BONG FAMILY RECITAL- Part I

One must take a peep into the mind of a typical Bengali lady, popularly called by the gentry as "bhodromohila". They attend even simple idol worship ceremonies to their friends houses; temples and common gathering points, dressed as if they were about to venture across to their own marriage altar. The ladies are unfailingly bedecked in the ubiquitous sari- ranging from silk to brocade; and jewelry ranging from the not so subtle to sheer gemstones that would even put the Queen Mother to shame. Avid lovers of rabindra sangeet, they also flock in droves to any cultural opportunity where artists are said to perform. Every lady is a full-mottled fantail, proudly displaying her latest shopping results on the ears, neck and arms. The husband looking moderately genteel in ethnic Indian wear, or, if the poor henpeck has been dragged straight from the workplace, strides in the slightly crumpled office wear. The expression says I may be a man, but the wife or "ginni" is 'THE' royal Bengal tigress after all; eliciting empathy from the rest of the male intelligentsia or "Bhodrolok". As soon as the venue has been reached, all the females flock around excitedly discussing the latest gossip, cricket celebrity game shows; sitcoms and their childrens' status updation. The males discreetly flee to the bar, post pleasantries, where armed with a whiskey or beer they settle down to berate the state government's dismal performance or the central government's thereof.

New Entrant: Hi Mrs. B, how have you been? You are looking very nice.
Mrs B: Thank you! (broad smile), I just bought this sari from X (a well known branded shop selling expensive sarees).
You wonder if the compliment has been interpreted by lady B as an affirmation that she generally looks pretty, or it is the sari that is making her look nice. Then, you start wondering if she took offense to being compared as a plain Jane otherwise.

New Entrant: And how is your family? (Hurriedly to deflect any possible assault)
Mrs B: My husband you know. The children are fine. My eldest son is in the US working for Company X (usually a top notch brand). He is earning '$$$$$' a month (which theoretically puts him on par with some Hollywood celebrities in terms of earnings); he has his own apartment and a car. He sends me gifts every two months and has been constantly telling me to come over and stay with him for a vacation. Maybe I will go in the summer/winter.(She nods with a proud smile).

(You cannot separate the Bengali from the motherland during the Durga puja celebration time; come natural calamities, or even a proven alien invasion to the city).

(You nod in agreement with her)

Mrs B: My daughter is married to Mr X's son.
She assumes you know Mr X. If you do, it is good for you. If you don't and say so, she looks at you with horror, as if you have landed from outer space since you DO NOT know the family her daughter has been married into. They are as famous as would be a royal family of the city.

You try and look hopefully impressed, admitting that you are ignorant; while the mind stores the name away for a reference check in posterity.

Mrs B: They are staying here in Street X. They are very happy. I have a grandson. He is 7 years old and adores me. Every weekend he comes over and spends the entire day with us. He is so smart- he plays XBox and sports (think only cricket or tennis); reads encyclopedias and was offered a double promotion in school since he is so intelligent and way above the average level of his class. I refused, since it is better to let him progress through the classes normally as there is no hurry to complete his education. (The dialogue speed, or rather rap would put Eminem to shame).

She nods again without adding anything else. Since it is a typical Bengali nod where the head moves not only left and right, but also up and down in a roundabout way; you politely nod your head in only one direction and respectfully smile. Little Einstein would make India proud, until you realise that the tiny tot in question, who has tagged along with his grandmother has a problem spelling 'business' but rattles off the latest Hindi songs word for word without a hitch. You suggest that maybe he holds the prospect of being an excellent singer or music producer.

Lady B, if open minded will appreciate your suggestion and also add prophetically that her grandson will be as famous as the lauded veterans of the music industry. If the lady is not so liberal minded, she will look positively insulted at the suggestion, stonily adding that he will only be a doctor, engineer or a civil servant. It seems that these hallowed professions are considered the only respectable careers to attempt. This mindset has hardly changed within eastern India for the last 200 years, even after the British left their telegraph poles, industrialization and law books behind.

Bull Discharge

Writing per se should be an original, worth reading. Well, reading what seems to be deemed "worthy" is what makes writing itself appear subjective. What I may like to read and consider worthwhile is something you might not believe in at all. The result is a niggling, little displeasure at the back of your head, which grows into a full throttle migraine-like headache; if your self has been subject to someone's "worthwhile" pages and pages of utter bull discharged writing that would not even fertilise a weed root.

Talking about bulls and their faecal discharge- well I wonder why sometimes certain facts uttered; end up being termed as nonsense by the listening party, eliciting an explicitly enunciated- "bull*"! So, either we are paying homage to the glorious, ebony coloured, satin-skinned and bulbous nosed deity by sanctifying its discharged roughage; or we are nullifying something existing as concretely as water or maybe the sun. So they do exist; or you do spend your days in a rubber padded room-straight jacketed; or, you have unfortunately crossed over to the other side. So what I meant is that if "bullshit" is signified as equal to nonsense or a vague form of nothingness- then my dear, why don't you stand here for 10 minutes while I coax the bull to defecate on your shoes. The other option is that I empty a whole bucketful on you as proof. In either case, if you do posses the olfactory sense, you would have realised that nature does not make Chanel N 5 for free; or you would have bathed in it literally. And, if you do not possess the sensory organ, then the soft, thick and dark, goop of nutritiously rich manure is being applied on you as the latest bio-degradable version of 'plaster of Paris' for the sake of modern art. Either ways, I DO give you the choice to confirm its existence. Or, you might take the liberty of saying that bullshit or nonsensical equivalence does exist, but only in a parallel dimension. If you insist, give me half an hour to add a bottle of cod liver oil to my pet's digestive canal. If the post cod liver ingested bull and its diuretic discharge on your esteemed soles and broles, elicits a yell, I will simply defend my case saying that what was termed erstwhile nonsense by you, cannot exist in our dimension according to your viewpoint- therefore Q.E.D. If you admit that it does, I will say that it is now as a fragrant and moisturising lotion in the same dimension where you initially thought it existed.

