HER QUEST

I don't know why it took me such a long time to write something.....why I had written something like this....but then may be there is a quest that often remains unheard in a lot of relations burdened with marriage, family and society and what ensues is a gradual exploitation.
This poem is a cry to all those women shackled under the chains of physical exploitation to break free.....seek their freedom, whatever be the cost, for it is their own.....I hope I can reach out to someone in need!!!

HER QUEST

                                                                                                      - SAPTADEEP BASU (2012)

Thirty years by my side,

Another thirty I might just crawl by;

Locked up deep inside,

Was a fucking quest burning alight.

Ravaged my puny youth satiating your bored desires,

Your different positions which you proudly proclaimed your “emotions”;

Ramming me hard to prove you were a man,

If you could have survived the pain, I would have called you a “woman”.

My broken jaw testifies your love,

My battered body has served your need,

My swollen eyes still have its dreams,

When between my legs you satisfy your greed.

I want to rape your soul,

Feel the pleasure of seeing you bleed,

As I have been a million times,

Like a piece of flesh under the butcher’s knife.

I bloat like a corpse in your stinking piss,

To cleanse my soul of my nuptial deeds,

A naked facade that shall shame the heavens;

Was ready for you to plunder once again.

I lay beside you caressing your hair,

Slithering over your skin, but you didn’t care;

Held you down to devour it as you often wished,

Yet tonight, it simply caved in.

Locked deep inside, the quest still burnt alight,

Why I had let thirty years simply pass by?

I rubbed myself hard and felt the woman in ages,

Till I was wet in the flow of red.

***

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The tryst of being a “MIDAS”

Way back in history, there was a king of Macedonia, King Midas. The great king was blessed with a wish that anything he would touch would transform into pure gold. He was ecstatic with his good fortune, a feeling that he would be propelled among the greatest of kings, the richest and the most powerful. All went well, till he was hungry. He picked up a morsel to eat and it turned into pure gold, and he famished into oblivion.

Many thousands years later, one Mahendra Singh Dhoni bursted into the Indian cricket team. After years of misfit in the wicket keeping slot, Dhoni with his long mane was a refreshing change. From the irritating noise behind the stumps in Mongia days to the measured silence in Dhoni’s time, from the ghastly silence of runs from wicket keeper batsmen to the ballad of sixes in Dhoni’s days, he became the toast of the nation. His belligerent batting, his commitment to the game, his connect to the Indian youth propelled him to the greatest throne the cricket crazy nation could offer, the captainship of the “men in blue”. And the lad never disappointed. He won everything that came his way that the sport could offer to a captain. From T20 world cup to ODI world cup to test no. 1 team and even IPL & Champions league. Everything he touched turned into gold. Midas Dhoni’s team seemed invincible.

In his period of success, he rarely showed emotions and never gobbled the limelight. Even in the trying of situations he seemed unfazed, possibly disinterested and let the game go on till the climax, when he pulled back the game on the dice with threads invisible to the lesser mortals. He gambled with zeal and yet remained the unperturbed spectator. If he failed, he acknowledged his gambles and walked on, while the cricket pundits spent nights’ debating his shrewd tactics. He was the calm leader of a fearfully united battle clan. Both on the field and off it, he was politically and media correct. Behind the curtains, he showed glimpses of the great Clive Llyod with inferior artillery at hand. It seemed the bloom of Dhoni’s spring and his tryst with lady luck would last for long till came the gloom and despair of the English and Aussie summers.

The cracks in the clan surfaced. The very voices that anointed him the captain of a billion hopes, now questioned his authority of leading eleven people on field. His gambles were now whispered as the whims of fading captaincy. His “captain cool” image suddenly was seen as a timid submission of an ailing leader. His statements were no more digested as media correct but were dissected till it became fodder for his own grave. Overnight he was projected as a quitter of Test leadership, as if some Mayan calendar has prophesised the decimation of his Test career in 2013. Many in the team suddenly seemed too keen to shoulder the role of the Midas. Parallels were drawn with another Shakespearean hero of the nation, Saurav Ganguly. It seemed our World Cup victory had been decades ago.

Dhoni unlike Saurav had got a team forged with steel, an ideal balance of youth and experience, but maybe it was with that steel that forged the nail in his coffin. Saurav when captain had a daunting task of creating a team from a gang. He commanded respect, for his team members were his fellow mates (in age group and experience) or young guns brought to the arena by him. His aggression was uninhibited as he was as good a Test and ODI player as anyone else in the “men in blue”. The young respected him to the core as he was always behind them; the seniors avoided the finger pointing as he was one of their own and the BCCI muted discord as he was one of the big four with a terrific record backing him.

