a terrible painter, a dreamer, a rebel , a feminist and a self certified bisexual Witch. Who is always trying to visualize whats on the other side of the canvas she paints,just another human- Living alive Life. Now also a green tea addict.

Thursday, 31 August 2017

Workfidence.. .

‘Confidence’ is a word that has been distributed in different proportions and flavours in my family. My mother suffers from positive confidence in future, no matter how bad the day it will be a better tomorrow. My grandmother suffers from confidence in misfortune, no matter what the day tragedy can strike any moment. My grandfather suffers from confidence in extreme realism, today might be a decent day but be prepared for rainy days predicted by weatherman from a week now. My father suffers from the negative confidence of self, only he and absolutely he can provide continuous discouragement to others and then suddenly take a U-turn to show his support. My brother-in-law suffers from confidence in efficiency, none but only he is the chosen one to do a task. Last but not the least, I have an elder sister who suffers from a combination of all the confidences mentioned above with the prefix OVER!

Like Sansa Stark (My Least favourite Character on Game of Thrones). “I am a slow learner, it’s true. But I learn”. This slow learner didn’t crack through her Ph.D. Entrance and her father wants her to become a civil servant, her sister wants her to moss out in academics and the slow learner wanted to work. Which ensued a conflict of interest, in which I realized, my happiness and mental peace should be the top priority.

After begging and lamenting for a year and a half, my elder sister via her husband made me a resume which practically reeked of their disinterest in my job hunt. My father on other hand was lamenting and irritating my mother on how I was wasting my life out as a vagabond. Like the chain reaction, my mom was crying on my metaphorical shoulder on why I should take whatever decent job came my way.

I have the deficiency of Confidence, that one pot of confidence that fate supplies to each family, was relatively empty at the time I did away with my infancy and gained some sense. Like Baloo, my elder sibling had wiped the pot clean and I was destined to be little Piglet who would follow that trouser-less bear.

After a lot of lazy job hunting on naukri.com, indeed.com, LinkedIn, newspapers and shouting out my frustrations on my friend’s ears I stumbled upon the right job thanks to my university senior. Few email exchange and one job meeting later I was sure this was the place I would love to work and when I grow old I will recite that my first job was not some desperate choice but something I will always be proud of. Once I got assured I had the job of editorial assistant and copywriter, I broke the news to each member at a time, my family did not waste a minute to shower their lack of confidence in me.

It began with my grandmother remembering that tiny creature who hated talking to people, my father showed an indecent amount of interest and then the major league questions were shot at me from my one and only sister. “If I was brave enough to work!”, “If I was stable enough to work”, “Would I wake up on time” “Will I give her seventy percent of my meager four-digit salary! And a constant reminder that no matter what, me having a job was the joke of the century with “HEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHE” in type, on call and video calls!

Here I am three weeks later, surviving just fine.  

Though the first day of job did remind me of one of the most hated days of my life, my first day at school, I was forced, dragged, thrown into the bus! by my mother. I was crying, I hated the blue skirt and I hated nuns in their wimples! Naked faces peeking out from the wimple was scary enough for me to wet my nappies. Overall, I hated school, I hated it till the seventh standard or may be till tenth grade, I hated school none the less.

Like on the first day of school, I was on a bus, going to a place that was old and intimidating. Unlike my first day of school, my mother was not here, nor was my sister mocking me when I stepped down at the auto stand, physically she wasn’t, mentally she is sixty percent of my psyche chewing away my confidence. I waited for auto, I waited fifteen minutes under the hateful sun, when finally, my auto rickshaw came I was huffing and puffing with beads of sweat sliding down my undergarments.

Prior to my first day at work, my sister warned me not to be late, "Reach on time, if possible fifteen minutes earlier". Like the typical imbecile cow that I am, who has hardly ever disobeyed her sister, I did the same. Here I was sweating and panting and cursing myself that I won’t reach fifteen minutes early. After stepping out of the auto, I walked fast and I wanted to be on time!

Unlike the first day of school where a strict nun was dragging us crybabies inside while I yelled and kicked and the empty hall echoed my own sobs. Here I was standing in the dark on the staircase, no one dragging me, no tears escaping, all me and my silent pants of exhaustion and just a brass lock on the door of my new office staring back at me.

And on time I reached, but the door to my office was happily locked and opened exactly after another fifteen minutes 

P.S- So much of hard labour was spent to earn my first lesson on of being over-punctual, anything over is bad especially when the advice comes from my elder sibling

thanking you to bear with me

Saturday, 29 July 2017

Sisak, in the queer city.

