LOVE... ACTUALLY/TECHNICALLY

THIS 'PASSIONATE' AND 'TECHNICAL(?)' love letter has been composed by my dear friend SOUVIK BHATTARCHARYA and addressed to someone who is the sole hope of us backbenchers during the Great Battle of Semester.And she unfailingly succeeds in making us pass reluctantly,semester after semester. This letter finds space here because:

1. 
   
   It has been composed really well (and I dare say this site hosts some reasonably well written articles!).


2. 
   
   I have personally always wanted to thank this person for a long time,and souvik did that with heart


3. 
   
   Finally,I'm a slave to passion and the passion that I like reflects in Souvik's writing.

GET /love/heart_response.view HTTP/2.0


Connection: Keep-Alive

User-Agent: MyHeart/4.5 [en] (x11; U, MyOS 5.8 me4u)
Host: MyHeart:8080
Accept-Encoding: Heart-Code
Accept-Language: en
Accept-Charset: iso-8859-1,*,utf-8


Dear “http://www.y12iem.com/***/1040*0602***/heart.exe”,

I know your brain doesn't recognize me. I know I haven’t still found a place in the hidden database of yours. I just want to ask why the comparator in the deepest core of my heart gives a ‘1’ at the sight of you. Why does the Lissajous figure formed in the CRO in me forms a perfect “x2+y2=r2”. Do I say, it’s a perfect romance that drives my heart at such high frequencies?

Is it the ‘0’ phase margin that makes me so feel so complete! The shortest of the wavelengths pouring out of your hidden ‘Yagi-Uda’ source bangs on to my ‘Micro-strip’, driving my demodulator to overdrive. The aliasing circuitry is lying idle, as the receiver can’t receive any other frequency.

All images appear blur as the image processing circuit has been reprogrammed to identify only one image. All image processing circuitry fail to identify any other pixels.

And now, when I try to put myself on sleep mode, the processor denies to do so. It always has a program running, hindering me to rest myself. It’s an infinite loop that flashes our name and image in my inner-eye. I know that I am infected by a virus, a virus that no antivirus can ever heal, nor can quarantine. Not that I am complaining, I know my processor is taking this burden, but I believe when this core will be ‘duo’, it will have a rest of lifetime.

I know, you will be able to decrypt this message. Every single byte I transmit has only our IP in its header, and user only our preset protocol for transmission. Please grant an authorization in your domain. I promise I will create the perfect resonance in the oscillatory circuit of your heart.


Yours ever,

Souvik

GULAAL-NOT JUST A COMPELLING WATCH

The other day ,while waiting outside 'HATARI'-a restaurant in South Kolkata , I chanced upon a funny sequence of events. Now , I have always reflected that 'fun',as I have seen the word define itself in experience,has a constant concomitant-someone else's misery. Its astonishing how we bury our sadist indulgence of enjoying at someone else's plight into the convenient subterfuge called "fun' or 'humour'. I don't remember a single good joke/funny situation that came across me so far,that was not at another person's expense,however distant or irrelevent that person might be. This particular sequence ,funny as it is,is no aberration to that dubious (i dare say) convention.

So me and my hunger were busy cursing my fashionably late friends outside HATARI when a Dog,our protagonist entered the scene. There is a specs store with glass doors just beside Hatari. Our hero was shoed off the entrance of the restaurant and he (it had a penis-too pre eminent to ignore.I am a chauvinist I know :) ) ,being innocent of the laws of reflection,discovered a way through the glass door. He ran,and..BANG!...Perplexed but undaunted,he took a few steps back and ran full steam for his entrance,only to get a bigger bang.

The sadist in me (and quite a few others) was in splits (it was funny-ai'nt it?) untill a Good Samaritian/kolkatan spoiled the fun while the Dog was on its 3rd plunge!

GULAAL is a 'fun' film in this respect. Because it pokes fun at itself,and inflicts the inevitable plight to itself only. Gulaal is principally the story of 'DUKI BANA' a Rajput prince in present day Rajasthan. Like I noticed in the dog,the most striking trait of 'Bana's character is his manhood,and its obvious companion-chauvinism. But then Bana is equally trapped in time,vision and intention as my hero-he wants to build the independent nation-state of RAJPUTANA,and gives his all to that effect despite the seemingly unsurmountable obstacles.

The parallels do not end here though-I thought there was this inherent leitmotif of being blurred in vision and journeying far ,only to return to the same point-to escape which the journey was made-latent in almost all the principal characters.

