Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.


The post below is why I put this up.

Henry

Does anyone know what to write about before the writing's done? For the past two weeks, I have over magnificent hills and gazed at depth less gorges, at gurgling streams of frothy white water and stood transfixed at rivers plunging to great depths over green mossy mountains. I have feigned sorrow at great rusted barely standing gates, once lovingly engraved, now mossy, solitary watchers in the midst of a lush field...roads, half paved, that branch off the highway, only to lead nowhere. Signs that proclaim the existence of non-existent stadia and schools round the bend.
I have tried to get moved by the passing of a legend or the sad proclamation of a student protester as he left home perhaps never to return.

I guess I can't escape being selfish; as most of us. If there is a forced, self important tone ingrained in here, pay it no heed. Do not rebuke the writer on account of that. Rise above me.
Let his name be Henry. He was my friend. And so much more. My laughter. My jealousies...my joy. I was his refuge. His brother. Everything that had seemed important enough to argue about seems insipid now. Insignificant little bits fly about in the face of that torment which announces daily of the rift, the loss of the person.
Henry had a friend. Henry loved that friend. I liked the friend and frequently argued with Henry...over little things about her and him. I thought we were stronger.
Now Henry's bond grows stronger with the friend and I look at them from the edge of the road. Henry cuddled up to me. Henry is cold over the phone.
Henry is not sure if he'll want to spend time with me henceforth. I miss him. Not him. I miss us. I never had a friend as he. Will I again?
I am not sure how I'll react if he stops all interaction. One thing is for certain. I will not blame him. And I hope I'll reach a day when I won't blame me.
I am lonely now. Loneliness has lost its appeal because of Henry. Henry told me today that they had grown closer. Henry told me today us getting close as before wasn't possible.

At the risk of sounding pathetic,I say this, "I loved you Henry."

Realize

It has been a day of realizations. And an unexpectedly irritating Sunday.

Was watching cartoons at 8 this morning.The mystery that Scooby and the gang were trying to unravel seemed childish and insipid. I crave childish and insipid. And then, in the midst of Scooby's atrocious Hindi gibber-jabber, I recalled why I loved him. The song, rather, a song, that used to be a part of every episode...I would sit and bear the torture for that one song...How I loved that one song; How I miss it now.


People who don't receive their calls time and again are irritating. Even if they are your best friend. Also very irritating are the "Missed Call" people. Aaargh.

And as I am typing this out, one of the irritating "I never receive my calls" person did receive my call and it turned out he was sleeping...Being drowsy adds this sweetness to his voice and I can't be angry with him.

Had the most awesome day ever yesterday. A Sri-Lankan friend is in town and we went out for lunch, walked and walked and walked and rounded off sipping amazing tea while watching the throng milling in Park Street...He has come down from Bombay( I insist) and has been travelling across India alone for the past month. Atop a bridge off Patna, the sun setting over the Ganges, he said he had wished there were someone by his side; he had wished he were not alone. Melancholy, yes; but also strangely surreal.


As much as I feign empathy for the cyclone victims, deep down I detest donating money. Biting realization.
Friends can be selfish. Rather, people you call your friends can be selfish. My Lankan friends' friends can't spare an afternoon to see him. And to think the only reason for his being in Calcutta is to meet them...



I find blogging difficult nowadays; signs of advanced age, they tell me.

Closure

He is fine now...he is much much more than alive. Thank you everybody. For being there.

I am back to my blissful state of petty insecurities, fights and quarrels. We are fighting at this very moment.

He still might collapse any day and neither one of us nurses dreams of "Happily Ever After"...but I got what I wished for. Another day of glorious sunshine.

India and tennis.

25th May 2009 was an important day for us. And the Indian democracy. On this day, The Supreme Court of India granted bail to a frail looking man of 52...clean shaven, ailing, held under the "Chhattisgarh Special Public Security Act 2005 (CSPSA)"...you could scarcely believe him to be a terrorist, waging war against the state, conspiring against the union. But then, what do I know?

A gold medallist from The Christian Medical College, Vellore, he chose to work amidst the squalor and penury that is the tribal belt of Chattisgarh. In an area where half of the population is malnourished, where thousands of children never live to see their fifth birthday, he was a beacon of hope, insanely popular. Laurels were heaped on him...for both his medical and humanitarian work.
And then, Santoshpur happened.
On the 31st of March 2007, several tribals were killed by the state police under the guise of an encounter...A Human Rights tussle ensued. He was arrested by the state police under charges of sedition in May.

I am not much of a patriot. At least not as much as those who are now crying themselves hoarse...screaming profanities at Australia. It seems though that my "Greatest Country in the World" doesn't care much for dissenting voices. Through the entire ordeal, not one party spoke up for the good doctor. 22 Nobel prize Laureates did.
We all are so caught up in celebrating our democracy that we refuse to see the darker side. The side that suppresses journalistic freedom...that throttles protests armed with a draconian law...where, even the highest court in the land dismisses a bail petition with a single line decree...where politics of vendetta is the only kind of politics on the planet. The Salwa Judum, created by the state to fight Naxals is today an alternate militia trapping the tribals in between...and anybody who raises a voice is deemed a Naxal.

I will not pretend I care for them; for the past half hour, I have been more interested in Nadal losing than him. However, I refuse to drag myself into the " Aussie KAMINEY ki aulad" campaign. Probably., a little sight inward wouldn't be out of place before we shout at others... for my patriot friends,therefore, who feign to care, just two words. Binayak Sen.

Of being alive.

It is the second night. Which will lead on the third morning. Of agony, frantic prayers, tears, tension and above all, fear. Fear that the third morning will never lead to a third night. I tremble at the thought.

