Sunday, 20 September 2009

on masturbation

Masturbation is an art. It encompasses the total process of foreplay, physical intimacy and finally lovemaking. It is a process of self reliance, independence as well as self-satisfaction. It ejaculates suppressed desire, makes you feel manly and sometimes reveals your unknown, unrealized cravings thus breaking up your hypocritical relationship with yourself. It requires creativity to eternalize the satisfaction. If you ‘expose’ and ‘express’ yourself or your feelings in a ‘creative manner’ it becomes ‘art’; so with masturbation (more or less same like lovemaking as established by Vatsayana).
Making love with a person or with yourself does not make any difference unless you draw a line of distinction. It may sound a little bit awkward. You may think that the second one is an alternative or substitution. I argue on the basis of homosexuality. What if I say that homosexuality is but a psychic disorder or rather an alternative way to satisfy one’s carnal desire? Perhaps not. Those who would have got a partner from opposite sex but have opted for the same sex, perhaps get equal happiness like that of a heterosexual. Some of them perhaps opted for homosexuality after having tried heterosexuality. They may, on the other hand, also consider us to be abnormal. So it does not matter whether anything is alternative. What does matter is our attitude. I say whatever it is if you are satisfied with it then why not? It’s another point whether you like the same sex or the opposite. Just ask yourself: am I happy while doing this? If yes then I say do it properly in order to gain utmost satisfaction.
It will not be a hyperbole if I say that you are in love with yourself. So go ahead… make love… who forbids? Remember, drawing imaginary figure of a particular person in your mind while doing this means deceiving yourself (just like you are on the bed with your partner and imagining her as your favorite star of bollywood). Don’t you think it’s unethical, uh? So guys don’t be hypocrite! If you like intimacy with your imaginary partner then I say it’s better to expect a night-fall.
As I look at the exact figure of sex ratio (933) in India (census of India, 2001), I think that there should be an open debate on the importance of masturbation in contemporary India...

she is no more

I came to Arambagh and I was told that my dadi is no more!
I did not know how to react on such shocking news... I tried to remember how I reacted when my dadu passed away: I cried a lot. But that time I was a small boy so it suited me. Now I have grown up so it would be a little bit awkward to react in the same manner I thought. So I reacted like a matured man remaining silent.
I tried to remember her face, the last time I saw her (in November, 2008), and how she cried when I left for Delhi. The word Delhi started to make me go mad with anguish: I did not come back from Delhi in January though I had a scope. She asked me to bring something for her; but I couldn't... may be didn't as I thought she would live for some more years: how fucking immature I was.
I felt like killing me brutally. She always had been on my side, - whatever I did, whatever didn't, always. She always made me feel that there was someone who loved me from the core of her heart. She even offered her own blood (cutting her chest with knife) to Goddess Kali when I was ill. She prayed for me leaving food and water when I was injured. She cried out taking my name for hours on hospital bed when she was shivering with pain. She sometimes hallucinated me when I was not with her...
She used to say: "don't worry 'dadubhai', I will not be able to live without you. So when I will die I will not leave this world because you live here. I will roam around you always protecting my 'babam' from all evils. And whenever you want to see me, just call me. I will be there. That’s a promise".
It’s the first time ever she has not kept her promise. I have been waiting for her for the last four months...

