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Archive for March, 2012

Jobless Musings (JM)

People.
My Life is undergoing radical changes.
Like a radical magazine called The Odd Magazine that I plan to bring out.
It has a page and a group up and kicking.

To better invest my Jobless Energy, am introducing an irritating new feature to your walls. It’s called ‘Jobless Musngs’.
In keeping with this generation’s love for abbreviations, it shall be called, JM.

They are certain random thoughts that crop up in my mind now and then. They can be funny, dumb, irritating, insulting and anything in between.

Any resemblance of JMs to the living/dead/intelligent/erudite/rational is purely co-incidential.

If you like them, like/comment/share. If you don’t, kindly do the same.

Thank you for tolerating me.

Yours,
Sreemanti Sengupta

Follow JM s on the Facebook page.

These are random musings of mine. 3 are up about (1) couples and singles (2) men bitching (3) Crowds and Realizations.

Would love seeing you there.

Watch The Odd Magazine Group Page. We’re gonna call for submissions soon.

Be Odd. Very Odd.

Chipping off the Charm

Guys. Hard truth breaking time.

So I was at this plush multiplex for a i-can’t-miss-it-because-it’s-free-but-very-crappy movie. And I saw two serrated lanes of humans on either side. 8 boys on the left discussing women and tits. 2 girls on the right tapping on their blackberrys.

I was sandwiched. And like very many lifetimes, trying to immoderately shuttle myself into conversations. The best to which I got to was.

Me: “Hey, that’s a fab bag. What brand?”

Girls: “It’s unbranded Bangkok”

Me: “Hey, that woman is using a horrendously alien accent.”

Boys: “Who cares. She’s you-know-what”

There I sat realizing the umpteenth time in a bleeding red PVR free movie experience, that am the Martian that Martians forgot on earth.

It’s no joke being alone.

Yours alonely,

Sreemanti Sengupta

Dear Neglected Blog,

Sometimes you have  to taste the bullet. Sometimes there’s not enough time to pass around the strawberry ice-cream before the all important confession. This is it. The confession. Dear Blog. I have been bad. Bad and Busy. A new fancy thing has caught my fickle fancy. It’s called The Odd Magazine. It’s an blog emagazine that am trying to bring out. And salvage whatever bits of my ‘myness’ you so loyally have returned to me. So you see, you’re the winner at the end. So shrug back the jealous shoulders and take a walk down to say ‘hello’ to the new kid on the blog. Now you know why parents of all ages find their children belonging to an ‘Odd Generation’.

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Apologies Buddy. I really love you. Like you didn’t know that already. Like Duh!

Sreemanti Sengupta

Attention (insert name)!

The Ideator has taken the big bold decision to start an online magazine.

She declares herself bankrupt and shamelessly professes that it will be nothing but a blog surviving on quality submissions.

The blog magazine celebrates the Postmodern era and all its infinite depths.

The surreal, the absurd, the fantastic, the ‘different’ mysterious creativity. In writing, art, photography, interviews and reviews.

Nothing is final except the name.

It’s called ‘Odd’


What are your Odds of participating in this endeavour?

Yours,

Sreemanti Sengupta

We won. Now will you please jump for joy?

Sunday. Indo-Pak Cricket. Impossible runchase. Increble win. Ah! sometimes life exceeds perfection.

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Kohli’s 23. <Can you god damn believe that???>

Warning: extremely mundane news ahead!

The Ideator gets published in a Noble attempt by the brilliantBrian Wrixon in the Words on the Winds of Change. Read me on Page 269 (‘The Stare’) and other beautiful people from all over the planet. Here’s praying for happier days 🙂 – .

Read me here. Click preview and then the button for ‘thumbnails of pages’. Go to page 269 to read ‘The Stare’ by me!

I can’t can’t believe we lost against Bangladesh. Well, I guess the song goes, You win some..

