Thursday, December 31, 2020

A House Full of Stories Episode 2: The Canterville Ghost by Oscar Wilde

 Since 2020 is going to end tonight, I thought I would share a new episode of A House Full of Stories to bid it farewell. So, this is The Canterville Ghost by Oscar Wilde. Unfortunately a restriction won't allow me to share it on Instagram, which kind of stinks when you come to think of it! 

The Bilge Master



Wednesday, December 30, 2020

COVID 19 Diary Entries Volume 1

I started to maintain a diary during lockdown and the first set of entries are as follows. Please have a read and stay strong. 2021 is coming soon!

The Bilge Master 

Entry 1

It is ironic that in such times I am reading a book called The End of Eternity. But then again I have always been a tad ironic, bordering on eccentric.

I don't know when my life will return to normal. I don't know when I will be allowed to go back to my work. I don't know when I'll knock back a lemonade at a cafe I love to go to. But this isn't about the don't knows. In fact I don't know what this is, just that it's being written.

I suppose I am trying to come out of a shell I had constructed a few weeks ago when I was randomly sent home from where I actually live in Kolkata. Initially it was kind of weird and I did throw a few tantrums. However, being here in my own room, with the hand drawn Lord of the Rings poster above my bed has made me feel a few things.

Above all, I feel grateful. I feel grateful to be alive. I feel grateful for four appendages. I feel grateful about being able to write more and see people appreciate my writing. I feel grateful that I am eating my mother's cooking again. It's the little things like these that make up life. Life isn't the trophy wife or the Gallardo in the driveway. It's more about visiting the little shaded corner of the campus, sitting under a tree and thinking about your favorite song.

Now that I have time on my hands, I am also working on learning French using the Duolingo app on the Playstore. 

I know this is temporary. I know I will have to leave one day. But that day is not today. Today I can lean back against a pillow, pick up a good book, brew a cup of coffee and read. 

Perhaps the most important thing this situation has taught me is that life is actually simple, but it's we who end up complicating it. Maybe we all should take this time and retrospect a little. Look inside and find some joy. Look around and find some peace. One day we will all have to go somewhere. Until that day, let's just live a little. One day at a time. One hour at a time. One second at a time.

Entry 2

There is so much talent out there in the world. People are brewing alcohol at home. Some are making sweets from scratch. Art is rampant. Stories of this time spent in isolation with you and only you will ring out forever.

Nature is healing from what we have done to her. Animals are coming out of hiding. It's their planet too, y'know. Just because we possess more intelligence than them, doesn't mean we get to take away their home.

3 weeks of lockdown later, you should see the silence. The utter abscence of noise. I go for walks sometimes and the crows on the pavment don't give a damn. I can hear my own footsteps echo.

When the noise comes back, I wonder if I shall welcome it or forsake it. 

Entry 3

My second cousin lives in Canada with her Gujrati husband Nirav Shah. They've had a baby. His name is Arjun. I met Arjun on a Zoom call a few weeks ago, amid lockdown. He's adorable. He had had his vaccination shots and was sleeping with his head tucked into Shreya Di's stomach. Occasionally he would purr like a cat with a belly full of cream.

As most of you know, one day I found myself on a roof wondering if I should step forward and resume my love affair with gravity, or step back and continue the wrecking ball swing that was my life at that point. You also know the circumstances and outcome of that decision.

That Zoom call with my family- some in Canada, some in Atlanta, others in Delhi and Bombay (yes I know they call it Mumbai now, but I'm calling it Bombay) was an eye opener. A much needed one. It reminded me that I have a lot to live for. I don't intend to go without living as much as I can in this life.

It's amazing what a baby can do to you

Entry 4

Lockdown extended yet again. Contemplating a lot of stuff now. When will normalcy return to us is foremost. However I'm taking the time to right a few wrongs and move on from stuff I cannot change. I need closure and I need ro start looking ahead, using only the lesson that yesterday taught me as a yardstick.


I feel like I've shed my skin, the one in which all my secrets were buried. I remember what Unohana said to Kenpachi about how he was akin to a toddler. I'm starting over and it feels good.


I won't let the blues get in the way of my having a good time. I just have to be honest. Can't be that hard. 


Entry 5

I know life is hard right now. I know some of you are struggling. Normal doesn't seem real anymore, it seems like a dream. Tempers are frayed and arguments are rampant. 

Hold on. Play a song. Watch a funny movie. Sleep.

Maybe we'll have to live with this virus for the rest of our lives. Maybe we won't. I'm not a doctor. But whatever is out there, it's not the end of the world yet.

Remember that the sun will shine tomorrow. Let the light in. Stay positive. Stay safe. Stay vigilant. Believe in yourself. We'll get through this.

Entry 6

I'm going to start this by making a mistake and calling tea chai tea. I know they're one and the same but I just got a cup and I'm going to drink it as I write. 

This is the tale of a vampire that I have allowed to suck on my blood and broken bone marrow for ages. As a teen I was not very confident in my abilities. I found solace in music and books while my peers found ways to extort me into passing their exams. 

"We'll feed you samosas", they said as I helped them cheat their way to hookah bars and restaurants. Poor naive me. Ah well. 

But today, I look back at where I am and how far I've come and I remember the lines of the song K'naan sang

"When I get older I will be stronger 
They'll call me freedom just like a wavin' flag"

I am happy to say that I have found a place to bury the post to which my flag is tethered. It's taken me 26 years to find the place and I am overjoyed.

The vampire is dead. Her blood stains the wooden stake in my hands. I am human again. I am free. I am free to continue my journey with my band of fellow travellers. 

Come with us to a place high on a desert plane, where the streets have no name.

Entry 7

Some say life will steal your crown and some say life will take away your crown of thorns. Perhaps all it takes to make lemonade out of life's lemons is one good day.

A good lunch, a decent sleep, a long walk with a Great Dane for company and your phone's shuffle mode playing Roadhouse Blues and Wanted Dead or Alive one after the other; and the comfort of a good book to snuggle up with.

Yes, life can be a pain in the rear, but at least you get days like this...when you can still feel alive and can't wait to get outside.

The tour is over (almost) and we will survive

Entry 8


I feel like the last year which is about to give up the ghost has changed everything for everyone. Some people have lost things that meant the world to them. Some people have found things that have started to mean the world to them. 


More than anything, I have been reminded how lucky I am to be alive in the wake of an invisible disease that has taken nearly 2 lakh people from just my country. 


I have connected with people, written a lot, experimented with stuff and I have come to realize that the person writing this at 1AM on December 23rd 2020 is the person he is because of everything that happened to him since he was born.


I would not be what and who I am today without the ventilator, the health issues, the confidence boosts my friends gave me. My brain wouldn't have been able to understand itself without having to deal with the angst of my early teens to early twenties.


I am grateful to 2020 for teaching me that what matters the most is being at peace, even if it means severing ties with people and thinking of yourself for once. It's also taught me that if you look hard enough, and do your work properly and of course have a little faith and a lot of patience, something will happen to you.


It's odd that the people in my life right now came into it when I wasn't looking for them. They guided me onto a path but respected me enough to let me decide if I wanted to walk it. Every time I stumbled, they picked me up. Every time I wanted guidance, someone gave it. 


I have had a lonely life. I was scared of growing old, thinking I would be alone and misunderstood. 


