Conversations with Aparajita

conversations.with.aparajita@gmail.com (Aparajita Bhattacharya) — Wed, 18 Nov 2009 10:37:00 +0000

conversations.with.aparajita@gmail.com (Aparajita Bhattacharya) — Tue, 27 Oct 2009 15:41:00 +0000

I'd been wanting to take a break for a long time. A break from freelance writing, from blogging, from the kind of writing I'd do because I was compelled to do it. Money was the factor behind the compulsion to write freelance, while the expectations of my readers and their prompts kept me blogging regularly. But now, I've decided enough is enough. Yes, I still need money very badly. Yes, I still want people to read my blog. But all that can wait. There is a much greater purpose in my life now, and to accomplish it, I must focus on it. What that thing is, I won't reveal right now. But rest assured, my absence from the freelance writing world and the blogosphere will be temporary, and the reason for it should hopefully become apparent in about two years' time.
Till then, let suspense rule...

P.S. I'll still be updating my Twitter account on a fairly regular basis. Writing a mini-blog of 140 characters is far easier than writing full posts on Blogger.
You can follow me at http://www.twitter.com/aparajitab
I'll also continue as the Administrator of The ABC Club, occasionally posting about books I read.

Be yourself

conversations.with.aparajita@gmail.com (Aparajita Bhattacharya) — Mon, 21 Sep 2009 15:30:00 +0000

“God created man in His own image, in the image of God He created him...”
Genesis 1:27
If that is true, then God, or Gods (because in Hinduism you have crores of gods) must be very much like humans. That is the basis for the following write-up, which is totally intended to be interpreted with a sense of humour. It is in no way blasphemous, nor is it intended to hurt the feelings of any community.
For more information about Durga Puja, click here.

Durga was sitting in her dressing room, getting ready for her journey to her father's home. She was humming to herself as she lined her beautiful eyes with a black eyeliner. Having finished it, she opened her bottle of mascara and applied it to her long eyelashes. She was just coating the lower eyelid of her third eye when Lakshmi came in.
“Ma,” she said, “can I borrow your mascara if you have finished with it? Yours is by Sabyasachi, mine's by Tarun Tahiliani, and I so love Sabyasachi's creations...I so wish we had a designer like that in Kailash...”
“You can take it,” said Durga airily. “But don't call me Ma. I hate being called Ma. It makes me feel...”, she searched around for a word, “...feel...so old! And all these humans. Ma, ma, all the time. Even those seventy-year olds have to call me their mother. They don't know how to treat a woman.”
“What's your age, Ma?”, Ganesh asked as he peeped into the room.
Durga flared up, but when she saw who it was, she softened a bit. Her youngest son was her darling. “Ganu, darling, you should know better than to ask a woman her age.”
“You can't be very young, Ma,” Ganesh contended. “You have four grown-up children.”
“That's true”, lamented Durga. “Look at you four. Grown up in no time...”
“They even call me 'Ma',” sniffed Lakshmi.
“And me too,” piped in Saraswati as she entered the room. “Ma, I'd like to borrow your nail polish.”
“Take it,” Durga said, “And don't call me Ma.”

The sisters Lakshmi and Saraswati were in the room they shared. Lakshmi was trying on her new sari. She turned and twisted in front of the mirror.
“Does this make me look fat?”, she asked her sister.
Saraswati didn't even look up. She was playing her veena for one last time before it was to be packed into its case for their journey to their grandfather's home. “No,” she said in a bored voice. Momentarily she looked up.
“EEK!”
“What?” Lakshmi spun around.
“Black nailpolish? Black?”
“Oh,” Lakshmi said. “Oh that. I was just...erm...trying out a new style. You know, trying to go Gothic.”
“Gothic!”
“What's so strange about that?”
“Lakshmi, I play classical music! And punk rock...O God!...Wait a minute, I'm a god. But then...Gothic...”, she shook her head miserably.
“And I wish they give me some good saris down there this time,” Lakshmi continued happily. “It's always the rich embroidered ones, and always the heavy gold jewellery...platinum would be cool, don't you think?”
She turned around to face her sister and saw that Saraswati looked about to cry.

Munching on his fifteenth laddoo that day, Ganesh walked into the Kailash gym. Kartik was exercising hard with the weights.
“Hi, bro”, Ganesh said.
Kartik put down his weights and turned around. He was sweating profusely.
“Eating laddoos again, huh, Ganesh?”, he said.
“Lifting weights again, huh, Kartik?”, Ganesh said in the same way.
“I have to,” Kartik said seriously. “Six-pack abs are a fad with the humans now. They would want to see my well-toned body...”
“Aha! You want to impress the girls!”
Kartik flushed a little. “Well, you already have Kalavati, in any case. And fighters must always be fit, girls or no girls,” he added.
He watched Ganesh savour his laddoo and said, “You should go on a diet, Ganesh. That belly of yours is showing worse than ever. Your rat wouldn't be able to take your weight this time”, he said, and laughed out loud.
“Watching you and Lakshmi on your diets is bad enough,” Ganesh commented.
Kartik was still laughing. “You'll need a more sturdy form of transport soon.”

In another part of Kailash, Durga was arguing with her husband.
“I don't see the point in tagging along Mahishasur's body every time”, Durga whined.
“It's a show of power, sweetheart,” Shiv said.
“And all those weapons. My arms ache so much holding them all for four long days. The humans have no compassion!”
“But you are the form of Shakti, honey. You must carry them. The humans will expect to see them in your hands, and when they see you holding them, they will gain strength from you, darling,” Shiv smiled.
Just at that moment, Durga's lion roared.
“Time to go,” Durga sighed. “I wish you were coming with us, darling,” she said to her husband.
“I'm always watching over you all, you know that,” Shiv said consolingly. He added, “But why are you so morose? You used to enjoy going to your father's home...”
“I'm not morose about going to Baba's,” Durga said. “It's just the humans. Their expectations of us. Their worship of us. It tires me. I'm always so tense. I'm always worried that we'll not be able to live up to their expectations.”
“Don't worry, Durga,” Shiv said. “Just be yourself. Or as much as you can be, with Mahishasur's body at your feet and all those weapons in your hands”, he added. "But cheer up, please, Durga."
Durga's lion roared a second time and her four children came traipsing into view. Lakshmi and her white owl, Saraswati and her white swan, Kartik and his peacock, and Ganesh and his little rat.
“Well, time to go, children,” Shiv said. “Come here, give Baba a hug.”
They all walked into his arms and hugged him.
“See you in four days, all of you,” Shiv called as they all mounted their respective animals. “And be yourself, all of you. Just because you're gods doesn't mean you have to pretend to be so much stronger and better than the humans...be yourself!”, he called as they rode out of view.

And so began the journey of Durga and her children into the land of humans. And this time, they will not pretend to be something they are not. Watch out, humans, for a Pujo with a difference.

Personal Agenda

conversations.with.aparajita@gmail.com (Aparajita Bhattacharya) — Thu, 17 Sep 2009 14:39:00 +0000

Every Sunday, you get a magazine called Brunch with the Hindustan Times. The last page of the magazine features an interview with a celebrity, titled 'Personal Agenda' and there are some fixed questions that are asked. Just for fun, I decided to solve the questionnaire today and put it up on my blog. So here goes....

Fun to you is...
Shopping at my favourite bookstore at my favourite mall.

If you were invisble for a day, you would...
Bug all the people who usually bug me.

The one invention you're really waiting for...
Something that can read the minds of babies. I'd really like to know what babies think.

Would you like to be young forever?
Definitely not. With age comes wisdom. And boy, do I need that! It really embarrasses me when I think of all those stupid things I did just because I was young and had no wisdom.

What are you reading at the moment?
Um...nothing, I guess. Do textbooks qualify?

Who is your favourite cartoon character?
There are two, actually. Calvin and Hobbes.

The place you really want to visit and why?
Paris, and because I really want to see all the “endroits célébres” of that city.

Which film's hero/heroine do you most identify with?
Matthew Macfadyen's Mr Darcy in the 2005 adaptation of Pride and Prejudice. I can feel my heart beating with that character when I watch that film. I can feel every emotion he feels.

Your idea of a perfect meal?
Nothing, because I don't like eating.

Weekend at a wellness spa or weekend at a luxury beach resort?
Well, at present, I don't have the money to be at either.

Lean or brawny?
Lean, definitely.

Three people from history you'd like to meet?
Jane Austen, who is my idol; Mahatma Gandhi, whom I admire a lot; and R K Narayan, who will probably always be the best Indian writer in English.

Your worst date ever?
Aha! Nice question. I haven't ever been on a date. And yes, that's true, and you may raise your eyebrows.

Ethnic wear or Western wear?
Generally Western wear, sometimes ethnic, and sometimes a combination of both- like kurtis with jeans.

Morning person or night person?
Most definitely a night person. I'm an insomniac. I sleep in the mornings.

What are you addicted to?
Writing.

The naughtiest thing you've ever done?
Was way back when I was a kid. I did many naughty things, like pouring water over quilts, stealing butter from the refrigerator, stealing the nakuldana that was offered to the gods...don't know which qualifies as the naughtiest.

What's your retirement dream?
As long as I live, I'll be writing. So there's no retirement for me.

Five personal care products you can't do without?
Toothpaste, toothbrush, shampoo, soap, and deodorant body spray/perfume. Is that five? ~Counts. Yes, that's five.

Who do you think your partner has a crush on?
I don't have a partner.

Your favourite drink?
Cold water.

The one food you can never say no to?
Chocolate.

Rate in order of importance: fame, money, power.
Power, money, fame.

Your next move?
Publishing this.

