Wordless Wednesday but with words:Bazaars of Calcutta

linking this up with B&W Wednesdays at http://www.measamother.com/

Yesterday,my bestfriend and I(I often wonder if that sounds too puberty-ish?Then I'm like,who the hell cares?Who else has your back?)  took a sudden and utterly unplanned to our favourite part of the city-New Market in Esplanade.If you ask around in this part of the world,the men on the street hardly know the meaning of the word,but,to them 'splanade is the place for all things cheap,shady and occasionally good.New Market (or less popularly Sir Stuart Hogg Market) is over 200 years old,has been burnt twice in whole or partially,yet it still stands as the busiest and the most cherished shopping district of Calcutta.It was built at the time of the British Raj and inspite of it's antiquity, nobody blinks an eye about the word "new" still forming a prefix..I guess  it's just one of those places that never looses it's charm no matter how old.Some of the oldest shops of the city are in this district-and if you look around under those huge Victorian ivy-laced buildings you may see the foyer of the Oberoi Grand is still cobbled, though with  no hooves to strike an archaic symphony.The clock-tower ,you would be glad to know,has chosen not to run off  -horses or no horses,evening rides or not- and still tolls faithfully at each hour.

rookie attempt at perspective

After some time of usual public embarassment(crazy lady says whaat?) and aimless roaming- we slunked into a narrow,barely there lane and found these beauties.


This has to be my favourite shot of the week.Reason?Can you guess?5 points to Slytherine if you guessed "bokeh".

Showcasing it at show off your shot-http://www.andthen-shesnapped.com/

The bazaars in my city are noisy and often too crowded.But at the end of that jostling is a thing of beauty-the colours,the deliciously spice tinged aromas,the people and their niceties -you just want to get lost in it-even if you have  nothing to jingle in your pocket but a lone rupee.







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Imagine if it were Christmas for 5 days...

 In India,we Bengalis are the most festive of the lot.And now it's time for the biggest festival of all,the descendance of the Mother Goddess from Heaven to Earth with her children.Durga Puja.Five days of celebration when one entire race goes bonkers.I have pictures.Voila.

Arti-or the ritual of offering prayers,light and incense to the Goddess.

A  traditional Durga

..to be blessed

A themed idol.

*All pictures clicked by me.Donot copy/use without permission
The city dazzled with lights,the roads resembled a serpent in motion if seen aerially.I hate crowds and congested places and the themed idols don't attract me much.I prefer a not so quiet time with chosen friends instead.However,now that the five days have passed,I am filled with a sense of  gloom that I didn't go out as much.But then,all in all it was a pretty happy five days.More pics to come :)

My Dad never told me how much is too much..

...Probably because he never knew that I would put on my mermaid pants,jump in the ocean and come out clean without any trace of the scaly paraphernalia as evidence.(Have I significantly creeped you out yet?)

Last time I happened to give only a shady view,mere empirical data.I never got around to establish what kind of a drunk I am-which is quite difficult to demarcate-but, one which I believe,can be aptly described by a Bengali saying we have.Roughly translated it stands at- “Drunk by nature,Sober by practice” ;)

“Better me than a horny frat boy,” was what my father had said when he mixed me my first drink.I had slept well that night.(Author's note:I'm not sure horny was the word he had used-but I guess it does add pizazz to the dialogue and make my dad seem a whole lot cooler.)

You see,my association with alcohol has always been with one singular purpose-“Let’s get piss drunk”.How much is too much was never a point to considerUnderstandably,I have a lot of growing up to do.But here’s the fun and tragic part-it takes me one hell of a lot of the happy juice to go from Buckingham Palace guard to Mr.Wobbly Man.Meanwhile on the trippy road,I enjoy getting other people drunk and  watching them act out the painted fool in them.I mean,I don’t do it on purpose(so what if I did?Hell’s a lot hotter than Heaven anyway)-there are people who know how to conduct themselves,there are people who don’t.And it’s not taking advantage if the trapeze tricks from barstool to neighboring tables are voluntary.

Half-way across the channel we conclude:I’m a sadomasochist drunk with a conscience-which, in a way, negates the sadomasochist part and begs that I be better educated about the definition of the said term.

Also,when alcyhol goes tingly toes into my system,my senses become heightened-almost like a temporary genetic mutation into some creepy spidy-woman.Scratch that.The only thought that buzzes around my head-and successfully kills the buzz-is that I MUST return home sober(if I'm planning to return<---read:threatened at gunpoint that I absolutely must)-Or I’d be sleeping forever in a coffin that most definitely wouldn’t be mahogany,nor lined with velvet cushions.

Three-quarter way in:I’m a scared drunk,or-hardly drunk at all.

And last but not the least, the Magic Eraser drunk.

My entire persona-I’m a goofball and a hunchback with a warped sense of humour-which blurs the lines between my sober slurs and drunken drivels.This is a Divine Gift,my friend.Absolutely Heaven Sent on a winged horse that probably farted scented rainbows.How can you let it go to waste?You Mustn’t.

(Power to you if you can figure out if this was a sober slur or a drunken drivel ;) )

Till then…

One Tequila…Two Tequila…Three Tequila..floor!more!

 P.s:What kind of a drunk are you?

Today..

