Patterns
So here I am, sitting with nothing but a blank imagination, the day’s
newspaper and the excitement and nervousness that prevails when your
examinations are about to end. I could have written about
anything-sex, drugs, classic rock-just about anything. As the evening
slowly descends upon the city-in the form of glaring streetlights, the
raucous tunes of those melodramatic soaps and the sound of conch
shells intermingling with the smoky, yet somewhat divine smell of
incense sticks, I am just tempted to pen down those thoughts that
rapidly come and go by in this narcissistic, temperamental,
grotesquely romantic, and surrealistic mind.
It is raining now-not an uncommon thing in the autumns.Pitter-patter,
pitter-patter-the raindrops drip down from the eavesdrops of the
asbestos roofs. It is picturesque outside-the waning rays of the sun
drenched in a passionate red intermingled in an unlikely combination
with the gloomy grey of the cumulonimbus clouds.” Brishti porche!
Bristi porche!” cries out some gleeful toddler. There is a certain
thrill about getting wet in the rain-people prefer these outings in
the downpour with someone (of the opposite gender) by their side, but
there is a certain melancholy in being alone-a certain thrill in
enjoying the pleasures at your own consent.
I like associating the monsoons with nostalgia-there is a melancholy
that makes you want to retrospect, look back at the times that have
just waved at you and then nonchalantly, walked away.
Looking back at the years that have just rolled on-without any glamour
or fervour-I guess the drudgery of yesterday gave me the hope for
tomorrow. However, yesterdays aren’t always that gloomy-I guess. There
are memories that are photographed in your subconscious, peeking
whenever the mood is just to laze and daydream. The ceiling fan
rotates slowly, the vehicles start to shriek, the mongrels argue, the
downpour intensifies-truth be told I want to grab a cup of coffee, sit
on the water tank in the terrace and just savour the moment.
Small town people dream big-that is the key to their survival, the
reason behind their smiles. Middle class upbringing- I’ve savoured
every moment, every facade, every nuance of it. That economic
crucification at the end of every month, the nitty-gritty of growing
up between your parent’s ambitions and your dreams, finding the
necessary salvation in love…ah, that old pestering jester called
love.
Our romances are something that we, the middle class Romeos and
Juliets should actually be proud of, because our romances aren’t just
mere alibis to break out from the conservative shackles of our family
members, it is a means to explore the unpredictability of adolescence,
the satisfaction in knowing that somewhere out there in the sweaty
crowd of a thousand commoners, there lies someone special- caring for
you(though you really can’t trust the current generation, they might
be enjoying the pleasures with someone else behind your back). We
react to our breakups, we rise to fall again- but in the end that is
what life is all about- separations, reunions and a la carte.
The best thing about being a Bong? The addas, the heated debates
regarding any particular thing, our Kumbhakarna-esque appetites, the
love for music and of course, Durga Puja and Saraswati Puja (the
ethnic, more civilized and comparably less expensive and more romantic
version of Valentine’s Day). Somehow, growing up among culture and
traditions has its own sweetness, and of course our keen eye and
appreciation for beauty (if you know what I mean).
So I have pretty much talked about everything in my rants. So what are
you doing now? Sitting beside your loved one? Smiling as you talking
with him/her over the phone? Or just enjoying your daydream? In the
teeming crowd of the struggling thousands, somehow we, teens, survive-
with our rebellious instincts, with our whims and caprices, with our
addictions, our hopeless fantasies, our interesting romances, our
inimitable friends. It is a kaleidoscope- my mind, yours, and everyone
else’s – an ever-changing, beautiful, colourful pattern- unpredictable
and… You know what is the best adjective for your mind.
I am out of imagination, and it’s time to study. So what should I end
with? A cliché? A quote? I got an idea- to end it with these lines by
Simon and Garfunkel that are relaying through my surrealistic
subconscious over and over again:
“Up a narrow flight of stairs
In a narrow little room,
Casting shivering shadows,
In the early evening gloom,
Impaled on my walls,
My eyes can dimly see,
The pattern of my life
And the puzzle that is me”
