'Becoming is an antithesis for whatever you may call the transmogrifying isn't it always a progression.'
Sometimes he would just phrase his own thoughts in a way as if writing a
novel and funnily enough the sentences stuck. Often while waiting for
that four minutes overdue coffee and that two second difference that
clocked the tasteless sip, something like this would lazily stroll
through the mind.
As a teenager he read about Sharat Chandro
and the men he wrote. He loved the silent passive aggressive overtones
and yet the weakened limbs that manifested as those men. While the
twenty first of the century nested him he peregrinated through his own
pages of time with an almost fiction novel protagonist like sympathy for
his own self, sometimes more. Admittedly though, for the times we
live in, a little shelter of your own warm covering may help to evade
the stealthily crawling monsters of humid hotel rooms, over priced
coffees, over payed civil servants and economists and the stupid yet
scathing criticism that he sometimes got for his overtly refined south
Calcutta bengali-victorian words like 'noshtonir' and 'ojatshotru'
being used in his almost monthly poems published for 'desh-the
Solitude was a way of life more than any other
option and here too defensively using Sharat Chandro or may be Kafka as a
metaphor, it was a method to trade with that silent yet metaphysical
storm. Sometimes even to ride it so that his monthly quota of a poem is
fulfilled. The mute violence, the blood and all that is named in a
city filled with people and yet so resolutely vacant that sometimes he
would laugh at the meaninglessness that how all they needed was just a
touch or a whisper to melt down, to cry and yet all of them each one was
walking in a rear guard action as if to save skins when all it wanted
was their pains and tryst to be acknowledged by love.
disappoint you specially when they try and narrate out such mammoth
amount of retrospective intellectualism as if the evolutionary human
lineage in itself is an episodic tale. After the later ice ages,
the barbaric tribal wars, the crusades, bubonics, the wars if you are
reading this today and know that your ancestors stayed alive in the
middle of the mayhem won't you consider little baby luck as a factor.
You write for you are a success and yet you run and the things that are
lost O! the chances, the kisses, the lives that you knew and yet the
untouched you by all of it scampers on only to fall down and break in
the desert and then the memories, the over bearing father that lives on
forever called memories, as a race what if we were smart enough to be
able to refine memories.
He knew even he was not safe from
that Frankenstein called 'the days lived by' he though had found a way
just like Murukami might say to nourish his own loneliness.
Thoughts, wild disenfranchising.
And yet how fragile is the human soul no matter how many layers of
thoughts you cover yourself up in at 4:30 AM when you wake up thirsty,
you drink and suddenly like a fresh stab you find the world desperately
seeking none of your attention and you run and you run and you write a
book about it, so that you may live part fiction-part rumor. Someday he would write about it.
"Excuse me two spoon sugar. Thanks"
'Becoming is an antithesis for whatever you may call the
transmogrifying isn't it always a progression. After all the change that
is so evident is in itself a collective reflection of all of what you
have been. You do not become yet you are becoming with every liven
moment into death and void. Ironically how human it in itself is. But
what characteristics other than you specific specie behavior determine
you as humans...'