...CONTINUED

Students were called inside the interview room one by one, as the boy eyed the fat woman. He liked her not because she was attractive, but she was funny. She giggled a lot with a gaping mouth. The other woman present in that group was elegant. She was what normal male would call sensuous, sexy would be the exact word. Her hair was well done, it was silky; her face was painted as smooth as a burnished mahogany table, her eyes were big. She had lips the size of a red chili and her breasts were on the verge of exploding from her skin tight shirt. Her jeans clad legs had a fine shape that most of her charmers (i mean girls) would envy. She resembled a Japanese doll. Not only because of her attire, but also the way she spoke and carried herself. There are so many weird things in heaven and earth than himself, the boy thought.The plum boy was called in. It was at that very moment that a pair of eyes fell on a pair of eyes that was standing at a distance.The boy was in the 10th year of his life, when his father took him to see 'Shonar Kella'. It was a film by Satyajit Ray. Before that, the boy had read a few adventure novellas and had emerged as a dreamer. The film opened new boundaries for him. What is life without a slash of adventure, some risks where the fun is only to take them straightaway.It was much later that the boy started avoiding school. He, like a well mannered studious boy (he even looked that way!!) would go out of his house, bye bye his mother and walk to his school. But nearing his school, he would always choose the other way that went straight to the cinema halls. He would take ten bucks in his pocket and an extra shirt in his bag. Halfway to school, he would change his shirt, put on a cap and get on a bus to Esplanade, where there are numerous cinema halls and most of all, all kinds of people that he would observe. Every night he would come back home and write about them in his diary, a red-brown covered book with a smiley for a page marker.



They say, good things come in small packages.

I have to go, since now I am unable to remember anything about the boy that is worth writing. When I remember, I will write. As for the pair of eyes, they had still remained as part of a body, a soul that inhibited inside that body, that had helped me to survive, had taught me much. It was a man's pair of eyes; he was to become my teacher and best friend for several years to come.

This will be in continuation with "A story no less interesting". First, I apologize for such an end, think of it as a mega serial whose next part will be broadcasted next week, now as you apprehend.

He didn't know if he was happy or sad. He had passed the exam (they say-with flying colors - and stuff like that) but he absolutely felt no urge to go to that place. On the examination venue, he had seen some fat and low faces with noses high above their heads. People there seemed to have a platonic orgasm whenever the name of Satyajit Ray or Ritwik Ghatak or Jean Luc Goddard or some name came into their mouths.

However, the boy felt nervous and alien as he stepped into the department. His feet were already heavy. As he entered the department corridor, unknown faces he saw only. There were two classrooms on either sides, an office room, a library(the boy found about it later), and a staff room. There was a wooden bench in front of the department. The boy sat there, tight. The staff room is where the interviews were been taken. The teachers were calling the students, one by one, and the boy knewing that he still had time tried to concentrate on the ambience. Was it to happen that way or was the boy consciously doing it, he didnot know, but he was filled with astonishment at a scene not far away from his bench. A girl was standing near one classroom chatting with a plum boy. the girl was swaying her body in a rhythm that matched her tone of speech. She looked like one directly from a Jane Austen novel, somewhat arrogant, somewhat mischievous, always blushing and faking a silly smile that stick to her lips like an adhesive. The plum boy had no chance on his part, but by the look of his face one can say that he tried his goddamn luck. Often have you come across a game where you are to hit a rolling ball with two sticks, the more you hit, the more points you achieve. A fat women, real fat, was that ball. She rolled from this gathering to that gathering and that gathering, who knows who achieved the points...

Again, I must apologize for such a hasty end. It will be followed later. bye.

A story no less interesting

a story no less interesting
The year might have been end 2002 or 2003 begining. The boy with a broken heart had passed his graduate and absolutely had no job at his disposal. He was an English Honours graduate. His classes in Ashutosh College were interesting. It was the first day of his college as he had entered the college questioningly, had searched for the class room and had sat at the second bench. There was a boy sitting at the last bench chewing beetel juice and chatting with a lean boy. Our hero was from a School of reputation; he thought it demeaning to sit beside him. A young girl had eyed him as he had entered. So he sat next to her in the second bench. It was a drama class. The professor came in hurriedly, though there was no need. He sat down and looked at his class with a face that didn't tell much. It was evident later. After a rapid search through his books which were suffocating in his bag, he snatched a book containing the Shakespearean Dramas letting it to respire a bit."We shall start with Macbeth. You know, I had been teaching Macbeth for the last 20 years", were his first words. The class remained still. The boy could almost hear the munching of the abominable thing from the last bench. He opened Macbeth. The professor closed the text. Instead, he took out an almost torn copy from his bag and put it on the table with a thud."These are the notes. You", he looked at the boy who was sitting in front of the fair girl, "I am giving all these notes to you. You will photocopy them properly and give the original copy back to me. You can read the notes, that would be all"...those were his parting words. No sooner had he said those holy words, he hovered through the corridors and filled the air with a murmur that came from the last bench. The fellows were discussing about girls, the most easy and interesting topic of all that men of his age can afford!However, after his graduation, he still had a broken heart. A dear one, whom he had loved with all his heart had died a sudden and a painful death. He had been through the hours watching that loved one suffer. He had thought to take his own life, but he had failed to do it. He was afraid for he loved himself too much. Yet the hatred and anger that had shaped his broken heart left him utterly confused. Following a friend's advice, he had a chance to go to Jadavpur University for further studies. A certain course changed his life. Before that, he only thought to persue an M.A in English. He came to know that he can also do Masters in a subject known as Film Studies. He was already a film buff but had never let a serious thought. Nervously, he appeared for the test and got selected for the interview. Rest later, bye.

