Swimming in a Pool

When I’m writing about Kolkata, it’s difficult. Because I’m writing in English but the dialogues, the lines, the words come to me in Bangla. It’s different when I write a story in an English setting (or maybe even base it in other parts of India). Then automatically the thoughts are in English. But, where Kolkata is concerned, it is as if I’m simply sieving and translating. Two worlds on different sides of the wall. And that feels wrong. Very very wrong. That is the point where I feel helpless. I know my bangla isn’t strong enough such that I can write a novel in it. And English is what I’m best at. Kolkata is also what I know the best. Hence, it fits to be the setting of my novel. But it is frustrating when after writing two or three pages, I’m staring at the screen, not knowing where the story is going. Because god help me, but how can I expect a Nimai Kaka to address his Memsahib in fluent English. It just sounds so very wrong. At this point I’m extremely close to giving up. And I have, before. On more than a dozen stories I think.

I hate swimming in this frustration pool.

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Seventy-six Minutes

What she looked for in every boy she encountered was a conversation. A proper soul-enriching conversation. Because she felt lonely otherwise. She sat at the cream-coloured table in class as her mind riveted back to the boy she smoked up with last week. He had big hands. They sat at the end of the rusted knocked down bridge and spoke of things people usually don’t speak about on their first dates. The bridge had several planks missing. Boltu, the university dog sat in the middle of it, resting under the afterglow of the evening sun. Their legs brushed against one another. Neither pulled away. He spoke of life in Rajasthan. How he didn’t get along with his Ma. It saddened her, but she didn’t let go of his hand.

“I need a smoke.”, she pulled away.

 

Keep your hands away

In the clouds deep – where they belong

Umm, up –

Seventy-six minutes

In the noontime of my eyes

Numb lover, come, sit,

Gaze into the pensive.

Documenting 1.1 : Introduction and haiku

Hello everyone 🙂 ❤

This is my first v-blog. Hope you guys like it.

 

Just in case my voice sounds muffled, here’s the haiku I wrote-

Drip drip drip – it roars

From the quarter-closed rust tap

Like small silent wars.

 

Thanks for watching 🙂

With love,

Antara  ❤

 

P.S. – I would love some feedback.

mail me at – antara5947@gmail.com

Brother

There were fights

When I was 6.

Angry slurs and misinterpreted

Dreams. Big words in the big world.

I used to cry a lot

And my brother held me

Hugged me and promised that

Everything would be all right.

 

He was right.

 

When there were people

Eating me up with their

Inquisitions… I

felt like packing my bag

My crayons, my books, my toothbrush

And just leave. They were bad people.

Nosy people.

Breaking my globe into two pieces.

Probing us to choose sides.

Brother scolded; knocked

sense into their heads.

They left me alone.

No buzz in my head anymore.

 

Brother, the savior.

 

I was 13 then. I’m 20 now.

We’re grown adults.

My 30 year old brother still

Saves me when

I’m grasping for air.

When the demons are back.

When I have accepted the raging war

to be my own. He shakes me as if

waking me up from a bad dream.

His shoulders droopy from the world’s weight

His eyes sunk. His lips battling to fake a smile.

 

I can see his tears when I fight back.

 

We don’t talk about friends,

lovers or troubling matters.

We don’t take cigarette breaks together

We don’t get high. Our shoes are

rooted and caged to the ground.

We don’t need to talk. He

understands.

He hears without me saying.

The moment I slip. The moment

the life-ending thoughts pour

into my veins… I know

he’ll rush and grab my hand

And pull me out of the sealed jar.

 

“I’m messed up.” I croak.

“I know. But I’m still here.”

May 3 – The Little Things

A little thing.

A few days back, when my exams were still on, as a routine, I asked my dad to iron my kurti for me( since I didn’t have time and was busy revising stuff. Bleh 😛 ). When I came to my room, after my shower, I found (along with the ironed kurti), two little handkerchiefs neatly folded and ironed on my bed.
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It made me happy.
As simple as that.
These lil acts of care or whatever you choose to call it, matter to me.
In all probability, I would have hurried and picked up a creasy handkerchief and left. But the fact that dad notices things…and helps me out by doing his bit, means a lot to me. He needn’t have. But he did. And even at 60, he does everything to make my life easier and better. My old man makes me happy. 

Full Retard and Hello 2014!

