Layman's Guide To: Disappointments

| Posted in , , , , | Posted on 8:44 PM


  When you've lived for a certain number of years (preferably in puberty) you'll meet a certain vague entity that goes by the name 'Disappointment'. Funny, you think it is? Don't. 
  There is a lot that Disappointment has to offer. 

  With continued and repeated exposure to Disappointment, you'll learn how it works. And most of it, besides being unarguably and wholly sad, is disappointing, but more on that later. (Yes, it's an infinite loop!)
  The thing is, more often than not - and more sooner than later - that big bullying bitch everyone calls Disappointment is going to smack you right across your face and go, 'There. You needed to know that, you smartass.' And take note - you'll be referred to as a smartass irrespective of whether you think you are one, because Disappointment definitely thinks you are.
  And you'll nod your head quietly, as you feel the skin on your cheeks that has now turned warm - and you won't dare look up. Or, if you like to roll differently, you'll retort with an insult; an expletive, perhaps, and scream at the top of your lungs. But Disappointment never responds - it just leaves you alone to your thoughts, your reveries, your epiphanies. 
  Never once does it look back.

It takes many forms, acquires many figures and disguises, by the time it reaches you. 
  It could come to you as the early morning train you missed at a metro station. Or it could come to you as rain on that day that you'd hoped it would be sunny. It could be a bulb that fails to light up, a pen that refuses to write, or a pair of earphones that just doesn't untangle. In any form, whether discreet or noticeable, it will come to you.
  It could masquerade as that mark sheet of a test that you thought had gone very well. Or as that failed friendship that you'd been working so hard on, you almost wonder how it ever got so bad. Or as words, as lies, from someone you'd expected nothing but the truth from. Or it could be silence - unbearably painful, painfully unbearable. 
  It could be the face of an old flame you still think you have a shot with, or the smile of a teacher you'd once thought unkindly of, or the unfaltering respect of a junior you had once pushed around just for fun.
  It could be something you desired, possessed, held - but lost. A gift from a loved one? Or it could be something you desired, wanted to possess, hold - but couldn't. A trophy, a medal, an award? A rare piece of metal? An expensive piece of equipment?
  Somebody's attention?

Anything can disappoint you - from the way people act, to the way you do; from the way the way things were supposed to be, to the way things weren't supposed to be; from the way the day starts to the way the day ends. And if you don't learn to deal with it, mark the words, here: You're fucked.
  Because somewhere along the way you'll realize there are only one of two roads that you can opt for when you encounter Disappointment: either regret it, and complain - 'Dammit, it's raining!' 'Shit, I should've scored 10 more marks!' 'God, I need more pens!'
  Or you could move the fuck on and do something about it, and in the process, learn. Because when you regret, you don't learn - you just disappoint yourself further. And unless you want to put yourself in an endless circle of disappointment, you should keep on regretting. And who knows, someday Disappointment might actually get tired of slapping you and kick you in the crotch instead!

Now wait. Here's the really funny bit: even if you do choose to learn, you'll be disappointed. Why, you ask? Because you'll think to yourself, 'Damn, I should've already known that.' And in conclusion to that already concluding statement, you just might tell yourself, 'Yes, you should've, you dumbfuck.' 
  Or maybe you wouldn't, if you don't have multiple personalities.
  So, in conclusion (for real, this time) - always take disappointment in the right spirit. And never, fucking ever regret.

Do this, instead:
  Make friends with Disappointment. Take it out for coffee, and when the time feels right, kiss it. Then, sleep with it.
  Because all those slaps made you horny.



