Ouroboros

I can't watch you lounging in your chair

in only a vest and boxer shorts

and not feel like

this is it.

I am made of desire

and it swallows me whole. 

It never ends. 

Waiting

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

I will not be.

Confession of an Outsider

Note: This poem summarises my stay in the university I came to for postgrad. The uni had its good, bad and ugly sides. This poem focuses mostly on the bad.

Your crevices are choked with smoke,

with empty cups of tea, 

with the constant, lingering smell of petrichor, sweat and dog.

I despise you for your classes full of shit, 

for your buds of drama scattered across the AV room,

for materialising that godforsaken coffee machine right out of my memory,

and for tempting me with the bad coffee I love;

It is cheaper—it offends me.

As soon as I arrived at your doorstep, I knew I’d never belong to you.

I sat against the ledge, writing an answer on Hope, 

and felt like I could be one of your dysfunctional cells: 

I can’t—my home resides in my head; 

I'm dysfunctional differently.

I found love lurking on your rooftops, 

photographic metaphors for poetry I identify with—

“...like two strangers after a long correspondence, finally meeting.”

Bits of home-that-was found me here and left again,

and for a while,

I was grounded in the corners that were yours but changed, different.

I learned not to be afraid of dogs, 

I learned to make Vitruvian books, 

I learned to breathe without choking on the cigarettes I keep trying to quit. 

I never learned how to be yours.

That puzzle piece that never fit anywhere in the jigsaw is me,

That mime on the stage is me,

That alien taking the last UFO out of this world is me.

*

Es regent stark,

Und ich werde dich vermissen.

Accidental Misogyny

A meme has been making rounds of Facebook recently, where in one panel, the girl is standing with a board that says, "India needs Feminism because I don't need to pay him to marry me", and in the other panel, the same girl is standing with a board that now reads, "I don't need to pay him to marry me. But I will not marry a guy who doesn't own a house, a 7 digit salary, and a car".

The reason this post is called accidental misogyny is because this meme is very easy to misinterpret. We all have those people (women, in particular) in our lives who are okay with arranged marriages if it ensures financial stability. So, we see the truth of the second panel completely, and the double standard between the first panel and the second panel is apparently hilarious, so we laugh and share it. 

But people (particularly men) who are sharing this: India needs Feminism because it is not okay for your family and your intended and her family to expect you to be the only one who brings what constitute as financial luxuries to the marriage. You are also one of the people who are disenfranchised by patriarchy because along with forcing the woman to sell herself for a price, it also expects you to meet and maintain unnecessarily high standards throughout your life. Both parties are at a disadvantage here. She is not better off because you are rich: it is still not her money. If she's a sensible person, she'll value working for her own money than taking yours, or will at least contribute to the marriage in equal terms. 

If you refuse to "buy" her and she brings as much financial stability to the table as you do, India will be a much better place and your marriage, a happier one. So, don't be an accidental misogynist and cynically believe that any woman would marry you if you are rich enough: a lot of women have been fighting for their right to work and their right for equal pay for a long time to settle for anything less than their own money. 

Write Away!

So, I have a friend who doesn't think her writing is good enough. And another friend who thinks her writing isn't good enough And another friend... well, you get the point. So, the purpose of this post is how to make you realise that your writing is less shitty than you think it is (because I have just been called a chill advice dispenser, and I take my duties seriously). Make sure you've got the ingredients right, and don't be too harsh on yourself!

1. PRACTICE
See, practicing writing all genres is extremely important. There is always room for improvement when you write, and if there are nitty-gritties in your writing that bother you, you can always resolve them through practice.

2. FEEL YOUR GENRE
I have friends who believe that practicing writing engenders talent. I disagree. I feel like we're all formed from our experiences and our writing styles reflect that. Some people are more comfortable writing humor, some are more inclined to writer murder mysteries, some can write funny murder mysteries. Through practice, you need to figure out what your genre is (or are, if you have multiple genres that you can write). 

3. RECONCILIATION
The genre you feel might not always correspond to what you're interested in. For example, I am interested in psychological thrillers but I can't write them--they're not my genre. On the other hand, Indian marriage scene is not something I'm interested in, but I can write it well enough (I guess). So yeah, you need to find a way to reconcile what you're interested in and the genre(s) you can write.   