Duki Bana is absolutely convinced of his dream of Rajputana-he craves for it like the lovelorn craves for his love (trust me to know how it feels :) ) and it appears he has loyal supporters-but then there are the university students who are seemingly unaware of such schemes. Is the dream really so promising,is the vision really so convincing?..We never know the opinion en masse-but considering that the neatly woven script answers every dangling question,chances are ,the director did'nt answer the obvious.Is not this akin to my dog (oh i seem to develop an affection for him..) losing sight of the immediate looming impossibility in lure of the rosy possibilities?

Then there is the declared confused character of DILEEP SINGH. He is the typical 'good boy' (if you dont know what I mean,come to my college; my college reeks of good boys) who is slowly and inevitably dragged to the surreal arena of power play.To join or not to join politics,to kill or not to kill the slut that ditched him...his confusion is what takes the story forward.But the one confusion that is subtly dealt in the story is ,to be or not to be like RANSA,his roommate whom he evidently develops a fascination on,after initial tiffs. One cannot but marvel at the deft handling of key plots by Anurag Kashyap-what he says is so clear,but what he leaves unsaid is what completes the jigsaw perfectly.

The film is absolutely original in the bollywood horizon-both in concept and in execution. Sure we had the superbly made HAASIL that dealt with student politics too,but in गुलाल politics provides more of a background to the complex colors of human emotions that hog the canvas. In the language of geeks,politics in Gulaal is like the electromotive force ,which is not a 'Force' by definition,but is the driving force behind all electrical circuits. The sexual tension,the fear.confusion and above all,raw masculinity-all these are almost palpable courtesy an impeccable camerawork. The film is almost Shakespearian in its depiction of power play.Yes,Gulaal is all about POWER-the quest for power,the decay due to power and finally,its about the extent to which one can deign in persuit of that elusive power. There is KIRAN,who lures her way into Dilip's bed and then to his head,only to dump him to die in the hands of goons hired by her brother. Women in Anuraag's films have always been ahead of their depiction in contemporary bollywood,and perhaps of time,but KIRAN ,so obviously modelled on Lady Macbeth,is completely believeable even in her most outrageous actions.

The taut screenplay advances in the form of a folk-play (Jatra),complete with a sutradhaar played by the music composer Piyush Mishra. The keenly composed music,based on Rajasthani folk and kotha tunes carry the story forward. The music scores in its lyrics too,penned delightfully by Piyush Mishra again. Sample this:

"Sajini ko dear bole,
Tharre ko beer bole Mange hai english boli,
Mange hai english choli
mange hai english jaipur, english bikaner
Jaise bisleri ki..
Jaise bisleri ki bottle pike bangaye english man "

Infact the character that is most consistent in the mad order of things is the supposedly slightly crazy PRITHVI BANA,whose scathing wit sees through the futile ambition of his brother.

The high point of the film is definitely its performances,with Kay Kay menon leading the pack.Raj Singh Chaudhury as Dileep Singh does well,but pales in comparison to the superlative performances delivered by the supporting cast.Special mention must be made of Abhimanyu Singh as "RANSA"-this character reveals clearly Anurag's fascination with unadulterated,raw manhood and kudos to Abhimanyu for playing the part to perfection.
The unsung heros of the film are its cameramen and cinematographer Rajeev Ravi. I remember marveling at the camerawork in David Fincher's SE7EN ,where to shoot the dark,depressed look of a crime-riddled city an entirely new concept of camerawork and cinematography was introduced. Though not as grand,But Gulaal has its own novelty with the more poignant scenes being sketched with a tinge of Gulaal-justifying the title. Gulaal,I suppose, stands for the two P's ,power and passion here.

Its really reassuring to find that Bollywood has found the right horse in its journey towards betterment and securing its due esteem in international cinema,the rider being Anurag Kashyap.

Richard Feynmann had once said:
"poets are never meant to be understood"
Anurag also meant same when he made No Smoking! But considering the tremendous outbursts of creativity Anurag's recent movies have shown,such aberrations are bound to occur. Its in this respect that the bollywood buff is reminded of a certain Mr Verma who had once made equally challenging movies like Satya,Company and Rangeela,side by side with pathetic duds like Daud,Mast,Aag... It is not to suggest that Anurag's career will follow the same checquered path as RGV's,its just an apprehension that is too tempting not to mention.

AN OPEN LETTER TO GOURAV

The feeling of having deserted the project,and my best friend Debmalya at his time of need is yet to sink in. But time heals,and even when it does'nt,it presses things beyond the immediate mask that we put on. I have always thought I was a good actor, but Gourav saw through my mask. Perhaps it is like that with the select few who do not have a mask for a face ( Gourav belongs to that exclusive club). Pehaps our hypocrisies are transparent to people like them.
I was upset at being caught grieving,but i cannot thank Gourav more for that. He was willing to be my vent,vent to the absolute filth that I am. Here's my humble effort at thanking him.


