Pens and Swords

White. Empty and untouched. That's what this page looks like,

Till my keystrokes register and a stain begins to spread,

Minute characters appear where just seconds before there was nothing,

Permutations and combinations occur, mathematics of words

A skeleton is dug up, it is given flesh

It's blood vessels are pumped up again,

It is told to jump into a pair of baggy jeans, don a jacket,

And it will do what I want it to,

I can send it to China, I can send it to Rome,

I can captivate you Reader in my yet to be published tome,

I find this funny, for all this manipulation

​Takes place in the comfort of my home,

I am not a writer, I am merely a boy,

With a passable vocabulary, doing something that brings him joy

And so I ask of anyone who might stop by to read this,

Tell me how it is that Writers manage to make us cry?

I guess that is why my mother once said to me,

"Son, the Pen is mightier than the Sword"

The Bilge Master

Have We Met?

I think I can describe the current part of my life as a transitional phase- one in which I realize that I actually CAN do stuff and then go on to do said stuff. Somehow, at first, such a transition seems scary. In time, however difficult the said transition is, it completes and leaves me feeling better. Sort of like a snake when it's shed it's skin.

I'm pretty sure that this is  a common phenomenon in the life of every young adult. The bit where your parents leave you alone to a large extent and you start seeing the world a wee bit more differently. When you've realized that everyone is NOT trying to killl you and there's really no need to go around flailing your arms about like a somewhat deranged lunatic on steroids. 

That being said, where's the fun in not being a lunatic? Studies, binges, the endless adda with your classmates and your seniors. Staying out late and having a blast even when the HOD is being a gigantic pain in your rear. Bring it on I say! 

And no matter what, you will always find that group of people or just that one person who is as bat shit crazy as you are. When you do, you might have this eiree feeling that you are looking into a mirror. The urge to ask "Have we met?" might overwhelm you.

Here's to you college \m/

The Bilge Master

The Whiteboard Song

My friend at JU, Arnab Chakraborty wrote this poem after I haggled at him for a considerable amount of time. He writes his own blog called Musings, which you can check out here.  Many thanks Arnab.

I see the Whiteboard behind you,

And words forming like images
On a canvas for failed limners of old;
Who found no means of entry
Into your heavy books

Of scholars, philosophers and thinkers bold.

The stellar cast of History’s Heroes,

They gather on your Whiteboard.

Then I wake up from the opium dreams

Of Mother Nature, my mistress

And Father God, the towel boy;

Who stood apart feeling shy,

As I played a nasty game of tennis

With the Demon Kings of the world

3-2 they said before the raindrops claimed my distant gaze

And I saw you staring, admiring that shimmering Whiteboard.

Then I noticed you were seeking

 Seeking that custard of spirit,

Seeking that pure imperfection, seeking

What does not lie on that great Whiteboard.

Then I feel old.

Growing older still with each silence

That does not escape your lips.

And your words erudite and strong

Growing younger with each boom.

While I grow older still, because wisdom

Comes with great loathing at men

And yet the greatest forgiveness

For all men are you as you are them;

Thus promoting a state of paradox,

Not unlike the ones you ignore

Forming between the names on that great Whiteboard.

But without a moment’s despair

We become lumps of flesh, You and I

On a rock spinning through endless nothing

Seeking answers from the cold Whiteboard.

And all our glorious theories that pale

In the presence of a thunderous night,

Or in the pains that make us fight;

Pains that you are blind to

And ones to which I only lend an ear

Till the howling makes my ears bleed

And then I am hiding in a corner somewhere

Storing private sobs for what I cannot cure away.

The practical clockwork suffering continues like a mechanized drone

And you still posit those questions,

While great names stare at me

From beyond the glorious Whiteboard.

Then I am arrogant

Then I am raw

Then I am all that eludes your grasp

While the carbon that makes you and I

Smiles in the bitter irony of long forgotten names

Names that you memorise at a moment’s touch

And names that are ornaments on famous gravestones

While the nameless pass by

Recurrent ant-like heroes of the world

In a giant black lump they pass

Greying the corners and the Heroes of your precious Whiteboard.

But alas! Me is the fool

Me is the repeating voice of many

Me is the fool for raindrops and dreams and lies colour my body

While you are the giant building of books

Me is the fool for trying to hold

What my fat fingers can never touch

Me the fool for chiding those more solid

Those more real in the thought-room of archives

You stand atop the mountain of all that has been

While hollow men like me survive on the morsels you leave behind

You, the Giant with raised voices in the crowd,

And I a fool on your Whiteboard.

Coffee House er Shei Adda Ta…

I spent the better part of today listening to Manna Dey’s timeless song “Coffee House er Shei Adda Ta…” and somehow it’s prompted me to write a few lines. As yet, I don’t know what I’m exactly going to be writing about, much like my habit of adda.

Being a Bengali, there are a few things that I live. One of them is the fish curry my mother makes, when she feels like it. One of them is listening to Bob Dylan on a rainy day. One of them is drinking litres of coffee. One of them is sitting with a group of friends, and just giving adda. Small wonder then that I love this song and will continue to love it for a while now.

I’ve heard this expressed on occasion that adda is kind of futile. Maybe it is. But at the same time it hold a certain undeniable charm. It helps in more ways than one I assure you. And let it be said, that although we are living in a world ruled by instant messaging, the power of a cup of instant coffee will always be exponentially higher.

