Tuesday, May 19, 2015

From 30 Signs of Emotional Abuse

3. They use sarcasm or “teasing” to put you down or make you feel bad about yourself. 

4. They accuse you of being “too sensitive” in order to deflect their abusive remarks. 

10. They try to make you feel as though they are always right, and you are wrong. 

16. They make excuses for their behavior, try to blame others, and have difficulty apologizing 

20. They are emotionally distant or emotionally unavailable most of the time. 

24. They disengage or use neglect or abandonment to punish or frighten you. 

27. They withhold sex as a way to manipulate and control. 

28. They share personal information about you with others. 

29. They invalidate or deny their emotionally abusive behavior when confronted. 


Monday, May 18, 2015


I love people watching, and I do it an awful lot. Today a deja vu-ish experience (more about it below) made me think about how easy it is to forget these tiny bits of of life--observations worthy of a Mr Bennett on Mrs Brown (maybe more leaning towards Woolf than Bennett, I hope?).

So today was the second time I spotted this lady on the 18.15-ish metro in the direction of Kavi Nazrul. She is not somebody who I'd think was very 'intellectual' --she wore an ordinary salwar. Must have been mid 40s. Fingers adorned with horoscopic rings. Wrists adorned with a couple of Hindu marriage type bangles ( I think loha). Parting adorned with sindur and hair adorned with an incongruous hairband--balck, metal. She was carrying an oversized green plastic 'ladies bag'. And I remembered her from maybe a week back when I also took the metro. Because she was reading, with utmost concentration, the same book as last time--Waiting for the Barbarians by J.M, Coestzee, Evidently a slow reader she had progressed little. The book looks worn and old. Is she re-reading it? She probably doesn't get time to read at home. Seeking refuge in a book on the metro way back home. Not really light fiction. Hmm.

From Jeebon Deep after getting supplies for Kalonji and Golu, I board an AC bus to get off at Rashbihari. Opposite me is sitting an old very paunchy, probably Marwari gentleman. He looks me up and down. I am wearing a rather colourful dress today. He probably thought it was a kurti which I am wearing without a bottom. I meet his gaze, his surprised stare at my sartorial mistake, and he quickly looks away. Next to me sits a short, Bengali man. Suddenly an old song, I don't recognise, comes on the bus speaker. Immediately these two men, separated by class, age, possibly language, start humming and keeping tal on their knees. Another man boards the bus and sits next to the first man. Now Chaudvi ka chand start. All three start humming with impassioned frowns on their brows but somehow cannot believe the other person is singing--they stop to stare at each other to check if the other person is singing, as if it was the most extraordinary, not-really-acceptable-in-public act.

On the auto back from Gariahat, a lady and her 9-ish son are sitting next to me. The son, on his mum;s lap, is eating a roll. He tears away a scrap of paper around the roll and throws it in the auto slipstream and turns and smiles at mother who smiles back. Like it's the greatest achievement, littering. In my head I admonish the mother and make up quite a speech. And compose replies to imaginary aggressive questions:

Q: Oh so you are doing Modi's Swachh Bharat (apparently retort of Bengali couple who were littering north Sikkim with plastic wrappers)

A: Yeah because teaching anything to sons is not an option: sons are beyond reproach, beyond civic ideas. The men of India are the best of citizens as can be seen from their actions.

I was mostly thinking in Bangla, but now do not remember exact words.

Ooof tired. Have to feed cats. Can;t write no more. Will change blog design, I think.

Friday, March 6, 2015

Selfie [sort of]

It's okay to feel sad.To want comfort. To feel the urge to make contact, physical or otherwise. It's okay to cry. It's okay to feel like shit, like you just can't go on. It's okay to want to hope, to have hope, to feel betrayed. It's okay if it is an emotional roller coaster. It's okay to want to get off and yet not be able to. It's okay to want to hold on and let go at the same time. It's good to write. It's good to feel. It's good to numb the pain, with ice cream and watchseries and cats. It's okay to want to escape. It's okay to bother friends at odd hours. It's okay to feel angry, try to feel angry and fail. It's okay to indulge. It's okay to feel depressed. It's okay to have mood swings, to sing songs in voice subdued by tears. It's okay to once again love oneself with that old, newfound tenderness. It's okay to indulge in the breakup ritual of gifting oneself Calvin and Hobbes. It's okay to write letters, carefully composed and recomposed to oneself in one's head. Love letters. It's okay to want to escape into that reality where you can erase all your memories and yet have a happy ending. It's okay to want to move on, not want to move on, to be undecided. It's good to run, to laugh, to cook, to eat, to scratch the chins of cats and hug them to sleep. It's okay to long for a room of one's own, metaphorically and physically. It's okay to cry. Really, it is. It is okay to feel like shit. It's okay to take comfort in small things like the softness of the pillow and the purr of cats and watching cat videos. It's okay to feel banal and profound, melancholy and manic, hungry and satiated, hot and cold, driven and bored, inspired and insipid. It's all okay, all in a day's work. And it is going to be alright even if it that doesn't quite feel right, you melodrama queen, you deluded moron, you hopeless romantic, you wonderful, complex. complicated human thing. I love you, as always.

Sunday, February 15, 2015

Love and Other Demons

"To love is to suffer. To avoid suffering, one must not love. But, then one suffers from not loving. Therefore, to love is to suffer, not to love is to suffer, to suffer is to suffer. To be happy is to love, to be happy, then, is to suffer, but suffering makes one unhappy, therefore, to be unhappy one must love, or love to suffer, or suffer from too much happiness "


via Parni Ray.

