Stepping into the Sunshine

Now I know what a bird feels like.
Watching the red ‘orb’ putting sparkling yellow paint and then a beam of silvery sunshine hit you cutting a swath of glimmering gleam…'tis grown a bulge in it and zillions gold dust’ from a cold red dot.

An absolutely fascinating experience watching the Sunlight changed to candle light to torchlight then Neon and Incandescent. Light that banishes the darkness from caves, illuminate our roads, the insides of our refrigerators. I spread my wings against the breeze facing the sunlight fall directly onto me. I find comfort in shadows but now basked in sunlight my inside melts turning 'em into crispy critters.

Tell me, why vampires hate sunlight?

The Morning Post

To Whomsoever It Directed, the morning news book brings the best of sarcasms within me. This is one of them and hopefully the best.

“Bihar may have taken a step forward by empowering women in the village panchayats but rural men continue to treat women as commodities here.” – Wishfully, Indians should issue a legal notice to Ved Vyas for having written the epic saga of Mahabharata. Call the Litigation Bureau.

''Let Gujarat be a training ground for him and let him use all his skills to convince the people of Gujarat about his politics,'' Modi challenged the young leader Rahul Gandhi. – Wishfully, Indian males should stop wearing loincloths and lewdly tease each other on a public. Call the legislation for Article 377.

''Publicity is the soul of fairness. Where there is no publicity, there is no justice''. - Wishfully, Indian legislation should hire a publicity manager and get a production house. Do the ‘queen of Indian television’ hogging for more limelight and TRP?

''Autonomous correction of social customs hampering progress,’’ Vice-President Mohammad Hamid Ansari expressed over the low literacy level among Muslims. - Wishfully, Vice Presidents in India have more power to speech and clear expression than just mumbling random thoughts. Call for Special Zero Hour in Executive Assembly.

“India-China ties important for peace,” the External Affairs minister said. – Wishfully, Indians read more of history. Last time, the then Prime Minister said the same; the country lose borderline. India entered into a War. Call for Outsourcing Partnership Secret Deal.

''We have seen the entire scene and we did not find the policemen guilty from any angle,'' said Ram Kishore Singh, Member of Bihar Human Rights Committee. The comment was passed after a telecasted show where a thief is shown to be dragged along Bhagalpur's roads last August, after he was beaten by a mob. – Wishfully, Indians should stopped associating Human Rights Committee to states like Bihar and Gujarat.

Choto Golpo

Bhije ekla raat-ey barande-r kone budo miya saheb ka`nppa ka`npa haathey sarangi te dilo kathi. Ghumkature tar gulo te diyechen taan. Bodo Kl`anto behag sur. Aro kichu kkhun…

Timtim-ey tara-ra ar shesh prohorer chand, megher chador gaye diyeche. Ghum eshe dnaralo kha`nchar pashe. Posha moiyna danar majhe mukh lukhiye dol khete khate ghumocche ekhun; modna’r maa pash phire shulo tar-ri niche. Jhaad –ey bondi gola-gola mombatti’r aloy te shirshire-ey hawa, tader chokher pataye chotphotani. Alto hatey ’Rezwana’ eshe nibiye jabe jhadbati-ta. Andhar jombe ghono daalan-er buke. Barandatey thambe sharongi, kathi hathey dhole porbe bido miya shaebe… aro kichu kkhun pore.

Shei ekla ondhokare notun kore tkhun shagben Munni bai. Lal alta pora paye boshbe ghunghur. Shej-ey jalabe notun mom; surma anka chok duto mele ek khili notun paan diye notun kore rangabe kochi thont. Alto haath ka`ner pashe chaap diye bodo sureli alaap neben tini. Chok rakhben dorojaye. Ar kichu kkhun pore…shei gaan jeno harabe tar golaye, surma anka ankhi duto cholke utbe ektu, shej-er alo ta komiye diye nambe megher ghomta—bristhi jeno gola`r majhe aatke aache.

“Bodo deri holo, didi”, pas theke Rezwana bole othey.
“Hayn bodo deri holo…d`naara na auro kichu kkhun”, aashahin golaye aashash dei Munni.

