I must be the kind of person who is rarely interested in the lives of others unless they are entangled with mine, preferably not very tenuously. I am not going to be bothered about how hard-worked someone is, I am tired of being sad. I want to have fun.
I feel more and more at ease about not answering mails from friends because I don’t want to, though I hate it when some people I want to respond to mine, don’t.
I am not very pretty, am I?
So this year will end tomorrow, another of many, no different from the last, mired in boredom, my mind as fetid as in the last. I will write something wonderful when things change.

Uh, the reunion. Bad pictures, so those won’t be appearing anywhere. Except for this one.
The feeling is slipping away, but there was so much I wanted to write about while they were happening.
It was a beautiful sunny day, glorious really, more charming because I am either asleep or in office or at home when this happens. The campus is very manicured and is perhaps a good thing. Yes, it is good to have clean grounds and green grass to lay down on, as I suppose is the giant entrance at Bengal Lamp, but well, it’s new, is all.
Somewhere towards the middle of Bibek’s band’s playing, I realised I was more relaxed than I had been the whole day, that I felt the way I did in college. Great comfort, knowing that there was no reason to question your presence here. Bibek’s harsh voice and Sujoy’s seamless singing, the mandolin played on. I speak like I know them, I don’t, except of stories I’ve heard from friends, but surely you can speak of what you loved with some familiarity? And then there was a time, when two ex-students, who had been in a relationship, hummed along to Mirna Guha’s song. And the rhythm of their heads shaking to the music was the same, though they didn’t look at each other much. I wondered then what we had started out with and what we had today was different, sometimes so far away.
And when you are that relaxed, you want a body to lay back against or somebody to laugh with, old, known jokes and uncontrolled laughter. I missed Oli. It was one of those moments, when things seem as if through a haze and you feel warmth for everyone who smiles for the same reason as you.
As I walked out of the Bengal Lamp gate, I could smell the openness I inhabited in my head once and that now it was different, and the choice had been mine and it wasn’t so bad: there is much warmth, but when you go back, you remember such longing, such desperate longing to live that way again.
And sudden kindness that I am quite certain I don’t deserve, Supriya di’s, Rimidi’s, and Dipta da. I felt so out of it for such a long time, I have, er, outsider issues.
I wish there were more people from my class. But there was Arati, Karishma, V, R, Dipta da, Ditto da. Sreetama was in the city, but dunno how, had NO idea the reunion was on. It would have been ever so nice to meet.
It makes you restless, it makes you want to leave your present and get out again. It makes you very restless, to not reach out for all that you want.

I have discovered the blog of another colleague. Hyuk.
So much feeling. The universe would explode under the pressure of it, if it knew. This is just as affected as the blog I discovered, was.
Then, a few days ago, I was checking the visitor stats of a classmate’s blog, a blog that I viciously dislike for its pretentiousness and then I checked mine and snnrrkd. My classmate might have thousands of readers in l’Amerique et a l’Inde, but I have the solitary reader in Turkey that my classmate doesn’t have. Snurf.
Ami asholey kintu eto vicious noi.

Someone is saying repeatedly Ridiklus state of affairs ya Ridiklus state of affairs.
Accha, so, I am wondering if two-year-old condoms serve any purpose, because I shall throw them out if they don’t and not endanger myself in the distant future when there might be an opportunity to have sex. This is just a way of saying I have had sex, which should not really be something that one shall have to state at my age. Also, that it has been off my mind for a while now, no thanks to my own natural inclination for, whattosay, more constructive activities. If I were offered sex now, I wouldn’t jump up in delight, I’d be considering and say: oh, you do? Well, why not.
Secondly, a colleague’s cat died today after being sent to stay at an animal shelter/ ngo for seven days, of blood dysentery and apparently, worms. It reinforces what one knows, that there’s no place your pet is safe except at home, or with other animal owners.
A junior has said that dogs with ears standing erect are usually mischief-makers. This makes me consider my dog in a wholly new light.
There is a very bad peon person in my office who was asking for tickets to tomorrow’s match. He is very sly and sneaky. I bet if he could've got them, he would have tried to sell them for a lot of money, even though he was saying some bullshit like ‘khela r jonne amar mon bhore othe/ knepe knepe othe’ or somesuch.