With Dhoni, superficially though the task seemed easier, but it brought the additional burden of handling the seniors. He was calm, his aggression subdued as he had to lead players whom he had adored and worshipped during all his formative years. He cannot force them to retire neither could he drop them from the squad. He was never the class act with the bat when compared to Saurav, particularly in Tests, and that made it difficult for him to contain even his comparatively successful mates in the team. When success soared him, the voices were bound to be a whisper, till it eluded him for the first time and the whisper turned into a chaos.

Dhoni’s success ratio in tests is directly proportional to the respect he commands as a batsman and captain in the dressing room in Test matches. For Dhoni, it is easier to rest himself in Test matches rather than asking Tendulkar, Dravid or non performing Laxman to rest for the match. His success in limited overs cricket proves the fact that, unless the reins of the horse is in your hands you cannot ride it. His man management, silent leadership skill was what steadied the Indian ship when there was none to look up to. His act of letting Ganguly captain the last few overs of his final test and let Tendulkar steal the limelight of the World Cup victory from him is a testament of the wise head over his shoulders. His “never say die” attitude and tremendous fitness levels, performing as a captain in all the formats of cricket and even mating success in a globalised IPL team proves his leadership skills beyond doubts as compared to his present day peers. Tough decisions have to be taken, for a religion like cricket cannot be maligned, but not at the cost of its preacher. India failed overseas as a team and crucifying Dhoni for it would be the easiest job. But then, has anyone proved their credentials (even in IPL) to deserve his role?

The history of larger than life captains in India has always been like the fable of Midas. Till they had the golden touch, they were hailed as the greatest, but one failed step of the team, they were thrown into oblivion. Team India needs Dhoni, atleast to tide over the generation of the greatest batsmen India has ever produced. We have seen the great Kapil Dev in tears in national television, shunned forever, after putting India in World cricket map. We have endured Saurav Ganguly fight for his existence and forced to bow out of the arena, where he created champions. We now see a faltering Dhoni amidst intense pressure justify his place in Test matches till 2013. Aren’t we Indians fed up of the old fable or do we need more Midas to keep constantly reminding us of the moral of the story forever?

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Its Now or Never

Sometimes, someone's life seems so bloody perfect, that your imperfection glares at you. A happy family, a happily married life, a good job, a great girlfriend.....and among all these perfectionists, there lives millions of imperfect fellows....This poem is for those DESTINY'S FUCKED UP CHILDREN.

ITS NOW OR NEVER

                                                                                             - SAPTADEEP BASU (2011)

With a pen in his hand & a memory in sight,
Began the poet in his struggle to rhyme;
Juggling with his words till the end of the night,
Promising him, an end to smile.

A thousand words wasted.....a million to go,
Fighting with himself.....he had his happiness to flow;
But the laughter dimmed and the wails aloud,
The butchered heart once again cried loud.

He tried to breathe life to the tear soaked paper,
Scribbled the title, “It’s now or never”;
Lit the stale smoke he saved for the day,
And let the moment lazily graze away.

The words came and yet flew by,
The silent pen refused to oblige;
The empty bottle of vodka laughed at my wits
I struggled for the night, while she called it quits.

The morning kissed the night goodbye,
The sky from my window lent a pretty sight;
The poet resigned in his struggle to rhyme,
And his futile attempt to make himself smile.

Hours fled till the sun baked the earth,
The birds chirped a mournful dirge,
The open window rattled in the wind,
Releasing the silence caught within.

The blood stained paper fluttered in the breeze,
“It’s now or never” as the moment ceased;
His final words held his reason to smile;
“A silent poem from a fucked up child”.

 

***

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Seduction Of Death

Friends, sometimes life is easier to define then a feeling that you heve never felt...."Death". This poem is an attempt to understand the strange mystery when life hangs in balance, when you just don't know whether to welcome the feel or just shun it as you have done all your life. Or maybe there's just a hidden beauty in all the gory descriptions of death. The Pied Piper feels humbled when the moment is thrusted upon someone and when someone tries to enjoy the seduction of the moment.

Read ......but pause for a thought.....

Seduction of Death

- SAPTADEEP BASU (2011)

My final moments of life....my last reason to live,

To encounter my mistress in her last deceit.

My breath grew heavy but life refused to retreat,

For somewhere in me....yet a virgin lived.

