They call it Burrabazar. I call it The Place Where Things Are Called All Wrong. But it wouldn't be Burrabazar if not for that, would it?

It calls Sunny Footwear shop Sunee footwear shop, which is technically the Urdu word for Empty. Which makes it strangely ironic because the sunee/soona jutor dokaan was filled wid mamunis of all shapes and jutor sizes.

I'm not as poetic as Ms. Nayar and among the Benaras-like serpentine lanes of Burrabazar in the myriad chumkied satins and silks I scarcely see beauty. But sometimes its difficult to ignore. It's a D-SLRs delight I guess. And for foreigner on a Discover India nanga bachcha tour, its probably paradise.

I remember there was a frantic auto ride with 750 worth thermocol on our heads. And the Talli Gallis of Mullickbazar with rundown cars for posterpurposes.

For me it was strangely surreal and playhousey. Not that almost everything in the last 3 weeks hasn't been that.

And more.

Special Mention: The Coondoos.

Aunty Aunty

Picture this.
Dark Room.
Rain.
Rooftop terrace.
30 people.

And Party Whistles.

Endless loops of Oms and otherthingsthatdontmakesense. But does. Somehow. Me being social autist taken completely into consideration. G's "party" was the first one I have attended in a million years. Redefined the term "kiddie party" completely. Party Hat. Whistles. Added dose of grinding with unknown people. And Seeing R &R stoned and screaming "Aunty, Aunty I want cake. Cake. Cake. Cake. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa" when G's parents were valiantly trying to cut a Kookie Jar truffle cake to satiate 30 undernourished "special" kids. In our little corners we allowed the "Stonaars" to glide in seamlessly and book their places. We opened doors when G's dad wasn't playing Baba O' Riley and created a Wasteland of sorts. Definitely not Teenage.

Jai hok. Moral: I liked party. Had fun. Saw strange insect scaring R&R. Saw Mandark chew. chew.chew. chew his food. And G with princess crown on head. Made my day.

Dregs Of life. Here I come.

Phatigued I am. Thanks to Playhouse.

Yet again.

Surprisingly, quite unwillingly its now a part of my life. I'm not sure whether the people I see around me, throwing themselves at each other, Soulja Boying, acting like medieval Sufi saints, pushed around by a determined group of robust girls, Weeeing and generally acting "special", will ever be lifelong or even year long friends or anything more than casual acquaintances, but for those three hours we are all we have. And that truth is strangely comforting. Peaceful. Overwhelming. We may not like each other, know each other, acknowledge each other in the Someplacish world out there. But in Raka's Lalgola when Tipu decides to prowl and 30 retards are trapped in their worst nightmare, it becomes almost moja with capital M. And that's when Phatigue takes over.


Some would argue that this could be traced back to a single Spoint. But House of Cards has never sounded so good. Special thanks to Soulja Boy. And policemen on bicycles.

If I told you a secret
You won't tell a soul
Will you hold it and keep it alive
Cause it's burning a hole
And I can't get to sleep
And I can't live alone in this lie

So look up
Take it away
Don't look da-da-da- down the mountain

If the world isn't turning
Your heart won't return
Anyone, anything, anyhow

So take me don't leave me
Take me don't leave me
Baby, love will come through it's just waiting for you

Well I stand at the crossroads
Of highroads and lowroads
And I got a feeling it's right

If it's real what I'm feeling
There's no makebelieving
The sound of the wings of the flight of a dove

Take it away
Don't look da-da-da down the mountain
If the world isn't turning
Your heart won't return anyone anything anyhow...

So take me don't leave me
Take me don't leave me
Baby, love will come through it's just waiting for you

So look up
Take it away
Don't look da-da-da- down

If the world isn't turning
Your heart won't return anyone anything anyhow...

So take me don't leave me
Take me don't leave me
Baby, love will come through it's just waiting for you

Love will come through.


Travis was made for people like me and Ms. Nayar. So that, on days like this, when Boomerang ditches us and nothing in the world(least of all our love-lives) don't make any sense whatsoever, it's always there to make us make sense. Of cunts. and Purple Pansies with Yellow Speckles. And Boys who Never Grow Up. And bandhs. And Kolkata rains...

It's a little tragic to summarize whatever constitutes my love-life and admit that there's practically only one mention-worthy event in it.
And that too back when I was a boy. Maybe I should go back to that. At least then I knew there was no chance.
Now, when waxing, threading, pedicuring is a part of my daily lexicon, it is bleaker than it ever was.
I'm far from pretty. I'm overweight. I'm not very intelligent. But I look nice once in a while. Even thin. And I can be funny sometimes. And my grammar isn't fucked.

Srijoni Chowdhury has a boyfriend. And so does Ipshita Debnath.

Beatles is now playing "All I Need is Love".

I think I need weed. Right about now. because as Srin says, "Everybody MUST get stoned"

I'm tired of falling in love with men in books.


There has to be atleast one out there for me.


Sanity and humour is all I am demanding.