“The Word Within a Word, Unable to speak a Word” is the evocation that flared on the screen as the much-anticipated film opened, Sisak one of the most talked and scrutinized LGBTQIA film of this year in India finally made its debut in City of Joy. Like any festival or event, Calcutta absorbs its differences without a wink and celebrates them without any reservation. Sisak- which means silent sobbing, did make many sob around the world for last couple of months.

The trailer of Sisak was all it took for people to get intrigued, a silent short film on the love between two humans, who happen to be men. After reading multiple articles and interview about the film and director, curious I was. A handful of tweets were negative about the conceptualization; few LGBT institutions were cross about the casting and rainbow sheeps’ complained that the characterization was catering to the non-queer and diminishing the voices of effeminate men and non-masculine queer males. One can’t make them all happy, though it's funny that internalized hetero-normativity is one of the biggest challenges within Queer Community and Stereotypicalisation of Queer is the biggest challenge outside.

Any Rainbow event around the world means an amalgamation of colourful humans, ideas, and smiles of comradeship, no matter what the political scenario is. And Amra Odbhuth Café did not disappoint me, like its name it is Odbhuth, special in a nice way, a rickety building painted right, well decorated with pinches of wall doodles scattered here and there, queer art displayed, fairy lights, posters of game changing LGBTQIA films from around the globe, mats, cushions and a cat. A perfect setting for the one who has nowhere to be, an ideal recluse for the queer.

We all settled down, all comfortable and cozy my friend and me, with our director Faraz Ansari and others, and began our twenty-minute long film. How do you perceive a film that’s quarter of a feature film, and has no dialogue but has used music and other sounds to fill the vacancy?

As I watched, I concentrated on the metaphors, and the metaphors were spot on because Twenty Minutes later Faraz Ansari was explaining his use of props. We can call Sisak a sequential film without dialogues. It is definitely, not a silent film, the music served the purpose of presenting the inner yelling and screaming of the protagonists. The camera primarily jump-cuts between the hesitant legs in churidar, the nervous hand with the silver ring, the leather sling bags. Eventually, we see a young man standing near the entrance of the local train. Soon he becomes more nervous when the object of desire with a handsome beard, rushes in and seats inside.

From there on Sisak becomes a narrative of emotional progression with minimal physical involvement. A quick smile of relief, a deliberate movement, peeping while pretend-reading, nervous stares, pants and gasping. These are signs of love, but both are unable to approach because they are restrained. One by his marriage, as his gold ring with diamond was under camera’s focus multiple time. And another was fear. In twenty minutes, we find the repetition of same actions, the nervous guy in kurta awaiting the married man in the train compartment. Their only solace is looking at each other, the closest these two men come together are near the exit of the train, where they are still unable to hold hands but try to envision each other with closed eyes.

Sisak is refreshing, though the story of these men ends in tragedy. Not the Tragedy of death, but the tragedy born of fear. Had the men got dialogues and taste of physical temptation like in Ajeeb Dastaan Hai Yeh from Bombay Talkies, this story would have failed. Sisak does indeed do a silent cry on the platonic love of the Knight and the Lady, and the artist and the muse.

Ansari’s answer to my question on, how he managed to shoot on the local trains of Mumbai which seemed surprisingly empty- he played with the frames and wanted us to see that as the men grow closer, the outside world fades away hence it seemed the compartment was empty. Ironically in the climax, the characters are indeed alone but incapable of breaking away from their fears and are never securely isolated. Faraz has played with the colour synchronization, with dressing up the married man in extremely formal attire in the beginning and makes him drop one garment at a time to making him pant in an unbuttoned shirt in the finale. Has also attempted to put layers by adding a wedding ring, The Curious History of Love does prepare us for the climax, while our married man reads: South of the Border, West of the Sun, which ironically has an infidel husband for the protagonist.

Ansari informed us Dhruv Singhal was apricated in India while Jitin Gulati was appreciated outside motherland. My friend and I we didn’t find Dhruv impressive enough, his expressions ran between scared to paranoid, his body language was off beat especially when he is waiting for Gulati the married man to board the train. The constant shaking of his legs and digging nails into his arms looked forced and didn't appear to burn for love. Whereas Gulati did a wonderful work with his body language, his expressions were controlled and never let loose until the climax, his expressions flowered with the story. His inability to pull away his wedding ring was wonderfully shot. The background score needed better editing work, and in a silent movie silence just had a cameo.

