Its strange why I come across new ideas when I’m studying. Times when I feel the most hopeless. Times when I have the best arguments to defend the futility of life. Destruction gives birth to reform they say. They say the truth. Atleast in my case. 

Atleast in case of this blog I’ve begun. 

I have this feeling that this blog is a new journey, a new trapdoor to the Holy Grail. The problem is that all these trapdoors seem identical nowadays. An even graver problem is that I’ve now muddled up the definition of Holy Grail God sent me to Earth with. I’ve no idea why I’m actually making an effort to descend stairs to new dark depths every day, every week, climbing back wearied, unsure whether the stones I collected downstairs are diamonds or mere pebbles. It’s a feeling that kills you from within, keeps poking you at every turn. Believe me, it’s better to not have a dream than having a blurred dream that gets more opaque as days pass.
So why this blog then. This is essentially my second blog. The first one was a football specific one, one which I discontinued because of primarily two reasons. One, because it catered to a limited audience, and two, because I grew tired after a point because of its monotonicity. It ended up being another futile adventure, but it made me realise writing about the sport I love wasn’t my calling. Admiring art and being an artist are synonymous but disjoint for some. 

So why another blog, with a name synonymous to ‘La Jogo Bonito'(a nickname for football, I apologize) again. A blog because writing stuff makes my soul happy, and I try to make other souls happy as well. The name because I feel it’s a nice name and completely goes with my mood; I now have just marginally enough hope for the future to have the will to live on. Venting opinions makes going easier. 

Just a start, this. I’ll try to put in meaningful pieces henceforth. Keep reading and stay happy. 

Out for a stroll but will be back. 


Revisiting Calcutta: Stage 1

When I do want to sit down to write about my city, which I’ve known more in the last few months than in the preceding eighteen years I’ve spent here, it’s all a cluttered emotion. It’s haphazard, its noisy, its humid and disturbing but still remotely coherent. Just like Calcutta, and it’s soul.

Having now taken a conscious effort to know the city I’ve spent my entire life in and breathe in it’s aroma which blends generations and cultures, I can say it’s enriching beyond description. Because even with the sparkling neon lights and the winding flyovers and the bright new modern buses, Calcutta never ceases to amaze with its zealous endeavor to retain its old world charm. So even with the metro channels carving up the metropolis, the trams and the hand drawn rickshaws still stand as remnants of the old Calcutta, that mysterious inertia that lends the city its senile disposition.

Amidst the omnipresent hullabaloo you’ll always find nooks where you’ll discover how the city never gathered pace, and that’s when you can’t help but sit and admire the sheer magnificence of Calcutta.

If you do make it past the bustle of Dharmatala without being run over by a bus, you’ll find yourself walking on pebbled sidewalks under antique balconies of buildings which still bear advertisements of typewriter repairers. Then you find yourself facing the imposing Raj Bhavan, and surprisingly enough, you’ll do well to catch a glimpse of the entire building in one glance. You walk further and you’ll come across adjacent cricket and football clubs, before you can catch the floodlights of the Eden Gardens in the distance. If you’re a cricket fan, you might as well stand and admire the giant structure, the ultimate epitome of Bengalis’ fervour for sports since the 1940s. Just so you know,   it’s the only ground which has hosted Pele and an ODI double century

Walk past Strand Road, and you’ll see the Hooghly flowing by in its own pace, unaware of this huge city that nestles beside it. Amble on till the Prinsep Ghat, another symbol of Raj architecture, which dominates the landscape of central Kolkata, the reason for which was fed into me by someone very vibrantly not so long ago. With the magnificent yet modern Vidyasagar Setu in the backdrop, you can’t help but admire the blend of antique and new, which is, significantly, what the entire city screams out.

It was time to go back and start afresh, another day.




Life goes on.

A year ago I was this guy who had just passed school, about to enter college, a college they said was the best you’ll get. A year on, it all seems like a fluke.

I never really had an idea what college life meant. After 14 years of meeting the same people everyday, people you get used to calling friends, it wasn’t easy. But it had to happen, and even though I spent just a quarter of a day in college, the first few weeks were hard. I used to listen to my favourite tunes of that period on the way back from college by metro, every day. Now I can’t listen to those songs without being reminded of those days. And the year that followed. And the fact that college reopens in under a month.

It gets better as you get to know people, which I have, and I’m glad they are people I can count on. The rest of them, they are just people I gotta meet at work. And I’ve thought this out in the past semester; you can’t be friends with everybody you meet, and you can’t definitely be upset over it.

I’ve started watching Narcos, and my internship is going fine. It’s a comfortable life right now, but it gets sick at night, every single day. That’s the time when I remember these days are counted. In a month or so, I’ll be on the morning metro, earphones tucked into my ears, sweaty people all around. I’ll be entering that same building where I hardly know the people I speak to.

Two months from now I’ll be in another freshers’ party, wondering about taking a drink, just like last year. I’ll probably opt for pizza, again.

But life does go on.

Mon Frère 

My brother turned 12 last week. I couldn’t find the console I was looking for him, probably because I wanted to use it more than him. Divine justice, they say. I asked my mom if I could skip college next day, not granted as I had tuition after college. After all I couldn’t flunk Maths this semester. 

