96!

She had prepared for it a week in advance.

The room was neat and tidy, the bed sheets were clean and white although few strands of hair lay here and there. The house keeping staffs were young, restless and anxious to set a jolly place. The room was silent, apart from occasional swapping of channels before she decided to turn it off for good. She liked staring through the balcony at the distant horizon, the glistening water of the Arabian Sea, the ships that were parked at the harbor, each she thought had epics to narrate. After few days she became good at it, she could say which ship appeared when and which disappeared on which night, some mornings she would just stay there in the balcony staring straight and counting numbers, imagining her to be there forever.

Brunch at Britannia café, a walk down the causeway and evening at Marine drive, she imagined, just when he cancelled the trip, ‘too busy even on the weekend’.

At office she could hardly concentrate on the work.

She acquiesced without giving much thought or none of the thoughts were strong enough to make her do otherwise, the last happy conversation, she remembered was about final revising. She asked ‘towel?’ he replied, ‘no’. And then she rushed to the airport- happy, nervous and excited.

But then stories happen in between, stories of tears and arguments, of pain and rage.

Home she rushed back. ‘Enough’ she whispered.

Mumbai.

So it was actually the other way around.
Incessant Rainfall. Messy hair love. Cha. Evernote. Conventional smiles. Alfanso aahhness. Flustered evenings. Inebriating Marine drive. Prawn biriyani at Ambar / bheja fry at Bade Miyan. Walk down the moonlit Ballard Estate. Hurried breakfast of  tasteless sandwiches. Meetings. Purple Peeptoes. Pao bhajis at 1 am. Midnight ramble. Lonely hotel nights. Sleeplessness. Desire. Cogitating over the past. 

Life happened, love did not! 

For every time I learn to be strong
and make newer promises
For every time I grow up a little more
I hate you.

For every time I choose a wrong a way
and cry out with broken eyes
For every time I give up.
I need you.

For every time you come back
and let me see you in different light
For every time you break me all over again
I find you.

For every time you make me smile
and make me find peace
For every time I desert the world just to be with you
I love you.

For I know if love is this strong, 
I can be stronger...

All my memories!

This Durga puja everything seemed different, so I took a turn and travelled down the memory lane.  

And  I remember almost everything, the last working day in school before puja vacation, no classes, having fun and getting to see the ekdalia pandal giving its finishing touches through the taxi window. Those days there were fewer pandals with no theme pujas at all, the main attraction was obviously how beautiful Ma Durga looked.

It has moved on with time and so did we.

Years after I used to visit this same pandal with my college buddies and little did I know that this too shall pass one day, with college coming to an end. How I miss those days now.

And then I miss my old para, the dingy lane, that durga puja upstairs, those colorful  balloons that an uncle used to buy for all the kids in the building, that attic where we used to spend the day playing and finally the Dashami evening- it was so different from nowadays. We used to have a sip of bhang, write ‘sri sri durga sahay namah’ on a betel leaf with red ink and later in the evening we used to watch the boys go mad with the sounds of dhak.

Long after, Durga puja added a whole new meaning to my life, going out with friends, adda at Maddox n Durga bari, holding hands and a lot more.

This year it is of course different with friends scattered all over the globe, going office on Nabami and spending times with strangers whom I started calling friends.

So this dashami as I see an eighty year old man dancing with a seven year old kid, I realize that these feelings never change, only that we move on. Under the glossy look, the heartaches throb deeply, and pain never parts as it used to be years back. Probably certain things can never change like the dhaker awaj, sindur khela, dhunuchi nach and that heavy feeling in every Bong.

Its not at all hyperbole when people claim that nothing beats durga puja in Kolkata, true that it has changed with years, we grew up and moved apart, true that I could never let certain moments go off my memory but whatever it is and how much we grow up, durga puja in Kolkata will live in moments, moments that could touch ones heart and yet leave bullet holes in once built conventions.

