Hounded at every end. People are civil only so long as you are of use to them, or less they toss you away. I feel tautly stretched, and I see no way this is ever going to change. Everything, work, life outside seems to be part of walking the same tightrope. Say a word out of line, and people scream. If you are thinking according to the way someone else thinks, they are willing to hear you out. Otherwise, you are just an irrational lout, and what you speak is nonsense. Even with your own people, you are constantly proving a point. Taking a stand. You cannot just talk.
I barely feel human. And very alone.

Can I say I am tired? He did not call, and I don't feel so well, and no one will be bothered how this edition is doing. An sms helps, you know. I am tired, just tired.

Ooo hoo, I know now that I have visitors, mane just a wee few, one of whom I know is D.sir. Who are the rest, apart from Oli? Delurk, delurk, mes amis

Achha, I was reading this blog of a junior of mine, and I want to clarify: haleem at Aliyah is NOT like sexual satisfaction, it's miserable. Haleem is palatable only when A's baba cooks it. Neither is it great when you eat it from the stalls outside Statesman House. You merely keep feeling suspicious what it is you are sending down your gullet, and the meat is not good.

And this, also from her blog:
"In college they're playing a corridor cricket series. And I wake up dreaming of jstor. Disconcerting, that."
It's something that someone who has not been to JU will not know. As I will not know of the peculiar spots of closeness that other people have with other places they love, centres of learning, to be specific. That renders it plebeian, but it's not the point really. It's so about memeories: roddur on the balcony, and chilly, dry empty afternoons when one was at a loose end.
Y'know like that song by the Chandrani woman in Krosswindz: Oi dokkhin khola janlay. And the melody is kind of let loose somewhere in the middle of the song, and it rises to the sky where it goes wherever you might want to take it.
It's something the boy wouldn't know, something Oli knows and values exactly like I do, if not more. A yearns for it, perhaps, but she wouldn't change things, C is in a hurry to move on from there. And yeah, after a little more'n a year of work, I wish I woke up dreaming of Jstor too, as corridor cricket seen from outside the classroom.
The dear dear place, how nothing can duplicate what you left behind. It's like leaving your mum.

We had lunch at Sabir today, the boy and I. And as happens so often these days, it remains inexplicable how it turned out so good, how suddenly it all became so pleasant. The light flavour of the firni, my happiness over his liking the mutton, his undivertable love for chicken bharta. And I suspect we both enjoy good meals. That he likes the taste of boiled meat, and I like it grilled, with the woodsmoke lending to the taste. And how it was like we had been living this way for years, as we walked back. I suddenly found I was walking with my hands together behind me, and he was quietly talking, and I could anticipate the pauses. And I wished bye bye, and left.
The silence.

Somebody exclaimed 'uff! angst mama!'
I think my last post wanted that, if it deserved being called a post. Hee hee, I had a good day. I habe done a lotof organisational work tooday. Hooh, my coolth, level-headedness, my thanda mathay kaaj kora...kya kehne! All thanks to a certain boy who refuses to lose his temper. Maybe now that I've said it, we will have unforeseen trouble.
You do know that a colleague is leaving and we have a supplement hanging for which there is NO matter?
I slept at 6 in the morning yesterday after two hours of watching X Files.
I can't think of profound things to say.
Well, there's Kali pujo tomorrow, and humongous sized idols are being carted all around the city.
I see them when I come home every night.
Everybody was buying lights today, and baji. I wanted to buy lights, but well, it'll all be gone tomorrow, and I haven't bought anything.

My life seems to be falling apart. Things seem to be going out of control, as I control less and less of how I want things to be. It's an indulgence, giving in to this feeling, but I just wish now, at well, 1:15 tonight, that certain things had never happened. And yet, that it did, was perhaps better. It's out of my system, hopefully.
And work, I, well, I don't know what will happen. It's like the old 'when rape is inevitable, lie back and enjoy.' I can't be bothered to get up and let myself not be raped, 'cause I don't know what to do, where to go.
Oh dear God, I feel so tired. I feel so tired. I just want to get away from all this, get away. Not wake up again for a long time with a tired mind, and a tired body, to drag myself to another whirligig of confusion again. To wake up to peaceful work. But then again you have to make peace and all that, so...tired.

Park Circus. On new camera. You are not to try using it without my permission. Presuming you make the mistake of wanting to in the first place.