But surely, you know that already seeing as you’ve come here and are reading this and somehow feel yourself wanting to pick up a cup of coffee and join your  friends for a chin wag or to put it more simply an adda session?


The Bilge Master

There Are Some Things…

These few days are somewhat calm. My city is changing itself. The traffic on the roads is more, as are the crowds on the various forms of public transport; especially the subway. The reason for that is obvious to anyone living in Kolkata- Maa ashchen.

 

The annual festival of Durga Puja is one that brings with it a riot of gaiety, motely bunches of people and of course the signature beats of the dhaaks. The city changes. It becomes a living entity as every nook, every cranny and every microbe falls under the spell of our visitors from far off Kailash. When you think about it, it’s a simple thing really. Five Gods come down from their abode to mingle among us mortals. One of them is the destroyer of the demon Mahisasur, who was a thorn in the Gods’ side for ages.

 

But it isn’t that simple. It’s more than just a festival. It’s a time for…I don’t know- discovery? Anticipation surges up in me, because my college is closing soon. My good friend from Gurgaon will be in town too. I can try that look with a kurta and jeans…

 

Remember that advertisement on TV? The four friends, college buddies who tossed to decide who would pay the bill? It said something very true. There are some things that need to be experienced. Adda sessions over a cup of lukewarm tea, the second it takes for you to remember that age old anecdote and share it. The list is almost endless. Just as this festival, though it celebrates something old, seems to reinvent itself each year. For each year, a boy walks out his front door, meets his friends and is awestruck yet again. Hence my anticipation.

 

Maa Ashchen.

 

The Bilge Master

Madhu

The old man, somewhat groggy woke up. He picked up his bifocals from the table beside him and pottered over to the kitchen to put the water on for morning chai.

“Madhu, it’s time to wake up!” he called out as he passed her room.

He had a specific system for making tea. He would first heat a little water and pour it into two cups, one for himself and one for Madhu. He would then heat up a little more, to brew the tea with.  Once the water had boiled, into it would go a little pinch of ginger, just a pinch mind you. His mother had told him it imparted more taste to the tea and to be honest it helped with his sinuses. The next thing he would do is measure out 3 spoonfuls of tea and put them into the flavoured water. This mixture would simmer for about 3 minutes. Then it would be strained into the cups, ready to drink. Madhu always said his adrak waali chai was the best.

*****

The old man had seen Madhu off at the bus stop and gone for his morning walk. He would spend about 3 hours on his own, while Madhu spent the same time learning. He knew the sound her bus made when it braked, and so would know when to expect her back. Usually she would be back around 12. The old man spent this time immersed in a spy thriller, or doing the crossword puzzles in the paper.

Madhu’s favourite snack was idli-dosa, which the old man went to get around 11.30. There was a little South Indian restaurant just around the corner of the house. In spite of the rising vegetable prices, especially the onions, this restaurant was still affordable and more importantly, knew the old man very well. He would order the food and then while he waited have a tumbler of their special filter coffee. He liked to watch the waiter cool the coffee, by first pouring it into one tumbler then back into the original. It was a precise series of movements, ensuring that the coffee was frothy and also cool enough to drink.

*****

“Your father has made very little progress, Mr. Saxena”, said the doctor. “He is clearly still in shock from what happened”.

“I know doctor. It is truly a tragedy. Is it the same thing? He gets to that point in his story of that afternoon and then just stops?”

“Yes sir. We have tried him on lithium as well as a mind amount of lorezapam. But there is no response. He just doesn’t seem to be able to accept what happened.”

*****

That day was different. It started off as normal. The old man woke Madhu up and they had his adrak waali chai. He then put her on the bus. He spent the next three hours doing the crosswords, and then went to get the idli-dosa for Madhu.

When he got back, he heard the phone ringing.

“Is this the Saxena residence?”, said a voice

“Yes”, replied the old man.

“Sir, I am calling from North Wing Police Station. We need you to come here urgently. There has been an accident and we require someone to identify a body.”

They told the old man that Madhu had fallen from the bus as it picked up speed on the way out of the school. They said that she had a cranial fracture that caused a haemorrhage.

The old man just thought about the packet of idli-dosa on the kitchen table. He hadn’t said bye to Madhu when she got on the bus today.

*****

“Mr. Saxena, I am afraid your father’s response is still poor. His mind is constantly replaying that day. When he gets to the end of the story, he just repeats the same line- I did not say goodbye.”

Inspired from the Poets of the Fall song “Late Goodbye”

The Bilge Master

Thoughts of a Crackpot

My old man he was a preacher,

And on days he couldn't reach her,

He’d seek solace at the bottom of a pitcher,

And go the whole nine yards,

My first crush was my English teacher,

She had a daddy with a Winchester repeater,

Who couldn't stop her meeting her bloke at the theater

My sister hails from North Carolina,

And always wanted to marry this gangster called Tanner,

‘Cept the sheriff shot the guy full o’ lead,

Thereby leaving her love life for dead,

What then is the point of this cock-a-doodle?

Why you ask am I playing this tune on the fiddle?

Truth be told, I have no clue mate,

But then again, who says I have to make sense?

The Bilge Master