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Respected Asafuddaulah Nawab,

Your messenger must have been astonished to find this letter in your letterbox. Travelling all the way from earth, the letter must be in tatters by now while changing its hands from one angel to another. I type this letter on my laptop sitting in my room in your city, Lucknow, watching the twilight giving its way to a clear sky moonlit night as I ponder upon, when the messenger of heaven will deliver this letter to you. Your ministers initially, I presume, were a little disrespectful to me. As I walked on the streets and discovered new lanes in turns, I received offensive stares. Too much of freedom is being curtailed here, I concluded. I eulogized the descendents of Shivaji. I thought some exchange programmes can be organized between both the groups. Many a times, the shadow of claustrophobia tried to entangle me as I walked alone on the streets of some beautiful evenings. Back home, criticizing lucknowi adaa and its ways of life was a usual business to do. Two years were spent in sneering at the dwellers and their city. Now the time has set in to move on to some other city leaving the shadows of my footsteps in your guard. I write to inform you that your ministers do administer well in your absence and they deserve to be applauded for still being able to guard the Nawabi traditions. Your forts, Bhulbhulaiya, Bada Imambara, Chota Imambara are still in good shape and have not lost a bit of their charisma. Not to mention, I took real pleasure in trying the Nawabi delicacy and they later on entered my regular menu. My world has been broadened. Perceptions are amplified. I plan to retrace my footsteps perhaps after a score of years spending some beautiful Lucknowi shaam as I will walk down alone in quest of discovering new lanes. I duly apologize to you for being biasedly critical before I could experience Lucknow in its full glory.

Regards,

Arpita Chakrabarty

Lucknow, Hindustan (now India)

2008.

Dedicated to a Kaleidoscope

Lucknow. A world spreading tangible sun, imaginations of a tree-house built on the widespread Neem, an openness piercing our cells, and a world of confessions and confusions. A world carrying me to the ruins of motimahal in some far-fetched coming century where the moon was breaking down in silvery powdery glitters. A world had been incomplete without someone. The city we despised in the first place, now has to be put in our memoirs. Come home. The journeys from Motimahal to Indira Canal, to Gomtinagar, or to Allahabad showed us the insights of our companionship. Different lives roll together. We see beyond our La Marts and Lohia Park for something strange and unexplainable, and with all delights. The Terabithia has been calling us.

To Terabithia...

I close my eyes. A brighter moon. We walk towards it. We wander. We meander.We traverse the path of unknown delights. Some feet desperately want to tap on the floor. The silvery is peeping from behind the trees. Every word leaves behind. A subtle touch of blue overshadows the sky. I walk on. He holds my hands. We walk on. We move on. Traffic lights get blurred. We fall back on the grass with hands in each other's. The moon reveals herself barely from behind the trees. It had never been so simple and so warm. So intoxicating. An enigma runs inside me. Another Notting Hill. A stream is crossed. A walk. A touch. We have reached the Terabithia. The stillness and fits of passion grows in me.The evening drizzles.

I open my eyes. We are walking...

I fancy again. I will wait.

Feeling unhappily bluish

This is my sixth post. Except two, all are waiting to be published. Did you feel dislocated anytime anywhere? Feeling of dislocation never leaves me. It clings to me as a child does to her mother.
Wherever I go, I carry my broken emotions of dislocation. There is something that always tells me I do not want to stay here ( "I should not" can be the nearest words); I should not work here (I believe I can do better work in a better way than these fools, but I cannot prove myself a better fool.). I remember someone's words," 'manzil' looks beautiful, appealing but the way to 'manzil' will be ugly and obnoxious". There is something that always tells me I want to go back ("go back " - where ? I could not find an answer ) ; something tells me I want to go back to my future ( as if I already exist in the future; as if it is a past nightmare I am living through once again. Future is some delightful moments conceived by my imagination). Something always tells me I hate the people around and I should go to a better place with a hope of meeting better people (eventually I fail, as always, and I find same faces all around) ; something tells me I want to go home, to my room for a fresh breath of air through my window ( But I do not want to go back to Calcutta. Yet I long for the day when I will be together with my parents) . I hate the smell that arises from the hair (from oily, sticky hair that hasn't been washed for months probably) of "nobody(ies)" standing, sitting beside you in the bus. The men try to make their penis touch softly somebody's arm, somebody's shoulder ; make their sweating backs feel somebody's breasts. I often observe these when I do not have a book to spend my strange journey twice a day.

Sometime, once in a while, I want to sleep under a partially cloudy breezy night sky. It takes me away from the crazy, uncouth and confused facets to seek peace within myself (even for some moments) .