It is annoying being cryptic, but the person in question desires the secrecy. I can't name him. He hasn't even told his mum what is going on. Or his best friend. Or his love.

That Saturday morning, as I sat quietly relishing the glory of a joyous Mamata Banerjee, the phone rang...him wheezing on the other side of the line; all an age ago. Time then has past in one whirlwind of tormented emotions, fingers painfully crossed and praying as hard as you could possibly be. And above all, fear. Overwhelming, dark, despondent, macabre fear that threatens to engulf all.

As I sit in the comfort of my home, its half past midnight and the world sleeps...perhaps I will too, in a few hours. And will wake up to the all-paralysing fear, the agonizing wait for a call, his voice.
"Its no use lying to you...I'm bleeding and the doctors are not hopeful this time...".I never knew I could pray this hard or get this afraid. Or this anxious. Everything seems petty now. My conversation with friends is either cosmetic or distant. My concerns are dwarfed by my fears.Death takes you away and never returns... its irreversible.
The first night, he made me promise to tell someone he loved her. To look after her. I hated her. I hate him for telling me to do this if, as he put it, he isn't around. He could barely speak. He told me to not visit him. He couldn't bear it.
I never realized love was this strong a bond. I bet he didn't either. I know nothing will happen to him... He fights as I type. He promised me. He will come back to me.
He can't die. He won't. He is just sick, that is all.

Untitled

I am sick of being sad...I am mad at myself for letting me be so melancholy for so long. Saw a setting sun the size of the millennium ball yesterday;shored up my mood considerably. Examinations underway, I have decided to not be sad. Its just not worth it.

The elections are underway here in Bengal and its huge fun. I like it almost as much as music. Mamata Bannerjee, me on my bed with Pakeezah plugged into my ears. Wouldn't have it any other way.

Channels have cried themselves hoarse over the past three days at how strife torn Nondigram registered a 88% turnout and Delhi clocked a placid 45%...the awakening of the masses, as they put it.
A man of seventy woke up at seven after a tiring day in the field the previous day. Tired but determined to register his franchise, he walked to the polling booth in the oppressive heat that characterises rural Bengal nowadays...walked back home only to find out his home gutted by fire,"accidentally" set on fire by "alleged" political goons. He stands outside his home with not a straw in the world to call his own. He cries, buries his face in his hands and you zoom into his now dead face to listen to his hollow, unsteady, almost suicidal voice while you ask him,"So, did you vote for the CPI(M)?"
From the comfort of my bed, I watch them. I have the luxury to contemplate. They don't. They are far too busy seeing their lives go up in smoke. Or like the distraught lady in Asansol who kept asking every passer-by,"Ami Ghashphool-e vote dilam bole eta holo?"..."Did this happen cuz I voted for the flower?". She is too busy crying, you see, to take part in our hoopla over the success of elections in Nondigram.
2009 has seen violence erupt in several parts of normally peaceful Bengal,with scores of people dead, houses gutted, lives shattered.People too scared to step on the village road cuz they're sure to be shot in the open. Or, as the Election Commission puts it,"Isolated little incidents of violence".
My friend consoles me, says the local committee of a certain party will disburse money to these people once the elections are over. He says it will never come out in the open...so its alright I guess.It shouldn't matter.
My largest democracy in the world marches on. As Lata Mangeshkar puts it," Yeh chiraag bujh rahe hai, mere saathe jalte jalte..."
I am feeling really cheery today.

Just a day...just an ordinary day

The person who has been responsible for my Love's physical survival is dead. He passed away last night. He messaged me at 3 while performing the last rites. I was sleeping.

I couldn't bring myself to utter insincere words of consolation. Instead, for the first time in 4 years, I prayed to Jesus for a man I never knew.
He was my Love's doctor.


All day today, I wanted to hold his hand...he seems broken. He doesn't admit it, he doesn't cry, he is busy being a man. He'll be here tomorrow.

For about an hour today, all my jealousy, my insecurities, my grudges were replaced by this hollow voice, this weird unstable feeling of absolute helplessness...he says it hasn't sunk in yet. It seems surreal.

I have been trying to empathise, to share the pain but all my efforts seem cosmetic and I am afraid he knows it too.


Its a still summer night now and after a long day he has finally drifted off to sleep. I however find that useless banter is of much help...I am having a mock fight with a feisty friend and I see its working. I am not better, I am more diverted. Tinkling laughter, my own voice, is shocking me...after all that has happened today.

I thought of writing this out in better words but this is all I can manage...I hope to see him tomorrow. I hope to have him with me. We'll go out for dinner. The days will roll on. Without him.

Haven't been in the mood to write anything for quite some time now. I am not depressed, perhaps in love. "In love" sounds very very tacky. And I hate tacky.

At a play yesterday, something quaint happened. A friend called me up during the interval. She was outside the theatre. Went out in search of her; met the guards outside. They enquired if I had vacant seats beside mine. I nodded. They let her in...told her to go enjoy the play. The perks of Kolkata.

I am not upbeat, hence I type this out very very fast, cuz I am sure I will lose the will to type in a matter of seconds. It has happened quite a few times over the past few days.

Something is changing. I am very aware of that. I am not sure if it is a good thing though. 3 months remain of my teenage. I will be turning 20 this fall. I will miss this age.
I know it has neither been a tumultuous ride nor have I really "grown up into a man" over the past 6 years. I wasn't a normal teen and so probably I won't be a normal adult. I miss being young. I miss going to school. I miss open spaces. Huge expanses. Roads. Cows. I miss eating in. I miss the person I was.

I finally realized why Tom never wins.

A friend who was crashing with me over the past week has just left. Missing him.

Stressed to the T. Watching a lot of TV.

Am feeling very very insecure about my relationships now. Maybe I need to rethink stuff over. Still officially single though.