The other day I saw two films during a film festival in Kolkata. One was 'Perfume-The story of a murderer' by Tom Tykwer(I guess the spelling's correct) and the other entitled 'Song of Sparrows' by Iranian film-maker Majid Majidi.

Now let me clarify before begining this paragraph that I am not interpreting these films from a critic's point of view. I was just a spectator at various occasions where I had experienced two moving pictures which had opened some knots of my mind. My friends and friends's of friends, who thought of themselves as gods regarding interpreting films; they came out of the auditorium with airs inexplicable to me. Mind you I am not spreading sarcasm; I am just adding some humor to this otherwise bland article of mine.

Friend A came out of the hall seeing Perfume and gave such a meaningful smile as if Freud had spoken of a certain idea to Lacan who for his part had passed it on to the only intellectual man living on earth-my friend himself. While watching the film, he had once had an occasion to visit the loo, I assume that he had got ample time to rehearse the exact expression that he needed in order to emphasize... emphasize what?? I asked him with a perplexed face, "Why did you like it?" My friend A smiled again and went away.

One of my friends commented that it was a sickening film. Before I can explain much. let me tell you the story of the film. A fisher-woman gives birth to a child in a dingy market place of 19th century Europe. She leaves the child, but is caught and persecuted. The child grows up in an oprphanage only to be sold by the incharge to a certain tannery. There after long hours of work throughout endless years, he get a chance to go to the city. All the while, he is born with a gift; a gift to have a nose that can smell almost anything. While in the city, he smells a woman, follows her and watches her; he is aroused by her essence, her smell to be exact. The girl afraid of the unknown man tries to shout but is mistakenly killed by the man. His first love dies without giving him the scent of inspiration. Later on, he learns to make perfumes mixing essential oils and other stuffs. The whole film is his search to find the ultimate perfume, the human essence that evokes respect and love. He finds it only to realize that he was unable to love and loved by anybody; he didnt have a smell of himself. During the end of the film, he melts with the essence of all the women tht he has killed and vanishes into light of love itself. Heterosexuality or homosexuality wasn't an issue here. Form was not important. What was important was the content and Mr.Tom Tykwer was successful in portraying that.(According to me of course, anyone can differ) The lighting of the film was like that of a film-noir, the sets were dirty looking, the main character's hands were always soiled. The form wasted even the last penny to let the film an uncouth atmosphere, a sickening feel. But its my ernest request to my friend to please consider its content.

I think I am done with the humor. More, when I can come up with something else.

elemental lessons

To start writing, I need a stimulus. Often did I notice blog posts of my friends and friends's friends. It is today, that the thought occured to me that I could write about myself at some place on the net. My friend had once told me that at various junctures of life or the thing that we call life, we need to speak our thoughts aloud. However, in my life, I, like evryone else have committed some hideous things(it is wiser to call them things) that I wish to carry only with me till I attain death (I don't call it the after-life, for obvious reasons). So, from this very moment, I start this blog with an honest heart that will allow some confessions, some reflections that in turn will some other honest hearts to unleash their soul.

I often wonder what was the first-ever lesson that I had learned?
Physical lessons, mental lessons, too many of them, I don't even remember their origins, what the heck! I am not talking about them either. At the ripe age of 30, I have come to know that the first-ever lesson that I have learned is to stay alive: by alive, I mean not only to breath. I had called my age the ripe one because I have seen much, felt much; I had people taken away from me, I had people coming towards me with loving hands of solace. I have learned another lesson too. It was more of the effect that I shall speak rather than the cause. I am broken into many, and there are so many of me, that often I do get confused. One of my dear friend, following a famous psycho-analyst, had once told me that people who have a troubled childhood only get rewarded with a troubled adulthood. I think he was quick enough to read me.

I guess every moment will unfold a new lesson for me to learn about life, or something like that. Until I find more, bye.