Anyway, it is toast and tea time. Let me know if you would like to smell it or taste it.
I meant buttered toast, of course with my tea. Now, what were you thinking...?

City

Motionless, coloured bodies of steel,
Blurred images, unending wheels.
Hurried faces, listless few,
Matted mongrel, his tail does chew.
Organized noise, silence cornered anew,
Hungry eyes scan for re-assurance true.
Memories forgotten, fresh and new
Moments stolen, unforgiving Time swift flew.

Jungle of lines, where Shadow plays games.
People and streets, only numbers and names,
Where Unknown sleeps with enticing mistress Fame.
Isolation and Loneliness, conjoined twins silently reign.
Blank lives, lined deaths, invisibly framed.
Honor and Integrity raped and shamed,
Truth wanders in alleys, blinded and maimed.
Hope cries to Salvation to wash away the pain.

Sleep

The mist weaves through open spaces,
Wreath like fingers seeking in measured paces.
Moonbeams filter, intertwining in a lover's clasp,
The silent bat glides, hungry silhouette eagerly grasps.

Twinkling lights of night on distant shore,
Splashes the hidden boatman's ore.
A moan, a groan, a whimper and a sigh
Unheard night sounds stretch and fly.

Rows of gleaming silver curves and lines
With bated breath watching for ancient signs,
When expected stillness will answer to sound
And awaken from the motionless ground.

Eyelids flutter, some in a perpetual dark world.
Inwardly awake, Reality and Dream gracefully twirl,
Life is as above as is below, the nightingale weeps,
Soon will break the grave's dreamless Sleep.

The Stone by the Sea

I sit on Stone. Bare legs feel the cold seep through the pores of me. I feel the texture, the smoothness, the slightly serrated under skin. Breath leaves no mist on the azure. No haze to clear, no sight I bear. I am in a mist and the mist is in me. Wind rushes through the corridors of Memory, moaning, whispering in pain and ecstasy. I am a figure in stone. The wind continues to moan. Eons pass by, I don’t question why. I feel vibrations from the other side. The waves continue to lap the shore. Sunshine warms my heart no more. The tranquil blue, the soothing green, the playful orange that leaped up at me. The Sea once more I long to feel.
The fins are at rest, the eyes downcast, the cold never thaws, but forever will last. The smile is frozen in time though the Clock continues to chime. Living flesh turned to eternal stone. Mermaid of Copenhagen is my name. I live in my mind and Wind continues to moan….

Second Skin

Days go by, sometimes white and red.
Voices keep talking, inside my head,
Some full of laughter, some full of pain.
Echoing and pounding, they stretch and strain.
I say something, they hear something else.
Opposites collide, tangents align themselves.
And when it hurts too much, I slip this skin.

The voices no longer whisper, the tears dry unshed.
The cruel whispers are silent, hopefully dead.
Silence serenades, no shouts or screams.
Colours have transformed into a beautiful, pearly sheen.
Time floats by, the day is painful no more,
Red recedes, the blue silent waves lap the shore.
I am you and you are me.

Night is coming, the sun fades away,
The mysterious moon is dawning, so ends the day.
I keep walking, whistling fragmentary tunes to myself
Suddenly someone clamps my mouth, I can’t scream help.
I am pushed roughly against a stony, dirty wall,
The stranger forces, shuttered windows, no one to call.
The hands of mine push, he slips, he falls.
The throat I claw, he thrashes, then no longer moves at all.
I see his eyes; they no longer do see mine.
Danger is gone, now I am fine.

I stand up straight, I stand up tall.
The sinful dead, another joins the Dark hall.
I start walking, the night is beautiful once more.
Whistling resumes, fragments I encore.
I look at my hands, they have blood-how could it be?
I am unhurt and yet no one I did see.
I was walking back home and no one stopped my way.
It was another uneventful, colourless day.
The voices start again, clamouring to break free.
I am you and you are me.

I sang...

Sometimes one wakes up in the morning looking at Grey. The eyes have turned monochromatic. The cold feeling stays, wrapping itself around like tendrils of ice, the fiercest rubbing cannot thaw. I am Kay, and the mirror pieces are in my heart.
The Snow Queen in her glorious magnificence is my best friend. And I celebrate “this is my December.”

Sometimes the threads of Lonliness wave in the wind like gossamer threads looking for an open,warm heart to connect to. The people walk past each other looking straight through. They see you and yet they don’t. Closed faces, hurried paces, people running their measured races. The hungry man looks for Hope, the addict for dope. I am Oliver Twist and the hunger is in my heart. Fagin with his nimble hands and many pockets is my best friend. And I celebrate “where the streets have no name”.

Sometimes the body shakes from within. The breath chokes and stops. The blood has been boiling for too long. The repressed voice strains to break free. Flashbacks of childhood on you, catharsis is unleashed. The victim is the inflictor, history repeats but you cannot see. I am Dr Jekyll and the medicine is in my veins. Hyde with his cruel visage is my best friend. And I celebrate “ a whiter shade of pale”.