Bhogoban, ami ar ar parchhi na, ami bari jabo. Amar matha byatha korchhe, ghum pachhe, amar kaaj karar kono ichhe nei. Ami para r kukur der katha bhabte chai na, oder obostha dekhte pari na, amar mon bhenge jaye. Ami K er kachhe jante chai na je o overworked, annoyed, or cricket match dekhte pabey na, or off day r din off pabey na, why it is a luxury to demand to go eat at Mainland China because it is Christmas and it's nice to celebrate, when he is having trouble getting through his days, so much work he has. I don't want to know, I want someone to laugh with, wear old clothes and walk with. I also want to go home and sleep. Without my mother complaining, without the dog doing things it shouldn't. I just want to put up my mosquito net, take my dog in, wrap my arms around her and sleep.
Look, my eyes are filling with tears at my desparation.

Edited to add:

Bend me

Break me

Anyway you need me

I am subbing a copy that makes me feel like this song from Garbage.

I wish I was a person who could sport ethnogrunge look. You know, long earrings, thick kajol, occasional bangle. Trouble is, it also requires you to wear very good quality clothing, accoutrement, which you then proceed to destroy and call grunge. Or let it just become out of fashion and call it grunge. Which makes grunge a look, which is such nyakamo, really.
I do not wish to sport that look. If you are all nihilistic and feel nothing about the world, you can’t possibly have all the patience to paint your white, back and red.
I used to love dressing in raggedy clothes and I wish grunge was actually that, where you could sport comfortable tatter and still appear attractive. I look nice with kajol, but comfort really matters more and I take public transport and I sweat bucketfulls, so no kajol in summer, or lipstick for the same reason. And bangles make my hand look like a jhee’s. And I won’t buy clothes that cost more than a certain amount, because after all, they are clothes and are meant to cover your body. And waifish choppol, forgyet it. I hate dry, dirty feet.
Ethnogrunge, my foot, nc.
This is also occasioned by Dakota Fanning’s look in Push, a film that could have been so much more but which I still liked very much. Sure, the film’s yellow pallette will all turn out to be Wong Kar Wai-like and boyfriend will tell me o-my-god-eta oita!. Kintu ki korbo, I think I really like all these mildly sci-fi like films and fantasy toh I definitely like very much. Well, so Dakota Fanning had this shock of unruly hair with pink highlights, which I would love to have, except that my hair is in a very bad way and is a sensitive issue and probably won’t survive pink highlighting.
Another thing is the academic I met towards last weekend for an interview. It was bad and therefore very disappointing, but she had seemed so beautiful, you know. That’s the reason why I had hauled myself to meet her in the morning, waking up at 9.30 for god’s sake. And would love to put up her photo, she still seems beautiful to me. So intangible, perhaps therefore beautiful. After speaking to her for a while, the smile didn’t seem so lighting up the place anymore. And the book is perhaps as many academic tomes are.
Lastly, William by Richmal Crompton. I wish I had bought the other one in that pile of nonsense books strewn about at our local bookfair and were selling for 20 bucks.

Can you believe, people in the adjoining cubicle are making obscene chook chook noises, which you otherwise hear on the street when people fancy you available. They are showing off who can do it best, oh such cool bhodrolok we are, we can do what is so bad without batting an eyelid and without besmirching our unblemished bhodrolokhood.

This is from The Sartorialist. The brilliant sunlight, the vibrant green, the floaty dress, even the green nails. It fills me with such impossibly deep longing, of walking down a road in a far away country, with the sun on my back, where I could wear this impractical dress and take a long walk, where no one would know me, so you could do all of this and not think how this could be fixed into your past and your future.

The closest actual feeling of this was in Darjeeling, where the weather got better each day and that day I took that long long walk to the Tibetan refugee centre, so far away from anything one knew.

Achha achha, this is all very disgusting. I was reading a classmate’s blog and it depresses the hell out of me. Mane, okok, all right, I agree being married is difficult, mane even though I am not married. Adjusting with another family, I don’t expect to be fun. There’s my colleague, who does almost a picture perfect turn at it. And I hate the idea of it, but but, that’s not one’s whole life? Eh? Eh eh?
Gah, ami bhabteo chai na. Bloody depressing. You want to spit it out and rinse your mouth very well.

Is my life good or is my life bad?

