It’s All In The Family

My parents are no first-class at arguing. Being loyal bongs, they argue in bengali-my father in the spic-and-span lingua franca ornamented without Bengali gaalis ( snigger not you foul creatures ) and my mother in Bengali accented grammatically prim and proper *Bengali*, etched with rapid flow of Bengali realism. I exaggerated one and jotted them down here (with my panicky parents’ consent) proving when it comes to arguing…what idiots even my parents are.

Mother: “Shono, ghore eto chhoto chhoto poka bhorti, kotha theke je ashe!”

Father: “Toh eta’i to oder thaka’r jayga, r onno kothaye thakbe?”

Mother: “Tumi kichhu korte paro na egulo ke niye? Ektu marte  paro toh dekhte pele! Jain der moto Ahinsa’r natok koro jottoshob.”

Father: “Ami ki korbo! Tumi erom boka’der moto kotha bolona. Hitler image ta noshto hoye jaye tomar”

Mother: “Maane ki? Chhele bole’i  ghorer kono kaaj korbe na! Ete’i bojha jaye kotota male tyrannized society amader…jotoshob chauvinism tomar.”

Father: “Dhur. Eto boka boka kotha bolo na to. Areh baba,din’er sesh’e ora to Poka, naki? Onyo’r bari dokhol korbe eto buddhi thakle r Poka hoye thakto na ora,emni’i chole jabe,oto chinta koro na…” *elevates a disgruntled sigh and gives up*

Mother: *looks at me* Hoyechhe! Shunli? Abar ami naki boka boka kotha boli.. Peace maaro bujhle! (winks, as she has learnt this from me)

Father: *laughs*. End of the argument.

Darn. See? This proves why I am such a nikkamma at arguing. (But I am better than my parents.)

P.S: Yes,I either update nonsense or nothing at all …my blog,my rules! 

forgery :|

I’ve longed for you from the day we parted (when you were here,  longed for other people.) it was a Herculean blunder that I made. (I must have built the Titanic in my previous life) You are gone but your smell still lingers like a dark shadow (No axe affected.) Without you I am all alone in this gloomy and lackadaisical world. (Emo kids should be left there to rot anyway)

Adrenalin conceives the desire to find you again. (But what if I have a hormonal problem?) Preconception and despondency is entwined but then it was you who taught me to be a realist. Your love made me sink into feeling that this was incessant. And now that you are gone, you have taken with you my hopes and dreams, leaving behind only those that appear as illusions in the darkest of hours (Too much influenced by Shehnaz Hussein.)

Trying to make a come-back to life, I fail deplorably as each attempt reminds me of my failure and the loss it entailed. (No, I am not Dev Anand.) I stagger back to the past that didn’t have you, though such a past was long gone by. Each moment spent in the pitchy hours of the eyes see your countenance. (In sheer daylight, I can see the faces of better beings.)

The maniac sun sets on my injured soul. You and I are like the luminaries in the cosmos. But I am the dying star while you are gathering your flames to shine for aeons. Candidly I had endowed to you my blistering amour of life, and you had robbed me of it invidiously. (And since then your dad had to pay high electricity bills).

But what’s lost is lost. Us mortals have to face the aftereffects of what we do (Politicians are immortal). As I confront the future each day, the yarn of the past pulls me back. And I remain as an unadorned moppet to the cords of your memory. (Being John Malkovich.)

Thought that a heart-break post would add star quality to my blog. But actually you never broke my heart.  Hence the disaster  (And I am a birdbrainmoron. I can’t even fake pseudo-intellectualism  )

Pouring thoughts!!

So,it’s been pouring since morning..though,it’s been eons since I’ve woken up to such a fresh morning where the leaves and soils are at their wet best. The puissant insects are reigning supreme all over. Some are lolled on by bed too..Bloody bugs.

As for me,I am hoping against hope that some skinflint folk like me will come to while away my time. Gosh! I can’t even do the-sexy-lady-with-a-coffee-mug-romantically-looking-from-the-window because upshot from my roasted window would be like lonesome-freaky-kid-stuck-with-a-glaring-from-the-window.I don’t even have any story book at this moment that will buoy up my mood from the drencher apart from my mathematics books and those are the last things I want to set my eyes on ,rain or no rain.

Even the crows refuse to perform their morning orchestra.The cats abhor  the downpour as well.The sexy female in the block recently had mushroomed  the puma world with six more folks.Thanks to the rain ,they have made our lawn their make shift home sweet home and two of the disproportionate off springs are hotfooting up and down a dirty ladder that is kept their , at random trying to steal my lunch kept in the kitchen that exists in its circuit. So my task at home is to be the watchdog.What absolute joy!!!

Its is still pouring.It is unbelieving that when I check the budding list that I made when I was not yet 18 ,as to what I should when I gain the official adulthood,little did I realize that almost all of those targets were left unfinished even two years after I did become 18.Maybe,the longing to do something bizarre springs up from extreme boredom regarding what one already does, or does not. I sleep so much that it has been a long time since I saw what the morning Sun looked like.I woke up today at 6 only because I had to(thank you,rain) and I propose to make up for that by sleeping the next twelve hour to glory. Such a dull and daffy morning .

Enough said.It’s astonishing what a person can do to kill her boredom.And I am still bored.If not even more! 

ataxia syndrome!

