A few days ago when I returned home from tuition, here are a few things that I saw.
A murder of crows perched atop a laburnum.
Fluffy white clouds whisked into a white-turquoise expanse.
A Muslim mum cuddling her child.
Her child's head turned at a right angle with his mouth agape.
A few days ago when I returned home from tuition, here are a few things that I thought.
(Or rather questions).
Is he studying right now?
How must Ms Sharma feel teaching at Heritage?
Did she find another favorite student?
Am I a hypocrite to be missing her only now?
Do I really hate Pramanik?
A few more thoughts.
He'll definitely top.
It must be better than our school.
Probably, yes.
It wasn't possible to miss her all the time. It's not wrong to be missing her now. Point is, we're missing her. I am missing her. She was a great teacher. She gave me confidence in a time when I sorely needed it. When he wasn't here and sometimes I felt unbearably sad her classes were beautifully reassuring. Her words on literature being life deeply resounded, and will never leave me. Haven't yet left me. I deliberately avoid talking to her.
No; I don't hate her but I can't love her. But I admire her for her strength.
It's like when I was reading Breakfast at Tiffany's, I came across this absolutely great quote. Gorgeous.
And there was ma'am all ready to assure me and Vedika and Sneha that we'd make it even if we failed in other subjects. Me and Sneha, that shifting from CBSE was really the right thing if we got to meet a person so great.
Me, that it was somewhat okay to be there, where he wasn't.
Fox gets annoyed and sardonic whenever I can't answer why I am at MHS. I thought the question was answered, but it's still not. And it won't be. And we'll forget about it later for it will be inconsequential then. But right now it matters. And I really don't know, because no one is here. And there is nothing. And yet there is something.
A few days ago when I returned home from tuition, I saw a bit and I thought quite a bit more. And I was happy. Not the euphoric kind, or the joyous kind. Not even the treacherous realm I described two years ago. No; I was happy. A peaceful kind of happy. Even as things crumbled, there was something to look forward to. Primrose promises and grey dreams. Gay happiness. The Supreme Court ruled in favor of fundamental privacy rights, Fox was planning to come over, I finally missed ma'am with all my might, but things were better. I would meet him now and in the pujas. I would pass my exams because I felt sure of myself. I would meet ma'am during the pujas. It was okay to be there where he wasn't, where all that I had loved with a fierce passion wasn't, because things were finally beginning to make a little sense. I identified with the daily news better, English classes made more sense, I took notes, Sociology made sense, I could connect with History better, I realised more things about myself. Growth is a good time; the only time.
Though I still can't answer why I am here where he isn't, even if it made so much sense to leave where I was at that time, it's better now. Somewhat. We meet and it feels impossibly lovely. We met today. There is sadness. Feelings of inadequacy. That's nothing new or great. Everyone has their personal confusions to be muddled and be riddled with. It's okay. We'll get there.
When I get like this, I feel nostalgic. I feel like re-reading Perks of Being a Wallflower. I end up missing everything I've ever done and everywhere I've ever been.
The other day Shubhangi said I was friendly and expressive. That's another thing, I've become expressive only recently. I'm still the same awkward person who can't chat about inane things with random people. But Puri said, "You're crazy in a relatable way" which made a lot of sense, and explains why people approach me.
This only happens in Kolkata. I swear, I owe this city so much. I love this city. I called it a trap-town and I maintain it is a trap town. You'd want to leave it when you grow up but you wouldn't be where you are without it. It's a great woman. A woman you'll truly love. For some the only woman they'll ever truly love. Dressed in desire, lazily sultry.
I've ranted on and on. Nothing's okay, but when I write it feels as if it is. I present it like it is. And maybe it really is. I don't know anything. I stay confused always. Writing gives me a sense of control and order, as if everything makes sense when it in reality does not. I have not been able to write anything, and yet I'm typing away. Maybe it's not beautiful and nothing amazing, but it's me. And incidentally I am writing about me. I feel so narcissistic, but can't help it because writing holds me together. It's like Watanabe writing letters to hold his life together.
I know I won't be a writer, I only ever write for myself and for those I love. That is why this blog is private. But it's also saddening to realize that I can't write, can't produce anything significant on paper, because all I ever did was write for myself. As I'm doing now. Essays hurt if they can't dwell on the personal. That is my fault I guess. Way too much subjectivity.
Ah, enough thinking. I'll stop.
But a final thought- if I grow up to find myself all alone, how shall I ever survive?
A murder of crows perched atop a laburnum.
Fluffy white clouds whisked into a white-turquoise expanse.
A Muslim mum cuddling her child.
Her child's head turned at a right angle with his mouth agape.
A few days ago when I returned home from tuition, here are a few things that I thought.
(Or rather questions).
Is he studying right now?
