Guestbook
Do I look like I give a damn?
That’s my face and I don’t have much to say; the posts should say it all. Shortly, this blog is about love in the city, precisely started when I lost all my faith on that four-letter-word and was instantly, almost, surprised. So this blog is about love and about cities in general. And oh! I am from Calcutta (now named Kolkata), the capital of the Indian state of Bengal and I am a Bengali too…
I.
Am I looking at you? I am looking at the camera however you look at me. I know you are looking at me. Whose is the portrait of? Of a man who can Bogarte the fag, who looks like a junkie beginning, his disheveled possibilities, stubbled contemporary and his bare shoulders? Or of a machine which can look at whoever and whatever, living or dead? The camera is about to turn at you and my look says that I know what the mean machine can do…
Can I read you readers? I am looking at my blogging dashboard however you read me in. What are you reading about? Whom are you…? Are you reading a man who can take it all, who writes like the beginning of an end, his throbbing in the incessantly assailing rain, muddled temporality and his bare soul? Or a blog which can be anybody’s anymind’s, speaking or silent? the weblog is about to unfold before you and poised fingers knows what sort of lies it is capable of…
It might resemble a portrait of mine but the camera is in the foreground, just like a blogging apparatus which you forelook and you think you are…seeing my flesh beneath my skin, wind beneath my eyes.
Its an aside that the writing is mostly mine just like the fingers circling the Sony Cybershot is also mine. Its just to remind you that the image is horizontally inverted so the camera is pointed at the mirror to look the other way round…and just to remind you that the blogging machine too is scanning a monitor to look back at a face staring at the flickers fast enough to be noticeable in flux. The portrait in the pages might be…existentially…inverted. Who is there in front of the monitor? You? Me? Or someone third?
Reader…if only I could have loved you…
Treat this as a guestbook … write anything underneath and it goes to my mailbox, straight! Does not appear here…
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Ah, bong and Calcuttan, I see. Me too from Calcutta though years since I shifted to the good ole capital city.You like the writings? Merci! Methinks they border sometimes too much on paronia and depression but as you have said so succinctly they hurt nobody but me. You remind me so much of my smoke filled college canteen days! Go figure.
Life’s Elsewhere: Welcome! Since you are just a few years senior than me, I can figure out your college days. Ironically, I thought I was never a part of those mythical Calcutta college canteens, I was an outsider in Kolkata though I had my years in Jadavpur University. I was a bit late, methinks…
But if those smoke and sounds survive in my writings, I would be too glad. Your writings are wonderful too!
I think the writings, the picture of a brooding you (!)with a fag makes me terribly homesick! How many hours have I spent with similar such youths discussing Marxism and what have you in the old Coffee house!
It is really me!
Life’s Elsewhere: Why the exclamation mark after ‘me’?
I understand; feeling nostalgic myself. These days particularly feeling that such an ambience has led us more to wild geese runs. Was it good? Was those things irrelevancies? Dunno; but as I told you, would be too glad if I…