How to say goodbye to the subway?

The lecher(To know The lecher click on this link) got down from the train after bidding adieu to his women. Little did he know that another person in the train, a 60 year-old woman, was bidding adieu to the subway itself.

He did not notice this bespectacled lady, holding a bouquet of red and white carnations. He did not see the yellow stain on her white sari, which was a residue of the turmeric-rich fish curry she had for lunch. Thus, the lecher got back to his world, leaving her to continue the series of last good-byes on the subway.

“Eight more stations. Another 22 minutes,” she counted.

She hated the subway. She hated the squabbling over seats, lecherous middle-aged men eyeing nubile young women, and the most of all - the x-ray vision of a woman sitting on the opposite seat.  After years of travelling she had concluded that one thing constant in every underground train is a woman seated on the ‘Ladies Seat’, who scans all the females in the vicinity. From the hole in the sandal to the colour of the bindi, nothing escapes the perusing eyes.

“5 more stations, 13 minutes.”

She had been working for 37 years as an accountant in a private company. It was a ‘boring’ job according to her late husband, who had been a renowned sports journalist in his time. Her stomach rumbled, and she was thankful that the sound of wheels masked the sound. The oil-rich farewell lunch, for sure, did not agree well with her. For a moment the discomfort in her belly, took her mind off from the melancholy state that she was in. But, it came back, flooding her with the thought, “What is life after work?”

“Three minutes, one station.”

The train stopped. She got down, took a few steps and then stood still. She would not take the subway from tomorrow, as she had no office to go to. Her work was done.

She saw the digital clock, announce the arrival of the train on the other platform. She dropped her bag and the bouquet of carnations. She saw the light at the end of the tunnel, drew a sharp breath and…

“She does that every night. For the past 4 years, this has been her routine,” said one aged ghost to a new entrant, a young man who had jumped on the tracks earlier that day. “Four years and she has not learned the art of saying goodbye. She hates the subway too much to bid adieu to it,” he said as he extended his arm to pull her back.

Gainor E. Roberts,Carnations and Poodle, Oil on Canvas, 35 x 27, 1977

Plum in my pudding!

Plum: a sweet and sour fruit and its smell will always remind me of my childhood.

The only dessert that I enjoy making is pudding, preferably chocolate pudding .So, yesterday I decided to roll up my sleeves, shake off my laziness and make a small portion of pudding with the leftover milk. Co-incidentally, some ripe plums also happened to be sitting in the fruit tray of my fridge asking to be eaten. So, I complied with their request; but instead of eating them like an orangutan I decided to eat them in Famous Five style, i.e. in a pudding.

I have never in my life eaten, let alone made plum pudding. It was just one of those times when I rely on my instincts (the internet wasn't working yesterday,so I had to make do with instinct) yesterday and start cooking.  So, if you ever want to try this ( because it turned out to be pretty decent),here’s a recipe to guide you to some extent:

                                               

                                                                     Ingredients

For the pudding:

1.      500 ml full cream milk;

2.      3 eggs;

3.      2 ripe plums;

4.      1 table spoon drinking chocolate power;

5.      sugar ( depends on how sweet your tooth is);and

6.      cardamom powder

For the plum syrup drizzle:

1.      One deseeded and finely chopped plum (retain the peel);

2.      3 table-spoons sugar;

3.      200ml water; and

4.       a tiny wedge of cinnamon

                                                        Process

1.      Boil milk

2.      Beat eggs, mix the sugar and chocolate powder, and start beating again

3.      Deseed the plum and take off the peel. If you have a hand blender then use it to make a purée, if you are unlucky like me, then use your hands and a spoon. The result is the same. Now mix this with the eggs mixture,

4.      Pour this mix in container, sprinkle cardamom on top of it and put it inside the pressure cooker. After 10 whistles, switch off the gas and let the pudding cool. You should ideally refrigerate it for 2 hours.

5.      For the plum syrup, combine water and sugar, bring them to boil. Now put the chopped plums into the syrup and wait for the color to change to deeper pink. Oops! Don’t forget to add the cinnamon.

