Jan 2 2008: i wake up to the undulating vibrations of my body and carlos santana's sexy voice singing out I could change my life to better suit your, Cause you´re so smooth and disgruntled noises from strangers who were disturbed by the sudden burst of sound. it was 7 am and my birthday and i already had someone calling me to wish. there is one thing about birthdays which i never did understand, why is everyone else more excited about your birthday than you yourself. anyways with the cheery caller's call getting disconnected midway, finally the new year dawned on me and that left a smile on my face. i am on the train, on my birthday with strangers who don't give a fuck about me and my birthday. a morbid start, couldn't get better.

may 8 2008: convocation. i graduate second division from asian college of journalism. i spend most of the evening outside the auditorium puffing away. they call my name and i climb the stage to collect my certificate. there was a smirk on my face. i was thinking, 'this is probably the biggest joke of my life. the entrance exam was one, the interview was a bigger one and then everything about the course.' i look around my class mates all excited about their new jobs as if armed to conquer the world and set up their idealistic utopia. i smirked at them, the strange people who i never bothered to know or understand but always felt amusing and unusually drawn. 'who wants to be journalist. i defied the system yet again and have completed a feat which i am never going to take seriously' was what the little voice that gloated inside me. i couldn't have been more wrong.

june 2: tiny lights have decorated the entire range. the cold is slowly seeping through my skin the spirits in my body are trying to resist it. i lazily observe the swirl of smoke that is coming out of my mouth. i am aware of nothing around me. somewhere in the distance i hear, 'i love u, i really love u' and then another voice 'is she saying i love u' i reply back 'i guess so' and go back to my lighted candy. next day sitting on a log and sipping black coffee made bright end corner the virgin paradise and the dehydration, the clamour in the head, the company, the conversation most beautiful.

july 20: education loan for university of glasgow got sanctioned. an eerie feeling that convinced me i am not going. the same morbid and cold hand that clutches my heart whenever goodness tries of invade.

august 20: i am frying the 7th fish, one more to go. i still have to make the rotis, 25 of them, some small and soft, some with butter and others irrelevant. my father walks in and says 'fry it deeper. its not cooked properly.' i look at him and imagined aiming all the fishes at him and that is when it flashed what does bottomless pit mean. i plan my escape.

sept 10: unfamiliar room, a new bed, strange pillows and sheet, unaccustomed snores, pack on the table is empty and but the thick smoke is still looming in the room. sight is hazy, thoughts are hazy and i experienced a free fall and a heightened feeling of depreciation. i have never been so much under control yet dangerous out of control all at the same time. i liked it and hated it. i told myself 'i am never doing it again' and somehow knew deep down i was sure that the euphoria will come back.

sept 27: the blaring incoherent song inside auto is quite distracting. its the third day of durga puja. i vowed, 'if i dont get the job, i am not visiting ma durga. i have a right to be mad.' five months of unemployment, 1000 bucks left in the bank and a pride that will not go back and ask money from father and forlorn feeling of missing the ma durga's face for the first time. i sit facing the RE trying very hard to restraint myself, 'maza aa raha hain na. kaam karoge na at least ek saal tak?' i squeak 'yes sir' and smugly thought, 'so you had to drag me to your festivities' and silently thank her. and i became a journalist.

oct15: i am standing on the platform and quickly scanned the crowd. i immediately spot her in khaki uniform, hair tightly secure in a bun and a useless metal detector. hundreds of people are coming and going out. she sits in the corner with a nonchalant air. i approach her and ask her if i can talk to her for sometime and tell her where i am from. she offers me her seat, gets me a steaming cup of coffee and after our half an hour talk, i realised what i am supposed to do as a journalist. it was humbling.

dec 30: i am sitting on the floor. typing away furiously on my laptop. i look back at the year and recalled the words of a wise man, 'life is like that. what to do.'