I now know that was bollocks. I just wasn't ready or mature enough to appreciate the fact that I had people watching over me. Genuine people, who would forgive my mistakes and support me and help me grow. 


I don't need to tag them because they know who they are. 


I am grateful. I am at peace. Come at me life. I want to live you. I want to experience you. I want to explore you. I want to understand you.


And I know that I am not alone anymore. Whatever lies ahead, I know I can handle it. 


So I just want to say, thank you. To everyone. For everything.




Sunday, December 27, 2020

A House Full of Stories Ep. 1: An Astrologer's Day by R.K. Narayan

 As announced yesterday, the web series A House Full of Stories is now live! 


For the first episode I thought I would share a classic Indian story called An Astrologer's Day by R.K Narayan.  I hope you enjoy the story and would love to hear your opinions!

The story is also available on Instagram.


I will announce the next story via Instagram on Saturday. Happy listening. Have fun people! 



Saturday, December 26, 2020

A House Full of Stories Trailer

 Welcome to A House Full of Stories. I have had the privilege of growing up in a house in which stories bled from every nook and cranny. This is simply a weekly event in which I will record myself telling a story and posting it on YouTube and if possible on Instagram. The video will be embedded on my blog for all of you to feast on!

I only ask for your eyes and ears my dear followers. I also thank you for staying with me for the past ten years. I will see you tomorrow with the first episode. Welcome to A House Full of Stories!

The Bilge Master


Friday, December 18, 2020

One Day You Will Forget Me

One day
You will forget me 
And us 
And our everyday
One day you will
Go into the dark
Without a light to guide you
And I will be left
Incomplete and hollow
Maybe I won't have teeth then
To chew my food 
And perhaps my digestion will go
As I come to realize 
That one day
I too will forget you
And us 
And our everyday
Then like you 
I too will go into the dark
With nobody to guide me 
But they say
Absence makes the heart fonder 
So perhaps our parting
Will help us to remember
What it is we had
And therefore 
One day you just might
Remember
Me and us
And our everyday
Maybe then I'll understand
Why 
What we have is special
And necessary
For if you go into the dark
I will follow
As surely as night follows day
And Tuesday follows Monday

The Bilge Master

Monday, December 14, 2020

The Trees Spoke to Me: A Collaboration Post with Kiki Ayang

 Do any of you remember my friend who wants to kill Death himself? Kiki Ayang is back on FLTM with a poem about a recent epiphany. I was so moved by the poem that I added a stanza and she approved of it, calling me a talented goose. Naturally, I called her a gifted hen! 

So this is two twenty something folks doing some writing! Have a read, have some fun. Sharing is caring. 2020 is nearly done! 

The Bilge Master


The Trees spoke to me.

I was wandering past a stretch of road
When the trees spoke to me-
I happened to eavesdrop without realizing.
Embarrassed, I crawled back into my seat.

It repeated for a couple more days-
Stretch over stretch of naked scrawny trees
And I was drawn, mesmerized;
Simply because they stood tall with pride
Despite the cold and rain amongst fallen comrades.

As days passed by,
I decided to pay less heed to them.
I was a melancholy soul
Trying to pass unnoticed.
It made me sad that the trees were happier
When I saw them quarrel, play and laugh.

On my last days passing through,
The other day, I could not contain my composure
They were laughing- making merry!
And it made me smile

But behind the smile A river of tears had flown The current was against me But this the trees seemed to know I thought I glimpsed a dryad Nestling in a branch Her beauty made me realize The day was sunny The road was untraveled And I was a traveler Therefore I set forth Maybe one day someone will pass through this avenue And have a similar epiphany Elephants aren't the only ones with a good memory But humans are fickle And now I must turn back And head into a different jungle Where the trees are concrete And the imagination needs constant nourishing And so I am grateful that the trees spoke to me They assured me they'll remember me After my body turns to ash And my thoughts to mud

Saturday, December 12, 2020

Why I Love Books More Than Humans

I have been reading since I was 3 years old. I am also very fortunate to have been born in a house with a fantastic library and a mother and father who were so well read that my bedtime stories were adventures in their own right.

I still have the first book I ever read on a shelf. It has been travelling with us for 21 years and is a simple set of fairy tales. The best way to get someone into books is to tell him of a princess and a prince, or a pumpkin and a glass slipper adorned poor girl whose charisma wowed a prince. 

But perhaps the most potent of methods to get a child into reading is to not tell him the story. Tell the child a small bit. Then create in him the curiousity to find out what's next. Let him push open the door of his own volition. Voila! A reader is born.

A book is one of the greatest companions you can ever have. Its sheer variety leaves me in awe. You can read of murder most foul, foul which is fair, horror stories and ones of tragic endings. 

You can be taken to dystopian futures or ones where the machines have taken control. You can dream of slaying monsters and rescuing people.

You can also understand the world better. Why did black people get hate? What is racism? Sexism? Nazism? Why so many "isms"?

Books make sense. They take a dark world and make it light again. They also have the power to take the light out of your world and plunge you into darkness. What a device humans have made by infinite permutations and combinations of twenty six letters! 

A book is the best way to discover, to grow, to mature. A person who reads lives multiple lives. As Harper Lee said through Scout, 

"Until I feared I would lose it, I never loved to read. One does not love breathing."

Having thus concluded, I hope you understand why I must take your leave. You guessed it! There's a book to be read!

The Bilge Master

Saturday, December 5, 2020

Paranoid, Not Android

My first Android is the one phone 
I associate with a bleak winter
Back when the Wifi ran at 4G speeds 
And Stephen Hawking was alive 
I'd just discovered Sandman
I'd just read Maugham
I'd laughed and cried tears of joy
At a POTF concert 
And yet what difference the years have made 
Now I am three inches taller
I've been using my current Android for over a year
It's OS is a biscuit too
Go figure, don't look at me 
I do not know 
It is still winter 
Still a cold night at the start of December
And I still remember the way you looked that night
When we had a little too much to drink
And pulled the rug out from under our feet 
iOS doesn't appeal to me 
Too cold, too frigid 
Android phones are here to stay it seems 
How I wish you had stayed too
This poem probably makes no sense to you
Because you have forgotten me 
But I still have the photos I'd taken with my first Android 
Tucked away somewhere 
Just not here
Here's to us and here's to Android phones 
Matches made in heaven are rare to find 
I wonder if you're still like me 
And I wonder if the Memories feature on Facebook
Makes you think of me 
Anyway, it's cold
I'm tired and I just want you to know 
I've buried the ghost of my first Android 
And just as you don't belong to me
I have come to realize 
I was never yours anyway
And neither was that piece of shit phone 

The Bilge Master

Wednesday, November 25, 2020

The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner

All my life I have spent measuring things 
When all I wanted to do was run like the wind 
I trained my mind to accept the formulas in science 
And worked and worked and worked 
Until I could work no more 
When I was younger 
I used to wander 
A pair of trainers on my feet
And the oyster which was the world 
At my disposal
Yet suddenly they told me I was being childish 
And killed the explorer in me 
And I confirmed to their logic
Danced to their music 
Tried fitting in at their parties 
But always, obstinacy overcame me 
And every morning would find me running
Now I have time to spend 
And I spend it reflecting on my life 
All I have wanted to do was run
Hey maybe it's not too late 
So I'll dig up my old trainers from the attic 
Tie the laces in a bow
Do a little warm up
And hit the old roads
Would you like to come with me
As we run into infinity?
Wouldn't it be lovely?