P.S. Did I sound frustating? I did not want to. I think it should not matter as long as I can put across my thoughts ; as long as it does not become an issue of displeasure for my readers (I hope that hasn't happened either).

blue rain touches my window

Dec 19, I last posted. It has been really long. Where was I lost? Sometimes I keep tracking thoughts. Thoughts that are lost over the grasses, behind the sunrise, in the epicenter of an earthquake or a second before a kiss ends. I realized I no longer belong to any community of following a particular path. I am drawn towards a continuum state of being completely lost with faltering words and blurring images, and again recovering out of nowhere. For a moment, it is chaos and madness running through my mind. I loathe the stagnant character of myself. It does not make me feel fulfilled. My graph is an extent of incredibly up and awfully down. My nest is vulnerable; my words fail me. I emerge out of nihilism. My eternal search for a glimpse of moon from my window leaves me desperate. I long to come back home. The street bulbs at nights create a non-tangible, enchanting shadow of the plants on the curtain; my lovable dark room comes alive. My childhood memories flash by. They were left unattended, abandoned in the balcony for years. May. Summer. The birds have flown into cold countries. They will forget the path of return. My memories will remain fragmentary.

My tales always remain unfinished. The rain is washed blue with care. Kalbaishaki happens every now and then. I traverse the path of unknown territories. My feet pause in the moments of longing and loneliness. Impulses run through. My road traces lanes, streets and sudden ends. Once in a while, my feet cross dungeon. I give birth to an array of running street lamps. My madness provides solace to my isolation. I get up. I walk on the road side of the highways.

occurences, experiences and impressions mingled disastrously

Somebody somewhere on some door is knocking. Knocking very hard. Oh, why cannot that hell of a man open the damn door? Childhood friendships can stay alive for an entire life, provided the friends wish to continue staying in touch. It is not an old strange odd life here anymore. The air molecules in and around me seem to have changed. I do not find the same folks around me in Lucknow. Waking up to a different morning in a different place, meeting not the similar kind of people and learning some interesting subjects look quite attractive to me. But one should better ensure oneself first. You and your every action are being observed by visible nymphs and spirits. They also bear a very high chance of being a parliamentary issue. (Most of the times it follows in that pattern). I suppose that is the natural form of actions by homo sapiens. But, it is beside our storyline. The not so old city desperately trying to cage individuals in their own traps, has suddenly become lovable now. All the sides of the dice appear like a good old friend. Even the most common recipes of bengali cuisine (which my voracious stomach used to abhor day and night) have become delicious and yummy to my stomach. (Trust me chingri-maach er malaikari, musoor dal, any type of maach, are delectable now, methinks). But, hold on, you can still see yourself struggling against not so same old relationships, same friendships. You wake up in a beautiful morning and you suddenly find you are not the same person anymore. You sometimes struggle against that too. This is the most difficult war. None can win here. And that is even the saddest part of this story we are trying to narrate here. Never go war with yourself. Nicholas Cage said once. But hey what is the name of the movie in which he said this? You can remember everything else in this world but not the particular thing which you desperately need to remember this point of time. I give up.

Lucknow. I cannot locate the place by latitudes and longitudes. But in case, if you know India [of course you will know, you are not like some stupid Americans who still believe that we use (and trust as well) pigeons to send love-letters and important official mails. Fellow NRIs and our brothers & sisters residing there, please educate your neighbourhood], you will definitely carry some knowledge about Uttar Pradesh, and how N2, O2, Ar and CO2 of Uttar Pradesh taste. Lucknow in all means represents the state in its behaviour, state of mind of the people, culture and not to forget workmosphere. The Lucknowi recipes are mouth-watering. All credit goes to Mughal cooks. Salam to you. So the biryani, boti-kabab, and tandoori chicken help all of us to lead a good, satisfying and an enjoyable life, at least on that day. A tremendous positive energy suddenly starts flowing inside you. And you feel the day has been terrific! (Even if you got a low grade in Phonetics and could not manage the highest marks in Grammar. However the Lucknowi biryani makes you feel good . No wonder, it works wonder !) This story will not end here. You are reading only the beginning.

(continued....by your grace keep visiting)

The confusion

First, I pronounce, the blue of the "Drizzling blue" does not symbolise the popular connotation - melancholy or depressing blues. I like the colour blue very much. Blue holds a lot of meanings for me. It is the colour of excitement, energy, faith, passion, hope (though sometimes it can speak for hopelessness as well). So my dear people, while reading my blog, please consider the other side of the colour blue which I find fascinating.