What if I start all over all again

I had stopped blogging years back. Took me so many years to get back here and start scribbling again on a Monday morning. Its July 2022. I had scribbled my last post back in 2013. 9 years. I have changed a lot in these 9 years. I feel like I will start writing my next book , I feel like I will take another reel, I feel like what is the use of it all. But then there is always somewhere you start scribbling all over again. And as writers everything affects you so deeply that you feel like scribbling something about it but then something happens and you just stop writing. Abruptly. No words come out, Netflix seems the closest comfort. You meet people who write create drama and feel one day I will be able to write again. This is a calling for such days.

- To my words and careless confessions

Sarmi

Prisoners of Uncle Sam

Alia:

Its an usual Monday morning and as I rush for my office, I get a glimpse of her. She stands there on the 9th floor window everyday behind the faded beige curtains and waves to her husband. Her husband works in a financial major in New York city. He is a corporate professional who spends 8 hrs. of his day in a swanky office amidst the bigwigs and techies, amidst appreciations, appraisals and promotions intercepted with perks like mini skirts and stilettos.

Alia's day starts after he leaves. She starts her day with the usual India calls. The discussions are aimless ---about the weather, a handful of random recipes intercepted by current affairs and gossips. The calls get over as the time zone in India slowly reaches midnight. Then the usual stuff starts at the kitchen... cooking lunch and dinner amidst aimless posts on Facebook and then finally waiting for the evening when her tired workaholic husband comes back home. Weekends are spent in long drives, grocery shopping, cleaning the house or visiting similar species who are at onsite with H4 wives and finally its back to weekdays again.

Alia Khan, was a Microbiologist topper from Pondicherry who wanted to complete her MS in Immunology. She married when she was 25. It was a love marriage. Alia's husband, a rising techie works for an US financial major. Alia left her parents, her career, her passion and her own space years back just driven by the desire to stay with her husband.

Alia Khan currently holds an H-4 visa, issued to the spouses of H-1B professionals in America. The United States government does not allow H-4 visa holders to work or or pay taxes or issues any Social Security Number for them. Their identity in this part of the world is reduced to and defined by a mere 'dependent' visa tag. Once a budding microbiologist, Alia's achievements are merely reduced to washing clothes, grocery shopping at Patels and Apna Bazaar and cooking Bhindi Masala inspired by YouTube Sanjeev Kapoor shows and of course being the wife of a coveted H-1B. She can buy Louis Vuitton, can drive her husband's BMW and can wear Victoria's Secret and boast about the beach vacations in Florida on Facebook.

There are hundreds of Alia Khans all across United States. The stringent visa procedure was perhaps done to stop the influx of H-1B professionals from the third world by some 'intelligent' US bureaucrat but our part of the world boasts of Alia Khans who can give everything up for the sake of love, marriage and togetherness. And Alia Khans do not repent; they dream of a life where someday their sons will be born as US citizens in a land where Alia Khans are termed as 'aliens' or 'dependents'.
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Ashima:

I just saw that shy 7 year old call 'Maaaa' and she responded-- 'Ki holo'. She comes to the park quite often with the little kid. Her slow walk and unsure steps are a result of her old age, unfamiliarity and reduced vision which she tries to hide desperately like her grey hair. Her English sounds forcefully learnt for her accented US citizen grandson. The autumn wind plays with her printed chiffon saris which is merely an amusement for the Californians. Ashima Banerjee, 75 year old lives with her son and daughter in law in Los Angeles, California.

Her son Hrishikesh and daughter in law Sheetal are proud green card holders of United States of America.  Hrishikesh is a lawyer and Sheetal a techie in an IT firm. Hectic work hours and busy schedule hardly leaves them with anytime for their family or their son Ved. So Ashima has been brought all the way from her 1 bhk south Calcutta residence to Orange County to bring up this kid and manage the Banerjee family.

Ashima takes great pride in her role and boasts about it to all her relatives and friends when she goes back to India after every 8 months. The relatives get token supplies of Bath and Body Works, Hollister and Tommy Hilfiger and praise about Ashima's responsible son. Their discussions range from how organized, how beautiful America is and how wise her son has been in grabbing the right opportunity right on time.

Ashima's husband, Animesh died a few years back. She stays alone when she goes to Calcutta for 4 months. She loves it here in US-- the  mall hopping, cars, the long drives, grocery and of all things Ved calling her 'maa' gives her an immense power and satisfaction.  She considers her role in their family of utmost importance. She still converts the dollar and the Indian rupees and finds a strange satisfaction in it. Hrishikesh and Sheetal will be applying for her citizenship as well. So that she can permanently stay here for the rest of her life.

When I look at her I'm always curious how Ashima Banerjees adjust here, away from home, giving up their own space and raising their grandchildren -----why is it that something tells me that all is not well with the Ashimas.

Why do Hrishikesh and Sheetals impose their responsibilities on someone who should have been taken care of at this age? Its difficult for the Ashimas but I guess here lies the magic of Uncle Sam and his dollars. He has always managed to be the winner whenever it comes to human emotions. He buys all our hearts based on its rising economy, land of opportunities, highrises, beautiful locales  and brands which is often termed as the 'Quality of Life'--- The quality of life which is well defined by money in this part of the world.
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Ahana:

The other day at Shoprite, a grocery store in Minnesota, I saw Ahana. A fidgety 30 year old was busy doing her grocery with her husband Nikhil. From a distance, she seemed a confident working woman dressed in her Armanis. Her branded sandals and her Gucci bag was well coordinated with her lipstick.

Ahana was a Bengali Honors student from Jadavpur University who currently works in a pharmaceutical company in California. Ahana once wanted to be a writer.

