Happy

I am sad in the sunlight
I am sad in the rain 
I am sad and insignificant 
Like a sand grain.

And sometimes, sometimes 
When I invade your mind, 
You are happy, happy, 
Happy and blind. 

Synedoche life

I have often wondered about all the stories that I have observed in the virtual world- the stories observed through the casual observation of one's news feed. The story of the budding writer, the tagging poet, the witty one line king, the selfie queen, the hash tag princess, the politically snobbish economist, the dreamy literature girl, a salman loving body builder, lonely football fanatics, make up artists , happy go luckies, intellectuals, post post modern playwrights, undergraduate day politicians, eight time activists, reborn intellectuals, funny lads, goddamn photographers, just people, people, etc. etc. a diverse range of people everyone vocal in their own right -expressing, reexpressing arguing whose world this is, who belongs here, who stabs, and prints and generates wonder and attention, who wins, who does not, who makes more friends in a chair, without moving, who engages who reengages, who represents culture, who reinvents the status quo, who is a feminist who is not- who- me- you- I-
All the paraphernalia of information and wisdom, emotions, morality, that I have casually obeserved hardly touches me at all- these days I forget casually what words mean, I always do; what I see here always gets washed in another flurry of reinvented identities and representatons.

I think I know now, our virtual lives can never be a synedoche of our lives, our virtual lives can just be a dishonest memoir of our true lives, our true lives will always hide in the silent honesty of nights and the secrecy of our dreams.

The psychology of Lovers

Cat, you are beautiful and I love you, but you don't care.
Dog, I love you and you love me.
Dog, would you be my
cat?

-The psychology of lovers

Honduras e Hahakar?

Recently, I saw this Twitter hashtag 'Modi in Mongolia' which reminded me of Lalmohan Ganguly (-a famous character, for all of you who have not read Satyajit Ray), and his apparently 'lomhorshok' novels that could be judged by its catchy alliterating names.

Nothing can ever surpass the sheer hilarity of the name 'Honululu te Hahakar', and I have often wondered what could the novel be about. (I do not remember Feluda and co. discussing its material, so as a geology student, lately I have been inclined to wonder if it were about some apocalyptic volcanic activity of the Hawaiian islands.)

Modi in Mongolia could be about an espionage agent send to snub off any future Mongol invasions that may threaten the Hindurashtra.

P.S. Honululu would be Honduras. Are there volcanoes too?

Summer Winter whining

In Summerlands, before the invention of air-conditioning earthly life indeed were pretty bearable with just cool water and Glucon-D, and a shade of a tree for instance. Some of you are too young, urban or posh to know a time like that. Also, before the invention of Facebook, earthly-life (me?) wasn’t smart enough to know that most people always whined over the same old things-summer, winter, winter summer, relationships.
One day life with all its ‘enlightenedness’ decided to whine itself, in retrospect it did sound smart, but you know life; with all its stupidities and verbosity it always overprints any of its witty traits. It kind of sounded like this-

“You greenhouse gas pumping puny things, in Earth I always try to rise, with you doing everything to make that not happen. When would you ever learn that the Universe is a fucking cold and dead place, it’s awfully huge and without any sign of my other siblings as you know, so least you sissies can do is appreciate me in silence and bear the seasonal warmth of your average sized- friendly-neighborhood star, that technically invigorates you all. If not, go live in Mars. (Or go off Facebook, please?)”

Gopalpur on the Sea

The hotel where we have checked in has a little staircase that leads straight to the beach. An old man who writes stories owns this place, he saw us last night while we were up on the roof singin and dancin merry songs with the waves. He was quiet and just sat on his chair. He must have seen many before like us- vain youths, aloof in our escape. Beside the hotel there's a ruin that once stood tall and wide and perhaps had arched gateways whose skeletal remains still stand inviting the best of the romantics.
Romance is mostly adorned with reality that we choose to ignore, you know, and this morning when I took my camera out to take some snapshots of the ruins, I found out quite a few people in there, answering nature's bigger calls- some were singing along with the waves, some were dancing (possibly), a singing-dancing latrine in the shore of the world- romantic in its own light,
no?

Dreams one morning

It's kind of funny how dreams make a mockery of my insecurities, how it always cooks up scenes of all the unlikely people I have ever lost, all the things that I am about to lose. Sometimes I feel, reality is much better than these images of falsified nostalgia that are set in a surreal landscape filled with the omen of loss and retribution. She was in there, reading her book or chatting up with a friend, she was in my dream sitting on the railway tracks. I wonder if she has ever done that in real life- sat on a railway track to giggle a bit, and so I wondered when was the last time we sat and talked- that's what these dreams do, they make you remember things best forgotten and so it happens for a while, the pain and nostalgia bit and then it's all over in flurry of reality that is so very unforgiving to anyone who dares to dream on.