Tuesday, September 23, 2014

Kothao amar hariye jabar nei mana?

Except in physical time and space. Officey boshe likhchhi churi kore. Transcribe korte korte kaan byatha hoye gyalo.

Idike toh Jadavpur niye hebby golmaal legechhe. Ginger restaurant, Dhupguri, aro koto.Choturdike khali hashtag. Matha guliye jay majhe majhe. 

Aaj ingrijita thik ashchhena. Erom kore keno jani na likhte pari na oi bhashay. Osrodhyar bhasha bangla. No chudurbudur.

Was reading Allie's cartoons on depression (hyperbole and a half), now. I have to try and write a whole proposal by tonight and then come back and work tomorrow. Allie's FB note says:

"And then I briefly lapsed into a self-hatred-fueled badness spiral, and things got real weird. One day I typed the word "fuck" nearly eight hundred times in a row and then felt an overwhelming desire to hit "publish" because I desperately want to be the kind of reckless, daring motherfucker who could care so little."

The language in which I can be reckless, not-giving-shit-types is not English.

What if I didn't continue with this drudgery that is work, getting up in morning, petty quarrels, petty activism, feeling powerful, feeling powerless (in turns)? What if i refused? Well, there's be another (embarrassing) intervention. People will come knocking if i refuse to pick up phone thinking 'something's happened'. And it's not even possible: we must play at normalcy because we don't live on our own anymore. This is the adult life, then? Just make do with meaningless shit that is hateful and meaningless and empty?

Baapre! I sound like an angsty teenager. Allie put sit better:

"[I]t felt like I had been dragging myself through the most miserable, endless wasteland, and — far in the distance — I had seen the promising glimmer of a slightly less miserable wasteland. And for just a moment, I thought maybe I'd be able to stop and rest. But as soon as I arrived at the border of the less miserable wasteland, I found out that I'd have to turn around and walk back the other way."

All around me I see people feeling passionate about things, feeling adrenaline rush, etc. The most I can muster is A) a sense of duty and B) cynicism.

It feels kind of shit to end on that note. Hmm...what else do I have to say?

I want to move to Stockholm with cats and Linus and a PhD acceptance for both of us. I look forward to that, though it fills me with dread: the costs, the logistics, the anxiety: are not things I look forward to. Really badly constructed sentence that. I guess all of us want to move to something that is not here and now. from this job to a better one. From this country to another is just an extension of leaving troubles behind/grass is greener on the other side on a larger physical scale. So am I abandoning ship infested with Modi and RSS and BJP and TMC? I don't know. Though I planned to go for PhD anyway. And Calcutta has really worn me down: I would be angry at people for leaving and not doing things for and in the city. And now I am blaming myself for staying here and not doing/being able to do much. But now at least I understand why people would choose another option: it's easier in any other city. Jobs are easier. Transport is less shit. Accommodations (for middle classes) are not only full of aging retired people fixed in their ways. You have professionals that you can actually trust when it comes to the health of your near and dear ones.
ARGH! What whiney post. It doesn't look too good inside my head, as evinced by what is typed above. That needs to be remedied. Not sure how. 

Thursday, July 10, 2014

This blog is dead. Long live the blog.

Facebook has made me seemingly unable to write anything but snarky one liners bound to get a couple of likes, no more. So am determined to make a valiant effort. To defeat the facebook persona which has exceeded and taken over who I am. To the extent that sometimes I am afraid to be anything but a prolific sharer of political, funny-nerdy, catty stuff.

So I miss Netherlands. Imagine telling me this when I was living in den hagu? I would have laffed. But I miss my room in Dorus. Lying in bed looking at the glorious blue skies--sigh, how memory deceives: mostly gloomy as hell skies--and listening to the quiet being broken by shrieks of gulls and occasionally fellow students (yeah, student housings are weird places). I miss making meals three times a day--and putting on nearly 10 kilos and not fitting into any of the blouses come graduation day--to avoid studying. Falling asleep to Dexter and House on the laptop or Alex Turner's melancholia inducing soundtrack from Submarine. I miss living by myself just for myself--not having to think of others' needs wants desires. Doing as I please: letting my room resemble a battlefield of discarded clothes, shoes and printed articles or cooking elaborate Jamie meals for me. Going by Kelly's (expat shopping) to pick up a bottle of Hopping Hare or Bulmer's pear cider just for me. Going by the wednesday farmers' market to pick up the extremely expensive wild mushrooms for some outlandish Jamie dish requiring 40 ingredients: pied a bleue or some pink oysters. Going by the fancy veggie shop to pick up 250 grams of cherry (finished in an hour) or blackberries or exotic silver onions and fresh borlotti. Going by the Turkish store to pick up haloumi and stopping on the way back at Damocles finding the sudden treasure of 13 and 1/2 Lives of Captain Bluebear, almost new, at €5.

Of course these are things that come to mind looking back. Then I was living in my head: holding imaginary conversations discussing the merits of Hopping Hare with Simon, the rare find of Satanic Verses with Linus and that cumin gouda is a good addition to risotto (he will have a fit!), telling PC about travel to Spain accompanied by Bluebear and so on.

And the same lifestyle: having nothing to do and watching series constantly, here, I ascribe to depression. Oh Calcutta and lack of jobs, whittling away my desire to change, sustain things I do slowly but surely.

Monday, June 3, 2013

First Post(!)

So yeah it sucks to lose all your photos. Everytime I think about it reverberates painfully in the hollow left behind by its loss. But one must learn to move on--though one does not know yet, how, exactly. In the meantime the purple frantic goddess continues to sit atop the refrigerator. I will wait with her.