I don't know what else, have all gone for a wash. As I switched on the washing machine, I could only think of one logic -- during such times of social distance, when M has no audience, the monkey was really lending her a patient ear. The song? Kandale tumi more.

Indeed.

Day 9: Food

The title is quite direct for a couple of reasons, a) because I am perhaps having the healthiest food of my life right now, yet, b) I have never craved so much for junk food ever.

I had an amazing lunch today -- rice, methi saag, kumro makha, poppadum, raita and even a couple of pieces of grilled chicken. Yet, my heart is as restless as are my fingers, which retreats to Swiggy to order a bucket of KFC popcorns, or CR Park fish fry. I am quite cheap that way, even though the best is here, I can't wait to savour the unhealthiest.

People who know me well know very well how deep is my love for a diverse cuisine, an adventurous palette which welcomes with equal fervor a steaming hot plate of sheddho bhaat accompanied by boiled potatoes and eggs (preferably duck), generously drizzled with mustard oil (not ghee) and potent green chilies, as much as buckets of french fries and Calcutta biryanis. This entire winter with a wedding in the family, and trips to Amritsar, I was feasting regularly on the seasonal sarson da saag and makki ki roti which obviously has to befriend a dollop of unsalted butter and a chunk of imperfectly-shaped jaggery, and finished off with the bejewelled gajar ka halwa. The homeliness of a profound bowl of meifoon noodles ornamented with the best of dry chili chicken, an entire wok full of local crabs in Bhubaneshwar, or Delhi kebabs and firni, my copious appetite sometimes makes me think how come I have not yet written something on food by now. Oh yes, fish. How I had fish for breakfast, lunch and dinner during my submission and convocation vacation, even grilled pomfrets in the evenings! It is a wonder that I have not yet turned into a fish myself.

And chips. Plain potato chips. I will bring in an incident here. We were travelling to Colombo from Delhi via Mumbai, and my friend Looney (do not underestimate the frivolous nature of her name, she is an Assistant Professor, English) was travelling from Calcutta to Dublin via Delhi. It so happened (unplanned) that our layoff time at New Delhi airport was more or less same, and so we took it for granted that we could catch up for a good goss-session. She asked me what she would get for me, knowing particularly well that I would ask for the greasy Bhowanipore chips, and that was exactly what I asked for. Yet, as luck would have it, we saw each other at the same terminal, from glass barriers but could not meet, as some official reason would not permit us to be at the same place at the same time. I could have mourned for so many things then, dear readers, but no, all I mourned for was the jumbo greasy packet of plain potato chips. Later, she informed they accompanied her plate of rice and dal in Dublin. So, yes, chips. Lots and lots and lots of chips, contested only by the greedy amount of my orange consumption -- yet another thing which turns me into a monster -- the excitement of peeling an orange on winter afternoons and discovering their sweet or sour character. Like love :)

Growing up in Assam, humble home-cooked, rice and fish heavy food was a part of our regime, with little or almost no access to restaurants. Leafy vegetables (I loved them) were eventually discarded from my intake because of a health condition, as was milk. Thereafter, discovering food through TV (TLC) offered me a high I didn't know existed in me. I also discovered my affinity towards knife-skills, and was later told I inherited it from my uncle (not the knife, the skills). Assisting in the kitchen became an activity I now looked forward to, as evenly cut vegetables would make for the perfect pnaach mishaali torkari. By no means an expert, or even good cook, I am a scientific one, content in my role of donning the apron to sous-chef, yet patience is the virtue which is the piece de resistance in my kitchen sanctum. And the pleasure of eating, my meditation.

Day 10: Princesses

Princesses. Petite, pretty miserable creatures of nature. I wish they were as forgettable and pardonable too. The audacity with which they swirl their imaginary wings, ungrounded and unwary, is tedious. Tedious, if you are in a close proximity, else really, why else would you care for such airs? The proximity is so dangerous, the cacophony of their sweet and giving demeanor so disturbing, that it could beat the lure of extracting honey and being attacked by bees.

