Monday, June 18, 2007

On exams and ennui.....

Let us get very frank, exams do not mean anything to me these days. They seem rather clich├ęd and boring. I am getting immune to such little farces. Cold indifference has taken the place of pre-exam blues. In dime stores and in stations, people talk of situations, read profound-looking books and write quotations, to get through, just through.

Autumns ago, I used to get annoyed, out of sheer ennui. Now, I do not give a damn.

Today was my first exam of the final semester and, well, I am not going to fail in it. I was as unprepared as a piece of new willow, but Chandreyi was there and I scraped through, with more than liberal help from her. It was not a particularly pleasing experience. I hate copying. Call it a cyber-confession, or anything you like.

Except some wonderful moments of real camaraderie, today’s exam was quite a drab one, as usual. We all have exchanged a walk on part in the war, for a lead role in “the cage”.

I wish you were here, oh how I wish you were here!

Saturday, June 16, 2007

Deliriums of a smug idiot

These short outbursts of erratic genius were supposed to have no heading. However, as you can see, I have changed my mind. Only the other day, I was watching a group of policemen performing their holy duty of killing people, and, what more, they were wearing head-gears to protect their valuable pates. That inspired me. And, obeying that divine inspiration, to its last spark, (politicians would have called it the inner voice), I provided this piece of writing with a head-gear, to protect my blessed head where these ideas swarm and grow up!

As any hyper-active brain would have told (ours have been a processed one straight from the proletariat factory) anyone, mine told me not to brood over the dimension of reality. Reality is not unique in its most real form; it is ubiquitous at the very least. Piously Marxist-- the people of West Bengal are, thirty years' revolution has made us seasoned enough to become like-minded. For the sake of camaraderie, everyone can see an inherent class-structure peeping through the veil of reality. As great Marxists are allowed to have one or two lean patches (see our beloved chief minister for example), I really doubt the exactness of the relation between class structure and reality. Reality, we may define as a hard and real stare at class-structure, or it can be a fake vision of our subterranean philosophy. It is easy to mould reality, and, at the same instant, it stays as hard as a rock-- that is dialectics for you in a nutshell. Thus our attempt to define the uniqueness of reality fails miserably. Oh, accept it, be a gallant loser! But, being a gallant loser does not count in our reality, or gallant losers are unreal in our reality. It, however, is always possible that they are kicking hard in another reality, which is quite beyond our real sense of reality!

Fantasy is a medley of latent possibilities that our reality unknowingly nurtures, or knowingly avoids. The norms of our reality have a tendency to perfunctorily regulate our daily emotions. In it we exist, only because we must. We shape our reality only to soothe ourselves and often end up getting shaped by the reality itself. When things happen outside our own frame of reality, we fantasise it with vivid isolation. After all, fantasies are momentary disequilibriums. All our thought-processes are destined to make the system more viable, equilibrium has always been our angel’s angel!

Elfin fantasy does have its gory moments, though they look like moments of glory to some relics of our species. Perhaps, I am being harsh to a lot of people in describing the nature of such dreamy climes, all our day-to-day proceedings are just fantastic, they are governed by the spell of the full moon, silver surrealism is what we are going through. Nandigram, a nine-letter word, is only one of the very few islands of stark reality, amid this fiesta of rainbow-coloured fancies! May be, reality and fantasy are two sides of a magic-coin, you never know what is what!

Quiet evenings often trashes the grandeur of our very existence. Nandigram exists within us, as a diabolical symbol of reality and, at the same time, it never ceases to be our elfin unreality. It remains a vision in which reality and fantasy merges into each other, perhaps, pointing towards some distant future.

I am getting nauseatingly poetical and worse, philosophical, in a rueful manner. Let’s get personal to get away from my intended poetry. A figure, almost an ethereal one, with some kind of biblical vagueness, often winks at me from nowhere. Boy, I was only a tin-drummer and wanted to please her with my jugband blues! At that moment, reality, real reality, got under my skin. Angels came and glowed into the sun. I had shouted like hell--"Beware doll, you are bound to fall”-- she only frowned back with icy indifference!

Feelings, sometimes, can get incredibly Zimmermanish.

Friday, June 15, 2007

Confessions of a chocolate-eater

Horrid horrid world and tiring songbirds. They depict our reality only too well. Mellow afternoons come and mellower afternoons go; with the same tinge of melancholy, as always. Lonely bus stops often go hazy before my eyes, and, I see a lonely boy wandering through the streets of this strange, strange city.

I only lower my eyes to avert the gaze of my burning self in the sun.

It is me I am talking to, and it is you I want to convey my feelings to. But, you only casually hear what I say, you do not really listen to my epic ballads. I blabber and blabber, without getting to what I really want to tell you. We reach for each other and, deceive ourselves with utmost care and precision!

At last, evening descends. The faint mockery of the setting sun disdainfully turns its face away. It is not dark yet. A pale moon rides on to the horizon. Its bewitching light takes us to a surreal plane, so different from our stay in the sun.

Nobody is going to set the controls for the heart of the sun, in this magic trance where children kiss fairies with effortless grace. Spiral tramlines repeat themselves to the end of the world. The bloodstains of a solitary poet lends colour to the blue-grey hue of a distant star.

Moist with one drop of thy blood, my arid soul!