To Love

Dear Love, When was the last time you knocked my door, showered me with wet kisses and made me realize your presence. When was the last time you welled up tears in my eyes and made me realize you are still there beside me . When was it during an unexpected moment, you held my hand and whispered:"I'm there". I dont remember as it has been ages I was in love all over again; head over heels giggling with my girlfriends sharing little details with a precious glow in my mind. May be I lost you midway. I know you were never bound by completion, goals or aspiration. You only belonged to fools or romantics. I'm a fool. I still need you. I need you to reassure me that yes you will be there...forever. I want you to hold me when I feel lost. When the practicals and ambitious surround me, love I desperately want to be content in your arms.As the twilight sneaks in amidst the bright rays of sunshine, you will also sneak into our lives and never leave. I want on to hold on to this twilight, love. But I know its not there. You have deserted me long back. In my pursuit of practical wisdom I lost you. Love, I'm neither a romantic, nor practical, but I want you back. Do you still belong to me or have you really deserted my life just as the faded autmn leaves gives way to winter----endless and long lasting... Yours truly- .....

Make myself better?

What can this thing possibly mean... 'Make myself better'? One more thing that has been forced upon us.

The only thing that I can be, is myself! How can better or worse be defined? The problem is, from the start itself we are given the valuable advice of being a better person, and some points which I must follow for being better. I should think this, I shouldn't think that, and all that. That takes away what I am, from me. If we were left undisturbed since our birth, not a single thought to pollute our mind, and we were left to just learn from our own experiences, then we would have been the best persons, and not just the better. But I don't know how to do that, doesn't seem practical sometimes.

I person who doesn't care about others is not worse than the one who does, a person who cries when he sees somebody else in pain is no better than the one who might just laugh. But we have not been taught so. People have bent our minds in a direction where they wanted, whatever might be their purpose, but our minds are now at unrest. They have defined 'good things' and 'bad things' for us. And, alas, we have followed.

Read somewhere: "I don't change, I just become more of myself." That is the only criteria of being better, according to me. Some people see their aim as becoming a better person day by day. But I am quite disappointed to see that their criteria is as defined by others for us.

Either you are Optimistic, or you are not. 
Either you respect somebody, or you don't.
Ether you love somebody or you don't.
and so on. These are the things which your 'heart' tells you. Or in correct words, your 'intuition' tells you. You just 'know' what you want! These 'wants' make us 'us'.
But we have to force ourselves to be ourselves. What could be worse.

PS: One more thing that be done, according to me, is to be a bit more 'logical'. To not have contradicting beliefs. i.e. To believe in only the things which can be deduced logically. If you don't do it, you already contradict yourself.

THE NEW LOVE-u ! better and easy :)

The NEW LOVE says ‘when the other person loves it is adjustment; when you love the other person it is compromise’! These changes over the years have spread the common myth at large i.e. if love exists it exists in the above mentioned fashion only. People with high attitude and low IQ have the deepest anxiety; in spite of their minds functional; to plunge to fall from these great heights. The technology has not only revolutionized with our daily working, convenience, information sharing, connectivity and transportation's; but also built a life that is virtual; like finding relationships on FB and dating websites, hugs and kisses on bbm or messengers and secret profiles for multiple personalities of the same person! :P 


The change in relations over the ages have come from spending time together; some outing, movies etc to how much time together? How we reaching there? Is it the High Definition, Dolby sound, recliners or something even better? And on and on and on….. People with long messages and trails of emotions on the messengers or chats or whatever in the cocoon of computers and mobiles phones have tons to speak and tell and discuss ; but when they meet face-to-face ‘O’scar ‘M’ike ‘G’old what do I talk? Or let’s stand a bit apart or it looks too PDA (Public Display of Affection). Wow enlighten me were you the same person chatting, texting, talking to me some time back?


The new angle of the triangle called relationship in the Modern Age is, one is you, and one is the other person you in love with, the third angle are the tools given by the modern age connectivity. The new angle is from where you can see this triangle; that is exactly how far we are from love in the relationships. Welcome to the new world of genuine hypocrites; the most apt way of dealing with a situation is to keep it under wraps as far as possible; if required reveal it and if not possible relax, chillax, enjoy and move on! ;) :) :D

CAN YOU FLIRT??

There I go, that's absolutely the wrong question to ask.

Flirting is a delicate art. Like the art of making the fluffiest and lightest pastry or cupcake or gelatto, flirting requires a light hand. Make that a light heart. And a glad eye. And a lightly raised eyebrow. And the lightest, most coquettish fluttering of eyelashes. Accomplished flirts can flit - like butterflies - from here to there, bestowing a smile, a wink, a flattering comparison, a risque compliment, even a suggestive proposition. All this without getting enmeshed or entangled in anything heavy or sordid like a relationship. Flirting is like those 100% fat-free gelattos, they are frothy, dainty, gossamer, and 100% commitment-free.

Flirting is the art of the indirect.

Unfortunately, I am a rather direct sort of person. A bumblebee who blunders straight into trees, rather than a butterfly.

If somebody pays me a compliment, I always wonder, "Really?" and often say aloud, "Why?". I raise my eyebrows rather than flutter my eyelashes.

Maybe because of my contact lenses, it is easier to raise eyebrows than it is to flutter eyelashes. Whatever, I am really really heavy-handed and get all hot and bothered by any kind of flirtatious contact.

Which is a pity, because flirting can make your life really easy. You can jump queues, get small favours done, get the best products on offer, get extra discounts, get better service, get away with late-coming/bunking/shirking-work/not-meeting-deadlines/making-1001-mistakes/murder. Anything, actually. 

