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Wednesday, April 26, 2017

Kolkata Diaries : Day 27

It is precisely when night engulfs you that you're sad - sadder than ever. I've wanted to end my life more than once.The urge somehow has never been enough,or I have been too whimsical not to do anything whimsical to the self.Well,when I feel choked in the middle of the road (I have a respiratory problem) or at late night or sometimes in the shower,I feel like I would love to live,for once more it will dawn outside,one more time I will lend my vision a chance to take everything in and that's a pleasure,has always been.
Nonetheless,I am always scared when I walk the streets late at night - scared that the moment I loose conscious,I might just get raped and never get back to the place I usually stay in.I have seen the look on the faces of the people everywhere.They're hungry and they're past caring to what it takes to fulfill their appetite.I used to feel ickier when I was younger,now I'm pretty much used to that "hungry" look on most men I see on the road,and even women - often in short skirts,the other times clad in fancy sarees,roaming around malls and alleyways,they scare the shit out of me too.Suddenly,I realise it's darker than I think it is.It is precisely that the population is past caring ; the mob is seriously scary. They walk in the same direction,follow the same road and then they break it off at certain points when the rules are past their capability to stand things.Sometimes,though - only sometimes,I spot an artist who doesn't cross the road as well and the autorickshaw driver calls him an asshole and off he goes like a tattered kite.I notice the wind in his shirt sleeve,or how his shadow resembles poetry.

I wear an anklet on my right ankle.It doesn't ring,or maybe it does - I never pay enough attention to hear the sound.The anklet that enamoured my left ankle broke at a tug a few days ago and now it stays with him,that actually makes me glad sometimes.'The tie' shows ; and it's silver in colour.

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Monday, April 24, 2017

Kolkata Diaries : Day 25

I am pretty sure no one begins writing from day 25 but I will,since it was only minutes ago that I took the decision to begin writing this series.This series would be incomplete,including only traces and parts of my perceptions about everyday life in the city and other absurdist visions that come to me way too often for anyone to achieve control over them.
If I cannot guarantee what will be interesting for whom according to portrayal of perspectives in the last 300+ posts,I sure can guarantee that this series is going to be interesting for most people.I will be updating this really often from now on and this is my umpteenth attempt to bring out the personal in the shape of art.

Day 25

It's terrible to walk down the streets now.In the midst of all that lights and shadows and graver tales that align your walk along the pavement,you will often hear a flower bloom,see a song cross the bylane and a poem will touch your curves and slowly rest beside you.But then you turn around and see the blatant consumerism creeping up your veins in all totality and you want to shed it off from you,like memories of assaults of the yesteryear but they won't just leave.They would cling to you as your own odour does and you would love to hold on to love,to the essence of a flight,to homecoming.

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Tuesday, April 18, 2017

Threatened by Shadows at Night,Exposed in the Light

I hope you all have been doing well in the most recent of times. Some of you might even be confused why has the blog been neglected for so long or the questions sent have not been answered.Unfortunately,I have been tremendously busy and really pressurised for quite a while now. Inititally,I had my Higher Secondary exams (the final board exams that you have to sit for in high school) and then,since I have changed my geographical habitat,and add to that a completely new set of protocols,circumstances,ways of dealing with each of these. 

The first thing is,I have been running my own expenses,which is a brilliant experience to begin with.But I am having to travel a good deal (from South to Northern Kolkata and back to Central and back to South again 😑). Then in a month and a half's time,I would have to move out to a hostel/mess,figuring out all the 'how-to's and 'what-to's all by myself. I have never been this mechanical in my life,to admit the truth.Nonetheless,I talk to my eight year old student about why not to listen to Justin Bieber and Taylor Swift and a little idea about commercialisation,commodification and the like.
(She even told me she thinks the meaning of 'education' is 'punishment' and I am not exaggerating a letter here.)

Image may contain: one or more people, sky, ocean, outdoor and water

(Photographed by Elliott Erwitt))

Then comes the distress of having to take the responsibility of a very childish man who never speaks to me about his own problems and is highly conscious about how I am performing in my academic life (I guess he has sent me more than 30 books till date,in terms of both soft and hard copies.) You must have heard it is extremely difficult to understand an ENFP (basically NTs and NFs) and there are so many facets to this particular problem,one will always lead to the other creating a completely disastrous extent of mess you will have to try everyday to solve somehow. Nonetheless,the bond we share is unspeakably strong,so there actually is real life proof that ENFP-INTP pairing works.

