..............................

it is difficult to believe that one cares so much. In the office when one is impersonal, he looks so looming. One longs and longs, the very sight is a pleasure. Yet feel scared to love. One feels marked to be cold, detached, heartless. Compelled to fit the pattern someone else has decided to cast you in. and yet there was love, the heart overflows, his for me. The softness is unwarranted. And then, there is work. Once you begin, the heart lifts up by the prospect of hard work. Out of this darkness that infests the mind, it is a shining hope. I had thought of giving up, on me. I shall not stop working. It is what will keep me going. No relationship is worth the people it costs to live it. I can sit here and say that. When I return home, it is like a dark compulsion to give in to what will cause you pain. Hope that things shall turn out right. Yet it is not that. I do not feel incomplete at all. Just hurt to bits that he could think that of me, decided to typecast me as such. Stamped and typecast and pinned upon the wall, like a fly to others' whims. From here, there can be no solace. I write this while wanting more from him, demanding that he put things to rights. Who knows what will happen? We are best left as islands on a floating, passing sea.
Is this like her, when he knew that it would not work? Waif again? Does anyone know how to bring me in?
Nothing matters at the end of the day, nothing does.

hazy shades of winter

This for only me. This was what Simon and Garfunkel said:
mailprintvotesmallerlarger

Time, time, time, see whats become of me
While I looked around
For my possibilities
I was so hard to please
But look around, leaves are brown
And the sky is a hazy shade of winter

Hear the salvation army band
Down by the riverside, its bound to be a better ride
Than what youve got planned
Carry your cup in your hand
And look around, leaves are brown now
And the sky is a hazy shade of winter

Hang on to your hopes, my friend
Thats an easy thing to say, but if your hopes should pass away
Simply pretend
That you can build them again
Look around, the grass is high
The fields are ripe, its the springtime of my life

Ahhh, seasons change with the scenery
Weaving time in a tapestry
Wont you stop and remember me
At any convenient time
Funny how my memory slips while looking over manuscripts
Of unpublished rhyme
Drinking my vodka and lime

But look around, leaves are brown now
And the sky is a hazy shade of winter

Look around, leaves are brown
Theres a patch of snow on the ground...



And I am back to music. I lost sight, didn’t quite remember what I wanted. Music wets my arid insides, and am listening with deepest feeling to S&G

“And a rock feels no pain
And an island never cries”
Yet that’s not quite what I feel. I feel delirious, to come back to me, to feel no vagueness, to feel the music seeping closely into my pores. I badly need time for myself, not amours, or work. My books, my music, a room. Is what I shall wait a little longer to have. There’s Mrs Robinson playin’ now, and it’s ooooo! so sexy. And I love the curly letters I type, and to know that this trash doesn’t mean much. Nothing does, peut-etre pas meme lui, when it’s me that’s gonna live. I shall not hurt more than my head can hold. Et ce qui m’a touché, c’est qu’il m’a dit la meme chose. J’aime son silence, pas d’absence des mots- il parle assez, la silence de l’esprit, qu’il ne permettra personne a casser, pas qu’il a travaille pour achever cet etat au jourd’hui. Je l’aime beaucoup, tu sais, c’est tellement evident, meme a moi. Ca m’assure, que je peux aimer un homme comme ca, it also makes me delirious a me trouver comme ca.
And now it’s Scarborough Fair, and it melts completely, like fresh caramel. That’s so perfect. Like Seal’s A Kiss from A Rose. “She was once a true love of mine.” Quite quite wonderful. I love you quite, dear God that this is there, now, a ce moment-la. And then there’ll be New Year, and they shall all dance, and I shall be happy. “Remember me, to

You fill me, you make me overflow. And I badly want my Chatwin now, I want lots and lots of comfort. I want just what I want to read. And ruddy convocations shall be done and over with. And I shall get my holiday, and do exactly “Ask me and I will play, all the love I have inside.” What I want. And I shall take my trip. Oh dear God, I shall barf my mind, one can’t live like this. One can’t love like this, one step forward and two back. There is no place for compartments, quiet, holding back, fear even. I want me. I want me I want me I want me I want me. Tepid useless bogus insanity, mossy depression of an organized mind. I shall get a life. Whatever comes my way. And don’t come to my blog, ever. Anyone. Thank you. S&G quite wonderful, quite quite. J’aime tout les deux. Absolument.

