Morning

Junkie and Shutki

The 'life is like a box of chocolates' moment

It's been a while since I've written anything. It always is 'a while' before I write anything. Is it that life has stopped to interest me? Quite the contrary I would say. Then am I just a lackadaisical retard? Maybe. But then, I rather not discuss my idiosyncrasies. I rather talk about Anandi. Anandi is the youngest addition to the Banerjee-Sen family. She's about three months old and a sheer delight. Bappada(my aunt's husband) and Mimi (my aunt) had to wait a long time for the so called 'good news'. And good news it was. It was a Sunday morning and I was sleeping like a log after a Saturday drinking binge. I woke up groggy to answer the phone which had been ringing for god knows how long. Bappada announced the good news. I went back to sleep without much reaction or excitement. Then, suddenly it struck me. Like a jolt of thunder. I shook myself out of my slumber and called my mom immediately. They were delirious with joy. And I, as usual would miss all the action. What followed was complete mayhem. People from all corners would call up Mimi (a) to confirm the news and (b) to congratulate her. We weren't very far from the excitement either. It was spreading like an endemic. Mimi and I would have long and intellectual conversations about what to name her. From Subarnalata to Champakali, people were relentless in choosing tacky names. Especially my grandmom. But then, Mimi came up with a gem, Anandi - it's sweet, elegant, sexy and catchy. She nailed it and I consented. We were hell bent on Anandi (the name) and Anandi it was. Though we are quite sure she'll grow up to be Andy, thanks to the Anglo-Saxon culture that has inflicted our society, for us she'll always be Anandi, the happiness we were so long alien to. In fact, post Dadu's set back both the families had been struggling for a fragment of joy. Life had become a routine encouter. Anandi didn't just rejuvenate us; she was the source who got us back on the street, alive and kicking. She breathed life into us. All of us.

Westside Radiospot

Trilokda

Maggots

There are maggots in my head. And soon i'll be dead.

Nonsense

When the head is held high and the mind is without fear you can look at the sky and unravel the cosmic mysteries clouding the thoughts of the bourgeoisie or the proletariat or the capitalists or communists or socialists thereby mitigating the great divide which exists in the society and promote metaphysical theories without indulging in scientific anomalies through a little trial and error until error supercedes trial and the world undergoes a democratic manifestation of promoting equality crashing the myriad taboos whereby all the monstrosities maybe obliterated encouraging a drive for healthy and safe sex until one poor old sod sitting in his posh Nevada apartment breathes his last while listening to the songs and poetry of Jim Morrison and P.B. Shelley respectively sipping on pina colada and dreaming the great american dream in the hope of attaining nirvana and meeting buddha in his next life where he might discuss the transmigration of macavity into his wife Stella's body which has decayed over the years not because of age but beacuse of the obsessive cleanliness disorder of which she was a victim while she was still in her formative years dreaming of Che Gueverra and the bolivian diaries that she had seen in her Uncle Pedro's illustrious study amongst a pile of playboy magazines and Mad Comics which were bought from some shady auction in Convent garden when Uncle Pedro was on his sabbatical and was in a frisky mood but with a head held high and a mind without fear.