4. EUREKA MOMENTS
Writing is not always a thing you can do at will. It's like food--if you force it too much, it comes out like crap. While I believe that writing is something that you have to work for, I also believe that there are moments of inspiration that you have that ease the process of writing (in the food metaphor, these moments of inspiration are like water). 

 5. START WITH THE BASICS
Strengthen your plot-making skills, characterisation, descriptions, etc. to feel better about your writing.

6. STOP OVER-ANALYSING YOUR WRITING.

7. ASK FOR OTHER PEOPLE'S HONEST INPUT.
This will only make your writing better, even if your pride takes a thrashing. It hurts (a lot), but it helps you grow. 

Happy writing! 
(Also, if you guys want me to look over your writing, just message the page on Facebook!) 

Looking Back

So, 2015 started out horribly. I missed my family too much, and the local food hasn't been agreeing with me for some time. Some days I didn't know how I was going to get through the year. Being in a strange place for a long time made me very bitter. 

In retrospect, thought, 2015 was better to me than I thought it'd be. I gained some fantastic friends and valuable experience. I read good books, had some pretty good food (MOCAMBO!!!), played a lot of D&D (still not as much as I wanted to), and licked the jello bowls clean (not really). 

2016 is looking up to be even better, though. I'll be home, I'll have a job (hopefully), I'll be learning German. But before that, there are still a lot of restaurants to visit in Kolkata, more D&D to be played, friends to hang out with, and a dissertation to write. 

I have resolutions to stick to: less fanfiction reading, more blogging, be more sociable/express myself more... Let's see how they work out!

Thank you for the memories, 2015, and looking forward to you, 2016! :D

Letters

"It was as if I were writing letters to hold together the pieces of my crumbling life."

-Norwegian Wood, Murakami

The idea of letters is so romantic. I finished reading a fanfiction yesterday about this couple who get together by getting to know each other through letters, and after one of them dies, the other one is left with drawers and drawers of love letters that the now-dead partner left for him. Then there are movies like P.S. I Love You (yes, I'm aware it was a book first) that made me bawl all over my Economics notes (why I thought making notes for Economics was a good idea while watching that movie is still a mystery to me.)

But anyway, letters. Letters are personalised ways of expressing what you feel. Hallmark cards are supposed to do that as well, but letters are like shoes for your emotions. If you don't have the right one, it's always slightly uncomfortable (which is why Hallmark cards feel so awkward.) I wonder if this was the reason why Angela Vicario wrote to Bayardo San Roman for seventeen years: she couldn't write something that fit (Chronicle of a Death Foretold. Do yourselves a favour and read it, please.) Is it even possible to write something that fits exactly right? Most of us actually live with shoe-bites and carry band-aids around. 

If the answer is no, then letter-writing is wrongly assumed as cathartoc. Every time you write a letter, you feel like it is not enough: you could have said it better, added a metaphor or two that might have come slightly closer to expressing what you feel. But I ask this of people who write letters: does writing a letter really give you a sense of closure, as if you've expunged whatever you felt onto paper and don't have to deal with those emotions anymore? I don't think it does. Small bits still stick to your soul; they wrap themselves around you and regrow.

I find letter writing extremely difficult. The other half of this dynamic duo demands letters for her birthdays. I oblige, of course, but it's not easy. Some of it is because I'm immensely repressed and the though of expressing meaningful emotion onto paper for someone else to read is terrifying (which is really funny considering I blog for funsies.) Some of it is because of my woeful vocabulary; I just don't have the words.

Really, I have no idea how people do it. To bare yourself like you do onto paper requires a kind of courage that I do not posses. I feel very strongly for people, and am constantly worried that I'll creep them out if I express what I feel about them in letters (I hope I haven't creeped people out already .-.).

But yeah, if someone asks me to write a letter to them, I'd probably end up not expressing myself fully. In fact, these words by Aaron Smith ("Secrets of an Identity Thief") would probably best express my feelings towards letter-writing:

"[...] Everything that's asked of you is too much.

Say, Too much. Say, I used to. Say, I never wanted this."