---------------------------------

My dear Gourav,


Since we were taught letter-writing (class III perhaps), I have always believed the salutation and closing parts of a letter were merely perfunctory. But the "yours always" at the closure of your mail forced me to think otherwise,for the first and perhaps the only time in my life. After the step that I had taken,the sin that I had committed, and the blows that I had inflicted upon me,I desperately sought a vent. U know Gourav,the word "catharsis" has a Greek origin,and was used extensively in Greek philosophy and drama to depict an action of the protagonist that led to an emotional cleansing through a draining,rigorous experience. The past few weeks were somewhat similar,but with an anti-climax that I could'nt even dream of. But it was your mail that has actually led the catharsis to its denouement,with my tears slowing down my keyboard. I remember you do not like to be thanked formally,but the burden of gratitude is now too heavy on me. Forgive me as I say,"THANKS A LOT GOURAV".

I feared,and still do,that I would not be able to express my predicament and hence explain my action to others.But I am stunned you could comprehend my precise feelings without me speaking a word. Strange really are the ways of the ALMIGHTY; to have made people like you at all, and to have them placed among such nondescript men as me.
I had really worked hard on this. But the good thing about passion is that you don't feel the wear,because you are always WILLING to enhance your passion more. In hindsight I realize that I had slept, in a semi-conscious state ,for all of 12 hours total in a span of 3 days. But the bad thing about passion is it wears you down mentally if things are bad beyond a point. Its a lot like love. I have always been insecure about the things i love most.
You know Gourav,the initial draft of my program was so close to being perfect,yes I dare say perfect. But even after working non-stop for 3 days it remained just that-only close to perfect. It was then that my inner demons began to play havoc. So far I had not given two hoots to health,or money..but it was then that i realised that both were amiss. A sudden sense of futility,dejection grasped me. I have always considered my ego to be my best friend-but now it had been bruised badly by none else than me,and i chose to retreat. It was cowardly,yes,but it was also traitor-ly of me. You know Gourav,I have always had few but close friends,because i have always treated each friendship as a RELATION.And there I was,deserting someone equally passionate,at the time of his crisis. But I thought I was so helpless gourav...my presence could not have meant much. Out of fear i sought refuge in my retreat,trading bravery and love. You might find this an ornate subterfuge,but i really am helpless.
I have sought forgiveness of Malya,and Prahar,and I think I shall be forgiven,but I will never be able to excuse my cowardice fully,even if I achieve what I desire most.
THANKS AGAIN


YOURS INDEBTED,
Debrup

AN ODE TO MY (L)ONLY WEAKNESS

I chanced upon this poem while my mom was selling my worn out schoolday copies. This is a poem I had composed in an especially boring chemistry class back in class X. I have fond memories of those turbulent days-the late teens were my period of self discovery,both physical and mental. The quest for self discovery persists,but that was the time when i became aware for the first time that I had a genital, that there are desires beyond topping in class X, that I could think,that each individual has different thoughts,that these thoughts,however idiosyncratic,have a common thread...

Now here is a poem that I am not especially proud of now.It shows every sign of my limited vocabulary,and even limited prowess in poetry( not that it is much better now). But I include it here in my blog because i am proud of the fact that i used to THINK,and THINK hard at that point of time. Precocious i might have been,but then great thinkers have always been precocious ,have'nt they?( ofcourse i don't imply anything!!).

AN ODE TO MY (L)ONLY WEAKNESS

Press,press,press and finally it flows
Pleasure rolls down my mind ,body and soul
Eyes close in a moment of satisfaction
And my heart breaks for long hours of depression.

My heart,my tender heart feels oh-so-guilty
He does'nt know from inside that it's reality
The hours then follow,the dreaded hours
Of doing nothing but sitting beside the bedside chair.

" You're Addicted and Shall Be Ruined"-warns the solemn Brain
But my minor me indulges in the pleasure of this suffocating pain.
I love it so, I cannot let it go
For , catering to the world and made to like what they see
These are the moments when I find the 'me' in me.

I would love to compose a poem on the same topic in this stage of my evolution.Turbulent days they were,with me always at the epicentre of the tug-of-war between my spiritual initiations at my weak flesh.The battle still rages,but I have finally outgrown the age of tug-of-war...

