Nirvanavum naanum

Holidays are dangerous for mankind. everything that mankind stands for or has strove to do so over the million odd years of our existence is put under an incredible test during the 50 odd days of freedom that every school grants to its creatures. 

no wonder we have the popular saying "an idle mind is a devil's workshop"

now, i do not intend to flatter or aggrandize myself by referring to my mind as His workshop, but during the last 10 odd days, i can safely say that i have been up to no good.

my  longtime feeling that life is dumb has been strengthened, re-vitalized, re-energized and re-affirmed by the long hours of during nothing. 

whats the whole point of this?!

07 45 hours  : sis before leaving for office. "Jicks wake up! Jicks wake up!" 

07 45 to 09 00 : exact timing depends upon whether a response is given at 07 45

     my blanket vanishes.

     my fan stops working

     earthquake aka mum trying to budge me awake 

09 00 hours : mama before leaving for office. "Jicks wake up! Jicks wake up!"

10 00 to 10 30 : The waking up rituals begin.

10 45 : Brushing time. Colgate. that white color flavour.

11 00 : the elixir of life - coffee

11 00 to 11 45 : newspaper the Hindu, the times of India, the economic times

12 00 : bath. 

12 30 : lunch

13 00 : movie

15 15: afternoon siesta

16 00 : afternoon cup of coffee.

      contemplation of what to do in the evening

16 30 : Book- fifa 09 

18 00 : Hit the road! sucks

20 00 : back home.

20 30 : dinner

20 30 to 00 00 : TV

00 00 to 01 15 : book

01 30 : shut eye

this has been my average day over the last two weeks. in this period i have considered everything from suicide to mass murder! 

This is MADDENING!

As the wise old man says enlightenment is just a stone's throw from madness.

yesterday while i was enjoying my evening dose of gutter juice also called my grandma's crap coffee, looking at the school next door....it suddenly struck me! a wave of understanding lashed across my parched soul and i achieved nirvana. the concept of the human, the thing people call athma, the reason behind this, that and everything.... i knew it. i knew it all.

the answer was always there in the back of my mind. i was amazed, appalled and intrigued by my failure to read what was right under my nose and tickling it too. 

well all 's well that end 's well. 

now that i have gone to the higher plane, you should try it out too for that is the whole point of peer pressure and this jobless blog.

remember 

3 important conditions for dummers to achieve Nirvana

1. coffee that tastes like gutter juice

2. school next door

3. hot girl in std 11 who sits by the window. 

i am planning to write a book soon, nirvana for dummers. if you are interested please book in advance.

so long earthlings.

ps : after achieving nirvana you will feel ravenous, so please ensure that you have a McRenetts closeby.

Bay of Bong

She was wearing one of those designer sleeve-less blouses, which have become a rage amongst the burgeoning middle-class of kolkata. The woman noticed my eyes on her blouse and glared at me. I hastily looked away at a Bula Di AIDS campaign poster. Bula Di was pompously declaring the wonders a condom does to one’s sex-life. I have seen this woman. Her feline eyes, thick lips and long black hair are very familiar indeed. I look around and realize that that description could describe just about any Bengali 20 year old. She is just a co-passenger in the Metro. The same I have been taking for the last 15 years from Chowringee to RAbindra Sadan. I see these faces every day. I recognize the balding weak dadu and his irritated funky grand son. I instantly notice the clerical babu making his way back home from the crowded dingy offices of Strand road, Park Street or Chowringee. I know them all. They are almost like family.

The thought of having such a large diverse family momentarily uplifts my sagging spirit. My blood family on the other hand is a deprived, depressing entity. I just have my Mrinamayi, my wife. A childhood sweetheart and a distant cousin. There was great rejoicing in the family when our parents came to know of our ‘thing’. A young and upcoming banker with a beautiful and philanthropic angel.

Many years have since passed. The young and upcoming banker is now a good for nothing banker who has been warming the same seat for the last ten years. The beautiful and philanthropic angel is now a dominating leader and aggressive leader of ‘Matitharaya’, an NGO for the rehabilitation of widows and orphaned girl children. Her physique seems to mirror her NGO s presence in Bengal - exploding every year.

Our highly hyped ‘love’ has also long breathed its last, crushed under the untenable weight of a failure of a banker and a husband. We have no children. Mrina’s womb was declared as being too weak to carry a baby. It was early in our marriage. My mother was adamant on my marrying again. I stormed out of our ancestral home in Howrah. Even today I do not venture to that part of the town, mostly due to shame of an inexcusable failure of a life. I am a man who has been caught in the vicious orb of mediocrity. A life of The Telegraph in the morning, 5 sets of shirts and trousers, 2 kurtas, yearly metro pass, savings account in SBI Tollygunge, 800 sq. feet apartment near the slums bordering the Rabindra Sarobar Lake, and now I am suffering from the most dangerous disease for my kind, Monotony.

My metro reaches Rabindra Sarobar metro station. A wave of humanity, my family, rush out of the carriage into the platform and shuffle towards the exit and merge into the sea of people, dogs, cats and the rest that call this southern part of the city of joy, their home. I buy a pack of Jal Murri for Rs.5 and trudge towards my apartment, A3, Prajyothi Apts, once a fashionable building in an upcoming locality. Now, a gloomy three storey building, badly needing a fresh coat of paint. My wife was away on one of her never-ending funding trips. Nothing new.

I make myself three rotis and eat it with acchar. I put on the television and browse through the news channels. Bandhs in Kolkata, strikes in Murshidabad, famines in the plains of Bengal, sun stroke in the coastal villages, CPM winning yet another election. Nothing new. Nothing ever changes in this state. Once a upon a time, it used to appeal as endearing. Now it just proves my conviction that Bengal is a god forsaken state, living in the past. Fighting yesterday’s battles and rejoicing past victories. It disgusts me. I switch of the television, tie the milk bag on the outer door and retire for the night. I sleep in the living room. I have long been banished from the bedroom. ‘Matitharaya’ journals and economic charts occupy my half the bed. As I drift into sleep, the old grand father clock strikes ten times. I hate that sound. I sleep.