Back home. Alone and bossless. I was sitting in the car with the window wound down, and it got colder and colder and by the time it was V.I.P Road, I couldn't breathe. Bring down this lonely fetish for punctuation to the guy, I feel overwrought tonite. My hair was flying wildly, and I don't know what I was trying to do, to bring myself to tears or just spite myself with the cold. Both, I think. And tomorrow you go back and there is a mess again. I hate it, I so hate it, so everyone can tell her when she gets back, they just can't manage without you. The editorial quality gets worse by the day, there's less of matter, it's sketchier, scrappier. What are we sending off to the schools? What do they think when they see this supplement of a paper which is otherwise quite fine. I hate the infamy, ignominy of it: not merely the shame, the guilt that arises from it, I suppose. And these two guys, so frightfully competent, and R.da so kind. I feel very lonely amidst all of this, not to be so competent and fast myself. It's not to mope, je ki holo, so you do a cry. It's something that shouldn't be. And then to return, with the next day not planned at all, and alone. What am I to do?
And then, we recede into silence. And I don't mind. Somewhere, la visage est la, toujours, il me semble, et meme maintenant c'est un confort que j'eatait dans la meme voiture que lui. Que'est-ce qu'il pense? Hier, nous parlions jusqu'a 4 heures au matin. Et je l'aime. Je ne veux pas partir, je veux rester au tour de lui, avec lui. dans sa visage, il y a de la silence, et je l'aime. J'aime tous que je decouvre, comment, donc qu'est-ce qu'on fait. Et donc, est-ce que c'est lui? Je t'aime, tu me manque. It's a cliche, and at the level which it is, I refuse it. Il me manque ou je le veux. Et demain, ca sera un autre jour, tout sers nouveaux. Pas des memoires, pas des rancunes, les nouveaux peurs. C'est de la profession...........

theoutsider

c'est encore comme toujours. a la fin, on pense que c'est mieux si on reste seul. Il n'y aura pas de la peine. que'est-ce qui c'est passe aujourd'hui dans le voiture, tout le part? que'est-ce qui c'est passe? je comprend pas, mais c'est le sens familiale- de desespoir, de la peur, que je cree un interet detache dans les gens qui j'aime- de la curiosite pour cette chose-ci. je sais pas. je veux que tout va bien encore, comment je sais pas, c'est toi qui va faire ca, mon dieu. i feel prickly, insensate. j'ai perdu la capabilite, capacite de communiquer.
ne viens pas ici, toi. get lost.

What have they done with you, kid? Is nothing inviolate?
This I shan't forgive.

And what shall I do? And when shall I begin?
I was rather overwrought today, what with not meeting and wanting very much to meet. Yet, there's also this. I am forgetting to have a life of my own. There's work. There's also this thought that runs through my head ever so often. Well, that's not exactly the reason. It's rather that I have lost the rhythm quite.

Apart from it all. I feel a little scared by my own franticness, by the extent to which I end up investing in an affection. I have very little idea of how he feels, whether he loses sleep over the lack of words, over the daily forgetting, the reforging of connection over mail, over the emptiness otherwise. It is true , you know, to a certain extent that I am lonelier now than before, when I was reading. I feel very bereft now, but I can't seem to come to books. A paranoia, or laziness, fear. Animal reassurance, again and again, that things will be alright. Of a smiling face, of beauty- of finding the eyes as beautiful over and over again. Of even happiness, of a permeating sense of calm that does't threaten to go away. It's frightening that I keep hoping for all of this of a person. That I have dreamt and wanted it already, that I might have to turn back and walk alone again. My desperation, kindness, and more kindness, as Forster put it with such love

the perpetual etranger

Fantastic! I can post after ages! Cookie not disabled anymore!! I feel like Bridget, Calvin!