I gave two stories in the last two weeks and both were done while struggling maniacally to balance pages. I was a little glad of being able to pull both off.
And then there was today. Of course, remember dog, beautiful black, silky length of her, curling up beside you every night and looking up with soulful eyes, always. Which made me so content with the present that I didn’t feel the need to make vacation plans.
Yes, today. Harrowing, harrowing nightmare, of endless complaints, accusation, and I felt rage coursing through me like a living thing that could influence me in a way that seemed most tempting to give in to. I know, I now know what makes good people behave in ways that seem horrifying even to them, of ways of being that wasn’t a part of their images of themselves in the toughest of situations. ‘I am my father’s daughter’ is a phrase that resonates with me for all the non-praiseworthy reasons. I understand often these days what made him act the way he did all that time, what must life have been for him and what it must have taken for him to not drop it all and go away somewhere where there was not this.
And then again, perhaps we do not. Perhaps that is our culture. Perhaps we are quieter, in a very Buddha-like way, perhaps we accept that things will be a certain way and rework our worlds to accommodate it.

Uh, long talk break
Life doesn’t seem so bad now. Even though you have to demand that for your birthday you want a strawberry studded cake with dinner and boyfriend’s closest friends on the list of invitees, beaming for having been invited. Or at least I would like to meet them casually too. Though I don’t really mind for the most part. Being a giant extended family is eminently avoidable. Mane, I know what’s happening at their end and vice versa, I think.

So it’s ended for today, I think. What occasioned this lekha, ie. Will probably start again tomorrow.

I gave in two churidar kurta pieces to the tailor to be made. It’s a bad world out there, where churidar wearers are at the mercy of tailors. If you are very lucky, your tailor will get your design and fit approximately right. If you are not, you might lose the material (as it happened last time), you might get a completely different design (even though the tailor notes down the cuts and measurements on his part of the bill) or get clothes double/ half your style. I was outraged at this recently, till I found that this is de rigueur. And boyfriend agrees, and he comes from a, er, vintage tailoring family.

See, how all problems in life are solved not by taking steps to correct what’s not working, but by adopting a Zen-like calm, as Bridget Jones would say, to take everything in your stride. Crazy family, insidious tailors.

Edited to add: eeeeyuk, is this a smarmy post. Door how beyadob!

Of course this is not the copy I am reading from.
So, basically, after a whole lot of whine, Edmund White kicked ass in the last chapter. Also, laughter, towards the end of the book, when the light was breaking on my night. I didn’t associate White with funny, but there were these moments of robust disgust. Mane, in the last chapter, he lets go of that careful craftedness and it’s more a human being, a boy who is not this distilled consciousness. The last paragraph reminds you of a poem.
(this poem:
Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;

The worlds revolve like ancient women

Gathering fuel in vacant lots.)
So, well, a lot fills me with disgust and fear and sadness now. I thought of what it would be if I lost my mother and what would happen with Floppy and it made me sick with dread. What will happen to the dog about F’s age, who is going to have puppies? Another cycle of early deaths. What will happen to Flop when I go away? How can I give her away? She slept with her face jammed into the crook of my arm yesterday. Which animal but one who knows nothing other than to trust you does that? A tiger is dying of cancer in Lucknow zoo and they are thinking of putting him down. In Long Island, a woman would buy dogs, torture and kill them. A one year old pit bull was put down in Brooklyn because it was unfit to live among humans or animals, apparently. What does that mean? This after she recovered after she was thrown down a storey (or was it more?) by her owner and had a broken leg and broken something else. In her photograph, she had the most serene eyes ever, looking deeply.
I remember telling my cousin once, when I was in school, that I imagined what would be if I were in the same situation as a boy in a Hindi film I had seen, a boy of five or seven, who is left crying after his entire family is shot while they are going somewhere. And my cousin had wondered what a gruesome imagination I had. And then years later, I think I remembered what I had thought when my father died. And well, all the times I had wondered how I would feel if I lost him, he who I thought was the centre of the world and he was. Was that somehow responsible for bringing on his death? Can you wish people dead? How terrible it must be to wish people dead out of your indulgence to feeling. And am I doing it again? It is like a reckoning of your own love for those who are most precious to you, to imagine how you would react to their deaths. And do you reduce their life span by it? Like Donne had asked his lover not to sigh for him, for with every breath, she reduced his life a little?

This is Edmund White with his lover Hubert Sorin and their dog, Fred. I am reading Edmund White’s A Boy’s Own Story and rediscovering why I was so taken in by him when I read him in PG II. It’s almost like poetry, and isn’t compulsively wordy like The Farewell Symphony. This one’s like delicately charting the rise and fall of a mental state, just as he says he wanted to do. And uh, so many thoughts. What we set out be, what we are. There definitely isn’t any place for wishy washiness. I’ll quote from him later, and buy his books. And he is becoming very pro-establishment. And I met Babu, did I say? The name written with a firm handwriting that echoes the stiff rhythm of his walk and the birdlike gestures. So many worlds feel alive in my head and sometimes I want to inhabit many at once. It’s like being high on Avil.

