As I entered the once hallowed assembly hall, I wondered what had I feared all those years back. The choked throat, the rubbing of grimy shoes with ties, the hurried glance at the noticeboard glass to check any errant hair strands- scattered reactions I could recall but not really comprehend. Now, really, I muse, how could such a sunshine filled room have inspired such dread at the fearless age of ten?

An evil twist of fate had brought me back to my old school, one I had escaped from for a better, happier High School, and the fact that it was a school holiday and I would not be meeting anyone I remembered did nothing to alleviate my mood. Somewhere, there was a vindictive ten year old student in me, still waiting to prove to her class five class teacher that she was not a below average student. That she had done far better than the girl who had shown so much promise and had won the General Proficiency award. That Mathematics had not led to her academic downfall.
"There you go, you cow," I announced to an empty, lemon yellow classroom decorated with diagrams of the human body and sketches of Tagore and Napolean, " My Maths teacher said I was one of his best students. Did anyone call General Proficiency girl that?"

The previously grey, grimy walls had been altered to a cheery yellow, effectively removing the impression of being trapped in a dungeon. The school should have been full of atmosphere of things gone by- crushed teenage hopes, squabbles founded on monthly class tests, haunting whisperings of the morning prayer, secret crushes, teachers- snappy, kind, funny, pure evil- they were all there in the mind, the memory blown slightly out of proportion after five years, but not around me. Just impersonal lemon yellow walls, interspersed by chrome blue windows, which may not have been out of place in a poorly made science fiction movie.

Who would have known, I remark to myself, that I would be capable of a trip down a memory lane devoid of any form of sentiment. A dry, choked feeling still remains in the throat. School never is easy for ordinary people. There always are others who are better at everything you hope you are good at. The slight disappointments attempt to haunt, once again, not unlike a horror movie you try to forget when you are alone at home at midnight. I look out of the window for a respite. The sight of the sports field makes me twinge. Badminton was not considered a proper game and kabaddi meant running, pushing, dust, and violence, things a fat, slow, fourteen year old never cares for.

The library is a pleasant sight. How can you harbour an ill will to the place which gave you Anne? I stroll over to the water filter, the hang out zone for the popular kids. I remember falling in love for the first time, wonder, slightly amused, how I could not have seen the fact that he was gay. Everyone else could. I wander up to class ten. A class I had spent some of my happier days in, mostly secure in the knowledge that I would be leaving soon. The madness of the last working day. People suddenly realizing they loved other people, water balloon fights, outbreaks of weeping in the corridor, sudden appearance of beer bottles, all adding up to a day one does not forget in a hurry.

This school, I speak to the blackboard, is probably out of my system. I do not feel anything for you anymore. Not fear, not love, nothing.

As I leave, I decide to look up class eight once. The year I made some of my closest friends, the year I thought Bonky was an oily haired, geeky woman I could not deign to speak to (yes, I was the school snob, it has been mentioned often enough since), the year I made up my mind to study Chemistry, the year of first love, the year, when, apparently, everything happened.

The classroom did not look familiar, like the rest of them. More cheery yellow, with huge windows giving a view of the main gate, reminding me of sudden honeybee attacks we always welcomed. I walk over to the desk Sakshi and I had shared for one year, unsurprised by the scratched scrawls all over it. Every teenager needs his Hyde Park. Then I notice it.

Year 2001

Ritika: Hey, what is that word scratched there?
Sakshi: umm, I think it means (whispers)
Ritika: No way, let me look up my dictionary (yes, I was the sort who carried one to school and then used it to understand the writings on the bathroom walls). My dictionary does not list this word.
Sakshi: It is a Student's Concise Dictionary. Check mine.
Ritika (does so): Wow! People our age know such things? How did you? You are the most innocent person we have in this class.
Sakshi: I noticed the word before you did.

Seven years later, I stand there, in front of the desk, which has, miraculously, never changed its position, the F-word, scrawled in blue, a standing testimony to the fact. I look down, a wretched, despairing hollowness filling up every pore. Every essence of my school life, contained in that one, dirty word, a benediction to every hope and every joy, to what every day and every year meant once. What went far deeper than a few teachers and Physics.