Thankfully,more than half of the extremely stressful time has already been over.
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Friday, April 14, 2017

Absurdist Fiction : The Meeting

I met her in the woods one day.She surfaced like a pain and an error,combined into co-planar serenity.She sat their,coiled like an old Banyan trunk and her hair framed her face like the aerial roots.The space between her bosom was a hollow light year's thirst and she turned around again and again,trying to grasp the history of the universe amidst the little circumcised space between her hairline and toenails.She was solace,she resembled eternity - yet,the wind shook her like the heart of a young sage on the path to the quest for truth.

I walked across her and noticed the timidness of lovers,paltry railroads and lustrous paddy fields,I even wrote a poem I think that I never could find again.She was absorbed in the pages of a slowly flowing dusk,an arena to behold - amidst the shoreline and the sandclock. I realised she was in search of a race or a gallow - I wanted to withstand the circumstances that would have arose hence but she took my breath away,and I swayed like a pendulum ; wishing to be engulfed and thrown around like a javelin at the same time.
I think I watched her look up then.She whispered something to the ears of the shallow evening and the drooping flowers.I was about to ask her of her whereabouts when she vanished in 
mid-air."What do you want?What else do you want now?",I asked helplessly.And she swirled across the breeze like a symphony
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Wednesday, April 12, 2017

A Poem Inspired By A Painting (Second Inclusion - 'Wheatfield With Crows' by Vincent Van Gogh)

It has been quite a number of days since I wrote the first post of this series.Things have been really bothersome lately and I have been working hard to get everything work at the same time.Here is a painting that caught my eye a few days back and I just could not get it off my head.So,here goes the second inclusion.Hope you enjoy going through the poem. 😊

Swiftness paraphrased 
In golden strands
Built across the line of error
Amidst indulgence 
Amidst visions
Claw thy bosom
Infringe thy soul 

Back inside
Further on the inner side
Of a man
A solitary reaper grows old.

Distanced in the aviation
Fragmented on the cloud-fall
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Wednesday, March 29, 2017

India’s Far Right on The Rise As Militant Hinduism Grips The Nation : My First Contribution To The London Economic

From that very moment when NDA came into power in the general election of 2014,the alarm had been set off for the alerted to lend a ear as soon as had been possible.
The article,being my first contribution to The London Economic tries to sum up the unimaginable atrocities the fundamentalists in India have committed in a matter of just a few years.

We are highly interested to know your views regarding the issue and the article.
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Saturday, March 25, 2017

A Poem Inspired By A Painting (First Inclusion - 'Interior With Goldfish' by Henri Matisse)

This week,we will be doing something unique since it has been quite a while since we have been able to do anything about delivering new content.A new poem in free verse will be written every week based on one very famous painting.

Mirrored minds
Swing in transcendence 
The other half of a corner
Of distance and desolation
Passes distinctly
In the intermediation 
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Wednesday, January 25, 2017

The Death of an Author,The Birth of a Writer

The following article is in no way associated with and should not to be confused with the 1967 essay 'The Death of the Author' (French: La mort de l'auteurthe) written by the French literary critic and theorist Roland Barthes.

Throughout the course of the several attempts my subconscious mind has made till date in order to exempt out of the show anything that resembles the concept of an authoritarian entity,I think the last plank has been analysing the etymology of words (and that too not very consciously,either).Ever since the concept struck my mind,I had a feeling that the word 'author' must have been born out of the term 'authority' but in reality,if you just plunge a little deeper into the concept of sociological philology,you can genuinely identify the resemblance between the chronological flow of events.
Writing began with the urge borne out of the human psychology to preserve something precious or to enlist what was to be executed in the form of action in the later days.Later,it transformed itself into the very tool of defying the authoritarian bodies the history books so serenely glorify and have done so in favour of striving human suffering as the lubricant in the wheel of a so called civilization.Today,the press has nearly coincided with the idea of another establishment that simply takes part in carefully blurring the line between the real happenings and a story that convinces people well enough for them to mechanically and methodically follow a certain schedule,have a certain abstinence from anything that links to the term 'movement' and is antonymous in nature to 'stagnancy' and keeps them paying taxes and voting in order to enroll their kids into schools,pay taxes and vote yet again. 