6.      Spoon out the remains of the plum, and let the syrup alone!

Serving: Invert the pudding on a dish. Now, take your luscious plum syrup and smell it, isn’t it wonderful? Now, slowly drizzle your pudding with this syrup, put on some nice romantic music and indulge into its zesty goodness.

VIDEO ALERT!!  I was browsing through plum pudding recipes today,interestingly most of them don't use raw plums,like I did. But found this on youtube which I have to try. 

PS: This is not one of those snooty blogs,where everything is ladylike,hence the recipe has to bear that wild trademark. So,this recipe is not plum pudding,it's rather plum in pudding.

Metamorphosis on Dashami

“ Tomorrow you will be me.”

These words rang again and again in her ears. It had been a perfect Navami evening. She had worn a red sari with golden border. He had whispered in her ears (lines from a song). Love is silly but she had been a happy woman last night.

But today she had mutated into a eunuch.

Priyam and Sudipto were returning after an evening of pandal hopping on a crowded local train. They were invited by Sudipto’s parents i.e. Priyam’s in-laws for Dashami rituals at his ancestral home in the suburbs. It was the last local and a few eunuchs had got on the train. They edged their way through the crowd extorting money.

They came towards Sudipto demanded money. Sudipto ignored. They pulled the sleeves and the collar of his kurta. Priyam shouted at them, “ Get out of here”.

“Why should we whore, does the train belong to your father or to your pimp?”

Priyam fumed. “ You pests. Goddamn hijras. Get going quick!”

Soon Priyam had a crowd of supporters. There was a scuffle and when the next stop came the eunuchs were thrown off the train. Just as the train was moving, one of the eunuchs grabbed Priyam’s hand from the window, and said in a cold tone, “Tomorrow you will be me.”

According to popular belief, a eunuch’s curse comes true.

The next morning, Priyam woke up and saw that she was in a filthy room. There were unknown sleeping bodies on her right and her left. She gave a silent scream. The eunuch’s voice echoed in her head, “You are me today.”She apologized to the voice in her head. She said that her husband would worry if he woke up to find his wife missing. The voice just laughed.

A hand was shaking her. “Get up pig.” She saw an odd face staring at her. “Guru is calling you. Quick put some water in your hair . The municipal water seems to have gone to the immersions too.” Priyam felt her head spinning, was it her life or a whirlwind? Guru? Municipal water? Where was she?

She prayed to the Goddess but it was the face of the dreadful eunuch which came to her mind. She put some water in her hair and combed it. As she entered the Guru’s room, she felt like she was in a sadistic-fantasy novel. A portly eunuch, was sitting on a sofa wearing a nightdress.

“How did business go?”

Priyam: “ummm….good.” (“What else to say”, she thought.)

"How much did you pay the police-man?"

Priyam: “…don’t know. Someone else did. (She suppressed a guffaw, “Seriously,I should be smearing sindur on others at this time")

The Guru’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “I was thinking…. I will send you and Chameli to the women.”

Priyam: “Which women?”

“Oooof! I mean Tumpa Di’s girls. She wants someone from our community. Nowadays men, want more than a woman. Hope you understand; changing times...At least you will be paid for your services, and not get slammed for free by  drunken policemen. Moreover the area gets proper water supply. You will be happy. They will come for you soon Durga.”

“Durga, so that’s what they call this body. Paradoxical” she thought. Her situation was tragic with elements of comedy and fantasy , or may be something which her literature professor would describe as- Magic Realism.

A voice called out, “Durga we have been invited to Narendra Babu’s Pujo, he is fielding Guru as a candidate for the municipality elections from his party. Come get ready.”

Drums were beating all around at Narendra Babu's house. Priyam was wildly dancing. She got on the truck which was carrying the Goddess, along with other eunuchs. Soon they reached the river. They slowly lowered the Goddess, into the water. Far away, she saw the setting sun on the horizon. It looked beautiful,so beautiful…

“You look so beautiful in white and red. Come on, father’s friends have arrived and they want to meet you.”

