I guess the person that you eventually become in life can largely be attributed to your family and how you were brought up. I’d like to believe I lucked out in that department. My roots from both side of the parents are from Bangladesh (then East Pakistan). Both sets of grandparents migrated to Kolkata during partition in 1947. But my parents were born in Kolkata and they’ve only heard stories of their ancestral homes – Dad’s side from Barisal and Faridpur & Ma’s from Comilla and Mymensingh. I’ve only heard stories of our houses, properties and family in Bangladesh but for me it’s a neighbouring country with people who speak a different dialect of Bengali. What do you do when you know the origin of your roots but you don’t belong there?
As I walked into a theatre for the star-studded premiere of National Award winning director Srijit Mukherji’s Nirbaak on a hot Friday evening in Andheri; I decided to keep my fondness for some of his earlier movies at bay. I had mixed feelings and expectations after watching the trailer; so I settled down on the comfortable sofa and let the film do the talking.
So, what’s common between a dog, a tree, a corpse and a narcissist? The answer is love — silent love. Love binds these four stories together by a common thread, in the form of Sushmita Sen. The hyper narcissist, played by Anjan Dutta is the story of Samson, an old loner who is so self absorbed that he smooches as well as masturbates to his own reflection. He spends hours looking at the mirror lovingly, appreciating himself, taking really long luxurious soapy baths and then spraying self with half a bottle of deodorant to last a lifetime. Continue reading
Yes, that’s the word. That one word can sum up my life, this entire blog post, mom. It has been 15 years. And without you, these 15 years have been a void that can never be filled. No one can. Nothing ever will. Continue reading
They were never meant to be. And they knew it.
Smoke. Loud music. Hazy lights.
They were standing in one corner of the club, giggling and guzzling down beer. Her eyes shone like a bright star. The multi-coloured lights created abstract patterns on her face. He looked into her kaleidoscope eyes. Continue reading
It was raining incessantly. Bombay rains. They never stop. They are unusually white and misty. It blurs your vision. Makes you dizzy if you stare outside for too long.
I was perched on top of the window seal of my little rented Borivali apartment, and gazing outside. There was a smoke lit up, and I was puffing absent-mindedly. He creased his forehead and gave me a disapproving look and went back to photoshopping photographs on his laptop, as I threw my head back and laughed.
All this looks like just yesterday, when I first shifted to Bombay. Continue reading
He is from Bombay.
She is from Calcutta.
She thinks he is a ‘kid’, because he is younger to her
He hates being called a ‘bachcha’.