Grudge Blogging: Because You’re Human

I don’t read my own posts. I generally type in a flow and with spontaneity, and looking back at the finished result somehow kills that feeling of satisfaction. It is only when someone says a particular post is well-written that I go back and read it. Sometimes I impress myself, and sometimes I find stupid, careless errors that one can expect in writings that haven’t been proofread. Some weeks ago, however, when I read my posts on the front page, I was distinctly disturbed. All the posts had a lingering anger in them, and looked like I’d written them with a feeling of grudge, rather than the normal creativity with which I associate blogging.

There are so many types and subtypes of bloggers that psychologists could write volumes on their traits, their writing patters, their mood swings et al. But I guess there are subtle hints every reader, shrink or not, can pick up from an emoted post. Hints about what state of mind the blogger is in, regardless of what the post is about. If you were to read this post, you’d know it was written in a state of anger and frustration. And a blogger like me, who likes to think of himself as a very calm individual (even if he’s not!), cannot stand any of his posts indicating anger deep within.

Then I think, perhaps this is the way it should be. When you get serious abut blogging, your blog becomes your impersonation, your alter ego. And no matter how much you try to portray your words in an impassioned, unbiased form (if you try at all), your inner thoughts come out involuntarily, but decisively. And this is the point when it’s fair to say you’re in love with your blog, for your subconscious self finds it as one it can share thoughts with. Doesn’t mean you don’t love your blog if you don’t write passionate posts, but if you do write emo, you’re lovin’ it.

I know many bloggers who stopped blogging simply because their posts were becoming too emoted. They didn’t want their blog to become their outlet, what with more people in their social circle among their readers. My advice: don’t stop blogging only because your posts are emoted. Maybe you can password-protect sensitive posts, but don’t expect that throughout your blog you’ll never express yourself. You are a human being with a heart, not a journalist who can write about infant murders without as much as a hint of sorrow.

People struggle to speak their minds in the parochial societal standards that have been set in the modern times, and then, when they find an outlet, they slam it shut out of embarrassment. And this really is one of the biggest flaws in our ‘standards’, the inability, and unwillingness, to express oneself. It is the reason our politicians go scot-free after stashing away our money in Swiss banks. It is the reason the clerk at the electricity office asks you for a bribe to repair your wires without hesitation. It is the reason people elect heads of state who end up as tyrants. Please don’t do that, for the day we forget to express ourselves, we’ll no more be ruled. We’ll be enslaved. Express yourself, and keep blogging. The keyboard is mightier than the nuke.

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অভ্র কীবৌর্ড না ট্রান্সলিটারেসান ?

ইন্টার্নেটে বাংলা লেখার জন্য বোধ হয়ে অভ্র কীবৌর্ড এক রকম সূত্রপাত ছিল | কিন্তু অন্য একটা বিকল্প এখন দেখা দিয়েছে | সেইটা হলো ইন্গ্রাজি থেকে বাংলা ট্রান্সলিটারেসান | যারা ইন্গ্রাজি কিবৌর্ডের মাধ্যমে বাংলা লেখেন, তাঁদের জন্য খুব সহজ এই ভাবে নিজের মাতৃভাষার প্রয়োগ ইন্টার্নেটে করা | অভ্র কীবৌর্ড যে কি ভাবে এই আবিষ্কার কে মাৎ দেবে, সেইটা অভ্রর ডিওএলোপার-রাই বেশি ভালো বুঝবেন |

অভ্র কীবৌর্ড প্রথম একটা এপ্লিকেশান যেইটার মাধ্যমে বাঙালি-রা প্রথম ইন্টার্নেটে বাংলা লেখার সুযোগ পান | কিন্তু অভ্রর ত্রুটিহীন নয় | যেমন ধরুন, কীবৌর্ড লে-আউট, যা রক্ত করা ছেলেমানুষী নয় | তাঁর বিকল্প হিসেবে মাউসের মাধ্যমে ক্লিক-এন্ড-টাইপ খুব বেশি বিরক্তিকর | মোট কথা হলো, নতুন লোকের জন্য অভ্র ক্লান্তিকর |

ট্রান্সলিটারেসানের বিশেষত্ব হলো যে সরাসরি বাংলা শব্দগুলি ইন্গ্রাজি ভাষাএ লিখলেই নিজের থেকে সেই শব্দ বাংলায়ে বদল হয়ে যাবে | যারা বাংলার দিগ্গজ নয়ে, তাঁদের জন্যে বাংলা লেখা সাধ্য করে তলে ট্রান্সলিটারেসান | কিন্তু যারা বাংলা লিখতে অভ্যস্ত তাঁরা বুঝবেন যে এটা অতটা সহজ নয়ে | ইন্গ্রাজির মাধ্যমে বাংলা লেখা খুব কঠিন, কারণ দেবনাগরী ভাষার প্রত্যেক অক্ষরের উচ্চারণ প্রত্যেক ক্ষেত্রে একই | রোমান লিপির ভাষা এই বিষয়ে আলাদা | তাই যদি আপনি বাংলা বাঙালির মতো বোঝেন, আপনি ট্রান্সলিটারেসান না করে অভ্র ব্যবহার করবেন |