Hayn! Emni koto raat shudu kichunk`khun—aashaye!

My Mother Feminist

I do not belong to any political party, sir. I guess you could call me... a feminist. Well, not those avenging feminist with a black belt in auto repairing or a vegan punk. I draw my definition from the sixty-year old girl, who works hard, sweat hard, and loves hard. She does my dishes, wash my clothes, and rule the house with no baseball cap.

And, when the starry night spreads, she sits on a hammock combs the hair neatly, apply lipstick thirty times a day. Not because she have to, but because of a mutual, unspoken agreement. She’s still too much of a lady like… when hundreds of women burned their bras.

Last minute change…

Begin a bright new day and let's not mince words. I, uh, suggest we all take a few minutes to compose ourselves and, uh, get on with the proceeding. Copies of schedule with printed dates listed under rows of red, green, and yellow column circulated amidst several head nodding. You pause for a coffee break, deadlines spill over the coffee mug; and each other stick their bayonets into space. We’ve work to do… [ah, pathetic] but flaunting busy.

A VCT[1] and Workbook[2] …great mind is on work. Day-in, day-out. I'm a totally ongoing Bigfoot, slam-dunk Learning Analyst with a pro-active outreach, a raging workaholic, a working rage-a-holic, out of rehab; nattily stroking the keyboard to get a great design. Charged up? Honestly, it mere bombastic. All you have to do is to be fully charged, sonic-specific bionic being commits tactile energy transference – I mean ‘act’. Nah! You don’t have to read the guidebook or throw yourself in - eat the food, use the wrong verbs, get charged double, and end up kissing complete strangers. Or, you’ve to ME.

We’re at PC World, right? And, I am talented.

Day two begin with bright sunlight and Pains-in-the-butt. Walk stodgily to the coffee machine smelling coffee beans and trying to be awakened. Still charged up? Oh, I need to press the button — the blinking LED — and all set to log. Ah! I’ve work. [Now, stop posing]

“We apologize for the last minute change and would like to discontinue the work. The client is changing the scope on this project”, Duh! What’s that? You blink, [blink again…once more please]. Eyes widened, jaw dropped. Lost? The project and so does you. Welcome honey, to the modern world of corporate crack jack!!!

There’s always a ‘last minute change’, in fact, almost to everything you do. Godsend! Last minute change… (Grrr) “Fierce, savage, bloodthirsty, merciless…think more!” You shouldn’t be surprised, but you’re, a little [no] a lot. You want to look like a legitimate visitor until the very last minute. Now, you’re legit, confused, and maybe … [blank]. Right now, this is myjob. If I advance any higher, this would be my career. And if this were my career, I'd have to throw myself in front of a train.

[1] Virtual Classroom Tutorial: Couple of craftily presented PowerPoint slides and Leader lines. Nice chopped and garnished.
[2] Instructor Booklet: Stripes of specifics written warily and the instructor has to mug them all before heading to session or catch a secret eye and get cue. A great prompting machine that you need to read onstage. Duh!

Mental Makeup

With festive fun dried down and now back to my 'basics' ogling the blue-chrome window screen and dysfunctional server — the mind seeks for makeover. Arrogance subdued and enthusiasm hitting the lowest bed, I felt as deadbeat. There's an ennui left around and I am lost, midway. Oh! Depressed? Nah…

I'm disgruntled. Disappointed. Hopeless.

To be honest, I am scared. I’m scared to lose and now the feeling deepening within me. Losing? Huh! Lose what? Ain’t you know I am soft and possessive and I am scared of losing closeness, lose the touch—always, forever. Lol! Scared of losing that never owned…[Sigh!]

I do.

I like to run. I want to hide in some desolated land and live with nothingness. Nothing to pin for or to be faithful I would rather live as *nothing* and pass silently. I am scared to lose. (Again, again) Boy, lemma correct you, “you are *NOTHING*” and with nothingness encompassed…

Oh, my faith dwindles. I don’t wanna lose thee.

