Thursday, November 11, 2010
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Dear Ms Bhattacharya,
I received your rather cryptic, and I might add intriguing, note via this vulgar contraption called Facebook. I am still not sure what to make of either the strangeness of the mode of communication or your audacity, but I feel a reply is in order.
So you believe yourself to be one of the rare individuals to be investing your academic time in my work as you try and climb the precarious ladder of graduate school. I hate to be the one bursting your psychedelic fantasy bubble, but you are probably the one thousandth person to consider my work as suitable subject for study. Perhaps they did not warn you, but the others ahead of you in the field have not fared too well. I am not a kind muse. However, since for some perverse reason you choose to persist, I feel it is my duty to acquaint you with the imminent pitfalls.
When you so peremptorily suggest that "we" need to talk (a line, by the way that was last used by my ex-wife to inform me she had had just about enough of me) you have no idea who the "other" is in this dialogue. Nor may I add, you ever will. Your naivete might have been endearing a decade or two ago, my response too might have been more favourable. Today, however, I have seen too many of the likes of you to believe any good will ever come of it. What you will eventually produce (if anything) will be a naive mix of idealism and baseless logic, supported by arguments as strong as the various anti-war protests. Once you finish basking in your momentary glory, you will realise the futility of your work as you will be relegated to the musty corridors of teaching canonical literature. When (or rather, if) you do acquire the power to teach your "area of specialisation" you will be left spouting trite arguments following the latest theoretical fad. At the end of it all, when you can no longer hide your disillusionment even from yourself, you will be resigned to having spent the better years of your life wondering what made an old man's work so special without ever having uncovered their polyvalent layers.
If, after such persuasion, your enthusiasm remains vigorous, then I can only offer my sincerest condolences.
Sunday, April 04, 2010
Tuesday, December 08, 2009
yet another year comes to an end, and yet again i realise i have precious little to show for it. i consistently remain my non-achieving self, and sit down once more to do a spot of stock-taking. you could also call this an escape-from-sop-writing, but then again, life is full of nay-sayers. 2009. one significance of it could be my 25th year of existence on this here our glorious planet earth. i mean, 25 years, a quarter of a century - it's gotta count for something, right? right? right. the last couple of years have been somewhat crazy, and this one tops the list. decisions that i was supposed to regret didn't bother me a tad bit, people i was supposed to forget i couldn't stop thinking about, and loves that were'nt supposed to happen just magically did.
special mention must be made of tampa. i hate that little town and i am bizarrely fond of it. if you ask me what i miss, the vote'll go to those breathtaking sunsets, to the funny sense of independence, to some very very good friends. but that little picture of the rain that still seems so very alien refuses to go away, and makes the whole sketch soggy. all in all, i have seen the beauty, and i know it had little to do with the place. with someone it was the best place on earth. at other times...let's just say, i'd seen better.
also, i doff my non-existent cap to a certain charles harpur from new south wales, australia. you're a boil on the face of poesy, your writing sucks from here to kamchatka, and you certainly could do with clearer paleography. but thanks to your reams and reams of nonsense, i get to go back to my home away from home. it would seem bad poetry does have it's uses after all!
kolkata. where would i be without you. i have tried and failed to understand what is in this strange city that makes me want to call it home. friends, faces, places, people yes. but just that something more that you suddenly get a whiff of while perched on a rickshaw, negotiating the lanes behind dakshinapan on a winter dusk.
remember the "just so stories"? just so.