It's really late at night. and writing does give me a high, but i am scared i will soon discover i haven't enough information.
It's about half an hour later, and my brain seems to be shutting down. Anyway, what with the bandh and an early pick up and all, I didn't get much of a chance to make the much-looked forward to daily morning visit to the loo. So stomach sheitao janan dichhe. It would be such a comfort to be back in my room, and going into the bathroom now. Still an hour to go before I reach. Atleast Potato Man won't be there in my car, which is a real, tangiblr relief.
Come to think, amar ato night hochhe, I could make up for a day missed with a few night allowances. What a life.
I am tired.

Everything is now beginning to seem the same. Am I merely being lazy?

I am writing a horrible story, with which I shall succeed in embarrassing several near and dear ones.

My exploits o'er le weekend. I wish I could have a lost weekend too, but amar gyan shorboda atoi tontone thake je it's fat hopes that I might be able to have one of that. (Or perhaps I never am in my full senses??? I wonder)
Well, ennyway, Shubhayu and I planned to meet at Park Street on Sunday morn. Great, adventurous Shubhayu didn't mind it being a Sunday and hence no Metro at all. Just a bus ride, so I was elated to find similarly minded people.
Well, I also had the Great Conversation with the boy. So got burningly late for meeting S. Was very good talking, and then, S was very cool about me being about an hour and a half late. That was like a breath of fresh air, the freedom of childhood/college, like, when you didn't feel pressed all the time, like your breath was drawn constrainedly.
Well, I did cab it. And I got down and saw him sitting on the steps in front of Musicworld, not fuming, as I or anyone I'd thought was waiting for me would have. So I sat down and whined that I was hungry and wanted lunch, and he was ok with that change of plans as well.
Then a cheel across the street got hit, and like most unplanned things, I went over to see what happened. Then the guard who'd come out to see it, took him to the footpath, I kinda impotently asking him to do so, 'cause I am scared of birds. Well, then there were people and a girl made phonecalls, and I followed up on the calls after she left. And then, the bird couldn't stay straight anymore, and toppled to its side, what with people pouring copious amounts of water on its head, and goading it to drink copious amounts of water, I suppose. Then toh it looked at us, me and S arai chokhe, and what with people saying o to more jabe, and kamre debe, I was shit scared. I really didn't want it/him to die. And the look was not at all hingsro, just kinda kator and arai chokhe. So I called Mr D of PFA, and he got a vehicle to come along and pick it up. And oh, a liquor shop person nearby also very kindly gave us a large cardbox to keep it in, as we'd been told to. And its wings were also getting dusty lying in the dirt there. And much better than the absurd jutor baksho the laughing BarBQ watchman laughingly got for us.
Then we loped off, to Free School Street to find 'Khaliq', a beef biriyani place, d'apres S. On Sunday it's closed, we found. We'd also planned to have shwarma, and we found the eatery where it's sold, I think. Turkish Corner. We'll come back.
Well, he suggested we go to Oly for beef steak, and yaah, that's what we did. Great stuff, and I saw what the oh-so-hallowed place was like. Fairly decent, with ratty so-called carpets, and open liquor bottles with water stacked on a table. You go and pick up. It was apparently S's first time at the place when he didn't have liquor. We went over and had cold coffee at T3 after that. Then back to office. And lots and lots to talk. The cheel is good, since no bleeding anyway. And his wing was a little injured, but he'll be ok. And they dunno yet whether there are wounds on the feet. I feel very good. And it was a very lovely day.

I had to write a story. So I am writing this. I had meant a newspaper story.
Well, yesterday, my colleague and holy mother, N and I went out to get medicines for her at Chandni Chowk at 9:30 at night. Well, we did, I munching chips greedily along the way. Chandni was minus most of its bustle at that time, and we walked about among traders lazily packing up their wares, some old sad random Hindi songs kyat kyat kore bajchhe. Very pleasant. We walked along the Chandni Market road, towards CR Avenue, the road got perceptively seedier, and I was thinking of turning another way, when voila! there was Sabir. The restaurant.
It was a lovely end to a very nice walk, very relaxed, mooching about in semi-known surroundings, wondering what the piles of screws displayed are for, and N.di informing that they belonged to people who'd lost theirs. And if you found yourself needing one, you could come and buy some for yourself.
We didn't have much money yesterday, but she agreed to go along to Sabir, completely acquieseing to a wish I expressed, very pleasant, that. We decided to split expenses in half, and carefully selected a mutton biriyani and a chicken tikia kebab, to delicately match our tastes and our pockets. Roshonar poritripti. We ate and a very nice meal it was. We laughed and laughed, I whined over the gha on my lip, and how it hurt, and bit my tongue and drew blood again, for good measure. N couldn’t stop laughing. I looked around, there were men eating alone, a man brandishing a stack of 500 rupee notes, and our waiter, nice waiter, hovering in the background, and me exclaiming in loud whispers, ‘What does he want?" Again the woman couldn’t stop laughing. It was such a delight. And then we walked back, our gullets full for the moment, N.di clutching onto my arm in a clawy grip, scared that I would run into the next passing vehicle I found. We walked past the hovering car-waiters outside office, and sat at the wooden thek. Their chawala passed by, saying ‘ebar bari jao’, and we sat and chatted. We went back to get cold drink for N’s home again, then came back to office. I missed the 11:15 drop to chat some more, and we were in office laughing away still, the other blowsers in the room eventually hollering at us to stop.

