The Big Bong Theory

Disclaimer: I’m a Bengali, and I don’t like roshogolla.

For centuries, being a Bong has been associated with the incidental notion of being gifted. Unfortunately, it also comes with the unwritten pact of being devoted to rice and literally every fish in the sea. Whenever I refused to allow a piece of pomfret from being dumped on my plate or declared that rice doesn’t need to be a part of daily life, all I received were incredulous stares from apparently devastated relatives. Clearly they didn’t get the point of growing up with Shawarma and Kabsa.

While studying in the capital city, I came across tons of people who praised my voice and made it synonymous with Saraswati Maa’s blessing over Kolkata. I blame Shreya Ghoshal. If you grew up in a Bengali household, you were probably sent for music classes since the age of five and made to practice Tagore’s songs on your grandmother’s harmonium. You hummed Bhoomi’s songs with your friends and danced to Bondhu Teen Din. You worshipped Dada as the best goddamn cricketer and had heated debates about Mohun Bagan and East Bengal.

We Bengalis take our literature, food, history, and discipline very seriously. You’re not a Bengali if you haven’t cried spicy tears during a Phuchka competition.  You’re not a Bengali if you haven’t indulged in an argument about North Calcutta and South Calcutta. You’re not a Bengali if you haven’t searched and sniffed those ancient classics at College Street. You’re not a Bengali if New Market isn’t your shopper’s paradise. You’re not a Bengali if haven’t had hours and hours of adda at The Coffee House. You’re not a Bengali if you haven’t gone for a night-long pandal hopping during Durga Puja and painted your face red. You’re not a Bengali if intellect, grace, and memories weren’t passed on to you as heritage. You’re not a Bengali if thinking about your city doesn’t fill your heart with pride.

Be careful before you visit The Land of Bongs, because the temple bells and the Bengali air will pollute your lungs with an eerie peace. Don’t come to Calcutta if you despise crowds, because the bespectacled beings will entice you with their knowledge and humour. Don’t come to Calcutta if you don’t like art, because every corner of this city has a story to tell. And lastly, don’t come to Calcutta if you’re afraid of love, because the City of Joy will pull you into an embrace, and make you stay. 

The Hybrid Child

I’ve been a nomad ever since I can remember, hopping from one destination to another. I was born near the ocean, flown across skies and continents, and raised by the desert. I imagined my luggage had wheels and wings, apparating me to distant lands whose art I was yet to devour. All those stamps on my passport testified my wanderlust gene. That’s how I learnt, that’s how I thrived, and that’s how I’ve become.

Growing up in the Arab kingdom was a royal affair of exotic food, hypnotic lights and orgasmic colognes. Mom gifted me Sherlock Holmes and Dad introduced me to Feluda. Chanting of the Hanuman Chalisa was accompanied by echoes of the Fajr prayer. Aloo Posto was a dinner favourite and so was Fettuccine Alfredo. Tagore’s Rabindra Sangeet filled the silence as much as Beethoven’s symphonies. School was all about the exchange of Tiffin boxes and bellowing lunchtime blabber; boxes that carried over a dozen cuisines, and blabber that comprised of 16 different tongues, all resonating as the sound of friendship. Summer vacations often meant receiving weird looks from the crowd because our Chevrolet had suddenly transformed into a rickety rickshaw and my 5-year-old self couldn’t fathom why. Dumplings were replaced with Phuchka, and all I could do was hog on the spicy snack beside the filthy stall while the audience blinked at my naive glee. Curiosity stitched us together.

People sympathised with my frequent address fluctuation. “I don’t mind it”, I said, concealing the smirk of my Bohemian heart. Half the population marveled at my ability to speak in Bengali and the rest was befuddled by my fluent English. “Why can’t I know both?” I asked. After all, one was the dialect in my blood, and the other was the voice in my soul.

I laughed at the stories of the Red Tide and shared them with the White Cricket. I engraved my name on the stone walls and the black sand, and believed it would stay. I waddled through lanes unknown. They were strangers, till they became home. I met people who counted the same stars and danced on the same ground. I got lost, till I was found. I left my mark on the roads abound.  

A map. A world. A giant sea. I could drown. I could fly. A thousand possibilities. I watched and observed and witnessed, and ultimately realized that if you listen very closely, it all melts into one vision and one language and one heartbeat. Call us travelers, rovers or gypsies; we’re all the same kettle of fish. I’m happy with having one foot on the ground and other on the move. And I refuse to cease exploring till my existence is marked with the ink of adventures and my blood becomes an amalgamation of all the soils my lips have touched. Till I meander, till I wonder, till I breathe.

Butterflies

“I’m just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her.”

If only it was as easy as Julia Roberts made it sound, right? Or maybe it is. As I finish watching Notting Hill for the umpteenth time, it makes me wonder. Why should loving someone come with the package of wet pillows and blue music?

