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Sunday, July 19, 2009

Hagrid's Parents?

This is Hagrid's father.




And this is Hagrid's mother.






So riddle me this Batman, How does Mr. Hagrid Sr. get his wife pregnant???



Drawings by LGL, according to scale and the descriptions provided by JKR.


Amritorupa Kanjilal also writes at Rivers I Have Known: Books, Reviews, and More. Please visit her there! 

Friday, June 26, 2009

My First Fireflies

Rejoice, all ye faithful. She has returned.

And all of a sudden
I cannot see their faces anymore.
Though I can still tell them apart
By the sound of their laughs.

Treacherous ink has leaked
From the dying sky
Into the silent waters of the lake
And has smudged the trees
Into shapelessness.

From inside the sightless blue,
Some people we can no longer see
Are strumming a happy song.
One of us lights a match.

And we notice that
A nightful of jaded specters
Have turned into glowing cigarette ends
Hovering up
And down
And up.

This is when they come.
One.
Then two.
Then some more.
Till the tar is speckled
With tiny flying children
Holding lanterns,
Rushing out to play.

And finally,
Four weary delinquents
Get down to the serious business
Of making a plan for tonight,
In the shower of fireflies.


This is for Anik, Joy and Hasi, in memory of a deliciously lazy evening.
Photograph- The Lake, Kolkata.
Its good to be back.



Amritorupa Kanjilal also writes at Rivers I Have Known: Books, Reviews, and More. Please visit her there! 

Tuesday, June 2, 2009

A Clarification, and a Blue Fantasy

Despite the fact that I haven't even started packing my contraband into my secret contraband compartments, and the time for my departure is slowly drawing near, I am writing to clear up a ridiculously embarrassing misunderstanding.

Several people who have read my LAST POST have written to tell me they hope I have a delightful holiday with Aniket ( of Melody of Dissonance). Some have congratulated me on finding such a great guy. One reader expressed overwhelming joy that the authors of two of her favourite blogs are seeing each other.

While I certainly wouldn't want to debate the fact that Aniket is a great guy, apart from being a dearly loved friend, not to mention my arch-nemesis, methinks a clarification is in order. I am going on a holiday with Anik, my best friend, lover, and fiance. Anik is a name by itself and is NOT short for Aniket.

But this idea that Aniket and LGL could go on holiday together has ricocheted, as ideas tend to do when they unwittingly enter my brain, into several Blue Fantasies, of which I am sharing my favourite.

Blue Fantasy Scene of LGL and Aniket Going on Holiday Together


He stood at the very edge of the cliff, his face orange in the sunset, his hair blown back by the deafening wind. He turned towards the car and called out- "What a beautiful view, come and see! Such a place is worth dying in..."

She got down from the car and walked towards him pensively. "I'm so glad you think so, sweetheart.", she whispered.

***

She sat in the car, nursing the drink he had mixed for her, listening to his favourite CD. He had gone down without a single shout. Proud. He had always been proud. Pride comes before the fall, she smiled as she thought.

***

They found her at the wheel. Rigor Mortis had done its job and left. She was still smiling.









Amritorupa Kanjilal also writes at Rivers I Have Known: Books, Reviews, and More. Please visit her there! 

Sunday, May 31, 2009

Holiday


Anik and I are going on a holiday to the city of our birth. We will spend the first three weeks of June doing things we haven’t done in a long time. This includes visiting many of our dearest friends, loitering for hours at roadside tea stalls, sipping cup after cup of lemon tea near the Lake embankment, foraging for old books in the second hand book market, perhaps catching a good play or a movie, getting drenched in unpredictable monsoon showers, smoking weed on the banks of the Ganga, maybe chartering a rowboat and playing rock bang in the middle of the river, eating too much street food for our own good, getting more body parts pierced, getting high before having to meet uninteresting relatives, getting sloshed in the middle of the day at some disreputable bar, and ambling aimlessly along unfamiliar alleys while languidly indulging in some socio-political debate .