Flirts can pirouette and escape the consequences of their inaction. Whereas blunderbusses like me have to prove myself with every action.

So, let me be direct, and ask you, "Can you flirt?"

Because, to my ever-lasting regret, I CAN NOT.

RED FEET, PAINTED FEET!!

When I was a kid, there was always a bottle of alta somewhere in the house. These glass-bottles full of deep blood-red liquid used to come with a tiny aluminium bowl and a long stiff wire ending in a small piece of sponge/cottonwool. The alta would be poured out in careful measure into the bowl, the wire would be dipped into it, and then a line would be drawn all around the foot, circling the heel and dipping in and out of the toes.

This was done during all religious ceremonies. And alta had a pride of place in Bengali marriage rituals – along with sindoor (the red vermilion powder applied in a dot on the forehead and in the parting of the hair), it symbolized the married-status of a woman.

My Dida (grandmother) used to say that alta would be regularly used when she was a young bride; apparently it helped to prevent/cure cracked heels. But during my childhood,my mother and aunts would use alta only on special days, although they used to put sindoor on their foreheads everyday after bathing. For cracked feet, they usedBoroline.
Though we were not allowed to play with sindoor (being the exclusive preserve of married women), I was allowed to fiddle about with the alta bottle, maybe because it was no longer part of the daily routine of married women.

And all of us my cousins and my payal mashi would sit down sometimes and inexpertly apply uneven alta-lines around our feet, painting all over our toes and leaving red footprints all over the place. Alta-paint would wash off after a few days, so the damage (to the floor and to the feet) was never too much.

When I entered teens, we began to regard alta as terribly old-fashioned. With cheerful disregard for tradition, we neglected it totally in favour of the more permanent and more modern nail-polish to decorate our toes. But still when ever I a perform a Bengali dance I apply two small dots of Alta  on my arm.. ..they are cute :)

My First Kiss..

My first kiss was a stolen one in an empty room. 


I was all of eight years old. The older members of the household had gone out for some family celebration.

The room had a large mirror ideal for posing and preening, and a dressing-table full of rows of lipsticks and other rainbow-hued make-up stuff (all part of the armoury of my newly-wedded cousin's wife).

I was irresistably drawn to the luscious lipstick in their sleek shiny cases... Red She Said,Very Berry and Coco Loco. But it was Passionate Pink that I wanted...passionately.

The strawberry shade glided over my lips like smooth honey. Enchanted by taste and the texture, by the very grown-up appearance of my face (or so I thought, I'm almost sure I overdid the outlines), I puckered up and, leaning towards the mirror, gave a resounding kiss to myself.

Admiring the pink lipstick mark (on the mirror it looked so pouty, if you know what I mean), I spent a long and wonderfully narcissistic half-hour with myself. Wonder whatFreud, Jung and co. would say about that.

So lost was I in self-passion that I came to myself at the sound of the garden-gate opening. Hurriedly rubbing off the lipstick off my lips, I forgot about the mark on the mirror.

Needless to say, I was caught (pink-lipped, if not red-handed), and became the butt of many a family joke for a long, long, time. Enough to turn my thoughts of love from myself to other worthier objects, like the boy-next-door.

Birthdays and Birthdays..

When I was 3, I celebrated my birthday wearing a green frock  gifted by my grandmother, a big party was arranged and my cousin organised many games and antakshari. I hardly remember things and the gifts i got but i still remember the Micky Mouse cake dad brought and a pure white square cake my grandfather brought, it became a tradition from that day to yet i cut TWO cake every birthday.


When I was 9, I celebrated my birthday by going to school in a red-checked tunic and top stitched by my mother, carrying a bag of toffees for my classmates. Flushed and excited, I was even more thrilled to be allowed to wear the sleeveless tunic without the top later on in the evening. What mother thought would be a concession to the hot evening, was a step towards the joys of adulthood for me.


When I was 15, I celebrated my birthday rather somberly. My sister had died just over a month ago, my tenth-standard exams were looming within months. It was a time of change and expectation, of  determination to prove myself and a great big lump of sadness that SHRISTI my younger sister would never again see my birthdays.


Now that I have just celebrated my 18th birthday, I really feel thankful that I am so so busy enjoying my life. And that all I have lost over the last one year was a few kilos of weight. And what I have gained is a new confidence, a lot of work, and a lot of good friends. God keep me busy, happy - and slim with new dresses - down the next few decades!!

Careless Confessions

What I've felt, what I've known
Sick and tired, I stand alone
Could you be there?, 'cause I'm the one who waits for you
Or are you unforgiven too?
Come lay beside me, this won't hurt I swear

What I've known
Turn the pages, turn the stone
Behind the door, should I open it for you?

Sick and tired, I stand alone
Could you be there?, 'cause I'm the one who waits for you"-Metallica


It was so easy...to slap me tight and move on...cause i was the nagging bitch.


I nagged. I called. Mailed. Tried to beg, say sorry but you were never there. You had left long back. I couldn't. Something still stops me. I know what is done cannot be changed. Our lives will never change.


Its true all souls on earth have problems and may be I had my share too. But despite all my share of problems I wanted to reach out to you always and let you know I needed you. I really do. Wanted to get back to you and say that how much I missed our thoughts, our feelings, which though were transient yet they still last for me...You blasted me everytime as I was the beggar.

I checked my mail today. Your words screamed out. They were meant to slap me hard. They were meant to affect the unhealed wound. Yes, you were "SUCCESSFUL".

Yet somewhere beneath all the unhealed wounds and pain, hope still lasts. I'm hopeful, that someday you will understand.


It was so easy for you to write it. But why me? Wish I knew the answer. Did I really deserve this?