pujo

verbose is the moment.
there are times when i could pass off without really saying anything.nothing illustrative.often symbolic.euphemistic.suchlike.
times flip.and they do wonderful things to your mood too.
garrulous is the mood now.the talk has to happen.its been gagged for long.only the talk can yield respite.
so conversation flows.it gurgles like a happy brook.usual chit chats.the normal exchanges.hackneyed,but in practice still.
mostly 'for the sake of it'.nods.a forced smile.hands firmly shaken.
too many people near the window huddling for space.face powders and masquarade.

pujo seemed less forced in comparison.hardly any "have-to" and "must-dos" figured on the list.one did.but that too turned out to be pleasant.
in a way pujo was whimsical.strangely "very utopic" plan worked out pretty well.
dhonpota was more than what one would call surreal.very liberating and yes,overwhelming too!funny how images in your mind's eye seem more focussed and less grainy than the ones in the photo.the image has adhered.it comes back in momentary hallucinations and strikes me when least likely.
however maddox came as a major let downer.not that much was expected.the hype has gotten too much into their goddamn heads.the dhakis play for just about a few minutes.too many happy gay people clapping and making 'hoo-haa' howls kills even that.and the place reeks claustrophobia.starry eyed bejewelled flashy juniors from school,equally hideous eye candies in tow;a demented relative;still more happy shiny juniors from school, maddox robbed me off my nobomi thunder.
another pujo gone.and i wonder how many are left on me now...

we used to have durga puja in our mamabari even a few years ago.
i was a kid then.celebrations started early.the drawing room would be vacated and all furnitures got stashed below the staircase.during those few days the staircase would become our makeshift playroom.and the cocacola cretes could easily be tucked beneath the cumbersome and greasy sofas.
the pandal would jut out into the pavement.the tables were all laid out there.
and 'Maa' would come on chaturthi.riding the lorry was then the biggest proof of how 'brave and strong' you were.once home,Maa's face would be covered by a hankerchief followed by great disputes over the ownership of the cloth once it would be unfurled.i was too small and thus never considered.
panchami was non descript and i would mostly stay flopped on the couch in the staircase voraciously gorging on the contents of the sharodia.
the footfall happenned shashthi onwards and would go on till dashami.
there were relatives you chanced upon only on those four days of the year.there were others whom you had never seen but who squeezed your cheeks and patted and ruffled your hair,all the same.and there were still others who you had,allegedly,seen before but couldnt recall even if you tried real hard.and all of them came everyday and the familiarity grew.uncannily these were people you could go and confide in if ma had been very harsh on you.but the sulking and weeping happenned alone,in the staircase.
kumari pujo and sandhi pujo intrigued me much.
the latter would mostly happen in the dead of the night or in the wee hours of the morning.there were cousins who would go and snooze off in the loo.and even heavy banging on the door couldnt perturb them!
the kumari was draped in a benarasi.gold jewellery and alta would complete her look.and chhotomamu carried her in his arms and took her inside.
clearly the kumari would demand all attention and that pissed me greatly.
i had envied her so much i craved to be a kumari myself but was told i couldn't as "i wasnt a brahmin",something i havent figured out till this day.
asthami and nabami bhog comprised the best of bangali cuisines.that was probably why so many people came on those two days.
dashami had an eternal melancholy attached to it.it still does.i would wake up with a bad feeling that lingered throughout the day.the pujo got over by morning.shidur khela happenned till late afternoon.and i would go about the entire affair cluthching onto ma's anchal and end up looking like a red babbon with vermillion smeared all over.
bhashan was what i looked forward to the most.the elder cousins would have their friends come over and they would all dance through the entire journey while i sat next to Ganesha as per ma's dictum.she probably feared a stampede in the lorry and me being her only progeny,didnt want to risk it!
babu ghat would always be mobbed.amidst the din and gyrations of the bhashan parties,'Maa' would be thrown into the river,already clattered with several such idols afloat.
and while the rest danced as if taken by a wild frenzy,i would listlessly gape at Maa's demure face.i cant tell what i saw in those two eyes but they seemed a lot different from the idol we had brought home.