Priyam whirled around. She almost collapsed. Her life had been given back to her suddenly. She thanked the eunuch who had been speaking to her, in her head all this time, but she got no reply. She didn’t know how it happened, but she was too happy and postponed all her questions.

Sudipto’s father was chatting with his friends. One of them said “Do you know what my crazy brother Narendra has done? He has announced a hijra as a candidate, from his party in the municipality elections .The eunuch is called Durga Devi. Hahahahaaa…”

Breath of the African violet

I looked at the African violet on my window sill, slowly withering in the rays of the morning sun. I hadn’t watered them for five days. But where was the tap, I thought as I lay motionless and disabled on my stinking bed. I tried hard to remember again, “Where is the tap?”, I failed. I smiled wryly as I felt my the  strands of my tattered memory seeping out of my body, the body which nobody cared for and which nobody wished to see.

I didn’t know what had happened in the last few days, I didn’t remember. Nobody called because I faintly remember cutting the wires of my telephone and I had dismissed the maid from her services because I didn’t like the way she looked at my film posters. My friends? I couldn’t   recall their names as they had slipped quietly from my withering mind in the last five days.

 I looked at the pot of African violet, the sun rays were growing stronger, I knew that by today they would die out as I couldn’t remember where the tap was. I tried to move my limbs but I only managed to move my shoulder blades. I tried again and this time I felt one of the pus-filled bed sores on my back burst open. As the pus oozed out I imagined what they would write in the newspapers, ‘Ageing sex siren rots to death’ or they would be kind, ‘Ageing film star starves to death’. I smiled ,it was odd that I couldn’t remember the colour of my eyes or the shape of my nose,I couldn’t remember how I looked. I think I looked like those decaying African violets. I don’t know why they are called African violets because I remember the ones on my window sill were white five days back. “Violet even if they were white, just because people like to call them so.”

Suddenly I remembered where the tap was. I decided to get up and give the violet its last drink. I brought back a mug of water and poured it on the pot. They looked the same, only a bit wet. “What is my name?”

 I lay down on the stained bed and stared at the window sill. After some time I tried to answer the question I had asked myself before, I was worried   because I didn’t know what the answer could be. But surely I know my name, I wasn’t that wasted because I could remember where the tap was. I looked at the afternoon sun rays caressing the leaves of the plant. I smiled, may be it would live. I couldn’t keep my eyes open and I threw one last look at the African violet on my window sill; I remembered my name. And I remembered how death feels.

To the Big Sister,with...

Dear Madam,

A certain prominent Indian had once said,"What Bengal thinks today,India thinks tomorrow." This was almost a century back,hope you know this,keeping in mind your fantastic notion of history.
. Seeing what you are doing in this state and the things that you are thinking of doing,today this prominent Indian must be turning in his grave and wishing that he could take his words back. 
The previous government has its share of blunders but unlike you they did not make the people of this state feel ashamed to have them in power within such a short period of time. It is no use telling you to step down because you are a festering wound,which will fall off when the time comes.
PS: You are advising the opposition parties to sleep right.Believe me I would wish to go into a 100 year slumber(Sleeping Beauty style),rather than bear you for 4 years more.

                                                                                              Regards,
                                                                                     The little sarcastic girl

Sugar coated diabetic apologies dear tsunami

Dear tsunami I really like your name, it has nice ring to it. But nonetheless you are scary, just look at what you did to the manga loving- sushi eating Japs last year who named you in the first place (OMG such ungratefulness darling) and not to forget the 2004 performance in South Asia. Like I said before (in a post) you are just like a spurned psycho lover. 

