I have been here(in Kolkata) for what could be called a significant time of the formative part of my life. The fact that I am in the Kolkata Metro and typing this in my phone is quite evident of the fact that I have a certain degree of emotional attachment to this city. This city was never my own and the one I could never call home, tough parts of the city, it’s care-free chaotic musings have grown very familiar throughout the years that I have lived here. Kolkata is to noisy to ignore and way too vibrant in it variance to not fall in “love” with its joy. Being what people have called to be the city of Joy, is perhaps what Kolkata tries it best to be, or may be it’s just another metropolitan city with distinct characteristics and nuances that evolve is such massively populated junctions of human civilization and emotions. Keeping all the wannabe deep and philosophical words of romanticism about a city one is about to leave aside, my love for this city has always been in commuting throughout it. Be it walking in the city just to soak and get soaked in the humidity and the street side “cha”(tea) and tele bhaja or getting squeeze in yellow blue bus. Even at this very moment on a not so crowded metro(given that I am seated). Life in Kolkata, I feel, always has a iota of uncertainty and chaos which ultimately finds it way out like when you use Google maps in an alley North Kolkata. Kolkata as a very werid pace, it’s stagnant yet progressive at the same time,(quite like the wave particle duality of light) yet it shines on every time. Old and new at time same time. Somewhere this city has a way of alluring everyone into a sense of belonging to it, an attachment that is strong at some junctures and fragile at others.
So thus end my ride, and a possibly an overly optimistic banter that resulted out of leaving my earphone at my temporary residence.
Blocked, Pen. Or Post.
Wrist, tangled. And Words:
Jumbled, into. Not segue.
Pointless, ornate, pieces.
Scattered, yet. Waiting for
Life, the enigmatic suit of
unprecedented causality of likely
and unlikely events,
Journal of experimental mistakes Mistaken as experiences
Or just another verse from
A place or time.
Here I go again,
Way to much coffee-
My recurring theme and
Self induced emptiness,
Worthlessness in and pride of:
Imperfection, insecurities, and inabilities
Complimenting the confusion
in the confiscation of desires,
entrapment of emotions
and penning this
aimless free verse or
“Hashtag Such Meta Much Wow”
Maybe this endless frippery,
Should terminate here,
For I genuinely fear
When words would start Mirroring
Oh! they aren’t real,
neither are my dreams
Scaring, Scarring all
That’s left, or (what) I feel is left.
Would they paint a picture,
Yet true to my Devils.
Art/ Some scribbled lines
On a piece of paper:
Worn out and folded
Without a cause or motivation
Vague and incoherent reductions
True to it’s creator.
[Ha. Do I have something else to do
Someone to care about or for.
Yes, let’s skip-on to that,
Like we skip on the title track
To download pieces of coloured moving pictures.
Sorry goodbye, and like kids these day say
Talk to you later.]
Nights are quieter, hence just like any other Crusader I struggle with my existence at 2:14 am(to be precise) with a steel glass of espresso or whatever one can brew-up with instant coffee and an electric kettle which is whole point of writing this “mémoire” is the story of self discovery that: a lazy guy (“laaydhkhor” in my mother tongue) went into the kitchen to boil water, instead ended up removing black stain from the multipurpose pan in which we(as in my flatmate and i) cook literally everything in, and then cleaning up the not so dirty oven and the kitchen. Wow my mom would just be proud, I have had this perpetual question for her about what takes up her time after we finish dinner back at home, now i know, growing up one seems to know and un-know a lot of things. And That’s all: well that and all that a wannabe writer can conjure up with his fickle mind.
P.S. I used the electric kettle for boiling up water
Maybe I should write something,
Something that clean. cutting edge,
Quite like your morning hot fix
Or the excuse you use to get out of bed.
Wouldn’t know if it would cut though:
Your lips like a strong brewed black coffee,
Or flow through your buds like a warm-
Or stirred sugar in it, if you like so.
My words aren’t the bunch of roses,
You find in the softbound book of your,
Neither are they suave
Like all those you browse on-
rocking in your arm chair.
They are but mine,
selfishly mine, or
or even uselessly theirs.
At the being or the end
in the tempest of your Choosing,
I’d cut them out for your,
burn them for me.
Turn the page or
Put it upside-down.
Crumble it up.
The bin is but just an easy throw Away:
Maybe its better paired there
Drenched in all the ink I had Or
folded in that tailor-made jeans.
Sadly enough I had to exercise my universal adult franchise exactly more than once, at eighteen and now at twenty one, well as in ironically true it was just in vain, amounting to a nihilistic exertion both the times.
Well, almost certainly this is not about any of that, or that*, rather is about expectations that a rather younger, evolutionary inexperienced, me had from a then projected older evolved form of itself. The Darwinian theory of “karma” being a female canine, or to sand corrected a gender agonistic canine, is kind of a moral of the story here, given that you do not consider canines to be faithfully friendly to humans or them being cute and aww so cuddly cuddly pooo rather take into consideration the mindless whining you get to here at odd times of the night, finally to end this punctuated blasphemy of a sentence is add a disclaimer to it: I am not a zoologist or an evolutionary biologist.
The mindless whining that comes as a side effect of karma is what can be justifiable paralleled to this aggregation of typed vector shapes you are reading and attempting to comprehend. So much for an introduction of sorts to a pre midlife crisis struck individuals attempt at being “creativity frustrated” with the perks of growing into a morphological human adult.
Now let’s start a generic random story about whatever a naïve version of the author, wow a few typed words go bring out the literary genius out of a random just about literate Individual, expected from life and did or did not achieve. Thus zooming into the perspective of a perfectly delusional human mind and its journey of “coming of age”, and feel a least bit kindred. Or wait, let’s just not do that for a change, I feel accomplished already and a bit better than from the time this garbage garage piece was started, so muggles and intelligent neurally programmed bots over this great wide beautiful and wonderful World and possible counterparts from a parallel universe Good Night and that’s all folks.
*consider the two thats to be some mutually exclusive and opposite and supposedly funny things, used for the vague purpose to inject referential / contextual humour.