How do I feel?

Somebody asked me how am i feeling today. As is the norm with our species, i didn't offer him the whole truth. "Fine" was the answer he expected and "Fine" was what he got. If it were a different world where people said what they really felt like—or more importantly, what needs to be shared—i would have elaborated on why i'm not "Fine". I might have informed him how i usually feel like an overcrowded fast train that's moving slowly. And not going anywhere in particular. Also, i wake up every morning as if i had undergone rigorous imprisonment during my sleep. My mirror had seen better faces. Of mine. Sometimes i feel like that invisible hand pushing me over the cliff. But i don't fall down because i have better days ahead... to address worse things. At times, i turn cold and blank and don't understand what's going on around me. I try to stay grounded and not get caught talking to myself. The voices in my head are amusing but they never let me interrupt them. Whatever be the reason, they just don't understand me. Sometimes i feel emptier than my bank account. I've spent better days in poetry when my verses made me the richest jerk on the planet. This was before i decided to dive into media. No wait, this was before i decided to dive into engineering. Every once in a while, my past relieves me and allows me moments to cherish. Instead of holding them close to myself, i squander them on creating one-liners i don't believe in. More often than not, I don't agree with a lot of theories floating around but i'm loath to confrontations. That explains why i don't defend myself, online or offline. However, there are instances when I can go on and on about what i could have said instead of just "Fine".

Bengali trial

Something has been going on in Bangladesh for quite some time now. People spilled out onto the streets not because they are worried about their future but because they don't want their past to be falsely represented. It's not a revolution though. Far from it, in fact. It seems apt the honour it deserves. Without getting into the nitty-gritties of this South Asian aberration—if you will—let's look at the bigger picture. No matter what happens there, B'desh will always be known as a Muslim majority nation. Albeit it's true, we must acknowledge the ground realities and distinctions between a Muslim and the Arab culture. Most of the time, they are confused to be similar. (One doesn't have to look very far for a taste of this historical baloney. By the way, the country on our west is paying an exorbitant price for the same.) To rub it in, the case doesn’t help either when a lot of these so-called Islamic countries actually aspire to be counted as an extended version of Arabs themselves. On the very contrary, Bangladesh is firmly rooted in its indigenous culture, languages (yes, there are other tongues spoken too apart from Bengali) and outlook. The restless days and nights at Shahbag Chowk in Dhaka rechristened as Projonmo Chottor or New Generation Circle where mostly young B’deshis are craving for the death of the main 1971 war crimes accused is an example. Notably, most of them haven’t witnessed the ghastly acts that eventually led to liberation. And it doesn't matter as they are hellbent on removing the stains of the past. This movement shows that there's much more to come. Especially with the youth reasserting its identity and a not-so-pleasant election on its way.

One love, two forearms

Today stands for everything loneliness sits on. In case if you are in Afghanistan, it's Valentine's Day. One of the finest outcomes of human civilization. In fact, second only to material consumerism. However, there are forever-alones lurking on this planet who don't know what to do with themselves on this specific day. Better put, they don't know what role they play—if at all, that is—in the grand schemes of romantic permutations. You can't blame them. They are singles who've got nothing to do with tennis. Their singledom manifests itself in their hands every now and then. Or fingers. Whatever. So apparently, the worst part about being single is you are single. At least it appears that way from the outside. If you're poor too, then God bless you! Being single and broke might teach you invaluable lessons in microfinancing but it doesn't provide the economy with the much-need love-me-love-you boost it annually requires in February, you see? And it is quite bizarre to celebrate Valentine's Day when you pretend to be deeply in love with yourself. You just don't know what to do. You can't blend in. That is passé. So what do you do? You become invisible to the choices that lie ahead of you. For instance, you download movies that got nominated at Oscars. You download movies that got criminally snubbed at Oscars. You somehow go through the day ignoring the colour red that dominates the visuals on your streets and in office. You wonder whether you should start sniffing around as well. Maybe it's just a one-day phase and you won't need someone tomorrow. However, single life is difficult when both your forearms hate you. 

“You are too awesome to be single!” - a girl you like who is not single

PS: Dear penis, happy Valentine's Day.

Maa

Heaven doesn't exist. Mothers do. They are and shall always be the purest form of love. Perhaps love was discovered by a mother as her heart wears no boundary. Besides, nobody knows you better than your mother. And there's no point in asking her whether she's proud of you. She is and will always be, no matter how great a douchebag you've become. He keeps telling her "Some day you'll be proud of me!" to which she smiles—as mothers usually do. As selfless as her mind.

                                                                   *****

The poor mother looks at her son in amazement and wonders where has her innocent lil' boy disappeared. This was the very kid who used to point at her tummy whenever someone asked him "Where are you from?". To him, his mother has grown old now whereas to her, he remains a newborn. From a very young age, he knew we belonged to our mothers more than anything else. Birth might have separated him from her but a child actually never leaves the mother's body. As tranquil as her lap. You appreciate her more when she's gone. For more details, get in touch with those who've lost her.
                                                                    *****
No matter how short the barber crops your hair, she will always find them long. To her, you are the most eligible bachelor. For good or worse, an Indian mother loves reminding you that she's your mother and there's a bigger chance of her inquiring "What?" instead of "Who's that lucky girl?" when you mention your marital intentions. As intrusive as her concerns. Once you settle down, you'll realize that she is present in your behaviour too. Turns out the risky habit of telling everything to your wife is cultivated during those years spent close to dear mama.

