Ekla Chalo. Knot.

The recently inaugurated event Maitree Bandhan—a joint initiative by the Times of India and Prothom Alo, a leading Bangladeshi daily, to explore cross-cultural camaraderie—went more or less unnoticed. Understandably, it doesn’t have the aura that Aman ki Asha has (or had?) but it’s a brave campaign and a much-needed alarm. There is this undeniable call for deeper interaction with a country with which we not only share the longest land boundary but also linguistic and cultural ties. Hence it’s necessary to bring these aspects to a broader public consciousness, especially to the non-Bengali spread of India.

Also, typecasting Bangladesh as just a Bengali-speaking nation would be more myopic than tagging India as a Hindu state. B’desh, like us, harbours some very complex cells that presumably hinder her homogeneity. She hosts many ethnicities, common to both of us, including the indigenous Santals, Khasi, Garo, Meithei, Tripuri/Kokborok, Kuki/Mizo/Lushai, Chakma, etc. These commonalities better not to be overlooked. On the cultural front, both Rabindra Sangeet and Nazrul Geeti are wholeheartedly venerated on either side of the border.

So what needs to be done? A lot. Like enhance communication, trade and trust. But that’s not it. A lot more needs to be done. Likewise, the same goes for our other immediate neighbors: Pakistan, Nepal, China, Sri Lanka, Myanmar and Bhutan.

The Curious Case of Perfection

She is perhaps the greatest actress of our time. She had been part of some of the finest movies ever produced. She personifies a thespian’s flawlessness. She can sing, dance and play musical instruments, not to mention enact her characters. She works hard on recreating accents. She is that angel from America not many chit-chat about. She once left Sophie with no choice. She burned the bridges of Madison County, got out of Africa and then slipped into Marvin’s room—all within a span of few hours. She made the Devil wear Prada. She even cast a doubt on the pedophilic Catholic establishment. She provided voice to an ant, a vixen and a fairy. She managed to cause Robert De Niro fall in love with her during the age of deer-hunting on mountain. She recently made an iron lady quiver. She, for all her efforts, has been nominated by the Academy on a record 17 different occasions. She, for all her efforts, has won it just twice. She seems destined to add one more to the list shortly. She’s in no rush to retire. She is barely 62. She stays beautiful and makes sure her art turns more beautiful than she does. She got married way back in ‘78. She is still married to that same guy. She has four children with him. She didn’t have to Kramer any of them. She balances personal and professional life sans controversy. She effectively brought the mother out of Julia. She could have portrayed as Julia Roberts' daughter—not because the latter looks old but because the former can—in the upcoming movie adaptation of August: Osage County. She’s as brilliant as they come…. never to leave. She once nearly inspired me to become an actress. She is Meryl Streep.

An untitled work of molested art

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Attention: Whoever penned the following magnum opus is definitely not a poet. Whoever thinks otherwise deserves to be my friend.
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A poem badly written remains so
Whether the scribbler likes it or no
Words throw jibes at his perseverance
While verses struggle to make sense
Sometimes the ideas turn renegade too
As emotions are denied and stanzas rue
During such moments, life is like a simile
Cut loose from figure of speech with glee
Under the wall of ceaseless expectations
Over the bridge of limited conventions
Nowhere to go yet left all loose
Lacking humour it can so damn use
Meanwhile, an innocent page stays old-schooled
For rhyme’s sake, poetry gets fooled.

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P.S.: It feels so great to be friends with folks having such bad taste in literature!
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Awwwww, that was cute!

Being the reticent person that my amma is, she doesn’t reveal much. I mean, word-wise. Seldom would she come up with entertaining anecdotes. She’s way too busy for emotional trite. She is a robot. I mean, work-wise. Unlike most of my friends’ moms I know, she finds respite in chores. If there isn’t any, she’ll invent one and get going with it. With such a slogger at home, things are meant to be difficult for a born slacker like me—and it certainly is.

But this morning, something changed. In ways I can’t explain, age seemed to be catching up with her. At least a little bit. She shared a humorous incident that happened in 1989. My younger brother was slightly more than a year old then and asked amma to open her mouth. She was having a chocolate which he earnestly took out with his tiny fingers and popped into his own mouth and walked away. This made her laugh alone heartily almost 23 years ago. This made us laugh together heartily almost 23 years later.