The only thing that gives a respite is Questionable Content, trivial details about the lives of people your age that let you smile. That must be why bloggers who write about everyday rojnamcha are so popular. They summarise what overwhelms you.
Although it's always on top of my mind, I always tried so that I would never tell myself or another (I have) that I don't know what to do with my life next. I have tried to keep at least vague goals on the horizon, a rough sequence of events. I admit now that I have absolutely no clue of what I want next, only vague dreams and very little idea of how to realise them or whether they are realisable at all. I am on the wrong side of 25, time is running past me, I am answerable about my plans to another.
I feel tied up like a bundle of knots and unable to answer questions. I have no clue of where things are going to come from next. I can't abide my present, I can't conceive a future.

Opinions that have changed since I was a teenager. A list Sunayana made.
I thought I’d write on what she wrote, but then realised that most of them didn’t really make that much of a difference to me. These do.

Abortions: One should be able to decide whether one wants to have a baby or be rid of it. I now believe this even more firmly than I did then. In school, the reason was simple, it’s my body, right? Who is anyone else to tell me whether I want or don’t want to keep a baby I make? Now, it seems much simpler. If you decide to bring another life into this world, one must be absolutely sure that one can guarantee it a reasonable degree of physical comfort and emotional security. If I have doubts about either of those, I would rather not have a child. A child can’t be a solution to my problems, it’s not really fair to think that it follows after having a baby that I will become more responsible and caring, ergo child will be fine, while solving my relationship/ loneliness problems by being there.

My parents: Ah, I do feel vastly differently now than then. Then, I was constantly angry, or hurt, or needing. Since baba died, though, it’s changed. Can I tell you how strong I feel when I accomplish each little thing that I once felt helpless about? I can’t say how it might have been if baba were still there. I would probably have been less tied to home, but I can’t even imagine what my mind would be like.
I crib furiously at all the responsibility, at how tied down I feel now. I did a terrible thing yesterday, exactly what I had hoped not to do, and exactly the opposite of the kind of responsibility I am talking about. But I sort of accept that I will not be footloose, that I have a family of sorts that comprises mother, I and dog. And did I say that I can talk with such assurance because I know that the guy I am seeing is my rock?
I love The Namesake very much, and someone wrote about the book that it was the story of Ashoke and Ashima, of a husband who showed his wife how to be free. But she wanted to be free, yea? The guy I am seeing, he is not a remarkable boyfriend, really. I think he would give the same kindness and understanding to all that were close to him. It is a tremendous openness that lets you go where you want, even away from him.
So, er, what I am saying is, I am still very angry at my one remaining parent, but will probably not make any plans without figuring her into it. And that I feel strong enough to live out the years without baba.

Clothes: I remember wanting them when I was little like a child wants toys, but even then, the wanting was in passing. One of the many reasons college was liberating was that no one gave a rat’s ass (with all due love to rats) what you wore. I was so used to complete indifference to what I wore that it took me quite a while into my job to figure that clothes did matter. They are functional things: they let you be seen, heard. I try (not very hard, still) to be dressed in clean, ironed, more or less well-fitted, not bizarre clothes. I like to buy them too. I found that out about two years ago.

Money: I feel as strongly about this when I was little as I do now. It matters a great deal. One must spend it prudently.

Letter to dog:

It was sometime later in the year, last year that you came into the world. That was the Pujas too. I was busy with so many thoughts this time last year. I didn’t have any inkling that you were going to be born. I saw you for the first time when winter began to fall, as a wee thing, with your wee brother, both of you tugging at a sapling. The dog lady must have fallen in love with you, because the next time I saw you, you were already in the grill. And then I saw you. And you came to live with me.
Since then, you’ve torn both our sofas, don’t eat, you’re shedding hair like there’s no tomorrow. But I love to go to sleep with you on my bed, love to bury my nose in your fur and breathe in deep that unbathed dog smell. You are the best thing that happened to me in a very very long time.
A year has rolled by since then and it’s festive time again. You look out curiously when the beats of the dhaak sound, bark in fear and anger when the boys burst crackers. You leapt at me when I came out of the room wearing new clothes, rubbed your wet nose on them to get to know the smell. I wish I knew how to make a dog enjoy the Pujas, I wish I could take you to watch the Puja. But your birthday is around the corner, I swear we’ll have rollicking amounts of fun then. We’ll have mutton and sweets and ice-cream and I’ll get you new toys. Much love.