Flashes of memories and my distorted life,

Etched your beauty that I despised;

And yet my blurry vision search for you tonight,

To cease the pain and this lonely night.

The seconds eased as the moment froze,

The cries of death deafened my soul;

The gory winter lost its shrill,

As her silhouette touched my window sill.

Dawning her black silk she came to me,

Her eyes were dark and just too deep to see;

I admiringly gazed in that face smeared with blood,

And felt the warmth..... in her cold touch.

Her flawed body shone in the glitter of the night,

Her skin was dark and yet so divine;

Her lips thirsty for the naked kill,

Waiting to taste life and the pain I feel.

I devoured her beauty as she slipped her veil,

She slithered on me with a serpent’s skill;

My tormented soul agonisingly cried,

Titillating between death and life. 

The essence of life bloomed once again,

As she entered my soul and savoured her moment;

She thrusted deep as I cried in vain,

And life blew away in the fountain of pain.

She ripped my body and clawed my heart,

She sealed her final kiss and my soul was ready to depart;

A corpse laid bare; happy with its new found numbness,

As I walked away with my virginity in shambles.

*****

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The Uncrowned Prince

This article is also featured in http://scganguly.com/2011/11/uncrowned-prince/

How many times has a man’s journey been more important than the destination he reached?  The answer lies in a grey area between “perhaps none” & “maybe someone”. It is because the beauty & struggle of a journey is epitomised by the height of the destination achieved. It is the destination that makes a mortal immortalised, metamorphose a survivor to a winner and convert a prince to an emperor. It is what demarcates a “would be” to an “icon”. They are the “greats” who adorn the yellow pages of history and survive the tiring test of time. They are “Demigods” for their destinations catapult them to a league where common man can only look up at them with awe struck aspiration.

And then there are “legends”. Men who reside in the hearts of people. Stories are never written about them but recounted numerous times through memories, passed onto different generations such that they become an epic themselves. It’s their journey that defines an era. It’s their walk that stands as the destination, for a destination can be reached, but a journey cannot be emulated. They are fallible, but their failures make them human. They can be loved, hated, tainted and adored all at the same time. They prefer to remain the “uncrowned prince” forever.

Such is the journey of a man whom we know as Saurav Ganguly. Some love to call him “The Prince of Kolkata”, for some he is “Lord Snooty”, some revere him as the “God in offside”, others simply dismiss him as a mediocre fielder, for his fans he is “Dada”, for his critics just an “on the record” successful Indian captain idolised by Bengalis. With Saurav, everyone has an opinion, every judgement stands to define him and yet they seem incomplete. It may be partly because the legend of Saurav was never quantified. Statistics are reserved for the great for it’s the mind boggling numbers that record their supremacy through an era. Inspite of being the 6^th highest run grosser in Test cricket & 2^nd highest run scorer in ODI’s for India (5^th highest in ODI in world cricket), numbers have least defined Saurav. The annals of history will always remember him as the maker of a resurgent Indian team broken free from the shackles of “antiquated cricket” that young India indentifies with today.

Saurav as a cricketer may soon fade from the transient memories of die hard cricket lovers. No “Wisden” can ever record his elegant offside strokes that seemed like an artist expression of freedom. He brazenly poked and lavishly drived. He danced in his crease and lofted the red cherry to thank the Gods. His offside strokes created awe and leg side pulls invoked humour sometimes. He loved the spinners and the quickies loved him. Anyone in his generation who could bowl 130kmph+ had taken a shy at his head. But then “icons” are built with numbers; not with their “presence”! “Presence” is for the mere mortal who displays his bare-chested antics in the revered Lord’s balcony to inspire a generation to lead. But alas statistics don’t record inspiration too!

On records, Saurav was never the best batsman to strut the cricketing arena and definitely not the fittest, his bowling was a fluke and as a fielder he was often awful. He was also not amongst the greatest captains to hold the World Cup ever in his hands. For the pundits, the discussion ends there. For the lovers of the game, that is where the charisma of Saurav emerges. A battle hardened warlord who helped a generation to dream big. He despised the mundaneness of the gentleman’s game and made it a man’s game. He backed his warriors and they never disappointed him. He himself had risen to fall and fallen to rise again, like the phoenix in Egyptian tales. A punching bag that always comes back to you no matter how hard you hit it. He had a passion that cannot be quoted in words and his emotions never cheated on him even when he clings to his numerous Gods when they seemed the only hope. The world of cricket was never dull with the antics of Saurav around. 

