60 days to go...
The plan is to study so damn much, know so damn much, that less learned people will see a halo around my head. I want to be the walking, talking, eating, sleeping dictionary of surgery. The plan is to study so damn much that Maa will think thrice before interrupting me with her silly gossips. The my parents will make me pitchers of coffee and buy me packs of cigarettes just to stimulate my sympathetic system. That is the plan. That I will sit and sleep in a sea of books and read constantly. Read on and on. There will be rows of empty cups of coffee on my table. So old that even the insects would have had lost interest in them. There will be an astray full of cigarette stubs. Everything will smell of concentration and medicine. When someone will enter the room, he/she will be intimidated to even talk. No one will ask me to clean up. People will only see a ghastly, dirty me sitting on the bed, in a sea of open books and notes, exuding a sense of enlightenment, my eyes surrounded by dark circles and head by a glow. The plan is to become the female Bodhisattwa!
55 days to go...
Today is one of those days. Books repel me. Yet I worry about my progress. I keep glancing at the calender. But not at the clock. My head pains, my mind wants to shut down and fall asleep. But something keeps reminding me that sleep won't be that welcome either. If by chance I fall asleep, I dream. Mostly of failure. Apprehension. I wake up, fret around, sit down with a book and think about food. Beef steaks, Devil Crabs, Mocha. But with with just 500 left in my purse I guess I can't afford that.
I guess I will go and make some really strong coffee. I guess I will try and mug some.
52 days to go...
Life is bleak. And I am utterly mediocre. I never wanted to end up like this. I guess I set my standards too high.
50 days to go...
এই asshole গুলো বলছে , " আর কোনো চিন্তা নয়, আর কোনো সংশয় নয় । যাত্রা যাত্রা যাত্রা ।"
শালা গুলো বোঝে না যে আমি পড়তে পারব না । শালা । যাত্রার নাম শুনবে ?
Day 1 - "রণ রঙ্গিনী দেবী দূর্গা "
Day 2 - "নকল বউ হইতে সাবধান "
KILL ME!!!!
48 days to go...
NON-CREATIVE LIMBO.
45 days to go...
Its past midnight. I lie sprawled on my bed. Books everywhere. Books I want to mug. Books I don't want to mug. Books which i shouldn't be reading now. Books which i should have read maybe two years back.
Life is full of probabilities. The mathematicians make it very simple. But i beg to differ.
The brown dog howls again. He had been howling intermittently since yesterday. Something must be bothering him. The unseen? No, I don't believe in all that. There is nothing that we can miss if we look hard enough. We just have to know where to look. And how hard.
Again he howls. Its quite eerie actually. A chill runs down my spine. Every single time.
Something moves behind my almirah. Or maybe beneath my bed. The unmistakable sound of something moving against a polythene sheet. We all are scared of what we can't see. We are scared more when one of our remaining 5 senses pick it up. I am scared of the future.
44 days to go...
দুটো রুটি দিয়ে পাঠার মাংসের ঝোল আর আলু । একটা রসগোল্লা । ভাত, একটা ডিম, পাঠার মাংস, ঝোল, আলু । তারপর আবার একটা রুটি দিয়ে ঝোল আর আলু ।লাস্টে একটা রসগোল্লা ।
খুব খিদে পেয়েছিল ।
পড়া আর হলো না ।
36 days to go...
আমার future assymetrically অন্ধকার ।
35 days to go...
Wise men say, "Try your hand at everything." Well, I tried doodling. Flowers. Mostly. And for the umpteenth time i realised, I'm no artist.
25 days to go...
Something is terribly wrong with me. Yes, i have had trouble studying all my life. But never like this. I can't bear to read. Can barely manage a few words before drifting off. Either i sit and doze, or just sit and stare at the wall. Or the incessant window shopping on the internet. Its never been this bad. Am scared.
18 days to go...
I fight for words. but my pen goes dry. Its painful. Much like feeding , caring, nurturing a baby into a big cat and then when it bites you hard. Leaves you wondering what you did wrong.
The string broke somewhere. Its all out of tune. Much like my violin. Maybe it will all pack itself in a box and hide beneath my bed. Maybe it will also collect dust. And then suddenly years will pass by.
Some say, good times come in the end. Some beg to differ. I, wrapped up in my fat, soft quilt in a corner of my room, keep waiting for it. Maybe only losers wait. And again finders aren't keepers.
Everything is blurring out. Like the soft hum in a roar of gibberish. Not that the hum was melodious. But still it wanted to survive. But again, what are we without tune?
Pretty clothes arrive from every corner of the country. Cotton, viscose, jersey, blend. Sheer, sequins, lace. In every color and design that you can imagine. What if when the time finally comes, I lose interest in all that? What if I put all of them at once and decide to go and have a nice soak in the river?
I didn't sit down to write a memoir of my failure. But what will happen to the deep, angry, red wounds on my leg? Do they heal completely? Fade away just like the way I will someday? Then again, what will happen to the conscience?
One day I shall inflate my room and we will fly away, to 30,000 feet up in the air. Just like that pig. Maybe break down one of the thin walls and take a leap of fate.
Or maybe I will shrink it. Make it real small and dark and sit curled up in a corner, wrapped by the thick, soft, suffocating quilt and nurse my wounds. Maybe I will fade away with them.