School was over and I had made my peace with it.

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A Quest

Once upon a time, when I was around fourteen and literally gobbled up stories about little girls who lived happily ever after, I came across one such book in the school library. It was about this ten year old city girl called Elizabeth who shifts to the country after the aunt who looked after her, gets a job someplace else. The book is mostly about how she deals with the country life. She lives there with her two aunts and uncles who insist on calling her Betty, and I also remember a scene where her uncle asks her to describe how roads are laid. Subplots include adventure in a fair with a little girl on her (Betty's) birthday, making butter, and incidents in school. At the end, of course, she decides to live in the country rather than move with her aunt to the big city.

What I am looking for is the book's name. As a 14 year old, I remember crying copious tears over it. Its purely meant for little girls who have nothing better to do than read stories about happily ever afters and ruin their concept of real life. But right now, that is exactly the sort of literature I need. Any help would be much appreciated.

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The Perils in the Life of the Indian Student

While the whole country discusses in a hush tone the degeneration of the moral responsibility of students regarding the all important question of the health and mortality of their fellow classmates, one remains tolerantly amused. Yes, murder is a serious threat to the peace our society is accustomed to, but it is such a rare occurrence that one glances over the newspaper, tut-tuts, and promptly switches over to semi-naked pictures of Hrithik Roshan in the entertainment section.

OK, one does not do exactly that, but one does exaggerate a bit. But let one go on to what one means to post about.

The average student life is fraught with enough mortal dangers. Even if one decides to forgo the possibility of self annihilation, education is not exactly a path of strewn lilies. There are blood thirsty teachers, spending years of their lives waiting for that one particular bit of homework, which inspires and alleviates one to the level of hair pulling younger siblings. Of course, they take it too literally, and there is a certain amount of one sided hair pulling involved, but one does not go further into it either. The case in point was never very satisfactorily solved. Of course if the teacher does not get you, there are always your classmates. Even if most do not have access to revolvers, they could always get you with a good hard shove in the back. Of course if you manage to dodge classmates, its usually the volleyball which has it for you, or the chair has a faulty leg, or the chalk gets you in the eye. If not facing enough impediment from the inanimate world, you could of course get yourself. Let the shot put drop on your leg, be a boy, or just find yourself dozing in the class. Danger lurks at every corridor corner, behind every library shelf, inside every cobwebby desk shelf.

But these, are of course common dangers. There are also the more unusual, though not unknown forms of dangers. These kind of dangers are first intimated the day before voting day for election of the college union. Knowing one's perfectly apolitical stance, party members and hopeful representatives, people who never look twice at one during average, non-political days, begin calling you up and talking about providing bodyguards on your way to the college. When the same one is not exactly built on slender lines, and is accustomed to carrying The Suitable Boy as a light read in ones bag, one begins to wonder on what diabolical plans the opposition might be planning to actually nullify the effects of both of ones strongest weapons. Kidnapping- possible. Threatening- probable. Sexual Harassment- not unheard of. But one braves all odds. One refuses guards. One goes to college and immediately realizes both parties are waiting for one because most votes are known except one's. One revels in the importance. Then one feels foolish. Then one gets disgusted. One somehow manages to elude the hypocritical fools and vote for one she hopes is lesser of the two evils. One thankfully goes back home. Then does the excitement start.

News starts pouring in. Two members of one of the parties have been kidnapped. There has been a lathi charge. The winning CR has been gheraoed. The principal has been gheraoed. Students have been arrested. You switch on the news and see the person you usually sit behind of getting beaten up. It becomes an unreal world. Not the place you drag your sorry behind to morning classes. More so when the kidnapped guys actually have been arrested for eve teasing a woman. And these are the people we vote as our representatives.

The actual danger all this while had been the idea that a couple of eighteen year old students actually believe they realize what political ideology is all about. But then, how many older people can claim knowing it either?

Of course, there is another sort of danger, which does not really lead to physical harm...I think. At school, a girl with lovely, shiny hair used to sit in front of one. One and her were never particularly good friends. But one envied her lovely hair. One used to wonder whether ones superior intellectual skills ( modesty is not one's besetting sins) was a compensation enough.

