Class KG - C

I couldn’t think of how to describe a perfectly beautiful childhood. we all were kids, we all were scolded and thrashed and the horrors of being a naughty kid was aplenty, but happy memories remain deep down in the corners of the mind... faint ... waiting to resurface. 

Do you remember the time when you were not there? Of course how could you, you were not there. You were growing up in different circumstances, and with different friends around you...I was growing up too, but in a different way. My school was a co-ed school when I got admitted but by the time, I reached class 5, all the boys had left for a boys’ school in the neighbouring town. The story of my admission is extremely dicey too. My mother used to teach in the school, where once she had studied too. Now when I was a kid, merely 4 years and with extremely innovative tantrums right at the time when she had to get ready to go to school at 8 am, she would invariably indulge me and get late every single day. Sitting smug at this point in life I feel sorry for the fact that I was such a brat.

The principal, Sister Andrea loved her very much because she was one of those really nice girls in school who cared for everybody around her and loved her school and was ready to sacrifice all her time for the young kids. So Sister Andrea gave her an idea, she said, bring her to school with you so that she can’t be naughty anymore and let’s see how it goes. And so I used to go with her, and later when admission forms were out, she even handed my mother a set asking her to submit them. I was the youngest of the lot. 4 years, I mean who sits for a kindergarten interview at 4 years flat? I don’t really remember what happened at the interview, but based on the stories I heard from ma and baba, I gather that Sister Andrea along with Mrs Rita Ukil (my biology teacher in classes 9-10) and someone else who I don’t remember was there. The funniest memory I have is that of the rest of the other bawling kids around me, all screaming, or hyper active panicky, while I was sitting dangling my legs from a table top, gazing at the insanity setting in steadily more among the parents than among their kids.

Soon enough I realized I was in class KG.C with the most wonderful teacher Miss Nita Chowdhury. She was a darling, and specially loved me. (I mean everybody does, how can they not love someone as adorable as me J, eh?? ) I spent my days scraping my knees and playing with the boys, (there were absolutely no girls in this horrendously hooligan group, all ninnies i must say, all miss-goody-goody's!!) breaking windows with wild ball throwing and cricket, standing in the sun holding my ears, and losing my specs all the time, while I would see my mother walk back across the field with her colleagues, who would all smile and say – now what have you done, Oyndrila?? What an embarrassment! I remember going to the senior staffroom when ma called, to have curd, sitting on her table terribly scared to look at all those cross old teachers who looked so stern and grim. I remember waiting at lunch one day for ma, when I saw her scolding another tall girl in a green uniform, who was sobbing profusely and almost shaking... I remember being in awe of this woman then. To me, she was one who told me stories at night and woke me up in her arms every day. But at that moment she seemed a woman of power, a woman of command. I refused to go back to the staffroom ever again.

The afternoons were very boring. We had a horrible thing for 1 hour before 2 pm assembly – the sleeping period; where boys and girls in class would have to put their heads down and eyes shut and go to sleep! How perfectly dreadful! We sleep t home, why on earth should we sleep at school that too on a perfectly sunny day with the entire field just beckoning to us to come and play!!!

One day after school, when I was waiting for ma to come from the senior school, an idea struck my mind, and I re-entered the classroom with a piece of chalk in hand and started scribbling and pretending to shout at a room full of non-existent students! I also drew an elephant, a cat, copied numbers from my maths notebook, and in big bold letters with a smiling face at the end of the line, I had scrawled : “ABBA is my best friend” J Not my mistake really, I grew up listening to the LP gramophone records of old English albums at home, and I took care to even write the second “B” of ABBA’S as its mirror image exactly like I saw on the cover of the records. Invariably, when Miss Nita came back the next day, she called me and asked whose handicraft it was since I was the only one who used to wait after class hours. I smiled sheepishly and mumbled to her about the jumping song of a piper, russia’s love machine, a sad Fernando and his bright stars and the happy new year song... will you believe what she did, she gave me an éclairs J and I went skipping happily off to play J 

Ma And Miss Nita Chowdhury

LIVING THE 3 DAYS OF WOODSTOCK AGAIN

15th August - 18th August 1969 

Poor Max Yasgur's dairy farm land, in Woodstock, Ulster County, New York, away from the din and mechanical drone of the city... Even the silent hayfield never guessed the approximate number of milling men women and kids who would troop in to its peaceful surrounding...making the next three days an unforgettable monumental moment in the history of music in the whole world! Within few hours of the 15^th , voices were heard coming in on bikes, on trucks, on tractors, on their own vans and chevvys, on bicycles, and even by foot. There was a mad rush of setting up the stage, nobody was too big or small, too exclusive or even too snooty to take off their shirts and hammer planks into place, and build the entire stage, backstage, and cubicles for the equipments, towers for setting up the sound boxes, and wired the place for sound within an exceptionally short time!