But before that I need to attend to that vicious vamp called the sem.And i would really like to get a reaction from any bored soul who might have cared to visit this blog.

Dashami..Beloved Dashami

Its over.The media frenzy,the serpentine never ending queues,the precocious teenagers,buoyed and radiant by the first trip out,the mahishashurmardini on every puja day in my neighbourhood is finally over. Its Dashami and and the media vehemently supposes me to be sad.Far from it!

Its all lighted to sunshine out here,so much so that one has to squint to see her.But there she is,somewhat demure(but that is obvious,this is the shukla paksha or the waxing half of the lunar month),garbed in a sombre copper-red attire,weaving mystery as she sews along the charkha.She weaved then too; before my pimples came out,before darkness became mere absence of light,in the frequent load-shedded,candle lit evenings the world was a warm lap,my maa's warm lap,and through the perforated cool aachol i had seen her weave the same mystery.The grand,ancient,ageless resident of moon,the chander buri. The world is now larger,and well-lit, but the mystery persists. And this day is the same all the time,for it is today(and it was today 15 years back and will be today 30 years hence), when the GODDESS looks so much like my mom.

The GODDESS , smeared with vermilion,a tinge of tear in the large , oval eyes, the women ululating happily around,an occult aroma of mother-flesh(and its not human flesh,for a mother is not human,though a woman born human can be the mother) transported by the frankincense,the dhakis beating a mad,raving rhythm...so much of maa...so like my maa.

There they come! A matador carrying the Devi and family,and another full of mirth,laughter and bollywood steps.And there comes another,and lo,yet another!..This pukur before me looks melancholy otherwise , but today is different.When I did not fake happiness,so as to say when I was a child,I envied the kids swimming here.The shining bathtime pond shimmered with rippling laughter,of kids learning to swim,of their instructors,and of the bored men and women stealing a luxurious moment before the hard,grinding day ahead.And this fascination of mine was mixed with a tinge of envy,envy of not being able to join the revelry courtesy my beloved mother!

But this revelry here is different.There ain't no heaving wet bosoms,hairy chests or shiny balds here.But the joy is wet indeed,refreshing wetness.The bored reader(u aren't bored by now? I bet) may recollect a Limca commercial with Riya Sen in the lead that was wet but refreshing wet.So is it,wet with myriad emotions,emotions that are a delectable concoction of sweet happiness and peppery sorrow of farewell. Ah...the water felt like cold piece (whatever that is supposed to mean..u will never feel if u haven't felt that!) when some mother...my mother sprinkled on us!

"Mere kalam pe zamaane ki dard aisi thi/

ke apne baare me kuch bhi nahin likh saka yaaro

....ke main zameen ke rishto se kat gaya yaaro"

-Jagjit Singh's ghazal

I don't know why I quoted that.Of course I love it but there is no reason to.But then its good sometimes to just let things happen.It is happening again.I have been disconcerted of late and have just been sane enough to notice my speech getting incoherent.Perhaps it is the ROSHKOLNIKOV effect.The irritable,haughty,on the verge of madness protagonist of DOSTOEVSKY'S epic CRIME AND PUNISHMENT has preoccupied me for the past fortnight.And I want to let it be.It happened before too, in the turbulent,experimental,beloved days of adolescence,with a Sirshendu Mukherjee novel called DURBIN. I remember stepping out of Kalighat,my beloved holy Kalighat without offering devotion to mother and sleeping alongside the beggers and an insane mother. I recollect the stink,which got used to me in a few minutes( i was the intruder here) and which i started taking in in lungfuls.It is the stink,the bare ,reddish black torso of an invalid, the frozen eyes of the insane and her dusty,rugged hair,and the peaceful siesta in the pavement-these are the fragments of a jigsaw which still form a clear picture in my mind. Its inexplicable,but that clear picture i do not visualise;it appears as a grey mist somewhere at the back of my mind.I hate oxymoron and i might be annoying you with my duality but that clear grey mist is observed in meditation.I have found all my beloved images/sounds/experiences in that form.Even Isha is to me that sensation at the back of my mind,which i cannot visualise but i don't regret cause i feel it with far greater clarity than vision in meditation.

If you have managed to endure this ordeal this far then please forgive me. I was delirius when i wrote the above but this delirium is not apologetic..it promises to come back on the next BIJAYA DASHAMI, with my mother on tow. Its a long wait till the next Dashami..but the wait is worth it.The worthy should be few and far between....

"Apne Gham ko Geet Banakar Gaa le na/

Raag purana tera bhi hai,mera bhi/

Gham ka khazanaa tera bhi hai,mera bhi..."

