Break Out

It was a kind of ecstasy. Being the pinch hitter in group of sultry hoodlums. My man was Som and the little crook Sujit. Who’s who of canned lumpency of Hatarpara, just opposite of our school, red and gray, which most of the time represented French arson gallery.  All the paras or areas were for the natives. We were the cunning Arabs. Our base city was London, Paris or even Senegal. We were sailor per excellence. Dalia plant meant more than itself. Sultry love affair of princely reckoning, the woods surrounding the town.  From Soviet Embassy to heroine junkie, we had grasp over everything. Love fetters a few. Amitava and Dhrubo was the pinch hitter in this field. Me the elliptical narrator. From Marx to Bauhaus architecture, Jude the navigator. Som was Hashish stricken. I too figured out the solipsism of hash stricken punctuality. Laughing without any objective. There were fearful places, lonely to the core. The field around Queens College or the empty field close to Horticulture. I had to exorcise from myself the ghostly atmosphere; they were certainly horrible West Coast. I delineate the picture, something eerie. Natives didn’t go there. Nor we, the indomitable sailors. The time in those places were being for the other, being’s trophy of forbidden “in-itself”. They had their Oneness in the root, the originary mimetic point of new namehood.  Mine was Truffaut like humanism towards the otherized zone of fearful Evil Dead. Latter we went there in group. A time for within in “for-itself”.  Our  colour being Les Blues. The soccer Congo and the west coast of Africa resembled more humanly objective than Connecticut or West Coast, California. On the other half of the Globe, she was disturbed to see my tandem photo. I was into free hash. Lampooning the teachers continued. I got a suspension order with lot of beatings. All were together. We held it. Teachers were circumcised. Our inscriptions brought in the galore. From Congress (I) to hard core Maoist, all were with our solipsism. I scored not so bad. Now in the city, and my aimless movements for twenty odd years. The Morphine substance took hold. I was waiting for someone. She entered the scene. Being with for the self. Otherized ‘for-itself’, no more on the streets. Being stands as an extension of self’s timeized zone of willingness.

Jeet Bhattacharya
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