It was as if they were working like hell, driven by the excitement and urge to make this meaningful , as if their life depended on it, that when they turned back to check out how it looked, their eyes fell on the audience which they had estimated would be a few thousand, but what they saw took their breaths away... Uncountable, as far as the eye went over the lazy hill, under the mellow sun, for acres and acres around, thousands of heads could be seen, waiting expectantly for them to start...

And then, Richie Havens came on to the stage with “i cant make it anymore”, and went mad singing his “freedom” all over the stage, riffing his acoustic with a passion never seen before. It was as if the guitar in his hand and he were united in their own emotions, dead to the world, possessed with fever! Donovan with “yellow is the colour of her hair” and Daryn Stafford with his “i said i believe”. It was evening when Joan Baez came to the stage with “i dreamed i saw joe hill last night alive as you and me” and ended with “swing alone” 15^th nights’ performance was brought to an electric jamming by the artists of The Who singing “see me feel me, summertime blues”...

The next day when it was light enough to check out your immediate surroundings, one could see the mass insanity setting in... girls in sarong, jumping around like crazy were tearing daffodils mumbling he loves me, he loves me not...

There was a young girl who said that her mommy she would go to hell, her mommy never understood her, and there was no communication between them, age gap, generation difeerence, or god knows what... she was all here, smoking deeply though those young lungs and dreaming of going along with the flow. The fellow who had hooked up with her was equally enthusiastic sitting outside with no money in his pocket for a ticket to enter the hayfield said, that his dad thought he was in the communist training club, what he believed was in drugs and revolution, and once he got to Woodstock, he had swore he would think about it... 60,000 people came here for what? people do not know how to live anymore, they do not know what to do.. they are lost - they came here for answers...they came to be free....

Back at the stage was the Sha-Na-Na singers, A. Singer, J. Medora, P. White with what became the cult of the youth for decades to come, “lets go to the hop” and Joe Cocker and his “with a little help from my friends”.

Nearby along the vans between breaks and short gaps in music, we see energy exercises - kundalini yoga to be specific. Same rush we get from drugs...clean air is what we want, we will experiment with this, and get high...the nerve of awareness... this was what was being taught... taught to free oneself...falling into the mad frenzy to be free...

A sudden brewing storm unexpectedly was suddenly looming up on the crowd. The stage manager and the team together screamed on the microphones to cover the  equipments, to get away from the towers, maybe if we think hard, we can stop the storm, wind is strong, please take it calm and easy, we will groove to Country Joe soon enough"... the rain chant...magic. mud. madness... Bodies from hell, or heaven as i would prefer all intertwined and covered in mud, as if from a Dante's painting said someone in the crowd after Creedence Clearwater's performance... all over the place, people were all smoking pot and blowing into the air from hand crafted aluminium foiled pipes with arlo gutherie’s “coming into los angeles” in the background...

The next day Crosby, Stills And Nash was up on stage with “Judy Blue Eyes, Sea Of Madness, Wooden Ships”  and later,  Alvin Lee “ im going home” from his band The helicopter and Jefferson Airplane sang “wont you try my love?”

Meanwhile, people were on the phone lines, and quite suddenly, the US Army arrived to give them a medical team, “they're with us man, they are helping us, 45 doctors, here without pay, taking what it is all about...”

Morning showed naked kids at the drums, kids playing at the tent poles, at their mommy's breast, on their papa's shoulder while John Sebastian sang “younger generation.” Country Joe Macdonald electrified the crowd as they sang along with him, “5-6-7 what are fighting for?”

Max Yasgur and his family along with some older men went stomping off the farm, "its a disgrace - our fields have been cleared! its a mess..its a loss”...they were pissed off at the 60,000 spending their days lazing around as if in an open whore house, devoid of scruples, religion, culture, and sense ... the beautiful young nymphs, dancing in the waters, cleaning themselves...on the beautiful afternoon... and the young men joining them in the game they called music and free love...

We got one more tune for you.... Joe Santana “ soul sacrifice”... no words to describe it, a mad exhilaration and ecstasy... Santana and the banjos, his killer drummer, and the electric pulse. All raising hell and fire inside the souls present... Sly And The Family Stone “baby take me higher!!!” and Janis Jolin “dont you forget me lord!”

Something was proven to the cosmos - the largest people assembled in one place without any thought for few inconveniences of food and water, shelter. The singers and their audience were connected. When they were hungry, love kept them alive.