Let me tell you something: love is everything it’s deemed to be. It’s crazy, cranky, silly, sappy, illogical and immature. It’s passion and poetry wrapped in the form of a human being. It’s the 15-year-old giggling in your 30-something body. It’s wobbly knees and a butterfly tummy. It’s benches and dried leaves and letters and photographs. It’s someone who makes you stay awake till 5am despite your droopy eyes, and run to the airport because you just can’t seem to say goodbye. It’s the big box of memories whose lid refuses to break or close. It’s holding on and letting go. It’s the scariest dream and the prettiest nightmare, flying and falling at the same time. It’s having all the air around you sucked out and seeing your world build up and fall apart and being too smitten and too helpless to catch the broken pieces. It’s the right person at the wrong time and the wrong person at the right time and time being a wicked witch. It’s all of this, and so much more; so much more we’ll never know.

My sparse knowledge of this vast concept has led me to the conclusion, that of all the things it is and will ever be, may it never be basic. May all the mundane be on one side and the royal mess of your love affair stand with its coy pride. May all the myths of shooting stars and white horses and fiery princesses and knights in shining armours see the light of reality. May it sustain your senses and drive you insane. Because if love wasn't simple and complex and magic and madness, what else would it be? Amen, Amen, Amen.

Carrie Bradshaw and my bucket of ice cream await.

Till I write again,

Creative Insanity.

An Ode to my Superwoman

The first week of January. The air is so cold the blanket is frozen to my feet. I hear the clattering of the pan and mom humming her favourite Rabindra Sangeet, while moving around like a ninja. I’ve always believed that my mom is a secret agent working for The Institute of Inbuilt Magnificence. She can chop onions, fluff the cushions and give you life lessons all in one twirl. I guess it was she who took the train to Hogwarts and learnt all the kickass witchcraft. I groggily walk up to her with a half-yawn, and she smiles at me as she serves dad his breakfast. She doesn’t have time to comb, but she has time to smile. The hum is now replaced with small, soft breaths, her arthritic knees begging her to take a break. She doesn’t listen to them. She doesn’t listen to anyone. Dad leaves for work and mom waves him goodbye from the balcony, waiting till he takes the turn at the corner.

Just when I feel she’s about to run back inside her den again, I stop her. After a little struggle, she finally agrees to take that breath latched somewhere between stress and responsibilities. I hear her laugh and gasp at the whereabouts of some dramatic Indian woman on screen, as I settle our cups on the table. The next hour goes by me trying to help her escape through gossip and giggles, and before I know it, the ninja goes back to duty.

Wash, clean, cook.

“Sweetie, come have lunch.”

Dust, scrub, arrange.

“… Going to the grocery store.”

Calls, bills, cold tea.

“No no, it isn’t much. I’ll manage.”

Sprint, sweat, smile.

“Beta, dinner is ready.”

Another day comes to an end. An extraordinary woman’s ordinary day. Her warm halo and invisible cape retire for the night. I see her sitting still for a change, either plotting world domination or deciding what to cook for tomorrow’s dinner. I guess I’ll never know. For that moment, I let her stay in her little bubble. Just, let her be; before she resumes being a wife and a mother and a superwoman. My superwoman.

Pandemonium

Hey there, little girl.

Don’t be in a rush

To grow up.

Those shiny lights,

Those dizzy nights.

It’s all a trap.

Ride your bike,

Let your hair loose,

While you still can.

Chase the stubborn wind,

Dance with the wild ones,

Be the sky.

Soon the darkness

Will descend over

Your innocent eyes.

Soon a pair of cold lips,

And a crooked smile

Will arrest your breath.

Soon a big book of

Rules will be crawling

Under your tender skin.

Chaining you,

Groping you,

Deceiving you.

Soon you’ll be

Wishing and wailing and begging

To be free, to be heard, to be saved.

Soon the shadow of your mother

Will disappear in the puff of smoke

They said tastes like heaven.

Then why is it buzzing

And blending and bleeding

Between your legs and nails?

  

Scream,

Hide,

Run.

To the house you

Once called home, to the place

That still waits for you.

To the lonely box of letters,

Written to the girl

You now barely know.

To the haven that

Will embrace your nightmare,

And sing you a new dream.

- Sayantani Sarkar. 

Raise your Wands

5 hours. That's how long it took for me to barely come to terms with the fact that Alan Rickman is no more. To the world it's the loss of one of the greatest actors of all time, but to us Potterheads, it was the toughest goodbye.

We met Professor Snape at the age of 11. The man with the all-black attire and piercing stare. We were there during the potions lessons, the Quidditch matches, the dinners at the Great Hall and The War. We turned to page 394, got admonished for messing around with the Marauder’s Map, and lost points for being “an insufferable know-it-all”. We loved him, we hated him, we cheered for him, we cried for him.