Observations

conversations.with.aparajita@gmail.com (Aparajita Bhattacharya) — Sun, 06 Sep 2009 11:54:00 +0000

I generally don't post in such quick succession, but I have time on my hands today, and my thoughts are flowing rather erratically, so I decided to channelise them in a post. :-)
I hate social networking sites. I've tried out almost all of them- Myspace, Facebook, Hi5, Orkut...and none of the experiences have been very pleasant. Yet, I maintain my Orkut account for the sole reason that my friends are very keen on using Orkut.
But much as I hate them all, I cannot deny the fact that these networking sites do provide some recreation and food for thought. Today I'm going to share with you a few observations about Orkut.
On Orkut you get all sorts of weirdos. There are of course those people who will send friendship requests out of the blue. I got one such request (before I changed my settings so only people who know my email address can send requests -yes, you can do that in your Settings), and an accompanying scrap: “Please please please make friends with me.” At least the grammar of that one was tolerable. Some will spell friendship as “fraandship” and so on and so forth, but I guess you have all heard a lot about it (and probably also faced it, specially if you're a girl), so I won't harp on that. Instead, let's take a fresh look at new groups of weirdos.
1. There is the kind that doesn't seem to know where they belong. You know, there's this section on your profile that you have to fill up- it's about your location. And some people will go like “Kolkata/Pune”. Okay, we all understand what that means. You're either in Kolkata or in Pune- I suppose one is your home, the other is your workplace or something like that. But do you have to mention both places in that “location”. It asks you where you are located, and nothing more than that. And since you can't be located at two places at the same time (come on, I've never yet met anyone who's ubiquitous, have you?), why do you have to mention the names of both places?
2. Now there is the kind that is so eternally lovesick. They write all sorts of long, long, long essays (yes, essays) in the 'About Me' section, speaking of how someone broke their hearts and so on and so forth. They will join communities like
- “The Problem with Love is...”
- “Love Kills”
- “Why Do I Still Love You?”
- “Nothing Hurts like Love”
- ”Don't hurt me, I'm already dead”
- “Living in Silent Pain”
- “So Much Pain Behind These Eyes”
- “Broken Hearts” (tagline: “god will you let her know that I love her so when there's no one there that she's not alone? just close her eyes and let her know my heart is beating with hers”. No comments.)
Seriously, these communities are all for desperados. I can't imagine anybody sane who'd want to make a public display of their emotions to this horrible extent.
3. And then there are the philosophical weirdos who join communities like
- “What's the Meaning of Life?”
- “Dreams”
- “Blood” (tagline: “for those who love the juice of life”)
- “Tears”
I visited one of these communities to see what they actually do. And there are threads like this on the Forum: “Hi. Want to learn Indian flute?” (1 post); “Torpedo SMS anonimo gratis!” (1 post in God-knows-what-language); “Earn Money through TREKPAY” (16 posts), etc. Almost no thread has more than a hundred posts, and the thread that does have more posts is actually a game totally unrelated to what the community is about.
4. Then there are people who will form stupid communities like this: “This is Not A Community”. Accompanied by a picture that says: “This is Not A Picture”. Community description: “THIS IS NOT A DESCRIPTION. So Let's NOT Get Together, NOT Make Friends, In This
Non-Beautiful, Non-Smart, NON- EXISTING Community. NOT A WARNING : People Who Do Not Spam Will Not Be Banned!!! Please Do Not See: Do Not Read The Community Policies Before Not Posting!!!!!!!” Incidentally, it has 63 270 members.
And this: “I joined too many communities!” (18 516 members). Community description: “The goal of this community is to help Orkut users who joined too much communities.
We are here to discuss about this problem, and possible solutions.
If you can't read all communities you subscribed to, if you can't remember all communities you joined... come here: you'll find help. This community is not intended to spam new communities.
It aims to help people in leaving other communities, or to let them discuss this problem.”
And this: “?”. Community description: 102 question marks. Number of members is 1337.
Then there are communities that promote profanity. “Now WTF” has a strength of 7079. “Bangla Khisti” has a strength of 7209. (If you must know, the word “khisti” in colloquial Bengali means profanity.) “What the Fuck!!!” has 1072 members. I don't see what is so great about using swearwords in every sentence you speak.
5. And lastly, there are morbid people with twisted minds. I've posted something about this earlier. (Click here and here). These people really, really, really need a psychiatrist. They will put up all sorts of gruesome pictures of their hands bleeding where they have slashed their wrists, and so on. There are even communities for them. Pro-suicide groups, I'm tempted to think. One such community is “Die for Love” (it has a picture of a person slashing their wrist) and- would you imagine!- it has 19, 563 members who all need help. The community description goes: “I sit in the park where I dwell for this girl I love so well. She took my heart away from me, now she wants to set me free. I see a boy on her lap she says things to him she never said to me. I ran home to cry on my bed not a word to mother was said father came home late that night. He looked at me from left to right.. he saw me hanging from a rope he took his knife to cut me down and on my dress a note was found: dig my grave dig it deep/ dig my grave from head to feet/ and on the top place a dove/ and remember this, I died for Love.” Pathetic.
I feel so sorry for all these people. Orkut really needs to keep a tab on such communities. And parents need to know which communities their children are joining.

If you have your own observations about social networking sites, you might want to share them in the Comments section.
Till my next post, keep visiting.

On Teachers' Day

conversations.with.aparajita@gmail.com (Aparajita Bhattacharya) — Sat, 05 Sep 2009 04:55:00 +0000

It's Teachers' Day today here in India, and- no prizes for guessing- this post is dedicated to my teachers. But first things first. To all teachers reading this post, and to all who aren't, Happy Teachers' Day! And a big THANK YOU for the wonderful job you all have been doing. The world would get nowhere had it not been for our teachers.

This picture is courtesy ME. Not fully, though. You see, I was browsing the net for Teachers' Day images, and found nothing suitable, so I downloaded a picture of rosemary flowers (which symbolise remembrance) and edited it to suit my purpose.

Today I'm going to talk about all the teachers who stand out particularly vividly in my memory.
The first such person I can remember was Miss Marian Felix, who taught us English when I was in Grade 3. That was around the time when I got so good in English that I was easily the best among my classmates, and naturally, I was her favourite student and I remember how she used to pamper me a lot. Come to think of it, I've always been pampered a lot by my teachers since childhood- firstly because I'd always be ill, and secondly because I was such a good student. I'd talk a lot in class and nobody would ever scold me. I'd get up from my seat while the teacher was teaching and wander to the door to watch the clouds in the sky (yes, I was always a bit poetic, although I never wrote a proper poem till I was nearly sixteen), and nobody would say anything. It was considered perfectly normal of me to do all sorts of odd things in class and go unpunished.
The next teacher I remember was also my English teacher- in Grades 7 and 8. No, I was not her favourite student. The class topper was her favourite student, but there was no denying that when it came to English, I was the best. She was also the one who was in charge of the school Writers' Club when all those extra-curricular clubs were formed when I was in Grade 6, and naturally I joined the WC (although my family really wanted me to join the Quizzing Club- I've always been naturally good at GK- and there were a lot of tears and all, but ultimately I was allowed to pursue my passion). Her name was Mrs Moushumi Bhattacharya (I don't know if she spells her name that way) and she was the one who encouraged me to take my writing seriously. For the first time in my life, I realised that writing was something I really did well, and from then, I knew that all I wanted to be when I grew up was to be an author. Since then, I've started work on numerous “first” novels, but none of them has materialised so far- but well, someday, some story will.
The next teacher who I really really liked- and in a special sort of way, as you will soon come to know- was my English teacher in Grades 9 and 10. Again, I don't exactly know how he spells his name, but I suppose it was Sanjeev Ghosh. I was his favourite student, or so it appeared to me. And on my part, I had a huge crush on him. (Yeah, yeah, I know. Never imagined I'd have to say that cliché phrase of “I had a crush on my English teacher!”, but well, I have to, you see, to be quite honest.) He was tall and handsome, very smart and always well-dressed (I specially liked that pale yellow Monte Carlo sweater he would wear during the winter months); he had even tried out for the army, but eventually chose to be a teacher- so you can imagine how eminently likeable he was. Even the perfume that he wore was incredible to my olfactory senses.
But something happened in Grade 10 that made my respect for him grow to a great extent. His wife died- how, we the students never really knew, but Mrs Ghosh had been pregnant, and when she died, their baby died with her. The loss was too great for him to bear. He missed school for quite some time, and when he returned he was no longer the same. I've always been a very sensitive person, and it really affected me to see how grief-stricken he was. He would speak softly when he taught, remain thoughtful when the lesson was done, never smile or joke like he used to...And yet he bore the pain incredibly well. In those days, I really wanted to say something to him, something comforting- but I had no idea what I'd say if given the chance. So I kept quiet. And when, finally, many months after, I saw him smile his first smile while walking with a colleague, I felt so gratified. And then, in no time, I had left the school. I never saw him again.
Then I moved to greener pastures. To a school that was better in many ways. I've always been very ambitious- I'd give anything for my career. Even my sentiments.
But I took a long time adjusting myself to this new school. The people there were very nice, and I liked them, but I had no friends, until one of them won my heart with a few words. But that's another story. Here, we are talking about my teachers.
The Future Foundation School had many, many great teachers. There was Mrs Sanjukta Ukil, who taught us Economics, and she really adored me. There was ARC, the English teacher and the head of the Literary Club, which I joined as soon as joining TFFS. There was Mrs Madhuchanda Banerjee (okay, I've really forgotten her surname, but I think it was Banerjee), who taught us History, and she was a really great teacher. But the teacher who I liked the best was SC. He spells his name as Subhabrata Chowdhury, but I fondly call him Shubho Sir, in gross mis-spelling of his name! He taught Geography, but curiously enough, Geography was not a subject I had opted for. And yet, he was the best teacher I've ever ever had.
You see, I classify teachers in three groups: teachers who teach me a subject, teachers who teach me about life, and teachers who teach me a subject and about life. SC belonged to the second category. He taught me so much about life I'll forever be indebted to him.
And then comes my French teacher. He taught us only for a semester (6 months), but apart from Mr Ghosh, he's the best teacher of subject-and-life that I've ever had. I've never met anybody like my French teacher, Debojyoti Guha (DG). Soft-spoken, incredibly polite, humble, a perfect gentleman, and so dedicated to his work that...well, I have no words for it. And to top it all, his French was perfect. My current French teacher, Ingrid le Gargasson, is of French origin, and the other day, even she was amazed by how perfectly I pronounce the French I already know. All thanks to DG.
So there I've gone down memory lane, bringing up memories of all the wonderful teachers I've had. You know what? What made them so respectable in my eyes was the fact that they respected me in turn, the fact that they believed in me, much much more than I have ever believed in myself.
And now I'm in college, and we have loads of teachers. The best in their fields. After all, JUDE is the best in Asia, and we have the best faculty of English teachers possible. Yet, I have no favourites here...but maybe it's too early to judge. Maybe, by this time next year, I'll have more teachers to talk about.
Till my next post, keep visiting. And stay happy and healthy.