The pujas this year
It was like being a child who discovers the world for the first time. I saw so many Pujas and today, on Nabami, I wondered how I had not felt this deep deep enjoyment in all these years. I was passing by a puja in Dum Dum Park, and it was a homely one, really, no fancy pandals. I went up close and saw the faces of Durga and Lokkhi and Saraswati and the design on Ganesh’s shur, I saw the lines drawn in: the eyes, the lips, with such care lavished on each line, it seemed. You wonder about the reason for such love, it’s only a festival, no? and you know, that people do this, for things they love, there might not be much benefit to be had from it. Some unreasoned strands that make the cultural fabric of a people. How glad I am that we have festivals.
I saw a very small boy at Thanthania Kali bari. He stood behind the dhaakis who were playing, and quietly clapped to himself. He clapped and he clapped, amidst the tumult of people who passed to and fro, never minding them, who never minded him. And someone came and moved him a little to one side, out of the way of people, very kindly. And he went on clapping.
There was a couple, at that pujo near Gariahat, a daab seller and his wife. I saw them in a corner, hidden away behind the pandal passage. It was evening and they sat and spoke. The man was in his 40’s, perhaps, and the girl, in a sari, with her head covered in a ghomta very matter of factly, like your barir kaajer meye. But the girl was.. 13.. 14 perhaps and the moment they shared was so intimate and yet, she was a girl! Little more than infant! She spoke to him like an equal, like one would speak to a husband.. and yet, how can you live it down??? How can you live down her glaring youth? And that she was married to a man so much older. How can you ignore the tiredness in her face and that the youth that dripped off her was so at odds with her fatigue, her grown-up clothes and an aged husband?

Incredibly depressed.
from The Songlines, Chatwin quoting Baudelaire:

This life is a hospital in which each sick man is possessed by the desire to change beds. One would prefer to suffer by the stove. Another believes he would recover if he sat by the window.
I think I would be happy in that place I happen not to be, and this question of moving house is the subject of a perpetual dialogue I have with my soul.

from Anywhere Out of This World!

Another reaching out for distant possibilities ‘post’, if you will. I read an interview of Alexander Skarsgard, who plays vampire Eric Northman on True Blood. He is in his mid-30’s, Swedish and his father is Skellan Skarsgard (who has starfish growing out of his cheek in Pirates of the Caribbean 2, I think, and who plays the bullish math professor in Good Will Hunting. AND Goya in Goya’s Ghosts. It was very good.)
Alexander Skarsgard is a TV actor, mostly, and his home is Sweden. He talks about his work schedule, it is very gruelling and about staying with friends in LA and not wanting family right now. And well, how attractive that was. To be tall and work hard and alone. To be free of the compulsion to settle down, if ever. To do it tomorrow or when it came along. To not even have children, if it didn’t work for you. Even if children were beautiful and a nice thing to look forward to.
And I saw House, the first episode of the season finale of 5 where he begins to hallucinate. And there’s Cuddy, who is very much in love with him. And he is in his 40’s and she going to be, and they are still falling in love. She is. And he lives alone and he is, as David Shore says, incredibly self-aware and he has fears. He hangs on by a slim thread.
God, I shall not live by stereotype. I don’t think they make me happy. They are pretty, people with nice children and falling asleep sharing nitty gritties with a husband. But I don’t want em, not in that combination and not now. I am 26 and I am a little scared even to write this, at how big the words are. But I hope I live up to them.

Was Chatwin a bit of an Orientalist, I mean in believing that the East stood for mysticism, where he would find a life that would be different from the frenetic pace of the west? Did he feel trapped in the torpor of the war that swung around him and did he find sunshine in cultures that lived unaffected by the Europe’s turmoil? I was reading a random page of The Songlines and the well, compulsive quoting from texts (very lovely, mind you) felt like a mind working frenetically to find a way out, to make sense.
Reading from a random page was soothing, without the compulsion of having to follow a storyline, but then, probably he felt that way too, the need to cut loose?
What I long for greatly now is to find my way to a small town in the Deep South like Bon Temps. I might hate it, never mind, but it seems so attractive perhaps because it has no frame of reference to my current life. I hate to say perhaps. I know that is the reason. I hate to have to give an adult explanation for a longing that sounds juvenile, otherwise.
But, well, what Chatwin says, that wandering is not the sign of neurosis, dissatisfied sexuality, but natural? What can I say? When I think of places away from home, I don’t think of forging ties, of friends (if I am lucky, perhaps), I think of a quiet heart, one that does not rage against its present, that walks in silence, utterly soothed by the sights it sees, the people it meets, without feeling the need to touch them, to form life-long bonds with them.
Is that the flaneur? Perhaps not. I dunno, it’s ok if it ain’t.
Here’s a few from Chatwin:

“Psychiatrists, politicians, tyrants are forever assuring us that the wandering life is an aberrant form of behaviour; a neurosis, a form of unfulfilled sexual longing; a sickness which, in the interests of civilization, must be suppressed.
Nazi propagandists claimed that gypsies and Jews – peoples with wandering in their genes – could find no place in a stable Reich.”