This was a usual work week and people were rushing into the isles with overflowing carts. Ahana picked up a couple of soda cans and looked at Nikhil and suddenly she lost her grip. The cans slipped from her hands. "You asshole bitch you fucked it up again...You can't manage a thing properly"--- her husband almost screamed at her.

I  was so scared I could not look back at her. I could hear every word that man told his wife and I could feel what Ahana was going through as she could not reply back to her husband. She swiftly picked up the cans and arranged them neatly on the rack as if it was her duty. Her eyes over brimmed with tears of humiliation which desperately wanted to run away. But where would she go? She left her space way back in life.


Ahana Mukherjee, 35, lives in Minnesota. Her husband rising high up on his Wall Street career often forgets to value Ahana's emotional need to be respected amidst his hectic and stressful schedules. Well, being short tempered is not something that needs to be changed. Nikhil believes it is justified to abuse her as he has the right , the right that comes out of marriage and love and Ahana-- she is bloody immature. He is caring and takes care of Ahana a lot. But Nikhil has no control over his temper when it comes to his wife. Ahana is not financially dependent on Nikhil like Alia or Ashima but she is legally married to him and so as our society says she is bound to submit to its rules. 

Ahana had a love marriage and she was desperate to be with this man for the rest of her life. Nothing could ever come between them. So every time Nikhil is abusive and Ahana shattered, she consoles herself by thinking everything can't be perfect in a marriage. She must have some fault in her, for him to behave like this.

Ahana wishes she was perfect, the way Nikhil wanted him to be. She wishes she was as beautiful like the women he ogles at on the streets, in his office or  the ones he compares with her. Ahana tries and she never gives up.

But then there are days when Ahana wants to escape far away. Away from this ordeal of achieving perfection, from comparisons, from Nikhil's idea of beauty, maturity and confidence. But she fails miserably.
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"India will awake to Life and Freedom"

14th August, 2012, Tuesday:

An early morning conversation between A and B:

A: Your friend called from India. They have a holiday there tomorrow.

B: (Busy packing lunch, doing the last touch ups) --- Holiday in India?

A: It's 15th August! Come on!
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14th August 2012 Tuesday @ Work:

X: Hi, did you watch the Olympics?

Y: Yeah I did. So how many medals did your country win ?(with a smirk)

X: (Clueless)...I don't get it you are from Maharashtra right?

Y: Ah Plzzz. Gimme a break... I'm here for the last 10 years and I have applied for US citizenship. I don't belong to that country of 1 billion bastards.

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It's 15th August tomorrow. India's 65th year of independence. Six decades have passed and new India boasts of nuclear power, IT bigwigs,glitzy malls, branded cars and carefully hides its grim third world reality...

65 years back:

14th August, 1947: A small town in Dhanbad, Bihar. Somewhere the radio blared Jawaharlal Nehru's Tryst with Destiny speech:

"At the stroke of the midnight hour, when the world sleeps, India will awake to life and freedom."

A little kid rushes to his mother and badly wants her to buy the Indian flag for him. She consoles the kid and promises him that they will make one of the best tricolor, better than the ones his friends bought.

She takes out one of her starched white saree and prepares the vegetable dye for the tricolor.

On a August midnight, as India was about to celebrate her freedom, at the backdrop of a dim lantern light in a small town in Bihar, the mother and the son deftly etched each stroke of Ashok Chakra on a cotton starched saree.

15th August 1947: The boy proudly lifted up the tricolor on a wooden fence. The tricolor was hoisted up in the air. The saffron was not the perfect shade of saffron neither the green was India green. But the little boy felt a strange sense of excitement and pride as he hoisted the flag.

She stood right there. Her eyes glistened as she looked at her son.

For years she had dreamt of this independant India.

"And to India, our much-loved motherland, the ancient, the eternal and the ever-new, we pay our reverent homage and we bind ourselves afresh to her service.

JAI HIND!"

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On this date, I salute to all the heartfelt wishes and emotions that makes us all proud as Indians.

Prisoner of Life- Aruna Shanbaug

Tucked away from the fast life of Mumbai, away from all the deadlines, away from time lives Aruna.

The smell of ether, moving wheelchairs, uniformed staff and patients are a regular sight at this part of the world. Beyond the huge French windows, stretched out Mumbai city- the city of dreams; the fast city life of a concrete metropolis whizzed past as the tall skyscrapers outlined the crimson horizon. Three decades--where each day brought about a new change; the city changed, its name changed, the people changed and their faces. 37 years or was it more. Aruna does not remember.


It was way back in 1970s, Aruna, a young and vibrant girl from a small village in Karnataka in her mid 20s had joined King Edward Memorial Hospital in Bombay as a junior nurse. One of the most rewarding professions, Aruna treated her patients with all the responsibility and care and brought back a smile in their lives.





It was a spring in 1970s. Aruna met the new handsome junior doctor in the hospital. It started with professional conversations and soon turned out to be something more than that. They were in love. Aruna wanted to settle down with him in life.

It was a pleasant autmn month in 1973. Her marriage was fixed with her fiance in November and both the families geared up with the preparations. Aruna colored her dreams red.


Sohanlal was a ward boy in the same hospital. Aruna was often irked by his negligence and one day she complained to the senior authorities against him. Sohanlal was badly reprimanded by the seniors and he felt humiliated. Sohanlal did not turn up for days.

It was an evening on 27th November, 1973. Aruna was supposed to meet her fiance at the bus terminus. She told him she would wear her favorite red saree for the evening. Aruna's dreams were crimson.

Aruna was a little late that evening. She hurried down the stairs and reached the empty basement washroom to change her clothes. But suddenly the lights went off. Was it a power cut? As Aruna took out the saree, she could hear some footsteps.

It was none other than Sohanlal. He was drunk. She screamed out desperately for help. Angry Sohanlal wanted to stop that voice forever. He strangulated her with a heavy chain. Aruna could only quiver like a half dead prey and was soon lost in some darkness.