Rise of Juggernaut

So, most of us who watch cartoons know who Juggernaut is--Professor X's step brother who, when gained momentum, was unstoppable, and was out to destroy Professor X. While Juggernaut kept being thwarted by the X-Men continuously, the publishing industry is actually expecting the opposite of this phenomenon.

Juggernaut is a new publishing house, infamous before it actually took off because Chiki Sarkar resigned from Penguin Random House to help Juggernaut gain the momentum it needs. With the first catalog here, Juggernaut boasts of some very impressive titles (I really want to get my hands on the Snowden and the RSS books. The crime fiction also looks delicious.) But the thing is, Chiki Sarkar is now competing with her old publishing house to make it to the top. Her claims of knowing what to feed people is backed up by her experience (and yes, I'm fangirling at this point), and Juggernaut is definitely going to be a site where she can think about feeding people one chapter at a time, like a TV episode: 

“Could we think of presenting a book in a way that people access it not just as one big, one-off serious thing with 200 pages, but in snack-sized portions,” asks Sarkar. “Can we make it possible for people to buy it in short, digestible bits?  A chapter or two first, and then if they like it, more? Could each chapter be looked at almost as a TV episode?” 

I feel like Juggernaut is the publishing house that I have been waiting for. Penguin Random House sold its soul long ago, before it even merged. In Juggernaut and its titles, I see a spark to produce good books, ones that should be consumed without compromising on the quality of themes and writing. Even the commercial fiction in the catalog makes me want to read those titles, and knowing how much I dislike reading commercial fiction, that is saying something. They are no compromising on the quality of content to find a bigger audience (*cough* 50 Shades of Grey, Vintage *cough*). Instead, they are looking for new modes to make books accessible to people. I might hate reading on a screen but if reading on screen is the only way some people will read, I can get behind that.  

I definitely see Juggernaut challenging Professor X (Prof. X being Penguin Random House, of course) here, and I'm quite certain that Juggernaut's going to be Professor X at his own game, even if it takes a while. In the meantime, I'm just going to sit here and wait for job vacancies at Juggernaut.

You guys go check out the catalog, though--http://www.juggernaut.in/catalogue
  

Slice of Life

So, I haven't really slept in two days because I had a term paper and a few tests coming up. I got through all of them with lots and lots and lots of tea (thank you, tea god and the chai wala whose shop is just opposite where I live).
Anyway, so, in the morning, I was in college, typing out an answer to be submitted in two hours. I was sitting along a ledge, and there were people milling all around me, singing Atif Ali songs and saying random stuff. And in the midst of such hustle, I was there with my cup of tea, brought to me by my minion, S (thank you, S!), talking about Paris and polyglossia when I realised that I could get used to this.
After almost one-and-a-half years of feeling stifled here, I realise that I could get used to staying like this, typing away on the floor, surrounded by people who talk in a language I don't understand. And then I realise that I'm going to miss this when I leave in another semester.


Maybe I'll come back for convocation, after all  

Of Leaving

It's a story we've all heard:

it's a story of leaving

people and 

places and 

towels behind

to find new people and 

glamorous places

and fancier towels.

It's always been about 

opportunities for you—

you reach out to them,

and I don't reach out to you.

A Chennai Afternoon

On a hot, sunny afternoon, my brothers got lost at the Chennai railway station. The sweltering heat left me dazed—half in the bus, waiting for them to turn up, and half on the railway station, searching frantically for them. I know not how the hours passed and I don't remember anything except the station master's hazy dingy little office, where the twins sat on a table, swinging their legs, their mouths stretched in a lollipop-sticky grin. 

Sometimes, I wonder if my parents lost them forever that day, that I'm the only one who can see them now.

The City

It is always so humid here,

My body feels wrong

Trapped in this godforsaken city

Of concrete, of weed, of smoke

Rising up in the sky from thousands

Of unsuspecting killers.

Beg to report, sir,

I don’t like it.

The sky is sometimes the blue of your eyes

And within that moment

Lies peace.

But that moment is always blocked

By telephone wires,

By broken balconies,

By civilisation.

This will never be home.

Smoke and Rain

It is raining here

And my lungs are dying for one cigarette

Just one

And the good hurt of missing you

Has gone bone deep.