Thursday, November 12, 2020

The Policy

Marketing has always been a thing in my family. Starting from my grandmother to my father, I've gone to market with a lot of people. Sometimes I've gone alone as well. 


The markets here are sequestered spaces where one stall has fish, a few have vegetables and one deals exclusively in onions and eggs. Such is their variety.


When I was a young boy, my father took me with him when there was a need to go to the bazaar. Having lived almost everywhere in Salt Lake, we set out in the car to the various markets and we drove around a little to find the best places to buy stuff from. 


In my family we have always had a Policy. The Policy is that we will take wares from a merchant on trust. If the wares turn out to be substandard then the merchant is given the wares back with the understanding that he has to pay double for the cost of the rickshaw that brought us to the market, over and above the cost of the wares. Needless to say, we would never buy from that merchant ever again.


Currently, we are living in a housing complex called Sherwood Estate and I'm yet to find its Sheriff of Nottingham. Just outside the back entrance is a large and motley collection of merchants, selling various items. Some have eggs, some fish, some vegetables. There is a mutton seller. There is a fruit vendor. We buy from a select few and have been doing so for seven odd years. Very few have challenged the Policy. I suppose that is what makes the Policy so foolproof. 


I would like to hear of similar markets from you dear Reader. Are the experiences you've had similar to mine?

The Bilge Master

Tuesday, November 10, 2020

Tendrils

This year Pujo was really odd for me so I decided to write about it.

Our thoughts are like tendrils 
Snaking around in the unknown areas of the brain
Coiling around the medulla 
Gripping onto our consciousness
A flash of light later 
Our thoughts have made their way home 
They are in the present
The lunacy in our heads 
Made tender by thoughts of our loved ones 
Made bitter by our failure 
Which thought wins? 
It's like the story of the wolves told by Cherokees
Upto us which thoughts we feed 
It is morning on the second day of Pujo
And I am staying indoors
It feels strange
No new clothes to jump into
No chatting at Deshapriya Park
No sniggering at couples 
Yet there is an eerie calm in me 
Today won't be like yesterday
And tomorrow will be fun
You have Lucifer the light bringer 
I have Nataraj the dancer 
As long as I have faith in him
(And this is an agnostic speaking) 
I will be okay
After all, most of the things I am
Came from the stars 
And so I look to my star
Where my Little Prince is hiding 
How fortunate am I to call a star my own
So caught up in my misery
That I forgot all about it 
Time to remember 15 year old me 
The one that didn't feel so afraid of the future 
And lived for today
This is where this bard's tale pauses 
For what lies ahead is yet to be chronicled
In my leather bound brain cells 
Until we meet again, let us please be happy and stay safe 
A Goddess is in the city, roaming among us 
I'm sure she'll guide the lost ones home

The Bilge Master

Thursday, November 5, 2020

Ruby: A Sequel to Gabby

I wrote a post called Gabby some time ago, intending it to be a birthday present for a friend. Click on the link to read Gabby. 

This post is a sister post called Ruby. Prepare yourself. This is everything that Gabby is not. 

Happy reading, my wonderful readers!

The Bilge Master

It is night in the skylight room, lit by a small candle. A girl sits at a desk writing like mad. The candle has ridges in it which help keep track of the time. The girl swears as the inkpot starts to wobble and catches it before it soils her work. The ink is black, the quill brown, the paper cream wove and the sky above her indigo and covered with clouds.


The girl is writing a letter to herself, or to be more succinct to the part of her that is dark. This inner darkness is both friend and foe. Without it, she is unable to distinguish anguish from glee and with it she feels morose and her breath becomes labored. 


This is a nightly affair in the girl's life. Her diary is called Ruby and Ruby is a psychiatric testament. Ruby listens to her screams. Ruby gives her the strength to get up in the morning. Ruby waits for her to come back each night and Ruby opens up and allows her to etch the scars of the day in her. 


Sometimes she feels that Ruby is the thing keeping her alive, not the drugs or the therapy. The someone in Ruby. The Someone. We all have our special Someone right? Our Significant Other? Meet Ruby, she smirks. 


Quirky. Goofy. Underachiever. The tags her other significant others put on her. Ultimately, they all left. Only Ruby stayed. And so, into Ruby she confided. She was glad Ruby could not speak or demand illicit things in return for her services.


But this day, Ruby cannot save her. She writes that it is time to give in to her inner darkness. On the last page of Ruby's leather bound body she writes one line


"I am leaving, I am leaving
But the fighter still remains"


The story has reached it's convenient and somewhat delayed conclusion. Now there must be one last thing, and then I promise, you can go my dear patient Reader.


Having thus written these lines, the girl gets up. She closes her eyes and blows out the candle. There is no girl anymore. 


There is only darkness. And there is only Ruby.

Wednesday, November 4, 2020

In the Arms of Imaginary Friends

I live in a world of my own making 
Which I made when I was a lonely kid
It has a concert everyday
And plays my favorite movies on demand 
There are very few people on the streets of my world 
They prefer staying indoors 
In worlds of their own
And every now and then there is a newcomer to my world 
A person who's free to stay and free to go
Some stay and some don't 
As I grow older I sometimes feel sad 
Especially when I cannot fit in to the real world 
On those occasions I close my eyes 
And I escape into this world I have made 
Maybe you too have a world of your own
A tiny bubble in which you cocoon yourself 
When it all becomes too much to take 
And you need a drink with an imaginary friend
It's just that everyone is subject to the blues 
And needs some green and red 
Or just plain yellow 
That is why we create worlds after all
Or prefer to pick up a book
And escape into another person's world 
Tell me stranger about the world you've made 
Let's not be strangers anymore

The Bilge Master

Saturday, October 31, 2020

Autumn Leaves 2.0 ft. Ahana Mitra


What is going on spooky people? Allow me to wish you a Happy Halloween or All Hallows Eve and help you say "Down with COVID 19!" a little louder. Since we might not be doing enough Trick or Treating tonight, I bring you a story o wrote five years ago with artwork that's Halloween themed by my friend Ahana Mitra! She runs her own YouTube channel and is quite the creator. She's written a little bit about herself below. Have a gander at the art, the channel and the Halloween themed work that adorns this post. 

Introducing Ahana Mitra!

The Bilge Master 


Im a self taught artist. I have always enjoyed painting since childhood. Since lockdown i started investing more time into painting...while one day i came up with this idea of creating my own youtube channel just for fun. It makes me happy when people enjoy watching my videos and appreciate my paintings.


Otum was in a hurry. He had stayed a little too late at office and as a result, there was a chance he would miss the train home. He started to jog towards Central station, brushing past the occasional pedestrian and leaping over a few puddles.
Yes, it was raining and he had forgotten an umbrella. He hated London.

