Amit Chaudhuri, “Nissim Ezekiel”
Amit Chaudhuri, “Nissim Ezekiel”
Nissim Ezekiel, “The Patriot”
One that's facing your roads for the last of its times; my heart is the sorrow of old age of such a dried-up tree
// S.R. Shauq
How I spend my Sunday after a tired and exhaustive week.
"my thoughts are so empty but so crowded, the world is so quiet but so loud."
why are the moon conversations always the best?
"Don’t be afraid of the dark, my child. Light has a source. It can be snuffed out. But darkness has no source. It just exists. This darkness is a path to That, which has no source: God"
Amish, Sita the warrior of Mithila
The essence of the dark academia aesthetic lies in the focus it puts on learning. Be it for school or fun, be it about something ‘intellectual’ like Greek classics or something ‘silly’ like comic books and their origin; you learn it. You crave knowledge, you admire it, you want to have it, you want to be it. I understand that it’s easier for our brains to understand an invisible concept by putting a face to it and that is where the mainstream dark academic clothing/aesthetic comes in but that is not the point. You don’t have to wear coats and Oxford shoes and carry a hundred books with you at all times to be considered a dark academic. You can wear bright pink, watch Gossip Girl on repeat, play video games, and still love knowledge and everything it comes with. This brown-beige-and-vintage stamp on dark academia feels to me like it’s materialising such a beautiful concept and community that doesn’t really care about the 200$ globe in your room that you’ll never use and it’s just there for the sake of “aesthetic,” it cares about what absurd unbelievable facts you know about the old and new cultural practices of the countries on the globe. What started out as appreciation for architecture, literature, nature, learning, KNOWING, art, and everything morbid has turned into a role people have to try and fit in to when all you really need is yourself and your thoughts and your interests and curiosity, not the materialistic bullshit social media is convincing you to buy/like. I’m just as guilty of the things I stated above but it just suddenly hit me in the middle of writing assignments that I will mow get back to.
saja kar chaar-su rangin mahal tere khayalon ke teri yaadon ki ranai mein zebai mein jite hain
Embellishing four hundred palaces of your memories I live now in admiration of their beauty and sublimity
- Sahiba Saba
Main aaj wahan fir aayi thi, samundar ke paas uss qile mein. Lahron ki awaaz, mere pau ke neeche ki wo thandi, kaali ret ki zameen, amrarkunj ka wo per aur qile ke wo keewarein jahan ab kaai puri faili hui hai. Mujhe nahin pata main kyu baar baar yahan dastak deti rehti hu, jabki mera apna ghar aur gharwale sab hai. Sab kuch jo mil sakta tha mujhe, wo sab kuch hai. Lekin fir bhi ye betaabi kaisi? Ye hasrat kaisi? Ab to wo purani wali mohabbat ke yaad sabhi dhundle se hone lage hai, to fir ye bechaini kaisi? Aisa kyun lagta rehta hai dil me ki tum mujhe pukarte rehte ho. Jaise tum kahi ghum huye hi nahi the, bas yahi the mere dil ke sabse nazdeek. Aisa kyu lagta rehta hi ki bas duniya aur duniyadaari sab kuch choro kar, yahaan bas jau, aur bas , waqt lagake tumse beqaraar bepanah aur bewajah wali mohabbat karoon. Lekin ye sab kuch kaise ho sakta hai, tumhara chehra bhi theek se meri zehn me nahi raha. Itne arsa baad jab yaar ka chehra zehn se utar sakta hai, to uska ishq kyun nahi? Kya chahta hai mera raqeeb? Gile shikwe karne ki meri chaah nahi par sawalon se girast zindagi me aansuon ke alawa hai hi kya mere paas. Agar tum yahin kahin ho, to aaj mujhe apni jhalak mat dikhana par. Kya pata, shayad duniya luta du tum par.
I was four when I held a book in my hand for the first time. A collection of fairy tales, read to me by my parents.
I forgot books after that
I was eight when I picked a book again
A heavy read for a eight year old, people would tell me.
I forgot them again
And then I picked up a book when I was eleven because I was running out of topics of conversation and needed something new to talk about.