It verges on the edge of being painful

But nobody ever said I wasn't a masochist.

With the smoke of a cigarette

Memories of you will rise in the air

But I do not want to exorcise you

So I sit here and write this,

Wanting you, wanting a smoke

And having nothing. 

Displacement

I am not where I am:

I left myself in McDonald's last month,

Sipping ill-advised coke 

While you scarfed down three Big Macs in less than fifteen minutes,

And the constant whir of the coffee machine 

Kept reminding me that I had places to be.

But when we got up to leave,

I left myself in McDonald's

With an absence of you. 

A Form of Protest

So, today seems to be the day for social activism in the University I attend. Because I don't agree with the method of activism by the rest of the student population in my University, I thought I'd add my two cents here. 

So, I attend Jadavpur University (goodbye anonymity, you will be missed), and for those of you who don't know what happened in the past few days, here's a quick summary--

On the evening of 28 August 2014, an undergraduate history honours student was dragged off to the boys' hostel by 10 (possibly drunk) guys and molested. The student body rose against it, and a case was filed and requested an impartial investigation. The VC of Jadavpur University assured such an investigation, but somehow, it never came into being. Simultaneously, one of the professors here went to the girl's house and started asking questions like 'were you drunk?', 'what were you wearing?', etc. The student body got even more agitated and called for the resignation of the professor in question. However, it realised that attention from the main issue was being diverted, so the student body decided to launch a peaceful, non-violent dharna in front of Aurobindo Bhawan. These people sat and made art (sang songs, painted posters, wrote poetry, discussed the problems within the issues and sough to resolve differences among themselves) for over 150 hours. However, night before yesterday, the police surrounded the campus, locked all  exits, brought along water cannons, tear gas and lathis. They gave one warning for the students to disperse, but the students refused (they were still sitting and singing songs and there was no violence involved from the side of the students). When the students refused, the police lathi charged at the weaponless, non-violent body and put a lot of them in the hospital. One, I think, is on ventilation. About 40 more were injured, but weren't serious enough to be hospitalised. The police arrested 8 of those students and didn't even provide water to the students in jail. They were released sometime in the morning and went back home to realise that the VS had given a press statement saying that the students were torturing him (as far as I know, everyone in the group who was singing was a really good singer-- I don't know what the VC is complaining about). So today, the student body, along with faculty members and people from outside of Jadavpur are coming together to boycott and ask for the VCs resignation. 

While the efforts of the student body are very commendable, I find myself unable to join them. This is mostly because I don't think they're fighting the right person. Jadavpur University is a State University and the ultimate control over it is with the current government in power, that is, TMC (Trinamul Congress). The VC is just a puppet in their hands. Even if the VC was to resign under the pressure from so many people, he will be replaced with a person who will also be TMCs puppet.

I find myself astonished by the lengths that TMC will go to to prevent the case from being solved. To be honest, I don't think that TMC would interfere to such an extent if it is not invested in protecting those 10 students. Therefore, I assume that those 10 students have heavy ties with the TMC. That's why I don't think that boycotting and making the VC resign will help in any way to bring justice to the molested girl. The new VC will also be as invested in protecting those 10 boys as this one, because even the new VC will be nothing but TMCs puppet. 

Now, with the knowledge that it's actually TMC who's running the show, what can we do to get the girl justice? In an ideal world, the solution would be to bring down TMC itself. But we know that it can't happen.So, what other avenues are available to us?

1. We can try and cut the ties between TMC and those ten guys. Make it so that the effort to protect those 10 guys become too much for TMC and it gives up on protecting them. Which basically means that we need to create trouble for those guys as much as possible (Personally, I think leaking their identities on the internet and thinking about their connections to the TMC would be cool. As for invasion of privacy, they didn't respect the privacy of the girl they molested. I don't see why their identity should be kept a secret).
2. Use the VC as the mediator that he is. Negotiate a middle ground with the TMC. For example, they might agree to a public apology issued by the ten guys, the VC and the police. It might not be enough but it is something. As I said earlier, this is not an ideal world, so we can't get everything we want. We might have to settle for partial justice. 