The plan is to study so damn much, know so damn much, that less learned people will see a halo around my head. I want to be the walking, talking, eating, sleeping dictionary of surgery. The plan is to study so damn much that Maa will think thrice before interrupting me with her silly gossips. The my parents will make me pitchers of coffee and buy me packs of cigarettes just to stimulate my sympathetic system. That is the plan. That I will sit and sleep in a sea of books and read constantly. Read on and on. There will be rows of empty cups of coffee on my table. So old that even the insects would have had lost interest in them. There will be an astray full of cigarette stubs. Everything will smell of concentration and medicine. When someone will enter the room, he/she will be intimidated to even talk. No one will ask me to clean up. People will only see a ghastly, dirty me sitting on the bed, in a sea of open books and notes, exuding a sense of enlightenment, my eyes surrounded by dark circles and head by a glow. The plan is to become the female Bodhisattwa!
55 days to go...
Today is one of those days. Books repel me. Yet I worry about my progress. I keep glancing at the calender. But not at the clock. My head pains, my mind wants to shut down and fall asleep. But something keeps reminding me that sleep won't be that welcome either. If by chance I fall asleep, I dream. Mostly of failure. Apprehension. I wake up, fret around, sit down with a book and think about food. Beef steaks, Devil Crabs, Mocha. But with with just 500 left in my purse I guess I can't afford that.
I guess I will go and make some really strong coffee. I guess I will try and mug some.
52 days to go...
Life is bleak. And I am utterly mediocre. I never wanted to end up like this. I guess I set my standards too high.
50 days to go...
এই asshole গুলো বলছে , " আর কোনো চিন্তা নয়, আর কোনো সংশয় নয় । যাত্রা যাত্রা যাত্রা ।"
শালা গুলো বোঝে না যে আমি পড়তে পারব না । শালা । যাত্রার নাম শুনবে ?
Day 1 - "রণ রঙ্গিনী দেবী দূর্গা "
Day 2 - "নকল বউ হইতে সাবধান "
KILL ME!!!!
48 days to go...
NON-CREATIVE LIMBO.
45 days to go...
Its past midnight. I lie sprawled on my bed. Books everywhere. Books I want to mug. Books I don't want to mug. Books which i shouldn't be reading now. Books which i should have read maybe two years back.
Life is full of probabilities. The mathematicians make it very simple. But i beg to differ.
The brown dog howls again. He had been howling intermittently since yesterday. Something must be bothering him. The unseen? No, I don't believe in all that. There is nothing that we can miss if we look hard enough. We just have to know where to look. And how hard.
Again he howls. Its quite eerie actually. A chill runs down my spine. Every single time.
Something moves behind my almirah. Or maybe beneath my bed. The unmistakable sound of something moving against a polythene sheet. We all are scared of what we can't see. We are scared more when one of our remaining 5 senses pick it up. I am scared of the future.
44 days to go...
দুটো রুটি দিয়ে পাঠার মাংসের ঝোল আর আলু । একটা রসগোল্লা । ভাত, একটা ডিম, পাঠার মাংস, ঝোল, আলু । তারপর আবার একটা রুটি দিয়ে ঝোল আর আলু ।লাস্টে একটা রসগোল্লা ।
খুব খিদে পেয়েছিল ।
পড়া আর হলো না ।
36 days to go...
আমার future assymetrically অন্ধকার ।
35 days to go...
Wise men say, "Try your hand at everything." Well, I tried doodling. Flowers. Mostly. And for the umpteenth time i realised, I'm no artist.
25 days to go...
Something is terribly wrong with me. Yes, i have had trouble studying all my life. But never like this. I can't bear to read. Can barely manage a few words before drifting off. Either i sit and doze, or just sit and stare at the wall. Or the incessant window shopping on the internet. Its never been this bad. Am scared.
18 days to go...
I fight for words. but my pen goes dry. Its painful. Much like feeding , caring, nurturing a baby into a big cat and then when it bites you hard. Leaves you wondering what you did wrong.
The string broke somewhere. Its all out of tune. Much like my violin. Maybe it will all pack itself in a box and hide beneath my bed. Maybe it will also collect dust. And then suddenly years will pass by.
Some say, good times come in the end. Some beg to differ. I, wrapped up in my fat, soft quilt in a corner of my room, keep waiting for it. Maybe only losers wait. And again finders aren't keepers.
Everything is blurring out. Like the soft hum in a roar of gibberish. Not that the hum was melodious. But still it wanted to survive. But again, what are we without tune?
Pretty clothes arrive from every corner of the country. Cotton, viscose, jersey, blend. Sheer, sequins, lace. In every color and design that you can imagine. What if when the time finally comes, I lose interest in all that? What if I put all of them at once and decide to go and have a nice soak in the river?
I didn't sit down to write a memoir of my failure. But what will happen to the deep, angry, red wounds on my leg? Do they heal completely? Fade away just like the way I will someday? Then again, what will happen to the conscience?
One day I shall inflate my room and we will fly away, to 30,000 feet up in the air. Just like that pig. Maybe break down one of the thin walls and take a leap of fate.
Or maybe I will shrink it. Make it real small and dark and sit curled up in a corner, wrapped by the thick, soft, suffocating quilt and nurse my wounds. Maybe I will fade away with them.