Nostagic Ramlila and Childhood Days

We grew up looking forward to the autumn when weather became cold and comfortably having wrapped our self in light blankets munching dried fruits and watching Ramlila—local theatre, late night. Reminiscences branches out, like whitish soft grass and well-ripened rows of paddy that grows curvy under the weight of cobs, and catch the gleeful childhood on street. A bunch of colorful embroidered tunics with exaggerated dots of crystal mirror practicing ‘dandiya’ – the stick dance, down the lanes; chirpy sunshine. Hmm…

It reminds me of ‘Ramlila’. Come autumn! By-lanes richly decorated with fluorescent gas pipes on sundown, huge tableaus hit the streets, screeching loud speakers playing the latest songs from Bollywood flicks. Sell of roasted corncobs soar so does lithe bow and broke in every mock fights.

Evenings spent rehearsing “Ram Chandra ki jai’ (the only dialogue we had) and re-enacting the last night episode; sneak at dressing room watching the burly ‘Ravana’ adding extra streak to the mushy brows while ‘Sita’ (a man) coiled-in chair smoking paper roll bidis while the dressmaker tweak her rubber balls stuffed to grow a feminine form. A group of ‘us’ sit cross legged in the foreground applying rich array of face paints (red, blue, green) while soft and loud murmur of audience gurgling on the background go sky-high.

When the curtains rises to hundreds or so spectators to be dazzled by the story they know by heart but still wish to see in Technicolor; memories get afresh of chaos which are key attraction than Ramayana. The gymnast Lakshman famed for his back arch, thumping Ravana with wobbling belly button, and lewd Vibishana overtly swinging his pelvis, and (oh) “flying Hanuman” who was a great disappointment yet star attraction for his somersaults.

A silky smile kissed the corners of my lips – warm, sunny yet honeyed. Alas! Time has changed so does the end of surrealism. Last year, watching the huge effigies of Ravana and his compatriots set to fire I realized the numbers of crackers are less. It doesn’t sound like the childhood days. Hordes of advertisers teamed as sponsors and no more ‘puppy-punju Lalla ji’ showering hundred-rupee note to the juggling breast of Sita. Now, Sita has real breast (and Rama don’t dare to tweak them to put in the overtly tight blouses. I remember the older times and sulk…

Children on street still rehearsing their steps and older folks tanning under the autumn sun look remote. No more lithe bows; its ‘a new time’ and new game. Innocence left me stranded.

Privacy…Eh!

Couple of days back, news of hospitalization of yesteryear legendary Bengali cinestar hit the headlines and paparazzi. Famed for her romantic pairing with the Bengali demi Greek god and then years of seclusion; the ageing beauty turn to most sought after figurine to paparazzi. Oh! Did anyone heard of ‘privacy’.

Eh, too strong a word to guard oneself yet so fragile, like a virgin on the countryside, hard to nail but bleeds when undone. Have you lost it? Oh, I must say it’s the most underrated word used to myself. I never enjoyed one until date. I claim, I scream, I desire, and rest left to bleed.

Nevertheless, F*** off; you ask me questions and I say “F*** off!” Read my blog, pull another scrap, ask me another question and “F*** off!” I won’t reply. I won’t be explaining, I won’t say you a word or spill the secret beans. Try hard. Try hard, dahling.

Wonder how hard it is to remain ‘private’ but ain’t we all have privates. Why, then get to know me? I need my ‘privacy’ and I ain’t the Virgin Mary to lose ‘that’ to a damn shepherd giving birth to a hellu’va chaos. I don’t need the stars to tell me the birth of Messiah who would one day stripped to the cross and Gospels telling his story. Let the Merry Old Wives spin another tale and sulk inside their grave.

I live happily in my private apartment; privacy unperturbed.

Again! The Glassed Cubicle

Rescued from Nazis concentration camp where a group of people locked in and asphyxiated by carbon monoxide, I was sent to corporate glass chamber with a ‘dumb’ and ‘the dumber’. Last time, it was a bimbo and now a ‘harebrained’. I’d have stayed in the camp *happily ever after* and uncomplaining. Aarrgh!