even though i am a bengali, i do not have most of the habits that defines them nor do i like doing things that most bengalis do. i cannot differentiate between a rabindrasangeet and nazrul geeti nor can i write good poetry, i dont even understand poetry. i cannot sing or dance and i do not have any artistic ability that i can boast off. i dont believe in groupism and most certainly dont seek out another bong the minute i lay my eyes on him or her. in fact i have very few bengali friends even though i have spent 16 years of my life in calcutta.
but one thing i am passionate about like any other bengali is the durga puja. as the story goes that ma durga after triumphing over the evil descends on earth to visit her mother along with her children. though the story of her slaying the asur is glorious, durga puja for me is much beyond that story.
for me it is the celebration of life. those five days when we buy new clothes, eat whatever our stomach is craving and co existing with a camaraderie which is probably absent the rest of the year. when i look at ma durga's face, i draw strength from her. the power that she exudes rubs off on all of us and gives us the high to celebrate to the fullest of the achievements and all the failures which we are ready to forget about.
when i was calcutta, the air and odour was completely festive that would draw anyone out of depression and float along with the wave of celebration. it all starts with the excitement of going to innumerable sales and buying clothes for all the five days and buying gifts for the relatives. until probably i was 21 i insisted on having new clothes, one for the day and one for the night, for all the five days of celebrations. then the sound of dhak what wakes u up in the morning, pandal hopping, going out with friends and coming back late in the night, that was one time in the year when there was no restriction on time we went out and came back. even the anjali which we are supposed to give without eating anything, i on most occasions ate something but never failed to give anjali. the rolls, chops, muglai paranthas, bhog everything added to the celebrations. even visiting relatives and chatting with them during that period was not painful which is irksome otherwise. and the bijoya dashami, the pati shapta, narkel nadu was probably the cherry on the cake.
and this feeling of euphoria did not change after i moved to hyderabad. though the nature of the puja and people were infinitely different but it did not change the way i felt towards the festival. the puja at the club, the food (i am afraid i am a true blue bengali when it comes to food. no celebration is complete without good food.) it is pleasant to meet and share all the pleasantries who otherwise seem very pretentious. therefore whether i realise it or not durga puja is something which i look forward to and something that has become very integral part of my life.
this year when i was going through an all time low period, i had no reason to celebrate life and i was in a state where i started questioning the very existence of life, i vowed not to celebrate. i decided not to go the pandal not buy any clothes. it was almost painful not to see ma durga face and not be in sync with such high spirits. but of course the spirit of the festival drew me along with it and humbled me that i cannot ignore durga puja because ma durga again has given me yet another reason to celebrate.
i am rarely spiritual and never religious. for me durga puja goes beyong religion. every small ritual and every detail associated with the festival is important and bring me joy and i can say confidently that it has nothing to do with my religious and spiritual inclinations. it is the time when i can thank the universe for making everything worth it.

in continuation of my topic on home, there are 10 things that i hate when i am at home; i came up with this list since i am spending an uncomfortable and unreasonable amount of time at home..

1. answering the door.

2. when people call me and ask me what i am up to.

3. the concept of breakfast because most often i wake up past the breakfast time.

4. fixed timing for lunch and dinner or sleep.

5. walking around fully clothed. when i am alone i dress up in my best rags hence that explains point 1.

6. empty refrigerator. i like it when i know there is plenty to eat and i don't have to go out and get something.

7. i like having conversation with myself and hate it when somehow it gets interrupted.

8. small errands like picking up the dry clothes or filling up the water that needs to be done in the stipulated time.

9. talking and smiling with guests who i dont really care about.

10. watching TV in a group. i like to watch it alone and not have people crowd over me and ask me questions.

lame list but thought i will put it anyways...

The word 'HOME' means a lot to a lot of people but what it essentially brings is the sense of belonging where you are allowed to shed all your inhibitions and just be yourself. for me the definition of home is confusing, i have stayed in three different houses is calcutta, two in hyderabad and two in chennai; in some cases people also differed. therefore, it is difficult for me to conjure up a mental image of my sense of belonging. but a month back i went to calcutta to the house where i spent most of my growing years. it was the same house where i got my first room. the house under the new owner was under going renovations and seeing it change broke my heart. i felt that all my childhood memories were being taken away by the new house and destroying the image of my childhood home.

it was my Tara (Gone with the wind - Scarlett's house) . the small gate leading to the porch and then the drawing room and the huge bedroom. next came the hall, the bathroom, kitchen and right at the end was my small room. the room had two windows; one overlooked the small green patch and the other the courtyard. my single bed hugging the wall faced the windows. the shutters of the windows never closed and the first thing when i got up in the morning i used to see the hibiscus tree with or without the flowers. i had a small cupboard and book case with big drawers underneath where i kept my school books and other unnecessary items and secrets that made up most of my childhood. those were wooden furnitures my grandfather's time which none of my folks had the courage to throw away. then there two trunks which belonged to my mother. she used those ancient trunks when she was in the hostel. what those trunks contained i never knew but on top of that were my school uniforms and a suitcase full of my good clothes. since i kept all my good clothes in the suitcase right next to the window, it got stolen one not so fine night. then right next to my bed was my study table and a stool. i remember whenever i got down to study my musical neighbour and his wife would start singing classical songs. i tried stopping them by throwing stones at their windows but it was very difficult to curb down their enthusiasm. as years went by their son also joined in the concert. then there was the rack attached to my wall which had all my grandfathers books, the priceless collection, the only thing that i had rightfully inherited from him. due to space constraints when those books were removed from my room, i had tears in my eyes. i liked taking care of them. lastly the posters that adorned the wall, the intentionally vague and rebellious ones drawn during my teenage years and the ones appreciated by my art teacher. i obviously wudnt forget the clothesline that ran across the room and from which hung my wet under garments. i used to forget taking them down and often they were the first ones to greet any guests who came unannounced to my room. the door of my room never used to shut properly and i used to position by study table in such a way that i get a direct view of the tv in the drawing room. this strategy obviously took a toll on my 10th results.