Otum managed to make it to Charring Cross station and onto the platform just in time for the train. It was pulling in when he arrived, panting from having jogged his way there and cursing under his breath, because he was soaked to the skin. He heard someone approach and felt a tap on the shoulder.
He turned around.
“Don’t scream”, said the figure facing him. “Board the train, we can talk on the way”
-------------
“What are you?”, was the first question out of Otum’s mouth.
“I am a man, Otum. I just have a scary face. I’ve come here to your world in order to have a little fun.
“Fun? What fun?”
 “Am I the only one that can see you? I don’t see anyone else looking in our direction.”
“Others can see me, but they see just a man in a Homburg hat chatting with you. I can’t broadcast my existence like this to everyone. There would be anarchy! I have to obey certain rules. But all that later. The train has started and so has the game!”

“Now, to the business at hand. I told you I was bored. I am. I want to play a game with you. I have jumbled up the names of the train stations on this route. You mean to get off at Piccadilly. You’re going to have to get off at Piccadilly station.
Understand the game. Piccadilly station is still Piccadilly station, but the name of the station is different. It looks the same, it goes the same way. But it’s name isn’t Piccadilly. I won’t tell you what the name is. That would be cheating.”

Otum smirked. He knew what Piccadilly looked like and he knew it would take twelve minutes to get to Piccadlly. Of those twelve minutes nine had passed, and so Otum got up from his seat and headed to the door.

The train began to slow. The djinn was behind Otum. He whispered “You’re sure about this?”

Otum replied “Oh yes. I know Piccadilly”, and stepped off the train.
----------
The stranger and Otum got off the train. The stranger was laughing heartily. He came up to Otum and clapped him on the shoulder.

“Well done boy! Well played. Now, you get a prize from me. You got the month of October as a prize.”

“October? The month? What will I do with October? “, asked a bewildered Otum.

“That’s upto you, my boy. Meanwhile, I need to rush.”
The man vanished in a puff of smoke, leaving Otum with a legal deed to October in his hands.
------
Dinner was quiet. His wife, Lena had made pot roast, spiced with cinnamon, his favourite dish. But, Otum ate without tasting. He was preoccupied with the deed to October in his pocket.
After dinner, over coffee his wife asked im if everything was okay.
“You seem a little off tonight dear. Long day at office?”, she asked
“Yes. That new plant project manager called. He wasted my entire lunch hour.”

“Take a valium and try to sleep Otum.”, advised Lena
Otum had trouble sleeping that night. He had a very strange dream. In his dream, he saw a tree with yellow leaves, under a blue sky. Slowly, clouds appeared in the sky and the tree’s leaves started becoming tinted with red.
After some time, the tree had bloody orange leaves and the sky was grey.

Otum woke up, with a scream. Lena who was next to him switched on the light.

Her husband was shaking and covered in sweat. He groped frantically for his glasses. Lena found them for him and put them on him. She helped him out of bed, told him to splash water on his face and then went downstairs to make tea.
Otum told her what he had seen in his dream. He told her about the tree with yellow leaves. He told her how the leaves took on an orange hue, which seemed bloody orange, as if a person’s blood were being mixed with the leaves.

“Does this mean you need to take a life, Otum?” asked Lena.

“The contract merely states that I own October and that it is mine to keep or change as I see fit. No mention is there of taking lives in October.”, said Otum.

It was morning by then and so Otum started to get ready to go to office.

Office was a normal day. No strangers jumping out of corners and giving him months of the year. He got home around six and showered. He couldn’t get the dream out of his head. What did it mean? Did the tree exist? Was he supposed to find the tree? These questions and more kept whirling around his head.

Over dinner, he told the rest of the family about what had happened. His children aged 3 and 6 both demanded that the Oktoberfest parade be done every day. His father immediately sprinkled holy water on him, scared that he was possessed by some spirit. He also asked Otum to destroy the document.

Otum said, “I tried. I cannot burn it, cut it, or shred it.”

That night, Otum dreamt again. Once again, he saw a tree. The tree was green this time, and the sky above it was forget-me-not blue. Slowly as Otum watched, the sky changed colour. It became greyish. At the same time, the green leaves of the tree became tinted with red.

Otum looked around. He was in a grove. All the trees in the grove had leaves in full bloom, which were all slowly turning red, one tint at a time.

He walked in the grove for a while. He walked up to one of the trees and asked, “What is happening to you?”

The tree replied, “The year ended. I am growing old. Just as you grow old. This is the season trees grow old.”

“When does this happen?” asked Otum

“It happens just before the winter comes and all is cold, and our leaves are covered with frost. During this time when the trees age, the animals who hibernate search for food. It has always happened in the months before winter. Humans haven’t noticed. They do not know to listen and see things. They do not know the many faces of Nature. They are like babies, shielded in their wombs”

“And when winter passes?”

“The new trees, younger trees grow. The green trees. Flowers bloom. Butterflies can be seen. Robins chirp. You see friend, people tend to see only three seasons- spring, summer and winter. Seasons are not three, but four. Do you understand now?”
Otum looked at the tree, and slowly he smiled.

“Yes, I do.”
--------

“A new season? You want to make a new season?” asked Otum’s wife

“Yes. I know what the dreams mean now.” Said Otum. He explained the dream he had to his wife. His wife, like him was initially surprised but then she understood.

“I can’t believe that I didn’t notice the trees before. Look, there’s a yellow one outside!”

Otum looked up and saw the tree from his dream. He smiled. He knew that he was doing the right thing.

On the deed he had for October, there was a small space. In that space, Otum wrote that October would have a new season, one called Autumn, In autumn the trees would grow old and their leaves would change colour. Autumn would welcome winter and would last till November, when the cold and snow came. The skies would be greyish. Occasionally there would be a little rain. The leaves would turn orange-ish or reddish, and they would fall from the trees after the first few weeks.

He signed the deed and then went to have dinner.
------------

That night, Otum dreamt of the tree again and how it changed colour. The red colour seemed a little familiar. He turned around and saw the man who had given him the deed.

“You!” he exclaimed.

“Me” the man smiled. “You’ve done well with the deed I gave you. You figured out what October needed. I forgot to mention who I am. I am a djinn. You call us genie in your language. Not all that we do, but part of our function is to cause some form of mischief. “

“What? Why did you pick me to do what you could have done yourself? “




“That’s just it, I can’t change anything. It has to be a human who sees something different and changes it. After all, you are made in 
God’s image are you not? We are merely mischief makers.
“I forgot to mention another thing. In order for the change to work, you must die. That red color seems familiar to you, because it is your blood that is staining the leaves thus.”

“What you mean is, said Otum, I must die for this to happen.”

“Yes Otum.”

“People will see this beauty unfold each year, but my family, they will grieve!”

“Why do you think it that way? Every time you children see an autumn leaf, they will remember their father. Whenever the monsoons pass, your family will remember you, through this season. Why think the negative? Look at what your mind has created here!”

Otum smiled at these words. He drank it all in. The trees, the winds from the west. The sky.

He smiled and closed his eyes.
---------

“My husband died in his sleep last night. I am told he felt no pain. He didn’t have much of an estate but it’s to be divided as we see fit. My husband was a kind man; he used to do things for people. This eulogy barely does him justice. I wish I could tell you what he was like.”

As Otum’s wife read this from the church dais, a small, reddish yellow leaf fluttered onto her palm.



Monday, October 19, 2020

Early Sunsets Over Monroeville - A Fan Fiction by Lorien Shaw


This is a girl I met on a My Chemical Romance group on Facebook. This is a story she'd posted and I loved reading it. I asked her to send it to me and she very kindly allowed me to publish it on my blog. She wrote her own bio, enclosed below!