Silliness, Maths; Clandestine References

| Posted in , , , , , , , | Posted on 9:01 PM


  That was one sad week. Another one follows, presumably. Not unless I get my ass back on the desk and start studying Maths again, which for some reason I'm not very intent on doing right now. This was a weird week. I mean, yeah, I studied for hours and hours on end and... well, yeah, pretty much just that. But then again, that's how the rest of this coming year's going to be, so might as well brace myself.
   I should really study maths right now, man. I REALLY should. Ugh. Dammit. Not awesome, this feeling of guilt biting away my insides like the rubber soles of a shoe.
  Aaaahnewaays. Moving further on, I feel like writing something silly. I probably will, after my units get over - which would be tomorrow. So yeah, brace yourselves for something a tad sillier than everything I've been writing recently. Although judging by what I have been writing recently, what I come up with next might not be that silly at all. But I'll try my best, eh.
  I've learnt a lot these past few months, all the chemistry, physics and maths aside. I have learnt so much that if I were to start listing them out in this blog post, neither will I have the time to finish writing it, nor are you going to have the time to finish reading it. But let's just say... it's a good feeling. I don't know why but it just it. And I'm NOT one of those people who just feel good without any apparent reason - I'm more of the indifferent type, anyway. And even though I scored exactly 50% in this Physics unit (which is 400% - yes, 400% - more than what I'd scored in the last unit) and I'm pretty sure I did a lot worse in Chemistry (and I went and told it to my teacher and she told me to not worry much and study harder for the next one) AND I'm also sure Maths is not likely to go very well (and by that, I mean 20+ on 25, something I could REALLY do with right now) I'm not... sad. Even though I should be.
   It's a weird feeling when you realize you're not that person that's just bothered for no reason whatsoever. Oh dear God, I sound cheesy again. DAMMIT!
   And I'm pretty tensed about the final term - it begins on 21st February - and I'm almost just so worried about failing in something. But hey, I know I'll make it. Hell yeah, I will. Besides, even with 12.5 on 25, I beat the VMC student - who is still referred to as a topper in our class - by half a mark.
   Awesomeness, yo. 8)
   So, this is going to be the last post before I get all gooey and sentimental and shit about a certain someone I used to date. But hey! No gooey shit. No place for that.
   Ciao, fellas.
   Wish me luck for Maths. 
   \m/ (-_-) \m/ 

P.S. The arrows stand for head-bobs.


Antisocial Deadwing

| Posted in , | Posted on 1:33 AM


So just how long has it been since I last posted a rant here? A couple of months, maybe? And considering I had only 2 posts in December '11, I'd say a rant is much more than long overdue.
I'm not in a very social mood these days. God knows why that is. I mean, I guess I really do know why that is, but I'm not in a very introspective mood either so I couldn't really care less. Whatever man, to balls with it. 
There is only one person in this world that I want to talk to right now; and I'm not even sure if I really want. And as happy and sad as I am to say that this feeling will pass in the nearest one to 24 months, I couldn't be more bothered right now. I'm drawing the line too - and subsequently stepping back from it. That's why I need this time alone. And oh God is this hard. But it's the 'I'll get through it' kind of hard. So fuck yeah, I'll get through it.
You know how there are moments when you just... break? Not on all levels, but just one - the only one level that you thought would never really bother you. I mean, heck, I've never been a strong person, possibly would never be as strong as I hope to be someday, but there are just times that I can't help myself. And then there are so many of these times that it's just downright unnerving.
Did I ever mention I have masochistic tendencies? It's not all blades and blood all the time, but still. Yeah. Mildly masochistic ones.
The fact that I'm antisocial makes up one half of this rant's title; the other half is a reference to a Porcupine Tree album. I've recently started listening to their albums, not just the singles. Deadwing is a fucking brilliant album, and a song too. I personally love the first four songs(and the seventh one), others I'm yet to get a hang of. I have a few their other albums too, I've heard bits of them and they have crazy awesome songs. I'll be done within the next week, trust me.
There was this bit from the song Lazarus, which I think if it wasn't included in the song I probably wouldn't have liked it so much...

My David, don't you worry,
This cold world is not for you.
So rest your head upon me,
I have the strength to carry you.

So, yeah. It's kind of an awesome song. You should check it out.
Where was I?
Oh. Yeah. Sometimes I don't understand why people need so much of false reassurances from things which aren't even real. Why can't some people just give up their act? It's fucking frustrating on so many levels. I seem to mind it even if it doesn't affect me. WHY? For fucking Christ's sake, WHY?! And why do I even interfere even if it's just with my thoughts?
God. So many things I waste time on.
Blogging's not one of them. 8)
Well, at least I should be happy there are people who look out for me; and want me to snap out of these weird phases I have. How many, though? Three? Two? Fine by me, man.
You know, come to think of it, I do have a really great bunch of friends. And with my guy friends, I don't talk about stealing their crushes because they stole mine or whatever. And with my female friends, I don't go flirting around. Life's great when you have friends like that, you know? You just need to realize which one's which.
And for those that go nowhere, don't waste your time on them because you sure as hell are going to get nothing back but another full serving of bullshit - possibly diluted, or maybe even not. But always, give it time. A little bit. Who knows, maybe it's not a good time only?
Ohkaaaaay. So, yeah. That being said, I have an English unit test tomorrow I'm not fully prepared for, grammatically - yeah, clauses; I didn't attend a single class this year for crying out loud, how'm I supposed to know? ($_$)
Anyway, I think it's high time I realize I don't have time for anybody's bullshit except mine. 
Preachy much, huh? Assface. 
And here, three songs to finish off this ramble (you'll have to hunt Lazarus on your own, you lazyfucks.)

