Dive into the mirror.

Welcome to another dimension where you get to know people through blogs,through comments,through misspelled words when someone is there to rectify it!.

I am not a social media person myself rather someone who likes to sit across riversides and contemplate the existence of mankind,too much ..huh? Keeping aside the raw philosophies,I am that guy who relies on abortive sorrows and short winded elations of men.Lately,I have been writing blogs just to get certain cacophony out of me and convert it to words so that I may know that whats been cooking inside of me..

It is really difficult to grasp the true purpose of oneself,the more I dig into the more it becomes unfathomable.I don’t speak much about myself with my friends or my family,and that is making me more lost.Sometimes i feel the utter need of someone would be along with me discussing distant thoughts and discovering deadly-intoxicating literature.

Then again i have another enemy of mine which in the layman term is more commonly known an ‘procrastination’.Yes it has been bothering like an ant bothers sweets.It is feeding on me like a parasite entangling me in its chains of false hopes and desires.

But literature serves as a rescue once in a while from the mundane thoughts of my day to day life.Here is a message to each and everyone of you reader out there,to those searching for some infinite emotion that might serve as a tool of gathering grace …

pen down the literature,

live the metaphor,

search yourself,

and dive into the mirror.

Etched

It is one of those times when you fail miserably that you truly question the bitter sweet nature of life and existence..

I have innumerable failures in life, but none that could tremble my strategy of survival..but then came a time when a Failure so harsh broke the tune of my life..

i could remember it all started and ended with a song..but i will reveal that later..When my college started i had tons of procrastinated ideas reagarding it,rehearsed thoroughly over my pass time(yes i am a professional procrastinator). 

I actually met someone nice,spent blissful evenings with her,and sometimes get carnal too.Days went by and Bono; i used to call her that-kiddish i suppose.Her actual name was (is) Bonolata Sen (বনলতা সেণ).

I would ping her up whenever i felt like .Things were going pretty well.But as everyone elses,my life took a quite rude tragic turn.

I was diagnosed with a severe form of alzheimers .Only fragments of memories that i could remember were the faded lyrics that was played in MRI cell which were..

“zindagi kaise ha pehli..

kabhi to haasae,kabhi yeh rullaye.”

There was another that i got blended with this one which i dont really remember who but someone used to sing to me..

“kahin door jab din dhal jaaye..

…………….chupke se aaye”..

And as for Bono,well i knew that she was still with me,i just couldnt remember her!

resfeber

It seems like the whole world has turned into a globe of utter ridicule which is neither perplexing nor disturbing but rather dull.

You become friends with someone after clicking a few selfies,a few eatout plans,and again selfies.It is my belief that selfie sticks are rather a huge scam to our culture.The idea of  sharing is long gone: for instance sharing thoughts,ideas,literacy..

We are really in need of a new beginning …

a place,a song,a memento..

another day at The Indian coffee house,I was alone at the table finding it quite hard to contemplate anything at all.

I find it impossible to decipher that how the magnanimous Manna Dey could voice a song on such cacophony of a place, that is the coffee house.Certain aspects of that place quite bugs me like – in every table there is atleast one person who is rigorously smoking!! its like the whole place is floating in a dense fog of nicotine.(although it is clearly laminated that its a smoke-free zone) 

I wonder that maybe people are being pretentious,flaunting the cutting-edge thug that comes with smoking .I really find it fascinating that how cigerattes could catalyse  style . But then again its that verse in our veins that compels us to be unified in a common notion of not nationalism or patriotism, but a relished mood of pure bong gossip to keep alive oneself and the culture.

i am still hummimg ‘auld lang syne’

blended with 

“coffee houser sei adda ta..

..” 

elevate the camera….

…without a chilly air of eeriness(an unnecessary detail of the atmosphere in order to add a feeling of something “noble”),Abdullah lay on the ground with a gun one one side and rose on the other(an unusual but not an unknown contrast).

The door opened with a loud bang ,and down came a group of regular pedestrians,but that day with not so regular set of eyes.From the flock,one of them pointed out that the rose had its petals torn and that there were no cartridge left in the gun but no one paid any heed to deadly Abdullah ,a teenage of 18 who lay still on the ground with a grotesque dullness.(I think that by now YOU have realized that these brackets indicate what we know as “breaking the fourth wall”,so yes i am Abdullah and i am still breathing(well somewhere around you ,i guess)).