My name is Lorien (Lor-e-n, sometimes it's hard for people to pronounce) Shaw, I just turned 14 and I'm from a small town in the south. I love writing, drawing, playing music, or just expressing my creativity. All I want is to be known as someone who made a positive difference in someone else's life, because I know what it's like to hit low lows.




 Early Sunsets Over Monroeville

 

 

 

The sun sets earlier now than it used to. Orange and yellow skies aren’t a good sign around here. We sat on the ledge of a hill for a break. I hold my wife’s hand.

          “We must get moving soon, Mealina,” I say. She nods.

          “I know. It’s just so beautiful out here.”

          The sky was darkening. I stand, pulling Mealina up with me. She kisses my cheek and we head off North.

          This town used to be so full of life. Kids running and playing in front yards, cars carrying adults to work, the occasional cat or dog crossing the street. Now everything is still. The stores that are left are used as refuges. The only sound that can be heard is the rustling of the wind. Broken-down cars line the streets. It’s a dismal, depressing sight.

          My wife and I enter our refuge, quickly calling a meeting for a head-count. I counted the living faces. We lost no one today. It was progress.

          “We’re low on food, Greyson,” Mealina whispers to me.

          “I’ll gather more at sunrise tomorrow.”

          “We don’t have anything for supper,” she pushes. “We need to feed everyone, especially the children.”

          I bite my lip.

          “I’ll run out to the garden quickly and grab a few heads of lettuce. I’ll be back before sunset, I promise.”

          “No,” I reply sternly. “It’s too risky.”

          Mealina opens her mouth, ready to strike back, but gets interrupted by the children running rampant in the small space. I tell everyone we will not be eating tonight.

          As I finish my statement, the back door swings open and slams shut. I whip my head around, counting everyone’s face. We’re missing someone.

          Mealina.

          I jump down from my post and run as fast as I can out into the yard. I frantically search the area. I run to the garden.

          There she is, gathering lettuce and tomatoes and other things. I run to her as quickly as my legs will take me, but I’m too late.

          It happens so fast yet it’s playing in slow motion.

          Something small and sleek swoops from the sky and transforms upon landing. Mealina drops her basket, shocked. The vampire grabs her shoulders as tears of terror roll down her cheeks. He sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of her neck and feasts upon her. I stand motionless, paralyzed with fear and sorrow. The color drains from my wife’s body.

          The vampire pulls away after what feels like an eternity, even though it was really only a minute. Returning to his bat form, he flies away, leaving Mealina helpless. I run to her, no longer frozen.

          I pick her up but her body is cold. Her heartbeat is slowed and her breathing is shallow. I cry over her. Her hand lifts to my cheek.

          “I love you.” Her voice is light and scratchy.

          “I love you, too,” I whimper through shaky breaths.

          I carry her inside and lay her on the bed. I lock the door and wander to the bedside table. I look at Mealina, my beautiful, lovely wife with sorrowful eyes.

          “I’m sorry, Mealina,” I cry, opening the first drawer and grabbing the small pistol. Her eyes fill with tears.

          “Greyson, no, please,” she whines. I stop momentarily. Regaining my composure, I load the gun.

          “Greyson, I love you.” Tears are streaming from her face now.

          “I love you, too, Mealina. I always have and I always will. You were the one and only,” I manage to say, wiping my eyes.

          She cries and screams and pleads.

          “Greyson, please! I love you, please, Greyson, please!”

          “I’m sorry Mealina. I love you,” I choke out, aiming for the center of her head.

 

          BANG!!

 

          Mealina is finally still and I fall back against the wall. The gun falls beside me and I hug my knees and cry. The other refugees are knocking at the door but I don’t care. There’s a corpse in this bed and I’m a wreck.

          They’re calling out to me.

          “Greyson, are you okay?!”

          “Greyson, what happened?!”

          “Greyson, where’s Mealina?!”

          “Greyson?!”

          I pick up the gun and reload it. I can’t live in this nightmare, not with my wife’s blood on my hands. I put the gun to my head and pray to whatever God is listening.

          “I’m so sorry, Mealina, darling,” I end. “Please forgive me. I love you.”

          I pull the trigger and there's a rush of force and calm and energy and noise and silence, all at once, and then there’s nothing. I see Mealina. She’s waiting for me. I approach her and hold her hand. We sit atop a hill and watch the sunset.

          “I love you,” she says.

          “I love you, too,” I tell her.

 

 

 

THE END



Sunday, October 11, 2020

Happy Birthday, Suranjana Aunty

There are some things about your childhood you cannot forget. The chocolates and biscuits you loved, the football at the local park and the first friends you made.

Back then, I used to go to school and I met a girl called Debolina there. She was a sweet thing and we used to talk a lot, as children growing up together are bound to do. Debolina was one of my earliest and therefore most cherished friends. But this post isn't about her. It's about her mother- a person I simply called Suranjana Aunty.

I don't remember too much about Aunty, which is sad. I do associate three things with her. They are Hindi, blackcurrant cream biscuits (which totally and unequivocally need to make a comeback!), and cinnamon. I don't know why I associate cinnamon with Suranjana Aunty and those familiar with my writing will now say that this is just me trying to be someone romantic. That isn't the case.

Suranjana Aunty is one of those people who always smiled and always was good to me. Today she finishes another year on the planet. I would like to take this chance to wish her many happy returns of the day and welcome her to the umpteenth first day of her life. I hope we get to meet someday though right now she is in Delhi and I am in Kolkata. But hey, if the world can be so small that someone can send books to me via a phone, then obviously one day we will reunite for sure!

Happy birthday, Suranjana Aunty. Thank you for existing. I hope you've had a wonderful day!

Ashesh

Saturday, October 3, 2020

If I Died Yesterday

If I had died yesterday
Some would be sad 
Others would come to my last rites 
And help mom and dad 
Some others would be upset
Or call me weak
A drug probe might be ordered 
My room closed off and boarded up
But I didn't die yesterday
I didn't die yesterday
Because I want to live 
I want an eventful Instagram profile 
I want to write one more N-N-1 
I want to stand upon a mountain and yell
I. Am. Alive 
I want to bring back teenaged me 
Who led by example 
And not empty words 
I want to meet people and go places 
I don't want the demon to win
That my friend is why
Why I did not die yesterday

The Bilge Master

Monday, September 21, 2020

Ashes: The Story of a Young Man

Our story begins in 2010, when a little boy saw his first loved one leave for her afterlife. He was sad and he realized his life had changed forever. 

In November of that year he started a blog and it's going good. People appreciate his writing, which his teachers had nurtured in him. Although primarily he composes poems, he does dabble in prose sometimes. This is a spiritual sequel to an article he wrote about his experience in 2010 and how 10 years later, some things have not changed. To fully appreciate this post, the boy who is now a man requests the reader to click here and read the first post.

The man in this post wants to be 18 till he dies. Unfortunately, as Rise Against said, life isn't like that. The boy is behind the man and the man's sisters have not been exactly free either. So the old days of sitting on his grandmother's lap, eating pancakes and doing mathematics from a red book are behind him. 

He is now an engineer, just as his father before him. He has made some friends, and probably will grow up alone. Adversity has shown its face a few times but he's still alive. In short, although this seems cynical, the boy is hopeful. 

