While Spring Stays...

06^th February, 2016.

Hello humans! My fellow companions to hell! How do you fare? Ah, let me take a wild guess here, you fare well! Either that or you are feeling the untimely heat of February which I cannot help.

Speaking of February, spring is here. Or summer! I am not very sure, never was. Spring is that one season that arrives out of the blues and rushes out with a strange exaltation, leaving me (don’t know about others) stranded to face the blazing sun and the nightmarish heat. It has been so for the last few decades, and I always fail to catch up. I guess that’s a fault rendered by the elementary education and silly Hindi songs talking about the dreamy ambience of spring with bees and butterflies and new leaves and blooming buds and whatnot. I am not denying them, they may happen, but as I said, I always miss it out. Or maybe I don’t. I miss the physical realm of it, I never see bees buzzing about or the roses bloom, but that’s just physicality of the season, which is fine by me. I mean, if spring is just to be marked by a silly date or a number of absurd factors, then I apologize, I am not your guy. But ask me if I feel it around, ask me if my heart races suddenly and I smile without any reason, remembering something I ought to forget and ask me if I look at the sky for no good reason, I would give you a story to tell. I assume a lot of people do that and I guess they are to be appreciated. People who smile for no reason are more amazing than anything, because they feel something that others don’t. I do that a lot.

Geez! I am trying to write, but this is one of those moments when my brain goes for a walk and won’t return easily and the ‘intellectual’ void is too big to fill. It’s like this gap which you really want to fill and you brainstorm, but all you get is flashbacks of silly cat videos, cheesy Bhojpuri songs that can lead you to perpetual dementia with its auto-tune and vulgar innuendos, for which you will either lament or you will slam you head, to get some good idea for writing. As of right now, all I am getting is the renaissance, the glorious revolution, and the stupidity of doing journalism when everything is bought and sold, and for good reasons, I cannot write them together. But I can do this...

Aazad farishton ko qaid kiya maine,

Gulistan-e-firdaus ko jalaya maine,

Tere liye.

Khuda ke inaayat ko thukraya maine,

Uske hukm ko namanzoor kiya,

Uski marzi ko jhuklaya maine,

Tere liye.

Chahta toh tujhe bhi rok leta,

Teri fariyaadon ko darkinaar kiye,

Tujhe bhi qaid kar leta,

Par jaane do,

Apne haathon ek aur jahannam banane ki khwahish

Nahi thi mujhe.

Jalte hue khwabon ko aur jalaake,

Tujhe jane diya,

Tere liye.

So, there, a stupid verse for you all to read and enjoy, while spring still stays.

Tada!

Hate.

Hate.

They hated each other.

He hated her,

she was the reason

for each burning cigarette.

She hated him,

he was her justification

for every empty glass.

It was she, who made his fingers bleed,

on the steel strings of his guitar.

It was he, who made her color palette

diluted on the white canvas.

Poisoned to the bones,

they hated each other,

relentlessly, vehemently

and

unknown to each other.

Just Something.

I found this...letter somewhere on the internet. Thought I would it share it, since I have nothing else to do I guess.

"January 31, 2016
I’ve read, watched and heard about heartache. They said it hurts like needles to your chest and your head feels heavy. You feel like breaking down into tiny pieces that seem impossible to put back together.
But I think tonight is one of those nights when I am feeling it. I can hear loud shrieking sounds in the silence of my room. I can vividly listen to the sound of my tears rolling down my cheeks and my breathing getting heavier with every memory that flashes in my head. I know I’m shouting and crying in vain inside of me but I’m not making any sound because I’m afraid someone will get to know what’s happening to me. I’m trying to tell myself that this is just a matter of a few more minutes but I know it too well to fool myself into believing it. Ceaselessly aiming to making this the first and last time I let myself be weighed down by the memories of my past and stand tall to my future but I know I’m failing.
Its hurting me to even remember it. I am relentlessly focussing my brain on tiny vestiges of the times long gone. I’m trying to recollect the minutest details of moments, snippets and fractions of seconds buried in the closets of my heart and mind. I might find them somewhere right ? Maybe if I try harder I’ll also find an answer to it. Perhaps I’ll finally know why I did what I did and why I never gathered the courage to fix it.
Why I am letting it haunt me now, let alone why it haunts me?
The hurting has lessened now. No, I don’t mean that I am okay, its probably worse now. I hear my head ringing. I feel my agitated fingers hitting the buttons on the keyboard too strongly.
You know what’s on my mind right now? I want to write a letter to you. The longest letter ever. I want to write down everything that has happened to me, changed in me and improved in me. Whatever I have realized and whatever I wish hadn’t ever since I’ve lived a life without you.
Oh. My fingers are suddenly moving faster across these letters. They seem to be my only way of reaching out to you tonight. I know this is never going to reach you in reality but at least in my head I’m typing this out believing you know all this, if not all, you will perhaps know the bits I need you to know. So yeah, going back to when I wrote ‘lived without you.’ I have never been without you. Not a single day. I’ve had days where i adequately convinced myself that i don’t want/need/miss/feel for/ wish to see you but never have I had a day without you. You have been right there in me ever since I told you I don’t need you.
Why did I do that?
I still don’t know. All I remember is you fading away from my life. I remember I let you go.
I feel numb now. I’ve looked at my phone 500 times in the last 40 minutes hoping you might say something. Send me a goddamn full stop maybe. I am desperately in need of some sort of consolation. I need someone, just anyone to tell me it will be okay. And its funny again how I’m writing someone or anyone when I know that all I need is you right now. Nothing else.
Find me a time turner, now."