The Music Room

conversations.with.aparajita@gmail.com (Aparajita Bhattacharya) — Mon, 24 Aug 2009 16:44:00 +0000

NOTE: What follows below is a story. It's very unusual of me to post creative write-ups of mine up on my blog, because I'm very much afraid of plagiarism, but occasionally I do post stuff that I don't intend to publish ever. I've posted one poem before; now it's time for some fiction. I hope you like it. Please do comment after you've read it.

Komal knew something was wrong the moment the building of the Premrang Music School came into sight as she walked down the road towards it that Sunday morning. A small crowd was gathered around on the veranda, at the entrance to the music room- the students of the school standing about distraught, confused. “No class today,” the caretaker of the school called out to Komal as he caught sight of her when she drew near. Tanvi, Komal's friend, came running down the three small steps and caught her hand. “Guruji is dead,” she said breathlessly, her eyes wide with dismay. “I don't believe it! I mean- how can he? All of a sudden?”

Komal and Tanvi were Guruji's oldest students, both of them on the wrong side of twenty. Most people in that school had taken up music as a pastime in their childhood or teens, and they never continued with it once the pressure of their higher studies got too much, but Komal and Tanvi knew they wanted to make a career out of music, and they were diligent students. They were to appear for their final exam in music the next year, and passing it would give them the title of Sangeet Praveen, a real achievement. Guruji was proud of them. But now...

How could he be dead? “What happened to him?”, Komal asked Tanvi.
“Heart attack, I told you so many times already,” the caretaker cried exasperatedly, answering someone who had asked him the same question.
“I asked him for the details,” Tanvi whispered, her voice trembling slightly. “He said Guruji's son called up to say that his father had had a heart attack last night, and he was declared dead by the doctor when they took him to the hospital. That's all he could say.”
Komal was silent. She thought of Guruji- an elderly man, going bald at the temples, with a round face and a podgy build, and a very charming personality. She thought of his lovable grandfather image, his loud laugh that came very frequently on account of his jolly nature, and his voice- sonorous and so melodious, the heavenly sound when he sang the phrases of some khayal, to the strumming of the tanpura and the steady beat of the tabla...Tansen must have sounded like her Guruji, Komal had often thought.

She had known Guruji for a long time. She was about six or seven when her father first brought her to him- a week ago the young father had discovered his daughter's penchant for music when he walked in upon her trying to strum his tanpura.
She was in the music room, standing by the tanpura, testing the first string with her finger, when he had walked in suddenly.
Later that evening, he had asked her, “Do you want to learn music, Komal?”, drawing his darling daughter close to himself and seating her on his lap.
She had nodded shyly, and he had laughed, remembering how she would listen with hungry eyes whenever he was practising.

Her father was a close friend of Shivam Patel. They had learned music in the same school together, and Shivam had been a few years senior to her father. So when Komal expressed her desire to learn music, her father knew instinctively that Shivam Patel, the person he adored so much, would be just the right person to train his daughter. Moreover, Shivam had recently opened his music school, named after their Guruji, and in the eyes of Komal's father, there was no better place to learn music than in Shivam's school.

She still remembered the day her father first took her to the school and told her that the person she had previously known as Tauji was now to be her Guruji. It stood out very prominently in her memory, for that was the day she saw her father living and breathing for the last time. He died in an accident that day while returning home from the Music Academy, and after that, Guruji, the teacher who was very much her uncle, assumed the role of her father.

But now, he, too, was gone. And she, very much his daughter, felt as though the world had crashed down on her shoulders. Guruji- dead? It was impossible to think of her favourite person in the world as nothing but a cold corpse now, of whom soon nothing would remain but an urn full of ashes to be immersed in the Ganga a few days later. Tears rose in her eyes.

“Tanvi,” she told her friend, her eyes shining, “I want to go to his home, I want to see him.” It is my duty to be there, even if I cannot perform his last rites, she thought. Tanvi would probably refuse- what remained to be seen?- but she answered immediately, “Yes, let's go.”

Entering Guruji's home reminded her very strongly of the only time she had been in a house of mourning. Everyone was in white, the women had tear-streaked faces and attempted to hide them behind veils made of the end of their saris, while the men maintained a stance of composure. Everywhere, silence ruled. People spoke in whispers. Over all, it was a sepulchral atmosphere.

“Where is he?”, Komal whispered when they met Guruji's wife. She still called her Taiji, although technically the aging lady was her Guruma.
“Still at the hospital,” Taiji answered. She had a withered look, an expression of exhaustion mixed with despair. “Everything happened so suddenly...my sons are still at the hospital...there is some trouble with the body...”

Suddenly Komal felt sick. She did not want to hear any more. She wished she hadn't come...but Taiji was still speaking, and Komal heard her say, “I am glad you came, Komal. You were always like a daughter to us, to him- he would have wanted you to be present when we bade him goodbye for the last time...And you too, Tanvi. You two were his favourite students.”
Beside her, Tanvi wiped away the tears rolling down her cheeks. Komal felt strange, unable to cry herself, unable to feel any particular emotion except a sense of emptiness.
“Can I go see his room?”, she asked.

Minutes later, she stood outside Guruji's room. The bed was made- as though any moment he would come in and lay down on the bed. She watched his pillow, wondering when his head had rested on it last- perhaps during the afternoon of the previous day; he always had a habit of taking a short nap after lunch.

She walked in and stood by the bed for a while, staring down at it. She extended a hand and felt the sheets- he had lain there less than twenty-four hours ago.

Maybe that was how it happened. One moment a person could be eating, breathing, sleeping, talking, thinking, singing...and the next moment, nothing remained. Void. Darkness. That was Death. Death that had the power to shock, but also to awe. How ephemeral a life was!

She walked out slowly and went into the next room- the music room, where Guruji practised music regularly. Her eyes wandered over to the tanpura in the corner...

“Komal, what on earth are you doing?”
The little girl standing beside the tanpura looked up suddenly and an expression of guilt came over her face. “Nothing,” she muttered.
The tall man with the curly dark hair had a look of incredulity on his face. “Were you going to play the tanpura?”
The girl shook her head vehemently, and the man burst out laughing. “Of course you were. Malati-”, he called out to his wife, the girl's mother, “Malati, our Komal was going to play the tanpura!”...

“Guruji, will you teach me to play the tanpura?”, the child looked up at her teacher with shining eyes.
“Of course I will,” the teacher gave her a benign smile. “How can you ever learn music without learning to play the tanpura?”...

They had given her music. They had taught her how to strum that instrument- the first string with the middle finger, the other three with the index finger.
“The first string is most often set to the sound of Pa,” Guruji had told her. “The others are set to the sound of Sa.”

Komal walked over to the tanpura now. When had her Guruji last touched it? She lifted a hand, put her finger to the first string, and pulled at it gently. Ga . It was not Pa. He had last sung a song that did not make use of the fifth note of the octave. What could the raag have been? Hindol ? It was the first name that came to her mind. With a start she realised that that was the song they had sung the last Sunday. The last raag they ever sang together.

She pulled at the other strings gently. Hummed to herself the opening lines of Hindol.

The music room was transformed. A heavenly, golden light filled it, and the air was suffused with joy while the tanpura strings sang and imaginary fingers danced on the tabla and Guruji's voice resonated in her ear. He was not dead.

Midnight Blue

conversations.with.aparajita@gmail.com (Aparajita Bhattacharya) — Mon, 10 Aug 2009 14:16:00 +0000

I'll be going out of town for a few days, and may not have access to the internet while I am travelling, so I just thought I'd write a little something before I take a short break from blogging. (Although, it may not exactly be a break, since I'm hard at work on the Harry Potter discussions I'm doing on my book club blog, as announced in my previous post on this blog.)
I was just wondering what midnight blue looks like. I mean, I've heard it's a really beautiful shade of blue, and blue is my favourite colour and I love almost every shade of blue, but I'd never really seen exactly what midnight blue looks like. So I did a little Google Image Search and I got a hint of the exact shade that is called midnight blue. It is this shade, to be precise:

Now, I really wonder what makes them call this shade of blue 'midnight blue'. The sky at midnight is never this shade. Years and years back it used to be an inky blue, and you could see the stars even, but nowadays it's just red, and you can't really see any stars. At least, the Calcutta sky is. A reddish, or maybe orangish, black. You may think it's really the street lights, those big orange fluorescent lamps that emit a powerful glow. But then you have a power cut, and it's dark everywhere, and still the sky has that tint of red. And there are no stars- a few bright planets maybe, like Venus...but no stars. And then you realise it's not really the sky you're watching; it's the blanket of polluted air that you are staring at. Maybe, unless you get to fly really high, well above the troposphere and in the stratosphere, you don't really get to see the sky. What a pity.
And I'm still wondering why it's called 'midnight blue'...