Among other things, this means that there will be no posts on Rivers I Have Known for the next three weeks. I will, however, be reading all your posts, though I will probably not have time to comment. I promise to be back with lots of photographs, poems, experiences, observations, and Anik-dotes.


Take care of yourselves meanwhile. Will miss all of you. Will miss Cat’s foray into the world of fiction, Deepa’s adorable creations, Karen’s paintings with words, Sweta’s world-wise observations, Kriti’s plaintive rants, Joaquin’s musical expeditions every Thursday, Goirick’s bitter-sweet nostalgia, Jason’s maggot-kissing photos and spooky psychopaths, Aniket’s sometimes innocent sometimes sinister stories, Anirvan's passion-play with words, Priyanka’s utterly libidinous poems, Crafty’s unbelievely cute crochets, Mahesh’s heartfelt stories, Sawan’s poems that are sweet and sad at the same time, Margaret’s earthy poems, Atanu’s beautiful use of words, Amit Das’s homesickness, Amal’s daring experiments, Arnab's ruthless murderers, Quaint Murmurs’ funnily sad interpretations, Preetilata’s strange way of looking at life, Pradiptaa’s collection of amazingly good poetry, Sucharita’s little angels, Sarmistha’s tongue-in-cheek annotations, Amit's lyrical hindi poems, Smitha’s comments on my favourite books, Kirti’s well-aimed advice in her letters, Shubhajit’s ventures into darker and darker cinema, Sagorika’s sparkling poems and prose, Sakshi’s bizarrely funny experiences, Satan’s Darling’s acrostics, ….’s deadpan humor, Chriz’s very gross and very hilarious essays, Nikhita's bitchi rantings, TFL’s dark tales, Gagan’s love’s labour losts, Cherry Blossom’s photography. Amith’s adventures, SSQUO’s oddities, and all the other magical blogs that I read. See you guys in three weeks time.


Hasi, Bokom, Shila- am really looking forward to meeting you guys.


Happy Monsoons.


Ciao.

Amritorupa Kanjilal also writes at Rivers I Have Known: Books, Reviews, and More. Please visit her there! 


Oh- by the way, because of the recent cyclonic devastation, we have decided to scrap our plans to hit the beach.

Watercolor by Dilip Chitre. Photograph of Watercolor by LGL.

Thursday, May 21, 2009

A Moth In Love


A moth falls in love
With a playful tongue of fire.
What is love but death?





Amritorupa Kanjilal also writes at Rivers I Have Known: Books, Reviews, and More. Please visit her there! 

Sunday, May 17, 2009

A Love Song For Bhati








Bhati doesn’t know me.

Bhati wouldn’t care.

He looks in my direction

And all he sees is air.




His eyes are burning beacons

His eyes are so alone.

As cold as morgues at midnight

As motionless as stone.




Bhati doesn’t know that

A bird inside me tries

To home towards the beacon

Of his lonely, lonely eyes




He’s a quiet man, is Bhati.

But not one you can ignore.

In that solemn head of his,

Bhati keeps a silent score.




But I hear a thousand echoes

For the words he cannot utter

Like he’s at one end of a tunnel

And I’m standing at the other.




They branded him and caged him

They rubbed him raw and red

They roasted Bhati on a spit

Till his charred ol’ soul was dead.




But I would rain upon your wounds,

I would set you free,

If you’d only let me, Bhati,

If only you would see.

Amritorupa Kanjilal also writes at Rivers I Have Known: Books, Reviews, and More. Please visit her there! 

Thursday, May 14, 2009

An Acrostic and A Milestone


A writer can only

Hope for people to read and
Understand what she writes.
Nevertheless, it gives a very
Definite high when she
Realizes that
Every single silly thing she writes
Does manage to find a

Few people who think it’s interesting,
Or funny, or sad, or
Lovely, or outrageous, or plain
Ludicrous. So today, this writer,
Overwhelmed by her
Wonderful fortune in finding such an
Eclectic, weird and fun bunch of
Readers, would like to
Step down and bow in gratitude.