The doomsday prophet in a big yellow taxi (samsung mobile phone pic)

The temptress

With your non-appearance yesterday, you must have disappointed quite a lot of doomsday prophets. As luck would have it I met one such prophet right after the 4.13 pm tremors yesterday. He was a taxi driver. You see the demented me suddenly had the urge to savour the succulent steak at Oly Pub in the face of impending destruction of the world by you and your earthquake cousins. So, from my place I took a taxi to go to that steak heaven, as the metro services were on hold because of your cousins. The man behind the wheel happened to be a very friendly fellow, he went on doing the blah blah blah. He said, “ 2012 will be the end of the world,it may be today”, “they said that Bardhaman district is facing tidal waves at present,a  lot of destruction”, “even the Ganga will see a tsunami as it touches the Bay of Bengal,Kolkata will be destroyed”…..and this went on. I made the mistake of questioning the fact that the Ganga will eat up the city, oh man it was a mistake and I tell you never question a taxi driver, he will defeat every logic that you give. He answered, “ You can say that because we have Maa Kali at Kalighat, but that is only for the South of Kolkata,what about the rest,what about Dum Dum? I was speechless( I mean it) and thus couldn’t pursue my case even if I wanted to. Dear tsunami I hope you realise the effect you have on mere mortals.

Coming back to yesterday,I did have a steak with my friends and we discussed everything apart from you. Believe me my darling, you must try that steak, it will make you mellower and perhaps you will abandon your plans of destroying this world.  The nutty scientists out there may crucify me with own laws of heresy ( you see these poor chaps like Copernicus suffered a lot because of the conservative religious order in early modern Europe, so forgive them) for addressing you like this. But I was born with a few screws missing in my head!

 Lastly, I offer my apologies on behalf of mankind for foiling your plans by our will to survive and like James Bond we will die another day.

So, sorry dear tsunami, better luck next time!!

FYI: This blogpost is by a person who loves to watch Life is Beautiful time and again. That explains her optimism.

She’s a good girl

“Heads and Tails*?”, said a bemused father.

Iman stammered, “It’s a programme hosted by Maneka Gandhi, I wa-waa-wanted to ask about something…may be they won’t even open my letter.”

“Oh! That’s  fine I’ll post it”, said the proud father of a girl who had scored a lot of marks in her Class 10 and as far as he knew, she was going to become a doctor just like her parents.

Unfortunately for him, his daughter was not too keen on the idea but being a ‘good girl’ she decided not to object. You see … she had one 'small problem'. The problem would be small for you and me but it gave her sleepless nights.

“Huh! Princess Diana died in a car crash along with her boyfriend”, bellowed Iman father’s, he didn’t like the princess, “no morals”, he thought as he handed the paper to his daughter. Iman avoided looking at the gory picture of the accident.

Her father understood and he laughed, “You know you can’t avoid blood and gore if you want to become a doctor. You have to cut up frogs in your Biology class next year.”

Iman felt a pang of hatred towards her father as the fear of cutting up anything that oozed blood again crept over her spine. She rushed to her bathroom. After a few minutes she came out, her hair dripping wet, she realised there would be more such days in her life.

The sight of blood was Iman’s ‘small problem’, which according to her mother would be solved after she had ‘gutted’ her first frog. But she didn’t trust her mother’s easy solution and she dreaded her first dissection class,which was scheduled the following month. For days she raked her brains for a solution and finally she hit upon the idea, “ I will write a letter to Heads& Tails...” 

So, that was the letter Iman had given to her father to post. 

As soon as she had left for school,her mother rushed forward.

“Open it”, she said.

“Don’t you think…”,mumbled her father. “Okay,Iman is half-expecting that they won’t read it so it’s fine.”

Thus, the curious parents read the letter,it was addressed to Maneka Gandhi who hosted the show.

Dear Manekaji,

Can you do something about dissection of animals in Class 12 Biology class. I think we are tormenting animals and also tormenting teenagers with such violence. I am in Class 11 and my parents want me to become a doctor but I am scared of cutting up a living being for the sake of knowledge. I don’t know whether I will ever become a doctor but surely I can’t kill anything that has life, I feel cursed. I know you love animals, I hope you can stop this dissection business in schools which turns young people into murderers.

                                                                                                                                  Regards,

                                                                                                                              Anonymous

   

 The content and the straight-forward tone of the letter stunned both of them. Finally Iman’s mother said, “We can’t tell her that we know, but poor child she is suffering so much.”