Captainship came to him with Indian cricket rocked in match fixing saga and the “God” himself deciding to step down. In addition was a baggage of a billion expectations, an unsettled test opening pair, half a dozen poor seamers, one able spinner and few mediocre wicket keepers. When the evening of his captainship dawned, he left a team with a subtle mix of youth, experience, insatiable hunger and fearlessness to the core called “Team India”. And as they say, in between was history. History that was good and history that was far worse. A king stripped of his kingdom but refused to surrender his throne, refusing to bow down to the corridors of power. But that was always the man we knew, the man the nation revered, the fallacies of being human. He had to go, but none knew how, for somehow he always came back at you. 

The evening, Saurav strutted the arena for the last time, few heaved relief, many angered by the way he was cornered and yet happy that the pain had ceased, millions with a hope that the man will bounce back and billions disappointed to see the lone surviving tiger wounded and bloodied with his countless battles walking towards the endless night. But then with so much blood spilled, how much fight did the man had left in him?

Cricket will never miss Saurav, for there are many “greats” to stand tall and slug it in the record books. But then, the people who make cricket worth its dough will always miss the legend who was more than the game. Someone who exemplified the beauty of cricket beyond the 22 yards. Someday, the truth will soon give way to a myth of a mystical warrior who once walked past the mortal names in the arena of the champions. He would remain the “uncrowned prince” forever.

P.S. – Sachin will always remain the best cricketer the world has ever seen and M.S. Dhoni the rightful heir to the captainship.

This article is also featured in http://scganguly.com/2011/11/uncrowned-prince/

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When you cry!

I have always tried hard to know why I make you cry.....why I feel so helpless sometimes.....why a single touch can change the world around us........why we love each other so much. Why does that drop touching your cheeks make me feel so vulnerable......telling me so many things that my jugglery of words fails to comprehend. If love is meant to be happy, why did I ever make you cry? Your swollen eyes demand for an answer but the questions fail me & I prefer to remain the mute spectator and let the silence speak for my love.

Maybe I could never answer you, but then I can tell you the truth of what goes through me, when you cry!!!

When you cry!

- SAPTADEEP BASU (2011)

Drops of tears trickling down your eyes,

The pain of which I could never surmise;

Your moistened cheeks desolately stare,

For a feeling I could never care.

Droplets of dew hang from your lashes,

Waiting to shed for our afternoon clashes;

& your little nose turns red with fury......

But wasn’t I always left being sorry?

Your damp pillow has its own story,

That your pale lips refuse to reveal;

Your voice cheats your feelings again,

& the chaotic silence is what that remains.

Your heavy breath & your pounding heart,

They quietly crave for my loving touch;

& doleful me, in search of rhymes,

For a twinkle in your eyes, in search of a smile.

Once again I muster up courage to hold your hand,

Promising a world more than a pack of cards;

Wipe your tears for the final time,

& love you till the world aparts.

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RA.ONE - Randomly Adulterated

I have never written a movie review, but then as it is said, “when things go out hand, angels descend to protect mankind”. So here I’m ready to defend mankind from G.ONE. Why G.ONE & not RA.ONE? Well simply because the latter seems to be a more likeable character. While both robotic and non-robotic Shahrukh seemed the same matching each other in idiocy, other than his awkward looking wig of course, RA.ONE seemed the potent character out of videogames with his mechanical approach, straight talk and crafted physique. So, let’s delve a bit deeper into the RA.ONE mystery.

The movie begins with a long haired Shahrukh fighting the sisters of Bruce Lee named Iski Lee, Uski Lee & Sabki Lee in one of the most boring battles ever to protect Desi Girl (yes you guessed it right, Priyanka Chopra), courtesy a dream of his son who hates his fathers cowardly idiotic ways. Then begins a tirade of stupid scenes, where Shahrukh tries his best to emulate Jacques Clouseau of Pink Pather fame. But then he forgets that Pink Panther was a comedy, and this was supposed to be a sci-fi. What we end up seeing is a top programmer of one of the world’s best gaming company with actions matching a nerdy 5 year old. His wife still hooked to Golmal-3 avatar, is hell bent on learning Hindi belt gaalis. And poor son obviously is irritated and ashamed by his parent’s insane act!!!

The movie builds up, with Shahrukh creating a game for his son with the most potent villain, Random Access Version 1 (RA.ONE) & the good one (G.ONE aka Jeevan). The rules of the games are set, but RA.ONE moves out of the virtual world to real world to fight Shahrukh’s son who defeated him in the game. In all this skirmish, the real Shahrukh dies and comes alive our real hero G.ONE. A good plot unfolds and good visual effects are incorporated too. Even though some scenes make you remember Aliens & Transformer series, but then RA.ONE keeps you interested.