One day, one grows up. One enters college. One decides to do the ultimate grown up thing. One consults a few friends. One goes out and buys beer. One drinks beer illegally at Forum. One actually opens it with her teeth in the bathroom at BURP! Transfers it to a cold drink glass and drinks beer openly. One gets a little high. Ones friends actually get drunk on beer, having no constitution whatsoever. One meets the lovely haired girl. One knows she is in one of the city's premier colleges studying some obscure subject. Girl says she is very happy. Girl is 18 and she is getting married to someone seven years older than her in a matter of two weeks. Ones friends and one keel over in shock. One thinks one is having hallucinations. Three weeks later, one meets the same girl, in jeans and sindoor.

An year later, when one struggles with her first University examination paper, shiny haired girl struggles to bring the first of her many babies to this world, education and ambition long forgotten. Girl is perfectly happy. One is perfectly happy too. In different worlds. Where one is still a child and another a mother of one.

One wonders, is one too judgmental?

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Reflections on my future

Sometime last year, while having the all important decision of choosing a life-defining career option thrown at my head, to be resolved in a couple of days, I chose Economics as a graduation subject. Now, everyone who knows me realizes I am a trespasser through the complex nitty-gritties of the subject, not only because I wandered into it by accident, but because I am sticking to it by sheer will power and the fact that most of my closest friends seem equally immune to its thrills and joys. Solow Model gives me no hope for humanity and I would rather worship the duo of Jeeves and Bertie rather than Hicks and Slutsky, notwithstanding the fact that the name of the latter partly borders into an adult context.
[For the uninitiated and the interested(why?), Hicks and Slutsky are famous economists known for deriving a couple of graphs no human could ever reproduce without losing a thick thatch of cranial hair and a couple of fingernails]

However, I do not vex over the question of my future, do not fear unemployment (specially since I have to read an entire chapter on it for the next term) and certainly do not worry about ending up as a vagabond. For while at school (it was school where I devised most of my hair brained plans, aided and abetted by one of my best friends and maddest companions, ad libber KS), I had devised a career option, certain to provide me with ample means to lead a life of luxury and have a twenty-four protection from all kinds of lawful segments of society. For should not terrorists be eternally devoted to the teacher of their young, fragile youth who accompanied them in their joyful gambols and taught them the name of their first revolver?

For KS and I have decided to open up a Kindergarten for Young Terrorists for specialized attention in their selected stream of study. Both KS and I believe that the molding of an young mind should begin early and if kids were born to bomb innocent human beings, they should learn to do so early, so as to prevent any symptoms of actually having a heart. We even charted a whole new course plan with a revised system of teaching alphabets to young kids using words and metaphors familiar to them with regular usage. Which brings us to the purpose of this post, the public unveiling of

The Revised Alphabets for Kindergarten Terrorists

A is for AK 56
B is for Bombs
C is for Cartridges
D is for Dynamites
E is for Enemies
F is for Fireguns
G is for Grenades
H is for Handguns
I is for Incendiary Bomb
J is for Jail
K is for Ku Klux Klan
L is for Laserguns
M is for Machineguns
N is for Naxalites
O is for Osama
P is for Pistols
Q is for Qaeda
R is for RDX
S is for Suicide Bombers
T is for Terrorism
U is for USA
V is for V2
W is for WTC
X is from Xenophobia
Y is for Yataghan
Z is for Zealots

However there still remains a certain trepidation as to some of the mentioned might come and kill us in our sleep (I actually am presumptuous enough to think Osama Bin Laden reads my blog) so I would like to clarify with them that KS and I are not innocent citizens and murdering us would be a great service to our nation, which, as an act, is complete contrary to the image you are trying to build of yourself. Hence, if you want to remain the feared and favoured few, the best decision you could ever make is employing us as the basic infrastructure in your economy. That, my friend, would be your greatest and most fearless act as a terrorist.

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The Pitch Called Life

The sun rose with all its majestic beauty, overpowering the evanescent moon and the few remaining ephemeral stars, alighting the dark hills in a golden frame. However, this was completely inconsequential to Ganga Kishore Bandhopadhyay and I, who were seated in my club, in one of the most urban localities in Kolkata, nine hours after the sun had so risen, two hundred kilometers away. Sunrises here are visualized on television screens. Ditto for sunsets and all the other natural phenomena the Romantics seemed to be so fond of eulogizing about. Modern poets are much more inclined towards the global unification, doubtlessly to gain access to a cheaper Macdonald’s.