Drunk Sohanlal repeatedly assaulted her. Aruna lay there on the floor. Bleeding and unconscious. Alone. It was darkness all around. The thick strain of blood stained the hospital floor.

Her fiance was left waiting at the bus terminus. It was raining heavily. The last bus left but Aruna did not turn up. Aruna could never turn up.

Clinical Report: "Lack of oxygen supply to the brain due to asphyxiation resulting in brain stem contusion injury and cervical cord injury apart from leaving her cortically blind"


FIR report: Case 1013: "Case of robbery and attempted murder"


Aruna's family did not accuse Sohanlal of rape charges. They wanted to avoid the social stigma and save her impending marriage. Sohanlal was convicted. But then he had to serve two concurrent seven-year sentences for assault and robbery. Sohanlal was free after 14 years. It was Aruna, who became the prisoner of life. Forever.


Its been three decades. Bombay changed to Mumbai. India celebrated its 50 years of independence. But life has come to a standstill for Aruna Shaunbag. Frail and wrinkled Aruna is in a vegetative stage for the last 37 years.

Its raining heavily in Bombay today. The moist winds kissed the glass windows in Aruna's room. Aruna's life has come to a standstill. Its the same hospital where she once walked through the corridors in her uniformed dress.Its the same hospital where she had once weaved her dreams and aspirations. Its the same hospital where she had fallen in love; where she received awards for her exemplary performance. Its the same Kings Edward Memorial hospital. Only the years have passed by and Aruna is a patient. A patient who will never be released.


Aruna still dreams. She dreams of red; of her wedding trousseau; she dreams of green; the green fields in her village in Haldipur; she often dreams of black;

Is it too late; is he still waiting at the bus stop for her? Is anyone out there waiting for Aruna. Cold and lonely, Aruna blankly stares at the walls for her answers. She can't speak, neither can she hear nor feel.

Aruna wets her bed and waits for the next nurse to clean her up. Its an endless wait as the country, its legal orders and Aruna's nurses want her to live.

Aruna Shanbaug lives. And we all hope her journey reaches a destination.




["Aruna Shanbaug (or Shanbhag) is a nurse from Haldipur, Uttar Kannada, Karnataka in India. In 1973, while working at King Edward Memorial Hospital, Parel, Mumbai, she was sexually assaulted and has been in a vegetative state since the assault. On 24th January 2011, after she had been in this status for 37 years, the Supreme Court of India responded to the plea for euthanasia filed by Aruna's friend journalist Pinki Virani, by setting up a medical panel to examine her. The court turned down the mercy killing petition on 7 March, 2011. However in its landmark judgment, it allowed passive euthanasia in India.[1]"-(From Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aruna_Shanbaug_case)



(*the post is just a fictitious perspective of Aruna Shaunbag case.)]

To Love,

Dear Love, When was the last time you knocked my door, showered me with wet kisses and made me realize your presence. When was the last time you welled up tears in my eyes and made me realize you are still there beside me . When was it during an unexpected moment, you held my hand and whispered:"I'm there". I dont remember as it has been ages I was in love all over again; head over heels giggling with my girlfriends sharing little details with a precious glow in my mind. May be I lost you midway. I know you were never bound by completion, goals or aspiration. You only belonged to fools or romantics. I'm a fool. I still need you. I need you to reassure me that yes you will be there...forever. I want you to hold me when I feel lost. When the practicals and ambitious surround me, love I desperately want to be content in your arms. As the twilight sneaks in amidst the bright rays of sunshine, you will also sneak into our lives and never leave. I want on to hold on to this twilight, love. But I know its not there. You have deserted me long back. In my pursuit of practical wisdom I lost you. Love, I'm neither a romantic, nor practical, but I want you back. Do you still belong to me or have you really deserted my life just as the faded autmn leaves gives way to winter----endless and long lasting... Yours truly- .....

Monologue

"Tomay chute chaoar muhurtera ke jaaney ki abeshey dishahara.." What is your status update all about... Cant u read Bengali? Yes i can...Whatever! "Listen Sarmistha, you have to be practical, you cant take your emotions in the market and buy stuff! You need money" "Sarmistha, stop acting like a baby. Everytime you can't just come here and say I havent done this or that" "Sarmistha, for everything there is a process. You just cant take somebody's word and believe it, you have to have written proof" "Sarmistha, grow up!" "Sarmistha please act according to your age. Look at other people of your ageand behave accordingly!" "God Sarmistha when will you become practical" "Life is not smooth Sarmistha, face it!" Are you tired Sarmistha. Are you lonely Sarmistha. Do you want to change Sarmistha. Do you really want to grow up? Do you want to become practical? Answer me back Sarmistha. I need you to answer all of them.

E se Erotica

1960s: The lover amazed by the leading lady's beautiful feet, tucks a note saying: Yeh Haaseen pair zameen pe mat rakhiye mailey ho jayenge

1970s: Tulips, Rekha, Amitabh, Holland

1980s: Silk Smitha seducing the shy Kamal Hasan showing her sultry skin

1990s: Urmila Matondkar in a skimpy white dress running along the beach followed by rugged Jackie Shroff at the backdrop

Come to 2011, Shielas and Munnis gyrating effortlessly exposing her hour glass shape with her titillating jawani that sure turns the nation crazy.

Erotica in 2011 circa is no more about wet chiffon sarees, beautiful feet or sultry silk Smita. Thanks to our exposure to television, Internet and specially our current crop of leading ladies, theres no more mystery left in what lies choli ke peechey and saree ke neechey! 2011 erotica is not about a village belle Vidya Balan sucking Arshad Warsi's thumb its more on the face erotica where clevage Sawants and Emran kiss-me-s have taken over.


