The Deep Cut

I have always been severely judged in the way that I talk. "What is that, a colonial hangover?" I've been asked. When I moved from a city in northern India to the eastern part of the country, my first reaction was "Wow! I can't have spoken secrets now. Everyone here speaks Bengali!" - which blew my mind. I suddenly found myself relatable to the kids in the neighborhood. They spoke the same language, confided secrets in similar tongues in to their mother's ears and listened to similar reprimands from their fathers, just like the 10 year-old me. I made friends - who quickly became my closest friends - perhaps because I connected with them more personally, our mother tongue being the common factor here. Soon I developed a childhood crush on this girl who, among other common friends back then, was the only one who spoke Bengali and we used to go out skating in the evenings, hide together for hide'n seek and row together on imaginary lifeb

R emember the days when watching TV was associated with a looming guilt? 'Mumma-Papa are not home yet, let's steal some minutes of TV' - I bet I was not the only one to get such cheap thrills back in the late 90s. "Go play outside" they'd say. We were frequently reminded of the idea that watching TV is a lazy and time-wasting investment. We tend to associate with that idea time and again, when we say we 'binge-watched' something! As if to say that we have something better to do with our lives. And to be realistic, they were correct. We did have better things to do than to watch TV. If you ask me, the last time we were glued to a TV set, it was when we had 'Hum Paanch', 'Sarabhai vs Sarabhai', 'Dekh Bhai Dekh', 'Office Office', 'Disney Hour', 'Small Wonder' and 'F.R.I.E.N.D.S' among many others. And then suddenly, the idiot box got corrupted with scripted soap operas that focused less

This will be an extremely personal post, so don't go reading into it too much if you don't particularly like the sorts. Remember I warned you! __________________________________________________________________________________________________________ There are times when you feel utterly hopeless. Like whatever you have done, or are doing, would ultimately amount to nothing. That in the whole seventy plus years you've lived or would perhaps live, and all the work that you've done or would do, they would simply not matter in the end. That you would not matter. Your life wouldn't matter, like so many everyday. Your name wouldn't be remembered. You wouldn't be remembered. That however much you've tried doing things against that, you've ended up achieving nothing. How can anyone live knowing that? Yesterday I went to the market to get some eggs, 'Dada, I'll buy the entire tray. We'll be having guests tonight!' I added, w

I have few of the finest childhood memories associated with certain movies. Movies like the 1998 Hollywood-made Godzilla, Star Wars: Episode I - The Phantom Menace, Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone and a couple more associate themselves to the times of when I was a lonely kid living in a Dickensian hostel. These movies had released in the time when I was that starry-eyed little guy out to discover science fiction and some damn good animation in contemporary movies. Notice how I make it sound a little too intense? Well, so ever since I saw the trailer of the 2014 redoing of Godzilla, I've sworn upon myself to watch it within the first week of it's release. It wasn't about the stars (Brian Cranston was always supposed to do justice), or the mayhem, or the artistic improvements (Mothra became M.U.T.O. and we thank God for that), or the original interpretations dating back to the Japanese origins of Gojira either. It was for the very reason that made thi

I have come to realize that my parents must've had some really bad confidant during the time I was born. Otherwise why on earth would they give a go ahead for me to be named Arindam at the age of only a couple of days? Do I, or did I ever look like an Arindam? Ughh. Arindam! So I have a problem. And before you say anything that falls along the lines of 'I told you so' please let me clarify. I've come to realize that my name wasn't always what it is now known as, to everyone. At some point of time, my parents had casually listened to some relative and had me   named  Arindam. Ughh. Arindam! What comes to your mind when you think of someone with the name Arindam? What indeed?

Its only natural, given the current state of affairs, that I promise to finish writing this post before ushering this New Year in and watch myself fail miserably. For  the delay , I beg your pardon and show the middle finger to the judgmental ones among you all the same. Christmas is long over and a change is in the air. Scientifically speaking, the day is getting longer than the night, which is a bad thing to happen to people like me! No, I'm not an Orc. Just an insomniac blogger with a self-proclamatory good taste in music. Well, where am I going with this anyway? Oh yes, change. The whole second half of last year was about welcoming 'change' and adapting to it. Lets start with a change in the playlist, shall we? 'Daughters' by John Mayer, now!

