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, 29 January 2015

Multiple Guilt...

Three days back on the path to grab seats in bus, my sister, brother-in-law and I, we saw a guy rush to a girl yelling at top of his voice. From the cacophony we could make out the girl’s cell phone was switched off and the guy was worried. So in his worried mind he began yelling and shouting at the girl who by now we know was his girlfriend.

By the time we were sitting in the bus I was witnessing what the Bongs of this State call as 'Scene'. The guy in his red kurta embroidered with golden thread, white trousers, nerdy glasses and tall physique could win many heart had his mouth been shut. While the girl was is regular brown shirt, black jeans, mojari shoes and her curly hair made into a bun was worth a glance. This good looking couple were fighting and my family and I with rest of the passengers were watching a lovers’ quarrel minus the fluffy and romantic aspect of it.

The genuine reaction of the ingrained female dignity in me wanted to slap the guy behalf of that girl. The girl was trying to pacify this hulk in red kurta but the guy decided to throw the cell phone on the road. Finally the girl burst out and after an all out word war, the girl left the arena without looking back once. Eventually the guy picked up the pieces of cell phone and began following her. That was that of the entire story.

Deep inside I wanted to go and help that girl who may or may not have been in trouble. But on other side I was annoyed by this public display of verbal violence. In books love-hate relationships are wonderful to gulp down. Reality is harsher, the socialist I wanted to go ahead to be a saviour and flaunt kindness. The coward I kept tickling that it was not my business and while I kept deciding the lovers had left battle field. The reason I did not jump to help them was because of the discourse of perspective.

I have had this inner battle many times. I did go out of my own way few times to induce feministic zeal in girls who lacked a world beyond lovers. When I say feministic zeal I do not intend the convinced idea of creation of an army of man haters! I mean the creation of an individual thought process that has nothing to do with man or beyond man in one's life. I even poked my button nose in a relationship that had full potential to turn into a classic story of domestic violence had the couple married. Did I chop my feet with ax? I danced in the field of axes.

I have been warned many times by my fellow mates that my over involvement and sudden lack of involvement in others life will harm me. I love helping people but when it comes to my own decision making I am a puppet with multiple strings attached to hierarchical bars. Hence I keep trying to poke my nose where I need to. The warning has always come with a question as- why do you try to untangle complex things. I am advised time and again to let things be.

In last six months have met various kinds of people I could have never imagined to be. From hardcore feminist to homophobes I have seen them well and nice, up and close. Some are accumulating degrees because the heavenly door of marriage has not opened to them. Another lot is busy complicating a simple process of answering a simple question. If one is detached from reality another is to close emotions that it creeps one out, if I meet an antisocial in morning I am bound to stumble to a pervert by evening.

For first time in my life my idea of complexity seems simple. I thought a love triangle was complex, but as I gain maturity which I think I am, it seems a love line is much more complex. The working of my minds is defiantly different from others. The circuits in my brain were based on one thing, if the stimuli I receive help me grow I respond if they don’t I reject them. But now it seems there is no constancy in the quality of stimulus.

Now that I think about it, I do feel bad for not jumping and punching that tall guy who thought the girl was his property. I wanted to hit him because he was behaving like an uncultured human devoid of his rationality. We all have anger but watching him reminded me off various couples I encountered in trains, buses, parks and college. Off them all it reminded of a particular senior of mine who had held his girlfriend’s arm and was both twisting and pulling her out of college. She was wearing the pink uniform and trying to hold the painful tears in those doe eyes. At that moment I had absolute moment of clarity, but on this other moment I did not. 

I was like the photo journalist my friend was complaining about. The once who are watching a building burn down or watching a tiger being killed or a girl being molested in road. They just keep snapping and filming without trying to save the so called victim they are going to air about. 

P.S- Too many discourse in my system made me forget how to react!

thanking you to bear with me

Thursday, 15 January 2015

Another Day.

How would we describe a perfect day?  For some snuggling under the blanket sipping coffee with a book in hand is perfect day. For another walking with the loved one under rain is perfect. Well three years before I had given my unripe idea of perfect here. Do I still stick to it? More or less, yes. Though I feel Christmas all year the New Year is already old and festivities are over.