Well, my life. My head feels wrecked. The animal comfort, only of physical proximity, the closeness of a body next to you. I came back alone today. Good in a way. Was blabbering and in rather a black mood. I sent a lot of Eliot, mijeke ujar kore deoa to put out all you feel for someone you don't even know. There is so much and I feel overwrought. Yet I am already confined to myself. Unable to think beyond immediate reference to myself. My this nature despairs me. I hate to find myself self-centred so repeatedly. A little succour. A touch. Things working out. What that means I dunno, whatever is right, wherever, and yet you fashion your own rights. Miss my own self control. Tonight, I am copletely disoriented

It's seems such a long while since i had a holiday. You have to discover anew what a day off means. Well, i was thinking about l'homme de bureau (shall be referred to as such henceforth). My painful encounters with the opposite sex, must they always be as such? I mean there's something wrong in my head. I am waiting to back out given the slightest opportunity, waiting to be assured of the worst that people can think of me. Work, that's in a different league of its won. Now i don't care. When it does, I'll write about it. Right now, I am struggling to hold up my end of it. Little kid S seems to be a relentless relieving factor in this chaos. But everything reaches a plateau, then they change. Something like that will eventually happen, then we'll see where we go. Met P yesterday, was rather a pleasure. She told me about the guy she was going out with.

After such a long time of work (6 days, I don't mean the hours), when you sit down to write, all you want to gratefully handle are daily mundanities, the flow of life. Anything more profound, or structured (copy: trash dished out decently) gets on to stretched mental resources. It's not quite so bad, but a change of mode does one a lot of good, and one day is hardly enough for that. You only begin to gauge the difference from the workday, and the break comes to an end. God knows hoe S works, coming in 7 days a week, how does he recharge, on the run? I want to have some nice hours with K, hours which shall be pleasant for me, without having to be on your toes trying to be presentable, or whatever we are always trying to be in office- perpetually equable, I suppose. He is like that, but he can guard his selfness closely, without letting it be violated in any way. Or so I surmised. I may be wrong, as C says so glibly.
Well, A's sis had reception. A marathon thing, really. By today, I was ready to go back to the normal pace of things. I bought a lip-gloss (what fun!) and A seemed inordinately pleased about it. O is working, C landed up alone at reception today, but msg.ed in the end that he had a nice time. I guess we can't help but make things tolerable, and even interesting for ourselves in the end. I was going to meet another person off Orkut, but think shall not after seeing hideus photograph. Still to scarred by previous experience of hideous ugliness that couldn't stomach. Met some, a lot of kids, as my job entails I do. Anything does: that's how we live these days. For anything better one is too tired to ask.
Crib korteo enthu lagey. Ami to shudhu narrate korchhi...

I have lots to say. Apart from the fact that I am worried/bored about my copies- streetfood story etc etc etc- slogging on, this is work, so make a tedious snail-paced activity of it. Well, also this, C.di shan't be seeing our pages anymore, and that takes away one reason why the place didn't seem like a prison to me. You are sitting in that white buliding, high up, insulated, and it is easy to lose touch with the world outside if you stay cooped in that long. I am a child of moods, and I need that smile, to have your two-bit worth intelligence recognised and responded to. And she is so reassuringly human..not just the inhumanly competent automatic newsgatherer, which she might be, but it still leaves her with time to be human. The person we have now, she is nice and okay, but well, the creature of moods that I am, I take a fancy to things. aajke when I was sending that msg to C.di, amar chokhe jol eshe jachhilo, i felt so bad. And she was kind, repeatedly kind. And her smile lights up my world there. It sound adolescent, infantile to like anyone so much so shortly, but if you do, what can you but let yourself feel it as much as you do?
I worry about dadu too. And what they do there. Ma doesn't seem to realise, the stakes are so much higher now, there's no shelter left anymore. She doesn't seem to get any of it. Oli was talking about A.da's peace, the unshakeable peace that he has within him, that's the kind that makes you feel cool. And I realise all the more strongly how much not-peace I have within me, how I am hankering for it. How I actively go ahead and destroy peace, y'know, that I can't engineer peace, but give in to chaos all the time. And this guy who goes places: I don't like my equilibrium being taken for a gratuitous toss out of the blue. I don't like it. Any equilibrium is hard earned y'know.
And there's more, which shall go into the diary

remember when you were young...You shone like the sun

I was reading Robert Graves' Greek Myths. Apart from the fact that it is so good, I wanna remark on the bit about the birth of Hermaphroditus. The footnotes explain it as a representaion of a transition from matriarchy to patriarchy. Also about the sacred king lying with his daughter Smyrna: the king in a matrilineal society trying to keep his kingdom to himself by marrying the next term Queen. I remembered Oli talking about the peaks, about Hanuman puchh, the MASSIVE Satopanth and the formation of mythologies: ways of seeing, methods of representation. And about Queer, another method of representing. Representing a feeling that is heterogened from a contemporary fashion, way, mode. I love human beings, I don't think I can love men or women. I don't think it does to decide that you are lesbian and like only women. The Greeks had life simple. I know that's like such a sweeping, erroneous statement. But I think life would be easier in so many ways if we were to recognise the fact.
The sun on the way to the auto-stand will be a memory track to remembering that daythat I had decided i wanted a family and a marriage.