that room taught me the meaning to privacy, space and independence and i guess that was my home. the famous novel Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier started with the sentence "Last night I dreamt that I went back to Manderly again" - i always remembered this sentence and i dream of my Manderly when i am asked about my home.

love stories are always so over-rated and exaggerated. everyone on this earth are scrambling to search for the perfect love and everyone has their fantasies about that. times have changed, terms like generation gap, the x generation or the y generation are being used constantly, but the perception of love still remains the same; the girl expects her man to save her and become the hero of her life and the man wants a girl who needs to be saved. barbara cartland's description of exquisite kisses, johanna lindsey's periodic romantic novels and the finally mills and boons are constantly churned out to fill one's satiating hunger for love and lust. the hero and heroine's name change, situation changes but wants and desires never change because everybody wants a happily ever after. even a hardcore cyninist would agree that all these books are feel good and it helps restore faith in your dreams and hopes.

i dont think, i know anyone who doesn't like dilwale dulhaniya le jayenge. the universal opinion about it being that its feel-good. movies like DDLJ, notting hill, pretty woman never fails to bring a smile and tear on your face even though you are watching it for the 25th time.

being a cynic, i must confess that i have read my fair share of mills and boons and watched pretty woman more than a respectable number of times. for a flitting second even i thought a rab ne bana di jodi is possible. may be i am self confessed romanticist. i like to call myself a feminist but i also like it when a guy opens the door for me and offers to carry my luggage. i would like to be saved too.

but my perfect love stories are not the ones without the happy endings. love should be above all emotions, neither should it be defined as a conquest or sacrifice. love means that moment, the look, the passion and intensity and the confidence that makes u secure about your feelings that doesn't require acceptance and support from the society neither does it require a happily ever after.

the greatest love story of scarlet and rhett butler in gone with the wind makes me feel that two people who are so fit for each other yet not meant to be together. their love was so strong and overwhelming that it was impossible to imagine them happy and together. In wuthering heigths catherine and heathcliff's love is not about marriage and permanent bliss but its about the love that is selfish and only cares about personal gratification yet so eternal in its ways. Graham Greene's the end of an affair, is again about unrequited love and passion that establishes love beyond fidelity and within the bounds of a constitution.

i enjoy morbidty otherwise love becomes way too rational. when it becomes rational and starts making sense, you start putting it into your everyday life and attach it to the small small things that sometimes become so important that it becomes impossible for love itself to hold its feet.

a perfect love story doesnt have a princess locked in a tower, it doesnt have a knight in shining armour and it certainly is not a great story to share. it is that love story that you cannot share with your grandchildren and you take it to your grave. it is one where you dont stop coveting. it is the one which you have kept it away from the rigors of marriage and society. the lasting look and lingering touch is what you reminisce that u can claim as rightfully yours. it is the one sin that is so pure to you.

P.S : None of this has to be true. As Oscar Wilde has said "They spoil every romance by trying to make it last forever."

i received an award recently. my award was rediscovery of myself and finally have a vision and direction in life though its still very hazy. as the norm goes, I have to thank certain people for the award.

1. i want to thank my family for accepting me and pulling and clinging on to me whenever I showed signs for straying away.
2. for ACJ for healing me and show me direction even though i refused to see it at times.
3. chennai though i grudgingly admit it for letting me enjoy the stolen moments of peace and rediscovering the joy of walking, traveling in the public bus and local train.
4.my parents for introducing me to jogging. i found it ridiculous initially but it gives me an adrenaline rush and its a liberating feeling.
5. S, R, L, R, G for letting me retain my bitchy morbid self.
6. P and M for believing in the old sho.
7. some people in my ex-office who made me realize what i dont want in life and in the process making me see what i want.
8. P for teaching me to be there for friends whether they r doing something right or wrong.
9. hyderabad for letting me in whenever i wanted even though i never acknowledged it.
10. lastly filter coffee for making life worth it.

i went to kanchipuram recently to cover deprivation in other words search for misery, poverty and destitution. here is some things that i learnt:

1. journalism is now a sham. it is build on a world of cliches and stereotypes and it will not change the world. it only works on stories that glorify human misery and suffering to feed other miserable wretches.
2. deprivation is much beyond kuccha roads and houses.
3. deprivation is a term coined by the bourgeoisie. its the urban yuppies going to the rural sector and tells them u r deprived and u should have a problem with that. if there is anything to learn from the rural sector is the determination to be content and their aspirations.
4. never go on a trip with a menopausal woman angry with the world.
5. when a man wants to drink alcohol in front of a bonfire never refuse him even if its raining.
6. the government may not perfect but its not negligent. lets just appreciate the work its doing even if its not enough.
7. i believe in reservations though its difficult to explain how i came to this conclusion.
8. definition, reason, privacy, evolution, and toilets are modern western ideologies. where as paribhasha is a much older concept.
9. the people in the villages shit in the open space as a part of their social behaviour.
10. and i enjoyed playing antakshari after a really long time.