“ Hmmm… so our daughter will not become a doctor like us, but I am sure she is destined for greater things in life. Look at her thoughts…such noble thoughts. We should be proud of her and we must let her do what she wants, I don’t want my daughter to become a psychological wreck”, sighed Iman’s father.

The next morning in school…

“What happened? Did it work?”, asked Sutapa, Iman’s confidante.

“Hahaha…Mom and Dad told me to go for statistics if I hate dissection. They tried to show that they knew nothing about the letter but you should have seen their faces. I had written the letter carefully choosing words that would carry the desired effect.Anyway,they are good people, who love me but I couldn’t let them make the mistake of ruining my life. It would have destroyed them in turn.”

Sutapa twirled a pen between her fingers, “Hmm…anyway it was a gamble, just like tossing a coin…Heads or Tails, and there was the possibility of them not opening your letter? ”

Iman leaned towards her friend, her eyes were burning with confidence, she almost whispered “Sutapa, I am a good girl  and you must know that good things happen to good girls.”

  * A weekly programme on exploitation of animals, televised in the mid-90’s on national television.Maneka Gandhi became known as a animal rights activist during this time.

                                                        She is a good girl by Sleeper

Dissatisfied Indians(?)

No don’t worry this is not one those posts where I will bore you with examples saying how bad this country is and topping it with some high voltage intellectual gibberish. It’s just that while performing my morning ritual,(no silly not the toxin cleansing ritual)i.e. going through the homepage of Facebook and checking out what my ‘friends’ are upto, I saw this piece of news posted by a friend which said, “Two Dalit girls stripped in examination hall in Madhya Pradesh.” You must be thinking nothing new right? We are horrified at this heinous act but we know this happens in India, the age old caste system will not be wished away by reservations or The Scheduled Castes and Tribes (Prevention of Atrocities) Act. But what grabbed my attention and made me write this post was the comment by the friend, “Proud to be an Indian, think twice.”

She is not the only one even the ‘Prince of India’ in the aftermath of the Bhatta-Parsaul violence declared that, "I feel ashamed of being an INDIAN after seeing what has happened here in UP." The only difference between my friend and Rahul Gandhi (apart from the fact that he is a prince and she is just the aam aurat), is that he was lambasted for this comment while my friend is getting all the likes and comments saying, “I agree with you”, “This is disgusting” and so on.

The problem is I am affected by the question, because I know if not proud I am quite happy to have been born Indian rather than Ugandian where either you become a child soldier or a sex slave to warlords like Joseph Kony. I know all the critics of the Indian nation will give me all sorts of logic that how India is one god forsaken country (Mr/Ms Critic want to get a Saudi Arabian passport?). I do sound caustic but believe me I am tired of the same old rhetoric, “I am ashamed of being an Indian, a country where blah blah atrocities/ etc etc injustice happens.”

To tell you the truth I do say sometimes , “Nothing is going to change in this country”, but it comes from exasperation but I find it very silly to declare publicly that I am not proud to be an Indian because I know even the most developed countries have their own set of problems. Americans are occupying Wall Street, the Germans are protesting in Berlin against nuclear energy and the UK, well don’t get me started about that country, from the editorials in The Guardian or The Telegraph one will feel that it is a nation of unhappy ladies and gentlemen. So, the point is even if I change countries I will be unhappy and question my love for that country.

Human beings are imperfect and by that logic we can safely conclude that no country is perfect. Being proud of our country is beyond us because essentially all of us suffer from chronic dissatisfaction.  Some  of us strive forward in order to ease this dissatisfaction while the rest sit down in a corner think about it and some of them fill pages with mundane pseudo-intellectual rhetoric.

Now that 500 words or more have been said I feel it is time to make the closing statement. To all my friends who are not proud to be Indians, please do something about your nonsensical blah blahs or say something new. I have had enough of your age old dissatisfaction to top up my not-so-perfect life.

PS: I am not sure whether I am a patriotic Indian or whether I am ready to lay my life for this country, but somehow I can’t control my lacrimal glands when I hear the National Anthem. It is quite embarrassing to admit this but sometimes I watch the opening of India vs Any Country cricket match just to hear the orchestrated rendition of the song.

