Here after a long time, mainly cuz don't have Net at home. K & I got my computer, he fixed it, our baby, it is. But life's kinda different after that. A black presence, beautiful and all, surrounds your existence. My mother superior went away, and it's a bit of not so friendly madness au bureau. He is a source of relief, surprisingly. There isn't much left to living. Save office, and he. Occasional bits of friends, snatches - whiffs of JU, long forgotten home, happiness, warmth fading away, the real world. Lonesomeness. And that's what I had liked about The Namesake, about Nikhil's loneliness, of growing up, of time, when the warmth of old friends falls away, and nothing can be as nice as what you left behind. It is also the serenity of age, K says, and I know. K is gold. It was something I found yesterday, realised rather. Brilliant, and beautiful to boot. Fiery beauty, quite. And what is now there is quiet, barely masked sometimes, but you can see what's happening, how it will shape up, perhaps. All of which I love. It is perhaps truer than you know, you are given what you need, at the time you need it most. It is not about grasping a person and possessing him, more about being let to perceive, to see, know.
Well, that. Apart, little music, fewer books. It's just too scattered, life is. Akhon para hobe na. I am not fighting it. I wish for a good day everyday. With minimum mental frazzlement, ravaging. Get back home, to oblivion, of pain from office for the night. Find something to work out the day after. It's overwhelmingly lonely, is all I can say. And I am not alone. Several my age, my kind - and there are more than I thought. It's not bad, a way of living, happens to everyone, shedin The namesake dekhe ato bhalo laglo, like a balm to frazzled soul. This too shall pass. Jhumpa Lahiri, Nikhil, Gogol. And he opened the book, and sat down to read. 24, I shall be. In July. Time flies. So. At such speed. All you can do is hang on and live. Where you dunno quite at all what's going to happen. Why baba died, the way ma and I are now - why; what happens to us. And you live wondering whether things don't fall into place sometime. Child of ruins, we are. We all. Something has died, and the rest is an attempt at salvaging, as serenely as you can, without losing your mind. The gold's not there anymore. And that's inevitable. For all. And yet we love, and love deeply, in serenity, and find a kind of sadder happiness that is nonetheless more lasting than the flash of brightness that was youth.
Remember when you were young, You shone like the sun..
2 comments:
Don't you think that it's ironic...maaney, post-Barrett, all that they wrote was about madness whilst none of the Barrett albums themselves can even remotely be called melancholy? I wonder.
jani na. But is it ironic at all? when you live it, can you name it, write about it from a distance?
and how have you been? is what i wanted to ask
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