With his retirement, it almost feels as if our favorite childhood memories are being yanked away from us. The fact doesn't sink in yet, even though we witnessed the God of cricket getting emotional yesterday. As he has always been in his career that lasted almost a quarter of a century, Sachin Tendulkar was honest and moving even in his farewell address . Just two months past my birth, Sachin Tendulkar made his debut in international cricket. So in a way, I'm one of those blessed millions who grew up watching his cricket. I wasn't too conscious to notice the number of matches that took him to score his first century, but I do remember the times thereafter when they had become a habit. It is hard to comprehend without tears in my eyes that he won't be playing for India - for it's people, for us - no more. For me, it is like one of the few remaining connections to our childhood is being forcefully withdrawn. Withdrawn into the annals of the history books. Immort

I've always believed in a particularly enigmatic method of time-travel. And before you abjure this piece of information raising doubts on it's credibility, I'd put forward another claim. That you'll believe me when I explain. Smell. Indoor smell, to be specific. "Smell is a potent wizard that transports you across thousands of miles and all the years you have lived." - Helen Keller I've always had an intensified sense of smell. When I was little, I would go about taking everything in with my nose in a dilettantish manner. Little did I know that a long time after that, those scents would come back stalking, haunting and frequenting their way into emotions every unwary moment of reminiscence. I could smell interesting odours, uplifting aromas and soothing fragrances from miles away, but I could never smell trouble that was but only two inches away from my face! My earliest memories of scent is one of the most common memories for all. Its th

It is that time of year, when the national dress code for guys is a skin-tight shorts, borrowed from the rickshaw-puller's son who lives nearby. On top, you display your manly shaven/unshaven chest out to the world. If unshaven, the chest-hair should be of contrasting bright colours - such as magenta, yellow or sea green - if shaven, then this chain of thought is rendered pointless. The vest that used to be, better known as baniyan (no Noelle, not banyan. That's a tree!), is so deformed that you use it as a belt instead. Your flip-flops are torn but you're unwilling to let them go.. But then all that don't matter, because you're coloured entirely in black, filthy green and silver and it won't be making any difference to an unassuming onlooker, even if you go naked right now. The festival of colours, ladies and gentlemen, is an official license for people to launch a colourful assault on each other. And it always brings back sweet, and some bitter-swee

In a first, the worst book I've ever read, got converted into an excellent on screen adaption!  Kai Po Che . 3 Mistakes of My Life. Reading the book was my first big mistake, but thankfully watching the movie wasn't. In fact, to a certain extent, Chetan Bhagat redeemed himself. But then we always knew that the novelist would do better as a Bollywood screenplay writer, didn't we? I mean, my friend Abhirup has already thought of the placement of songs (1 comic, 2 romantic, 1 bromantic, 1 sad, 1 item number and 1 song on national integration) for his novel Two States, written on the great Indian matrimony scenario. His best till now. The story was a little paced, but that happens when its an adaption. Look what happened to the Dan Brown adaptations - compared to the books, the movies, with their alternate explanations, turned out of a lesser quality. '3 Mistakes..' was originally meant to be a tragedy, as it should, with all the cataclysmic events that weste

What shit! Don't tell me these puny looking, fragile, 11-year old kids are living alone, without their parents, in a crazily- disciplined hostel, run by saffron-donned monks? Seemingly yes, they are. And what's worse? Even we have lived like that in our times. Sorry, but I can digest this piece of self-rediscovery, only because I've been through it.. I visited my older school, one with the hostel, after about 5 years. 6 years after passing out, as an alumni. It was a strange feeling, as I had gone on a guardian meeting day - the only specified Sundays, when parents are allowed to see their wards. Standing on the other side of the fence, I realized how eagerly the kids on the other side were waiting to meet their mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, uncles, aunts or other local guardians. The eagerness was depressing and sad. Suman tried to steer the feeling to that of being funny, by pointing out to a weird, baby-faced, bespectacled kid , musing, 'If that kid sudde