Be it films, tv shows, group discussions, texts, scraps, titillation is the "IN" word. TRPs are no more about some baritone Bachhan fulfilling the middle class dreams but its about the bold and the beautiful and their bedroom fanatics. From Bigg Boss to Splitsvilla to Calendar Girl, oomph sleaze and porn are slowly being catered to the so called Indian society where things like honor killing, child marriage, female foeticide are still predominant. So what the fuck man...progession is not about banning female foeticide but its about enjoying bare-it-all femme fatales on the move oh and with some emotions please.


For us, the youth (I can still have this much of liberty being the blog owner!) using abuses is just a part of the language. Fuck off is the new mantra which we almost chant a million times in a day. And the next time you are hanging out with friends and you dont know what to talk about, you must have a good collection of 'Non Veg' jokes. So before you become the vegetable in the group start practicing the new mantra!

But media is our social guardian always remember that. Our television channels ensure everytime the F word comes we should hear it with a beep. Well we are in an Indian society, where middle fingers can come at any pretext but on television it will always be with a BEEEP! Family audience hai bhai!

Finally India is the land of Kamasutra. And we Indians love our tradition. So the next time dont have to buy those x rated videos from your local porn dealer, Indian television is out there with its prime time reality shows; all you will get is some half naked women cosying up with multiple partners, or abusing 'beep'y shit to their fellow contestants. And the outcome of these shows--- for the next few fortnights media will cover the same story, focussing on the sleazy footage with big red circles! And the final consequence: if the contestant happens to have any Islamic connection whatsoever, immediate fatwas are declared with the Talibans up in arms against the poor fellow and in case the poor soul happens to be a Hindu...well dude Shiv Sainiks are not far behind!

Amaar Office Para

Na..dalhousie-r jam noy, sector 5 er shuttle noy ba chowringhee metro noy...amar offc para shohor theke besh khanikta doorey...oi je doorer rasta jekhane poth beke geche naam na jaana gramer pash die...jekhane sondheybelar hatey abdul majhi tar aloo potol er poshra nie boshey...jekhane dhankheter paash die boye geche ochena pukur...amar offc para akhon seikhane...

Roj shokale amar offc bus ey chepe jokhon golay bideshi multinational company r tag jhulie, chora rodey kalo choshma lagie jai...tokhon pother dudhare shohorer byastota janjot kichui nei...ache sudhu sudhu mile er por mile shobuj dhankhet...kolmi shaaaker bagan.. ar bohu doorey amar shohorer akashchoa bari...

Amder bus ey shobai amra ottyodhik shohurey...Gramer rastay dhuktei amra mukhey roomal chapa di...Gramer rasta, roddur, gramyo gondho...konokichutei amra obhostyo noi..Amader bus jokhon egie chole, ashe pasher rastar manushra koutoholi chokh nie takie thakey...jeno kono ak onnyo groho theke amra ashchi..amadero hab bhab o aki rokom..oder dike takie...kichu upekha, ghrina or doya makhano shobder byabohar amra saradini kori...

Shunechi oder chash er jomi tey naki gorey utheche amader shilponogori...oder naki ta pochondo noy...shohure babu ra bole "keno...opochonder ki ache...onek chakri peyeche amader doyay..." "employment er sujog korechi amra"..."aha ora ashole difference ta bujhte parche amader sathe oder--etai oder basic problem"

Shottyi hoyto difference gulo thekei jay oder ar amader jibone.. ey shobuj galche pata gram ey, kurey ghorer majhe, fata tirpol er gheratope ey--amar offc ta shottyi akta boro "difference"...parthokyo ta hoyto kichu bochor bade ar thakbena.. karon pichdhala ey rastar akey bakey gorey uthbe aro koto koto SEZ aro koto employment er sujog...sudhu akta difference thakbe...kolmi shaker bagan thakbena, thakbena kantatolar pukur parey kolshir bhir, thakbena sondheybelar gondho...jhijhi pokar daak. Shohorer hawa boibe tokhon.

Shuru hobe dalhousie er jam, sector 5 er shuttle ar office parar bhir...tobey totodine hoyto amader onek kichui aro doorey shorey jabe...
"amader choto nodi choley akey bakey
baisakh maashey taar hatujol thakey..
---
chikchik korey bali kotha nai kada
akdharey kashbon fooley fooley sada
kichimichi kore setha shalik er jhaank
ratey othey theke theke sheyal er haak"

Of hurt, pretense and cowardice

"There is a thin line that separates laughter and pain, comedy and tragedy, humor and hurt. "

Often people don't realize that amidst a friendly banter or harmless humor they end up hurting someone...Often they don't realize, because the person who is worst affected still maintains the picture perfect smile, still pretends and still adds to that banter though deep down inside they are bruised...What makes us stop? Why don't we just scream out and say "Enough, I can't take this anymore"...We don't...We come back to our own comfort zone, crib , crticize, cry and again get back to our lives...

Why can't we say "Please I cant take it anymore" ..may be we have the fear of getting ridiculed if we raise our voice... We can't say 'Enough' because the person on the other side might be going through a rough patch and you have to always think about the other person...

Its nobody's fault...Its my fault..The problem lies with me... I end up getting hurt easily may be...So carry on folks...make fun...you can laugh, get cynical and criticize , I promise I will always participate in your unintentional ideas of hurting me even though I hate it...and trust me I will never bounce back...I'm a coward.

There are days when you look back...when you look back and realize the importance of someone who is no more a part of your life ...even if you want to, you can't really get back to that person... even if you wish to wipe away all the confusions...all you are left with is just a few thoughts and memories...