'britwa' means gun

Well, I have forgotten what I had meant to write about. So that's how it should be. But one thing that I wanted to mention and remember, I have taken the link of this thing outta orkut. So mercifully, I can stop being absurdly significatory about everybody, call a spade a spade and rest in peace. No imaginory marauders to come here off orkut.
I was thinking about N.ji actually. He lost his wife exactly a month after baba at Vellore. Dadiji had phoned and told me. I was so shocked. That was a strangely (that's just a word) intimate time to know their family. I was grateful for any understanding, and dadiji seemed to know it all. She was so kind to me, me the 22 year old that was leaving that place a waif for life. I touched her feet before I left. I don't touch feet usually. I am so glad you cared. I have not looked for you later, you are my closer tie than N.ji, though his loss was greater, and so I am in touch with him now and all that. He is may be about 4/5 years older than me and he's lost his wife and has a tiny kid whose future he worries about. What does a man do when that happens. I don't know. My loss (it drops quite easily off my tongue now. Perhaps it's the time that's passed, more, it's the job. There's no subtelety here. Everything is either in your face or not there), weel it seems smaller compared to his. When you've made a shelter to last your life in, and then everything goes haywire. It's not smaller, I know.
I was with my pal today. It felt so nice so nice. It's this feeling that goes under your skin, and you feel oooo! so cool. But then I knew that would happen. She makes my world work, I see her and can get things in perspective. Y'know, what happiness I want, the infiniteness of possibilities. I am reading Gabriel's Gift by Hanif Kereishi (C likes the name. Me too). Gabriel reminds me of her. Who are just born sensitive, who knows at 15 that he would like his dad to be around when he is old. I was always so terrified he would'nt be. I always thought I was insecure and so... But may be I would not have lost him if I hadn't been so afraid. I was watching Surya Shikar (the Utpal Dutt play) the other day, and I thought of baba. In the scenes where the character is writhing in pain under torture. And I couldn't bear it, my beautiful baba, he fell so many times, this was like all those other times, he was so prone to falling, and this was just like that. Not only because he had gotten weak, hadn't had any solid food that day because of that bloody bloody test he had had to undergo, clean bowels they wanted for that. So make a sick man guzzle purgative liquids the whole day till he is fit to burst. make him visit the toilet numerous times, when it's so tiresome for him. It's with time that these form from images in your head and come tumbling out. And if You are reading, don't talk about the medical/humanitarian rights and wrongs of it. I don't whisper it to myself ever. I look at my friend's dad. It's illogical but I keep thinking that he came back and he didn't. Like I couldn't bring him back. People blame me. I blame me. There was this popcorn Backstreet Boys song one of whose lines went, "How I wish I could turn back time...", it was called Quit Playing Games with my Heart. I can't wish that. Wish that and ask for what in return? Is there a God? There must be. It is, in my head. And who is there, in this tangible, palpable world? He is only in my head, I was so scared to lose him. I am still so scared, even now when one of the biggest fears has been terminated. I think I LOOK scared all the time. Where did it all begin? Where every smile became overshadowed with this musty quilty kind of thing? I wish things were whole again. The patches just seem to go on appearing. Patchwork quilt.

theoutsider

Gilthoniel A Elbereth!
A Elbereth Gilthoniel
O menel palan-diriel,
Le nallon si dinguruthos!
A tiro nin, Fanuilos!

kissu likhbo na, hooh!