যদি আমায় জিজ্ঞাসা করেন, আমি বলবো যে ট্রান্সলিটারেসান করে বাংলা লেখা বাংলার অপমান | শুধু বাংলা-ই নয়ে, কোনোও ভারতীয় ভাষা এই মাধ্যমে লেখা রাষ্ট্রের অপমান | অভ্র কীবৌর্ড ব্যবহার করুন, বাংলা না জানলে বই পরুন, অন্যদের জিজ্ঞাসা করে বানান গুলি ঠিক করুন | আমিও তাই করি | প্রবাসী হলেও বাংলা আমার মাতৃভাষা | বাংলা আমার গর্ব |

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Death

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Tip: This post contains graphic text. Please do not read further if you’re expecting it to be anything but morbid.

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Life is full of uncertainty, but nothing beats that like the eternal leveler: death. As soon as a baby comes out of it’s mother’s womb, the ageing, and dying, process begins. It doesn’t get apparent when the mother cuddles her newborn child, when she lets it feed from her, when she dreams about its future. It doesn’t become apparent when one passes out of college with a promising job in hand, when one falls in love and casts dreams about yet another future. And then it does. Tragedy, illness, an advancing age: whatever be the reason, the final destination of each one of us is exactly the same. Death.

It dawns on you when you see someone you were close to on the deathbed. Someone who walked, talked, ate, and lived in front of your eyes lying lifeless, cold and thin, like a withered tree. He never showered his love on you, but at that moment, in that hospital room, the tears come on their own. You weep, but then your senses tell you: no, you must stay calm. For you’re his eldest grandson, the first-born, the one who must carry the family name, the baton, the flame. For you’re now a man, and your strength forms a pillar for your own father, whose sorrow you can’t even imagine. And then, when you see them take the body to the mortuary, your eyes don’t bleed.

The next morning, you see the women crying as the body bag is brought home. But you’re unmoved now. Once is enough. Then the white cloth is removed a bit to show the face, which looks like skin on a skull. A tumult forms inside you, but you still stay calm. Once is enough. Then your father puts his father’s head on his lap, and he cries. Cries like a son would cry if his father left forever. You’ve never seen him cry. Never. Now you do, and you break. Break like a glass ceiling whose walls had been blown to shreds. When it’s time to take the now-decorated body to the cremation ground, your mother tells you to lend a shoulder; you were going to anyway. And as soon as your mother tells you this, your aunt tells her son to do the same, almost as if there’s something like a competition between her son and me. A competition to lend a shoulder to your dead grandfather. The tears weren’t real, didn’t you know?

At the cremation, you watch the body being laid on the pyre, the dry rice being poured onto the lips of the deceased, the head being washed with honey. He is ready for the final journey. The final journey of every Hindu who is lucky enough to be cremated by one from the bloodline. You don’t bid him goodbye, you fold your hands and treat him like a forefather should be treated: like a God. Your father lights the pyre, and your lips form a prayer. As the flame grows, you can’t help but marvel at the sight. At the sight of a life lived out being given a fitting, fiery conclusion. There you see another side of death: glory.

But that feeling fades away a few hours into the cremation, when the skull and spine are clearly visible from outside the now-depleting wood. The chandal uses a bamboo rod to shift the remains into the heart of the pyre, into the flames, so that they burn properly. And then, when all the wood is all but charred, the intestines are all that’s left, full of moisture, with the cells deep within probably alive. More wood is brought, the pyre is remade, and now the chandal used the bamboo like a fork to place the guts on the replenished flame. Then you realize, your own guts are wringing, partly by seeing that sight, and partly due to the fasting. Nevertheless, you watch the guts burn, till only the smallest of portion remains: the navel, the remnant of the same placenta that forms the bond between mother and child. The sign that links this morbid event to the very formation of the life that was. And you realize your guts hurt no more.

The remains are immersed in the river, and you know that’s the end. The end that everyone alive will meet: your parents, your love, and you. And, at that time, while the remains sink, you start praying. You pray that may your own children give you the final fire, that may destiny not give you such a tragic end that you miss this chance. A chance to burn, a last shot at glory. ওঊম্ শান্তি, ওঊম্ শান্তি, ওঊম্ শান্তি।

Posted in Humanism | Tagged | 4 Comments

আবোল তাবোল

আমার প্রথম বাংলা লেখা। অভ্র কীবৌর্ডের মাধ্যমে এই সুত্রপাৎ। জানি না কোথায় কোন বানান টা ভুল লিখে ফেলছী। প্রবাসী হওয়ার ফল বোধ হয় এই। কালে কালে উন্নতি হবে, আষা কোরি।

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October Heat

Gosh.