You wish if you could go back in time and treasure those moments forever... You end up flipping through the pages of time, pondering over each little word, the thoughts, the memories...They never come back...they still exist somewhere but they are not a part of your life anymore... They chose to ignore you...they forget about your existence in their lives...you don't matter to them anymore...
All you are left with is a strange silence and an everlasting vaccum that leads to that empty space in your life...You keep on asking yourself... will it ever come back...the answer is always negative, but still you wish to look back....

"How I wish, how I wish you were here

We're just two lost souls

Swimming in a fish bowl,

Year after year,Running over the same old ground.

What have we found...The same old fears.Wish you were here"

And you keep on moving...and you accept that they will never come back...yet somewhere deep down you just desperately want them back..

This is for all of you who chose to move away--- I miss you...I wish you were here...

As long as my cellphone's switched on, I expect...I expect they will call, I expect they will have the time to speak...I expect they will make me happy, I expect I will get the solace...i will share, i will listen....This fucking gizmo is making me one hell of a dependant bitch...I need to be happy on my own...

I will be happy...and no one else, but I will make myself happy...

About Me

And every Facebook or Orkut or watever XYZ site has a About Me section...I have seen people fill in this space with hundreds of poems, quotes, oneliners, funny messages and deep and soulful sissy lines...

How do people know so much about themselves...how are they so sure that they are confident or arrogant, negative or positive,selfish or selfless?

I have never really bothered to know myself..I have spent hours discussing other people, gossips, issues, sympathies, envious sighs...but when it comes to me I don't know myself at all...What are the things that makes me the me I am...I don't know..I may be arrogant sometimes, and sometimes a chicken, I may be confident while taking an escalator but scared to press a button inside the elevator...People call me jovial...'mishukey' is the term they use...but to tell you the truth...when I'm scared I speak loads...I'm scared to meet new people or talk to strangers... I don't have the slightest bit of confidence...public speaking makes me all the more nervous...(my boardroom presence is the worst)

I cry easily...I'm emotional...but then not always...there are times when I should be crying but then I dont...and vice versa...Right now..as I write this post I feel I'll break down...but then I'm not crying...I'm just listening to music and scribbling on this white space endlessly...

Crowds scare me..my parents said that during my adolescence, I was so scared, I used to run away from my house, hide in the terrace whenever a group of relatives, or any groups came to our place...I'm still scared to speak...I'll think a thousand times before asking someone.."Whats the time"...But well I hardly let people know about that... Take me to a new place, and I will be be the first one to make friends...Though each word comes out of my mouth is a desperate attempt to bring me out of my inconfidence...

I'm negative as a person and positive at the same time...I like to believe this will work..But then I don't like to be that positive, so that it wont hurt me...it really hurts me when something turns out not the way i expected...then I just console myself saying ...i knew this wont work...though i badly wanted it!

I'm a hypocrite..I'm pretentious...I can pretend and make you feel you're really the best...but I can just turn my back and bitch about you at the same time..I have all signs of a hypocrite...I can't keep secrets if they have the potential of becoming the juiciest gossip of town...

I'm totally in love with myself...I cannot think beyond me..Though I can never express that...I get a strange kind of happiness when I can make someone happy...it makes me happy...and when people are all in praises about me...i just love that...I don't know I always expect to be the centre of attention...I'm an attention seeker...i want all eyes on me! but scared to declare that! may be thats the reason i blog...

There are so many things which are so complicated about me...I hate so many things in life..but when it comes to Facebook/Orkut, I just mention body odour and snobbery....I hate so many things...I hate people who are practical, who are mature and boldly declare themselves to be the epitome of these two qualities.... i dont like too much of straight forward people..whats the use of so 'on the face' stuff if that hurts someone.....i hate people who ignore me...i love something more than photography, ice creams and music... i love to be wanted by everyone... i want attention...in my bedroom you will not only find my bed but my thoughts, my messed up bed and me...

there are more than 5000000 things i cant live without...i really have no clue what i cant live without...i can live without business news channels may be, i can live without hardware shops, i can live without strawberries and baby corn in the traffic jam...i can live without ministers, elections, i can live without furniture shops...and so on...and i can live without fake emotions!

I cant live without so many things...

I love to live on self pity...brood over my loneliness, create sad stories out of it and post it as sulk saga on my blog...i cant live without comments on my blog...

and still you want to know more about me...then keep checking my blog for more details.

Careless Confessions

I changed the name of my blog to Careless Confessions. Raindrops was a name which I coined up just like that...it hardly had any meaning...just out of the blue.. then I started a blog named careless confessions, but I was so in love with my 'Raindrops' that I stopped it midway... I have finally named my blog Careless Confessions...Though raindrops still remains a part of it...

Why Careless Confessions?

Is it possible to express everytime? Why do people expect me to express ? I think this is a disease...I cannot express ...I don't have enough words which will make me express...It seems I'm always short of words...always searching for the right words... I always end up dragging a burden of unspoken feelings , of silent nights and wet pillow covers...but I have failed...failed to exress...

Careless Confessions...is not just a blog...it means expressing 'Me'...I want the world to know 'Me'... I think someday someone will read this blog...and get to know...the real me...I call it careless confessions...each confession a part of my life...a part of my unspoken feelings, unseen smiles, unnoticed teardrops...I cherish them every moment...hope you will have the same feeling when you go through my blog...And if you don't, I dont care!

Journey of X

X is back to her workplace after a long time...X falters while taking the steps inside the highrise, may be its the slip ons...X looks around...familiar faces, indifferent expressions and usual pace...X wants to shout..."Look at me, I'm back"... X cannot...

X enters the elevator...X looks at the specky tagged guy and says "Excuse Me, Y floor please"...X ends up on floor Y...The same color, the same posters, unfamiliar security guard and familiar smell of room freshners...

