Saturday, October 20, 2012


I write for a living and I know my part. Writers are essentially actors who play in their minds all the roles that they can create. I have learned to unlearn memories or atleast try my hands at pretending that I do not have them anymore. Sometimes though memory like a paper cut unintentionally sticks to you and the paper cut turns into a dagger. 

Sadness and its memoirs then fill you with the strange feeling of a dying evening. And the scarce happy memories I have makes me wonder why things happened the way they did. It is strange that the evolving paper cut-dagger of memories would always make you disappointed no matter what the details of the story are, they are never happily into ever afters.

How we underestimate our specialties to be a part of the milieu. All men and woman who have lived have lived the story of youth and its loss and a constant war of redemption for the past glory which never was. We live in yearnings all the time and this constant feeling of not being there, where we want ourselves to be. 

Emotions are just dishonest, when a sad man is happy tomorrow or a happy one is sad, isn't he disrespectful to his past self. Hence our stories of bravery and romance and Shakespearean tragedies are all bogus. 
After all the greatest heroes fell through the alleyway of emotions they surely had experienced fear, sadness, slothfulness, lust, anger and hatred. Tomorrow if they talk about my stories in closed quarters, I want them to say there was a man born in Bishnupur, of east-bengali refugee parents, who wrote. 
Not good, not bad just that.

I hate stories that end for in the end it is either happy or sad that traces the last few foot steps of a story. I want my stories to float, a human face is too small to be happy and sad at the same time. Now, how sad that is.

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