“So, how has your ‘Midnight Murders’ fared,” I questioned my lunchmate, a beatific smile playing on my lips, as it usually does after I partake of heavy, oil laden or chocolate coated victuals, a smile profitable to all waiters and beggars in the vicinity. Food does to me what Rome did to Caesar. I come, I see, I conquer. My vision of Utopia is one where desserts can be consumed without facing any qualms in fear of gaining calories. My demeanor at this point of time was convincing enough for all atheists to believe that God was in heaven and everything was all right with the world. However, my companion did not seem so assured. He raised morose eyes towards me, sighed and went into a brown study.

“Hullo, Ganga, are you feeling all right,” I asked him with incredulous amazement, astonished at the fact that one could not feel all right after consuming five thousand, seven hundred and forty six calories in the guise of cordon bleu continental cooking.

“Scrapped”, a cry came from the bottom of his heart. “ Not good enough! The murderer is apparently obvious even before the murder is committed and anyway, the cause of the murder was unconvincing rendering it needless! Unrequired! Hah! Oh, the unfairness! Where is the equality which made our country famous? Where is the freedom of expression?”

Ganga Kishore Bandhopadhyay, a friend ever since I had discovered what teeth are actually intended for, was born to be a clerk. Clerkdom beckoned to him as a flame beckons to a moth. However, while passing through the phase of vulnerable teenage, a reckless astrologer had predicted great success for him in the field of creativity and my friend turned into an aspiring Agatha Christie, avoiding any allusions to gender confusion. Yet, the gods of murder mystery writers had apparently missed him during the blessing ceremony and success eluded him the way I elude cholestrol-free diets.

“Umm… That is such a tragedy. Talent is seldom appreciated nowadays. People never realize it when brilliance knocks their door.” I tried to fake some sympathy on my round and satiated face, which effused contentment. “So what are your plans for the future?”

“The critics have predicted that I will be a hopeless failure in this field. Why do I live?” I avoided saying that I had been asking this to myself ever since I had known him and persisted with the sympathetic look envisioning chocolate-coated wafers.

“Now I have no other option left,” he continued.” I think I will have to turn into a poet.”

“A what,” I reeled. “Where in the world did you acquire such an idea?”
I was completely taken back by Ganga’s statement. Ganga as a writer was overwhelming enough for my senses, but Ganga as a poet shook me to the core. My profound astonishment almost led me to miss his next words.

“…extremely impressed by the works of Arnold. My palm lines apparently are very similar to his. In fact I have even planned out my first poem.”

“ Indeed! That is marvellous!” Amazing would have stood more true. “What is it going to be about?”

“I am going to call it ‘The Pitch called Life’. It will reflect all the disappointments I have suffered in this lifetime. The starting goes something like this,
‘Oh how true it is my life can be called a pitch…’”
he sang out to the utter surprise of all people unfortunate enough to be seated within half a mile of him. Then he stopped abruptly looking uncomfortable.
“Well? What about the rest of the lines?” I queried, refraining from providing an opinion.

“That is where the tragedy lies,” he ejaculated. “ I cannot find a rhyme for pitch!”

“Oh, umm…..disappointing! How about ‘rich’?” was my brilliant rejoinder.

Ganga rolled his eyes and replied in the strained voice teachers employ for their mentally retarded students, “ What do you want me to write?
‘Oh how true it is that my life can be called a pitch,
Because I am tired, bored and rich!’
Where is the poetic beauty? Where is the lucidity of words?”

“Even I have to admit the lines sound ridiculous! How about ‘witch’?” But my help went unappreciated as he muttered something about his wife.

“Then why do not you use free verse,” was my next advice.
He tut-tutted. “Free verse is a form employed by amateurs”, implying he had been an expert since he was conceived.

Looking at his desperation, I was compelled to try and free him from all his worries.

“ Why can not you write another poem?”