“A very brief life of Diogenes:
He lived in a tub. He ate raw octopus and lupins. He said ‘Kosmopolites eimi’. ‘I am a citizen of the world.’ He compared his wanderings through Greece to the migration of storks: north in summer, south to avoid the winter cold.”

“We Lapps have the same nature as the reindeer: in the springtime we long for the mountains; in winter we are drawn to the woods.
- Turi’s Book of Lapland

I was subbing a copy on a science show. It dealt with pressure, density and vacuum and brought forth these images from Class VII, the terror, the rough-paper of the physics book with its killingly bland diagrams that today seems curiously maya makhano because I remembered baba drawing those experiments again and again to explain those principles to me. And they seemed so tough, so tough and baba would say, how can you find it boring? It’s so interesting, it explains everything. And pressure was a terror, and I was always a very average student, but I remember I did well in the class test and I remember the teacher’s opaque recitation of the principle, smooth voice and smoother handwriting and red lipstick. She thought she was explaining and the smart ones in class probably got stuff too, despite the bad teaching. But it seemed so like a puppet talking. I know because I have spoken like that sometimes, with my mind completely somewhere else, and people haven’t understood even though I wasn’t saying a thing wrong.
But think how pressure diagrams can seem so loving in recollection, even the fear and the hate.
Is literature, writing, feeling an exercise in indulgence? I thought I would leave all that behind, but it has gripped me again. And I am without any spine to deal with it except to take refuge in silence. Also, it seems so infernally stupid that I have nothing to say. So I choke with rage and sputter.
(the pic is a refraction diagram. Eta slightly easier chhilo)

I feel very very depressed. When will this ever end? When will I have, among other things, nice delicious sex?
But that’s not the worry exakly. What is, is how depressing everything. I am 26, not on the road to what I want to do. I want to quit and sit at home and then find something else to do, apply to begin with. If that doesn’t work, something else. I am tired of being cautious, of distrusting my instincts, of second-guessing myself constantly. We are all given what we deserve.
I got myself a beautiful blue book shelf, it’s huge, tall and wide.
I have a black, soft dog who looks at me demandingly, with complete conviction that I am the one she will go to for whatever it is she might be wanting. She yelled in rage when I came back home last night, at having been shut out for so long (two hours). She sleeps curled up on her paws at the foot of my bed and lies lazily on her stomach beside me, her fat tail erect after I have just woken up and am deciding to get out of bed.
I watched a serial about vampires and people yesterday. Six episodes back to back. The concept is awfully kinky, but the acting is quite awful, it’s so sad. They think they can pull it off by piling on the sex appeal and shut out every other aesthetic sense? But there’s also this town, Bon Temps, which is almost a village, really, and there’s this tremendous atmosphere: the black woman who is a complete drunk and a devout Jesus groupie, mane oi bhishon classic Bible belt stuff, like, who goes to an Obeah (that what they call traditional healers/ mystics???) to get the demon (the alcoholism) out of her. This Obeah drowns a caged possum, into whom the demon has passed into, in a tub of water. There are layabouts, like Jack Stackhouse, mama’s boys, over the hill, heavily-made-up, thrice-divorced waitresses. And then, ah then, there’s the vampire bar Fantasia and fang bangers, who like to hang out with vampires and being bitten by them. And True Blood, artificial bottled blood for vampires trying to go mainstream into society. There are vampire rights groups and staid vampires who watch TV and invite prostitutes for a shag in exchange for blood, a potent aphrodisiac and rich, spoilt hippie girls who are addicted to it.
Then there is the broad broad accent that’s wonderful. I really love it.
The title song is the kinkiest. I had initially thought it was real footage put together, but found they’d actually gone and shot it. Tar moddhe, there’s a shot of wall graphiti saying ‘God hates fangs’ and a newspaper headline saying ‘Angelina Jolie adopts vampire baby’. Both of these two were told me by the boy, which effectively lured me into wanting to watch the series. And then I armtwisted him into downloading the season for me as a birthday present. Sweet love, hahahahaha. So, he doesn’t like it, because it’s not interesting enough, which I see. It won’t hook you, or exhaust you like House, by engaging your head, emotions, curiosity at the same time, giving rise to a thousand possibilities. But oh, ah, I am sold on all of what I wrote before.
All of it so so kinky and only if there was a thaash bunot, it could be so much more. Eesh, aha re. Mane, the sexy vampire Bill Crompton looks like a complete addlehead, off his rocker, when he smiles dnaat ber kore. Karon, haashle toh dnaat berobei, so you can’t really help it. That’s unfortunate. And Anna Paquin’s always had very curious expressions, mismatched with what she’s saying. Now you know it’s just that she can’t act. Also so unfortunate. I want to think that southern 25-year-old women who can listen to other people’s thoughts are like that, mane, not earthy, sweaty, in-you-face like us. Perhaps they do have this kind of fogginess.