Someday he's going to the great gig in the sky to sing along with John Lennon. The boy feels under the weather sometimes but his friends help him. He has found that some people trust him. He has also found an avenue through his blog to connect with like minded people. 

However at his core, the boy who is now a man, wishes he could be a boy again. He wishes he could talk to his grandmother just one more time. He would pay anything to roll the dice one more time. Sometimes he misses them so much, it leaves him hollow. 

But as long as the man lives, he won't forget them and they will watch over him. Estranged as he might be from some, others will walk this world with him. Alone as he feels sometimes, art speaks to him. 

This is the boy, who is a man, but who is also a boy saying that he won't forget the good days. Sometimes that's all that's needed to silence the other voices in his head- voices that tell him it's not worth it, cannot take away the feeling of joy that courses through him when he hears his favorite songs.

The boy who is a man but also a boy is on a journey to a place. He doesn't know where he's going, but he's on his way.

The Bilge Master

Sunday, September 13, 2020

The Music Has Stopped

When I need a hug
Or comfort in other ways 
I play a song 
Over the course of time 
I've heard many 
Then I heard the music 
In your laugh
And the orchestra in your eyes 
I knew I would love to dance with you
As the world around us burned 
For a while it seemed 
I could come out of my shell
That the bridge over troubled water 
Had arrived 
But we never got that far
Because one day you were there
And the next day you weren't 
I see the ghosts of what could have been
Your face hidden behind a mask
Our friends talk of Michelangelo
While we discuss Van Gogh
I thought I'd finally be able 
To leave the darkness behind 
But of late 
The darkness has come 
The drugs don't work
The self harm is just scars 
And the music has stopped 

The Bilge Master 

Monday, August 31, 2020

Follow the Sun

She told me 
The sun must set to rise 
And I believed her 
I searched for her in every sunset
But I was so lost in my search 
That I didn't realize 
That the light on her porch was 
Slowly and steadily growing dim
Until one day it went out 
And I was alone again
I cannot look at sunsets anymore 
Now that I'm back to being nomadic 
I follow the sun
For tomorrow it could rain
Maybe she was the one 
Lennon was singing about 
Maybe I should've known better 
But although the sun has set now 
Tomorrow it'll rise again
Tomorrow I'll get up
Dust myself off 
And continue
For both of us this time 
It's what she would want 

The Bilge Master

Monday, August 24, 2020

A Monster Problem

I hear you have a monster problem
And that the bastard lurks 
In your head 
Under your bed 
In your dreams 
And controls your life too
I hear you have a monster problem 
That's messing you up
Stealing your joy
Making you numb
Uncomfortably
I hear you went to the roof one day
Intending to let the monster win
But it didn't and that
Is what matters the most
I hear you have a monster problem mister 
But tell me this
Is it really gonna win?
Is it?
Is it?
Is it?

The Bilge Master 

Saturday, August 8, 2020

Whorls of Worlds

Harry Potter opened a door 
That Tolkien held the key to
Growing up in Middle Earth was special
Growing into an adult with Harry was phenomenal
And then I discovered Dream and Despair 
Destiny and Death
And of course Door
When Shadow crossed my path
I was already a grown man
Familiar with Asimov's Foundation
And yet I found a home in speculative fiction
By the time I'd read Farenheit 451
I knew it was the temperature at which paper burns 
But seeing them not put out fires 
Was a novelty to me
I sought mystery and found baffling ones 
I returned to Tolkien, no longer 10 but not yet 50
In between I fell for Annabeth Chase and for Leo
And I've enjoyed discovering the world of Miamas as well
Fantastic beasts and kind ogres await you
On this journey that you make 
Gods will forsake you, humans will surprise you
An elven city in the woods awaits you
With nymphs to serenade you
So although you're an adult now 
Fantasy will always be a part of you

Saturday, August 1, 2020

Butterflies and Hurricanes

The title is an amazing song by the progressive rock band Muse and it happened to be playing right now on my phone.

It brought back memories of playing the reboot of Need For Speed Most Wanted and driving an Aston Martin into the evening sunset!

This is going to be about buses. Yellow ones you got on to go to school, blue ones you got on to go to college. AC ones that took you to the airport and the ones that arrive out of nowhere and offer you a ride when you're getting soaked in the rain. 

The conductor screams the stops out. The driver coaxes a shift out of the inevitably noisy gearbox and honks twenty five to the dozen because he can.

Buses are hardcore. Sometimes they remind you of ballads by Passenger or Elton John. Other times they can be as death metal as Cradle of Filth. 

Buses are always varied and they simulate a lot of senses. You have to use your eyes well to keep a lookout on the road, you have to keep an ear open for the conductor calling out your stop. So much to do on a bus.

I miss the crowded buses though. One hand on your wallet pocket, one hand to maintain balance and two fingers holding the fare. Will we ever travel like that again? 

A bus is a paradox. It isn't comfortable but sometimes it's both comfortable and uncomfortable. 

Did Schrodinger come up with his cat on a bus?

The Bilge Master

Friday, July 24, 2020

Mother Do You Think They'll Drop the Bomb?

This is basically a monologue. I want to remember this so I'm putting it here.

It's an early morning. Yesterday, your mom and you had yet another fight. You really went at each other. Hammer and nails. Abuses were hurled, promised broken and ultimately your dad threw you bodily from the room. Whose fault was it? Was it yours for not understanding or was it hers for provoking? 

You open your eyes. Reach for your glasses. Sigh.

And suddenly you see the bookshelf. JRR Tolkien. Neil Gaiman. Colin Dexter. Hemingway. You remember the book club on Facebook and the oh so special friend you made there. You remember her obsession with Backman and how you yourself nearly wanted to punch Kevin hard for what he did to Maya. 

You remember The Old Man and the Sea. You remember learning so many words, of visiting so many worlds. The conversations you wish you could have had with authors. The one time Jeffery Archer said your writing had potential.

And suddenly, you're two or three years old and you've got your first pair of glasses. Your mother gives you a book. You fall in love.

And so when your mother wakes up, you give her a cup of tea. 

Your entire house is your mother. She hides in every nook and cranny. She lives in pages, in ebooks. 

Which mother do you want to remember? And why do you fight her? Doesn't it seem shallow to you? Remember not to let your anger at some illness cloud the memory of a woman giving her child the key to a world where he has found peace. 

Remember. Please remember. 

The Bilge Master

Wednesday, July 22, 2020

Is This the New Normal?

The city is asleep in broad daylight
Its slumber interrupted by me
The passerby staring out a bus window 
Which will carry me across the length and breadth
Of home
The bus has a radio playing 
Lady Antebellum croons a new song 
Partial faces regard me with suspicion
Masks everywhere
Just a few months ago, this place was Times Square
The sun is still shining but the light it gives out 
Has changed from welcoming to menacing 
It is harsh and blinding 
As a killer stalks the city
Taking millions to the Underworld 
Vile creatures and evil smells lurk
Unafraid of anything 
They crawl out of their hiding places 
Hell bent on destruction
If this is the city by day
What is the image at night?
So many things we took for granted 
Are now gone 
Will we make it through the night?
Or will unseen demons claim us 
And helpless we will drown

The Bilge Master

Wednesday, July 15, 2020

In Conversation with Yatindra Acharya and Jason Fernandes

A while back I was added to a group on Facebook where I got to know an artist called Yatindra Acharya. He brought out an original composition in Hindi which I really liked and I got talking with him and his friend Jason Fernandes about music and their work. 