Not many of you may still be bathroom singers now. But nearly all of you would have been bathroom dancers as kids. Am I wrong? No, I'm not including you here, Mr. ultra-nerd kid! You were, perhaps, thinking how dense the liquid (called water) is, over your brain, which is actually denser! What all you did in the bathroom, tell me.. as a kid, and an innocent one at that! Like my Mama's son here.. innocent, taking bath in the ultra-huge bathtub! Whenever we went to Jhansi, me and my cousin brother Anshu used to plead my dad to get the thing - I dunno what to call it - the container with the atomizing sprayer coming out of it from one side, used to water the plants - a shower kind, for the veggies. A flower-shower. Veggie-shower. Yes, that. To fill it with water and pour on us. It was a time, when there was no regular water-supply available in the dry, water-starved Bundelkhand region. The city of Jhansi, included. And thus having a shower in the bathroom would ha

There is a 28-year old orangutan at the Allen Forest Zoo in Kanpur. He was a friend.. When we used to live there, Kanpur was a lesser polluted city perhaps. And the part of town we used to stay in, was a niche in its own.. The area in our backyard was a sprawling forest covering a significant area, and deep within it was a meandering canal named Thandi pulia.. Thandi, for the place was at least 5 degrees cooler than the city itself! And beyond it, on the other end of the woods, were ruins of a hospital for the lepers. I have never been there, but I have heard about it from my mom.. The forest was a measure of quarantine in earlier times of the hospital. Now it stands desolate.. For reasons such as proximity, I was made familiar with considerably-wild animals (if not tigers!) from a very young age.. I would have almost learnt the timely calls of peacocks and other birds and what they meant had I lived there any longer; I was however, familiar with the timely visits made by

To err is human, but to badly err, is but being a kid! The following incident dates back to the time when I was a lively little kid, full of life and with proper sets of teeth. That was long before growing up sucked the life out of me! This was the time when interviews meant telling your name, talk about your hobbies and maybe tell your parent's name, a couple of 'answer-in-yes-or-no' questions and the rest were to be handled by mum and dad. Back in the year 1996, I was changing my school from a preparatory school to one primary school. And all I had to do was show my face, blabber a bit and pass the interview. 'Don't do anything stupid and you'll pass easy..' consoled my dad before the interview. I had no idea what stupid thing I could do, but I guess wetting the pants could have been an option to ponder upon in that young age, but NOT ME! I was the superman in such trivial occasions. Interview? HA! Piece of cake.. The school in Allahabad, w

'Egg or Idli?' Mess food. Even if I had not been informed of the menu, I'd have guessed it's redundant contents for breakfast.. However, the way the word 'Idli' was pronounced, made me look up. It was different, the way I couldn't exactly place it anywhere. I placed the egg carefully on my plate beside the bread and asked the guy to give some butter. He stared at me momentarily.. or my iPod, I think. I look back at the kid standing behind the barred window with a bucket full of jam. He could hardly be 10 years old. He seemed tall for his age and stuck out like a black smudge on a white shirt. I couldn't help but notice how awkward he looked. For one, his clothes were too big. It looked like he was swimming in them rather than wearing them. And his eyes were too wide, his mouth too small, his nose just a little bit crooked, as if his face didn't quite match his head. I smiled, rather to him than at him, but that probably raised the c

'How many tuition-classes does your son attend?' asked a mother of my classmate-to-be while I was inside, giving an admission test to get into one of the finest institutions (as was told to my dad), that the schools in Kolkata have ever bowed down to. The question was however, aimed at my mom. And she replied, with a mild hint of amusement and pride, 'None.. We recently have shifted to Kolkata, so we didn't have time for one anyways. But he's never been in any tuition before..' To her surprise, the reply was met by suppressed laughter and grunts and smiles and apparent sarcasm. 'My son has been training for this admission test for the last 2years.' replied the other woman. She was proud too, utterly eclipsing the similar hint my mom had made for the exact opposite reason! The other mothers sitting there spoke up, almost synchronized, about the length of time their wards had prepared under a number of teachers from the same school and ex-school