X walks towards the same old door, swipes the card but the door doesn't open...through the transparent glass door, X looks at the cubicle, someone else sits there...the cubicle still has all the stuff.. ..the terracota mask, the clay dolls, the painting, the desk calendar, diary, scribbles all over, paper planes they made on one idle afternoon, the white floral boquet that came for a friend, the stick ons, X's blue bottle which often got lost...

X looks at them...yes they were there, having fun, throwing paper and calling names...they surely missed X ... X desperately swipes her card again...the door is still locked, it does not open...

X has every little moment etched on her mind about that room, her chair, her cluttered desk, the people who were not just team members, the time they spent, the pranks, the gossips, the giggles, smiles, and the tears, the anxious calls, the celebrations, the failures....At the end of each day X used to look beyond the the huge glass windows in that room that opened out to a vast green expanse bordered by the blue sky on the horizon...

X does not have 'access' to that room anymore...X lost the access to that room, to the moments, to the little treasures, and 'them' who X called friends...X takes a look from behind the closed glass doors... they do not allow trespassing...X is just an outsider right now...X does not belong to the place anymore...

X walks down the corridor...doesn't look back...gets back to her new seat.....sends out the mail..."chocolates at X's desk"...theres suddenly a rush...people run for the chocolates and occasionally stop by formally asking X "Ki kemon laglo", "How was your trip", "How does it feel to leave your husband and come back" , "how will you live, you poor soul, without him..", "Why don't you go back"...X smiles and then they leave... X walks towards her seat, leaving them alone to bitch about her which is the inevitable part of their conversations...

X sits alone...alone...no one to talk, no one to ask, no one with questions, no one with prank plans... no one who will just pat X and say "Ki re aj eto chupchaap...kichu hoeche"...no one needs to know how X feels, what X went through...

X will miss them... X will miss a lot of things... X will get used to her new life and to the busy professionals in this part of the world...X will surely become 'Formal' and 'Professional' some day...X will not make friends, X will only have team members...

X is back....X realized that X has lost a lot of things during her journey....X scribbles again...X gets used to the new cubicle, new seat, new people ....people call her X here...no more paper planes but documents on her desk... a new journey begins for X....Hope someday X will reach her destination...

Homeward Bound

Phew...last 12 hours was HECTIC! Real hectic... From Heathrow to Dubai to Calcutta...heavy handbags, duty free chocolates, running aimlessly, sitting in between a car geek and a makeover freak for 8 hours and finally taking a glimpse of my own city from 19,000 feet..............i'm back home!

Heathrow to Dubai:
All sad to leave my deodorant at the security check section...exploring the duty free shops in 15 minutes( 5 minutes more than my husband's specification).... picking up Toblerone and Kitkat packs (I know whats coming "Kitkat ota to ekhanei pawa jay")

Looked at the directions for my specified flight gate...It was Gate No. 7... Standing in a queue.. behind me a strange looking guy with a punk hair girl.....glitter all over...the girl was kicking her hand luggage instead of pulling or dragging it like me...Innovation at its best and faster than my strolley!...One kick and bull's eye, it was almost close to the ticket counter...

A gentleman with his wife interrupted me amidst my profound thoughts..."May I"....Its a polished way of barging in...polished me says "Oh Sure"... This couple was sitting beside me while I was bidding my husband goodbye.... "Mr. May I" speaks "Tumi ki Bangali" (my first thought "Shit I kissed him in front of Bengalis...Embarrassing realisation after an hour !)... Yet the curious me smiled "Ha apnara?" (though the answer is written all over the question!!!!) Silly me!

My Bong Connection:

Mr. May I: Rich upper middle class...J.U passout... Typically in his 60s...salt pepper hair...travels all over the world with his wife...plans his tour itineraries on the flight...has a share trading business...Has a famous Bong lineage...palatial house in North Calcutta..one more in Salt Lake (well furnished, in case you missed that)...got my invitation for the Durga Puja... baritone voice which comes more out of his snobbery... Frequent use of accented English..

Mr. May I's wife : Quite close to Arundhuti Debi...Interested only in making matter of fact statements and reiterating her husband's statements...Totally a "Repeat after me" chorus

As I was listening to the next announcement, Mr. May I said "Ki Nervous"...( read this as "Are you flying for the first time... look at us...I almost fly everyday! ") I replied in affirmative...As I could not find the perfect fake answer...

Was getting bored so I just moved on...thank god my seat was not next to them...My seat was between a blonde make up maniac and a car geek...both busy in their respective spheres for the rest of the flight that is 8 hours...so no issues...I watched Shrek, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Diary of a Wimpy Kid, Henry v, 7 things to do before I turn 30 (quite apt!) and Rebound and a few more!

Dubai, Mr.Drunk and Home :

Reached Dubai at 230 am IST... Almost running through the terminals for my next flight...I finally found my seat...Stacked my chocolate bags...And my first thought 'Calcutta--just in 4 hours'...

My co passenger speaks up, "Lots of chocolates"!
Me: Yes.
A specky geeky 40 ish Bong...works in an oil refinery in Bahrain...going to meet his parents...Was interested in talking about the recent economy in Bahrain, number of Bengalis in Bahrain, comparison of Dubai Airport with DumDum Airport (common topic for all flyers)...But I was more interested in the Jennifer Lopez movie, so he was forced to stop....But he was nice and quite simple...

It was around 2 hours to Calcutta....The guy sitting on the left aisle seemed drunk..Copper brown hair(overdose of cheap brown mehendi)...red tie with floral motifs, pointed shoes with heels which had geometric designs embossed on them..Style icon for sure...speaking crap with the air hostess like "You are so nice..I work in Dubai in a pub but I'm from India...I also worked in tv serials"...The air hostess mechanically replied " Thank You Very Much Sir...Would you like any drinks sir? (Gosh No!) ...he replied... oh yes.. "Do you have Rum"..The conversation seemed boring.. I went off to sleep...