There's this thing, whenever I write sad things about myself, no one replies, ok, comments. Even the boy's like that: when I am really down and out, ok just upset, I am to haul myself out of it like any healthy person.
The ravings of a madwoman will not be indulged.
It is seen as 'layzinesss', I believe.

'frequently second guesses self', is a good description of me.

I am scared, embarrassed, at my imperfection, lack of impulse.
"Consume my heart away,
Sick with desire and chained to a dying animal,
It knows not what it is."
Yeats wrote this, and I got the lines from my own blog when I googled for it.
There are times I want to be put down. Take me away God.

Oh, please believe, all the people I hold dear are not that. I am a consciousness. Without memory.
I need oblivion. Mostly from love, and the corollary, emptiness and hurt.

I think I am boring of the masterly kind. Oh if you were only to stay with me, you would discover how I nag, how I can be endlessly hurt. This is of course, my perceived perspective of another's perspective of me.
Pujo will come. I will see pujos. So thereio. Bloody.
And oh what else, I read some horrible pujo shonkhas, all really bad writing, really. I read Dirk Gently. What I need, I think, are some real speedy thrillers, to read at night. And since we are all here in Calcutta this pujas, we would all go out watching pratima, I think. And yaywoo, I look forward to taking photographs, so there.
See, how boring I am


'Labels for this post:e.g. scooters, vacation, fall'
Does it look like I am writing on any of these? I do work through pujo, y'know.

Well, this is just writing for the sake of it. Yeah, 'cause you never get to what you want to say unless you're at home. Things I found:
I don't have a life, with staying at office most of the day, and then, so irritated afterward that I merely ask to be left alone, and scream unholily when I am not.
It's not so much that, y'know. I, well, want to get away. Want to be alone. I want to go to Khajuraho, for one. I dunno how good I am with relationships. Perhaps I am not. Perhaps it's the persons we are. I want to breathe. And a lot of things that I dearly want to write and let loose over the internet, knowing that no one would read it.
I used to write stories once. Not newspaper story, but fiction story. Kotoi na shohoj chhilo shob takhon.
Aj baire giyechhilam anekdin por. Ki je shanti.

Life quite genuinely sucks. It's not funny, though it sounds that way. Jesus, I could whack all my so-called friends. Nijer ta bujhe niye shala tumi jaley porle na morei gele, karur jay ashe na. fucking buggers.

I was going through Orkut profiles of people in college now. Khub pulok holo, so am writing. Well, y'know, there's a distinct difference between people that are good and those you learn to tolerate, ar chakri korte korte you see so many of the latter kind that you forget the difference. Aj ak jon ke dekhe mone holo she was the kind I'd have liked to be friends with.
Eishob, ar the boy has had a fierce crew-cut hair-cut, like he was going to war, or to be a sailor, at the least. Ki bhoyanok, ami to prothome takachhilam i na. And I have a camera, discovering the joys of a camera. Ami ashole akhon khub khushi khushi bodh korchhi. Y'know, like Oli was saying, how you can be happy despite there not really being anything to be happy about, if someone were to hold you to the cause-effect of it. Actually, she said the opposite, but you get the picture. Blissfully happy, akhon. And you realise that you are rather lucky to be given someone with whom to share your days with. And that God gives his gifts carefully.
Ami kal akta documentary dekhchhilam Nandigram er opor: shekhane a person's intestines were puching their way out of his stomach after he'd been shot. And his wife was so quiet and nonchalant: what could she do, really. What is there to do once it's gone and happened. And you realise how close death lives to your skin, and that things might happen to those you love, need. You are glad they are all good. And the petty feel-bads seem small, then, when you think there's love enough, or maybe caring, to hold you together with another.