Let’s come back to idea of perfect day, last year on second January I had a perfect day. My friends and sister by complex relation had a great day exploring a bird sanctuary with no birds in it. I have a collection of perfect days in my life. Some happen when I just sit in some rickety diner and help a pretty girl find direction. Other happened when I get in old lanes to find some hidden curio shop under mango trees.

My year began with home cooked food and company of internet. Not perfect beginning for a perfectionist like me, than we all know the joke, each year will be same as other. Its perspective that matters in life, we keep chanting. The first perfect day of the New Year happened on twelfth of this month and my faith in the magical religion of Paulo Coelho sustains. One moment I finish reading Adultery and next day I am sitting in my university seminar hall listening to aboriginal poets imported from Australia.

Here I am sitting comfortable on the leather chair and trying to decode the heavily accented English of Lionel Fogarty. A dark, tall and broad man with a witty smile on his face was presenting his poems to us. Honestly I had never heard about him or his fellow poet Ali Cobby before. While Ali got possessed reading her poems of loss and journey to find her identity, Fogarty presented the criticism of culture religion and economy. We audience on other hand got split between clapping and chanting Sadhu Sadhu..

Poetry has never charmed my heart much, I was never gifted with the sensitivity of understanding or decoding sonnets and ballads. If I can relate to poems, they generally come from Browning, Frank O’hara, Eunice de’ Souza, Papia Ghosal and my recent found treasure Allen Ginsberg. While I heard Ali Cobby I could sense Eunice in her. But in Fogarty I felt a blend of Wole Soyinka and Ginsberg. But this interpretation comes from my limited love for poetry.

But as soon as I am done being mesmerised by the poets I am sitting behind my brilliant friend on his Royal Enfield. It’s an open secret I have a shameless crush on his chariot. I could not resist the temptation to let my hair feel the air flowing through them. Riding on the red soil we created our miniature motor cycle diary. Except for exploring the continent we were in search of a ceramic shop to collect a package. It always wondered me how our idea of geography gets curtailed by tall buildings standing in front of a lane.

Riding through the interconnected red roads we were finally inside the glass house of a ceramic artist. My first reaction was I was standing in a black and white panel cut out from Manga which surprisingly was coloured. Except for the blue and white ceramic creation it was a play of brown and black. At moments like this I feel time stop and my brain circulating various thought processes at same time. With our package in hand we were back on our red road and I felt Murakamied!

Now Murakamied is the term to define my personal state of mind when I feel surrealistic. Since I have read the writer so many times, now a day’s I often at morning ask myself “Where am I?” like Watanabe from Norwegian Wood. On my ride I was Murakamied, though I kept talking with my friend who decided to take a detour to amaze me. I absorbed the lusty green on the dry red and I felt like treading on the fine line separating the real and unreal. The crowded town ran parallel with the red road which separated the calm nature from the town. With many twist and turns and new roads we were back on the dark road.

Fast forward into fifteen minutes and I am peeping into the nest of one of the most curious minds I have ever had the pleasure to befriend. I am talking about the owner of the Enfield. I was happy his house was not part of the overzealous exploration of colours and poking the periphery of architecture like the fellow buildings nearby. The house surprisingly fit my imagination of how his home would have been.

We were back to seminar hall to listen to Rabindra poetry and enjoy live performance of baul singers, whom I was searching two months back desperately. The curly haired woman in yellow saree, holding her ektara was not performing but communicating with Coelho calls Soul of the World. Her performances ended too soon as our guest poets had to catch a train.

Since my brilliant friend happens to run Tinpahar I tagged along with him on his quest to speak to the guest poet. Hence back on his bike we were on our way to railway station to talk to the poets. Mostly my friend spoke I was grinning as again I was Murakamied into Coelho world.

Both Lionel Fogarty and Ali Cobby were genuinely friendly and had lot to offer us in half an hour. Not only witty Fogarty turned out to love bikes he was generous with his fan service as my friend received his autographed copy of his poetry anthology. Ali Cobby showed her childlike nature as she bought herself a plastic parrot balloon. After bidding them goodbye when I reached home and crept under the blanket with a big grin. I was fulfilled.

In a day I had experienced the magic of poetry, learned about Indian Indigenous voices, I stumbled into a workshop of an artist and I felt time expanding and contracting bewildering my senses, I had both missed my friends and thanked them for sleeping the day off. Why won’t I call such a day perfect? 

P.S- I still feel Murakamied!

thanking you to bear with me