A Brief Announcement

conversations.with.aparajita@gmail.com (Aparajita Bhattacharya) — Mon, 03 Aug 2009 14:48:00 +0000

The sixth Harry Potter movie released sometime around the middle of July. I watched it shortly afterwards. It was convenient that I'd forgotten all about the book, having had read it too long back, and I quite liked the movie. I watched it a second time with my brother and sister who insisted I accompany them when they went to see it, and I liked it even better the second time. But I won't write a movie review here. You see, when I used to write for a local newspaper, I specialized in writing reviews- of movies, of music albums, of music artistes and so on and so forth. With the result that, subsequently, I've become thoroughly sick of reviews. I still write on books on The Aspiring Book Critics' Club Official blog (click here), but they are discussions rather than reviews. In any case, I can direct you to a very good discussion on HP6 by a member of The Aspiring Book Critics' Club, so why bother to write a review myself? Click here. Alzyna calls it a review, but it's actually a discussion, and although I think she is prejudiced against DanRad (as I call Daniel Radcliffe, on whom I've got a huge crush, by the way), her write-up is worth reading. And will someone please tell her to change the template? I don't have the courage to, but I really do think it doesn't look good.
I will here announce something that has been on my mind for quite some time. I'm re-reading the Harry Potter books, starting with the first, and this time, I'm deliberately going slow. You could say I'm studying them. And I intend to finish one book in one week and no faster than that. Starting this week, each week, for seven weeks, I will write about one Harry Potter book on The Aspiring Book Critics' Club blog. Other members are hereby requested to please desist from writing about other books in these seven weeks. (I do think they will be glad to have a break; they aren't really much active, and any excuse to remain inactive for seven long weeks will be welcome to them.)

An important change in my life

conversations.with.aparajita@gmail.com (Aparajita Bhattacharya) — Mon, 03 Aug 2009 14:45:00 +0000

Whew! A month of inactivity on my part. I won't use any fancy terms like 'writer's block' to excuse myself; no, ladies and gentlemen who have cared to return to this blog after such a long time, it was pure laziness. But finally, I am back to writing.
In the past month that I haven't written, there has been an important change in my life. People who have read older posts on my blog, particularly 'Our Neighbour', will remember that I said I was a student of International Relations (honours) and English Literature at Jadavpur University, Calcutta. But after a year of studying IR, I finally decided I liked English Literature better; I'd taken up IR hoping for a career as a journalist- I am already a professional freelance writer and proofreader and I've known I was cut out for a career related to writing in English since I was a child- but then, after completing four years of writing for newspapers, I decided that I wanted a career in the publishing industry. And while IR wouldn't hinder me, graduating in English Literature would definitely give me something of a head-start. Besides, hadn't I always wanted to study English? Hadn't I always been the best in English in my class? Hadn't all my teachers told me I was destined to study English? And so, I switched to the English Literature (honours) course and took up French for a second subject. (I'm rather good at French; I started learning the language in January in the renowned School of Languages of the Ramkrishna Mission Institute of Culture here in Calcutta, and I topped my class in the first semester examinations.)
Switching to English wasn't easy. I first had to qualify in the admission test. Around 6000 people take the test every year, since the Jadavpur University Department of English (JUDE) has been declared a Centre of Advanced Studies (CAS) and is the best in Asia, whether you know it or not. And out of those 6000 people, only about 50 students get in, so the competition is really very strong and the question papers tougher than that of any ordinary college entrance exam. Anyway, I qualified, but the real test came after that, on the day of the admission. You'd think that having been registered as a student of JU already would have made things easier for me; but no, it made things a hundred times more difficult. Changing departments is not easy- you have to fill a form, get clearances from the Accounts department, from the libraries, from the Muster Roll section, and finally from the Deputy Registrar. Sounds easy, but think of all the red tape of government-controlled institutions and the horror of it all becomes evident. Halfway through, I was left crying and insisting I didn't want to get into JUDE, so frustrated I was. Thankfully, my mother and my good friends from the IR department were there for support, and, at last, I got admitted.
Since then, things have been going smoothly. Since I've already studied English Literature as a second subject for a year, most JUDE teachers know me, by face if not by name. I was nominated the temporary Class Representative (CRs are elected in March) on the first day itself, and I took up the role very gladly, because the rest of the class was still starry-eyed. Babies, I thought.
But that brings me to my second point. Much as I may think of my classmates as babies, given that I've already been in JU for one year, they're not much younger than me. I had always studied ahead of my age. Born in October 1990, I got into school when I was four, graduated from secondary school when I was 15 (most people do it at 16) and from high school at 17 (most people do it at 18). I'm still 18 and I suspect a few of my classmates may actually be older than me, while the rest will be of my age or only slightly younger than me. In the IR department, a lot of people were older than me, the average birth year being 1989.
So at last I'm studying in the class I ought to be in. At last I'm studying the subject I love. And though I've been ill for the past one week and missed a whole lot of classes, I'm happy.

Jai Ho (massacred by PCD)

conversations.with.aparajita@gmail.com (Aparajita Bhattacharya) — Fri, 03 Jul 2009 14:43:00 +0000

I finally listened to the mutilated form of Jai Ho that A R Rahman has let the Pussycat Dolls present to the world. Finally, after months of sticking to the resolution that I won't ever listen to it, I gave in and watched the video on YouTube.
And after watching it, I feel I should have stuck to my resolution. What a sordid mess of the track that won the Oscar for Best Original Song! Of all artistes in the world, did Rahman have to let the PCD do a cover of his baby? PCD is known for its singles being too high on the sexuality quotient. And the Jai Ho version they've done has lyrics bordering on eroticism as usual. Samples:
“I got (I got) shivers (shivers)/ When you touch The Light/ I'll make you hot/ Get all you got/ I'll make you wanna say (Jai Ho)/ I got (I got) fever (fever)/ Running like a fire/ For you I will go all the way/ I wanna take you higher (Jai Ho)...”
And again: “Catch me, catch me, catch me, c'mon, catch me/ I want you now/ I know you can save me, you can save me/ I need you now/ I am yours forever, yes, forever/ I will follow/ Anywhere in anyway/ Never gonna let go...”
And what would you make of this: “Just keep it burnin', yeah baby, Just keep it comin'”? Is any of this in sync with the original song? The beautiful, poetic lyrics of Gulzar and this horrible distortion by PCD are at sharp contrast.
The only part of the song that I liked was the chorus:
“ (Jai Ho) You are the reason that I breathe,
(Jai Ho) You are the reason that I still believe,
(Jai Ho) You are my destiny,
Jai Ho! Oh-oh-oh-oh!

(Jai Ho) No there is nothing that can stop us,
(Jai Ho) Nothing can ever come between us,
So come and dance with me,
Jai Ho! (oohh)”

You can check out the video (click here), and do tell me what you think of the song.

conversations.with.aparajita@gmail.com (Aparajita Bhattacharya) — Mon, 22 Jun 2009 15:16:00 +0000

Whenever I don't feel like writing much, but think that I ought to post something on the blog (that suffers on account of my laziness), I post a Calvin and Hobbes cartoon. Calvin and Hobbes is my favourite cartoon series ever. Absolutely the best in the world. This strip is on silence.

On a totally different note, I read somewhere recently: "Of those who stay quiet, few are silent". Something to think about, huh?

Reminiscences

conversations.with.aparajita@gmail.com (Aparajita Bhattacharya) — Sun, 14 Jun 2009 07:51:00 +0000

This poem is dedicated to my “little” sister, and I wrote this remembering an incident in our childhood-an incident on a hot summer afternoon.
That's all I can say to describe this poem; read it and judge it for yourself.

REMINISCENCES
Little girl-
You came and tugged at my hand,
Whispering, “The pickled mangoes”.

Grandma's pickled mangoes.
Stolen and relished
On a hot summer afternoon
While the whole world dozed,
too tired to stay awake in the heat;
Even the crows were silent-
Maybe they had parched throats...
And the two of us in the kitchen-
Grinning guiltily,
sweating in the heat- but enjoying all the same.
Who cared
that Grandma would ask:
“Where did the pickle go?”

Little girl-
So innocent and carefree-
I have searched for you everywhere.
But time has a way of swallowing up things
And I lost you.
Now a grown woman
speaks of paychecks, not pickles.

P.S. This poem was voted the second runner-up in the "Summer Heat" contest organised by the Orkut community Bloggeratti (for the official blog of Bloggeratti, click here)The award was a badge to be displayed on the blog:

Three movies

conversations.with.aparajita@gmail.com (Aparajita Bhattacharya) — Mon, 27 Apr 2009 11:45:00 +0000

I mentioned in my last post that I don't like watching television or movies, which took a lot of people by surprise. In spite of that, I watched three movies recently- all of them Iranian films, made by acclaimed director Majid Majidi. If you are one of those people hooked to world cinema and good films, you must have heard of Majid Majidi, who, incidentally, turned 50 years old this month.
Alright the three films.
The first I saw was The Color of Paradise (original title Rang-e Khoda, which translates into Color of God, by the way). I saw it on Valentine's Day this year- in an international film festival organised in my University. Before going to watch it, I researched the film on the Web and found that it was nominated for 10 Oscars and was a New York Times Critics' pick.
The story was about a blind motherless boy Mohammad and his relationship with his family. His grandmother adores him, his two sisters adore him, but he is a burden for his father who wants to marry a second time. The father makes all sorts of arrangements for the boy to stay away from home- from requesting the supervisor of the institute for the blind that Mohammad attends to keep him for the holidays to apprenticing him to a blind carpenter far away from home. The grandmother resents all these attempts, but the father is hardly affected until the grandmother dies and the family of the woman he was supposed to marry cancels the marriage saying it is a bad omen. It is then that he decides to bring the homesick Mohammad back home, but an accident happens on the way, and the big question is whether Mohammad will survive. It is a very touching film, speaking of the plight of a blind boy rejected by his father for no fault of his. The ending of the film is a double entendre, and it still astounds me, for I still haven't been able to unravel the mystery.

