Sum up

Life of north point is not so evanescent. It returns with the galore. How green was it? Nothing to pay heed, simplistically rustic.  Petrol bombs and chamber was the pinnacle of Texas like gay pride. Easy habit of being at one with the othering selfhood, masturbatory instincts and, comfort of coolness, of playing hide and seek with brothers, seniors and Orang Otang neighbours.  Life was costly enough to play the penny whistle of not succumbing to teachers notice. We played truant.  Someone described me as an idiotic buffoon, which only listened to the voices from the places of teenage half-priced beggars’ opera. We begged throughout the world, sacrificial! The reddish school building was the military camp of French army, for some it was the Second Republic, playing on both sides, with imbecilic teachers!  For me, the home was arson gallery of some Brit sailor, dealing in machine guns. I had a toy. There were other schools. Certainly they were natives; we were the sailors, sometimes Portuguese, sometimes Arabs. Alcohol came at a later age. Barely striking the cord of teenage, we became more than a sailor. The hoodlums. They issued warrant.  These touch and run between we and they went on for five years.

The pinnacle was ninth standard. I became the inbetween. I transgressed the schooling by transporting love-letters for friends. Did I have any? Nothing significant. On other side of the Globe, she was getting ready with her syllabus, Jaspers, Bloch and Husserl.  I played to penny yellow magazine and rustic charm of Bombay movies. Turgenev interrupted. Truffaut followed suit. The fever of growing old. Rain always represented the morbid side of sultry Hong Kong. On the other hand, she had my photo. The drudgery and boredom of twenty odd years. Between I learned the techniques of being a Second Republican. Lin Biao had some space in my heart. It was the celebration of new, diminishing the bankruptcy of the old. But, the old, in its oldness, situated in a newer context, becomes more new.  The boredom circumnavigates the brawl. Trespassers are welcome.  Old or new, the certitude of infinity.  As it evaporates in its being with for the self, self as an extension of otherized futurality, we demand the stasis of boredom!

Jeet Bhattacharya
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