Monday, August 13, 2012

Preface-



'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 magazine'.

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.

Men 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...'

"Sir! Sugar."

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