This led to a proposal for a proper interview which is going live below. Do welcome Yatindra and Jason to the blog and I hope you enjoy reading the interview! They've also included links to their work in the post, should you wish to know more about them and what it is they do! 

The Bilge Master

What do you like about music?

Yati : From a listener's point of view, music does to my life what it does to movies. Imagine Sam Raimi's Spiderman, but without Danny Elfman's ensnaring soundtrack. Yeah, you can't. It just becomes part of your story. You'll find me head banging or at least thinking about it every time another Motörhead song blasts in my head.

Jason: I like how versatile it can be, how simple to the ears yet with a lot of technicality to it. How one can capture the depth of the scene just by random notes playing in harmony.

 

What according to you is the most important aspect of a song? Lyrics or melody?

Yati : The melody (don't hate me, man). You want them to turn it up on the radio in their cars? The lyrics won't matter as long as the melody is great. You want them to analyse your words, post it in song discussion threads and remember it too? You'll still need a great melody.

Jason: Melody for sure. I actually focus much on the dynamic aspects of the song since I do have my fair share of learning music theory. That’s one of the many reasons that I hate modern pop songs coz most of them aren’t as technical enough for my ears. Even a groovy bassline can move my head and I wont focus on the lyrics. However that doesn’t mean, lyrics aren’t important as well. Any Queen fan like me would tell you, that Freddie was a lyrical genius

 

What makes a song appeal to you?

Yati : It HAS to make me feel something. Hope, fear, awe, happiness, nostalgia, melancholy, inspiration, evil, heroism... The scream, guitar solos, drum fills, everything, has to serve the context of the song, and has to make the audience FEEL the emotion behind it. That is all art is, you know? It should make you feel something.

Jason: The complexity of the entire mix. The eventual build-up of the entire song to get you those chills at the exact moment. The emotion of the song matters.

 

Talk a little about how you go about composing your songs.

Yati : I could be washing utensils, or sweeping the floor, or working in the orchard, and some melody, some hook will pop up in my head. I'll keep repeating it till I get my guitar and figure out the chords that line will need. I sing it, listen to it and then discern what it makes me feel. The rest of the song just falls into place as I realise what themes can fit the hook. Coming up with open ended or abstract lyrics is the best way to go about it. With time, I will sculpt the song to make it dynamic in the instruments and the vocals, and in 3-5 hours I will have the song completely constructed.

Jason: I am not much into creating/composing songs since m not much of a lyrical genius if you ask. But in yati’s case when he said something about his song and he needs to do a whole track on it, I was like all in. I could add in a bit more to rough structure of composed songs, some added accents that would enhance the end result.

 

Would you say a cover of a song helps the original song to become more popular, even if the original song's quality is inferior to the quality of the cover?

Yati : Absolutely. If laypeople can recognise the quality of the cover, people with good ears will eventually but surely think, "How the hell did those guys come up with this melody? Did they even know how much this song would affect me one day that I would scour the internet for different covers of it?". It gives the original artist the opportunity to become part of a richer culture.

Jason: Absolutely. The best thing about covers is you can do it any genre. And music has so much of it already. People have preferences and, in the end, if someone wants to figure the original one out, sure it exposes them to that genre as well.

 

Comment on the statement, "A cover is just someone copying something because they couldn't come up with something original."


Yati : After mindlessly spitting this, they'll listen to Jimi Hendrix's version of "Hey Joe" for the 6th time that day. I cannot stress how important song covers are. Just slight differences in the guitar tone, vocal style, even the video, makes the artist's soul seep into that rendition. Why would anyone want to shoot that down? You get another angle of the song that you like, and possibly more people will know about the song to now enjoy the original version. Everybody wins.

Jason: Well, as I said, a cover could be as exact to the original, or you could use your artistic imagination to flow into the genres that you like. Obviously, a cover is a copy, you are copying a pattern of chords of the song, but one could obviously enhance or improve it. If you ask me, I am not that well into composing songs and, I was just a part of one and many more to come, but covers is what I can do seamlessly. That doesn’t degrade me as an artist.

 

How important is an app like Spotify or a site like YouTube in today's age of the internet?

Yati : Imagine what previous generations had to go through to listen to music. It hurt the artist more, in my honest opinion. If the only thing keeping you from becoming a cultural phenomenon is the fact that people can't access your material, it's sad for you. The people will find other songs to love sooner than you think. To have these sites distribute your material at minimal cost to you but with high chances of being shared is absolutely wonderful.

Jason: Social media is the key to this internet age, and apps like these help for more exposure than ever. People are accustomed to this easy life. One doesn’t have to buy CD’s anymore and those were at a cost if I'm not wrong. Streaming services are a way to go not only since they are easy to use unlike going through shelf of CD collections and they are cost efficient.

 

Comment on the rampant piracy of music.

Yati : Sad reality is, majority of the households have much, much more important things to spend on. Something that is so easy to pirate as music WILL be pirated. There's no escaping it. You can take the high road and say "People should support artists by buying their music, going to concerts, purchasing merchandise," and what not, but people do those things because they LIKE it. Not because they want to support the artists. There's no conclusion to this, it's just what is.

Jason: That’s the sad reality, I guess. But didn’t we all download pirated music at one point since it was free. I guess right now since the age of streaming in recent years, these have reduced. So that’s a good sign.

 

How important is music as a medium of expression of feelings?

Yati : Ask Slash from GnR. A shy lad who wore his top hat low and covered his face with his hair just so he didn't have to look at people. Interacting with people is scary business, and just because we got used to it doesn't mean it still isn't emotionally taxing. The ability to express who you are, what you do, in the context of a song is not just a bonus, but a gift so many of us need to tell the world what makes us, us.

Jason: Well if you can express your words in music with the tone and feel of what you want your message to be. It hits right on point. You want your listeners to feel what you are going through which also helps them relate in their lives. Everyone has their own playlist when they are in certain type of mood that they can relate to.

 

Name a few artists whose work has inspired you to take up music.

Yati : Linkin Park, Insomnium, Motörhead, Iron Maiden, Guns N Roses, Steve Wilson, Devin Townsend, Alter Bridge, Breaking Benjamin, KK, Shaan, Lucky Ali, Hans Zimmer, Nicholas Hooper, John Williams… I could go on. There's just so many, and each one of them has had some influence on my current work.

Jason: Queen, Led Zeppelin, The Who, Linkin Park, Shaan, Lucky Ali, Hans Zimmer, Guns N Roses, Journey, Dire Straits, Pink Floyd, Silk Route, Bryan Adams, Eagles, Elton John, AC/DC, Toto, Beatles and most of the Classic rock and 90’s artist.

Do you believe there is a message in the music you make? If yes, what is that message?

Yati : It's quite simple. Making music makes you cool.

Jason: I can’t answer this. But what Yati said.

 

Pick out five artists whom you admire.

Yati : Guthrie Govan, Girish Pradhan, Devin Townsend, Axl Rose, Myles Kennedy… Basically song writers who have insane guitar/vocal abilities, since I started out as a guitarist and am now a vocalist.