The next Majid Majidi film I saw was the very recent The Song of Sparrows (original title Avaze gonjeshk-ha), made in 2008. And -surprise!surprise!- I watched it on TV. On UTV World Movies, to be specific. That's one good channel. Anyway, the story was about Karim, who works on an ostrich farm, but when an ostrich runs away, Karim is blamed for the loss and fired from the farm. Meanwhile, his deaf daughter's hearing aid has been damaged and he has to buy a new one. He goes to the city for that, but there, he is mistaken to be a motorcycle taxi driver and people hire him for transporting themselves and their goods. Slowly, Karim gets used to working as a motorcycle taxi driver, and slowly, a change comes over him, so that his family is worried about him. But in all stories, things sort themselves out in the end, and so it is in this one.

The third film I watched is probably Majidi's most acclaimed film, Children of Heaven (original title Bacheha-ye Aseman). Also, it is older than the other two I watched- it dates back to 1997. It was nominated for the Best Foreign Film Oscar, but lost the award to another competitor. The story is incredibly simple. It is about two siblings Ali and Zahra. Ali loses Zahra's shoes while on his way back home after getting the shoes repaired, but their parents are not financially well-off enough to buy Zahra a new pair of shoes. To keep the whole thing secret from their parents, Ali and Zahra hatch a plan- Zahra would wear Ali's sneakers to school in the morning, race back home and return them to Ali who would then wear the shoes to his school. This continues until Ali participates in a long-distance race which promises a third prize of a pair of sneakers. But as luck would have it, Ali doesn't come third- he comes first- and even the sneakers he had so far get totally frayed with the heavy use. Howvere, the film ends on a positive note, and the viewer is sure to get tears of happiness in their eyes at the end.

One thing that I found out from watching three Majid Majidi's films is that, first, he focuses on the lower middle class in Iran. They can almost be called poor. The breadwinner of the family has a huge burden on his shoulders, having to support no less than three children in every case. But in spite of all that poverty, there is a touch of innocence in each film, espacially where the children are concerned, and it almost pains you to see how happy they are even in their deprived life. It almost makes you feel you want to do something for them- anything that would make their lives better. Majidi's films are extremely poignant and deserve all the critical acclaim they have got till date. Few directors get from their actors what Majidi gets his actors to produce. Hats off to the director.

Because I was Tagged...

conversations.with.aparajita@gmail.com (Aparajita Bhattacharya) — Tue, 21 Apr 2009 12:59:00 +0000

I know I didn't update my blog for a long time. Reason? I was feeling too lazy. Anyway, I got tagged by one of my regular readers Vani, and frankly speaking, I've got no idea what to do. I've read some blogs where the bloggers were tagged, and I saw that they shared twenty-five facts about themselves with the world, but Vani herself has done only seven points (seven obvious “secrets”), so I guess it's okay if you do as less as possible. I haven't been asked any specific questions, so I guess I'm free to write whatever I want to write. A nice opportunity, I should conclude, given that the About Me on the profile page in Blogger is too little a space to say all that I want to say, and therefore I have to stick to a single line or so. Also, I rarely speak at length about myself, so this is going to be interesting for me. Well, so, here goes about me...
1. Right now, I'm sitting at my laptop, typing this. The only sounds I can hear is the sound of the keys going tap-tap-tap and also of the fan rotating overhead. It's very hot, and I've no idea how we are going to survive May and June if April is so hot.
2. I love reading books. But when it comes to collecting books, I'm choosy. I wouldn't buy a book just for the sake of buying it. Besides, there are times when I can't find the books that I want to read- hence my attraction towards ebooks. I read every book I can lay my hands on but I prefer the literary kind.
3. I also love writing, and I can write about everything and anything. About my life, about my environment, about the political situation in the country...anything. Creative non-fiction, fiction, poetry- name it, I've written it. Yes, plays too. Of course there's no guarantee that whatever I write is readable! But yes, I do try to maintain a definite standard.
4. I am at the head of a Book Club that I formed in cyberspace in last November, and I handle it almost single-handedly because we've hardly got any active members, but it's a task that I enjoy doing. Why? Refer to the two points above.
5. I'm a part-time freelance writer. Apart from that, I'm in college and coping with my studies. Also, I tell people I'm writing a book because it makes me feel more useful than I actually am. (I think I'm a pretty useless person because I seem to spend my entire day doing nothing other than eating, sleeping, and sitting with my laptop.)
6. Um...well, now this is getting a little difficult. Okay, got one...I'm hate all reptiles. Maybe exceptions can be made for tortoises and turtles, but snakes and lizards and the rest fill me with repulsion.
7. Another thing I'm scared of is plagiarism. Therefore, I never put up my best unpublished works on my blogs. Also, I hate people who can't write in their own words.
8. I don't like watching television. I don't like playing video games. I don't like watching movies. Yes, I'm a weirdo.
9. I hate eating as a matter of principle. But exceptions are made for a few things like chocolates, ice-creams, tandoori chicken, pizzas, kebabs among solid things. I love drinking a lot of beverages- ice-cold water, chilled mango juice, kesar badam milk, coffee, hot chocolate, smoothies...nothing alcoholic, though.
10. I'm not a cricket buff like the rest of the country. I'm not watching any of the IPL matches, but still I support the Knight Riders. I'm more a fan of tennis- Roger Federer and Maria Sharapova are my favourites. Well, Sharapova hardly plays now...endorsements always ruin the sports star.

So, there you go. Ten facts about me are enough.
Now I have to tag others. Okay...Chris, Raj, Sreyasi, Alisha and Aswin. All of them are people I met online- because of a common interest in blogging. I'd love to tag more people- my closest friends- but they haven't got blogs, unfortunately. Talking about them suddenly makes me miss them, so now I'm going off to talk to a few friends. Even with the internet, Alexander Graham Bell's invention will never cease to soothe a sore heart.

Our Neighbour

conversations.with.aparajita@gmail.com (Aparajita Bhattacharya) — Sat, 28 Mar 2009 04:29:00 +0000

Khushwant Singh does a regular column in The Telegraph, a Calcutta-based English daily. This column (This Above All) appears every Saturday, and although my family does not subscribe to The Telegraph, we make it a point to get the Saturday paper because I love reading this column. Usually, this column (on the Editorial page) has three short stories, a larger one and two smaller ones.
Today's This Above All is titled “Between Dream and Reality” after the larger story. And coincidentally,it is on the subject I planned to write about this week: Pakistan and its disintegration.
Khushwant Singh wonders in this article how Jinnah would have felt if he could see what a state Pakistan is in today. Probably, had he foreseen what would happen in Pakistan, he would have changed his mind about demanding a separate state, says Singh. But at that time, Jinnah was very far from realising what Pakistan might become. He was obsessed with the fear of Muslims being persecuted in an undivided India where Hindus would be the majority. In fact, in a particular interview, Jinnah even said, “Religion must be the basis of all politics.”
It is foolish to believe all that one reads in newspapers, but in this case, it is Khushwant Singh writing, and one cannot but believe that what he says is true. Given that, and given what is happening in Pakistan today, it can probably be said that right from the start, Pakistan was a doomed state. Shortly before Indian Independence, Britain had predicted that independent India would fall apart in a few years. India did not fall apart, but it seems that prophecy is coming true in the case of Pakistan.
It could not possibly have been otherwise. Imagine a country whose two parts are separated by miles and miles of another country's territory; it was only a matter of time before East Pakistan expressed a desire to secede. And so Bangladesh was born. Pakistan might have had a chance of survival even after that, but decades of dictatorship and military rule ruined it. In addition, there were the tribes, simply refusing to cooperate with the Centre. And the Taliban- barbarian religious zealots who threaten to take the country back to a primitive time. Democracy has totally collapsed in Pakistan. If Zardari was a ray of hope, he failed to deliver. Totally ineffective now, Zardari will be replaced soon enough. But by whom? For India's sake, let's hope it will be Nawaz Sharif.
But what if it isn't Sharif? In that case, it will be either the Army or the Taliban. Already the Swat has fallen to the Taliban; the Taliban have a way of taking area by area, and their mission in Pakistan has had a good start already. The tribes in Pakistan would probably support the Army or the Taliban taking over; what this would mean for India is, in a single word, danger.
Both the Army in Pakistan and the Taliban are known for their mindset concerning India. Neither look upon India as anything less than an enemy. India's border with Pakistan is exceedingly porous, and terrorist attacks sponsored by the ISI and home-bred Pakistani terror groups are bound to increase manifold if the Army comes to power, and the danger is no less if the Taliban take control of our neighbour.
Imagine India's position if Pakistan collapses. In the subcontinent, India is the only stable country. Bangladesh is unstable, struggling, Sri Lanka is no better, Afghanistan is in a hopeless situation as of now. China would be India's only hope, but then, India's relations with China have never been too good.
So- the solution? Naturally a close alliance with the supreme nation, the US. That is our only hope. Together, India and the US, and also the rest of the world- the UN, for example- must work out a strategy to save the subcontinent from disintegrating into utter chaos.
P.S. Please note that I am no authority on foreign affairs and having very limited knowledge, may be wrong about many things; the only reason I wrote this article is because I feel strongly about this. Even the fact that I'm a student of International Relations has nothing to do with it.