Miracles ?

24^th January, 2016.

It’s been a while that I blogged anything right? Yes, sorry about that, I am lagging behind and I cannot guarantee to make it up even though I try. Anyways, I am here right now, writing, and that should be the main focus I guess.

Quite an interesting thing happened a few days ago, and one of my friends believes that it was meant to be, calling it a mystical intervention. I cannot either agree or disagree with him because I haven’t faced anything like that before. You may even be assured of it that I am still looking for an answer.

The people who are close to me will know of my habit to doodle on my registers or paper whenever I am bored. People in my class or university will not find any class note but doodles on almost every page. I do not know why I do it, they are amateurish as anything; I tend to believe that it helps me think and focus.  So, as my penchant dictates, I made a pure random doodle in one of my notes while reading and posted it to instagram, the photosharing social site. There was no crying-out-loud need for that, but I did.

I hadn’t noticed it until the said friend pointed it out to me that the doodle that I drew bore a striking, uncanny resemblance to someone I know/used to know. Believe me when I say this, I never had any inclination to do so. It was purely a coincidence that it happened at a very random choice, because that is what I do to keep myself from burning things down. So it happened.

Now, this good friend of mine asked me why I drew something that uncannily bore a resemblance to someone, which any normal friend would do. I had no answer because I didn’t, that I am assured of, or was assured of. As any skeptic, I do believe that there cannot be an otherworldly explanation for anything. However my friend begs to differ, and he did something that he never does, not on a general basis; he implored me to take this as a sign, a miracle and asks me to take another chance at something that I left ages ago, faith or belief or whatever the fancy word is. As he said and I quote “I have seen enough life to know that we sometimes can’t really explain everything and that a mystic force does exist”.

Do I believe him? Well that is a good question if you ask me, for I really do not know how to approach this. Maybe he is right; maybe there is something that I cannot explain about this. Or maybe I can just say that this doodle, this silly piece of pen drawing is just a work of my subconscious as we all know that the greatest mystery of universe is the human brain, especially when it acts on its own. I’d verily choose the former one, because it is intriguing. The only question is how? How do I choose? And even if I do, what is the point after that? So what if there indeed is something that made this happen made me draw the person in question, then what? Will it be all? Or is there anything left to go further than this?

Maybe, the singular answer is that I am stupid enough to believe that and coward enough to let it be, and not acting on it. Or maybe I do know the answer already. Not by precognition or anything, but my past mistake and experiences. As they say, mistake maketh man. And believe me I have a great share of mistakes in my bag. As much I do have a knack for silly mistakes, I am not entirely supportive of committing the same ones twice. I do them occasionally, but that’s it to them.

I guess, I would like some answers, and a talk. Okay maybe forget the answers, just along talk over coffee would be suffice. I will wait.

Regards.

"Tamam Shud" - Ending 2015.

31st December 2015/1st January, 2016.

Well, I couldn't wait for the exact 00:01 a.m, so I decided to write it now. I hope if anyone reads it, reads it right on the time... anyways.

Happy New Year! May all of you find everything that your'e looking for and much more. May you move the mountains and may your heart beats nothing but life. To your new life! And thank you, all of you, for reading these stuff with so much patience. I hope I haven't hurt anyone here, if I did, I apologize and I will make amends to that. I hope and pray that your year ended with a touch of bittersweet happy note.