In a very similar manner has literature been manipulated and the intensity of this very manipulation has not been degrading in the recent days.Now,the question is if propaganda is literature or if literature is being propagandised.To a certain extent,both are true.Propaganda is enclosed in history books and history is written by the hunters who will never glorify the tale of the lions or that of the forests or that of earth.Literature that is actively propagandised to distract us should indeed be the centre of attraction at the moment.Unless you realise the dividing lines between parade grounds and broken kites,between mellowed roads and authoritarian balance,between dying birds and season's trends - there is no use of writing,there is no reason to explain,there is no cause that remains to purpose anything anymore.The key to everything at this point of time,in the middle of this confused bunch of beings that consider themselves to be living,believe it or not ; living is so important.And in order to live,which always has been much more than survival,we must learn to ungraze,to unlearn,to unfollow and create again.Unfollowing is not the last step,an anti-thesis without a hint of a solution is as useless as the US President is to the world.So,coming back to etymology,the term 'author' comes from French words 'auctor', 'acteor'  meaning "author, originator, creator, instigator" which in turn directly originate from Latin word 'auctor' meaning "enlarger, founder, master, leader," literally "one who causes to grow".
Later,the word began to be used in the sense of a writer, one who sets forth written statements' or "source of authoritative information or opinion", now archaic but the sense behind authority.

From around the time of the unfolding of the World Wide Web to the world in the most practical sense worth speaking of,the American English dialects have been taking over the trends by storm.It must have been from around that time that we began replacing the term 'writer' by the term 'author'.A writer definitely is an author at some point because it is from her that the idea of the material bound by text originates from but the material once bound by text subsequently does not remain 'bound' anymore.It is spread wildly in the form of further ideas,further concepts,further propagation among one to the other.In this sense,writing is a form of divinity,writing is an enormous power that can be used as much as it can be misused.
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Saturday, January 14, 2017

All That Comes To Mind (27) : Why Do I Write What I Write?

Every time exams are close,ideas crowd my mind more than the number of people who crowd St Mark's Square in New Year's eve.And before I have the slightest realisation,they have turned into emotions of some kind that are usually suppressed.It might be an introvert,intuitive mind's attempt to defy laws imposed forcefully right from the subconscious.I don't know,really.But it happens.
And subsequently,all the sorrow that I perhaps can gather inside my petite stature is magnetically drawn to me,like a swarm of bees and I am half reluctant and half oh-so-eager to give in.It's complicated,as is every other delicate,minute thing to intuitive thinkers.
Now,that does not,somehow affect my ability to study.It's like,a test paper is over and I need a breezy ambiance around and before I know a thing,instead of air,all that I have around is an endless cloud of thoughts.It goes on conglomerating then until I literally 'do' something.Out of the constructive things,I end up compulsively writing (Like "someone takes me up by the collar and asks me to set him free in pen and paper" :P ) and when I'm done,for half a minute,I notice the statistics. * 268 people reading this NOW * *300K crossed * *Google+,1 million crossed * , * New follower.Channel presenter.* The only problem is nothing pleases me anymore.Nothing on earth pleases me.That is very helpful in case of being a productive human resource - in economic terms,an asset and not a liability.But as for you,as a person,you are a devastated soul thereafter.

I have 300 billion problems inside me.And more glass pieces and mirrors and kaleidoscopes than industries shall be able to count.I will not deny the possibility of the concept of infinite,either.But,but - I actually can sense that there are issues which are unsolvable.And that unfortunately,they are existent.That is not the case with the general population.There are certain problems I myself have with the population,such as :-
Firstly,in the twenty first century,people are running.Until that affects the certain important statistical counts in my life, that shouldn't be a concern but that is,because I am not a robot.People do not know why they are running but they are so exasperatingly doing things,completing things that slowing down often becomes synonymous to failure or boredom.This is why not even 10% of the population will not even think about introverts.And this gets them (introverts) all the more crazy to keep quiet. Well,most of the times,I really do not give a flying,freaking,flapping fuck to judgemental conclusions or comments,personally but several other sensitive people do,especially those who do not even understand why they are getting judged at the first place.
I rather am an old soul,of the kind who speak less and go on doing what they had been doing unless a catastrophe breaks in.
Secondly,the number of judgemental and observant people are far,far huge a count than intuitive and perceptional ones.This is a big problem.Had there been poets instead of administrators,logically speaking - this world would have been a much better place to live in.Had there been guitarists instead of politicians and painters in place of bureaucrats and travellers in place of soldiers,this world logically would have been a different place. (Sounds crazy,isn't crazy at all.)
Thirdly,"You are not supposed to 'complicate things further' in that manner.
Fourthly,"We have condoms and pipeguns and some 380 year old alcohol.Want some?"
Fifthly,"Had you studied some other ‘worthy’ disciplinary,you would have earned better."
Sixthly,"Don't talk.Hush!Keep that hole on your face shut before you're dead."
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Tuesday, January 10, 2017

