STUPID, TEPID…..CUPID?

Love truly knows no bounds

When you take a meandering walk

By the pristine, hyacinth-filled lake,

Witnessing dusty, occupied seats

And amorous, gloating sighs

And stifled murmurs.

You blame yourself, curse yourself

For not having another connect to bliss

When you see those unending rows

Of sweet and salty nothings

Giving way to those unspoken words

Hanging in the air like suspended rain.

After bouts of irritation and envy,

You start seeing the heart’s captive power

To desire, be unloved and keep loving.

In a weird, unexpected way you reach

Those unfathomed depths of knowledge

That are busy stirred up with passion.

And then you come back to the world

Which has become unrecognizable now

Freshness fills the car-fumes

With a tinted, carbonated purity

That envelops your jaundiced being

And makes you want to cry out

“Je t'aime!”

                                                             -Rony Patra

                                                         Presidency University, 

                                                                    PG-1                                                                 

Snow

Relentless,it snowed.Unperturbed.Choking sinuous brooks that babble sounds of silence.Snowed on rooftops which see overnight mist trickling down the tin shade in icy droplets of water.On the beggar whose milky eyes beguile his desires to pilfer the lustful folds of sedate sleep.On the one-legged harlot who pursues a liquid dream to chase her fears away.On the impassive weaver,who,unfazed by the vagaries of the world painstakingly weaves his finest masterpiece thread after thread.On the blind girl selling dew-drenched dahlias to the tramp who feeds them to the nefarious worms.On the listless boy crafting paper lanterns with his sister under the black wings of darkness.

                 On them and on the world they inhabit,the first snow settled.White.Serene.Pristine.Camouflaging the grit on every broken pane.Masking every bit of soot on the sweeper’s naked feet.Razing the legacy of lies the live each day.Sealing the abyss beneath their black surfaces and perpetrating faint smiles on famished faces.Crafting sculpture out of stark moonlight.Peddling fistfuls of sinful illusions..

                  

                  On this and more,it snowed overnight.Relentless.Unperturbed.
                  

                                                                       -Bidisha Das

                                                                   Presidency University

                                                                           UG-1

Mandavi's Turf

Me helluva imbecile like,               

Brown bone, dust to dust.

Soon to be saint,

Dead as death itself.

Drowned in decibles,

Dust in the eyes,

Big salesman makes big sale.

O catastrophe!

Too big boy to open his mouth –

Him taciturn of all things!

Him ‘silent observer’.

What new videographic’s in store

In rundown studio yon up?

Felt Mandavi’s beak?

Read Mandavi’s billet doux?

Will you unmask my mask?

Look me up me down

Or stare austere hard in the eye-

In effect make insane.

But Mandavi’s turf beckons

And I go!

                                                       -Uday Hajra

                                          Freelance photographer and writer

Entomed

 The slumber was placid, replete with wispy visions of joyous fancy which abruptly changed to dreams of verdant harmony, the images pulsating with animation, each to each, before rippling away into the nothingness from which they emerged. Hazy likenesses of gardens, green fields, gleeful children, all coming to life, perceived as if through a frosted windowpane.

    The tranquil trance was rent asunder abruptly, by proportions assumed only in nightmares. It seemed as if somewhere in the distant, yet engulfing blackness of sleep, a thousand portals of cataclysm had materialized, issuing forth ever oceans of unmitigated chaos…

    When the man came to, it was still dark. It was just that the murkiness was not wholly as intangible. Senses seeped back into him, bringing along a wave of painful comprehension. He was entombed!

    He could not muster enough courage to open his eyes, for they would certainly be assailed by the weight of many layers of dust upon them. Indeed, it was now that he began to understand that it was the weight upon him which seemed insuperable. The darkness was unyielding, adamantine; swiftly undoing him. Yet the weight was not of that alone, but even of the functional limbs he knew he possessed before he went to sleep. Upon trying to budge them, the only response was a pulse or two of agony through the numbness.

    Memory and consciousness returned in due order. The complete comprehension of the situation impaled him with paroxysms of soul-wrecking terror. It was with herculean effort that he prevented himself from throwing up, fear constricting even his lips as he uttered muffled cries, using all the air he could find in the space. He had dozed off in his hotel room, an earthquake had occurred, and it had all caved in upon him. With little idea of how long he’d been unconscious, it was only a matter of waiting for death.

    Gradually overcome by utter resignation, he resolved to confront it with some spirit. As the blood subsided from his head, he endeavoured to compose his nerves, or what was left of them. Life, or thoughts of it, seemed bliss itself, and he entertained such sprightly ideas, in an attempt to make the end as painless as possible. His strength and will had been wholly sapped.

    Suddenly he heard a sound in the darkness, a noise, sharp, distinctly excruciating in manner. With great wonderment, the sufferer strained his ears in anticipation, determined not to miss even a slight scratch. The hopes were fulfilled when the noise was followed, after some vacant moments, by several similar crackling ones, each consequently louder. Splitting their way through the rubble to his ears, the noises seemed far off, but sent his heart prancing with renewed hope and vigour. He fathomed that a rescue party was cutting through the mounds of death to find the living. The noises seemed to be nearing him, and he tried to shout out of his sealed lips. His eyes, which he now bravely opened in narrow slits, were suddenly struck by an unexpected fulgence, much like sunlight. Yet the vision was instantly clouded by a gray pall, and he felt a warmth which was anything but comforting. The earthquake had caused several fires, and this was one of them.