I'm in the mood to do a lot of things.Get them started,sorted even if I collapse at the finish line.Here's this issue I have-I get things started alright,but finishing them?Oh no.I guess I have commitment issues?But not when it comes to relationships and,that's for another day.So today..

from we <3 it

• I want to blog
• Figure out how the hell a Google reader works
• Get started on redesigning this blog.I like this design,but I'm going for something more..handcrafted?(suggest some ideas..vintage?colourful?shabang?grownup?Go on,comment!  )
• Read more.I bought a whole stack of new books at the Calcutta Book Fair.This goes on my Project Do Me:read more.
• Draw up a list for Project Do Me.Ugh..I was supposed to this Monday!
• Catch up on your blogs!(just because it's low on the list doesn't mean it's low on priority)*wink*
• Clean my room.
• Take pictures..I haven't taken photos in a while.So much for Project 365 :(

What are you upto?

The closed door was decorated.It shut with a bang.

When you’re addicted to blogging as much as I am,you tend to count every step you take. And look for blog worthy material in a marker to a ruffled pillow and  a wayward mind.

But,if you’re as lazy as I am,you end up doing nothing about it.

Like I did.

And Do.

I can’t organize my thoughts to sum up one sumptuous blog post ,but I had one awesome summing up of a hectic week.

It involves alchohol.

I know I got you interested.Hooked.One word.See?Even spelled out on a blog makes you want it.

So yesterday I attended class and then came home,and passed out.

But here’s the in betweens.

I’m 5 foot nothing.(the realization of this statement comes afterwards,trust me.I hope)

I met a friend  who went for college outside the state.Mister A looked like a shaggy sheep dog,but pleasant.A known face and aura always is J.

Also?

I came up to somewhere near his chest.Hovered about it,I should say. And he vouched for it that I looked shorter.Pfft.Sheep dog.

Cab ride to Park Street.

3 30 mls of vodka and a shared beef steak later we hopped to Mags[Magnolia] for shots.

No shots,no liquer.So we had a cocktail each.

Blue Havana for me,Whiskey Sour for him.

And then large tequilas.

Sauntering out I confidently remarked that it was raining-with the wet pavement in sight.

It turned out that they were repaving it.(in my defense,it WAS wet and the sun was still in its bedclothes)

I sought to put my purse in my bag.It fell out with a thump.Or maybe a flump.Or a-hump?It escapes me.

With equal confidence he remarked that I was high.

Reader,I believed him.

Tube ride to meet two other lads.

I probably clung to A for dear life[Sorry I didn’t mean to grope.Did I?]

One man with a bellyful of absurdity stared for at me for the rest of the ride.

Plonk.

New bar!

Old Friends!

2 more large vodka on the rocks.

By the end of the evening I couldn’t put one foot in front of another.

But I remember being completely sensible.(Absolutely not relative)

Except I laughed a lot.

And felt my lips go numb.

8:30. in the evening I was home and passed out.

Don’t tell me I had too much to drink.

I’m 20.

I’m also 5 foot nothing.

Psst.Check out our Mudmask and Martini blogger social  On Gnetchy's blog :) I'm yet to send in my pictures.Yes I'm sucky like that!Ty and Gnetchy,bang on my Red Door.Bang,bang bang!You get me goooiiiing.love you!

Calcutta Diaries-#1-Park Street

Pavements grey

Slick with

Thoughts and minds on the mend

And fray,

Agatha calls at the cemetery gate-

Her breath of putrid sickly,sweet mourning,wallowing-

Iron jaws wrought with rotting red roses-

Magnolias and mothballs..

Each in its mercurial madness-

Raises it’s sightless heart and

Mocks.

As the flames lick my memory clean

Of

Gold medallions searing holes on cold eyelids

And half –assed obituaries on a tottering hearse-

Agatha calls(frantic now,why!)

Yet I sing,

Like the finicky thorn bird that swallows its entrails

And refuses to die..

And then

(Like ashes to ashes and country worms to skin)

He stole my last refrain-

The rogue in the black cloak,

December rain.

The little droplets seared my skin as I made my lonely walk towards Park Street Metro.It was a long walk and my soles ached,for in fits of indicesiveness I had made 1and a half (either)ways of futile journeys. I had let two of my friends go ahead.I stayed back,with a purpose which exploded in my face like a pinata,and I made my way back again at 7pm with a dark cloud of *what ifs* as company.As two very elaborately semi-dressed women of the night pattered busy fingers and lips on their cell-phones, I crossed the road; bearing in mind my Bertha's words "We always walk on the left side of the road in India".I came across a pair of iron gates and a lonely lock bound in chains.South Park Cemetary-a colonial romance.The earliest grave dates back to 1768 while the last was erected in 1895.

It was after hours,and out of bounds.The darwan(guard) wrapped in a muffler that seemed to be green ,sat at a wooden school boy desk, a low watt bulb alight,hanging low enough to scorch his crown.

It was dark and compelling.But I passed.Flurry's and Music World.And then KFC.

The next week I went with a friend and his group of known(unkown to me) individuals.4'o clock in the afternoon it felt like a fuckin' picnic,and I-like a tourist in my own city.It was sunny,we chased crows  and picked flowers off the graves.They paid homage to David Hare while I chased some more crows and shoo-ed a street dog off a grave.

In the day time it was a different place.The charm had eloped through the backdoor,it would seem.

But something was mildly disturbing .
With a wave of learned,harried and hurried acceptance.

The tomb of Peter Archwell.

In loving memory of..

6th February -12th February 1788

Aged 6 days.

And fifty of its contemporaries.  Edit: I found this lovely article if you'd like to know more about the cemetary.It's just not bare facts and figures.Have a look!