-Sajda(Jagjit Singh,Lata Mangheshkar)

HAPPY TEACHER'S DAY BISWAJOY DA

Dear Sir,

I'm sorry if I've offended you by not sticking to the conventional "Respected Sir",but I could'nt help,for,in addition to the obvious respect,I hold you dear to my heart.In the long lost days of the first pimple,Resnick Halliday and the first smoke my heart retained the gift of wonder from childhood.I wondered about the busy monkeys in H.C.VERMA,about the alcoholic in Bahl and Bahl,the engaging endearing labyrinth of resistive networks,the form of the NORMAL DISTRIBUTION;I wondered...

But about 3 years back my heart turned into a mere cardiac muscle,the foetus of my questions aborted by MATRIX EDUCARE,and my wonder was replaced with hatred.Hatred for listless wander in the worn -out beaten path called the WBUT,hatred for being a typewriter (of dated notes),hatred for having lost myself.

Thanks a meg-ohm Sir for being the lighthouse I needed,Thanks a kilo-farad for bearing the beacon light of knowledge,thanks a lot for being my messiah Sir.

If you have managed to endure this ordeal this far,I would like to utilize this opportunity to express my love,respect and gratitude for you Sir.Some teach , you inspire;I promise not to let go of whatever remaining opportunities I have to feel inspired.

yours truly

Debrup Ganguly

unfinished..read later

Circa 2008
IIT Kharagpur


“… Of TIME you would make a stream upon whose bank you would sit and watch its flowing.
…Yesterday is but today’s memory and tomorrow is today’s dream.
...…. And let today embrace the past with remembrance and the future with longing.”

---KHALIL GIBRAN

Sometimes it takes a lifetime for a minute to pass (IEMians know better),sometimes a whole lifetime passes in a matter of minutes (only a fortunate few should know). To reproduce properly that empyreal experience yours truly dons a bird’s eye, and sitting atop the convex gleam of the sky (Shelley anyone?) gains access to the minds of three IEMians, one a poet, another super-intelligent, and the other an innocent, quixotic child of a man. If you endure the entire ordeal you might put these traits to names,but for now, their names in no particular order are, Dwip Sengupta, Debrup Ganguly, and Abhishek Dutta .


JUMP CUT:
VIKRAMSILA FOYER
ROBO RELAY,2ND ROUND:

“Oh God ,please..please keep it glued..”-murmuredt Abhishek while Dwip stared fixedly at the bot ,confident that the sensors could not go wrong this time.This was the 3rd and Final restart and he had been warned in the 2nd for uttering what is chaste French to the sane, expletives to some. Debrup soaked in the palpable vibes-a whole gamut of emotions openly swarmed in the arena;greed, anger, hatred ,joy ,relief-they were all there, as if there were faces no more ,pure human emotions to the fore, and the progressive tightening of three clasped hands perhaps provided a curious trimpot to their emotion sensors. 32 adrenaline soaked seconds later bliss took on as the hands were replaced with hugs, and the loudspeaker blared the latest entrant into the finals of ROBOTIX 2008, TEAM BMN.

“Its only half-done” ,declared Dwip ,carrying the bots with motherly care. The pleasant spring breeze(the ISHA breeze,as per Debrup) caressed their delights, on the way back to hostel. Abhishek was still busy exchanging ‘pleasantries’ with people who had previously sneered at their naiveté. Naïve they were,and their mechanism was simply ludicrous. But they had the moody mistress called luck by their side,for reasons best explained in THE ALCHEMIST. They had wanted it with all their heart ( they’ve always shared a single heart and they know ‘noun numbers’) and to their astonishment the universe did conspire to help them achieve.(Thank You Mr Coelho, both from me and on behalf of Farah Khan!)


“ ...We reached the dizzying heights of that dreamt of world”
---PINK FLOYD



Theirs is an adolescence grown on DIL CHAHTA HAI. More precisely, that opening note and the 3 bikes have always been their vision of freedom,of joy and camaraderie. That image was replaced forever with the sights of the lush lonely but filled lawns, the entwining complex of roads, the queued toilets, the constant buzz of activity and the taste of the DREAMLAND RESTAURANT.

Dreams prove deceptive when realized , dreams do not appear like dreams in the process of realization .

The biting February Kharagpur Station was far from the warm kolkata spring, the auto ride to IIT-K (and the fare) was not the shortest, and the first view of the place was overwhelming in an uneasy way. This place hosted a failed dream, gallons of midnight oil,sweat and the hefty sum paid to FIITJEE-its surely not that dream, just a 3 day stay. Or so they thought.