ode to autumn

autumn is here, ripe and mellow. the sun's rays are tempered gently through the soft, fluffy clouds that fill the sky. the evenings are cool and inviting. there is a slight nip in the air, reminding one of the approaching winter. the trees smell faintly of blooming flowers, whose names elude me. the half-eaten moon stands lonely against the raven coloured night. the boxed-in houses stand silhouetted against the faintly-visible twinkling stars. the scaffolding of the pujo pandals lie half-erected in the public parks. there is a quiet clam, a general sense of peace. durga pujo will be celebrated in a few weeks. calcutta, the city of eternal return will be amok with festivities. i will be here, walking these vague streets, unable to return. trailing me everywhere is this sinking feeling of melancholy and of bidding adieu. the only hope of a welcome is the warm winter of reunited lovers. 

when i see this blank page, i stop and think too deeply about what to write. the act of writing is like a burden that i must unload. writing, for me, entails a heftiness of being and a committment to pure thought and emotion. it becomes an exercise of the mind and of cool detachment. i want to be freed from the language of implied meaning and interpretative thought. i'd rather levitate in space than be grounded on paper.  how do i capture that lightness, that floating and fleeting quality of life? i do not think that this overly rational and calculated state of mind is any cause of hope but, no, i will write. let me defy the loss of words, let me claim this little blogspace, let me free my mind. endofstory.

bhabchi

i often find myself in the position of an armchair activist, comfortably dabbling with 'issues' that are distant from my social reality. i also find myself at unease with the sort of moral righteousness that comes with working on such issues. it is hypocritical and shambolic. the professionalisation of philanthropic/social work  has unwittingly led to a detachment of human empathy. we have become observers, purveyors and role-players. i am uncomfortable with the sort of proselytising and grand-posturing that comes with the baggage of 'development' and yes, jaded by the jargonising. the sense of deja vu that accompanies 'i've heard it all before' hits me hard in the face. five years into my professional life, i want to take a break and renew my thoughts, instead i find myself stuck.

Pinoo da lover is waiting outside, while i sit inside my new office. there is a pin-drop silence here with few words exchanged. my phone is loud and disturbing to the point i am embarrassed every time i receive or take a call. i could put it on silent but i prefer not to. the atmosphere is a bit sedate. i miss the buzz, the lively banter of my past office spaces. too much peace and quiet makes me even more restless. the full rhythm of work is yet to ensue instead there is a wait. the long journey ahead beckons and i wearily walk the line.

why read?

I am currently reading Pamuk's Other Colours where he discusses the acts of reading/ writing. In continuation of his thoughts, i am jotting down some of my reasons for reading:

I read for completeness of being, for clarity of thought, for peace of mind. I read to overcome my insecurities and fears. I read to be happy, in the moment of reading. I read to give myself some time. I read to find solace and solitude. I read out of a sense of inadequacy, to fill my mindspace with words that i hope will be my own. I read to understand my place in humanity. I read for pleasure and pain. I read to overcome boredom and drudgery. I read to be honest about life...

to call my own

The constant affliction of being "never at ease" (not restless, mind you) stems from both my partitioned selves, of being Punjabi and Bengali, residing uncomfortably within me. Neither Punjabiyat nor Sonar Bangla resonate with me. Such cultural references remains fragmented and distant in my consciousness. There is a pervading lack of rootedness and attachment in who i am. Instead there is a lingering sense of loss, of being a foreigner in one's own skin. In a certain sense, i am a cultural orphan--the freak of history. This is the blackhole of my life. I cannot undo my multicultural personhood but neither am i completely at ease with what it means. If identities are tightropes on which we delicately balance our being, then i am struggling to walk the line. So who am i? where do i belong? The tirade of questioning never ceases to confuse me. If what i identify with is purloined or borrowed, then is my insaniyat cultural theft? In that case, what a wretched fate.

sab kala

filling blank spaces with songs

dotting time with non-sequitur thoughts

living vicariously like in the movies

listening to Operator Love

sleeping on an half-empty belly

reading in-between moments

awakening to the spinning fan

surrounding silence 

there is the waiting, waiting, waiting...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1fR8u4VAcis&feature=related