But things go really wrong when the plot returns to India. The robot G.ONE, is just as idiotic & goofy as its maker. The robot has got a personal folder of its maker, which makes it wear lungi, dance Chammak Challo, belt out the right shayaris in just the right timing, make promises and do anything else that Rajnikant left unfinished in “Robot”. At the night however, it hangs itself to the antenna of the roof of Kareena’s house in Batman style searching for RA.ONE. Worth mentioning here is Kareena Kapoor, who looked great to keep the viewers entertained while G.ONE was self destructing itself in its videogame avatar.

RA.ONE hunted down G.ONE to Chennai (the airport was the clue), but in the very next scene G.ONE was in Mumbai trains to protect Kareena while RA.ONE drove Shahrukh’s kid from Chennai to Mumbai expo!!! Suddenly G.ONE became serious. Kareena was saved and so was Mumbai from further mayhem. G.ONE transported himself through open electrical wires to reach RA.ONE which was strange considering all this while he seemed somewhat with limited abilities and kept jumping buildings. RA.ONE meanwhile kept on changing looks, however Rampal really attracted him a lot as he went back to Rampal style inspite of becoming Kareena in between. The final fight could have been better choreographed, almost a “Tekken” copy & G.ONE defeats RA.ONE (with 0.01% chances) and Shahrukh’s prophecy of good over evil survives. G.ONE goes back with RA.ONE to their virtual world to return again (possibly for part-II).

The story has nothing new in its kitty and the climax unfolds in the first 20 mins itself. All the actors were shadowed to make Shahrukh seem goofier and worth mentioning is Dilip Tahil who made a special effort for that. The music though was peppy and background score for G.ONE was good too.

As far as watching the movie is concerned, its good in bits and pieces and worth a watch. Hope part-II will have more of RA.ONE and less of the nerdy G.ONE.

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Bengali Fish Curry

In the global jungle of civilization hiding a Bengali is a toughest job to do. Whether it is for his fish tainted hands or his fetish for “Ananda Bazaar Patrika”, a Bengali always stands out amongst the crowd. Loving or hating a Bengali is your personal choice, but ignoring one is at your own risk. He is indomitable, a pocket dynamo ready to burst if wrongly held. He can fight for a 50 paisa for 50 minutes and still turn out victorious. Ki Dada thik bolchi to?

Every Bengali can be divided into two subgroups, “Dada” & “Didi”, no matter in which age group they belong. Maybe it’s because a Bengali never turns old enough to be an uncle or aunty. However I’m often surprised why Bipasha Basu was never included in the “Didi” category! Bengali men are always “Bhadraloks” in their pristine white dhoti, not withstanding their antagonistic behaviour in local trains and buses. They are also all about panache. Everything right from their oil dripping side parted hairstyle, to their neatly trimmed moustache, their “Punjabis” (though I never realised why they are called so) & multi coloured lungis, none can beat them in their unique style statement. They may be short in size but not short with their voice. You can beat a Bengali to pulp, but even God doesn’t dare to quarrel with a Bengali. They are also one of the most intelligent species to ever walk the Earth. It is said, “When ten foxes die, a Bengali is born”, and it makes me wonder about the reproductive capacity of the foxes!

Poschim Bongo is a proud “nation”. (& now we need Columbus to discover a Purbo Bongo) Infact it is the only one with a motto, “Cholbey Naa”! Maybe that is why “Amra laal Bhalobasi”.  When the world is moving at a frantic pace, we love to cling to our past, “eating” the cheapest whisky available (as we hate to drink, Amra khali khete bhalobashi), expecting someone else to turn back the time for us. We are more than “roshogollas”, “sondesh” & unfortunately “highly inflammable churon” of “3 Idots” fame. We idolise Saurav Ganguly, because we never had anyone competing against him and expect him to play till a walking stick replaces his bat (& God, he never disappoints). If the world has Man U & Arsenal, we have Mohun Bagan & East Bengal. We love our jokes but alas the lesser mortals were never able to pierce through the humour (as they often turn out in Bengali). We never had an identity crisis, just like all “Southies & Northies” seem like Siamese twins. Our impeccable Engrazi & flawless Hindi make us stand out among the rest. “Hum thik bolta hai na?”

Dhur! Bohut hoye geche.......if you have Rajnikant, we also have Mithun......and the discussion ends there.

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