Avik's Story

Yesterday I was overwhelmed. All the past memories, which I thought were obsolete and stored beyond oblivion, came back alive. I laid down on sofa; TV ran mute over a corner table; old laptop’s lid was open on a teapoy; my glass of beer was near empty; and my eyes were half open. It was like ages. I was not to be blamed though. My poor and hasty decision was. Yesterday was Father’s Day. So I thought I’d write something like I did on Mother’s Day. Something emotional and true to heart. I was sure that I could write up about my father for pages. He is such an interesting character afterall. He has spent his whole life in a small village, but has an excellent taste for knowledge and childish eagerness for traveling. He has grown up in a traditional Bramhin family, but turns out to be an atheist and complete devotee to reason and science. I have seen, people and my relatives are terrified at his high temper and loud presence, and at the same time are relaxed for his superman-wise

I take metro for three stations and then walk 250 busy meters on a crowded road to reach to the bus stop full of all kind of vehicles; then take a bus, which takes approximate 10 minutes to reach my destination – my office. Not far, comparing to my previous one, but much dramatic. I go through three most used conveyance modes in Delhi every morning, and then every evening. Metro, bus and foot. Not a single day is passed without an interesting drama, participated by people, mostly strangers. Metro dramas are little sophisticated, upper-middle-class-wise. I have watched them and experienced them for whole two years, so I am quite used to those. A sarcastic comment wrapped with English words, or short lasted heated argument, which starts with a full fighting potential and ends with a fart, or a getting down moment, where someone is pissed off by a push or something. That doesn’t interest me at all.   On the contrary, my walking on the densely crowded section of road fr

I will again start my journey, or so I thought. I love few things. Among them, movies and books are on top, Taniya being on header and traveling on footer. So when the weather is dry and hot, and I have enough time besides reading, writing and small work in office, I thought why not crowding my blog with junks! Well, the thing is, the posts may be scraps, but the things aren’t. They are gems of cinematic history. And the excuse provided, I can really watch them. Or, re-watch ‘em. Everyday one film. Today I watched The Apartment. A 1960 American comedy-drama film that was produced and directed by Billy Wilder, and which stars Jack Lemmon and Shirley MacLaine. The film won five Oscars among ten nominations in 1960 and was a commercial block blaster, like Wilder’s previous movie ‘Some Like It Hot’. Bud Baxter (Jack Lemmon) is a lonely bachelor and lends his apartment downtown city in a hope for promotion to his office managers, who are in several extra-marital affairs. His rathe

Fuck yeah. India tops in racism. There’s nothing for bragging, it’s for fact. And fact is always true.  (Saying that, I must add that, I love my country and all. There shouldn’t be any misconception that I’m an agent of foreign enemy countries and want a pie of India’s disgrace. Our government is doing that by themselves by their irresponsible and hilarious comments.) Acknowledging a problem is the halfway through the solution. But we love to avoid problems and love to have rosy pictures of shits. But a shit is a shit. Can’t change that. Even if a minister says that. Who among us haven’t faced racism? If you are Northie, go to South India or if you live in South, come to North, beyond wall. If you are a North-Eastern woman, come to Delhi and become Chinki, or if you are Bengali, go to Mumbai and become Bangladeshi. The widespread prejudices, xenophobia and stereotypes in India are of no match. Some stupid said, “It’s not racism dude. Racism is hating black. We d

Taniya fought with me, when I simply asked her to confirm. “Should I go today to Nehru Place?” She flamed up. She accused me of not putting her in my top priority and then used some fence-sharp words, which dug my skin and pinched my heart. I didn’t blame her. I came back from office and then went hurriedly to Nehru Place, showed my M-ticket to a uniformed doorman in Satyam Cinema, went upstairs and found my seat in a fairly large hall. It was eight in evening and I could hear all Bengali chatter around. The movie, ‘Praktan’ was about to start. My job was simple. Watch it and then relay it to her. She loved the title tracks and the trailer. She wanted badly to watch the movie, but she was out of any means. Hence, me. My little research about the movie revealed interesting facts. It was being released in many USA theaters today and Mukesh Bhatt had bought the copyright for a Hindi remake with same title even before it was released. And the belligerent couple was none other than