“You do not understand! My senses have been completely overcome by this inspiration. I can not rest in peace until I have completed the poem,” he declared and went into throes of despondency.

“Oh, then, how about stitch?”

He shook his head. “Forget it, old friend! I will have to bear this burden myself, burn alone in the fire of my own creation! There is no escape for me now. Either I will complete this poem or embrace death. That is, after all, the only end for dreamers and believers. Today I might be laughed at. Tomorrow, when I am dead and decaying, I will be receiving accolades. This is the future I will face as will others after me who will make the mistake of believing in themselves,” and after making this highly dramatic speech he got up and went away leaving the entire burden of the unpaid bill on yours truly.

Another meeting between my friend and I was not in store for us. Two years later, while waiting for my poached eggs (sunny side up) one cold morning, I chanced across an article in a newspaper which reported the death of an obscure, aspiring poet, 'Gouri' Kishore Bandhopadhyay. He had died due to a massive stroke in a famous bookstore, with a dictionary in his hands. His last words apparently were “Pitch, rich, what?” I turned over to a culinary article in the next page.



Ritika Palit

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ONION SOUP FOR THE PESSIMIST’S SOUL

Onion Soup for the Pessimist's Soul establishes an individual's right to be bitter, caustic and if required, seek for professional or spiritual help to keep his cynicism in good form. We are planning a sequel soon for the Homicidal Maniac's Soul.

Daring To Dream

John was a prolific writer, churning out dozens of original stories and novels every day. His stories were harmonized blends of romance, comedy, tragedy and the inevitable happy ending - to cut a long story short- an ideal book for a railway journey of two hours and thirty-three minutes. There was just one obstacle in his perfect world- editors refused to accept his stories. No editor understood his selfish love for words, his profound desire to let his name be written beside Shakespeare’s or his thoughts to be mulled over centuries after his death.

Life ceased to have meaning for him. His latent genius and unexplored talent seemed doomed to be unrecognized by the hypocritical judges of aestheticism. A disillusioned and dejected John decided to end his life rather than live in anonymity and among rejection slips. He collected the entire works of his life and went to a cliff, deciding against a high-rise building (it is impossible to look like a romantic martyr if you are crushed under a hundred cars). He envisioned a dramatic death with the papers flying around his deceased mortal body, paying a final tribute to the man who had dared to dream, daring all odds.

However, fates were against him. The moment he convinced himself the cliff was not too high, a man came and stopped him. John, furious at having even death thwart him, shouted at him and in his desperation sang out the entire story like a gangster under the gentle influence of NYPD (for the want of a better simile). The man quietly listened to his ballad and took the papers from his hand and looked over them. After contemplating them for a long time, he told John that he liked his style of writing and that he would like to publish his works. It turned out he was a publisher of not a small repute who liked to give new talents a chance. The gratified and overwhelmed John fell down on his knees with joyous gratification, sobbing like a child. The man started to come near him but tripped over a pebble and fell down the cliff, his scream reverberating off the walls of the abyss.

(The author would have preferred to remain unnamed in fear of being lynched by the masses, but, then, even notoriety is fame)

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Well, here goes nothing

Knock Knock,
Back to where I belong..
Oh, and in case u don't understand my life motives yet, please do not send the link to this site to my mum, I will probably be abandoned in the blossoming youth of my life...
Not that I always wanted to be a weirdo...
When I was six, I swear I wanted to be a nice, respectable doctor and be a nightclub singer in my breaks..things did not turn out well I suppose, a distaste towards blood grew gradually and I learnt pretty early that if I begin to sing, I will just be adding more patients in my clinic, so a dream blew away...
I was 12 when I decided I should be a journalist. My friend was to be a doctor and sell kidnies and stuff, and I would expose her and become famous overnight (so I was never a very nice girl, so sue me for that).
I was 16-17, when my friend, let her be called SK1, and I decided that we should devote our lives to a finer cause, like serving the poor, meaning us, and be well, not thieves, its a strong word, entrepreneurs, should we say?
And here I am, a student studying the nitty-gritties of Economics and wondering why have I been thus cursed?
Everyone has sad stories to tell..
this is my life..my tragedy..
Who am I?
I am an ad libber....

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