The Woodstock stage welcomed Jimi Hendrix who started with “the star spangled banner”, then moved on to “purple haze”, and ended with an instrumental on his guitar driving them crazy with his crazy shit.

The last scene in the documentary on Woodstock showed me the entire crowd cheering and screaming and overflowing emotions....

The world's largest gathering at one place...

Music and madness...

To be relived again and again.

Woodstock.

ALVIN LEE AND THE HELICOPTER WITH I'M GOING HOME

JOAN BAEZ BACKSTAGE WITH RAVI SHANKAR AFTER JOE HILL

COCKER AND HIS WITH A LITTLE HELP FROM MY FRIENDS!

CROSBY, STILLS AND NASH WITH THREE MAD NUMBERS JUDY BLUE EYES, WOODEN SHIPS AND ENDING WITH THE SEA OF MADNESS!

DONOVAN WITH YELLOW IS THE COLOUR OF HER HAIR <3

JIMI HENDRIX WITH PURPLE HAZE!!

JEFFERSON AIRPLANE WITH WON'T YOU TRY MY LOVE?!

RICHIE HAVENS WITH FREEDOM

SANTANA

SANTANA WITH SOUL SACRIFICE

SEBASTIAN WITH THE YOUNGER GENERATION!

THE CROWD OF 500,000 AT WOODSTOCK 

KUNDALINI YOGA FOR A CLEAN BREATH AND TO GET HIGH!

SHA-NA-NA WITH LETS GO TO THE HOP!!!

ARLO GUTHERIE WITH COMING INTO LOS ANGELES

COUNTRY JOE WITH WHAT ARE WE FIGHTING FOR!

JIMI HENDRIX ENDING WITH AN  AWESOME INSTRUMENTAL!

In The Mood For Rain

T e en   d i n   d  h o r e y   b a i r e y   j  h  o  m j  h m i y e   b r i s h t i   h o y e   p r  a n   t a   j e n o  b  h o r i y e   d  i y e   g e l o   r e t r e a t i n g   m on s o o n s  .   F e b r u a r y   s h  o t t i   m a  d e  m e   s h  i v e r  .   B a r i t e   t h a k t e y   b r i s h t  i   m a n e i   b i k e  l   b e l a  e   g o r o  m  c  h  a  ,   m u r  i   a r   b e g u n i . . . a  a  r   s h o  n d  h  e y   h o t  e i   n a   h o  t e i   m a  k  h  i c  h u r i   c h a  p  i y e   d  i t o  ,   n a  m t e y i   e k   d  a l a   g h e e   p o r  e   j e t o   h a  r i r  m o  d h y e . . . t o  k  h u n   b o  k a r   m o  t o n   k i r o  m   –   “ u f f   g o r o m   k i   g o  r o  m ”    b o l t a m ,   a j   j e n o   s h  u n n o  t a   t a i   b o k a   l a  g j e ,   b h a b l e i   b h a b i   s h e i  b i k e l   g u l o   j e n o   s h  o r g o   c h  i l o .   S h o rg o   t o   t a n g i b l e   n o  y ,   s h o r g o   t o  a m i   j e k h a n e y   s h  e t a o   h o  t e y   p a r e y ,   a m a r   d e y a l e   d e y a  l e  b e a t l e s ,   a a r   b i c h a n a  y e   g u i t  a r ,   t a b l  e   e   l a  p t o p ,   a r   c o  n n e c t i o n  p e l e i   . . .   e t a   t o   a m a r   s h o rg o  .   