Those who weren’t a part of this journey from the very beginning will never know what this hollowness feels like. It’s being a teenager again and re-reading The Prince’s Tale. It’s being taught that sometimes the darkest of arts conceal the bravest of heroes. It’s realizing that true love transcends all barriers of time and magic. It’s weeping in nostalgia of the Half-Blood Prince who took away a whole chunk of our childhood along with him. It’s being a part of the best fandom; the fandom that never forgets, and only grows stronger every day.

Our farewell to you is a mere testimony of the legacy you left behind. This isn’t goodbye, Mr. Rickman. We promise to never indulge in foolish wand-waving and silly incantations. We also promise to cherish your memories. Always, sir. Always.

Rest in peace, Professor. 

A Reading Year in Review

Another year gone by. Another year of book hauls, binge reading and fangirling. To give you an exact number, I read a grand total of 49 books in the past year. Some good, some great and a few terrible. But mostly good. In fact, it’s safe to say that 2015 was one of the best reading years of my life till date. So, here’s listing down the best 10 books I read last year (not in the order of preference):

1. Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl: My 2015 started with a bang. Yes, this was my first read of the year. No, I didn’t read it because of its movie adaptation that released last fall. I was reading a thriller after quite a long time, and it didn’t disappoint me even one bit. Cold, twisted and insane, Gillian Flynn’s writing and her characters had me at the edge of my seat till the last page.

2. Ned Vizinni’s It’s Kind of a Funny Story: This books deals with a topic that isn’t talked about much, but definitely deserves more attention: depression. Craig’s journey from depression to epiphany is so funnily relatable, that you almost forget the dark subject it’s based on. Perhaps Vizinni’s own experiences contributed to the novel’s realistic depiction.

3.  Tahereh Mafi’s Unravel Me: This is the second book in the Shatter Me trilogy that I finished reading last year. I was apprehensive about this YA dystopian series, but it blew my frikkin’ mind away! Written in the stream of consciousness technique, Tahereh Mafi has penned down a fresh story in the most poetic way possible. The writing is so brilliant and the plot is so fast-paced that you just won’t be able to put the books down.

4. Andrea Portes’ Anatomy of a Misfit: Do you remember high school? Gangs, categories, mean girls, nerds: the competition to belong. Anika Dragomir’s clumsy yet determined story coupled with Portes’ witty narration will definitely take you down the memory lane and have you laughing through your tears. Quirky, sarcastic and genuine, this was my introvert heart’s dream come true.

5. Markus Zusak’s The Book Thief: If I was kept on gunpoint and asked to choose the best book I read in 2015, I would most definitely choose this. Written in magnificently poetic prose, containing an array of diverse and memorable characters, and set in Germany with the backdrop of the Second World War, Liesel Meminger’s heartbreakingly beautiful story is one that I’ll carry around in my soul forever. Also, it’s narrated by Death. Just saying. Take a bow, Markus Zusak.

6. Marissa Meyer’s Winter: This was my most anticipated book of 2015. When I started the Lunar Chronicles series last year, I had no idea that it would soon make it to my list of favourites. I screamed for a good ten minutes once I had the final book in my hands, and hugged it for so long once I was done reading it. I couldn’t believe the roller coaster of modified fairy tales had come to an end. Saying goodbye to these characters was tougher than I’d expected.

7. Benjamin Alire Saenz Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe: Growing up is difficult. Growing apart is even more difficult. This book reminds us why we can never choose our family, and also that at times, the universe chooses just the right people for us. Analysing this tale would be insulting it. I needed to know Ari and Dante. I needed to know their story. And I thank the universe that I did. All the stars in the world for this book.

8. Patrick Ness’ A Monster Calls: It was 5 am when I started reading this and by 7 am, I was reduced to a pool of tears. I closed the book knowing that I would be recommending it to everyone. A story so honest and painful, the writing so simple yet so poignant, you cannot help but dwell on the beauty of it all.

9. Becky Albertalli’s Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda: I tried not to get my hopes high before picking up this book, irrespective of the rave reviews surrounding it, but the hype was totally worth it! It’s hard to believe that this is the author’s debut novel, considering how perfectly she has portrayed the chosen theme. It’s a novel about alienation and recognition and how sometimes not fitting in, is the only way to fit in. The relatable and important story, the breezy and hilarious writing, and the eclectic band of characters; this book completely captured my gooey heart.

10. Nicola Yoon’s Everything, Everything: I’m at that awkward reader stage where teenage love stories just don’t sound cute anymore, but this book luckily didn’t have that typical mush. Again, a pretty impressive debut. Maddy and Olly make you slightly reminiscent of Hazel and Gus, and their bond has a surprisingly mature element that makes you want to read it all in one sitting.