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.

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
paulOaries

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
paulOaries

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
paulOaries

Friday, 31 March 2017

breed wise, puppy foolish





Every few days a thought occurs, a thought so small yet powerful enough to annoy me for a whole day. Of course, it's about this blog, my obvious anger about the lack of readers and the blog’s name (which five years ago was an epiphanic discovery), now I want to eradicate it all, again it's the only romantic relationship of my life that has been a constant and I don't end up doing anything stupid.



Yesterday for the infinite time I was stuck with this dilemma of finally becoming an absconder or keep doing what I do on this blog. As my friend and I we sucked down the ice cream nicknamed blind love, I kept ranting the same thought. My friend asked why was I blogging less for last few months. The answer has always been same I have nothing exciting enough to tell. But my friend suggested another reason - Life had me occupied. Life indeed has kept me occupied and I am not complaining.

After watching an average movie, eating three different kinds of momos and two blind loves later, I was sitting inside my red-yellow bus and thinking about what to pen here. Should I write about the sun filled bus rides, random strolls in bookstores, weird conversations I end up having with unknown people? They all seem so normal that I don't feel like sharing them.

As I stepped down from my bus and began walking towards my apartment, I saw a boy on a bicycle being chased by dogs. The boy fell and soon was helped, he got picked up by the people walking around and me. He got advised on how to handle dogs, me being an animal expert might have burdened him with a bit more information than required.



Happily, I stroll towards the central park, where few school children were texting and laughing among themselves, lovebirds swallowed by the shadows of huge trees and a locked up rickshaw with two humans sitting on it were busy conversing. That’s when a little white fur ball ran past me, a tail that’s etched in my brain, a size I would recognise anywhere, a breed I can do a doctorate on. A white German Spitz with an orange collar was sniffing the bushes. Being a dog lover I approached it, and my love was reciprocated. The fur ball galloped towards me, I looked around but none was there to claim it.

Hence I patted his head, cuddled a bit and struck up a conversation where no reply came from the fur ball. With beady eyes it blinked, so did I with four eyes. Like a cat it rubbed its head on my leg, I patted it more, but a worry seeped in, a dog with a collar but no owner meant it had somehow wandered away from it’s home. I began disturbing the school kids and they looked back at me with annoyed faces and next I disturbed the lovebirds as well. After five minutes I decided that it was better if I took the lad home and take a photograph of it and put up a poster about finding a lost dog.

When I was about to pick up the white chap, one of the two sitters on the rickshaw jumped laughing. “Don’t worry, he is not lost, I never leash my boy! I just love watching when people think he is lost! It’s so nice of you guys to try and take care of him” the man in blue and black checkered lungi (which is a patented uniform for rickshaw riders back home) smiled at me. Like a dumb child, I stared at him. The white fur ball ran towards its owner and woofed, soon it was barking when a German Shephard arrived with his caretaker. While both the Germans barked I grumbled back home in anger. I really hated becoming the ‘Fool’ even before April began!



P.S- That was really a bad joke on that man’s part! Who does that? What if someone did actually run off with the fur ball?




thanking you to bear with me
paulOaries
  

Monday, 27 February 2017

Nibbler.


 Once upon a time when I was binging through my collection of Tinkle Digest, there was this sweet story about the true worth of a gift.  It was the story a young girl who was holding her birthday party and expecting expensive gifts from her classmates. She receives Dolls with beautiful golden hair, chocolates from the best bakeries, digital watch, exotic lamps, and a ball pen of ten rupees. As she safe keeps her gifts, she snorts about the inexpensive ball pen and the girl’s mother warns her, to not become a selfish and arrogant kid, as the classmate who had gifted the ball pen, came from a humble home. But little girl pays no heed, she displays her expensive gifts on her study and drops her ball pen in the black hole of the school bag. So came the exam day when our little selfish girl runs out of ink in her pen and she is on the verge of tears, as asking pen from fellow classmates meant you lose ten marks. Now no Indian Kid will sacrifice her ten marks, she brainstorms and recalls the ball pen gifted to her six months back. With her teacher’s permission, she ransacks her school sack and finds that tiny skinny blue instrument. After the exam is over the girl rushes out and thanks her classmate and realizes that the true worth of a gift is the thought and not the price tag.

Gifting we have been, my best friends and me, we have been in this circle of picking things for our ladies. Be it a mirror of hundred bucks or earrings of ten bucks, it’s the thought and idea of the girl smiling that motivates my friends and me. Gifting is our way of showing love, respect, and gratitude. Sometimes I even extracted gifts out of elder sister and my mentor, all I have to do is nag and beg like a baby until they agree to buy me the books I absolutely need. Sometimes you have to beg for love and my love is, books. I also have a knack of picking up books for my friends, which I think is an absolutely necessary read for them, Mr. Crush has been its biggest victim followed by my Soul Sister. Though hardly a pen, I gift books which I feel is must for my friends, old or new a book is a gift with never dying worth.
But I have already spoken about gifting, many a times, so why again? A few months back my new and senior friend from Indian Army gifted me a fountain pen. Now my grandfather and elder sister are in love with the idea of the fountain pen, my sister loves it more as her beautiful handwriting becomes an example of pure calligraphy. I am blessed with terrible handwriting and over the years my attempt to improve my lettering has been futile and I have come to accept it. When this golden capped pen rolled towards me I looked up to my respected friend and squinted my four eyes wondering why to gift me something that is so elegant. Grace and Elegance are not my friends. In return, sir smirks and I ask “Aab ink pot bhi gift karo aap” [Now gift me the ink pot as well]. Since I am a bookworm and I love writing a fountain pen was gift apt for me, but was I apt for the pen?
I have almost given up the use of the pen for writing, it's only in my classes and exam where I use my pens to write, in general, I use my pens to doodle. With the shiny pen in my hand, I start wondering if I could doodle with Ink Pen? The inner soul cries ‘NO’ so I don’t start doodling. Hence I start regretting instantly that my new possession would go waste. I hate it when my gifts are not utilized for their true purpose. Yet in the black hole of my study bag went my shiny pen.
For two months it made cameo appearances with my other black pens, sometimes the cap went missing, sometimes the body. Other moments it vanished into an alternate universe to return after two days with orange thread stuck between the nib! It peeped in and out reminding me that it had a purpose, it was gifted to me with intention.


Few days back I read an interview of my the favourite Neil Gaiman, the interview took place in Australia where he was advance signing books with a fountain pen. When asked if he had any exclusive element to his pen, he told he has customized inks! The present ink was blue with a violet tinge. The way he described the whole process of autographing, instantly I wanted my own ink pot, and a tinge of gray left by the arcs of my letters. Then I again realized I have a terrible handwriting, but the desire to whisk my fountain pen like a wand had already seized me, be it I have terrible writing sense.
Hence finally with a black inkpot in my bag, I returned home.  
And since the day before yesterday, the poor instrument of change has been cursing me, write I did not, scribble I could not, doodle I can! Doodle I have, sharp, blotted and meaningless. I have burrowed holes in the paper, given birth to two-dimensional black holes and wormholes and distorted images have been floating on the pure white pages and I have never felt so satisfied doodling things around me.  
P.S- Sometimes the true purpose of a gift is to keep you happy and I have become nibbler.  

thanking you to bear with me
paulOaries