One fine day

A breeze lifting that unruly lock of hair, murmuring leaves whispering something, figures...part human, part animals walking aimlessly on the street, pages of books written hundreds of years back turning on their own, clouds overpowering the sun... and the alarm rings and I head back to editing a story on 'how to be size zero'.

Dial M for mediocrity

I crave for a thing most of you detest
coz you believe in faking an intellect,
I love mediocrity, for it makes me who I am
unsure, uncertain, wrong but always correct!

An affair to remember

Had someone asked me five years back where I'd like to see myself few years down the line, my answer would have been a snobbish, "Masters in post colonial literature, University of Massachusetts." But that was then.... a time when I wouldn't know how to spell Massachusetts. Thankfully after five years I do. Being a Bong, mastering the art of speaking and writing English well is more of a cultural demand rather than an intellectual one. I chose to remain loyal to it. And I did have good reasons for my loyalty. The language came to my rescue after I scored a horrendous 73.5 % in my 12th standard.

The lack of sobriety in the marks that I had scored was a reason enough for me to join a course that valued the REAL intelligence of a student. I was, of course, trying to avoid the fact that unlike the fortunate duds of my batch, I had scored less and had to make most of what I got. And after a series of entrance exams (PS: DU conducts entrance exams for English Literature, much to the relief of Bong students who crack it most of the times), I knew which college I had to finally settle for.

Away from the hustle bustle of the North Campus, was JANKI DEVI MEMORIAL COLLEGE, a place I was to go for my grads. To say being in an all-girls' college was a rather painful experience would be an understatement. Women, women and more women, life at JDM was almost like a feminist movement I was forced to be a part of. The first class began with Ismat Chughtai's Lihaaf, a tale of suppressed sexuality that gradually transforms itself into homosexual love. Being in a women's college, and studying Lihaaf, was scary, but the fear in question was a rather naive and juvenile. My romantic interests and preferences remained in the malekind. Yet there was the other 'kind' men, some hundreds of years old and some not-so-old, who came to my intellectual rescue. Shakespeare, Geoffrey Chaucer, Amitav Ghosh, TS Elliott, William Butler Yeats, Charles Dickens, Samuel Coleridge, Dario Fo, Henrik Ibsen and many more. This not to say the women didn't hold their own. Jane Austen, Ambai, Margaret Mitchell and Chughtai, of course, were forces to reckon with. It was then that my love affair with the language began. It had by then also become my best friend- helping me get an admission, being my USP at the college interviews...so on and so forth.

To add to that dream-like state were the wonderful, wonderful lecs who not only taught me the texts, but also helped in understanding life beyond English Literature. Of course, my notions had been rather rosy then. I had a rather extended honeymoon with language. Topped twice, was even a rank holder in the Univ once, won a paper presentation (it was great coz there were just two teams). It was blissful, a match made in heaven. After three years of being a Bachelor's student, I decided to take the love affair to another level - Masters. Thankfully my scores were good enough and I got the admission directly. Of course, fate (read my folks) had some other plans.

Media had always been a seductress of its own kind, and my folks couldn't help but get entangled in its clutches. I was asked to appear for entrances at Mass Communication Research Centre, Jamia (Mommy dearest loved the idea of me going there coz Barkha Dutt studied from the college some eons back) and Indian Institute of Mass Communication (IIMC). After some odd cribbing sessions, I gave in, and agreed to appear for the entrances. I prayed to God every day that I must not clear the entrance, but then God seems to help those who do not help themselves. Unfortunately, I cleared both the entrances. Jamia being a more "prestigious" institution, was an obvious destination.

What began then were mad , mad sessions on film history, photography, radio , TV journalism, short films, and all the things that did not interest me one bit. A year passed, and brought with it a sense of discomfort. Expectations were soaring , and as always, I had to live upto them once again. Qualified for a media scholarship interview and met a reputed mediaperson there. After a rather long question-answer session (where every possible thing I knew about was scrutinised), he offered me a job right in the middle of the interview and asked me to join his organisation, one of the most popular newspapers in the country.

The man, in question, is of such high stature that it took me an hour to come to terms with the fact that he had, in fact, offered me a job. Waited endlessly for him to come out of the interview, and when he did, he gave me his visiting card, and said those golden words, "Come whenever you want, the job is yours!" Everyone in college cheered for me...the lecs had a new found respect for me. I knew then that I had to give up my loyalty for English Literature and move on to what I thought then were the " greener pastures". But the subject has always had a way of making its presence felt in my life. As and when I joined, my bosses detected my USP in the English language and quite unexpectedly I was to edit stories on pages. My return gift was the beat that I was to cover- books. The joy was, of course, unparalleled.

Now after two years of being in the business, the language has made a senior copy editor out of me. I discover the language every day, and sometimes even celebrate the reunion!

Revelling in hopelessness

Even though he never c0mes, Godot clearly is a genius! He's nothing yet something! He's a belief, he's a myth! He slowly creeps into my world and transforms it completely. For good or for bad, I don't know. He slowly makes his way to my mind and convinces it of a change, that otherwise is not likely to happen. He tells me that there is no forever, yet asserts that there will be no end! He forces me to write, yet tells me there is no point! He is vague and he is sublime! But still he is there somewhere! He's my biggest curse and my only hope!

Art of darkness

A familiar road is always deceptive. I tread on it and get cheated every day. It holds me back. It prevents me from knowing the unknown. I fear the sunshine, it darkens my spirit. As the darkness sets in, I see the vaccum getting filled. It is only in the darkness that I can cry. It is only in the darkness that I can accept my failures. It's all for good, it's all for good! At least I become the person I am. Once, I've cried, once I've tried, I see a ray of hope, not in that familar load, but in that unfamiliar road!

Death of love

When we were together,
we laughed, we cried,
then came that moment
when even our tears dried!

We sat on the highway of dreams,
hoping to feel the raindrops
But then a bell rang,
and there rolled a fresh corpse!

We went ahead, hoping to see it
there was no shape, no curve,
fearing and loathing, we neared it,
only to realise it was our love!

When love died, THEY conducted a funeral,
Everyone came in black, only INDIFFERENCE came in white
When THEY asked the reason
INDIFFERENCE said, "Brothers, even I go with the tide!"

To see me that fateful day,
you walked on those sun-kissed roads,
As we killed each other,
we realised being in love was not about breaking codes!

The world is not a good place for lovers
it loathes, it conspires, sometimes even connives,
But we, the damned, insist on waiting,
for when eternity ends, Godot arrives!

--- Anamika Chatterjee