It’s a pitTy, really. I wish Alan Ball had directed it too.

I want to leave, dear whoever you are that is sunshine and all things hopeful, help me go away. I want to breathe, not feel mouldy dampness clinging to every breath I take, not struggle to talk, to think, because all that you do makes you want to bolt, revolts your senses.

1. Bare jeans suck. Unequivocally. Their bad fit is unparalleled. I have seen no worse in my short jeans experience.
2. I had horrible momos the like of which I haven’t had in a while. Probably a close parallel would be momo in a hari of shinni, as a friend of Madhura and Dibbo saw in a dream.
3. I was sitting outside a shop beside Chungwa today, shortly after the ore baba, live music session had ended. Singers and their patrons spilled out. I sat for a very long time, nursing my tea and a Gopalji cake, bland and very soothing. No one noticed me. The singers, besequinned in shiny clothes, synthetic sarees, loudly flirted with their customers over tea and muri aloor chop. It felt good that no one considered me a presence. I have wanted that for a long time. To melt in a crowd.
There was a man among them. In his 50s, thin, balding, cheap slippers, ironed shirt and trousers who wore a watch on his right hand. He had a thin leather bag on his shoulder. He was distributing 100 rupee notes to the singers. He tried to touch the women. I am wondering, does he spend a great deal of the money he earns on this? Perhaps it’s a small pleasure in an otherwise nondescript life. I suppose one would dislike him, his lechery, his habit of giving out money. But it’s not what I feel. It feels ok.
And can I write about the clothes they wore? I can’t get over it. Or can’t have enough of it. The horribly uncomfortable-looking synthetic sarees worn in the think of summer, with choomki of the sort you used in your craftwork at school, the bangles, the lipstick. Have you liked things on others that were completely alien to you? Their laughter, toothy smiles, the chatter….. eh, the moment has passed.

4. I like solid colours, not fading ones. I almost bought a black three quarter trouser in cord that I didn’t like. I had set my sights on the sale for so long that I couldn’t bear to leave without a bargain, and the jeans, as we now know, were all from Bare, which is and always will be an unequivocally horrible brand for jeans.

Travel does not bring me exuberant happiness, I don’t find myself smiling when I am alone on a road away from home. It is perhaps a bit like Forrest Gump, who only knew that he had to run, not the why. I went on the trips I did because I wanted to go away from where I was desperately. In Darjeeling, I did not think. I think one can accept that one will not be exuberantly happy to travel, but that one will need to go away again and again, to be on the move. Perhaps it is peace for an unquiet mind in this. And reconfirming faith in oneself, in one’s ability to stand up for one’s happiness, to push one’s limits a bit for it.
I wish it is always like this. I wish to travel more and more, for longer periods each time.
When you return home, you think you are such a different person, you will certainly handle the world differently. But everything remains the same, agonizingly. You don’t find more strength to deal with your hell, you want to go away from it even more desperately.
About Darjeeling, there isn’t much to write, great food, very crowded.. I was very quiet, I hardly spoke and the slight cold makes talking something from an even rarer realm. The quiet is a very even state of the mind. I want to go away again and again.

I had an ordinary day today. The pleasure of days ordinary is that you savour simple things, things absolutely without incident. Also, like today, when I was cleaning our drawing room basin while sweltering in the heat, you feel the pleasure of it in the recollection of it more than while actually doing it.

