A Liar's Guide to the Dreams..

In the dead of the night, the dreams come in one by one. They cling to you with soft acceptance, and they know it all..

These are the dreams which leave a note of remembrance. They cling to our tongues like a bittersweet delight.

They feel familiar, though their flavour melts in the mouth... and taste distinctly unusual.

March 31, 2007

Another Day....

Just when Panu was thinking about giving up on life, and love and everything in between, I found out that there is more to life than the occasional grief... you know. And it passes pretty soon, leaving a void that I had to fill up.

So there I was shouting at the top of my lungs : "Whose Kubla Ij It?" and smearing chocolate cake on general unsuspecting (and suspecting and appreciating a choco-facial) public who were equally maenadian in their gestures, and among the sound and the fury, I walked off to see 300.

I dont care what other people says, I loved it. It was the beauty of savagery in motion, and I liked every bit of it. Panu thought it was perhaps a tad too on the scary side, but it was all right until the hunky guy she liked lost his head (literally).

Home, heart filled with joy at the sight of my cousin, my Guru... I lay my head on her lap and inhaled the smoke-powdery sari and mild sweat flavour she wore on her. She is so cool and untouched, poised and benign. My first love, my first protector against the ministers of darkness.

And the night brought on something new. Panu found on her message box a friend request at orkut. What was interesting was, this person was NOT interested in scrapping. When asked, he gave the following reasons:

U have a point there - about the scrap heap of this life being already too littered!! Though never thought about it from quite that perspective. (But, my objection to the scrapbook is sort of related to it.) Obviously, it pays to interact with perceptive people! Well, I have a three-fold distaste for the scrapbook.First : The scrapbook is accessible to everyone and there is no privacy. Somehow, I am not comfortable about some third party( or parties - to make it worse) being a privy to what is essentially private communication - however innocuous - between two persons. (When I say 'I am not comfortable....', I 'd rather like to share a personal secret with u; I am more with the British in the penchant for understatement!) Second : I find the other connotations of scrap rather disturbing. Scrap as a verb is really abominable; I just can't think of scrapping anyone !! Scrap is not a word of choice for me here. And so .... I don't send scraps and I don't scrap anyone! (yea, it takes all sorts to make the world - particularly some quaint types!) Third : I find most entries in most scraps just that - a heap of scrap! And, I prefer more august company. (Pardon me if I sound too bloody egoistic!)

At this point, one must pause and think. And wonder.

Okk and I found a friend. One who loves music as much as I do, If not more.

March 19, 2007


He came to her in the middle of the night when she least expected.

And then the sky darkened, and rain fell, and they twisted in the middle of the big bed, clawing and fighting with each other, hurting each other and marvelling at the extent they could hurt if they really tried. They tore off their clothes, they did not care what went first, as long as they did. And then they were pushing each other, straining and restraining to prolong the contact, as if this was the last time they would. And he entered her and they shook and trembled at the intensity and friction... and then the short climb to ecstasy began, but it was more than that, it was a beginning and an end, and she could not stop her tears as he buried his face against her neck and trembles with the bliss and the joy. She mouthed the three words over and over and over again as he poured inside her the fruits of their passion, her legs spread obscenely wide in acceptance.

And then all stilled and she could feel the cold air hit her wet ears. She was so tired. So was he. They fell asleep. locked in the embrace as primitive as life itself, and when the morning came, he was gone.

* * *

Even before she opened her eyes, she knew he was gone.... there was just an emptiness beside her, a place was barren where her heart had placed him. It was strangely numb------ this feeling of loss. She could not really believe it was there at first, but then it hit her ------------- the cold. It struck her smack in the chest and she gasped pitifully and scoured her head to dredge up the thought of what to do next.

She was so tired.... she did not even know if she could open her eyes and face the day again. She just wanted to shut out the world and all and forget herself in sleep.

But at that moment, betrayal struck. Sleep eluded her. She tossed and turned, but the cold that had spread inside her refused her the warm safety of slumber. It denied her the only escape she would have had. She stared at the ceiling and counted away the whirling time, as the morning passed to day and moved towards the afternoon, and she twisted her fingers and contemplated her loss. Soon she began to shake silently, that turned into a gentle sway------ to and fro----- to and fro------ as she came apart in her knowledge.

He was gone.



For Ever.

For Life.

He was not going to come back.


And the tears did not fall. What fell so easily last night at the beauty did not fall in grief. She started to whimper but the tears did not fall. Soon she realized that there were no moisture seeping from her eyes.

It enraged her. It made her so angry that she began to scream ------ short, staccatto bursts erupted from her throat that changed quickly into high-pitched wails and shrieks of disbelief and denial.

Where were the tears? Why could she not cry? Why? Why why why?

She clutched the pillow and bunched it against her chest, bringing her knees up together as she lay on her side, her long hair spread on the pillow, her eyes widely open. She breathed rapidly, in short gulps she inhaled and released the air just as quickly. She was bewildered and angry. Where had all the tears gone? Why could she not cry it out? What was wrong?

And she heard the lady downstairs play on her ancient cassette player something familiar. Something that she had once listened to as a child-------- when her parents used to look at one another with a smile on their face, but refused to share the joke--------- and the shadows fell across the room from the window, making patterns on the tiles as the sun began to set.

"Maine poochha chaand se,
Ke dekha hai kahin
Mere Yaar sa Haseen.

Chaand ne kaha,
Chandni ki kasam,
Nahin, nahin, nahin.

The room was a mess. The books had fallen from her bed, clothes were randomly spilled in colourful puddles on the floor, dust had settled on her shelves, and an empty cup graced the nightstand. She got up, rubbed her eyes with the back of her left palm and yawned. Then she began to pick up the clothes and fold them into a neat pile. The song went on outside. She pushed aside the falling fringes of her hair as she worked, and slowly began to hum the tune.

March 17, 2007

And then....

Gloop. Gloop.

The world has folded upon itself. And it makes a sound something like this.

I took it from Equal Rites. Pratchett is the Saviour.

He really is.

March 13, 2007

Of Monos and Men.....

Read this. PLEASE. * After Monday.*

I ask those people who have read the post I have been pointing at with bold types, when you go home and face yourself in the mirror at the end of the day and sigh a little sigh that thank God I was not involved directly then you feel that the world is a selfish place.

And this man takes the cake around JUDE. Thanks to him, JUDE shall always be accompanied in my memories as a place sullied by his presence.

I shall not forget my professors.... who have been staunchly supporting our cause.

Kudos to Babelfish, Teleute, Somnath, Aritra for sticking up for those who are in the mess.

This sounds embarrassingly like a thank-you note, but I shall not continue in this area because I feel that personal involvement is equal to being biased. And I am personally involved in this.

March 02, 2007

leaving on a freaking train....

which is at 10 tonight.

Miss you already Kolkata.

Havent left it though.

I hate best friends getting married. I will miss my first best friend. I dont care even if people think we rule the greengrocer's shops.

I dont wanna see her hitched. I DONT!!!!