"India Payroll Team wishes you Subho Jonmodin"

I was busy...
busy writing codes and stuffing things into my head.
busy with the presentations at odd hours and making ppts till late nights.
busy gulping down food from 'jhoops'  with strangers whom I started calling Friends.
busy with the hectic schedule in office, with office..
busy missing pami, pak, nilu and some good ol' memories .
been busy pretending things n getting teary eyed every now and then.


But with that all that I did manage to

• finish Anandamela 
• be the group rep as well as the module lead (*grinslikeanidiot *)
• watch before sunset
• meet up old friends. (kfc, subs and gelato included)
• learn a new language called java
• and finally save my blog from dying!

So this is to the new job, to my new friends n to the k13 batch
and to pak, nilu, samba, pami, palu n moh for all the texts and the phone calls that keeps me going in the toughest of hours.

Smriti....

When I look back now I could feel the pain, an intense one. These four years were lot. And as I sat that day with friends, little high I wondered 'bout all that, that lay scattered in my head- Oly, Zhong hua and the craziest get togethers.
Each time I visited Zhong- hua or Oly and let that chilled stuff pass down my throat I could feel the pain and the feeling of togetherness all at same time. And pami's place where we sat most often with black rum, breezer n Maggi or the times at nandan, college street or coffee house over endless debates and uncontrollable laughters- the little things that would make my day. Growing up was this fun I never realized before and as I stared agape at the wild charm of my campus I realized that there are certain things in life that could never happen again- getting sloshed at binayek's garage, birthday '08 or intense puking after taking the shots for the first time.
And as I shuffled through those random clicks that day the ache grew stronger somehow. I knew I wont ever get to hear the Floyd in the same way, neither Calcutta blues will make us cry our hearts out. And I will keep missing those bawals, the birthday parties, the random treats, the never ending addas and those shoulders even more. The vodka shots would never taste the same again. The cozy taxi rides would never again be this beautiful.
And so as the car sped through I closed my eyes to feel the strong air and at times things never turn blue, they remain just as it is, only that we grow up, move on leaving behind promises, bonds n words and so it remains, smriti..........

And no, I'm not high..

Sometimes under the blazing blue sky, when everything seems pretty much good I wonder about my twenty-one years old relationship with this city, the city which I'm planning to leave soon.
So when I sit almost blankly my thoughts grow deeper and they take a shape of a big rain cloud and then when I'm just about to cry, I dont. And when I stroll along its road all alone, when I sip its coffee, when I kiss and pledge someone in those quaint, dimly lit alleys, when I cry stupidly over raging madness, when I keep hogging its street food, when I sit in the pubs and drink, when I laugh uncontrollably and when I read its books that are so full of literature and history my heart brims over love and affection for this city and it makes me light, as light as a feather n I go on thinking about the days, my growing up days, my wee little room with books and magazines scattered all over, mamar-bari where I spent most of my days squabbling with my maternal brother, my childhood friends with whom I lost all contacts now and the days of kurtas, jholas n bunking lectures in college. I somehow remember it all.

And so I fall in love with my city all over again as much I used to hate it once, the city which saw my emotions, dreams n regrets so close, the city which never failed to baffle me with her rich beauty, culture and history, the city which imbues me with satisfaction and happiness, the city where I met my first love, where I strolled along in the by-lanes holding his hand, where I brazenly kissed him my first kiss, where I let him go and leave me all alone among strangers. But then this city is so full of bonhomie that when you groan with pain, when you bitch in anger the rain comes and washes away the woes, giving you a strange, undying freshness.
And whenever I feel gung-ho about settling all alone in a place faraway from kolkata, of starting life fresh and independent my heart reminds me of those endless things that I will keep missing. And with a sullen despair I remember about all the roads I walked, all the memories I lived with, all the songs that I danced to and all the guys who splintered my heart again and again.
Kolkata would remain the city of loves and lovers, of couples holding hands and walking down the streets, of friends who would do anything and everything for you, of ilish, mishti doi, phuchkas n flurys, of strange readers and drunken poets, of goods and bads.