                                                  I couldn't post the version that I love :( 

Recycling something that didn’t go well on my taste-buds

Like any other art form cooking has its own share of disasters, it is natural as the artists are human beings, who are beautifully imperfect. So, talking about such a cooking disaster let me rewind a week earlier. It was my   brother’s Upanayan ceremony(holy thread ceremony), as societal mores dictated we had to organise a reception to mark the day after which he could partake non-vegetarian food (which includes onion and masoor dal as well).

One of the items on the menu was a ‘sorse paneer’(cottage cheese cubes in mustard sauce) , it was brilliantly disastrous as the mustard was undercooked. Imagine 800 gms of paneer wasted just because the cook thought that ‘people would prefer eating fish, so never mind that humble paneer’.

I am used to recycling bad food, it is something I had to learn owing to the hazards that usually occur  when one is living away from home and hearth. But let me delve into the crux of the matter the Bhattacharjee’s as a rule prefer mustard in their fish and not in their paneer, and on top of that Papa Bhattacharjee doesn’t eat paneer! So, after a few minutes of brainstorming( while carefully examining the disaster in question) I decided to make something which looked like a plebeian  relative of the Shahi Paneer.

The disastrous Sorse Paneer

I am not sure of this impromptu recipe, if you want to try it, I would suggest you make a few additions of your own.
 Here it goes :

WARNING: This so called recipe should not be read by people who do not know that to heat oil in a pan you have to put oil and before that light the gas. (There was one girl who asked me whether onions can be fried in unheated oil!)

Tentative ingredients:

1.       Potatoes for Papa Bhattacharjee: Which were boiled, peeled and fried. Of course cut it into halves before boiling them.

2.       A paste of poppy seeds and onions (separately); I did this after having look at the amount of paneer. *Always trust your instinct it is your best friend in the kitchen.

3.       Ground little bit of dry roasted garam masala and black pepper. (We have this fantastic mini-hand pestle at Tezpur,it is better than any machine grinder.)

Poppy seed paste(below) and onion paste(above)

Garam masala and black pepper powdered in a hand pestle

Cooking time: 15 minutes or more (frankly speaking I don’t remember).

How I did it:
I fried the potatoes, kept them aside and didn’t eat them, no matter how hungry I was!

Naturally I had to heat oil, in this case, white oil in a deep bottomed pan. Then I fried the onion paste till it had that lovely lilac colour ( yes, lilac and not pink as Sanjeev Kapoor says).If you do not have nasal congestion you will get that lovely smell…wow!

After this, I put the delicate poppy seed paste into the pan, fried it together till my common sense told me to stop( *also taste it and trust your taste-buds). Then I put the segregated paneer, i.e. the paneer which was separated from the undercooked mustard paste.

 I did not wash off the mustard totally kept some of it, as the colour suggests

 But I also made sure that some amount of the mustard was still clinging on to the paneer.
At some point of time I also put in the fried potatoes.

Got hold of two small cups of milk. Oh! Yes milk oops forgot to mention it above, anyway it’s an impromptu recipe forgive my unmindfulness. After that I poured in the milk and let it simmer till the gravy thickened to my liking.                                     

* Optional: For corrupted East Bengalis like myself you can put some sugar to balance the taste.

At last I put the ground garam masala-black pepper powder and mixed it well.

We had it with rice in the afternoon and with paranthas at night; tasted good both ways.

PS: I might have missed a few steps but I hope that you don’t have to try it out, because seriously folks undercooked mustard paneer is one pain in the ‘you-know-where’.

Served hot! My favourite cook- my mom gave me full marks for this

Her crowning glory

“Why don’t you take the taxi?”

“You know I won’t, I hate traffic jams.”

“But I think you should now that …” he broke off, as he felt a lump in his throat.

“I know”, she smiled, “don’t worry, I will be fine and anyway you will pick me up when it gets over.”

Damayanti walked out of her house, she knew the people on the road were staring at her and those who ‘knew’ avoided looking at her. Soon, she reached the subway station and rushed through the crowd like she did normally. Then the train arrived and again with other women she rushed towards the ‘Ladies’ seats.