Yours,

Sreemanti Sengupta

The Imperfect Ring

Heylo. It’s good to back. Especially when morning sprung up the warmest of surprises for me. Well, the story starts with a sad sentiment, so let’s drop it. Thing is, I hate keeping my ring finger empty. I’ve had something on it all the time. Cheap aluminium coated rings, dripping with love. And then they were snatched away from, one by one, probably by God. Probably. I went down from spending a good half an hour in front of the mirror to giving it a rough look before I rush out, determined to drown myself in another exhausting day. But my finger, it always felt lonely. It’s awkward, really. I was always searching for something to fill it, it was disturbing. I couldn’t escape it like so many other facts in my life. I told my folks about a ring, anything, precious/non precious, something given to me out of love. 

And I got it todaaaaaaaaaaaay!

As I write, I can’t help but steal a look at the cute little thing on my once-lonely finger. Guess who did the magic? It’s my oh-so-dear Bulan, my angellic grandma I talked about in earlier posts. She said she had a gift for me. I was prepared for her sweet small somethings. She keeps stuffing nice little things in my mouth, keeps my audacious requests for tea at absurd times of the day. She knows it matters, every bit of it.

But today, she actually gave me a ring, a real (OMG!) gold cute thing.  It’s a simple gold band encrusted with red and white stones. Ma tells me its decently expensive given the gold prices of today. Not that I care, am just so happy my finger is flaunting it.

And then a curious thing struck me. One of the stones in the ring is missing. “That’s a shame!” I thought, “It’s so beautiful otherwise!” I asked around to find out if the stone can be replaced somehow. But at the face of it, the replacement will require the gold to be molten and therefore burnt which will result in loss of the mass. So that’s that. I was a tad bit down. I kept looking at it in the mini-bus I take to office.

And I suddenly felt nice. Nice about that little gap in my ring. It’s so much like me. The imperfect me. The me whose life is never on the track. The me who’s been taken to the highest of highs and thrashed to the lowest of lows. The me who suffering, pained and yet sometimes a little happy. That’s my ring. it allows a little imperfection, a little opening for the sunshine to touch the loved spot. The ring is life. Life that’s illogical. Life that doesn’t care for rules. Life that is acausal, irrational, weird, unjust and beautiful. Life that is brilliantly imperfect.

I found my Imperfect Ring. I hope you find yours.

Yours Imperfectly,

Sreemanti Sengupta

The Ripple Effect

You have to experience it to believe it. Kolkata in a minibus I mean.

On one serene (intended sarcasm) day, I was on the red yellow tin monster about to begin it’s marathon of a journey to my office. (people think am crazy coz I actually find the mini more convenient than the metro rail. ah me!) I was reading my travel books.

I carry two books to read on the way. Presently am having a bi-lingual and surreal experience with Beautiful Losers by Leonard Cohen and Chotoloker Chotobela by Malay Roy Choudhury.

Two people, over 50 years in age, an age I call ‘idle-prone’ among the adda-addicted Bengalis, began a seemingly peacable discussion on the disturbing political climate in the state after Ms. Mamata Banerjee  overturned the 34 year reign of Left power.

If ever there was a recipe for disaster in this city, it is this, it is this, it is this.

Reader, if you have had the good fortune to sit idly by a pond which has not been converted into built up area by people hungry for space, then, I hope you have also had the pleasure of dodging a pebble and straying your eyes on how far it goes, and ruminating on the ripples that it creates. Growing bigger, blending into the horizon.

In an unfortunate similarity of events, this is what Kolkata addas turn out to be. It starts with the two chit chatters. Others, who’re equally frustrated with their puffed-perfect Government jobs, catch smatches of it, and deliberately join in, knowing only too well how it would go.

There I sat and closed the entirely exciting reading session, watching in growing amazement how a whisper spread like wildfire, gathering comments, anger, losing track, succumbing to pure irrelevance, until the will to make your insecure voice heard was all that mattered.

Ah, well. I couldn’t help but smile at the ridiculious sameness of Kolkata.

Yours,

the amazed Sreemanti

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