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.