I Love You! And I will be there.

Regards.

Rishiraj Bhowmick (Morpheus).

Litsoc stuff #1

29th December, 2015.

This won't be a post or a rant or anything. This is about something else.

So, somewhere down  in my previous posts, I might have mentioned a thing called as LITSOC, the literature society in my university. as the name suggests, we are all about books and series and movies and all other nerd stuff. So we finally managed to do something about which we have been planning for ages. So here's the youtube link. the sound is bad due to echo, but it's a start.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GLozv_kfw7k

clockwise introduction - Shreosi, Bandana, Meghna, Sid, Spandana, Me, Shayan and Vidur.

regards!

A Season of Mist

26^th December, 2015.

6 more days to the year’s end. And yesterday was Christmas. Was it yesterday? Or was it every day? Or none of the days were?

Anywho! It doesn’t really matters. It’s winter! The season of hot coffee, cold wind, flaky skins, smooth talk and a lot of poetry. Some being of joy, others reminding the basic pains of everyday. And a time when we all look back, or crane our necks a bit to south and try to ascertain where did we do wrong, what went good or better and where we could’ve, would’ve, should’ve done and what we did anything about anything. And we see that at times, during the year, sometimes we lost control, sometimes we lost hope and at times we held the sun in our fist, we took control and made lemonade.

Coming to an end of the year, we do reflect at these things. The most private moments of our lives when we stop, sit and think. Maybe with a few cigarettes in the night on the roof, facing the coldest winds. Maybe with a drink in our hand with the room heater to comfort us. We think and ponder and float around amongst the finest developments and smiles and amongst the deepest regrets and loss. Maybe that one song that was just ours now belongs to ‘us’ or maybe there is a whole ruined playlist with too many strings attached to delete it for good or even a whole new playlist, who knows? Just for perspective, there were times when all of us must have brooded over a song that reminded us of some beautiful moments, of love and the absence that exists. And similarly there were times, when some of us must have strutted around like John Travolta while playing ‘Stayin Alive’ by the Bee Gees. I strut a lot these days.

We think, about the first 9 o’clock class in room 313, or any other room for that matter with fresh faces, a lot of empty spaces and a whole opportunity even in the face of the most monotonous lecture and the insomniac eyes gorging down on Marxian theories regarding South Indian empires or the Colonial development, only to run out of the class for a lovely cup of coffee and salami sandwich, sometimes a king sized goldflake. And a lot of new laughs and some pre-determined taste which brought us together to new people. And we think about that unsent text, which we wrote 10 times but then deleted it, maybe now regretting, maybe deliberating that ‘what if?’, maybe even thinking that it could’ve changed everything amongst the ones who aren’t on good pages, or who aren’t on any pages anymore, opening the door, bridging the gap, bringing the wall down and letting the light inside. But we backed out because we are so afraid, or maybe we did sent the text, as a prayer, maybe, just maybe, I am just assuming, that we still have a draft, in our message box or in mail, I do!  We look at it every day in the morning or every night and maybe one day we will hit send it out, maybe we won’t. Then there are photographs same issue with them with the catch that we can’t really edit them. And we also ponder over, smiling sheepishly over the newly found treasures. We put our hands in our pockets and find a handful of wishful thinking, or just a letter that somehow crept in our dreams, a pocket full of rye. We find a reason for careless whistling, and if we can’t whistle, humming bird it is!

We reflect at these things, I know because I am just as human as everyone else and because I am right at the moment. We ponder over these while walking under a balmy sun or a frosty evening, while planning for the next one, resolving for a better time than the previous one, resolving against all the odds and quite magically we do end up in the miracle of Father Christmas with our wishes coming true. Sometimes it doesn’t happen; it’s really okay I guess. Wishes are like lotteries, or the scratch card.

So it was a winter of 2015, just like the last 22 winters. Or maybe it wasn’t! Or, just for the sake of an argument that I might put for myself, it still is a winter of Christmas past. Who knows? Who nose? It was a year of Charles Dickens’ first page from ‘A Tale of Two Cities’ for me, for us.

So before the clock strikes 12 on 31^st, I just will quote Neil Gaiman’s toast –

“To absent friends, lost loves, old gods and the season of mists; and may each and every one of us always give the devil his due.”

And if I may be audacious enough, I’d like to add - 

To absent friends, lost loves, old gods and the season of mists; and may each and every one of us always give the devil his due. And if anything, may this wine give us all the second chance we deserve, to love again and to forgive the past. 

Regards.