Random Thoughts

conversations.with.aparajita@gmail.com (Aparajita Bhattacharya) — Wed, 18 Mar 2009 16:40:00 +0000

Lots of things have been happening in the Subcontinent lately, as you'll know if you've been following the news. This is the first time I'm posting something related to current affairs, but well, this is something I thought I should talk about.
This post (at least the first part) is in special reference to a newspaper article, which appeared more than a week ago in the Hindustan Times, dated 8th March. You might know that Vir Sanghvi writes a weekly column (Counterpoint) in the Editorial page of the Sunday paper, and this particular article I'm going to refer to is titled “The same people? Surely not”.
Basically, what Sanghvi does in this article is refute the claim that Indians and Pakistanis are the same people, really. “This may have been true once upon a time. Before 1947, Pakistan was part of undivided India and you could claim that Punjabis from West Punjab (what is now Pakistan) were as Indian as, say, Tamils from Madras”, says Sanghvi very early into the article. But now, that idea is so not true.
Reasons? First: Pakistan is defined by religion. It was formed on the basis of religion. India is different. India is (supposedly) secular. We identify ourselves as Indians, and not as Hindus or Muslims or Christians or Parsis, etc.
Which is why India does not hesitate to celebrate the victory of people from other religions in the international arena. A R Rahman, Gulzar and Resul Pookutty. One a Hindu converted to Islam, one a Sikh with a Muslim pen name, one a Muslim. But really, nobody cares. They are Indians- that's what matters.
Not so with Pakistan. In Pakistan, a person from a minority religion would probably not even get the initial break, let alone make it big in the international arena.
Second: Pakistan is disintegrating. The country is a perfect example of a total failure of democracy. The democratic government is weak and ineffective and people are just waiting for the Army or the Taliban to take over. Latest proof: the attack on the Sri Lankan team. Pakistan cannot even ensure the security of foreigners it invites with so much fanfare.
Not so with India. Proof: a democracy that has sustained itself for all these sixty-two years. A government that is on the way out, to be replaced by another that will be elected by millions of people exercising their franchise.
In short, that's what Sanghvi says.

Now my comments on this article.
Sanghvi dwells on the recent victory of the three Indians at the Oscars a bit too much. Specially on their religion. He gives just two reasons for saying Indians and Pakistanis are different from each other. Enough to convince you? No.
I am reminded of a creative writing workshop I attended two years back. It was being conducted by two students of creative writing from Arizona State University, and there was an exhibition of photographs going on at the same venue. We were asked to choose one photograph and write anything on it. Essentially, the photographs were in black-and-white and were taken at the India-Pakistan border some time after Independence. There was this girl who chose one photograph of a Pakistani chowkidar, and when describing her thoughts to the others, commented that we have the same shared history, the same ethnicity, the same shared culture, and so on...and even the same weather! Can we ignore all those factors simply on the bases that Pakistan is a failure and that it is not secular?
Apart from that, it's a perfect article that expresses thoughts very similar to my own. Sanghvi does take note of the fact that India is not perfect. There are incidents of persecution of people from other religions. There are security lapses, and serious ones at that. But in the end, you have to look at what we have achieved in these six decades. No country is perfect, as I keep saying again and again. But compare to what we were sixty-two years ago and what we are now. If you idealise America, take note of the fact that America did not achieve so much in just sixty years of independence from Britain.
So, all I want to say is this: globalisation may have introduced you to Westernisation, and you may have felt that the West is nothing short of being utopian, but, frankly, don't be influenced by globalisation so much that you forget to be proud of your country.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________

On a much lighter note, I'll talk about a puzzle. A very interesting puzzle, incredibly fascinating for me because I simply cannot solve it. A puzzle of human emotions.
A very close friend of mine (let's call her X), when an adolescent, had a huge crush on a classmate (let's call him Y). You know what teenage crushes are like. Every teenager, at some point in those years between childhood and adulthood, falls for somebody. They think it's love. They think it will last forever. They think they'll never love anybody else.
But puppy love is not like that. It's not love, not at all. Infatuation never lasts. And yes, you do love other people later on in life.
But well, that's not something you realise when you first fall in “love”, do you?
Anyway, about X. She was good friends with Y, always denied having a crush on him (except to me), and had a very good relationship- perfectly platonic- as long as they were in school together. Perhaps he too reciprocated her feelings. Or perhaps he did not. (I have always believed he merely played with her emotions all along. But in any case, it doesn't matter what I think, at least not now.)
They were totally different, as different as two people can be. He was an MCP who never believed women too could do something in life, she was a strong believer in her abilities. He came from a very conservative family background, she was from a liberal family. He had no appreciation of art and culture, while she was a connoisseur of art and culture. And so on and so forth. Their relationship- forget love, even the friendship- couldn't possibly last. Anybody could tell that, specially me, because I knew X so well. Anyway, with time bitterness and hatred crept into the friendship, and after lots of mud-slinging and harsh words, things came to a full stop. Besides, X moved on. Now they aren't in touch with each other.
But then X got into college. First year. Lots of new people in her life, including a new guy (let's call him Z) she initially thought was very arrogant. Later on they started becoming friends. And that's when she found out that Z was almost a prototype of Y. Not exactly the same. Z wasn't an MCP, but he couldn't appreciate art in any form other than music. Z was from a liberal family, but as much opinionated as Y had ever been. More importantly, Z had all those characteristics which had made Y attractive in X's eyes, the very characteristics which had once made her fall for Y and later on made her hate him.
Now the big puzzle: what will be X's feelings towards Z? Will she see him as an individual different from Y? Or will she see him as an extension of Y? Will she fall for Z the way she had fallen for Y, or will she hate those characteristics which eventually made her hate Y? Will she ever manage to be friends with Z or will she stay away from a guy who reminds her constantly of Y?
I can't stop wondering about this every time I see X talking to Z. I feel an incredible urge to understand how she feels, but I can never get to the bottom of the mystery. Maybe there's no way but to wait for time to tell.
What do you think about this whole thing?
NOTE: No, this is not a filmy story and I'm not aspiring to be a Bollywood scriptwriter. Believe it or not, this REALLY happened, is still happening. In real life.

On Holi

conversations.with.aparajita@gmail.com (Aparajita Bhattacharya) — Wed, 11 Mar 2009 12:38:00 +0000

Happy Holi, everyone!
I know writing about Holi on the day of Holi seems very unimaginative, but I really have to write about this year's celebrations in my college, because, frankly speaking, I've never enjoyed Holi as much as I did this year.
School has its rules and regulations and strict discipline, and obviously you can't celebrate Holi in school. Maybe just a little bit with powdered colours known as 'aabeer' here in Bengal (most people tend to spell it 'abir' in English, but in that case, you don't get the pronunciation right, so I wrote it just like it is pronounced), but that's where it ends. You're not allowed to play with colours as much as you'd like to.
College is different, of course. Where will you find the strict discipline of school in a college? Here, everything is allowed; you can do just about anything and get away with it.
Monday was the last working day before Holi, or Dol Yatra, as we call it in Bengal. And we played Holi in college on Monday.
(I am in the first year in Jadavpur University, one of the elite institutions in India. JU has three faculties- the Faculty of Engineering and Technology, the best in West Bengal, the Faculty of Science, and the Faculty of Arts. JU couples as a college and University, teaching undergraduate and postgraduate courses and allowing students to complete their MPhils and PhDs all from the same campus. You can get into Jadavpur right after school, and you can come out after completing your entire education if you like. Being one of the best Universities in India, naturally there are lots of people who want to get in and there is a lot of competition; only the best make it to JU.)
We had been informed in advance that we'd be celebrating Holi in college on Monday, so the unsporting types didn't turn up while the more sporting types (like me!), eager to celebrate the festival of colours with their friends, turned up in the clothes they wouldn't mind getting spoiled. (In Bengal, we do not necessarily wear white on Holi.) I for one, wore the worst pair of dark blue jeans I own, and a kurti, the typical pink shade of bougainvillea flowers, over it.
Classes were practically over by noon, with most people out in the streets of our huge University campus, rubbing aabeer on their friends' exposed body parts. I was welcoming people coming up to me with colours because I really wanted to enjoy myself. I can't remember when I last played Holi with so much enthusiasm. I have asthma, and once I catch a cold I have a hard time, and Holi has always coincided with our second semester final exams or Boards in school every year for most of the last 13 years, so to avoid a bad cold in the middle of the exams, we would skip Holi.
It started out pretty innocently with the powder colours, but within an hour it had turned rather nasty, especially for the ones who didn't want colour on their bodies. And naturally they were getting the worst of the whole situation. It isn't really fun for people to rub colour on those who want to celebrate with great abandon- the beastly instinct in people gives them immense pleasure to capture a reluctant “prey” and rub colours on them! And then they laugh like crazy when the person concerned showers a cascade of swearwords on them.
It was so much fun in the college, enjoying with so many people all close to your own age! I can't help smiling every time I look at my pink hands. Really, I've never enjoyed Holi so much. But then, this was just my first year, and for the next few years, it's going to be as much fun, if not more. Compared to Monday, today was totally tame.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________

Colours for Holi are available in three forms- powders, pastes, and the ones that need a liquid medium (water). The best colours are of course the powder colours, the aabeer. They come in various shades- pink, red, orange, blue, green, yellow, and so on. Some kinds of aabeer are of a very good quality, and they feel like smooth talcum powder, but some have a rough texture like that of wheat. But of course, if you get even the slightest bit of aabeer in your eyes, you are sure to have a hard time, because the eyes water and itch like mad, and you can even get an allergy that needs special medical attention. Some people wear contact lenses on Holi- and they are in for serious agony. It's infinitely better to wear spectacles and not to take them off while playing Holi, because that way, your eyes are protected. I wore my glasses throughout the whole time we played Holi. And also, if you don't run away, people will rub aabeer on you more gently, and you have a less chance of getting some into your eyes.
The worst colours are the ones that need water as a medium. They mostly come in shades of black, green, blue, and bougainvillea pink, and they are the most permanent of all colours, specially the bougainvillea pink, because they simply refuse to come off easily. And the way people rub these colours on your face and arms, you are sure to go round with pink body parts for at least two days afterwards.
But of course, there are environmental considerations now when you think of the colours we use for Holi. Most of the colours have toxic chemicals, might cause allergy and give you skin diseases and are not eco-friendly. One of my friends told me today that in their area in Jaipur, they used organic colours this year. Nice idea, but organic colours are expensive, and not many can afford them. Traditionally, colours used to be made from flowers and vegetable like turmeric, but is producing colours from flowers and vegetables possible on a large, commercial scale? Can we think of other alternatives?