rangamamu died in a major heart attack.it was totally unexpected and we didnt know how to react till very lately.but what probably struck everyone is that the man behind our pujo was no longer.
pujo stopped in 2002.five years since then pujo still happens in our lives.albeit a lot differently.cousins have moved to other cities,countries.
i tried making myself acquanited with para pujo.but the thing never sunk in and i moved on.i tried the college pujo last time.but guess that is not working out either.i am thinking of spending pujo outside kolkata this time.in places in the outskirts.mofussils.
i am trying hard.but the void will remain.i know.

i am on a blogging spree.its become my pet strategy to put off work pressure.
its not funny when you have two goddamn projects and two tutorials lined up for the week.
however what IS funny is how,in such acute situations,i find recluse in the most bizarre things.sudoku then.blog now.
what has remained constant is my love for the radio.not your jing bang stations belting out himmesh reshammiya 24*7.i have remained a patron of AIR since forever i think.
the family pretends they dont know me.and they have every reason not to.
i would have acted the same way had i HAD TO board with 'me'.
ma is sweet.she prefers to hold her nose from the head backwards.i have lost count of the times she has cribbed about how nice and petit i was as a kid.
ma is damn sweet.she has tried a zilion times to drive home the point that i have turned out a demented freak.but everytime she cant get beyond the cribbing part.
baba is more candid.you can get from the way he watches me.its the same look a chaffeur gives to a flat tyre.
i am too much torn between trying to be normal and me all at the same time.
resolutions are a bad idea.and temptation is,err...too tempting.trying to stick to conventions is very stifling even if it means less awkward stares and widemouthed gaping.
on a different note,or maybe it aint that different from what i have been discussing if it can be considered a discussion at all,watching dogs mate has turned out to be a nice pastime.
its not exactly mating but a hell lot of foreplay,sniffing and barking around.
there is only one bitch(!!!) and some 7,8 horny,nymphomaniac dogs in the campus.
the bitch probably thinks she is the best thing that could have ever happenned to dog kind.and the dogs,as dogs are,cant get enough of her.what follows i leave to your imagination.but discerning 'the act' for sometime now,i cant suppress my intrigue.there must have been or is a Vatsayana among the dogs.
try watching dog-fucking the next time if you dont believe me.

we are all out on a joyous ride in a rickety merry go round.
happy shiny people all up for a spin.
i am in it too.happy starry me perched atop a greasy red chair.
the spin doesnt last more than a few minutes.
but as long as it does,it takes me on a trip.everything blurs and the conscience sneeks out the backdoor.

slowly as the tin-spin creeks to a halt it comes rushing back.
its like the luggage being returned after the "trip" is over.
only here you dont have anyone to drag your 'luggage' for you.

times like this dont you wish you didnt go for the trip in the first place?
i do.but the tin-spin has got me addicted.
i am up for a spin again.
the only thing i fear,i wont be able to drag my luggage tonight.

i feel like a vulnerable retard these days.
the facade has stopped working.
the smile faded long back.
now,only the nose cringes and the brows raise.
lips quiver occassionally.
but the howling and wailing always happen flopped on the bathroom floor.
thats my recluse.my haven.
i think every man should be entitled to a loo each.even if he didnt have any other accomodation.the loo would be his think pad,his office,his lounge and err... his loo too!
the shower is my rain maker.
rains,i have realised,bring out a new me.
the shower does close to that.
there is a freaking uncanniness in how the shower pacifies me.
the sobs get more controlled.and the tears taste less salty.
net effect:it sobers me down.

i have a mind block.nothing feels right.i cant write in proper sentences.
its as if they have broken down into disparate little phrases.

the retard has resurfaced.i see too much into people.read too much into simple lines.think out of the way.and bleed within.
masochism is a curse.
the bloody retard is a leech.it just refuses to pack bags and leave.