Jason: Freddie M, Brian May, John Bonham, Jimmy Page, Elton John, Any member of the Beatles.

How were you introduced to music?

Yati : My family. My mother is a Carnatic singer and plays the harmonium. We sing bhajans at random times, I used to play the tabla when I was a child and the response I got from people back then would leave me wanting more.

Jason: Well, being raised a catholic has its perks. I was actively involved in church activities and every church has its own choir which I was a part. Slowly I developed interest and enrolled myself for keyboard classes seeing my friends in them. My mom used to work as nanny for Pankaj Udhas’ elder daughter. So she kind off pushed me into music as well.

 

Where do you see music and artists say five years from now?

Yati : Foresight is absolutely not my thing, I'm horrible at projecting things in the future, and I'd be lying if I said that it makes me sad. But I'm pretty sure that selling music online will be even more profitable than it is now, or so I hope. I see so many new artists going back to Rock n Roll, India's metal scene is flourishing and I, for one, can't wait for people to realise how weak their playlists were five years ago.

Jason: Its hard to say. I know many artists right now are struggling to survive in this pandemic. And, the ‘DJ culture’ is taking the world by storm. I have seen enough American Shark tank to notice that Music is a risky business. One needs to create connections or be incredibly good at it to be found online. And then there are many who are good it at it. That however doesn’t mean that the older genres would fade off. I hope to see more international rock/metal bands performing in India though.

 

What if music never existed?

Yati : I would just be a shirtless guy on Facebook, instead of being a shirtless guy in my own music video. Can't imagine what my personality would be like if it weren't for music. I don't think I assimilate more of anything else, maybe superhero movies, but even they need soundtracks. It would be a grey world indeed.

Jason: I would just be another software engineer on a chair with a PC in front of me.

 

Here are links to stuff that would show what kinda music I make and what I'm into.

Ik Shama : https://youtu.be/EHr7AwX8TSc

One Step Closer cover: https://youtu.be/hCj1qJtmge8

Hotel California solo cover: https://m.facebook.com/story.php?story_fbid=2082291738488575&id=100001233067301

 

My social media:

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/kilmyster

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/kil_mister/

YouTube : https://www.youtube.com/c/YatiAcharya

 

Jason:

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/jazz94

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/simply_khadoos


Friday, July 10, 2020

Food, Friends and Fun- A Photoblog

When a plan has been in the works for over a month and suddenly on a day like today it just happens, you really wish that the guy who wrote that God was in his heaven and all was right in the world could be here because you'd totally buy him a drink. This is a post about a bespectacled fat guy, a seventeen year old Gordon Ramsay and a storm that is white.

I will let the photos do the talking. Basically the three of us got together to have pasta and it went well. I then extended my losing streak at Scrabble to 11 straight losses. I know I'm awesome! 

Introducing Manda the Panda, White Storm and of course your very own The Bilge Master and featuring a packet of pasta, lots of milk and cheese, a blunt knife and vegetables.

Wednesday, July 8, 2020

Night at the Hospital- A Guest Post by Atmadeep Banerjee

Atmadeep is a doctor who used to be a quizzer and debater, back in college. Most of his time now is spent at the hospital or at the study desk. In his spare time, he likes reading and cultivating a growing interest in philosophy and geopolitics. I met him in August 2012 at a Poets of the Fall concert and we've been friends since! This is something he shared on Facebook recently and it caught my eye. Have a look and welcome Atmadeep to the blog people!

The Bilge Master

There’s a small room at one corner of the hospital, that used to be perennially bustling with activity. Even in the middle of the night, on any given day, residents and interns would be flitting in and out, gathering paperwork, vials of blood and all the other mundane tools of daily work. It is here that I sit awake one night in late June of 2020, trying to remember what life used to be like in this residents’ room. Scattered memories flash before my eyes like a montage out of a film: worklists prepared by sleep-deprived residents, cold meals shared at 4 in the night, differentials passionately debated by seniors, barely funny jokes laughed at uproariously at the end of a tiring shift. It seemed surreal. Like memories from a past life, long gone.

I remember I used to be so afraid when I first joined as a junior resident over a year ago. I would rush into this very same residents’ room a million times every night and ask my senior to verify my diagnoses and re-check my management plans. Those days of hand-holding are long gone. I’m trusted to handle the night-shift on my own now. The seniors are always just a call away, manning their own stations at the different wards and intensive units, but they have faith in me and as do I. However, today, that is a hollow victory.

It is an unusually quiet night. As with all residents, I’ve learned to be distrustful of these idle hours after dark. They have a tendency of lulling you into a state of lowered vigilance – which you can ill afford, especially in these times. “A doctor’s work is never done”, goes the quote from Park’s textbook of Preventive and Social Medicine. And before you know it, the façade of tranquillity comes crashing down in an instant, as a staff member comes rushing in to inform me of a new admission. Another poor soul whose own body is failing him. Another set of anxious faces praying desperately that their family doesn’t end up being yet another tally on the wrong side of a statistical sheet.

Once the patient is stabilised, and the relatives counselled, I return to the room. “Cytokine storm”, “ARDS”, “DKA” – seemingly alien jargon that gets bombarded at our citizens through their television screens like some sort of apocalyptic foretelling with little explanation. Then there are the snake oil salesmen, ready to fan the flames of fearmongering to make a quick buck. I wonder how those outside the medical fraternity feel in these moments of crisis – scared, confused, wondering if it’s karma, divine will or just the absurd indifference of the universe?

A drop of sweat trickles into my eyes, blurring my vision. An unpleasant reminder of exactly how uncomfortable a PPE is, especially while working at a non-air-conditioned hospital in the middle of summer. This PPE is the 21st century rendition of the iconic white-coat – our greatest inheritance from our forefathers in the medical fraternity. Today, it feels not like a privilege, but a burden. It is stifling to stay in, impossible to see in, sickening to walk in, and draining to work in.
But it is a reminder that the men and women, who first wore this white-coat, faced the same nemeses that we used to scoff at till a few months ago. They wrestled with the same foes, without the privilege of the antibiotics of mass destruction that we launch with the push of a syringe today. They went to war with unknown diseases, armed with nothing but grit, courage, a begrudging respect for the enemy, and unending compassion for the souls that were ailing from its blows.

It is the same white-coat of Dr Jonas Salk who refused to patent his Polio vaccine, of Dr Barry Marshall who swallowed Helicobacter pylori bacteria in order to prove that they cause peptic ulcers, of Dr Bidhan Chandra Roy whose birth anniversary we celebrate today. And most importantly, it is the same white-coat that has armoured the generations of doctors across time and geographic boundaries who worked tirelessly and did their best – the ones who aren’t immortalized by the textbooks, but whose actions echo on in all our lives today.

This PPE is more than a medical equipment. It is a talisman. It protects our physical selves and those of our patients and families, but more importantly, it galvanizes our spirits in our moments of greatest despair. It is a symbol of the faith that our forebearers have earned, and the trust that is our privilege to repay. It is a reminder that every moment we’re in the wards, in the clinics, in the OT, at the laboratory, or the study desk, the spirits of healers who came before us are guiding our hands and watching over us.

The sky outside is a bit less dark now. The birds have started chirping.
It seems we shall make it through this night yet.