right, since I've dicided to be verbose, let's get along with it. How would I like a blog to be? It's someplace where you can air your views without too many people watching. Well, for me. I wanted the fun of writing online, wanted the fun of writing, actually, and some freedom. No prying eyes, least of all judgements. Last thing I'd care for is something like, Bloggers of Calcutta Unite! Not as if people are falling over themselves reading it here.
But may be it's the job, may be it's how I am, but now, with a job and all, you have to put a lot of yourself away here, talk in weird coded language out of the fear of observers whose existence it's a vanity to presume. So yesterday I had a diary entry like, 3 pages long (usually it's just half a page once in a blue moon when I am feeling too upset to keep it to myself) though I was opening this page to write almost everyday. I even thought of going for another blog.
So here's not the place for my many crushes, fears, frustrations, loneliness (yeah, about that. Too many people who are somewhat like I am situated now are really lonely. It's the same old story- love, friends, places, insomniated nights, parents there but not there- young urban Indian, blah) Why must growing up be so painful. Why must you be royally fucked to cross any bridge? Where's the enjoyment? Oh yeah I am a fanatic cribber, have made a religion out of it.
And there we go again! 'Think will have to quit pretty soon now, this is getting to be the old hackneyed rant again. Oh if it even had the dignity of a rant. Edmund White, Edmund White, where art thou?

Chatwin, Gilmore and a rainy day. ALONE...ah heaven!

I was reading On The Black Hill- Chatwin. It's been a lovely day, I managed to leave myself to myself today.

Chatwin's men are what he called himself in one of his travel books: sterile wanderers. I was thinking about Benjamin, about Utz- transvestism, effeminate homosexuals. And then there are people like Lewis, the usual straight kind, who are prevented from pursuing their proclivities, often straining the fabric of the narrative scheme. And the way the stories end: building up to a tumutuous climax, and then there's this delicate maze- where it's so easy to forget the climax a while after u've read it. It's so all of what Chatwin was- like a supernova, burning itself out. And the world becomes special when viewed through his mild blue eyes- am thinking of the Jerry Bauer phtograph. And I was thinking about the trip that he and Elizabeth had taken , shortly after which they decided to get married- the mercurial nature of it. That that world is there for me to partake of now. But that I'll have to make the magic, it won't come to me of my own accord.
And I was thinking of the way things were going- may be you have to leave familiar surroindings to shake off thr torpor of usuality.
I was reading this gay person's blog whom I knew. And this brilliant insight came to be, that it doesn't matter whether one was what's called gay or straight- I wouldn't be able to take love casually either way. Being queer doesen't make one liberated and one's life full of delightful experiences. Relationships matter, they are not casual. Every person I happen to like, I cannot treat casually, neither treat my feelings for them that way. Can't play around. Hurts too much.
To make of yourself a tabula rasa is an idea I don't care to play with anymore. Life seems to become mundane otherwise. That also brings untold misery. Don't wanna die like Chatwin either. I think of, what's his name- Edmund White, thank god- it's such a balm. There's one love that's absolutely mine. A 'passion' undiluted by opinion. Someday someday I'll do something about it.

And the idea of a date is such bunk!

i smile, and smile

bugger. my blog is not a public forum for people to carry on their adoloscent back-slapping conversation.
what the fuck.
well.

am listening to floyd. fearless, de Meddle.
is it that cool to be a journalist? the facts sure do make it sound rosy. but it's only rarely, for me now, at any rate, that I am also getting a high while doing it, not merely reading about it and feeling cool.
i reach office at about 2, feeling slightly guilty about not doing stuff that needs to be taken care of at home. My supplement is off for this month, so the deal is that we have plenty of storie ready in advance. Which is not something that works really well with me. I work best under threat of time thread being stretched really taut. well, the business with the supplement apart, there's me. And my all-important spiritual well-being. Which, well has gone for the toss for the time being.
I've gotten this theory of late: what is it that turns a girl into a woman? The woman-girl thingy is so corny most of the time. But in most 'females', there is this transition, when they cease to be girls. And the journalist that I am, I report the observation without trying to analyse. Will also report opinions/reactions if get any. See, at some point or other, girls stop hoping that the dreams will come true. The sane ones, most that is, who think that they've gotta survive, that madness is a luxury they can't afford, they become really calm and maternal. Their smiles are sad, resigned. Their happiness is grown up, like they've compromised with life, chosen not to fight in order to live. They've become women. I dunno about guys. They have it as tough as the rest, I guess. Perhaps tougher. There's always an advantage in being the tortured/underprivileged group which is recognised as the suffering/has suffered group.
My friend will come rearing at this sadness theory about women. She'll talk about S.di. And yes, I oh so agree. And the friend thinks differently. It's like what Satyakida said about golamda, 'Golamdake kharap rakha strictly shakto'.

But this stasis, it's getting to me. How much can you learn out of doing something that you are not enjoying? That will be a dead kind of learning.How long will it be this?