Amritorupa Kanjilal also writes at Rivers I Have Known: Books, Reviews, and More. Please visit her there! 

Tuesday, May 12, 2009

Twelve Hours With A Highway


There is something emancipating about being in a bus that's doing 140 kms an hour, on a highway that rolls on through deserts and mountains and shrub forests. The place you are leaving behind had no bars, the place you are heading to promises no extraordinary freedom, but still you feel like you are escaping, you are breaking parole, you are rushing headlong into adventure.

As your bus scurries like a terrified ant in and out of one of the world's most ancient mountain ranges, Gilmour and Wright sing in your ear-

Ancient bonds are breaking,
Moving on and changing sides.
Dreaming of a new day,
Cast aside the other way.
Magic visions stirring,
Kindled by and burning flames rise in her eyes.

The doorway stands ajar,
The walls that once were high.
Beyond the gilded cage,
Beyond the reach of ties.
The moment is at hand.
She breaks the golden band.


Every ten kilometers or so, the sky changes from sunny to cloudy to rainy to furiously sunny. The scenery changes too. Sometimes you see fields where mustard will perhaps grow later this year. Sometimes you see villages in the distance, and goatherds sing in some weird dialect as they guide their wards home alongside the road. Sometimes you see a lonely chimney that puffs black smoke into the yellow sky. and sometimes the desert takes over triumphantly, and you see nothing but miles and miles of unfriendly shrubs and thorn flora.

If you are lucky enough not to sleep through it, you might also get to see the sun set on the Aravallis, and a purple pall descend over the heated desertscape. Then impenetrable darkness, and sitting amidst twenty odd strangers sleeping fitfully, you are left with your own thoughts. You ponder upon the directionlessness of your life, and why everything is so scary, and how things change so fast and never go back to what they used to be, and how it's okay, it's always okay. And they still sing to you, those two, of burning bridges.

Bridges burning gladlyMerging with the shadows,Flickering between the lines.Stolen moments floating softly on the air,
Borne on wings of fire and climbing higher.

Amritorupa Kanjilal also writes at Rivers I Have Known: Books, Reviews, and More. Please visit her there! 

Friday, May 8, 2009

On A Wooden Bridge



It's not yet too late
To wash my skin clean of you.
The water beckons.


Amritorupa Kanjilal also writes at Rivers I Have Known: Books, Reviews, and More. Please visit her there! 

Tuesday, May 5, 2009

Just Before The Storm



Gray swarms the blue
Like angry bees,
The pregnant skies
Turn into seas.

The wind, he smells
Of joyous earth,
Of thirsty fields
Bathing in mirth.

Coconut trees, they
Dance and sway
To welcome clouds
That float their way.

Birds rush homeward,
Children dance
To the earth and sky
And their new romance.

Clouds in baritone
Voices sing,
A drop lands on
A heron’s wing

And then the skies
Start giving birth
Crash down in pain
Upon the earth.

Blurred and shimmery,
All at once
My world becomes
A cosmic dance.
This photograph was taken by my friend Bokom just before the first of the famed Kalbaisakhi (monsoon thunderstorm) hit Kolkata this Sunday. Wishing all of you a refreshing monsoon.
Amritorupa Kanjilal also writes at Rivers I Have Known: Books, Reviews, and More. Please visit her there! 

Sunday, May 3, 2009

Secrets Die A Lonely Death

A secret flame of steely ice
Cuts through layers
Of secret lies.

A secret lust,
Some secret fears
Choke to death
On secret tears.

Beneath the layers of secret lies
No one knows
When a secret dies.

Some secret fears,
A secret lust
Slowly, slowly
Turn to dust.

Secret flames on icy breath.
Secrets die
A lonely death.