The flight was approaching Calcutta in a few more hours...I took out my pen to complete the immigration form...

Mr. Drunk: Excuse me madam, do you have a pen?
Me: (Silently gave him the pen...scared of losing it forever, I keep an eye on him)
Mr. Drunk: Are you married madam? (read this as, "doesnt matter, I'll still try my luck")
After a few minutes I had to speak,
Me: Excuse me, I need that pen
Mr. Drunk: I cant believe this that you are married? ( talking to himself it seemed...disheartened for this child marriage taking place without his prior permission)
Mr. Drunk: How is your husband?
Me: Fine
Mr. Drunk: Is he handsome? !!!!!!!!@#$$$
The air hostess drops in..."Sir are you feeling okay"!

Passenger Announcement: "The flight will be reaching Calcutta, in 30 minutes. The weather blah blah blah".... I could not figure out the rest....I looked below... my city, my matchbox houses, the blue sky... my home...
Home again...Everything seems like a dream as I wake up in my apartment in Landsdowne...Everything is just the way I left it...Back to home, back to my empty room..and back to my reality...

Ode to Coffee

As I start this post I'm sipping my hot morning cup of coffee.

I guess the world is divided into 2 groups--"coffee or tea". I belong to the first one.

I'm not a coffee addict. But I hate tea and I have not tasted it at all or may be once ...once while trekking in Sikkim. I had to drink tea, as coffee was not available. The sad after effect was, I puked throughout. May be it was the after effect of the altitude and not tea. But then, I associate my puking with tea. So tea is totally out from my life.

My earliest memory of coffee traces back to my childhood when Pushudi made coffee every morning in a huge steel mug. She was in her 60s. A retired school inspector, she was the eternal dominating cynical aunt in the family. I was scared of her. She did not have a single 'grey' hair. It was all white. Her hair was like a bunch of white candy floss. That scared me all the more.

It was at her 'request' I was once served coffee. I hated it. Hated the idea of drinking something like a brown chocolately liquid in a huge cup. But I was so scared I could not refuse. I was around 10 years old and it was black coffee! To this day I hate black coffee. I like my coffee with lots of sugar and milk. Anything bitter, reminds me of Pushudi!

I remember when Pushudi came over and stayed with us she used to make me coffee every morning. I got so used to that aroma and the taste that I got addicted to that morning cup of coffee. I carried on the legacy for the rest of my life!

My memories of coffee takes me back to my Darjeeling trip. I remember a foggy morning in Darjeeling. I was walking down the mall with ma and we felt like having coffee. There was a coffee shop right at one corner of the mall. Keventers. That was my first trip to Darjeeling and to Keventers. But trust me it was not the last.

But then, we did not have coffee that day. We had hot chocolate with bacon sandwich. The hot chocolate flavor still lingers on and everytime we are in Darjeeling, Keventers is surely on the list. From the terrace at Keventers we watched the busy Darjeeling mall waking up to a new morning as the sun rays glittered on the snowy peaks of Kanchenjungha.

I think I associate coffee with moments more than its flavor. I remember every time during a train journey, my father asks me "Coffee Khabi" and I smile. The coffee vendor with his skilful hands pours the milk from the steaming kettle and adds sugar and coffee. He hands over the paper cups to us while my father gets busy taking out the coins. I promise to myself I wont sip the hot coffee, but invariably I do that. I always end up sipping the hot coffee that leaves a strange sensation on my tongue throughout the day. But then it does not stop me from having it. I like it everytime. Not the coffee. But the feeling.

Our neighbors were South Indians. Everytime I went to Sanju's place, Aunty asked me 'Coffee'? And I happily nodded as I loved their taste of coffee. May be it was not Nescafe, it was Bru coffee. They had a strange way of serving coffee. It was in a stainless steel glass placed in a bowl. I loved the entire experience of having coffee holding the bowl and the glass. The coffee had a different flavor too.

Well if its about coffee I cant forget the innumerable coffee dates I had with friends, boyfriends, crushes and can be crushes and casual dates. My first cafe date was with a guy and we went to Aqua Java in Elgin Road. I ended up marrying that guy later on but then thats a different story. The place has closed down. Though I was quite reluctant to go to a coffee shop with him. We had something in Mocha flavor, the first time we had coffee. Even he doesnt remember, but then we enjoyed it. Though we ended up fighting!

Later I tried a number of coffee shops. Different Barista joints, CCDs, Costa Coffee, Starbucks, Zen, though somehow Barista remains my favorite. Specially the Gariahat Barista. And yes how can I forget my Barista Blast!

Lake road CCD or fondly called Ashok er Dokan is also special. But the breakfast at Flury's with a cup of hot coffee beats any cafe joint coffee for me! Well may be I have special memories with Flury's as well.

The coffee at Compare, my previous office also deserves a special mention. The "Coffee Khete Jabi" call meant GOSSIP! Also if we were stressed out, we often consoled each other during the coffee breaks. There used to be a thousand coffee breaks during our 8 hours of work which we called 'pata lekha'. Miss the terrible coffee at Compare and the gossip sessions all the more.

This December, me and Supriya discovered a restaurant called 'The Cafe' while walking down the streets. Though we planned for Flurys , as luck would have it, it was overcrowded on 25th December morning. We were in a queue waiting behind 1000s of Flury's fanatics. So two hungry souls( we had a few jalebis only), tired after street hopping ended up at this insignificant place called 'The Cafe'. Its just close to British Council. We even decided not to spill the beans and pretend to others that we had Christmas breakfast at Flury's . This was our statement :

"Shobaike bolbo Flurys ey amra kheyechi" ! But the purely South Indian meets continental breakfast at The Cafe was not even close to Flury's at all in any possible way.

