3 New Writings

Once upon a time

The place seems so obsolete now. During winter, no light on the street after 9 P.M. I was told not to venture out. Ghostly demarcating field. The fear of getting caught for a cigarette. Joydip’s triumph in getting busted with alcohol. He cared a fig. Momentary lapses, juvenile sporting of selfied ghosts from the neighbouring area. All these images now accompany me as figural montage, stasis of erstwhile, yet a fresh gush of wind for my futuredom. Time lapses of twenty seven years. The cunning of reason shows the placement now, but how long the past persists, with not a mere thing except some joints and porn mag. Joydip’d elusive temperament of solving maths puzzle, me the ring leader, joined many, to make them close with their fiancé. Being a maverick in hatarpara locality and that too, scoring low grades, I was put forward by them and kathalpota as a negotiator, my immersive mandoali. I remember Shubhobrata, his intention of becoming a heroine peddler, he owe it from Pablo Escobar. The rain drenched tropics represented to us as some uncanny city in South East Africa. Thanks to Orientalism, we imagined ourselves as French or Brit sailors. The rebel in us showed we were also Arabs, native of  Aden, and the accompanying idle chat which qualifies itself for more than thousand years. How far was Basra? The centre of Arabian sea fearer imagining a base town, at the heart of civilisation.  The tropical trees and shrubs were native armies sometimes. As we grew older, they represented nothing except what they really were. As in this moment of exasperation and waiting for my Tierra Del Fuego, I return to soliloquy and past spaces, with its pictorial limit. It reckon past the fever of south end, Kolkata. I miss those days of calypso singing. Close or far, time to time, out of my jovial habit of time killing, i resort to mapping, throughout my whereabouts. This is a trait I got from hundred kilometres north point from the city.  South sea coast beside my house. Past renders in present.

Once upon a time-II

Deeply felt ennui of growing old. Cataclysmic puzzle solve of age old yearning of falling in love. She was in Frankfurt am Main; I was in hundred kilometres north point from the city. The red school building was more than a colonial structure. It represented to us something akin to military arson gallery. We were the wishful Portugese, taking charge of the native land. Yet, the native land was us. We saw the photos of First Gulf war. We were Iraqi’s. Solvent in water, the social democratic rulers were pleased to the core. Soon was time to grow old. Jump cut to 1994. Not yet fifteen, mama showed us the way of making peto. I was the right hand man, Joydip and Bhuddha was present. For her it was a waiting for fourty three years. Now I wait for her, twenty two months! In the meantime, I attain the street desire of Angle’s mill owner’s oppositional pride. For a mouthful of froth, I learned the techniques of being a proletariat. Amitava joined us in class nine. I went aloof with him. The chartered journey of bicycle seekers. The haze of country liquor. I spent the whole afternoon laying before a middle class house hold. Some infringement name Kollol tried to bully me by invoking my guardians. He needs money, unless all report to the parental care. Exasperated, mama and I threatened him. He went away like a meek fox. Amitava conceded that it was him, the master mind. Now as I see to it, time passes like anything. She has her agential scholarly aptitude. I too am not far. Time bespeaks of rhythm. It is the bifurcating crossing of spaces. In memory, each space occurs with an anecdote of other spaces. The stream of consciousness. One memorial space likens the other. There is no endpoint to it. Life reckon past such memory whence we wait for the grand arrival. For me it is her arrival, which provokes me to think through the past solvents, not always soluble with rhythmic time-space selfhood. Yet the past self is stationed, immersed with present, as I recall the tales from north point. 

Naturality of discourses

I am formed through my habit of being human. Human nurtures the self  as habit. Habit is naturality in guise. My temporal being begets nature as the locus of mythified historicity.  I look into the other as the tempo of being with for the selfified homogeneity. The other returns to me as meself.  Personal history as ahistory. Stasis of self as other’s locus. The natural history of being is the topos of not at home with regeneration.  Self looks for abstraction. So, the philosophy enters. The topography loosens  philosophy.  But the geo-philosophy utters its ritual pattern of being at par with the homonym of earth crust.  Natural being is in absconding due the immersion of nature and history. Resacralization returns the mythic. Population succumbs to it. Human changes the earth, soil. The naturality changes. In a discursive sense, this changed naturality is the initiator of human syndrome of philosophical sciences.  What we were doing after all, in this changed nature of history where history and nature penetrates each other and our everyday ontic experience is what stays, and ontological is subsided for more tandem human agency? To quote, philosophy. What was the beginning? Was there nature or history?  Time evolves through it. I talk to Sam. The initiator of boredom sciences. His is the syllabus of non-regeneration. I think through the other .  The other is a collage of personal tit bits, delineated through history as an immense time gap. This accounts to my own personal history.  Personality is awestricken through the immersion of totality in geographic planes.  There was thought before, yet not the subject who thought. The great vacuum thought for itself. Delinquent human took the charge in his own hand. This agential act in history is known as Anthropocene. Life begets the truth through its other-death. Who writes the death in our forehead? Not me or you, but the evanescence of time. The hollow motion. Philosophy stays, with its quintessential obsolete geological pictoriality and the location of being in certain non-decontextualized culture. But the life goes past death, through the working of self as geological purveyor.

Jeet Bhattacharya
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