K i r o  m   b h o  y   l a g e y   m a j h  e  m o d h y e ,   s h o b   k o t h a t e i   e k  t a   c e r t a i n   c h a r  a c t e r   e t  o   b e s h i  b h a b e y   j o r i y e   a c  h e y   a m a r   s a  t h e y ,   e   j e n o   k o  n o   k o b i t a r   l i n e   e r  m o t o n   l e e n   h o y e   g e c h e   a m a r   s h o r  b a  n g e ,   a m a r   c h  i t t o  ,   m o n ,  p r a n   e .   T i  b r o t a r   k o  n o   m a a p k a  t h i   t h a k l e   h o  y t o   b a   b o j h a n o r  c  h  e s  t a   k o  r  t  a  m .   E  k  k  a  l  e y   k  o  n o d  i n   e  r   b r  i s h  t  i   t e  i   s h  u n  e c  h i  l  a  m  s h e j o n   f o o t b a l l   k h e l t e y   g e c h i l o ,   d e k h e c h i  l a  m   t a  r   j a n a l a  r  k  a  a n c  h e y   b r  i s h t i   t  e  y   e k  e   d  i  y e   g e c h  e y   s r i  t i  r   o  k  h k  h o r e   k i c  h  u  b h e j a   a m e j  . . .   b i  s h e s h   k i c h u   n a ,   e k t i   b h a n g a   b e n c  h e r   g a a n . . .  a j k e r   b r i s  h t i   t e y   e k  t a   o n n o   b y a t h a   l u k i  y e   a c h e y .   T a k e  y   j e n o  p r o t i d  i n   n o t u n   a l o t e y   n o  t u n   r o o p   e   d e k h t e y   p a  i ,   p a g l a m o r o  t o   b o  u n d  a r  y   h o y n a   n o  i l e   m a p   e n  k e   d  i  t a m  ☺  . . .   S h o m o s t o t a  r a s t  a   j o l   c h o l c h o l   k o r e   a c h e y ,   a r   a m i   f i r c h i   g h o r   e r   d i k e  y ,  c h a   e r   c u p   h a a t h e y   n i t e i   j e r o  m   h a l k a   g o r o m t a   c h u y e   j a  e  s p i n n i n g   t h r o u g h   t h e   a r  t e r i e s  ,   a j   k e  n o   t a r   s t h i r   h o  y e   t h a k a  m u k h   e r   d  i k e y   t a k i y e   t h i k   t em o n   e k t a   m o  n e   h o l o  .   A s   i f  c h o c o l a t e   m e l t   k o r e   j a c h h c e y   o n   t h  e   t i p   o f   t h e   t o n g u e ,   t h i k  j e n o  ,   c u r v y   k o  n o   h o  t   t u m m y ’  r   o p  o r   b o r o  f   e r   k u c h h i   j o l   h o  y e  j a c h c h  e . . .   a p p r o p r i a t e   k o  t h a   t a   k h u j e   p e l e   b o l t a m ,   m u s h k i  l   t a  h o c h  c h  e y  a j   k o  t h a   h a r i y e   j a c h c h  e y .   T h  i k   b y a t a h   n a ,   b o d  d o b e s h i   a n o n d o   h o y t o .   

K h u b   s i m p l e  e k t a   j i  n i s h   b o l t e y   g e c h i l a  m ,  b  h  i j  e   b h i  j  e   a  j   b u s   t  h  e k  e   a  j   j o  k  h o n   n a  m c  h i l  a  m ,   k  a  r  u r   e  k t a  m o  b i l e   p h o n e   e   b e j e   u t  h l o   t h i k  s h  e r o k o m i   s i m i l a r   w a r m   e k t a  s h u r   e . . .   C a l i f o  r n  i a   D  r  e a  m i n g . ..   s h  o k a l   1 0 ’ t a   t h e k e   b h a b  j i  t  a  a  k  e  y   b  o  l  i   b  y  a p  a r   t a  .   B  h  o  r   t h e  k  e   p  o  r  e r   b  h  o  r   p  o  r  j o  n  t o   a  m  a r  s  h  a r a  d  i n   e r   s c  h e  d  u  l  e   e   s  h h e   e t o   j o r  i y e   t h a  k l  e  ,   a  m  i   k  o  r  i   t a  k i . . .   e s h o b   b u j r u k  i   p r e m   t e m m   n a ,   a r   n y a k a p o n a   a m r   d w a r  a  h o b  e o   n a  ,   j a   b h  a b i   t a i   b  o l i ,   t a t e   g h o  r  a n o r   k i c c u   n a i .   V  i c e  v e r  s a   p r o c e s s   o   n o y ,   j e   a m i   e k  t u   r  e l i e v e d   h o  b o   e i   b h e b e   e k l a  s h a l  a   a m a r   s a  t h e y   s h  u d  h u   h o h c h e y   n a ,   b y a p a r   t a   t e n a r  s a t h  e o   h o c h c e y ! ! ! !   p r o t t e k   t a   m u h u r t o   j e n o   t a r  i   s h e k h a n o  ,  t a a r i   d e k h a n o ,   t a  a r i   f e e l   k o r a  n o   k o n o   n a   k o n o   m u h u r t o r  a l a r  m   b a j i y e   d e y .   E m o n   k i  ,   b h o r   e r   a c t u a l   a l a  r m   t a o  D i a m o n d s   a n d   R u s t   e r   p r e l u d e .   A m i   r a k h t e y   c h  a i n i ,   b h a i   s e t  k o r e   d i e y c h  i l o ,   s e n t u   h o  y e   k o n o d  i n   p a l t a i   n i .   S h o r b b o k h o  n .  K i c h  u   n a   k  i c  h  u   e k t  a  ,   d  o m i n  o   k  h e l a r   m o t o  n ,   e k  t a   a  c t i o n ,  s e t t i n g   o f f   t h e   r e  s t   o f   t h e   m e m o r  i e s   i n   m o t i o n .   