Their immaturity, and its consistency, to say the least is commendable. It is amusing to observe a spoilt and rotten child rotting further in an ageing body, frilled with pink laces, and exorbitant brands. Brands for which they don't pay with the money, they don't earn. Papa pays. Why should I complain?

Because I have a trigger alert for under-mediocrity, and my response may not exactly be kind. Yet, I am mature, and stay silent for the sake of my own sanity. Everything is being recorded for posterity, when I survive and write my masterpiece. One of my characters will also make a clinical postmortem of the certain species called 'bosses'.

Till then, I look into alphabets and fireflies to find me a pin which could burst the bubbles within which princesses reside.

Day 11: Letter

Dearly Beloved,

How is it that the world is so severely lopsided at the moment? And how is it that those who inhabit it, a century away, are behaving the way they are? I mean look at us, so tolerant of 'waiting' as prepared by the wars, and look at them! From the moment they are awake, deeply engaged into that mobile phone of theirs. Groggy-eyed they dawn all attention to news and numbers, and as the day shines on there is an outpouring of silly memes and messages - that's what they call them. Oh, how intolerant they are, and how deeply impatient.

Are they not missing out on the treasure of moments, the awakened silences, and the palpable beat of the soul? Behaving like unbridled children, not knowing what to do with the limitless possibilities of a given day. Or am I being predatory and unkind to their achingly similar days? But we have had our share of sameness too..

Yet, to think of it, unlike you who put your head in an oven, and me who stepped into the river with a pocket full of stones, they survive, they strive to live.

Faithfully yours. 

Day 12: On Censorship

Is such censorship ever justified? If so, who or what should determine which books are read and which are forbidden?

Article 19 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights (1948) reads, “Everyone has the right to freedom of opinion and expression; this right includes freedom to hold opinions without interference and to seek, receive and impart information and ideas through any media and regardless of frontiers.”

Apart from being unconstitutional and violating international law, censorship is a matter of imposing privilege upon choice, ‘choice’ being the ethical concern here. It is one thing to exercise parental supervision – only till the point an individual is not of legal ‘adult’ age – it is absolutely criminal to disrespect the intellect of the reader owing to the (un)relativity of the content of a book with its political or personal ideology.

Censorship of book essentially means an opinionated moralising over readership. It is a value superimposed on the subject, content or more specifically on the mind and purpose of the author first and then on the readers. In simple terms, when any view and expression is a threat to an institution or ideology, it is prevented from being circulated with a propagandist measure. This tampering with content, including a curtailed or monitored circulation, impacts readership. Given this rationale, it is obviously never justified, because an individual’s expression as author and an individual’s freedom of accessibility as reader, assimilation and interpretation of the same cannot be moralized and affected. It is perceived as an act of colonization of the mind and is totalitarian in its approach.

Books that have explicitly challenged accepted norms of hierarchy whether in the form of the structure of a society (political) or sexuality (personal) have posed as a threat to the power dynamics of hegemony. Such a step is out of the fear that the agency might feel, threatened that the streak of change or message lurking in the book will have the potential to inspire minds to think beyond and break the existing streams of control. Thereby, censorship dismisses choice.

Influential in the way they provide insight into real events and issues in a relatable manner, books like George Orwell’s 1945 classic "Animal Farm" was banned in the USSR for its revealing depiction of the communist reign. Today, it is the go-to political manifesto regardless of geographical affiliation. Radclyffe Hall’s "The Well of Loneliness" (1928) voices the plight of women with alternative sexuality at times when society was far from being inclusive or sensitive to the needs and existence of an individual who deviated from the norm. The novel acts like a plea for a right, owing to its explicit manner of stating living beyond defined boundaries.