…...since time memorial

Memory is a retirement fund not everyone gets to cash on. If your observation serves you well, your memory never served you in the first place AS IT'S NOT YOUR SLAVE! It is the other way around. Your memory vividly remembers who you are. You may not do so as your mind loves playing weird games. On this confusing note, my dad often jokes that he doesn’t remember the day he married my mom. He even goes on to claim that he can’t even recollect the circumstances that led to their union. Needless to say, this always gets my mom seething but in the end she laughs it away. And my dad moves on to his next bad joke. End result: A good sense of humour saves a family from futile arguments. Perhaps the savior here is age, not one’s ability to maintain calm. Some call it common sense. Others call it wisdom. But this phenomenon seeps in at a price—paid in terms of years and inexperiences. You wisen up enough when to stay quiet and when not to chortle. Along the same line, when time’s busy running memory helps a lot in slowing things down a bit. During such slo-mo moments, it's quite difficult to keep in touch with reality. Fictional characters and events crop up and begin to roam around in your head. And on this confusing note (again), what if my dad isn’t joking?

More than a lifetime of incidents to recall; More than a lifetime of illusions to maul.

People, meet Saturday; Saturday, meet People

The last time I blogged from office was on a Friday, more than a year ago. And today, this runty post is being dedicated to a day which doesn't get the kind of attention it deserves—all thanks to its fixture between the Big F and the Big S—something it shall have to live with for as long as human race exists. To make situation worse, Fridays and Sundays are designed in such a way that we actually start looking forward to the well-hidden positives of life. To top it all, the idea of killing oneself rarely happens on a weekend. (Yeah, Freud, Hemmingway and Marilyn would strongly disagree!) No wonder people thank God for Fridays as well as Sundays but someway manage to overlook Saturdays. This negligence on our part leads to vengeance on theirs. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that ennui took birth on a bright Saturday afternoon. Thus the resulting ambiance is so dull on this particular day that it doesn’t matter whether a person is at home or at work. Sometimes it even forces Baz Luhrmann to change Sunscreen’s lyrics from 'idle Tuesday' to 'idle Saturday'. The reason behind this disorder lies in an inferiority complex Saturday suffers from that Sunday isn’t aware of. Notwithstanding these hebdomadal baloney, Saturday takes comfort in the presumption that people spend Sundays trying not to think of Mondays. After all, Saturday is just a Sunday away from Monday. And before we realize it, someone will change Saturday into Sunday into Monday.

An agenda against procrastination

I’m sick of everything I am as well as I’m not. But things will change very soon. From tomorrow onwards, I’ll be a new person. With a broader outlook, no-nonsense attitude and a better vision. To begin with, I’ll wake up with the cold sun and go for jogging. (The reason why I've never attempted this stunt before is I feared I may not come back and keep running the way Forrest Gump did.) Then I’ll return home and practise some breathing exercises that I used to when I was an amoeba. This will be followed by a soul-rinsing hot bath. If I survive that, I’d be having an intelligent breakfast in place of the regular healthy one. And by this, I don’t mean idli. Trust a South Indian when he postulates, “Idli doesn’t make you anymore idligent than you already are.” After this, I’ll read aloud any Rimbaud poem at hand and pretend to understand its depth. I won’t pay attention to the newspapers lying on the table. They aren’t worth my short attention span. I’ll then change the course of human history by promptly leaving for office in my usual blue cap, blue tee, blue jeans and blue sandals. In the crowded train, I’ll try to help someone get off the bogey against his wish. I owe people this much kindness. In the meantime, my mind will be an orchard bearing fruits of sanguinity with a scent of humility. I won’t be moved by the depressing sight of a beggar nor would I care to bargain with him. I haven’t figured out how but I’ll avoid ricocheting every obstacle that appears on my path. Once in office, I’ll offload my creativity onto the desk instead of Twitter or Facebook. I’ll smile less and laugh more at colleagues from other departments who ponder why I do that in the first place. (For the record, so do I!) While leaving, I’ll be the face of productivity. And on reaching home, I’ll make sure I don’t waste time going through what tweeps think are opinion or what facebookers believe is cool. On the contrary, I’ll watch at least two movies back-to-back, intervaled by a warm lonely dinner. And then I’ll go to sleep hoping for a nocturnal emission with Malèna in lieu of the usual Tristana. All the aforementioned plans are prone to alterations but overall, they shall prove my existence more meaningful and organized. Like always. From tomorrow onwards.