Kolkata Dreaming

Missing my annual trip through Kumortuli bylanes, missing home

Perverse Pleasure

"How long will the pain last?" a broken hearted mourner asked me.

"All the rest of your Life." I have to answer truthfully.

We never quite forget.

No matter how many years pass, we remember.

The loss of a loved one is like a major operation.

Part of us is removed, and we have a scar for the rest of our lives.

As years go by, we manage.

There are things to do, people to care for,

tasks that call for full attention. 

But the pain is still there,

not far below the surface.

We see a face that looks familiar, 

hear a voice that echoes,

see a photograph in someone's album,

see a landscape that once we saw together,

and it seems as though a knife were in the wound again.

But not so painfully.. And mixed with joy, too.

Because remembering a happy time is not all sorrow,

it brings back happiness with it.

How long will the pain last?

All the rest of your life.

But the things to remember is that not only the pain will last, but the blessed memories as well.

Tears are proof of life. The more love, the more tears.

If this be true, Then how could we ever ask that the pain cease altogether.

For then the memory of love would go with it.

The pain of grief is the price we pay for love.

– Martha White

Perverse Pleasure

Cruising 99

BY GARRETT HONGO

for Lawson Fusao Inada and Alan Chong La

A Porphyry of Elements

Starting in a long swale between the Sierras

   and the Coast Range,

Starting from ancient tidepools of a Pleistocene sea,

Starting from exposed granite bedrock,

From sandstone and shale, glaciated, river-worn,

   and scuffed by wind,

Tired of the extremes of temperature,

   the weather's wantonness,

Starting from the survey of a condor's eye

Cutting circles in the sky over Tehachapi and Tejon,

Starting from lava flow and snow on Shasta,

   a head of white hair,

   a garland of tongue-shaped obsidian,

Starting from the death of the last grizzly,

The final conversion of Tulare County

   to the internal-combustion engine,

Staring from California oak and acorn,

   scrubgrass, rivermist,

   and lupine in the foothills,

From days driving through the outfield clover

   of Modesto in a borrowed Buick,

From nights drinking pitchers of dark

   in the Neon Moon Bar & Grill,

From mornings grabbing a lunchpail, work gloves,

   and a pisspot hat,

From Digger pine and Douglas fir and aspen around Placerville,

From snowmelt streams slithering into the San Joaquin,

From the deltas and levees and floods of the Sacramento,

From fall runs of shad, steelhead, and salmon,

From a gathering of sand, rock, gypsum, clay,

   limestone, water, and tar,

From a need or desire to throw your money away

   in The Big City,

From a melting of history and space in the crucible

   of an oil-stained hand—

Starting from all these, this porphyry of elements,

   this aggregate of experiences

Fused like feldspar and quartz to the azure stone

   of memory and vision,

Starting from all of these and an affectionate eye

   for straight, unending lines,

We hit this old road of Highway Ninety-Nine!

Perverse Pleasure

May 1, 2017 The New Yorker Issue
https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2017/05/01/saturday-night-as-an-adult

 

Saturday Night as an Adult
By Anne Carson

We really want them to like us. We want it to go well. We overdress. They are narrow people, art people, offhand, linens. It is early summer, first hot weekend. We meet on the street, jumble about with kisses and are we late? They had been late, we'd half-decided to leave, now oh well. That place across the street, ever tried it? Think we went there once, looks closed, says open, well. People coming out. O.K. Inside is dark, cool, oaken. Turns out they know the owner. He beams, ushers, we sit. And realize at once two things, first, the noise is unbearable, two, neither of us knows the other well enough to say bag it. Our hearts crumble. We order food by pointing and break into two yell factions, one each side of the table. He and she both look exhausted, from (I suppose) doing art all day and then the new baby. We eat intently, as if eating were conversation. We keep passing the bread. My fish comes unboned, I weep pretending allergies. Finally someone pays the bill and we escape to the street. For some reason I was expecting snow outside. There is none. We decide not to go for ice cream and part, a little more broken. Saturday night as an adult, so this is it. We thought we'd be Nick and Nora, not their blurred friends in greatcoats. We cover our ears inside our souls. But you can't stop it that way.

Taraxacum (Dandelions)

Photo by:  PHILIPPE HUGUEN/GETTY

disappearing into nothingness

 

have you ever had the feeling that you are being torn to shreds?
that your existence may no longer be a reality- that you will cease?

there is a strange restlessness as i feel the diminishing, the daily cutting away

there is no fight left in me

only salt tears which seem lacerate as they slide down

i don't even know what i am mourning

because isn't it my deepest desire to stop being?

perhaps it is what comes after that scares me

the great unknown?

or perhaps nothing at all? 