And yes how can I forget Sector 5 CCD and Barista, where me Pallavi and Supriya used to meet. I almost sneaked inside to find indifferent Supriya with that typical "You guys are always late" kinda expression on her face while Pallavi missing as usual. She is usually inside the elevator during these 'SOS' situations.

Miss u guys and that coffee and the sizzling brownie too!


However would like to mention this strange incident related to coffee:
A few years back when I went for a trip in North Bengal, we stopped at small street side shop and asked "Coffee kothay pawa jabe"--- The man was kind of half drunk it seemed. He took out a large cauliflower and said "Phul kopi ---ey to"!

I finally added some color to my blog! Hope it adds color to my sulk posts as well! and I end up writing something other than sulk stories.

I often end up writing my posts in a note pad and not saving them, bingo its lost! However this is not a good enough reason for not posting for the last 2 months.

Its not really working these days. I feel I cant write anymore. Not that I was a Shakespeare meets Tagore in my last birth, but then whatever it was, at least there was a need to express, need to shape up my thoughts, I dont feel that within me anymore. Back then I felt that I wanted to write, scribble, sulk and ended up posting my eternal melancholy on raindropsandshadows. And yes I badly waited for those detailed comments.

I have often asked myself, why did I end up creating a blog. I was quite comfortable scribbling on notepads, scribbling on the pages of my diary, on the last page of every school/college/office notebook I have used for all these years...Was it just to be with the trend, to post the link on orkut and facebook and say, hey I have a blog too, or was it just simply to give a shape to all these confused yet myriad thoughts that haunt me all the time.

I really dont have a clue. May be all of you have a reason for blogging , for me, I simply cant find any. May be the attention seeker I am, this was just the probable after effect. I dont know. I dont want to think. These days I have stopped thinking. I just like to go with the flow.

However this post has a reason behind it. The reason why I ended up posting today. Last night as I checked my mailbox there was a mail that said that some Anonymous has posted a comment. It was for a post written ages back. I published the comment. There was a strange kind of satisfaction that I owed to myself for a long time. And so I ended up posting once more. Thanks Anonymous. For you I ended up scribbling on a notepad again. And this time I wont lose it , at least for the time being.

London Memoirs

London sky ocassionally looks blue. The drifting clouds hide the peeping rays of sunshine that often sneaks inside my windy 13th floor apartment.

I'm sitting on my balcony and sribbling words, as the wind plays with my unkempt hair. Beyond my glass balcony lies the beautiful horizon mixed in blue and grey with a few highrises at a distance. The city often reminds me of Calcutta, though it is quite different from my hometown filled with different colors, people, faces and different names.

I have never been out my city for such a long time. This was the first time I'm not there for a month. I have left behind my usual shuttle hopping and switched to the red buses and fast moving local trains. I have left behind my Gariahat street side shops and done window shopping here; converting every pound with my currency and leaving it back to be picked up by some snazzy Londoner.

I often don't understand why everyone is in such a hurry over here. May be I'm out of that race, or has it always been like that..I love watching life in motion as I quietly sit on one corner bench around the street.

Theres a man who strums Bollywood numbers on his guitar at the end of the street. Its mostly 'Tujhe Dekha to Yeh Jana Sanam' and 'Kuch Kuch Hota Hay". He is a musician. No actually he is a beggar . People throw coins while he strums the guitar. On lazy Sunday afternoons I often sit on one end of the street and listen to him playing the tunes that reminds me of my city, my home, and my regular dose of Channel V and MTV.

Sometimes I dont understand their dialect. May be I'm still not used to their way of speaking English, intercepted with occassional 'eh's and 'yeah's. I have noticed they dont move their lips as much as we do while speaking. That might be the British subtle art of communication, which I'm trying to get used to.

The strange thing about the Brits is just as Indians are after fairness creams, most of the Brits here are crazy about tanning. Wherever I have been there are tan parlors, tan lotions and potions, tan beds, tan areas. During the sunny weekends as I dab an extra dose of compact on my dusky skin, the Brits are out there on the parks, streets almost half clad busy getting a tan. No ones happy with their color!

Most of the newspapers here hardly have any important news. The entire fat newspaper is like Calcutta Times filled with mindless page 3 gossip. I hate reading the newspaper here as I cannot relate to any one of their page 3 personalities! I miss my Telegraph and Calcutta Times!

However theres one section in the newspaper that was quite interesting. Just like our matrimonials they do have their dating columns where they look for dating partners:

There was one advert that went out like this:
"Looking for lifetime love with someone who would hold hands and just stroll on the beach, kiss me goodnight and look at my eyes every morning when I wake up"... Can we really do this back home instead of "5'8 , fair skinned groom earning 8 lacs per annum and looks for homely beautiful convent educated bride"-- May be thats the difference between lifetime love and marriage. Though I'm sure nothing really lasts.

I will miss London, I will miss my home here and my life too...Loved this experience of living a life on my own. But then so much waits for me in Calcutta... maa, baba, bari, my office, my friends, my streets, my shuttle hopping and my usual life ... may be my space...does it really exist..who knows..right now I'm packing my bags for Flight EK 007 to Calcutta via Dubai...

I intended this post to be like a travelogue though it ended up as an anecdote of my personal experiences in a different city. Trying to come up with a travelogue soon!

I'm feeling terrible tonite...my machine says its 11.16 PM...and wat am i supposed to do now? sulk? sleep? scribble crazy stuff? silently look at the lavender walls? everything looks so neatly arranged....is this my room? no unfolded levis...no half opened books... no scattered towels... I have changed...

My window opens out to a 19th century red brickwalled structure... a mansion built by some nameless zamindar of yesteryear...the dark terrace looks eerie tonite...its lonely out there too... the summer breeze gently whispers through my half opened window...may b i cant write anymore...may b i'm losing it...