When I came to Assam in June, the people I met never missed out on talking about the weather. How it rains all the time, how the winters are mild, but most importantly, how the summers only last from May to August. Well, it’s October now, and summer still seems to hold as tight a grip on this place as there can be. The sun beats down like it’s a million miles closer that it should be, the wind is close to dead, and the humidity makes sure your clothes are drenched if you step out during the day for as little as five minutes. Indoors too, there’s not much respite. I struggle to keep a single layer of clothing on my skin, that too thanks to civilized life.

People say the Delhi summer is unrelenting. Quite true if you’re out building flyovers at noon, but the wind and the lower humidity levels give some kind of a consolation, at least. Nights are windy and, despite the mosquitoes, quite comfortable. Here, even the nights are suffocating.

Come to think of it though, the weather does have an advantage: my lazy just-out-of-college self has been transformed into a regular and punctual office-goer, thanks to the heaven-like comfort of the workspace. And in fact, this is a nice place if you ignored the weather: nice people, a lot of greenery, near-zero pollution levels (the sky here is actually blue, in contrast to the Delhi sky which is grey due to the smoke), and a relaxed, no-frills lifestyle. And if you learnt to ignore the weather, you’ll end up going to the club (gymnasium, tennis-baddie-squash courts, swimming pools, golf course et al) which really is a nice place to have fun and socialize.

Seems like I’ll have to learn to ignore the flip sides of life and get on with things. So, well, I simply hate the weather, but I’m liking this place. 🙂

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Layla, Bring Me To My Knees

Eric Clapton’s most famous song, and arguably the most famous love song ever, Layla, is both addictive and mesmerizing. The song itself might have been born out of his unrequited love for Pattie Boyd, but within this song one can find the true power of the feminine race, making this song fit to be dedicated to all womankind. Nothing captures it more than the chorus:

Layla, you’ve got me on my knees
Layla, I’m begging, darling please
Layla, darling won’t you ease my worried mind?

The strength that women behold under their tender forms has been an enigma all through history, since the time of the cavemen. The very fact that they were the ones who could produce new life made their power something to be afraid of, something overwhelming to men. For their souls could give rise to new ones without causing them any apparent loss. Nature, weird in its sense of justice as always, had hence gifted men the power of the body. For centuries, women and men lived in this equilibrium, and while men were the ones who hunted and held sway over the community, they silently bowed to the feminine race by following the lunar calendar, worshiping them without conceding so.

But no equilibrium lasts forever in human society, and hence men went about proclaiming their superiority by way of politics and religion. Women were branded as mere carriers of seed, and worse, as a source of sin and guilt, a system of belief which is still visible in the tenets of the Roman Catholic Church for all to see, and in the teachings of almost all other faiths at a subtler though definitive level. The women who were revered once upon a time wes banished to the harems, treated as servants, branded as whores and executed as witches. And the men thought they had rid themselves of the power of the feminine race. To this day, that illusion prevails in the minds of most men. Why, most heads of state are men, most CEO’s are men,  the sports that are most popular involve men too!

Oblivious to them, though, women never lost their glory, for they have continued to hold sway over men’s minds. Kings have been led to victory and death by them, urchins have graced glory due to them, and riches have come to naught because of them. The fact that men would never admit they can be controlled by the weaker race of women makes it even easier for them to remain the powerful race they have always been, from behind the curtain for millennia and increasingly so in front of it. Those who know of it view them as a threat, but the reality is that we men have been unfair, very unfair to them. That they’ve managed to fight back despite the woes we’ve given them demonstrates the true power of womankind.

It is only when we fall in love with a woman, and hopelessly so, that we realize her true strength. She overpowers our mind, she controls it till we have no say over it whatsoever. And if she loves us too , she galvanizes our souls and makes it impenetrable for anything life can throw at us. Invincible, except in her presence. It is this overpowering nature of a woman that most men cannot accept, and herein the dreaded male ego comes into play, a sort of resistance that only ends up breaking the bond between man and woman. Heinrich Himmler, the greatest mass-murderer of modern times, is a despicable character to most. Yet even he was in awe of the feminine race at one point, stating in his diary:

A proper man loves a woman on three levels: as a dear child who is to be chided, perhaps even punished on account of her unreasonableness, and who is protected and taken care of because one loves her. Then as wife and as a loyal, understanding comrade who fights through life with one, who stands faithfully at one’s side without hemming in or chaining the man and his spirit. And as a goddess whose feet one must kiss, who gives one strength through her feminine wisdom and childlike, pure sanctity that does not weaken in the hardest struggles and in the ideal hours gives one heavenly peace.

The only way a man can find peace in his life is by giving up this struggle for power with the woman in his life, and letting his inhibitions relating to her bite the dust. If a man truly trusts his woman, then baring his soul and submitting to her presence cannot be a shameful act. We submit to our superiors, people who don’t even care about us, in worse ways. Then why not to the woman we claim to write our lives off to? If you were to ask me, I’d rather lose to her than to any other person in the world. For if you lose to her, there’s little chance you’ll ever lose to anyone else.

Oh Layla, I’m begging on my knees,
Oh Layla
, I surrender at your feet.
Oh Layla, won’t you take me down,
Elevate me to the highest crown?

Posted in Humanism, Life, Love | 4 Comments