   I'll end by reminding you all not to forget that our main objective is to get justice for that girl. Let's not be blinded by the outrage that the lathi charge caused and deal with the issue in a manner that brings about the results we want as quickly as possible. Remember that the lathi charge might have been a tactic to push the issue closer towards the puja holidays, and the puja holidays might damoen the vigour with which we protest now. Justice delayed is justice deferred.

PS- I will admit that I might have misinterpreted the situation in some ways and that I might lack some facts about the situation, but the core of my argument remains the same-- VC is a pawn in the game that TMC is playing. We need to be very careful how we move ahead.  

PPS- If you have any other suggestions that might help resolve the issue, please let me know




Photo credits: aneyezine.com
Check out their article on this issue for more details.
Link: http://www.aneyezine.com/hokkolorob/

The Autopsy Report

It's hard for us to swallow that

life isn't what it is in the movies.

We turn bitter as pills when

people we love don't love us back

and no amount of cough syrup 

consumed

can make it better.

All the MRI's are useless

because they can't tell why

our bones feel so heavy

and an open-heart surgery reveals

that we have a heart

but we can't feel it beating. 

All this-- all of us

are drowning in 

translucent anodyne. 

Enchantment of Words and Lures of a Hope.

A tiny smile spreads,

As another message beeps.

Like a simple enchantment,

In words, we speak.

Some delight develops,

And, fills their sober heart.

Under the shadows of the night,

There sings a chorus in their hearts.

Like the stars that stir,

Talking as they twinkle;

The lovers, underneath,

The stars, they resemble.

Into the early lights of dawn,

Forgotten were the hours for slumber.

The smile spreads longer,

As the phone beeps again.

Beneath the moon,

That both share.

In faraway places,

Their hearts briefly despair.

In notes of silence of a lingering wait,

A ballad of affection slowly creates.

And so returns the smile,

With lures of words and a hope.

Swati Jain

Going Away

So, I recently shifted studies for reasons pertaining to my education. The city I've shifted to has this feeling of age, if you know what I mean. I look down from my balcony and I feel that the hospital next door has been here for centuries, with its generator groaning continuously, day and night, until it becomes silence itself. 

The birds don't stop chirping here. The dogs bark all night. People start yelling at 5 AM in the morning, which is how I wake up. It rains every afternoon here. The people are so, so kind and helpful. 

While I still dream of Sattal, this is a place that I have fallen in love with very quickly. I've found few but good friends here ( a real feat for me, considering how shy and reserved I am) and I'm loving my course, my readings (even if it's Dickens's Bleak House). 

This city isn't home, though. I have only gone away from it. This city has the potential to be my home, and I'm scared it will be, because I already have a home. 

My home is where the people I love live: my family, my friends (D, A, R). And I make this post today as a sudden bout of nostalgia hits me. God, I miss you guys. 

On this note, I end this post because I'm about to burst into tears. 

Till next time!

Yours, 
Orange  

Title Under Progress

"...I want so desperately

to be finished with desire,

the rushing wind, the still

small voice."

~Boston, Aaron Smith

You're finished with desire

And the desire finishes you.

I seek to articulate loss

of what I never had,

never owned,

of what was never mine to begin with.

I cannot own time,

nor moments spent together.

Seconds slip through my memory,

fade away, 

until they finally disappear.

I want to be done with it: 

this all-consuming desire,

before it is done with me--

before it finishes me.

But I am already burning.

Fallen Umbrella

In all those windy days,

During all those

Aerial nights.

I thought you’d stay

I thought you’d stay.

That one reason to fight

Myself, to let you stay,

Falling low, falling stray.

Walking besides the beach,

In that little, hardly rain.

Thinking and thinking,

Over and over again.

It wasn’t worth it,

You weren’t worth it.

You’re just like them,

All those other men.

Unforgettable, as ever.

But makes me no clever.

Risked it all,

Put my heart on tow.

Throwing away

All those unsent letters,

Putting away

That really mattered.

Watching them fly,

Free bird at night,

Fluttering on the water,

Disturbing, the quiet.

I feel cheated,

For what I felt was real.

In this, perhaps, last letter,

I wouldn’t say, I love you.

Throwing away my umbrella,

Running from the memories.

Swati Jain