So, yeah, wish me luck for tomorrow! ^_^
(On a side note, might just have schizophrenia too. Sad.)

Absconding Seasons.

| Posted in , , | Posted on 1:36 AM


[Your eyes have officially made it into my list of Things That Will Always Make Me Smile. Why? I don't know; I just felt like saying it.]

Vivid dreams. Amalgamated visions. 
Half-painted realities.
And then diffracting light; an abrupt end.

Fly me across the Seven Seas, the Nine Clouds.
Rest me beside nobody, over a cushioning of coldness impalpable.
Fit into my hands a cup of sugary delight.

Like an eagle I watch, from a pedestal,
The proceedings of days which had once felt long;
Now they pass in blinks, winks, and effuse before I realize.

Things remain unmoved, unsettled, unhindered;
Take the course they were to, in due time:
The darkness in the streets gets darker,
The stench of the roadside gutters alleviating, until day breaks,
And my cup of sugary delight is not as delightful.

[And your eyes look pretty. Take care of them; they make me feel alive.]


I've been studying A LOT for the past few weeks. I was supposed to be studying Physics now too. And to make myself feel any less guilty, I just wrote this poem in about 20 minutes maybe? I'll be back with more. Trust me on that.

Flight Mode

| Posted in , , | Posted on 3:54 AM


'Ma, I think I'll go take a walk then?' Pinu asks tentatively to his mother, who is seated beside her husband on the couch, sitting directly opposite to a fat, stout gentleman with a receding hairline and gaping front teeth.

'Yes, son,' she says. ‘Go and take a walk around the park but don't leave the block, okay? We'll be done in about half an hour.'

He nods courteously and wishes goodbye to his mother and father, and to the new man he doesn’t know, who is wearing a red-and-black striped flannel shirt and grey pajamas. The man waves back energetically, slightly smug; as if he were seeing off somebody he knew very well.

As Pinu climbs down the stairs from the second floor, he can hear his parents and the man conversing.

‘So, let’s fix the date on the 3rd of January then, Mr. Ghosh?’ the man inquires, addressing to his father.

‘Yes, we would love to do that, but you see, Shubhankar…’ his father speaks strictly, stern; trying to maintain a professional yet friendly demanour. He had already known that the first floor of their house in Salt Lake - which his grandfather had built, and of the three floors in all, two were on rent – was about to be vacated and a new tenant was needed. His mother had spent the last month completely in Kolkata, readying the house for public viewing, fixing the paint blotches on the walls, the loose wiring in the electrical sockets, reading and rereading and editing the lease agreement. This meeting was done largely so that his father could meet the new tenant, even though there was absolutely no legal requirement for it; for the legal obligations had been taken care of, including the lease signing. And as they sit in the drawing room discussing when they’d meet the rest of Shubhankar’s family, and whether the colour on the walls of the master bedroom should be changed, he unlatches the gate at the end of the stairs, and begins the first ever walk he’ll take in his old neighbourhood as a teenager.

He begins walking to his right; his house is second from the left end of the street, which is now painfully silent save for the two dogs barking in the middle of the street. He walks and he remembers, that the house opposite to his, in the next lane, which is still guarded by watchmen as it was when he was 4 and lived there, belongs to a politician his grandfather used to be a good friend of. He was told many times by his mother that she was thankful to God for the security at that house because it prevented break-ins at their place as well. Then he looks at the house next to his, remembers that he visited this place too, that an old lady lived here whom he used to refer to as deeda, that her grandson had once come and they’d played a racing game on the computer. He walks on ahead, looks at a building with a leaf-patterned front gate, marked as house number 147. He recalls that he had a friend here, that in the little space in front of the parked car they’d played with building blocks. He doesn’t remember that friend anymore, only that she was female and that his relatives used to tease him saying they’d get married someday. It seemed funny to even think of now, ironic even more so because he didn’t remember her name; what was it, though, he asks himself. Shreetoma? Shiuli?