Saturday, 19 September 2009

coming home

(I)
I start walking down the ridge
Where the glory of pompous Mughals is scattered
I walk thousand miles and perhaps for the first time
I don't need rest in any sarai...
(II)
You often used to cry
Like a tiny unsatisfied babe
Who expresses hunger with tearful nagging,
But what about its father
Who is unable to feed as he's a farmer of an impotent land?
(III)
I know you will be happy now
As your boy's coming back being a more manly man!
I don't cry anymore and gained muscles on my shoulders
For you to rest your head more comfortably...
What else you needed, uh?
(IV)
Now the countdown begins:
And I know I am going back,
Not going to come back here, ever!
Nothing attracts me any more, nothing:
Neither the lonely sky of dawn
Who was confident enough that
I would propose her soon,
Nor the guitar of Lavazza which stinks cappuccino,
Nor the unserious game of politics
Which appealed audiences seriously,
And neither my friendly foes who loved to visit
The room which offered me a beautiful window...
(V)
I am getting closer and closer to
The dusty roads I wanted to play cricket on...
I am trying to remember your tearful eyes
Which looked same-
When u longed for me...
When i penetrated you first time...
When i suddenly found me unable to make love
After half an hour's deliberate effort...
And when you fare welled me in an abandoned station...
(VI)
I am confused, what to do!
Do I knock the door or cry out your name?
Sometimes when you be happy
I know you love to cry
But now I am really afraid of that...
Because you perhaps don't know that
Now tears can't soften my heart
Rather it makes me go strong...
(VII)
You’re perhaps looking at me from the room on the roof
And watching me minutely in the same manner
As a mother watches growing her child
And feels happy about the breast-milk she used to feed her son!
You must be thinking: oh how long you had to wait
For this moment when i would stare up to you with awe
As I know that you will look somewhat like that Hindu Goddess
Who always keeps a sweet smile
Even after killing Her own spoiled child!
Do you think the way She thinks?
Have u really realized that it's all in destiny?
Uh?
Don’t you know I don't believe in fate?
Then why are you still smiling?
Is it because that you know it's all written?
Rubbish!

Whatever you think, whatever it is:
I still love you, (not because i am bound to,
But because you deserve more than that!)
(VIII)
I know nobody is going to welcome me
As I approach the gully of my locality
My friends, companions all are most probably happy
That I am coming back; but no one is free as much as me...
Still I am happy
As I am coming home, - the one
Which I missed a lot
And I am happy
As I will miss nothing any more
Nothing I left behind.

And those who are there perhaps will miss me
Though changing cell phone number is not a remedy,
I will try to blow up the bridge of attachment
As a man must take up some responsibilities...
And
Perhaps I don't need Orkut that much!
........................now it's time to say goodbye
goodbye to me who alone came to see this man off.........bye

on cappuccino

It has really been a long time that I haven’t had a cup of cappuccino, which I love very much, especially when accompanied with cigarettes.
The history of my liking is deep-rooted in my mind. In the last half or probably in the first month (historical dilemma) of 2004 or ’05 respectively, I remember I first stepped into a CCD. The CCD of City-center was (still is I hope) a wonderful place for hanging out with pals and girl-friend and I liked it very much. Which appealed me the most was its terrace: open, airy and perhaps a bit rustic compared to Barista’s suffocated sophistication. I used to sit on the terrace for hours taking slow sips and deep smoke, sometimes with my girl-friend, chums and sometimes alone. The feeling was unique in itself. I felt great; - a bit intellectual, sophisticated, sometimes talented, rarely worthless, urbanized youngster. Sometimes I did not like to speak at all. I just wanted to enjoy the coffee and the puffs, - that was amazing.
The cappuccino of CCD (SDF) had another taste altogether. I worked over there in two BPOs, but I seldom visited that shop. The taste was more of a maturity, fashionable, imposed sophistication typed. I did not like. Still I visited the shop (with some so-called colleagues) because that was cappuccino dear!
I do remember the cappuccino I had in Delhi with friends and sometimes alone with the memory of the past days in Kolkata. I remember for the first time I played guitar inside Barista contaminating the strings with the smell of cappuccino.
Last month, at Arambagh, I went to a small coffee shop and asked for a cup of coffee. After a long sleep I desperately needed a cup of strong coffee with two-three cigarettes in the evening. But I felt really helpless when the shop-owner in a harsh voice (contrasted to the decency and gentleness of CCD boys) replied negatively.
My wife also loves cappuccino. She mainly loves it because I love it. She wanted me to buy a cappuccino-maker. One day she tried to make some coffee and offered me being confident enough on her recipe. I had that coffee and to my surprise… she did a wonderful job! I looked at her eyes: they were glittering with joy and love seeing cheer on my face. I discovered her as a new entity, - not a girl this time but an efficient woman who takes care of the entire household successfully. I thanked her in my mind as she saved my money from buying a cappuccino-maker. I said… I love you!