It’s back to Calcutta summers again. You can’t walk five steps, or turn in bed without sweating a little for it. And today I watched night change into day. I’ll remember it by my first sight of the day: the loose petals of radhachura swaying in the rare cool breeze. I had watched Ugly Betty and then began watching an Indian film on world movies about a boy who becomes an elephant catcher in the forest, and nice though it was, I changed channels and found Mrs Parker and The Vicious Circle. Which I liked very much. The rhymes spoken with that tight nasal droning voice, the preciseness of the poetry, and her need for her dog. At one point, she tells her editor: “Woodrow Wilson died.” And he says, “Yes, about a year ago.” And she says something I don’t remember, but WW was her dog. And even while thinking of the dull pain of losing your dog, you think that she named her dog after the President. And the dogs change, and you think of her need for an animal, even though she can’t care for herself much. And I thought of Floppy. Her huge round soulful eyes, that stay that way even when I am late in feeding her, does she complain? Or is she too sad, resigned, or doesn’t know any better than me?

After seeing the morning, I looked up Dorothy Parker on the Net, to songs from Travis’ The Rubber Band. And I love the songs, but my head was throbbing, and I thought my eyes would melt out of my socket with the strain of it, I wasn’t wearing my specs. And DP’s rhymes in writing felt plain, a little tiresome, I wanted each song to be over so I could concentrate on the poem. And then I’d had enough. I switched off everything and went to sleep. And Floppy came in from the verandah and slept at my feet.

Ends

I am writing here after a long time. So much has happened. I think I look forward to Floppy at the end of every day. Whenever anything goes wrong, even more. You would think it’s a selfish way of looking at someone, in terms of their use for you. But as House would say, we do that with everyone. And it’s easier to think of that about people.
Things at home: I want to go away. My grandfather is going to have an operation to have a growth in his urinary bladder removed. They’ll biopsy it and find out if it’s malignant. Dadu is 83 years old. About. He can hardly walk now. His mind is lucid, though he does find it difficult to remember things, and he can’t read the newspaper. He is also very selfish. In a vocal way. Not like my father at all. Not like me either. My mother is like him.
Floppy is very naughty. She’s destroyed one sofa completely, holed the other, eaten bits of the corners of the big one. She’s also destroyed my pillow, torn two of my bedsheets. Chewed the corners of tables, broken a few plastic bowls, peed on my bed, bites and scratches us. She’s about five months old, I think. They say it’ll stop when she’s a little older. I look at her extremely grave face with the white muzzle and moustache and I cuddle her to death. She has unbelievably silky ears. I washed her forehead with shampoo today too, and it came out shiny too. I was thrilled.
A senior colleague of mine has said, if my husband and I lived together, our marriage would explode. And someone also said, she was a peripatetic prophet. She’s my classmate and married to a techie and living in America.
Because of the recession, people are all sitting tight on their jobs, even if they hate it. You are lucky to have a regular source of income. As my boss has taken a 5 month leave, I do both our work. They are 8 hour days on an average and a bit of work, but I don’t mind. For the time being. Work is perhaps always an anesthetic.
I love the songs of Gulal. My boyfriend says they are earthy. I love the full-throated singing. When Piyush Mishra sings Duniya in his perfect diction, with the Urdu words dripping from his lips, with casualness and great mastery, it seems to me, I feel intensely attracted to him. I remember his hooked face in the film and his belly straining against his vest. And then the round framed glasses
I went to the handicrafts fair today. I bought a jute owl. It has large wings and jute tassles hanging below. Met a very senior reporter there. He kept fingering me whenever he encountered me. When I returned home and thought about it, I could easily summon a dazzling smile and polite reply. But there, I was breathless.
I think I am big on gestures, but no good with actual responsibility. Right now, that doesn’t bother me too much.
Floppy is sleeping beside me on the bed. I sometimes say what my father used to when I was very small and we were in Delhi: tui meyeta chinir cheyeo mishti. The sweetness of this had been lost when I was growing up, when my father gave me a pretty bad time and the words only tasted bitter. But now he is not, and all the nice things seem better still, as real life incidents in the present don’t intervene.

This is the kind of post people come to read blogs for, I guess. Quotidian detail with a bit of rumination, yech!
I had a lovely day today. Something I mentioned in fb. In my room, summer, with my dog, playing with her, fighting with her, beating her, being bitten by her, sigh..
Sleeping, pray throughout the day, lying awake, the cool darkness of the room with the door closed, the frequent loadsheddings, finding new ways to keep Floppy occupied. Made myself a snack in the evening, cooked after ages, that is. Then on the Net, where the descent starts. I am going off now, gah!