"Rangila Rasul" by Pandit Chamupati MA was scrapped years after its publication, in India, Pakistan and Bangladesh for its explicit religious controversy aimed at Prophet Muhammad. Recently "The Polyester Prince", Dhirubhai Ambani’s biography, faced a harsher fate, when Harper Collins couldn’t even publish it following an injunction slapped by the Ambani family. Similarly, the salesman’s voice in a land of venture capitalists, a black protagonist, or a domesticated woman’s creative realm – speak up for the content and language of the marginalized. Experiencing that thought or voice, as part of the margin or without, verifies Isaac Asimov’s judgment. We may choose to oppose a perspective, but there should be no limitation towards the acknowledgment of any presence.

In spite of evidences of embargo upon creative rights, it doesn’t justify censorship by any plausible means. Rather, forbidding content is both propagandist in flavour and remains against human rights of information and aesthetic experience. To conclude, if anything, there should be an investigation on the history of atrocity which silenced and suppressed any voice from being.

*My essay won the Boston Trustee Scholarship Essay* (sadly, not for me)

Day 13: Fancy

After thirteen, twenty three, forty seven, how-long-has-it-been days of cleanery, moppery, cookery, nursery, and lonery one would expect to sleep like a baby what with the myth of hard work giving you better sleep.

But bang at 6 30 am the eyes open as if on guard duty for the day and one moves about the house like a zombie spying dust particles in nooks and crannies like spelling mistakes in unedited prose. The household stretches out in front of you like a two hundred page thesis in MLA format without pagination. The curtains yearn to be pulled apart as if roadside drama awaits.

You think of watching a good movie but after the credits roll you suddenly remember the boiled eggs in kitchen counter needing to be converted into a curry. Rice, daal, curry, curry, daal, roti, rice, yogurt, oats, carrot, beans, and sometimes fish. If eggs come can chicken be far behind? But rationed. And there is no junk whatsoever. Now that we are unhappy what shall we do? What shall we do tomorrow? What shall we ever do?

In the evening I put on a T-shirt, tracks and my faithful Nike to travel to the park and go round in circles. I have been going in circles ever since. In my plans to walk, and my determination to undo it. There is cookery and cleanery but no poetry.

Poetry has gone down the kitchen sink with the amber dish-washing liquid in a kitchen sink drama. I stink of soiled lemons. At night the Muse comes in my dreams like Medusa with her tangled spoons and forks for hair. "What's with that wig you're wearing?" I ask. "It's not a wig you stupid Yo. It is a  Relief Fund where you have donated one spoon. Shame on you."

She is showing me her long manicured nails which wave in the air like ribbons for an inaugural ceremony. I am being offered a pair of scissors shaped like a pair of stethoscope.

Excuse me, I have to go now to do some foppery. The times are out of joint, O cursed spite! That ever was I born to set right!

Day 14: Creativity

While the term creativity itself has been limited with various definitions and post-it quotes, what is it but the expression of one’s truest self – unhindered by the fear of failure and sociological implications? Not only does it allow us to explore the world around, it is also a mirror to our deepest self – a personification of our feelings and beliefs. This unbridled expression comes to me only through the means of the written word.

Yes, I would like to call myself a writer. A monotonous moment becomes an adventure with my vivid imagination. I guess I could thank my overthinking nature for it! And I have turned it into my muse, rendering endless possibilities to a given instant. To this, I find prose the most befitting – unrestrained by rhyme and accommodating any number of reason. However, like the matter itself, I believe the manner should not stay inhibited too, thus explaining my venture into some poems as well. Thoughts, as made famous by Virginia Woolf, are like a stream of consciousness. What would I write if I were to bind my fluid feelings with genres?

But writing too, is an exercise. As opposed to my initial thoughts of only spontaneity, it is a cohesion of rationality, clarity and thought, which is further bettered only with revising and rewriting. In the process of becoming a better writer I have become a much better reader and understood to value regularity and discipline. I have recently not started writing my novel "Stasis" and have not completed either the prologue or two chapters. It is a science-fiction based on extraterrestrials’ experiences after landing on earth and meeting flowers. People have gone extinct, of course. And thus, it has not started, for who will remain to read?

To conclude, writing has not merely helped me recognize myself but also given me the biggest life-lesson, as put by Sylvia Plath, “The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.”