A m a e   k i   b h o o t  e   p e y e c h  e ,   n a   t u i ? 

The Time-Truth Continuum

how can an idea be totally new...

it exists before anybody observes its applicability in any certain circumstance in nature. 

similarly, what is historical truth? truth is substantiated with proofs we already have. and these historically correct proofs are the primary sources to which every researcher reverts back, and checks and rechecks his findings. the primary sources range from epigraphs, and stone carvings, archaeological findings, to numismatic sources, to written sources on paper and papyrus, to oral sources. but how do we know for certain that whatever we find here is the truth and nothing but the truth? what if the British documents (in my case, suppose a memoir or a government document) i have read says something while, oral tradition says somethings completely different, and there is absolutely no other source to corroborate my answer to the questions i have formed. what if i think in favour of the written source and distrust the oral source. will i ever reach the truth? i may well be mistaken and the oral may be true while the written may not. how does one ascertain the truth?

what is the truth?

and how come we get stuck trying to figure out what to look at to ascertain the fact...is there a fact. the fact written in history books or even in some body's private papers and memoirs has been drawn to a conclusion after judging facts he has either seen with his own eyes or read from another mans judgement. how is it even minutely possible for us to be judges of what has been judged already...

are we reading or doing anything new?

is history really discovering anything new?

is history a notion of judging other people's past judgement?

is history a deconstruction of previous deconstruction?

i don't know what I'm doing wasting time. i don't feel like reading British surveyor memoirs and papers in an effort to trace the growth of an institution from a certain year to a certain year...because i have already taken it for granted then that it has been a growth and i will have to strive to prove only that. and i am driven by my sources which is framing my research. i am compelled to prove what they have in the frame. and if there comes up suddenly something which counters the sources, my research will end in a debate like an intellectual scholar who leaves the thread of his argument hanging in the air.

what is the truth?

i wonder.

Mediterranean Flight

Some unsaid thoughts
An unshed tear,
Some dreamy eyes
I know no fear.


Some ridiculous jokes
And a hard desire
Can quench no more
This latent fire


You stay away
You stay afar
You dream too much
At this passionate hour


My crème de la crème
My partner of crime
I don’t dream of you
I know you are mine


My muse, my breath...
My wings of stone
You tear my mind
With a reason unknown


To cry with pain
In an unborn bliss
I will die to save you
For your last kiss

Wanderlust

i was perfectly at ease till the call
lazing around like a bugger.
its hard to put it into words
what happened
and right now i am in no mood to do so.
poetry sucks and as i realized so do i.
the only option was to immerse myself in self pity 
and swallow the half cooked chicken 
and stomp out in the hope of getting some fresh air
the room had become a cage
and there IS no way out.
too many predictable endings to the next 30 years
what the hell am i studying for
a degree?
for which i haven't done anything so far
parents?
whom i cheat saying that i am here studying.
(oh of all people, i know what i escaped from home for!
oh god knows the reasons alright!!)
a job?
to do what? earn money? marry? have a kid or two?
will that really quench this thirst?
this wanderlust?


i was perfectly at ease till the call.
i was perfectly at ease.
what am i doing with my life i wonder.
and its a statement, not a fancy question i'm posing to myself.
i know there is no way out of this vicious circle of death and decay
there is no way out of the life you are expected to live
you simply cannot and i repeat 
cannot throw your camera and credit card into your knapsack
fling it over your shoulder 
and travel to madagascar.
i do not even have a freaking credit card in the first place
why is it so difficult for me to accept my fate?
why do i feel so ungrateful and long to go out into the unknown?
blue mediterranean seas, 
or the blue domes of istanbul
white columns at dover, 
or white snow over laussane
black temples at java, 
or black sculptures at macchu picchu
these come only behind heavy eyelids in dreamy afternoons 
or in evenings on skype
if you are feeling frustrated, don't.
because i live in frustration.
breathe frustration. and hopelessness.


i was perfectly at ease till the call.
nicotine doesn't help.
it enhances your situation to depths you do not want to explore.
you want to fool the world and escape into your surreal niche
i'm tired of it all
even  today's moon was playing a cruel joke on me
it was a clear night and there was an equally clear halo around her.
wisps of clouds were passing past her
in an unlikely speed
leaving her stagnant at her place
her halo remained and so did she
only the clouds went flitting by
and within few seconds i saw the clear pitch dark sky
with her moon shining in her own halo.
exactly at the same place where she had been.
nothing had moved her.


i was perfectly at ease till the call came in.