Ever wondered what being truly merry is all about? Being truly merry is something people quest for all their lives,even though, no matter how hard they may try, they never find it. Us mortals have forgotten the art of being blissful. We fret for what we don’t have, and  bit by bit life simmers down to gray  blobs of allergy. And then, when we stand at the  flip side of  nirvana; we wonder about the true context of all that has passed…

All right I am not going to burrow into all this cogitative and soapy gaga. But to think of it, our conventional teenage life has deafening streaks of complaints that will certainly seem frolicsome to us when we’ll become grey and wise. It’s a  demonstration of our ceaseless  turmoil , especially us girls. As much as we try not too, we grumble about something each moment.

During examination time, if we don’t study, we definitely have a big problem. But if we do, then whether others are doing as well or not is a big question. If the others do better, great- we have to face an even greater frustration( True, I’m still in Three I’s hangover). If we’ve got hold of some nice chic or guy (depending on our classification) then there is some problem or the other bubbling amidst the cuddling. If we are single, then all the people in love are profane bird-brained nincompoops. If we have the adequate curves then we complain of the satyric eyes of men (and girls like me). And if we don’t have the required stuff, then we cry out for attention from the opposite lads. When we look good and healthy we starve ourselves to become ultra- anorexic. If we are thin, and have the craved skeleton effect, we yen for some hormonal act of God that will make us fat. (Gee this line made me emotional…well almost) . If we are good at something we feel proud of it, and the sec someone else seems better, we submerse into the abysm called inferiority complex. We gripe, grumble and groan about life’s inconveniences to anyone who’ll listen. We’ll strike up a chat with a stranger by complaining about the weather and end our day by moaning about a horrible day we’ve had. I tell you, us she-beings take pleasure in feeling inferior at times. Dopey us!

A friend says that women are addled bisexual beings. Addled, yes I agree. Bisexual? Then I am in the majority. (We’ll have to be bisexual in this world where men these days wax and pedicure and flash their chest-hairlessness in a way as if their benign heart’s covering is as good as Maximilian armor. I tell you, all men on earth. We women are already perplexed soul. For God’s sake and your own, stop behaving like us. &  If you stop talking to me after reading this sentence I completely understand.

Damn. See? Even I am so confused that I  swerved from the topic and started chastening the chic-men.

The point is that there’s this sadistic desire to create problems even if we don’t have any..May be without such problems life will be all dull and daffy..

Perhaps that’s all what makes life worth its pain*(a ‘Shameful Sunrise’ product )

..Whatever.. I guess you’ve got the hang of it.

*(& yes, I’ll add this to my book of profound saying, thank you  for remembering.)

P.S:  This is absolutely not about me. But a general attempt at…errr.. generalization!

ahh poetry!!

‘’Somewhere ages and ages hence: 
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by, 
and that has made all the difference.’’

That was my first taste of Robert Frost. In 5^th grade, I took part in the recitation contest  and this is what our not-at-all-serious-girls-team chose to recite… I was too young to appreciate about the poetic freedom or iambus, but I thoroughly enjoyed reciting it. Must mention, this has got to be among the best-known-most often-misunderstood poems on the planet. Several generations of unmindful readers have turned it into a piece of Hallmark happy-graduation-son, seize-the-future hype. Anyways, that was my first titbit in poetry; needless to say, I fell in love with poetry! Keats, Blake (tiger tiger burning bright), Wordsworth (who can forget Daffodils), Angelou (Phenomenal Woman), E. E. Cummings (my favorite- I carry your heart with me)…I read them all. Only thing I self-disgust though-could not fix in the mind every line I ever read.

It’s stunning how some people (poets) can see ordinary things & make it poetry! Believe it or not, I’ve too have tried my hand at it –the less said about it the better folks! Flop is an understatement! Disaster is more the word.See, you have to be Frost to write about a road-honestly when I see a road, I just see -an identifiable route between two places which may or may not be available for use by the public! I know, I know, I’m horrifying! It’s hopeless, I tell you. Poets are born, not made-at least that’s what I tell myself to feel better about my non-success. True, if you’re not born a poet, 10,000 creative writing courses won’t turn you into one.

I also tried doing limericks. Here goes my first one ever, I wrote it when I was in my 12^th grade-(no comments on this please-I know what you’re going to say, so save it!)

I once knew a person named Bob

Whose looks would make you lob

He was a man from Tibet

Who couldn’t find a cigarette

Guess what? He was a vet.

There. Laugh. It’s ok, I completely understand. But  one thing. At least I had the guts to put it on my blog. So, I’m not that vile after all.

Enough. I’ll end this with my favorite lines(don’t worry, not mine.)-

Let me exist within my own,

I have appeased myself with my reality.

That which has stayed unfinished,

Let it stay that way,

Surpluses mar sanity…

(Amaake amaar moto thaakte daao,

Aami nijeke nijer moto guchhiye niyechhi…

Jeta chhilona, chhilona, sheta na pawaii thaak,

Shob pele noshto jibon…)

P.S: Yes,going on with my tendency of translating songs that manage to become my fixation, I have translated the song ‘Amaake amaar moto thaakte daao’ from the soundtrack of the Bangla-film ‘Autograph’, into English. I have adjusted a few words here and there for the sake of poesy.