Nostalgia Re-visited

Walking down the memory lane with my dslr and childhood friends. Kolkata, where I have my childhood preserved, this ones for you...

The window to the city blurred by the summer rain...

The much awaited rains...

The sun rising from its tallest towers...

The Victoria Album

the morning Victoria

the British pride...

The Queen's pride...

Her Victoria...

pherari mon...

the lover's Victoria...

The City

It still stands tall...

the morning roads...

the bhad cha

the big yellow taxi...

an artists' anonymity...

banglar pran...

Banglar maan...

city food..

Ray's Calcutta...

Mahanagar...

time never changes...

Intellect never changes...

the old New Empire...

The only change...

the only change....

the old New Market...

Bangla heritage...

its the same...

the treasure house...

O Ganga behti ho kyun?

Tagore's Bangla...

Sonar Bangla...

Reminiscing a habit

Dear friend,
How are you? Haven't heard from you for a very long time. Suddenly it struck me that I have atopped writing letters. With technology coming up in a big way we are always connected smses which are usually forwards and stupid jokes. I am too occupied with meaningless pleasures to even type you an e-mail.

Our childhood was full of letters. I remember although we lived only two blocks away still we wrote letters and posted them. We shared our secrets, resolved our fights, express our hatred for a particular person. But today when we are 1500 kilometeres away, we haven't exchanged a single one.

Letters seem to be the best way to express my feelings, to express the situations I am caged in, my views about people and the world.

I will write to you my friend. Please reply back to me too. Let us all over again start the letter chain. I want to talk to you through words coming right from your heart.You are my best friend and I will be true to you.

My pen is mightier than the keyboard. So I will write you letters.

Love,
Your Childhood Friend

Wanderings Part IX

How people are fake today. All have the means to ruin ones life. No one can see the other happy. Not even their loved ones (does love exist at all!) Love has turned to a mere thing of insatiablity. Who to blame for this? Materialisation, desperation, deprivation or globalisation?

I see a relationship breaking and wander.

Obituary

23 January,20xx
The Indian Express
New Delhi

Things in an ordinary life has not changed but there is a void in several lives with the sudden demise of Delhi born writer Riya Chakravarty. An awardee of Sahitya Academy and Lalit Kala Academy, Riya is noted for her exceptional work in promoting Indian Art & Culture through her writings. Also her first novel, "Little Things", has been nominated for the upcoming Booker Prize. A journalist by professsion, Riya's contribution in reflecting the richness of the country's treasures has been unmeasurable. Her column in The Indian Express, "Shadows Have Lives" on ordinary people who often are lost in the daily humdrum of life, is one of the most reads in the country.

"India has lost it's most important patron who possibly was the only one which gave colour and flavour to the country, rather than reflecting it's deficits.", Anoushka Shankar laments while talking to the media after attending Riya's funeral.

The vacuum that Riya's death has created can never be filled for the years to come. India has surely lost a treasure.


Big dreams also have king-size endings.

Rock Paper Scissors...Situation VIII

Rock Scissors cut Paper

More Than Words

Dear Words,
Sorry for not writing you. I got busy with diction and talking in your form. Don't think that I don't miss you. It's just that you dissolve in the monotony of this plastic life. I have a lot of things to explain to the world. A lot of your symbols to describe. The ink in my pen has dried. Words, please don't go away from me. You are a potter who mould my thoughts; my dwellings.

I apologise for neglecting you. I drifted away from myself. I have come back to you. I need your help. I am in search of you; of your beauty and grace. How you shape my world and my personae. You define me. You complete me.

Words I can never forget you. I want you.

Please come back.

Love,
The Writer.

Wandering Part VIII

Its always better to be listeners rather than stating opinions. People are not humiliated, they have nothing to criticise about and no qualms. They are at peace and we are at peace. Humans always want to be heard and want support rather than being jumped upon by others.

I shut my mouth and wander.

LOST

Death is a strange feeling. It doesn't strike till the time you see somebody close to you suffering. I am witnessing deaths. I am witnessing sufferings. It could have happened to me. It could have happened to one of my close one.

The existence of a person is destroyed, rather vanishes from the world. The sound that you long to hear fades out completely. The face you always find smiling becomes blank ; is disillusioned. A photograph of him/her for once looks full of life. Finally all buries in dust; all buried in ashes.

With the person, the circle around him also becomes 180 degree. Links of the chains break. Everything is lost. The emotions have scattered. Love, hate, depression, frustration are all mere words after death.

It is written and preached that a dead being loses the body, not the soul. But the soul becomes 'soul-less'. It is remembered momentarily in ceremonies and memorials and then forgotten. There is another mishap and new flesh, new bodies, new souls emerge. This is the cycle of life; this is the chain that links us.

Humans are killers of humans. Humans are cannibals. They are murderers of themselves. They are lost in the web of times. They are lost in their own life. They are lost and dead in their souls.

Rock Paper Scissors Situation VII

Rock
Going through complete metamorphosis. Both positive and negative.

Paper
Wasted. Thrown in the bin.

Scissors
Sharpened like a blade to cut the rough edges.

Changing Moods

6 months backs I had written this in one of my posts:

"When I move out of the hostel, I know there would be some prototypes that I would come across. Just like the kid playing with his ball and the autowallahs waiting to get a customer and ask for lumpsome travelling charges. Then as I walk further and reach the busy streets, I am used to see the lady at 'Rasoi' dhaba serving hot parathas to the home food deprived hoggers, the two friends sitting in the roadside restaurant in their usual corner seat and having gupshup over snacks and not to forget the 'once upon a time' fauji who is now a lunatic swaggering with his typical army air in his style and the guy with everything Indianised and an intriguing panache walking alone in the road with no care and worries on his shoulders."


And today I see-

The kid who played with the ball sits in a grocery shop attending customers, the autowallahs are the same. The lady at 'Rasoi' is the only constant factor who still serves hot paranthas to the starvers. The two chairs in the roadside restaurant is usually empty. I don't know why the two friends don't sit there anymore. Are they left with no 'gupshup'?
The once upon a time Fauji lunatic does not swagger. He sits on the corner of the road like a beggar and reads the newspaper as if he has lost that army ego. The guy with everything indianised is no more intriguing to me. I know him now and he is no more a random acquaintance.


Times are changing. And so am I.

What's Stopping Me?

What's stopping me?
The sun, the moon, the stars

What's stopping me?
Parents, relatives, friends

What's stopping me?
Fear, depression, anger

What's stopping me?
Me, you, them

What's stopping me?
Love, hate, betrayal

What's stopping me?
I never know