This is a Painting by K.P.Reji. It is called 'Wait, Wait For The Next Move'. I'm sorry for the horrible picture quality, it was taken with my phone.
If this painting makes you write something- a poem, a haiku, some lines, whatever, please do
share...


Amritorupa Kanjilal also writes at Rivers I Have Known: Books, Reviews, and More. Please visit her there! 

Tuesday, April 28, 2009

Why (Some) Men Touch Themselves In Public

No, I’m serious, why?? Is it an inherent gender thing, or are guys taught how to do this in special classes when they enter puberty? Could it be sheer machismo, (I got it, so I touch it.), or a severe insecurity, (Shit! Why has it stopped moving?), or just an inexhaustable fascination with oneself, (oooh, I wonder if it has changed shape in the last 10 minutes)?

Or maybe it’s just a complete absence of consideration? Maybe it doesn’t even occur to a guy that it might disgust other people, especially if they are not male, to be watching him scratch his genitals in oblivious bliss. Maybe he assumes that since it would be the high point of his year to see an unfamiliar woman fondling herself, she would naturally feel the same for him.

Please don’t get me wrong. I’m not trying to be offensive here. I’m not even generalising. See, I added the ‘some’ in the title just to be politically correct, (though we all know better, don’t we?) I just need to find the answer to a few questions. And just so this doesn’t turn into a girly rant, I interviewed 6 hapless males to get their POV. The mentioned six have only one thing in common- they are my friends, (and hence somewhat weird) but apart from that, the sample range is pretty spread out.

The guys, strangely, were not remotely embarrassed, but talked willingly and eagerly. Only one of the six admitted to be a conscious ball-player, and the rest could not swear to what they did unconsciously. All six knew at least one person who persistently scratched himself, and two knew more than five. But this is where the similarity ends. When faced with the question of why people who touch, touch, each had a different theory.

Happy, who refused to accept that he touches himself even in private, thinks it is an Indian thing, the same inconsideration that makes people burp or fart in restuarants, or talk loudly about disgusting health problems to complete strangers. But he cannot explain why it should be restricted to males.

Nick says it is because men do not care and do not think it is cool to care. They think- ‘Whoa, I’m not touching you, I’m touching me; so whats your problem?’ He further feels that men should be left alone to touch themselves and women should get used to the idea that it’s just something men do, and not a personal affront.

Buno feels the tropical climate is to blame. Men, he says, sweat more than women, and therefore their itch problem would be more acute, especially in summers. He suspects that most scratchers suffer from some form of skin disease, and should be treated with pity and understanding rather than disgust.

Nandu suggests that the problem is more deep-rooted. He feels it stems from male lonelyness and emotional void. Men, he says, need to be touched, need to be loved and fondled. They touch themselves much as a lonely dog tries to throw and fetch all on its own. It’s a means to obliviate the sadness.

Sash (yes, of the porn CD infamy), says that many of his friends touch themselves in buses and trains to attract the attention of commuting girls. They enjoy being glared at in digust, it’s better than being ignored. Some guys even hope that the girls might just get turned on by the free show.

Sid feels that unlike girls whose hands are slapped away from their private parts from infancy itself, boys are never really taught not to touch. They grow up watching their fathers, uncles and brothers doing it, and they don’t even realize when they’ve imbibed the habit. They don’t mean to offend anybody; they just don’t realize it’s nasty.

The Monster Boss confesses that he touches himself because he has a very swollen, very crusty, very painful, very throbbing case of herpes down there and has also recently aquired a hyper-itchy fungal infection as well as pubic lice, and laments that the problem is getting worse instead of better.
(ok, no, that’s just wishful thinking. He wasn’t interviewed. I haven’t found out why he touches himself.)

Men, I didn’t want to judge you or show you down or rant against you. I merely wanted to understand a very bizzare habit that has never failed to disgust me or any other girl I know. Doing this survey opened my eyes and made me a more accepting person. I will never again want to set flesh eating scarabs upon a pair of testicles being scratched before my eyes. I realize it is a need you have, just as we girls need to compulsively eat chocolate. (No Aniket, I’m not calling you a girl).

