Archive for January, 2013

The Sunday Rant

January 13, 2013 4 comments

I wrote this today after fleeing away from a rather posh gathering of intellectuals discussing books over tea. From my road diaries, to you.



When I see the lingering vagueness in Picasso’s depiction of Paris’s nightlife, I have an inkling suspicion we are on the same page on this.


So I visited this this today. And it was crap. I think it’s too much of an effort anyway. If you gotto dress perfectly, say the perfect words, notice each and every nail in your body, what exactly are you achieving anyway? How much of honest creativity can flourish in these circumstances, I wonder? Beneath coats and fine teas, hushed conversations and restricted merriment, where are you going dear? Or maybe, and I’ve an inkling suspicion that this may indeed be the case, I may be of a different exotic species altogether.


What is creativity anyway? No, really. There must be coming a point in a writer’s life (I still don’t know why I squirm at the term) when you need to explore the meaning of the very word you are celebrating and claim to be a master of.

Like, what exactly is creativity anyway?

Is it me, Sreemanti Sengupta, escaping from a gathering of posh uptight writers and a publisher who dismissed my manuscript with a curt, ‘good but not our material’ thingy and sitting here in a dingy coffee house, writing away on my little notebook, while my rough black coffee, assured to produce a beautiful migraine attack, takes its own sweet time to cool down and suit my freakish temperature intolerant tongue-epidermis?

Or is it really there, in those uptight bosoms, those tight lipped hushed conversations, those muted lips sipping on the finest teas of the world? 

Or is it indeed there in all the fakedom, the fact that we’re all trying to overcome skeletons in the cupboard, the fact that some of their accessories might have been bought right off the footpath and are being passed off as branded stuff?

Or is it me, a self-proclaimed intellectual, lost and disgusted in the world of real intellectuals? To the point of thinking that some of the people are even faking their sexual orientations to stay in literary fashion!

Or the me that is coping in my own way with my life, seeing some dreams fading away, like butterflies escaping a torn net that I can’t mend?

At this juncture of the argument, or whatever I’m trying to do here (a part of which is recognizably escape a distressing situation at home and reclaim the pen-on-paper routine ritual that I’ve always loved) I falter and stop a little and maybe sip on the potentially migraine inducing black coffee. Whatever I choose to think and say at this moment is really crucial, for it is that belief that I will seek consolation in, and it is a matter of another belief that we all seek consolations in beliefs, because absolutes always seem out of reach.

I have a feeling that frighteningly pure creativity is more than the power of invention or discovery. This, am in agreement with the thinker J. KrishnamurtI because it makes sense to me. It is more than the ability to invent new techniques, or new thought patterns, more than the ability to scourge your mind to do something different. Something that allowed me to write in The Odd Magazine‘s descriptor, “Different is a dead word. We are Odd.”

Creativity must be an exercise in freedom. It is rather difficult for me to explain, for I, alas, (still) am not in that zone. It must be this wonderful state, a close cousin of Alice’s Wonderful, where nothing is improbable or simplistic or difficult. It must be this world without adjectives that qualify or restrict emotions. It must be without limits. And notice, this world is in the mind. Inside is where the change starts. I am in the process of trying to believe this theory that a change in the mind is corresponding to a change in the outer world. If the mind-land is free and uninhibited, if the mind-society is without taboos and unknown of restrictions, then we have a case in point for the external world as well. Creativity must be a product of this free mind-land. An unshackled experience where you have the Midas touch without trying. It is the place where the muses are really your playmates and bedfellows. Or maybe, you haven’t labelled them as ‘muses’ at all, because it is as it is meant to be – obvious and natural! That is what happiness must smell like!

Now, since we haven’t got this state (as yet), we choose our paths closest to it. The short cut, that which suits you! These paths in fact must be our attempts to reach the Beyond Power (Most of us prefer the G word). It may be writing for me, painting for you, housekeeping for Mary, seeing his children grow up for Subhash! You get the drift, right?

It is through this path that we truly feel at peace, a sense of power, well-being, a light shining through. THAT must be, to my mortal understanding, our individual paths to the ultimate Understanding. 

When I write like this, freely and without a qualm in the world for these moments, preferrably in perfect situations, against the winter sun, bang in the middle of Kolkata on a Sunday, in an apparent time freeze, things start occurring to me and linking themselves up, and I shamelessly digress, as I am suddenly conscious now, with an alarmingly long sentence that I will gratefully end here.

I remember now, that when I was terribly in love, I heard from somewhere that staring at your lover’s eyes can be meditative, ethereal, and I believed it, because I felt it (by this time, dear reader, the amount of beliefs that I have already expressed about me, must have given you the certain belief of my fickle belief system).

So you get it, right?

You search for the Power in your path. 

I’m in this hyper non-judgmental mood so I’m not going to express what I would have in 99% of the cases. I won’t tell you that people have corrupted their paths. That probably in their tight lipped conversations, their shawl drawn smiles and their expensive teas, they’ve lost the sheer mystic of creating to the lure of intellect.

(Aside: I love Charles Bukowski for nailing it. “An intellectual says a simple thing in a hard way. An artist says a hard thing in a simple way.“)

Because, if I tell you that their path is corrupted, maybe you’ll turn back and tell me some day, “Yeah so what’s so merry in your chipped nailpolish-freakish hair-lonely as hell – adventure trek dream path anyway?”

That may indeed be tagged as another form of corruption all together! Another camp, relative.

There must be sub-routes of our way to the Power. 


The Fine Tea Vs The Rough Life

The Chipped Nailpolish Vs The Body Shop Muted Lip Gloss

The Open Road Harley Vs The Sundeck Cruise

The Loner Brain Rant on Sunday against Rusty Windows Vs The Intellectual Chatter


And the beauty as always, is the choice. The beauty, the agony, the distress. Well, that’s another choice anyway!


Have a fab day earthlings!





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