How must Ms Sharma feel teaching at Heritage?
Did she find another favorite student?
Am I a hypocrite to be missing her only now?
Do I really hate Pramanik?
A few more thoughts.
He'll definitely top.
It must be better than our school.
Probably, yes.
It wasn't possible to miss her all the time. It's not wrong to be missing her now. Point is, we're missing her. I am missing her. She was a great teacher. She gave me confidence in a time when I sorely needed it. When he wasn't here and sometimes I felt unbearably sad her classes were beautifully reassuring. Her words on literature being life deeply resounded, and will never leave me. Haven't yet left me. I deliberately avoid talking to her.
No; I don't hate her but I can't love her. But I admire her for her strength.
It's like when I was reading Breakfast at Tiffany's, I came across this absolutely great quote. Gorgeous.
"Doc really loves me, you know. And I love him. He may have looked old and tacky to you. But you don't know the sweetness if him, the confidence he can give to birds and brats and fragile things like that. Anyone who ever gave you confidence, you owe them a lot"I wanted to cry thinking how much I owed her. There I was, in a new school yet again, this time of my own accord, finally of my own accord, and unsure of being there. All other times I was escaping from something. Escaping, hence sure of my being wherever I was. Escaping from the humiliation of being with girls in GDB to Jamshedpur. Escaping Kashfin's grasp on me and Jamshedpur's sleepy stance, back to Kolkata. This was the first time I was actually leaving some place. And it was so sad. And I was so unsure. And I missed everyone so damn much.
And there was ma'am all ready to assure me and Vedika and Sneha that we'd make it even if we failed in other subjects. Me and Sneha, that shifting from CBSE was really the right thing if we got to meet a person so great.
Me, that it was somewhat okay to be there, where he wasn't.
Fox gets annoyed and sardonic whenever I can't answer why I am at MHS. I thought the question was answered, but it's still not. And it won't be. And we'll forget about it later for it will be inconsequential then. But right now it matters. And I really don't know, because no one is here. And there is nothing. And yet there is something.
A few days ago when I returned home from tuition, I saw a bit and I thought quite a bit more. And I was happy. Not the euphoric kind, or the joyous kind. Not even the treacherous realm I described two years ago. No; I was happy. A peaceful kind of happy. Even as things crumbled, there was something to look forward to. Primrose promises and grey dreams. Gay happiness. The Supreme Court ruled in favor of fundamental privacy rights, Fox was planning to come over, I finally missed ma'am with all my might, but things were better. I would meet him now and in the pujas. I would pass my exams because I felt sure of myself. I would meet ma'am during the pujas. It was okay to be there where he wasn't, where all that I had loved with a fierce passion wasn't, because things were finally beginning to make a little sense. I identified with the daily news better, English classes made more sense, I took notes, Sociology made sense, I could connect with History better, I realised more things about myself. Growth is a good time; the only time.
Though I still can't answer why I am here where he isn't, even if it made so much sense to leave where I was at that time, it's better now. Somewhat. We meet and it feels impossibly lovely. We met today. There is sadness. Feelings of inadequacy. That's nothing new or great. Everyone has their personal confusions to be muddled and be riddled with. It's okay. We'll get there.
When I get like this, I feel nostalgic. I feel like re-reading Perks of Being a Wallflower. I end up missing everything I've ever done and everywhere I've ever been.
The other day Shubhangi said I was friendly and expressive. That's another thing, I've become expressive only recently. I'm still the same awkward person who can't chat about inane things with random people. But Puri said, "You're crazy in a relatable way" which made a lot of sense, and explains why people approach me.
This only happens in Kolkata. I swear, I owe this city so much. I love this city. I called it a trap-town and I maintain it is a trap town. You'd want to leave it when you grow up but you wouldn't be where you are without it. It's a great woman. A woman you'll truly love. For some the only woman they'll ever truly love. Dressed in desire, lazily sultry.
I've ranted on and on. Nothing's okay, but when I write it feels as if it is. I present it like it is. And maybe it really is. I don't know anything. I stay confused always. Writing gives me a sense of control and order, as if everything makes sense when it in reality does not. I have not been able to write anything, and yet I'm typing away. Maybe it's not beautiful and nothing amazing, but it's me. And incidentally I am writing about me. I feel so narcissistic, but can't help it because writing holds me together. It's like Watanabe writing letters to hold his life together.
I know I won't be a writer, I only ever write for myself and for those I love. That is why this blog is private. But it's also saddening to realize that I can't write, can't produce anything significant on paper, because all I ever did was write for myself. As I'm doing now. Essays hurt if they can't dwell on the personal. That is my fault I guess. Way too much subjectivity.
Ah, enough thinking. I'll stop.
But a final thought- if I grow up to find myself all alone, how shall I ever survive?