                                                            -Soham Ganguli

                                                        Presidency University

                                                                    UG-3

a fantastic message!

Dear Dog(s), You cant be my pet(s).

Qualities define them. Loyalty is their forte. 

It is actually the way a dog looks at my face and tries to gulp in every word I utter, that fascinates me. The innocent glance helps me find my whole world in those pea-shaped eyes. The way its eyes lit up and gets excited, at the slight pass of a snail is such a pleasure to watch!. And those secreting fluids right inside its body boxes away all shame and warnings.

But does the hairy and puffed creature understand that it is laughed at and condescended? It still comes running to you for a bone, it follows you even when you turn down the curtains, it still keeps vying for a cuddle and you still adore the scar it leaves behind on your left cheek- Oh! The unfathomable touch! Their perennial hunger for eternal mates distresses and vexes you. But you continue... Yes you continue to love them with all your might. Because somewhere deep down your heart you know that love grows, dogs don't. 

Pun Intended. 

Your Loving Master.

by Sweta Dutta
1st year, History (Hons.)
Presidency University

Travelogue

A Night To Remember.

It was 29^th. of Oct, 2010, 11.30 PM, Friday, when, while holidaying in Mumbai we decided to drive to Queen’s Necklace or Marine Drive, from Andheri West, a good 30 km. drive one way. With three kids in tow, my thirteen year old son and two seven year old twin nephews, we set out for the nocturnal adventure a little before midnight.

Mumbai being Mumbai, the roads were choc a block with cars and we were stuck in traffic jams of unbelievable proportions which are seen in any other city only during peak office hours. After about forty five minutes we finally reached the Bandra Worli Sea Link which is now a life saver for Mumbaikars. The ride over the Sea Link in the dark night with only the lights on the link to guide us, was breathtaking! The drive which would normally take 30 min. took only 3 min. and soon we were in the very posh South Mumbai.

Cruising past the localities there, it felt we had reached some place in Europe. The architechture, the planning of the city, the buildings – everything had that European flavour which can also be seen in the British architechture in our good old Central Calcutta, even today.

As we drove, we went past the famed Haji Ali Mosque, the Haji Ali Juice centre - an institution by itself, the house of billionaire Anil Ambani, slated to be the most expensive house in the world today (!) and finally towards Marine Drive.

Parking at land’s end, we walked towards the sea, when we found that the place was crawling with people, mostly youngsters in their late teens or early twenties. The time was 12.30 AM and it seemed it was only evening. The gen-X were thronging the place, all out to herald the weekend with a night out on Marine Drive. We followed suit and sat down on the ground by the sea, sipping hot tea from the Chai-wala and munching on chips. The even more posh Colaba could be seen across the sea and the lights which lit up the Marine Drive twinkled in glory, just like a queen’s necklace.

The night was calm and the only sound that could be heard, was, of the waves lapping against the edge of the land where we sat enjoying our night out.

After about half an hour, with the night still “young“ we decided to take a walk down the path by the sea. The wall by the edge of the walk had a broad ledge where there were people lying down, enjoying the peace and quiet. We could just not resist doing so too and lay down there, on the ledge, under the night sky, under the million twinkling stars which shone on us from far. The feeling was indescribable and etched a permanent place in my heart for Mumbai.

At 1.45 AM, we got up to take a final walk down the road before leaving for home. Holding my twin nephews’ hands, walking along the quiet Arabian Sea, music playing somewhere far, it was a night to remember !

Finally bidding adieu, driving past Haji Ali once again, cruising over the Sea Link at 100 Kmph, the wind blowing in our faces, with Rod Stewart singing ----- “…I’ve still got the blues for you “, we finally started for home.

Call her Aamchi Mumbai or Bindaas Bombay, that famed western metropolis of our country will always hold a special place in my heart.

                                                                                                          Arunita Datta

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poetry

Aftermath


The desolate land
Scorched by the sun and blown by the wind
Hit by the wrath of thunder and lightning
And more…
The sounds of crying children, showers of gunfire
The screams of the wounded, the cries of the helpless
The soil stained with the blood….
Blood of friend? enemy?
What does it matter?
All blood is mingled, all blood is one.
Blood is blood, pain is pain
When blood is shed, life is lost.
The heated wind blows through the empty streets.
Broken and battered, left to rot
Corpses covering the road
Like the dead carpet to a banquet of hell.
And the child stands alone, overlooked by the soldiers.
Alive after battle…..
Alive?
He stands in the bloody courtyard of the nursery school
"I wonder what they fought for" he asked.
No answers, no response.
Only the aura of death.
Just the picture after battle….


                                                                   by
                                                                      Esmerelda Gabrielle Rossetti(Shreya)
                                                                      UG-3 English Hons. Presidency University