She settled down and she tried not to pay any attention to the school girl who looked at her as if she were some display in the zoo. The other passengers stared at her and began they began to concoct various theories about her appearance.

“Please stop doing that to your hair,” said her mother.

“Maa, it feels so good to feel my hair after I wash it, ahhh… smells so nice...” said Damayanti as she moved her fourteen year old fingers through her tresses.

She woke up just in time. She had reached her destination station. 

Soon she was making her way past the sanitised interiors of a building which was conveniently located near that station. “He is waiting for you”, said the girl in a uniform.

Damayanti opened the door to Dr Sen’s chamber. He looked at her shaven head, “It was not necessary to do it at such an early stage, Damayanti. Anyway you can try this wigmaker a lot of my patients prefer him, I can tell him to go to your place.”

She smiled and waved her hand airily, “They say hair today gone tomorrow. Don’t worry doctor; I am only scared about the chemo. So tell me does it hurt? ”

Damayanti felt her husband’s gentle hand on her head  and she said, “Stop doing that I just combed.”

“Come on who is going to see you at this hour? Mmmmm…I love the smell of your hair.”

“Madam, it looks just like your hair. You can take it with your eyes closed”, said the salesman, who was silently calculating what to charge for the wig after having a look at Damayanti’s plush flat.

Damayanti asked, “Whose hair it is do you know?” She felt stupid after those words escaped her mouth. The chemo had made her a bit dizzy these days.

“Oh! If you are uncomfortable, you can try the synthetic ones, they are cheaper, but won’t last long. But I think you will need something that lasts.”
She smiled.

That night she put on her wig and waited for her husband to come back.  She heard the door opening and waited with bated breath as his foot-steps were approaching. He entered the room, kept his bag and gave her a questioning look. Without saying a word, he came towards her and gently ruffled the mane of hair.

“Stop doing that …just combed…my h-a-… ”, she stopped and tightly held back her tears.

“I love the smell of your hair” he said softly and  pushed off the wig.

Reality smells, Fart and the Neo-Indian Grotesque Art

My friend does something which is called 'arty-farty programming'(Arts Programming). I have nothing against the arts or programming part, what amuses me is the farty part. Why farty?? Is that really bad?  A lot has been spoken and written about that arty part. So, let me elaborate on the farty part, at the risk of being termed as irritating, mindless or whichever adjective you may choose.

Since childhood we Bongs are taught Fart or Paad/Gas Maara (break the wind) is something disgusting and that we shouldn’t fart in public. So, as a child I guess each one us had to find our very own farting place, away from the olfactory glands of others. Well, I know farting is smelly but it’s so natural. According to the dictionary: an emission of intestinal gas from the anus, esp an audible one. See, how natural it is!

I can bet on my imaginary millions pounds stashed in a Swiss Bank account, that every one farts, some admit and some don’t. I admit once again, farts can be disgusting to our sense of smell but please let us not take that ‘holier than thou attitude’ and reduce it to a taboo. You can take out your hanky to cover your nose when you get the smell of fart and get irritated, but please ‘don’t pretend that you don’t fart, as your intestines are listening.’

I see columns on how to find the right partner, they give shitty advice, don’t follow them. Listen to me: fart in a closed room with that ‘would be partner in life’ sitting next to you. If you get a reaction, after which you will remember to suppress your 'future' farts , in front of that person, then reader you are doomed for life. You really need to get out of that relationship!

Perhaps, thinking really irrationally we can have an exhibition on ‘fart being the purest form of art’ as it emanates from the inside of the human body. We can say 'Fart' is the neo-Indian Grotesque Art, as it hits your sense of smell directly and thus leading to the involuntary realisation of the grotesqueness of the 'art' itself.

Nicely theorized!

Yes, I can go on and on with that, because everyone I know farts, just that they have a very good place to hide that smell.

PS: I started it with my friend being an arty-farty programmer, well lost that thread. Some other time,if the farts come out well.