Since then though, I haven’t forgotten books and they are the only thing I remember these days.
My journey of reading books has been interesting. I read stories about a mouse, whose recommended age group was 6-8 till I was twelve.
But since then I changed the way I looked at books.
I, now, look at books like a window to another’s mind or a portal to another world. I am now told that I have a very diverse and interesting collection.
I have interesting habits too when it comes to reading books. I read the last line first. A habit I haven’t seen often in people. I read somewhere that the end is actually the beginning and probably that is where this habit finds its roots.
Life is mundane; life is beautiful, I read today. Books have been an intriguing part of my life. From being the medium of entertainment, a medium of fetching praise to actually being the only thing I know a good deal about.
Books have a fascinating part of this monotonous life.
Kolkata feels old and new at once. You bribe the watchman of Marble Palace to let you in. He looms like a shadow behind you as you take in all the grandeur of the ancient structure. Statues, paintings and busts; it all looks like a dream but one oil painting of a woman stands out. Clad in a pale sari, her eyes seem to hold answers to otherworldly secrets. Something about her seems familiar but you don't understand it. Your gaze finds the year 1841 faintly etched in the bottom and you wonder who this could be.
The watchman clears his throat, breaking you out of your reverie. He asks you to hurry and refuses to meet your eyes for the rest of the time. As he leads you out, you realise that there was something he didn't want you to see.
You wander through Putul Bari and the place feels odd. There isn't much left of what once used to be of this mansion, but the essence of it still remains. House of Dolls, they call this place and you're reminded of a certain friend of yours who had once mailed you a broken doll. You never saw her again.
You find yourself within a sea of bodies during Durga puja. The air is filled with chantings and your eyes find it's way to the Goddess held high. Someone tugs at your hand and you look down to find a little girl in red. She wears a ghastly smile and stuffs a single red rose into your palm. You turn to watch her leave. Was she simply swallowed by the crowd or did she just disappear into thin air?
Your hands trace the spines of the books at The National Library and you pull out one dusty volume. Kolkata : An Untold History, the title says. You soon find yourself feverishly flipping through the pages, processing every terrible thing the book claimed. Queen Victoria had once visited Kolkata sometime in 1889. It wasn't an official visit and wasn't recorded in any historical text. A series of peculiar events followed and there was something dark that the Royals hid.
On your last day in the city, you take a stroll through South Park Cemetery. Your friend had agreed to meet you here one last time before you leave and you make your way through the graves as you wait for her. When she finally arrives, her eyes briefly find a spot over your shoulder before returning back to you. You cannot shake off the chills that the gesture gave you but you ignore it. As you tell her about your strange experiences in the city, she visibly pales. I think you must leave she says and turns away. As you watch her leave in confusion, everything seems to set in place. It dawns upon you that Kolkata is not what it seems like. Art and literature thrived here, but so did dark secrets
"Beyond the stars lie many worlds— Behind every love lie trials galore. Don't be content with worldly pleasures— There are many other pleasures to enjoy."
~ Allama Iqbal
Short vacations mean more reading. 'The Discomfort of Evening' has been on my tbr since aeons.
THE 4TH EPISODE IS UP!!!
I'm a survivor and sharing this seems gratifying to say the least.
"A man becomes a Mahadev, only when he fights for good. A Mahadev is not born from his mother's womb. He is forged in the heat of battle, when he wages a war to destroy evil."
Shiv, The immortals of Meluha (Amish Tripathi)
The fees which i paid to delusion for just nine years of my youth have now to be returned with interest to Truth till the end of my days.
- Rabindranath Tagore, The Home and the World
Ode to death - veeksha
sick in the head, sick in the bed, mind hurts- language cursed. Softened to the blow, just run away and let it go; agony arise, diving into disguise. I want out, can't go on anymore, anxiety around the corner, fake smiles appear to be weaker. I want to cry like most humans, but the fear of being judged, has got me bottling it all up, how long will the bottle hold? I'm like a dam that's getting old. I want to laugh, I want to live, I want to love, i want to heal, i want to cry, i want to fly, i want to feel- NORMAL AGAIN.
― Kamala Daas, An Introduction