Faraz also answered our queries and informed us of an incident that happened in Delhi airport, he found his film and his photograph were featured in a leading daily while awaiting his flight. After he informed his mother some random guy splattered a glass of water on him for making this film. His interaction in Christ college Bangalore opened with a student asking “What is LGBTQ?”

P.S- Sisak doesn’t enter the complexities of love and life of queer people and how it affects their loved ones and vice-versa. Sisak leaves the viewers at the beginning, where even hoping for love is criminal.

thanking you for bearing with me

Friday, 30 June 2017

No Sayonara here

Among the ancient building and under the strict love of air conditioner, I made friends, philosophers, and guide.

Three years back I had a premonition that one day I will have my adda. My place of being, and unbecoming, my group of happy floops and stern protectors. But my adda never came into being. I unbecame and got adopted by a curly haired who had an equally scattered brain and tangled moods and a guy who had a beard that grew thicker with his deep reasoning. Three can never make an adda, and hence my adda remained unformed. Guides I have had many, I have my personal philosopher who is irreplaceable, my friends are the fabrics of my existence but a college adda of the rotten crowd I never had.

Yet in a year I met different individuals who are older and younger, some way over-qualified, some way too immature. Few of them assured with life at twenty-two others regretting the marriage they entered twenty-five years back. In a happy flow, a year got over, in a happy year, my experience was beyond academic. I have learned the taste of whiskey, I have learned the art of sacrifice, I have learned the fun of sharing and listening.

It has been an eventful year, and no matter what turn my life takes from here, I won't ever complain taking an academic break while pursuing an academic course.

Now that the year has ended, promises of meeting and keeping in touch are flying out. Promises made in an emotional moment are hard to keep. You can't maintain all relationships, some will stay in the back of your mind, some will accompany you till the end. Despite being easily influenced and brainwashed, I know the futility of promises. I have never promised something based on emotions. Bonds don't wash away, memories don't fade away.

The vlogging girl standing near the green door of 40A will always be etched in my mind, the happy girl in black niqab will be safe in my heart, the smiling girl with the sleepy head will be an inspiration to me always. The lovesick girl or the girl with glossy pink lipstick, they will be part of a long chapter.

The man with a formal t-shirt and mickey mouse pencil box was my neighbour, the anti-marriage squad that I was part of will be here. The over-curious and fatherly classmates, I will miss them. 

I have fallen in love with of each of the human I have acquainted with. Now that everyone is saying and spelling out their farewell and I refuse to utter goodbye. In no language shall I say goodbye. Goodbyes are for ending. But I am still a book in making, and each of the humans I have loved was contributing character in a thick chapter. Chapters finish but their impacts last till the climax. The chapter may have ended but the climax is far far away. Hence I refuse to say goodbye.

P.S- there will be no Sayonara here. 

thanking you to bear with me

Wednesday, 31 May 2017

Foes by Cards

Half an hour ago as I said bye to my bearded friend, and settled inside my cab, my friend from college called up. Shouting and Panting, "How Could They Do This, How Could They Do This" and I went "Who did What?".

"House Of Cards Duh?" came the reply. "Don't you dare!" I barked. In general I can handle spoilers, trivia and news regarding television shows, my bearded buddy had recited the plot line of Mad Men's Season Finale and I was hardly bothered, but House of Cards has a special affinity. "See that's what this show does! It makes friends our enemies" to this I roll my eyes, I wished she could see it. "No, you are not an enemy, but I would appreciate if you keep your excitement bolted." I reply.

Last time my reading was spoiled when internet went bonkers about Delphini being the love child of Tom Marvolo Riddle and Bellatrix Lestrange. "But how do I contain it, its so disturbing" my friend wails. I sigh, indeed that's how excited I go when a new One Piece chapter is out. Few days back my bearded darling was grumpy when our common friend lamented out Homeland's ending on Facebook. How grumpy he was and how least irked I was because I never got involved with the show. Now my own love was at risk, and here was my friend on my ear.

She was dying to tell me and I was dying not to hear it. 

That's when a couple entered the cab, the perks of Uber Share. The girl looked under the weather and the boy definitely was worried. Our destination was almost similar, and the girl dropped beside me. My friend still waiting for a signal that would turn on her word faucet. "Whatever is doing gudgudi inside your tummy, is not going to let you vomit in my ears" was my open reply. "But..." "NOPE" "Please Ari.." "But you know Carie..." "I will disconnect" I warn. "Sun na... Sun na.." the chant goes on.