(Photo courtesy ME. Shot in a part of South Calcutta near my home. The owner of these stalls was standing behind me when I clicked this picture, and he told his boys "The picture is first-class" after I was done. That almost made my day.=D)

"It's mediocre at best"

conversations.with.aparajita@gmail.com (Aparajita Bhattacharya) — Tue, 03 Mar 2009 15:25:00 +0000

I was just reading the latest India Today that was delivered at my home. It's the March 02, 2009 issue (picture left), and the cover story is titled “The Slumdog Phenomenon”. No prizes for guessing that the story is about the Best Film of this year, as judged by so many eminent critics and judges across the world, including the ones at the Oscars.
(Now, I know almost every blogger in the world has had something to say about this film on their blog, and I hate to be ordinary and predictable, but it would be equally very unfair of me not to laud India's big win at the Oscars , so I'll have to say something, regardless of whether you want to read another post on Slumdog Millionaire or not.)
Anyway, so India Today claims it is India's most widely read magazine, so when India Today does a cover story on the movie about the slumdog, it follows that a whole lot of people will read that story. Now somewhere in the story, someone makes a remark that got me thinking hard. The person in question happens to be Priyadarshan, famous director of famous comedy movies. In this issue, he writes a small column which declares boldly that the movie in question is “mediocre at best.” The director offers his reasons for thinking so, of course. He maintains that there have been films that are loads better than Slumdog Millionaire but went completely unnoticed and you get his point. What he says is very true. He raises questions like why we send trashy films like Eklavya to the Oscars while every other country sends their best. He raises questions like why, of all places, Amitabh Bachchan's helicopter (in the film) had to land near the slums of Bombay. And how is it possible for Jamal to appear so fresh in the morning after having been electrocuted all night? “I have an issue with its version of realism”, he says. He also takes a dig at the people who forced Billu Barber to shed the Barber from its title. I agreed with almost everything he said, while also feeling that his points are so trivial they hardly matter in the long run, but how about this: “We are one of the foremost nuclear powers in the world, our satellites are roaming the universe. Our police commissioner’s offices don’t look like shacks and there are no blind children begging in the streets of Mumbai.”
Okay...now that is interesting. Yes, Mr Priyadarshan, you are so very right. We are one of the foremost nuclear powers in the world, and indeed our satellites are roaming the universe. But what about police commissioner's offices not looking like shacks? I have no comments to make, because I'm so not familiar with every part of India, and quite frankly, I do not know whether police commissioner's offices in the backward states like Bihar and Jharkhand and maybe even the North-East are better than shacks. And again, what about blind children not begging in the streets of Mumbai? Again, I have no comments to make, because I've never been to Mumbai, but well, I seriously think Mumbai would have to be out of this country and different from every other city in India if there truly are no blind children begging in Mumbai streets.
You can read Priyadarshan's article here.
___________________________________________________________________________________

Anyway, so now about Slumdog Millionaire. If you have read one of my earlier posts, you will know what I think about the film. Mediocre? I don't think so. It's like saying the grapes are sour. Danny Boyle has truly done a great job of getting the best out of a little-known cast most of whom have only about this much experience. He deserved the Best Director Oscar. But did the film deserve the Best Picture Oscar? Yes, it's a good film, undoubtedly, but like Ashok Amritraj says in his column in the same India Today story, the timing was important. Any other year, this film may not have made so much of an impact, but well, like the Time said, it's a “feel-good film” of this year, specially for the recession-hit Westerners who are reassured that there are people out there in India who are worse off. Feel-good in that way. (Kudos to Indian poverty for making the people nicely ensconced in the developed countries feel good.)
And then, A R Rahman's two Oscars. Doesn't imply in the slightest that Slumdog Millionaire soundtrack is the best Rahman has given us so far. For the rest of the world, previously a stranger to the works of one of the greatest contemporary Indian composers, Rahman is a newly discovered genius. Not for us in India. For as long as I can remember, what I consider the best of Rahman's music has given me the sheer ecstasy that the Slumdog Millionaire soundtrack hardly gives. I liked Mausam and Escape best (specially for the sitar in the beginning) but even that doesn't measure up to Vande Mataram.

Twisted minds and Morbid thoughts-Part II

conversations.with.aparajita@gmail.com (Aparajita Bhattacharya) — Sat, 28 Feb 2009 15:37:00 +0000

I've personally known quite a few mentally ill individuals.
One committed suicide. Poisoned himself. It was pretty sad, because his life need not have ended that way, but nobody could get him to go to a psychiatrist.
Another, a teenager, hanged himself. And that news surprised me very much, because the young boy I'd known had been a cheerful person, inclined towards spiritualism. He used to come to me for help with his studies, and when I helped him, he would thank me and say nobody had ever explained things to him that way. But then I did not see him for a whole year, and then one day I read in the newspaper that he had hanged himself.
But I know another teenager, a girl my age, who is living. Fighting with her inner demons with the help of the angels in her life- her closest friends, her mother, and her psychiatrist. She has been suffering from severe depression since 2006, along with panic disorder and borderline personality disorder. She has been under treatment since 2007. Quetiapine, flupentixol and venlafaxine. It's not like she never thought of suicide. She did. Many times she almost gave up. She almost hanged herself. She almost took an overdose of sleeping pills. She almost slashed her wrists. Almost. Never quite actually giving up.
It's not like she never visited any of those pro-suicide group forums on the web. She did. She tried to understand herself better- why she was going through such a difficult phase in her life, and what she could do about it. These groups told her suicide was actually an act of glory, an act of courage. (Yes, it takes immense courage to wilfully end your life, to hurt yourself fatally, to bear with incredible pain in those moments before everything ends finally. But it also is cowardice, because suicide means you are running away from your problems.) These groups debated what were the best means of taking your life, and she read these morbid thoughts of twisted minds and was influenced by them. She determined sleeping pills was the best option- painless. But she never quite wanted to end her life this way. She wanted to do something before she died, something worthwhile, and she had not yet done it.
It's not like she never hurt herself. She stapled her fingers regularly. She punched holes all over her palms and made the blood flow out. The sight of that oozing blood almost had a cathartic effect on her, the way tears have on others. (But of course, she never took photos of those bleeding hands!) But she never let herself land up in hospital. She never did anything so serious as something that would scar her for her entire life, for she knew, that ultimately, she would live.
One of those angelic friends once told her that she had an indomitable spirit. Another friend told her she inspired people. And a voice inside her would always tell her she had to live for that something worthwhile. And she never really gave up hope.
Now, I know this sounds very much like a fairytale. But I do believe that hope is the saviour. As long as you have hope, no demon can defeat your spirit.

I know there are lots and lots of people in this world who are mentally ill. Depression, maybe. Or anxiety disorder. Panic disorder. Bipolar disorder. Schizophrenia. Borderline personality disorder. There are lots and lots. But there is one thing that everyone should remember: Mental illness is NOT something that the sick person dreams up. Mental illness is for real, and it has a physiological element- it all happens because of low levels of the feel-good hormone serotonin in the sick person's brain. So bear with a mentally ill person. Treat them well, and with all kindness. Treat them as you would treat any normal person, but with a little bit of extra consideration so as not to upset the mentally ill person you are living with.
And there is one thing mentally ill people should remember: Mental illness is totally curable, and a mentally ill person's life does not have to end in suicide. Twisted minds out there will tell you suicide is the only way out, but that is so not true. Have the hope that your problems will cease to exist one day, because everything is temporary. And think- where is the assurance that after you die, you will be at peace? Who knows what happens after death?
So let the twisted minds go to hell. This is a free world and everyone has the right to say what they want, so you can't stop these twisted minds from thinking and speaking about their morbid thoughts, but just don't pay any attention to them. They will make you sick no matter whether you are totally healthy or mentally ill. If you surf the net, look for happy, feel-good stuff.

Twisted minds and Morbid thoughts-Part I

conversations.with.aparajita@gmail.com (Aparajita Bhattacharya) — Sat, 28 Feb 2009 14:58:00 +0000

Good news first. After a long, long time, I got a new gig. You know I work as a freelance writer cum proofreader cum editor and whatever. Well, this gig is mainly for proofreading, and the money is fair. High time I earned something again. My aim is to get my personal laptop this year, and I'm saving up for that.
Anyway, there is this thing I wanted to talk about. You see there is no photo with this post because I don't want a gruesome picture on my blog. And what I'm going to talk about is very gruesome.
As a matter of principle, I hate social networking sites. I find them very boring, tedious. You are meant to post updates on yourself, and communicate with your friends- and basically, what you can do on social networking sites, you can also do with a combination of email, blogs, Picasa or Flickr and Youtube and Twitter. I have tried out Myspace, Hi5 and Orkut, but I liked none, so I didn't even bother to try out Facebook, but well, a lot of my friends are addicted to Orkut and for their sake, I have a profile there, but very often I delete my account only to create one again. (In India, Orkut is more popular than Facebook or Myspace).
Anyway, the thing I want to talk about is this girl. I came upon her Orkut profile quite accidentally, and her profile was very suggestive of a twisted mind. She had no friends but quite a few scraps, and she belonged to several communities, and many of those communities, I realised with horror, were pro-suicide groups. There was practically nothing on her profile but her photo was so morbid that I felt sick when I realised what it was. At first, I couldn't really understand what the thing was, then, after several moments of contemplating that tiny photograph, I suddenly realised it was a clenched fist, and covered with blood. Obviously, the girl had hurt herself, and then when her hand was bleeding, she actually took a photograph of the sight and put it up on her profile, and wrote: This is beautiful, isn't it?
Looking at that photograph, I felt extremely sick. Just how morbid is this girl? What kind of person cuts their own hand AND takes a photo of that? One would think she did it thinking it was heroic, because people who really hurt themselves in frustration do not feel like taking photographs and sharing them publicly, so wallowed they are in their despair.

I'll write more, on pro-suicide groups and depressed or mentally ill people, but right now, I have to go. You can read more on this in my following posts, which I will publish soon.

