Pujo

What is it with bongs and pujo! To the uninitiated, a bong=bengali pronounced ban'ali and pujo=durga puja. So then what is it between these two inseparable insane entities?

Every single day (from the 6th to the10th day of navaratri) bongs will deck up in their best (believe me more than they would when going to a marriage) and go to this place they call the 'pujo pandal' and then they will all collectively do nothing in particular but still believe they had great fun until when they are eventually forced to go back home bcos the 'mother' government wouldn't let her children stay up late. 11 pm and late? Poor bongs in their rich panjabis (kurtas) almost choked on their 'motton chops' when they heard that. But when the man in the khakhi uniform says it, you abide or else you could have all that costly saree and gold and powder and make-up ensemble cooling their heels in a 10x10 room with the wrong kind of 'bars'.

So what do bongs do in pujo? They give 'adda'. Here the word 'give' is almost as important as 'adda'. What is adda and how u give it requires a set of bongs available in front of you to demonstrate. It is that which can be named, can even be seen and felt but cannot be described in mere words (i mean how do you describe a thousand words a minute for hours on end in words again?)

And bongs, they also eat. I think they first eat and then they do anything else. Kobji doobiye na khele, khawa kono din sarthak hoye na! again for the uninitiated : kobji=wrist, doobiye=immersed, na=no, khele=eat, khawa=meal, kono=any, din=day(each day in pujo can also mean the english din although), sarthak=worthwhile, hoye na=will not be) Piece all those words together in the right order and you'll have the main motto in the life of a bong, irresepective of pujo or not.

So do i love pujo! Absolutely! Completely! Would never give it up! Would traverse as much distance as needed just to go somewhere and do nothing and 'give' adda and gorge on food - khichuri included- and think of it as one of the most stellar events on my calendar. WHY? I have asked myself that a hundred times and never found the answer. If anyone does find it, please dont tell me! I love pujo and I love the senselessness of most of the things we do there. Please dont make it sane. Let it be 'mindless' always!

PS: The movie review I had promised some ppl might not happen. I figure film critique isn't my stuff.

A mindful re-beginning

Recently a couple of my friends asked me about this blog of mine. It didn’t sound like a genuine inquiry into its current state of disuse but more like an obituary and so, true to my always procrastinating form I rise again from the ashes of self pity and excuses to write. Write, I hope well! So I may again have the handful of readers who still remember the blog although its creator had all but forgotten about it. Now, that last sentence done and my ego buffeted by my own sunshine being blown up my own end, lets get down to writing.

As I wonder about what I may write and muse to myself sitting in my hospital cabin the irony of it strikes me. The choice of the name mindless musings (most people who know me would vouch about the mindlessness of most of my words) seemed natural to me when I started off, but now as I sit here in the hospital as a psychiatrist the loose usage of the word hits me in the face much the same as a Brett Lee bouncer would some of our esteemed batsmen.

What is the mind and when is it mindless? Where does the boundary of reality end and where does the unreal begin? Does being so close to the divide all day long make the question even more poignant or does it dull it so much that the rust on the exhaust pipe of my bike seem more interesting? These are musings that I will leave for later. As for now I have to go attend to the reality of hunger and the surreality of the food my canteen will offer and leave the unreal virtuality of all that I write so very really.

PS: the name will continue to be ‘mindless’

Flight!

I went to this party the other day for a friend who was leaving her high school. It was as I had expected, the usual speeches, the usual tears and also the usual laughter. Nothing out of the ordinary, atleast not until I started thinking back to that day in August some 4-5 years ago, when I wore a leather jacket with anti-fit jeans and a tie with formal attire in the space of an hour, when I first publicly read out one of my poems and when another one complemented mine.
It was a tradition I am proud to say we started- that of having a farewell for the outgoing batch at the hostel day (as also of having the girls come to the Boys' Hostel Day). We were all there, in our ties, boys who had become men in that hostel, alongside each other, and we were all sad at the prospect of leaving. For all the times we hated the place and felt stuck there, that day we wanted to stay. To watch the sun set once more amongst a sea of colours, to fly another kite on sankrant, to dance in another monsoon on the terrace, to pass out drunk on the super-terrace again, to dance at one more birthday party, to cat call at the girls and to play another cricket match.
We wanted to stay for all that, but maybe we also were afraid of leaving. Of the world which we now had to face, of growing up, of the responsibilities, of being men and being accountable, of making decisions and of doing all that without the familiarity and the support of those remaining fellows wearing their ties that day. Of losing friends we had made (like we would never again be able to make) however hard we may try to hold on.
But move on we had to. The wings had to be spread, the eagle has to leave the nest first before he may soar. And I can tell you it was hard. We slipped and we fell, some succeeded and soared instantly while others hit the ground harder than they had expected and for many the struggle still continues and will for a while to come. But despite all that I know that all of them will fly one day and the strength in their wings will owe a lot to those days spent in that C-shaped building with no water and even less privacy, but with a whole lot of spirit and fun.
Given the chance to go back to that hostel today I will not choose to, but given a chance to relive my life again from the start I can assure you I would not give up those 4-5 years in the hostel for anything.