Life sucks!
No, it ain’t a slow death. In fact, you’re not dead. Never! The neurons crawl inside million tiny chambers of your brain and realization get frustrated sitting with a lousy phone that spe—a—ks and poker faces around. In fact, what you earnestly crave is a ‘houseful of porn’.

What you pervert? Whoa! Sit with a loony for the next 15-minutes inside a glass chamber and you know how refreshing it is. Talk of blonde some MEN are blonde too. Open the phone diary and ‘tip-tap-tuc’t’ 10-digits pressed forth. The recorded instructions guide us to another chamber with fresh smell of FALL and nobody. The phone didn’t speak but ringed uninterrupted. Nobody to speak! Ah…what a relief. Oops! Did I say ‘relief’?

Somebody has all the ears. A half-buttoned Project Manager with swinging posterior and then the ‘jerk’ with gay-ish gait. Fifteen minutes, oh Gawd! Well…some people have that “I know it all (snigger)” look. Nev’r minds it’s only nothing but ‘look’. Hold on! He plopped, jump, hop, and talk. For a change, I earnestly wished the jaded telephone to do the work (I mean talking) but wishes die faster than they hit mind. But this moron!

Scribbling suggestions under ‘feedback’ notes (didn’t I say some has the *look*…brains, what’s that?). The swinging bloke has dropped a cue. F***! Next time he did it I’m gonna kill the man. He stopped writing and began to preach, Heaven! Administration. Systems. Network. Client Relations. Project Management. “Pencil dropped so does my jaw (oooh…it aches now) does Instructional Design ring a bell, you idiot?”

The phone didn’t speak. Inside the glass cubicle with stuffy conditioned cool ‘a nerd’, ‘a cheesy beefcake’ and an ‘idiot’…! Will Mr. Godot please appear?

Menstruation and Hol[y]ness

“Well…I’m having periods.” Oops! Is that how you wish to start a conversation?
Confronting the last Unmentionable taboo and you snigger “eew! Disgusting” I’ve never followed such a situation in my wilderness and thus, clueless. My mother had it. My sister did. I had never — I’m a MALE. We don’t recycle.

After initial hiccups it time for me to act with sane. I believe (men) are curious knowing about women’s period but don’t understand “menstruation’. When they do talk; they talk stupid: “I don’t trust anything that bleeds for seven days and doesn’t die” or “Thank god! My girlfriend got her period this time on-time. I was pretty worried then.” I don’t know neither was I looking for a perfect explanation. Soaked sanitary belts tucked behind the bathtub are all over mind. I’d catch a couple of them in the washroom but never been ‘curious’ - "it’s not a splatter of blood". I responded by leaving my mind a self note: "Well dude, everyone knows that. Precautions?”

Yea! We need precautions. Precautions for many reasons and more coz’ I will entourage to Holy places with [Un] Holy-ness. Doublespeak. What? Me? Are women sub humans then? Dunno! But I’ve noticed women are abstained from rituals making it obvious beyond doubt, to everyone present that she is menstruating making it obvious beyond doubt; and “Foul” “fetid” “squalid” – yes that’s how the sanctity of a woman addressed. Either ways, whether it is kept under wraps or put on the spot, imagine how it must stab at a woman’s self-esteem - all through her growing years? When everything around her dishes out messages saying she has a filthy body, can she really feel good about herself?

I been sexual liberator although yet never confronted to question of sensualization (apart of question on my own orientation) – a sense of guilt and gnaws traveled with me. I won’t deny I was skeptical yet when reached Shirdi. Confusion evades. No indication or predicament maketh me fill remorseful or guilty of having escorted someone who’s menstruation.

I say, “Divine Intervention” rules. Thank holiness. Realization won’t have come to full sensibility unless I been on the womb of an [un] holy woman. She had did, my sister does. I had it now. I recycles thought she — the LIFE.