I’m a pretty shit guy, who’s blessed with wonderful women all around. Among them, two and half are mother-figures, rest are sisters, aunties or friends. The first one is my Mom , who vehemently rejects the idea that I may grow up oneday, or maybe I’ve grown up. She still unpacks my bag, when I’m home and packs them with teary eyes, when I’m about to leave. She still washes my cloth whenever possible, and arrange them neatly at almirah. She knows, which dish to prepare to convince me to eat more. She knows when I’m ill or when I’m depressed, and often is the first one to call and console. She was the first woman of my life, and still the best one. But I’ve been shit to her. I lied to her several times. Now I know she knew all, but she never pointed those in my face. I was with friends - partying, or with girlfriend - fooling around, or with colleagues – drinking and I hanged her call. I told her I was busy, I’d call later. And I forgot. I didn’t call back. Maybe next day, she

Past 90 days, so far deadliest forest fires have claimed 1900 hectre of forest in Uttarakhand. 6.17% of Indian forests are prone to severe fire damage. 50% are risky. High Temperature, Low Rainfall & El-Nino to be blamed, but foul play hasn't ruled out. Govt. says it will take actions against culprits after the fire is doused. Govt's inability and incapacity fuels the rage of fire. Every year between February to June, forest fires are common because the soil becomes dry and moisture less. Govt. does nothing to take precaution. Some say, local timber mafia started this fire. They are the one of the most powerful mafia in India. Last year more than 15000 fires have been reported in India. Maximum of them are by mafia. Billions of dollars are lost. Millions of trees are burnt. Thousands of houses are destroyed. By severity, this year's fire has galloped the entire region into a terror.  So far 6000 personnel are working day and night to douse

The man was Srinivas Ramanujan. Expectation was high. I bated breath when the title scrolled on screen. The previous biopic titled ‘Ramanujan’ directed by Gnana Rajasekaran on this enigmatic Indian autodidact, was a failed attempt to capture the essence of his short life, and the beauty lied in it.  But this one is a top class Hollywood production, though with relatively low budget.  The movie began, and we heard the engaging voice of Cambridge mathematician G.H. Hardy (Jeremy Irons) depicting his relationship with this mysterious Indian in 2012 and then the story took us back to Madras in 1914, where Ramanujan (Dev Patel) was shown living in abject poverty and searching for a clerical job. The rest was his epic fight with people’s skepticism, incredulity and his fate, until he reached to the pinnacle of success. The hell of a story. The hell of a life. Tear jerking scr

Study says, 33% users become somewhat dissatisfied with life or present status, right after using Facebook. I didn’t believe it. I thought it was preposterous. Some bull-shit. I mean Facebook is just a media, a time pass and something to long onto when nothing else works. How can it dissatisfy someone? Well. I was wrong. It’s fucking dissatisfying. I Gini-Pigged myself. First, the happiness. Always someone is marrying or getting into new job or moving into new town or travelling some cool places. And looking into them in screen while wobbling in a stinking sweaty crowd in a moving metro coach, or sitting on a dull chair before a junky desktop alongwith gloomy colleagues in a dismal room, obviously sucks the leftover happiness or whatever. So I scroll down with a silent growl. Second, the selfies . The piggy style or goat style or monkey style or donkey style, whatever style they follow, the girls look always hot and the boys look muscled stud. I look on contrary

Mom didn’t cry yesterday, nor she lowered her face and rubbed her forehead with palm in a vain way to stop tears. I touched her feet and she kissed me. I told her goodbye and requested to have food in time, to exercise a little and to walk in morning or evening. She nodded, and she repeated everything to me. It was our thing. A very old ritual. I nodded, and I was waiting for that moment when she’d cry or hide her tears. Back days, I begged her innumerable times to stop that embarrassing thing, and that I wasn’t going anywhere dangerous or something and I’d call her every day. She didn’t stop. She told that she tried but couldn’t. But today she was smiling, while waiving me goodbye. She was SMILING! Was I disappointed? Was my importance to her fading? Did she stop missing me? Or, was I uncomfortable for being in a total new thing? While waiting at lounge in airport for a delayed flight, I couldn’t stop from thinking. It started in ancient period. I was a shy kid at the

Kolkata has been always kind to me. My first job, first love, first pot and first drunk walk through the tram lines. First time, I appreciated being alone and in crowd. First time, I kissed a girl and took her to my room only to shiver when she undressed herself. Kolkata beholds a special place. Good or bad. Precisely, that’s the reason, it always claims most of my vacation period. That’s why I roam through busy corners, lazy bi-lanes, old buildings and oldest subway train. I watch fantastic movies and savor Bengalised snacks at cheapest price and stop by the tiny tea shops, where I find the both budding and ageing locals with unbelievable political insights dissecting Bengal, India and World while sipping tea from a small clay pot. But nothing compares to the orgasmic satisfaction of sniffing the dust of the old books in College Street, whose past owners live inside the pages. The humbleness of those books and arrogant sexy looks of new ones, the cool breeze on the banks of