For Angels and Thank You

Its been a long time coming but as usual I've been procrastinating. It's about saying 'thank you' but I just don't seem to get around to it. About how people you've never known, perfect strangers, open their doors for you; welcome you into their lives and go out of their way to help you out. About how in a foreign land, with a familiar yet foreign tongue, these people- unknown to you until a moment ago- suddenly come to you as angels and share their food with you and their drink and their bed, while they themselves sleep on the floor. How they befriend you with ease and trust you and touch your life. And make you wonder how you ever will repay their kindness!
And that is the first mistake. For never do you have to repay kindness. All you have to do in return for the food and the drink and the shelter and the trust and the open doors is to open the doors of your own heart to them!

Of Kurtas and Jeans!!

Not so long ago there was a time when I grew my hair long, shaved twice a month (at the most thrice) and believed I could rule the world in a kurta and a pair of jeans! Today the only thing I find wrong in that statement is the tense!

"So what happened? "
(How predictable a question?)

"Life happened!"
(An even more predictable answer!)

As I study my clean-shaven countenance in the mirror, the predictability of my own statement stings, like a slap across my bearded, long-haired face! And yet the shameless lips curl up in an ironic smile! As if to mock the thoughts in my head. Thoughts I dare not whisper. Of how the boy in his kurta cared not for the future and yet his eyes twinkled with dreams while the man in his suit looks only to the future but dares not dream!

Drunken Ramblings

Frustration!!! Utter, complete and total frustration. Just when I was about to publish my latest post, my computer died on me. And I refuse to do the editing again! So I have nothing to say any more.
As I nurse another drink, except for my loathing for technology there is no one here to keep me company. I do not say I am alone. I can at a glance count atleast five heads, and I'm sure that after two red labels and the perfunctory nature of my glance I missed a couple of them. But yet company is a different drink altogether. One that I'd surely trade for the next round of Johnnie Walkers.
Which brings me to why one drinks- for the warmth? or the dissolution of inhibitions? or the high? or simply just to belong somewhere? Well whatever your answer I still think trading drinks on the next round would give me all that and more.

Capitals and Monuments

Today for the first time we did not have the Prime Minister (wish him a speedy recovery) for the Republic Day, also the first time that I wasn't in India on 26th Jan. So what did I do about it? Well, I went out and took a look around the capital of another country. I took a walk around what American's know as the National Mall.

Like any other capital city in the world it is built to impress. So off I went in the direction of that huge edifice erected in the memory of George Washington. Though I couldn't really fathom the monument (I guess it is supposed to reflect his stature) it is a monument you aren't likely to forget, if not for anything then for the pure oddity of it. I thought Greenough's Zeus-like statue is a more apt monument for a man who in my opinion is great, not as much for winning a war as for relinquishing the power that that victory offered him. The sword in his hand, not drawn but actually with the hilt turned away, is what in today's world needs emphasizing. It truly is sad that this monument was not up to the sensibilities of the people due to his "clothes!"

But that's how it works especially when its "for the people, by the people and of the people" as so famously said by the man who sits in white marble splendour looking out towards that phallus jutting out into the sky. The man, who so long ago set in motion the chain of events that led to another taking his oath as the "most powerful man on earth," seemed to frown a little, probably disappointed at the amount of time his vision has taken to be realised.

The Capitol impressed like it is meant to, with its distinctive dome standing out against the colours of dusk. Which brings me back to what my wife said, "Capital's are built to impress!" like Rajpath or the India Gate or the pillars of the Parliament making that beautiful circle and the parade that I missed this year. They are all there to impress. A showcase for the world.

And then you come across something that is all that and more. The peace and quiet exhiliration I felt, one sunny winter morning, watching the man with the charkha at Rajghat was one such.

The Beginning

Though the title of this blog sounds like the ending of a Hrishikesh Mukherjee film (I love his films), it is indeed the beginning of, what I hope are, some keystrokes that will let out some of the latent uneasiness in me. The writing bug isn't new to me and I've always tried to write, sometimes failing poorly but at times succeeding. But its been a while since I've written! And too much water has been added by the Ganga to the Bay in the meantime.

I really don't have much to say today but I fear if I were to have postponed this little beginning any further it may never have been. So let me say that i have a lot more to say...