"Bye" I disconnect the phone. If House Of Cards is going to be end of my friendship, so be it. "Umm do you have water?" the my co-passenger asks. "Yes of course" that's the perks of being me, I always carry water. I lend her my tiny bottle and sigh a relief escapes, as my friend was now furiously typing her excitement on whatsapp. "Babu, have you, will you watch House Of Cards? You will watch  today na, tonight pakka?" the boyfriend of my co-passenger asks.      

"Oh please don't" we both reply and look at each other. "But, this season is so good" the boy beings and the sick girl looks more sick in anger. "You will step down at Golf Green right?" the girl asks me, and I nod. "I have pair of headphone and good collection of music, you want to tune him out?" the girl glares, that's the glare of a true House of Cards fan. "Please" I beg. 

For next fifteen minutes she plays songs of which I have absolutely no idea. But I do thank her when I step down for keeping the ride spoiler free, I wave her bye and I see her smile as she plugs in both her ears and her boyfriend makes a sad face.

P.S- If in future If I find them together, I will understand from which couple they derive their relationship goals.

thanking you to Bear with me

Sunday, 30 April 2017

choto-choto half pant

Three months back Jerry Pinto was reciting on how we humans clutter and crystallize with each other based on our prejudices. Even the most educated and liberated mind have a queer screw which never bends on an idea. Our prejudices are the secret screenshots our friends enjoy. Sometimes in the company or on the online platform, we let our mind roll and like a Djinn in the bottle, our prejudices make an unwanted statement.

Four days ago, as I sat inside my pre-heated blue bus and waited for the driver to unroll the shirt down his hair nipples and pot belly and press the clutch with his slippers, some pretty girls took the front seats beside the driver and chatted away in their own tongue, a tone similar to my ears but meaning scarce to my ears. 

The bus driver out of the sense of shame roll downed his shirt and smiled at the girls, exposed hairy chest are not everyone's wild fantasy. Two women dressed in sarees, sitting before me observed the friendly driver talking with the pretty girls who kept smiling and uncrossing their legs as the seats were burning pans.

Out of the blue one among them expressed how these friendly girls from the hills and North East India need a lesson or two on who to talk with. Like Jerry Pinto said our prejudice does make a small community of us, the other woman in saree agrees, this time it's specifically about North Eastern Girls and their lack of dressing sense. 

The pretty girls sitting on the extreme front could have been from Himachal, they could have been from Darjeeling, they could have been from Delhi, they could have been from Kerala, but their pretty face and friendly attitude mark them as one of my own kind. I have heard it many a time from my friends, teachers, classmates and random people on how girls of North East India need to be careful of their clothing.

The women in front were nothing new to me, according to their analysis every northeastern girl wears huge T-shirts, have a weird hairstyle, wear choto-choto (Tiny) half pants, and entice the eros of men with their shapely milky white legs. This two women who had remarkably beautiful voices and clean Bangla pronunciation were getting on my nerves. But it's a lesson hard learned, fighting and talking back is not always the way. They continued on how the colourful bra straps that peep out is so indecent and the huge expensive bags the girls carry are filled with alcoholic drinks and pork dim sums. The choto-choto half pant being a regular complain and occasional praise for great taste in shoes, but how the shoes are a waste on those exposed white legs.

The fighting itch in me was rising, but I was controlling my anger and hoping desperately that someone from back home calls me, anyone even the most annoying friend would do. Like Coelho says when you desire something intently the whole Universe conspires to help you.

My weird ringtone exploded inside the bus, the driver now finally gearing up to drive and these two women break away because of my ringtone. My friend called up because like always he forgot few words in English, and finds me more convincing than google at times, which is actually an honour I don't deserve. 

So as he asks and talks I reply in my best lucid Assamese accent inherited from my mom, a bit louder than expected and bit sharper. I happily see the shoulders in saree, stiff up for few seconds and my task to make a statement was done. I give away the important words my friend needs and disconnect the call, but what's a lesson served without a bit of warning. I call out to the conductor, "Dada amar ticket ta niye jaan, ami Kaache naambo" (I ask for the ticket as I would step down soon) in the best crisp Bangla accent my bearded beauty would have been proud to hear, as he has worked a lot behind my Bangla sentence construction.

P.S.- And fifteen minutes later I walk by the women in a long flowing skirt and definitely mocking them with my unruly hair.  

thanking you for bearing with me