Death and Life

conversations.with.aparajita@gmail.com (Aparajita Bhattacharya) — Sun, 22 Feb 2009 04:51:00 +0000

Anyway, here is a poem you might like. Don't know if it has any substance. It's called Death and Life, and I wrote it sometime in September last year.

Late that night,
Death came quietly
Peeping in at first,
then tiptoeing in through the window,
Bare feet making no noise.
But someone heard her come,
heard her sing that sweet melody,
enticing the soul
to break free.

The morning after, a dirge arose.
Tears fell,
and hearts sighed softly,
quietly sweeping away
the love that need never be used again,
hiding it in some obscure corner.

But somewhere else
on this earth,
Life came-
kicking and screaming
into waiting arms.
And hearts sighed softly, happily,
making space
for a new kind of love.

Warning: Do not plagiarise. If you want to use this poem anywhere, ask for permission first. I'd be happy to consider your request.
( Non-copyrighted images obtained courtesy the internet, edited to suit my purpose.)

conversations.with.aparajita@gmail.com (Aparajita Bhattacharya) — Sun, 22 Feb 2009 04:45:00 +0000

“I used to think I was an interesting person, but I must tell you how sobering a thought it is to realize your life's story fills about thirty-five pages and you have, actually, not much to say."
-Roseanne Barr.

Precisely my thoughts, with one exception- I do not know if my life's story fills thirty-five pages or half a page. I've never tried writing my life's story. It's pretty much boring, nothing you'd be interested in reading. But yes, I did think I was an interesting person who wrote witty things- small insignificant things which had a touch of complete honesty and definitely a bit of humour- on my blog. Lately, I have been told that I write nothing of “substance”. Even more insulting was the fact that when I asked what of substance I could write, I was told to look up to Sagarika Ghose. Now this lady in question is a very well-known journo who writes a regular column Bloody Mary in one of the best English dailies in India, and I frankly think it's very very unfair to even dream that at eighteen, I could write half as well as Sagarika Ghose, or anything that has as much substance as her write-ups.
But I agree with Vani. Whatever I write should be a unique take on life with creativity and humour, something that people would enjoy reading. Who cares if it has substance or not? Let me point out that I do write things of substance, but they usually go into publication somewhere, and therefore it's quite unethical that I should post the same things on my blog. But surely I do have the right to write whatever I feel about whatever in this world, and my blog- apart from my diary- is the best place to do so. Let me also point out that following the Mumbai attacks, when I was writing short pieces on tackling terror, nobody read them, but at least a few people read when I was writing trashy posts on what my New Year resolutions were. So I'll say this-even at the cost of offending Pankaj: if you want substance, look in a newspaper or a news magazine. If you want substance specifically from me, I'll tell you when one of my write-ups appears in a newspaper or magazine, and you can go check it out. Or else you can check out my blog on books and authors. I write substance there. Sorry, but I can't write substance on this blog. My blog is a place for me to express my personal feelings, and I don't always think substance. Come to think of it, college kids rarely think substance. If they think politics, it's only campus politics, not national politics. They hang around in canteens and talk about movies and music. They bring a guitar to college and sing Bryan Adams' Summer of '69. Guys smoke cigarettes, talk about sex and flirting and girls, girls also smoke, eat junk food, talk about guys and bitch about metaphorical bitches. They talk about impending college fests and competitions. They sing, dance, crack jokes, enjoy their adda. And somewhere in between, there is a little talk of studies and exams and teachers. It's a carefree life that thoroughly lacks what you call substance. My life is like that. I can't think substance where there is no substance, excuse me.

conversations.with.aparajita@gmail.com (Aparajita Bhattacharya) — Wed, 18 Feb 2009 13:51:00 +0000

Okay...
I finally know the reason why practically no one reads my blog. Someone who does read my blog quite regularly points out clearly that I write a lot of trash that lacks "substance". Hmmm. Now I could go all defensive and say that it's my blog and I will write what I want to write, but I won't do that. Pankaj's criticism is constructive, and I have to improve.
But one point- what do I write about, after all? My life is pretty much lacking in what many would consider to be "substance". I could write about my interests. Politics and current affairs for example because I have a real interest in them, but where my political view is concerned, I'm not very demonstrative. I don't show where my allegiances lie,except to very close friends, and I wouldn't dream of doing that on the web. In my diary, perhaps, but not on my blog. I could write about books but I have a separate blog for that (click here ). I could write about music- and I do write about music occasionally- but I don't keep myself up-to-date on news of the music world, so what's the point? I could write on food and art but I'm not exactly either a connoisseur or a gourmet- not even an aspiring one; and I guess I could show my creative talent but I'm scared to death of plagiarism and I never ever put up anything on my blog that I intend to publish at some point of time. So...what of substance do I write?
Pankaj and Vani, my faithful readers, can you please guide me?

Songs for the season of love

conversations.with.aparajita@gmail.com (Aparajita Bhattacharya) — Sat, 14 Feb 2009 15:07:00 +0000

Hello.
I said I'd write a nice little post on the greatest love songs in the world (essentially in English), and the love songs album I was compiling before the hard drive went kaboom, so here is it. It comes pretty late at night because for the rest of today, I was too busy.
I know I said I'd spend the day sleeping. But well, I actually didn't get the time to sleep. There's this international film festival going on at our University from the 9th to the 15th , but I came to know of it only on the 12th (irony: my friends and I, along with lots and lots of others- mostly from the International Relations and English departments- spend most of our time in college hanging about the facade of the building which houses the hall where the films are being screened). I couldn't watch any film on the 13th, although I'd really wanted to watch Close Up (1990), an Iranian movie whose plot sounds very witty, so today I went to catch The Color of Paradise (1999). Iranian movie again, original name Rang-E-Khoda, which literally translates into The Color of God. I'll write about it later, in a big post in which I'll also talk about the other two films I'm going to see tomorrow.
Then, later in the day, I had my French class, and returning from the School of Languages took a long time because there was such a traffic jam! The whole city seemed out in the roads, some people returning from workplaces, but most going out on or returning from dates, and all their private cars adding to the normal traffic. Anyway, without blabbering too much, let me go straight to the point.
The list:
(FROM THE SOUNDTRACKS OF FILMS)
1.I will always love you. Artiste: Whitney Houston
2.My heart will go on. Artiste: Celine Dion
3.Take my breath away. Artiste: Berlin
4.I don't wanna miss a thing. Artiste: Aerosmith
5.Where do I begin (Love Story theme). Artiste: Andy Williams *
6.Love Story theme (instrumental). Richard Clyderman *
7.A whole new world. artiste: Brad Kane and Lea Salonga *
8.The kiss. Alan Menken. *
9.Can you feel the love tonight. Artiste: Elton John. *
(OTHERS)
1.I will. Artiste: The Beatles. *
2.Something. Artiste: The Beatles. *
3.Endless love. Artiste: Diana Ross and Lionel Richie.
4.Save the best for last. Artiste: Vanessa Williams.
5.Woman. Artiste: John Lennon.
6.Crazy for you. Artiste: Madonna.
7.Eternal flame. Artiste: Bangles.
8.Time after time. Artiste: Cyndi Lauper.
9.Careless Whisper. Artiste: Wham.
10.You're the first, the last, my everything. Artiste: Barry White.
11.All the way. Artiste: Frank Sinatra and Celine Dion. *
12.Witchcraft. Artiste: Frank Sinatra. *
13.Sweet child o' mine. Artiste: Guns N' Roses.
14.Making love out of nothing at all. Artiste: Air Supply. *
15.How deep is your love. Artiste: Bee Gees.
16.Have I told you lately. Artiste: Rod Stewart.
17.Total eclipse of the heart. Artiste: Bonnie Tyler.
18.Wonderful tonight. Artiste: Eric Clapton.
19.Truly madly deeply. Artiste: Savage Garden. *
20.Let's stay together. Artiste: Al Green.
21.Breathe. Artiste: Faith Hill.
22.With or without you. Artiste: U2
23.Never tear us apart. Artiste: INXS
24.Could I have this kiss forever. Artiste: Enrique Iglesias and Whitney Houston. *
25.Thank you. Artiste: Dido.
26.From this moment on. Artiste: Shania Twain and Barry White. *
27.When you kiss me. Artiste: Shania Twain. *
28.Forever and for always. Artiste: Shania Twain. *
29.You're still the one. Artiste: Shania Twain.
30.(Everything I do) I do it for you. Artiste: Bryan Adams.
31.Hero. Artiste: Enrique Iglesias.
32.When you say nothing at all. Artiste: Boyzone. *
33.Right here waiting. Artiste: Richard Marx. *
34.Fallin'. Artiste: Alicia Keys.
35.It must have been love. Artiste: Roxette.
36.You took my heart away. Artiste: Michael Learns To Rock. *
37.Every rose has its thorn. Artiste: Poison.
38.Iris. Artiste: Goo Goo Dolls.
39.Private emotion. Artiste: Ricky Martin and Meja *
40.Be careful. Artiste: Ricky Martin and Madonna. *
41.How did I fall in love with you. Artiste: Backstreet Boys. *

So that's the list. The songs marked with a star are generally not considered among the greatest love songs of all time (essentially sung in English, of course), but I have included them on my list simply because I like them. As for the others, almost all can be found in any list of the greatest love songs ever you can Google on the web. I did not include many other songs that can be found on such lists either because I've never heard them, or because I didn't like their tune or lyrics. For example, Elvis Presley's Love me Tender is considered a wonderful love song, but I don't like the tune much, so there's no Elvis Presley on my list. The Beatles' most famous love song is probably P.S. I love you, but I like Something and I will better, so those two are on my list instead of P.S. I Love You. Again, Jackson 5's I'll be there sounds real weird to me, because the boys who sing it sound way too young to actually know what love is all about. And Janet Jackson's That's the Way Love Goes is also not on my list because I find the lyrics erotic.
That's all for tonight.
And please remember that, like always, your comments are welcome.