And there's the growing up bit. I am becoming different. The JU aura is leaving me. I am getting the skin of the place of the place where I work in. Which is fine, cuz I like the people I work with etc. But there is an inner life, and that is left more and more dissatisfied. Like squeezing out a dry sponge, I keep trying to materialise my dreams for what they are worth, and they refuse to turn into reality. I want constant fun out of my work. Want to be always doing well. Nothing else will give me any peace. And when and if I have that, I shall want more. I am bursting with all the dreams I have dreamt for which I find no outlet at this moment. My demand for supreme love, brilliant success, absolute wildness. Not this stymied, tepid, lukewarm, average thing that I walk through daily.

And yet another time, I did not write what I wanted to. For all that and more, thanksssss.

(uh, interrupting for an antel observation: 'Dogs' bole gaanta pink floyd er . Reba Hore er akta series of crayon sketches dekhechhilam Seagull e: street dogs howling in the night. the song recalls the sketches. Well)

theoutsider

i feel human again. atleast feel my head thawing. bonnie is absolutely out of this world. well, out of this world is probably an overstatement, but he's just so good man. band er gaan and all that stuff begin to make sense only here. the song, in my untutored shotta (well, apart from the 'kring kring kring madhur dhoni, shui tomar agomani' bit)sort of, mon ke shikto kore day. quite apart from the lyrics. the voice, the music, the man. ami khushi, anek khon pore. feel closer to being an human being. less of the futile roshagainst the world for creating creatures like le scum qui j'ai rencontre hier. was feeling terrified even to look at mon homme qui rit comme bete.
now am listening to 'ghare pherar gaan'. i love chandrani's voice. that's all this band has, those lovely, wonderful voices, utterly rich, mellifluous, dripping with vigourousness.
music do me good. god has funny ways, like he's sniggering quietly at my folly. well thanks, thanksssssss.

'akhono shamne path hata bake, chaileo parbe na ditey phaki, nishchoy'- i love you, you bring me back to life. you make me feel young again.

theoutsider

sala baje din. j'ai rencontre un homme aujourd'hui matin. c'etait pas bien, pas bien. ca va mal, ces journees. didi, elle m'a dit que j'apparait 'available'. que'est-ce que je fait. personne comprend, personne comprend. tant de peine. 'ca vaut pas la peine'. je sais pas. comment elle pouvait dire comme ca? elle ne savait pas ca

what the fuck. i am becoming this alien creature that i don't even have the enthu to recognise as myself. i suppose i know on a factual level that it's me, but that's about it.
i am very very upset.

it's a completely different deal: net at home and net at office. now i have forgotten what i meant to write.
but well, oli's not here and i feel really weird, not having spent time away really after the BRC except during vellore, but then i was not the one staying behind.
i met shubhayu offline the other day, also today, actually.
my cd drive has gotten disabled. i feel absolutely shattered about that. well, i guess it's a way of making me shake ass. arr, kichhu hochhe anek i hochhe na. i feel all pent up, like things are really building up, but there's no outlet. somewhere there must be a falling action.

At home. Was reading this uponyash by Shekhar mukhopadhyay (i think) called biboshyoto. don't even know what the word means. reading it, i realised, got a really sharp feel of what not having baba means. for days, even today morning, I was dreaming of some encounter that is so pleasant, so what i seemed to have wanted for a long time. today, it struck home, sort of. It's what makes four year old kid bibashyan break into sobs when he meets his father after three years. it's the memory of love given that exists on a subconscious level. i did not realise it when i had it, and don't remember now it's gone. i do now. even now the feel is alive, like it's happening at this moment. Him, his unconditional love, I called it security. in my dream, it was tenderness. only that, the love, a state of being. and i woke up wanting this so strongly, not quite knowing what it was. the desire to replicate it motivates so many relationships, fledged and unfledged. sometimes i forget. forget what i had been yearning. only the absence, dredged out from memory, niggling, remains.
hahakar kake bole aj janlam.
khub boro shobdo mone hoy.
tumi chole gachho bole ki ar phire ashtey paro na?
it's not fair. to whoever who runs this world, two people should not be turned away thus from each other. my father and i do not deserve it. ami ke bolar. if that is the question, i can tell you i am exactly the person to give an opinion on the matter. and him thati lost.
i am waiting. i am waiting.