Further ahead, he sees another house that he remembers visiting in the few weeks of summer that he’d spend in Kolkata every year – it is a big, three storey house which is painted different shades of blue. He stands at it and gazes for a second; remembers that the first floor was used as an office, that once he was invited there by Paarthodaas he remembers his father addressing the man who lived there, who by Bengali convention became his kaaku – and had played the last level of Max Payne on a computer. He remembers Diya kaakima and her in-laws pampering him with various sweetmeats, that they had a TV which had an in-built cricket game. They also had a dog, he recalled, which had to be leashed every time he was around. Maybe they’re still in there, he thinks. He wants to visit them again, but he knows he can’t, not at the given time at least.

There is a park next to that blue house, and at its center is a cemented columnar construction. Its periphery is lined with narrow passageways that segue into other streets at the ends of the park, and as he enters the park through the green zigzag gate, he remembers walking on these corridors with his grandmother at night as they’d walk to the market to buy vegetables. He walks around the park, looking at the swings and the slides which he had ridden when he was 3 feet tall. His cell phone vibrates in his pocket, but he recognizes the number as being from his network provider and so rejects it. He sits on the cemented column and sets his phone to flight mode; his phone flashes a message: Flight mode activated. All active connections ended.

He is happy at this decision that he has so spontaneously taken; on most days he wouldn’t so much as bother with his phone, but today, his instincts urge him otherwise. He touches the wire of the earphones, which even though connected to his cell phone are not in his ears; he presumed he’d be listening to music as he took this walk, but now he wants to be by himself; alone, yet not quite so, in a park he knew only too well but was somehow not even acquainted with.

He welcomes the sudden outburst of nostalgia, a curious combination of sadness and happiness, laughter and tears, sorrow and joy, as he looks at the red, rusted monkey bars and recollects how he had fallen from them once and had scraped his knee; he looks at the merry-go-round and fondly reminisces of the first time his mother had put him on it and spun, and how he’d laughed all the time he was on just so he could show his mother how happy he was even though he could only see her for less than a fraction of a second, her figure whizzing in and out of his sight.

He stays in the park for a moment longer than he wants to, sits at a park bench and visualizes his mother sitting next to him, younger, with lesser wrinkles, a thin line of vermilion along the parting of her hair and a bright red bindi on her forehead, watching over a younger version of himself. And at that moment, as he sees his memories come back to life, he marvels at how all that has happened there has suddenly given so much more meaning to a place which otherwise wouldn’t have meant anything.

As he leaves the park, he wonders whether he’d be able to visit it again, and decides he would want to, even if it’s for just a minute.

He continues walking as he now steps on roads that he’s not familiar with, even though they look alike. He mindlessly ponders as he takes a right, then a left, admiring the elegant yet passive buildings, the graceful manner in which they attract attention but don’t demand it, notices with amazement how each street he walks on feels like an avenue because they’re all lined up with trees belonging to the house owners. Amidst all the streets and lanes and turns, he ends up in front of a pastry shop he’s never seen before. Is it new, he wonders? Could be, he answers himself, but even as he does so, he decides to not proceed further in fear of getting lost. He thinks of calling his parents and asking them for directions, and takes his cell phone out. As he types out his father’s number he sees the little white airplane icon and realizes that his phone had been on flight mode, and that no possible connections could be made to or from his phone.

He almost gasps when he realizes the gravity of the situation. What if his parents had called him up, telling him to return home sooner? What if something more serious had taken place and an emergency had ensued? What if, God forbid, something terrible had happened? His girlfriend has probably sent her 2 more texts whining about how less he cares about her since he hasn’t replied back to any of her 5 previous texts messages that have arrived ever since he has in Kolkata. She might also have sent him a text message saying how much she hates him for treating her like filth.

Now, on most days, in this situation, he’d have put his phone off flight mode, called his parents and asked for directions, and he’d have replied apologetically to his girlfriend on his way home. But something has taken over him today; has encompassed, consumed him. And so he decides, with the same spontaneity, that he’d find his way back home no matter what – it his hometown, his neighbourhood after all.

He turns away from the pasty shop, checks his cell phone for the time; for his half an hour to be up, there are only 3 minutes left. Maybe if he’d walk fast enough, or run, he’d still make it in time. And as long as he gets home in one piece, he figures, his parents will not mind an unreachable phone.

Flight mode, it was. 


This new year, let something take you over.
Cheers to flight mode! Because it's not just a phone profile, it's a way of life. :)
Here's to a happy new year! To a happy 2012! It's going to be awesome!


PS. It's 3.54 am. What better to do than to spend the first four hours of the new year writing?! :D