‘Let’s Get Married’

That was all that was there in my head.

Unbelievable.

I was pissed. I was angry.

And that was all that was there in my head.

That one sentence.

 

It had been more than a year.

It was New Years Eve.

He was in Shillong.

But all I could distinctly remember was this desperate intense urge to get married.

Let’s get married and then I could sleep in peace. Go back to my pink blankiee.

I hadn’t even turned 20.

He turned 19 a few days back.

Marriage was just a word. The responsible meaning hadn’t sunk in yet.

All I knew was to get married and a have a chubby kid and a dog and a bird and a hamster and a duck.

Quack. Quack.

The thought of having a duck follow me around the house was pleasing. It was almost satisfactory.

 

I don’t want to get married before 30.

I’m quite sure.

Mind made.

Contradictory stuff, eh?

I do that to myself. Sometimes.

 

I bought a brand new headphone today. It ain’t working.

My happy mood went straight down the drain.

I have been sulking since.

I was pissed. I was angry.

Told you. The very root cause was this unhappy lil thing.

I went full retard after that.

 

I want biriyani. And raita. And kebabs maybe.

 

2013. It has been a great year. I have a lot to be thankful for. Especially my parents for being so supportive and nice and loving and being MINE.

My brother and bhabi. For being awesome as always. Yo! Dada for being the male version of me. And bhabi for being a replica of me. La Lala Lala. It’s a wonderful world.

Mr. Happy. For being the most understanding guy on the planet. And for being MY lovable lil thing. And for all those other things only you know about. Psst. O:)

Abhimanyu. For tolerating me. For having the world’s patience stored up and explaining basic computer stuff to me all year round.

Tathagata(da) for being you and giving me the push I needed. Thanks for believing in me. And for introducing me to that lovable bunch of people. Sobai pagol. ^_^

Sayantan da. For all the advices on acting. You are one of the greatest actors I have seen up close.

Kaushiki. For not forgetting to be my chotto cow. Some insanity is always appreciated.

My school friends. For restoring faith in good old friendship.

Rachaita, Tiasha, Medha. For the food walks. And my mood swings. For keeping the craziness alive.

Alokananda. For sharing The Bell Jar. It is a weird love for Plath.

Shivi, Adi, Appy. For being there. Just. At all odd times.

To my half-JU-half-XAV group. For being random. Fun times. :’)

Sohini di and Shamvabee di. For your fb notes. Your poems. Totally inspiring. Two seniors I love a lot. Respect.

The weird batch of juniors. For being weird. Period. Attooottttaaa bhalobasha. :3

To LIFE , in general. For my loved ones. For the cool internships that came by. For the few times my work got appreciated. For helping me crawl outta my writer’s block. For the kicks(It hurt!). For showing me thou is a prick but that I’ll get by. For..for everything.. I love thee.

 

2014, Darling, please don’t go full retard. Be Good.

(Here’s hoping.)

Death Bound

 

I think I’m dying…

Not literally, of course.

But it’s as if there is this part of me –hidden maybe –however miniscule, that is dead…frozen…coffined…

I don’t know…

There is this unendurable pain crippling down my spine… reaching…connecting…gliding over…

I’m a prisoner in my own carcass…

 

I really do feel dead.

It is sad the way it is.

The hollow emptiness dexterously delineated in my soul.

It is suffocating at times.

 

I need my escape.

Even if for an hour.

Just completely shut the world down… just stay far…FAR away from all its complexities…the favourable lies…the hypocrisy…the masked truths…

Just away from this heaviness…this weight tugging at my heart…which has been pulling me down for quite some time…

I can’t find the firm ground I once stood upon…

 

Art was supposed to relieve me…but it hasn’t… It doesn’t anymore…the impeccable glee I once felt at having my hands covered in paint or blots of ink for that matter…is gone..POOF!!… And it’s gone…vanished into thin air…

*chuckles*

 

Sigh!

I need a way out.

Underachieving…always an underachiever…ALWAYS… it gets to you at times… What a waste of a life…!

 

I really do feel dead sometimes…

But it grows on you…

With time.

 

I saw this girl in a dream of mine…long kohl eyed…with the dance in her steps…the murmur of cascade in her laughter…and happiness… Happiness oozing out from every curve of her being..

I haven’t seen her for quite a while…

I miss her.

I wish I felt more Alive.

 

It’s just I feel Dead most of the time…