Stray Thoughts after Days

For some time I take a retirement from blogging (dunno). Well, I wasn't even going to go to the ceremony or to trek but... And I've been lying here remembering why I never take to stroking the keyboard. On contrary, I was lying low and struggling with mundane living. The week has been one of the times of life when complexities multiplied within me like microorganism. I’ve too much to express yet words are too less to speak the mind.

A menstruating week! Emotions flowed down and I'd be more in tune with the moon and the tides. In fact, I realized I’d have been put in one at birth.

Wish'd a Maple Leaf

I dreamed of leaves on fingertips
A bud that grew between my lips
My eyes were opened in my sleep
I saw unfold the maple leaf

Beneath my hand, I felt the heat
The tree had risen to its feet
And then I craved,
…bring me a maple leaf

When you are off from the land of the Czar bring me a maple leaf—dried and auburn!

Tell you a Story Afresh

Long time ago, there lived as prince king riding high on his own oedipal might and transformed to demigod by group of fanatics, takes 24,000 verses classified under seven cantos, to sing his glory and a single affidavit to negate the claim.

Re-telling the epic saga fashioned with my ubiquitous thought I largely view ‘Ramayana’ as a sexist and racist literature glorifying a nondescript king, as Victorian or Elizabethans court poet. Ramayana is a work of exultation that contributed to deification of its prince king ‘Ram’; nonetheless an insignificant and immature character.

Cash in to the recent controversy of Ram Setu which split this part of the world’s sub-continent into two factions I might conclude within few paragraphs over the perfunctory myths associated to the ‘bloody religiosity’. Isn’t that an irony? But, I must have reasons.

On contrary to its mythical aspect, RAMAYANA, if studied in historical per se is an epic saga that aims to reinstate and consolidate the supremacy of Aryan race in Indian land. As portrayed, the superior pure-blooded race who migrated to northern terrain of India now on a siege to Eastern and Western plateau, inhabited by large-bodied barbaric race with a ten-headed king, Ravana. This is a conscious attempt wherein the aboriginal natives are portrayed as vile, vicious, and immoral by their disposition compared to ‘Great Aryan’ tribe. Thus, by negating the mythical aspect and focus to the interpretative history of the great Indian epic, the literature consciously portrayed Dravidians in a lighter realm to establish the supremacy of Aryans using discriminatory overtone.

This isn’t a standalone feature, but an universal practice applied to all invaders’ literature who represent natives or aboriginal groups as too vicious compared to their own and Ramayana is not an exception.

Let’s not debate, if I claim, the epic saga sanctifies observance of chastity and sexual repression as a signature to womenfolk/feminity, thus conforming to the Aryan concept of ‘bad girl’ and ‘good girl’. The stereotyped woman with a meeker disposition and object of lure or sex is a concept initiated in Aryan literatures. In significance, prominent women characters belong to Aryan blood are fragile, dependent, and abused (drawing a commonality to the prevalent state of women in northern part of India).

Except few of the female characters, like Kaikeyi, her hunch maid, and Surpankha who were sexually receptors and have shamelessly used/flaunt it as the tool to meet objectives. Comparatively, the main female protagonist, ‘Sita’, (seen to be rebelling against prejudices on few minute events) remained as protected, self-guarding, meek, all-accepting, and dependent. Interestingly, women belonging to lower races or natives are independent, vocal, rebellious, and sexual. The portrayal of women is more consciously drafted to give back male dominion and categorize women as much lesser gender thus reducing them to a mere sexual object. Further, subjugation of womanhood would indirectly lead to character deformity and grow lack of confidence thus defunct their behavioral and psychological disposition. (This practice can be evident among modern Indian states and tribes, especially the Northern regions.) Most of the women are groomed to be perfect resemblance of Sita—chaste, dependent, meek, and loyal while girls who’re independent are categorized as sexually schematic and to punished.

When I was a child, my grandmother told me the story and made me bow to the deity of Ram (a common deity to every Indian household). Ages later, I discover a feeble, lethargic, and immature bloke being in distress and never a demigod but a mortal man with frailties. The story of Ram and Ramayana no more does allure or awakens the mind of unmindful unless its time to celebrate the chaos.