An Autobiography of Maths (English Project Class XI WBCHSE) requested by Diksha

I have received quite a number of requests for writing an autobiography prior to this and as per the rule emulated by me,I would not write your project for you but I could help you with the guidelines and I already have one written out there so you can take a look,at the first place.
I could further help you with your doubts about how to write one but this is a topic I never expected a student of Class XI to send to me.Most things,commodifiable and smooth have their beginnings and ends,birth and death but time does not.That is why I chose time as the topic when I wrote my project last year.These days,a lot of thoughts relating to stars,distance,reality,hypothesis,imagination,spirals,curves,representation,capacity,unit are crowding my mind very often.So,this is a topic that I cannot resist to write on.

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I extend my warm regards and gratitude to the Respected Principal and the insightful subject teacher to make it possible to work on this project. The project genre is interesting and has helped me to exercise my philosophical and writing skills.
I have enjoyed working on this topic and I am thankful to the subject teacher for allowing me to work on an otherwise unusual topic. I also thank the authority for providing the necessary time in order to complete this project.

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This is to certify that this project has been made by Titas Biswas of Class XI on the topic ‘Autobiography’ under the guidance of our English teacher ................ and has been completed it sucessfully. 
Yours truly 
Titas Biswas
Class XI

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What is an autobiography?

An autobiography is a written account of the life of a person written by that person. In other words, it is the story that a person wrote about themselves.
The word has Greek origin.
There are but few and scattered examples of autobiographical literature in antiquity and the Middle Ages. In the 2nd century bce the Chinese classical historian Sima Qian included a brief account of himself in the Shiji (“Historical Records”). It may be stretching a point to include, from the 1st century bce, the letters of Cicero (or, in the early Christian era, the letters of St. Paul), and Julius Caesar’s Commentaries tell little about Caesar, though they present a masterly picture of the conquest of Gaul and the operations of the Roman military machine at its most efficient. Generally speaking, autobiography in its modern, Western sense can be considered to have emerged in Europe during the Renaissance, in the 15th century. One of the first examples was written in England by Margery Kempe.

Information Credit : 
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I was born when you began to think for the first time,when history was born,when light years stormed through you - in the cradle of logic,in the womb of realisations,I was born. I was an idea,developed to be an adventure down there in the mystery of your mind.I imagined and I was.On the shadow of the wings of eternity,I shall continue throughout the courses of joyride and often,in the galactic spaces of oblivion,I found that I was the language of fate and that I could overwrite it,genuinely being the only one born with this ability.

I am a set of well-determined collections, of objects that are called members, or elements, of the set,exclusively with sets, so the only sets under consideration are those whose members are also sets. 
The theory of the hereditarily-finite sets, namely those finite sets whose elements are also finite sets, the elements of which are also finite, and so on, is formally equivalent to arithmetic. So, the essence of set theory is the study of infinite sets, and therefore it can be defined as the mathematical theory of the actual—as opposed to potential—infinite.

The notion of a collection is as old as counting, and logical ideas about classes have existed since at least the “tree of Porphyry” (3rd century C.E.). Thus it becomes difficult to sort out the origins of the concept of set. But sets are neither collections in the everyday sense of this word, nor “classes” in the sense of logicians before the mid-19th century. Ernst Zermelo, a crucial figure in our story, said that the theory had historically been “created by Cantor and Dedekind”. This suggests a good pragmatic criterion: one should start from authors who have significantly influenced the conceptions of Cantor, Dedekind, and Zermelo. For the most part, this is the criterion adopted here. Nevertheless, as every rule calls for an exception, the case of Bolzano is important and instructive, even though Bolzano did not significantly influence later writers.

Some spoke of the sense of the actual finite while there were some intellectual tendencies that promoted the acceptance of the actual infinite. In spite of warning that the infinite can only be a manner of speaking, some minor figures and three major ones preceded in fully accepting the actual infinite in mathematics. Those three authors were active in promoting a set-theoretic formulation of mathematical ideas, with Dedekind's contribution in a good number of classic writings (1871, 1872, 1876/77, 1888) being of central importance.
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