Perverse Pleasure

Requiem w/ Eye Roll

JAY HOPLER

No minister mild of manner, moon-

    Faced over his tab collar,

    My grandfather; rather, a gambler,

An embezzler, a loan

    Shark, a con man, a womanizer

W/ booze on his breath & both feet on

    The gas of whatever

        Jalopy got left unlocked.

        He even borrowed the gun he shot

            Himself w/, the smartass.

        Of course, he conked

    In a cornfield in Winchester,

Indiana, so that joke was on

Him—. Oblivion.

How's that for a punchline?

It's not you anymore

I don't know why sometimes old obsessions fail to die
The hurt still hurts and the tears still prick the back of my eyes
As I wistfully gaze at where life has led

Across continents, datelines and a whole milieu of feelings in between

Now, that you have someone to call your own...

And I have my hand to hold 
I sometimes wonder what it was all about and what I still try to hold
It is that me that I miss
The innocence and the angst and the wide-eyedness
The blushes and the desperate hopefulness
Everything washed away in the summer rain
The pain, the pain of the stabbing words

The final cleanse that ended it all
Not just a relationship but also a phase of life

When I was happiest of all

Didinbhai

My grandmother Didinbhai passed away today around 10 years ago. She was one of the strongest and most dignified women I knew. She lost her husband at a young age and raised three daughters by herself. She considered her youngest brother in-law as her son and she was a big part of their family as well. In fact, my younger aunts and uncle are more like cousins to me. She never lost her dignity in the toughest of situations and never grew bitter in spite of whatever she went through. She would give away her things without hesitation or another thought as to how she would replace them. I once wore an old chiffon saree of hers with a silver lace border to school and unfortunately brought it back ripped. While my mother was furious, Didinbhai stopped her and nonchalantly said that it was the saree's good luck that her grand daughter wore it. 

She was a voracious reader and very well informed about whatever was going on in the world around her. She was also a regular listener of the All India Radio and often times our mornings at her place would begin with the sound of the radio being turned on. 

She also remains one of the best cooks I know! She would magically transform a handful of semolina into a delicious payesh literally in minutes or make the best khirpuriya to celebrate Joy's class results! Her chingri malaikari and bhapa chingri, through some mysterious magical process and an old aluminium pan, are the softest and most flavourful ones ever! She made an amazing fish pie to get all the young ones to eat up without complain! Her stuffed chicken murgh musallam inspired by an article by Nehru's Khansama was a hit with her sons in law. And the chicken a la Kiev she cooked by just listening to the description from Chhotka. And did I mention the amazing crab rice she made? I have never found another dish or a recipe to replace that.

Summer vacations at my mamarbari were always fun not just because of my didinbhai's cooking or the fun games with Joy or Mashum's kalojam ice cream but also the nights spent beside her in her huge bed. I remember stringing up her moshari, which was an adventure for me since we didn't have them at home and hearing a story or two or listening to her and ma chat about distant relatives. 

The other thing I can never forget is the kalo knujo she used to keep water in and which had the best tasting, sweetest and perfectly cooled water I have ever tasted. 

She was always ready to stand by anyone in need. Long before it was heard of, she made sure that the lady who worked for her had a bank account and she gave her a pension after she retired. She helped out so many people without anyone else's knowledge from her own meagre savings and whatever trusts and bonds my Dadu had saved. Yet, I never saw her being extravagant or lavish about herself. I can still feel the softness of the simple white cotton sarees she wore and the cool touch of the thin gold bangles in her hand as she would pet my cheek or hug me. 

Doi Begun

Doi Begun.
From Rukmadi's post. Saving it here since it's an awesome recipe!!

#Doi #Begun, #Aubergines in #Yoghurt #Sauce.

Recipe

1) Slice the aubergines longitudinally as is in the picture.
Dunk the sliced pieces in a large bowl of water to which some turmeric powder and salt has been added. Let soak for about 10 minutes.
Take out and rinse thoroughly again under running water and put aside over a sieve so all the excess water can drain off.
2) Make a thick paste of salt-turmeric-chilli powder, mixed in mustard oil. Apply this generously over the sliced pieces of aubergines and let the aubergines rest for about 5/8 minutes.
3) Smoke MO in a pan and deep fry the aubergines till done. Remove with a slotted spoon and place on the plate in which you will be serving. Do not over load please.
4) Make a slurry of tamarind water with a pinch of jaggery added to it. Sprinkle over the aubergines. You may also use lemon juice instead with some sprinkling of sugar added to it. Do not drench the aubergines. It is just to add a little extra tang.
5) Beat hung curd/greek yoghurt till creamy. Please ensure the curd is not too sour. Pour this over the brinjals.
6) Heat fresh mustard oil and temper with black mustard seeds, minced ginger, split chana/chholar dal, whole dried red chillies and some curry leaves. Once they start crackling, move it aside, let cool for a few seconds and pour over the curd, along-with the little oil that these were fried in.
7) Garnish with fresh green coriander chopped and slit green chillies.
Voila!