                                                                   ***** 

As nourishing as her hands. Single or married, the burden on a woman pretty much remains the same. Kitchen often becomes her coveted part of home. In there, she works harder than the exhaust fan. Well, she deserves air-conditioned kitchen with no noise or steam to deal with. Almonds are good for her provided you have them. She cares for you as if her life depended on it. A mother straightaway fetches her children a glass of water whereas they ask her whether she needs a glass of water. Difference. 

                                                                   *****

Why are they the way they are and why aren't we the way we're supposed to be? As unblemished as her intentions. Worrying is their favourite pastime. She laughs at the lil' boy's jokes, not because they were always funny, but because she thinks she's responsible for his happiness. He may turn out to be a crappy stand-up someday but it's OK for the time being. In an ideal world, we'd be celebrating Mother's Day on a daily basis. Better still, we'd be celebrating Mother's Day and Labour Day on the very same day. Ahem. Those who have a problem don't celebrate their birthdays, right?

Cheated by God

If not smiles, then Almighty is in our tears. That's certainly how it looks like...from a distance! I may not be fond of religious activities today (much to my old ma's chagrin) but once upon an innocent time, I was a regular temple-visitor. Often accompanied by her, I used to be at my disciplined best once I entered the holy sanctum. No running around or screaming like an orangutan in a boat. I naturally assumed that it must be a sin to fart too. I used to chant the same pray-for-others-before-you-pray-for-yourself Tulu prayer my grandmother taught me. But neither those words nor those visits allowed me to befriend God. However, that particular miracle happened when I started showing up at the place-that-heals all alone. On my own. Since I didn't have an elder brother to 'protect' me from bullies (though I never thought I was supposed to mean the same to my younger brother) at school, I often confided in the dark Hindu idols. In the long run, my God was to become aware of all my dirty secrets which usually involved stealing money (from dad), stationery (from classmates), chalks (from teachers) and glances (from neighbours). Since I presumed He (yea, it was a colossal gender mistake but in my defense, I was barely eight) should know everything, I told him everything. There were days when I used to sit in front of him and cry inconsolably. He was my official shrink with superpowers. Though he never showed a sign of interest in me, I never gave up on Him. As the months passed by, I was growing tired of being. Finally, I delivered two options: either turn me into a grown-up or help me disappear at will. Stupid me. The Bastard conned me as I neither grew up nor became the invisible human who never was.

Oxymorons

Responsible tweets. Human interest. Small talks. Liberal politics. Fully empty. National conscience. Wintry Mumbai. Normal people. Ideal journalism. Porn review. Political will. Permanent denture. Wasted existence. Bollywood actors. Dignified silence. Perfect couple. Private wedding. Deep thinking. Civilized world. Bad music. Foreseeable future. Real life. Health-conscious graveyard-shifter. Public property. Organized religion. Better job. Human dignity. Democratic consensus. Pragmatic philosophy. Accomplished artist. Offensive jokes. Ethical internet. Evergreen mangroves. Clean chit. Gender equality. Innocent folks. Food security. Original idea. Free press. Oil reserves. Fearless souls. Human secrets. Soul mates. Human instincts. Imminent death. Slow train. Dead serious. Religious humanist. Horrible sonnet. Pure vegetarian. Intellectual masturbation. Progressive Taliban. Timeless clock. Predictable economics. Glorious war. Senseless killing. Tender coconut. Wise parliamentarian. Closet moron. Non-performing assets. Cheerful oxymoron.

PS: There are one-word oxymoron too. Popular terms like kaamchor, life, Hindu, austerity, minority and justice don't need another word in front or back of them to enter the exclusive Oxymoron Club.

Protesting against oneself

Your station is approaching and you're peeking out of the window. You know you've got to get down. But you somehow don't. You stay seated as if you're protesting against yourself. You don't have the will to move your ass and leave the compartment for good. Maybe you're too elated to have finally 'earned' a window seat and you don't want to relinquish it. Moreover, you don't even care that if you fail to act within the allotted 18 seconds, you'll have to get down at the next station. And commute back home. However, the countdown begins. Mumbai's local trains, like time and tide, stops for none. You keep looking out of the window, staring into the nothingness that makes you travel between this point and that. You don't even know anymore what is nice and what's unnice. You don't expect anything interesting to happen to your existence. Your friends from school are yet to stare out of the window. Or maybe they are better off in some other place where humanity is not humiliated in overcrowded public transports. You are one of the zombies now and you've accepted your future. You're probably never going to walk and explore or stand and stare. You've learnt that your life is going to rattle on the railway tracks within the periphery of this godsmitten city. You'll never escape the loud throes that engulfs everybody on this island nor will you ever travel alone again. You'll always be in the company of strangers who smell worse than you. They'll be called your co-passengers and they shall fight for those imaginary fourth seats that lie in front of them. With such fellow-morons around, perspiration will become your act of silent defiance. You must surrender yourself to make it or else you'll be left behind. On the platform. Outside the train. The city is not to be blamed nor are its inhabitants. If you really wanted to break free, you would have. By now.