But you might want to think about why certain parts of the human body are labled ‘private’ and why some places in your city are ‘public’ and how much nicer the world would be for the women you love, respect, and care for, if the twaine ne’er met.

If you have any insights you want to share, please feel free to use the comment page.

Amritorupa Kanjilal also writes at Rivers I Have Known: Books, Reviews, and More. Please visit her there! 

Sunday, April 26, 2009

Goodbye Spring


Another April bids adieu.
Yet, every mustached face I see
Is still you.




Painting by Monet.


Amritorupa Kanjilal also writes at Rivers I Have Known: Books, Reviews, and More. Please visit her there! 

Thursday, April 23, 2009

Crab



Three more inches.

Just three.

Crab strained his eyes. He could just see the tufty bit of root sticking out of the earth, three torturous inches away. It had been two hours that he had spent on his back, wiggling himself towards that root. And he had covered a single inch in all this time.

The root was his salvation, the only thing he could grab to get back on his feet. To get out of this dark dark hole. Three more inches. Crab forced his entire body to concentrate... Wiggle, man, wiggle!

Stupid. He had been stupid. The hole had seemed so innocent. So inviting. There was bound to be food inside, he had thought, and he would find it. Instead he had found himself on his back, as helpless as a silly turned turtle, and with no possible way to get out, except that stupid root he still couldn’t reach. He wiggled with all his being, celebrating each millimeter won with a gasp.

Two! More! Fucking! Inches!

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a squirrel’s skull, yellow and fragile. So he wasn’t the hole’s first victim. But no way. No way. He wasn’t going to die here like that dumb mammal. He wasn’t going to die such a meaningless, ridiculous death, on his back with his legs waving, in a dark stinking hole with a skull for company. Wiggle, man!

He couldn’t die on himself now. He needed to see his lovely pond again, the pond he had spent his whole life in, the pond he used to think of with so much disdain.

And he never got around to telling that pretty pink thing with those cute tiny claws how much he liked her. What about his dream of building a house of leaves and shells on the east bank of the pond for her and the children they would have together? NO! Come on man! Wiggle!

ONE MORE INCH!!
And what about his biggest dream, to see the river all the ducks and frogs always talked about… Imagine a place where water moved on its own! And so much bigger than the pond! Crab was not going to die without seeing that river, no he wasn’t!! The skull grinned at him in encouragement. Move man!

Sweat trickled down Crab’s insides. His back was raw from the rubbing. His claws were numb with the straining. He seemed to be moving, iota by iota, only by the force of his mind. Then, suddenly, something touched his ass.

Crab didn’t allow himself more than a moment to feel relief and joy. His lower claw grappled with the root and began to maneuver his half-dead body. He didn’t stop to wonder where the strength was coming from; he merely remembered the instant when his feet touched soft earth. And then he was scuttling, out of that dark scary tunnel into the fresh, open world.

He could smell the pond before he saw it, orange in the sunset, his paradise of food and shelter. Sweet, sweet pond! Crab scuttled towards it faster than he had ever scuttled in his life. A fat pig, waddling homeward from her evening bath, stopped to toss him in the air and catch him in her jaws.

Amritorupa Kanjilal also writes at Rivers I Have Known: Books, Reviews, and More. Please visit her there! 

Sunday, April 19, 2009

Little Girl
















We promised
That we would have a little girl
And we would name her
After your eyelashes
And my eyes.
Where do promises go when they die?
Where do little girls wait till they are called to be born?




This was my contribution to Catherine's Tapestry of Spring. If you want to see the uniquely beautiful anthology and hear this poem as well as seven magical others being read out, please visit Catherine here (link)
And if you want to read a poem on the making of this wonderful creation, you should visit Aniket here (link)



Amritorupa Kanjilal also writes at Rivers I Have Known: Books, Reviews, and More. Please visit her there!