I was finding it hard to believe that my brother had turned 12. Even harder to believe that he would be becoming a teenager in a year. It’s a strange feeling, realizing that in a week he’ll be watching a midnight football match with me. He watched Bayern Munich play Real Madrid last night on the couch beside mine, and I sent him to bed when his team went behind. He ended up being late to school; I’ve been there. 

He’s grown pretty tall. He doesn’t need any help nowadays while fetching stuff from the high cupboards. He goes to play football wearing my old jerseys. He now has around 5-6 kits, I just have two which fit me. I probably will have to let him play with my friends in the summer. 

The thing about him that makes me feel the proudest as his elder brother is his knowledge of football already. I know it’s not the greatest thing to be proud of, but believe me, it’s a sense of satisfaction I can’t describe. The other day he watched Pione Sisto play for Celta Vigo and identified him as the man who scored at Old Trafford last February. At his age, I had only watched a World Cup and a Champions League final and knew only a handful of players.  I could only smile. 

I dug up some of his old photos on his birthday. Toothless smiles in Mandarmoni and Kalimpong, ponytailed in Delhi when he was just a year old, and his fifth birthday. I tried to recall some more memories of his childhood. I recalled mostly instances when I was scolded for his fault. I smiled all the same. 

He’s 12, but I’m glad he’s just 12, because it’s obviously going to get stranger from now on. He’ll grow taller, he’ll be awake on more Champions League nights with me. He’ll grow facial hair, probably even sooner than I’ll grow some. But he’ll always be the kid brother I love to bully and tease, but the person I definitely can’t spend a day without. He’s the person I love the most in the world and I’m glad I have him. 

I’m pretty glad I didn’t buy him the console. He would beat me hollow in Fifa pretty soon. I need to preserve whatever semblance of superiority I still retain. 

Happy Birthday again Chotku. 


I sleep like a log normally, and I rarely have dreams. Even if I have dreams they are mostly stupid stuff that make no sense, nothing of the sort of dreams they show in movies. And after I wake up, I hardly ever remember what I actually saw in my dream in spite of my best efforts. Unfortunately, for nightmares the situation is reverse.

I woke up this morning pretty late, because I had a dream, and strangely enough I remember what I saw in my dream. I remember watching a sunset on a beach, with my feet dug up deep in wet sand. Sadly that’s pretty much all I remember. I don’t remember whether the beach was serene or crowded. Whether I was holding somebody’s hand. I remember that the sunset was beautiful.  I’ve never heard somebody describing a shabby sunset though.

I don’t know what the sunset meant or whether I’m even supposed to grasp some meaning out of it. I know my life has a sunset though, sadly. I can admit without any shame that I’m afraid of death. I’m probably more afraid of death than any other thing on this world. And someday I’ll be watching my sun sink below the horizon. I’ll probably be sobbing and I don’t want anybody to wipe my tears. Mainly because that will probably be the only sunset that will be demonic. And I want to watch the sunset that isn’t beautiful.

I’ll probably have people around my deathbed, watching a death and not a sunset. There will be people who’ll take me to the grave. But then they will probably be the ones who cared for me the most. Maybe I won’t be in a state to witness all of this happen, watching what I meant to people. But I’ll watch the unhappinest sunset of my life. And I’ll watch it alone without getting the chance to actually write a blog to describe it’s intricacies. I’ll watch it till the shadows extend beyond the beach to the bustling street, till the point where I can’t see my own shadow.

I’ll know then that dusk is here. And for ever.

I started getting ready for college. There’s a kid I needed to say hi to because she lent me an idea yesterday. And a yo’s.



I spent the whole of last evening on the verandah. Watching the rain as it poured down, unexpectedly, awkwardly, like most of my conversations with you end nowadays. I watched the street dog you used to cuddle staring out from my neighbour’s garage, hopelessly wet. I remember how you used to cuddle that dog when it was young. Dogs grow up so fast, it has its own kids now.

And things change so fast. 

The forecast said it would rain all evening. It had rained all day anyway, the forecast seemed unimportant now. Only the puddles grew wider, a few dislodged paper boats flung onto the street sank deeper. Gloom was written everywhere.
I don’t know why I was humming Wonderful Tonight. Possibly because it was your birthday. And I remembered how crazy your birthday parties used to be. But I hadn’t wished you yet. And I definitely wasn’t invited.

The rain poured down, possibly oblivious of the season, of what spring is meant to bring, of how love is vain beyond a point. The first hour is welcome, rain. It’s time you learn where to draw the line between longing and scorn. It’s great being oblivious of stuff that affects you, it’s great being rain. It’s great being someone not repenting your excesses and your mistakes, as long as they don’t change you. The rain doesn’t care about the puddles, the sunken paper boats, the mud. Human beings are the unlucky race.

A man walked by with considerable haste, half wet, trying his best to keep his black sling bag as dry as possible. I remember how I did the same when I shared my umbrella with you. How priorities transform with time. Like everything else.

I was feeling cold when I left the verandah. I had learnt to feel cold when wet nowadays. And walk away when it hurts.

And Chocolate

When I opened my refrigerator last night, I found my chocolate box half empty. I would be lying if I told you I got the rudest shock ever last night, but I think it makes the top 10. My chocolate box is mostly stocked, in fact I fill it in with lozenges when my chocolate bank runs dry. Considering the fact I had just two days previously filled it with chocolates my neighbor got for me from a trip abroad, my heart sank. It sank even deeper when I didn’t notice the wrappers in the trash bag. It hit the floor when my mom explained how the chocolates had been given away to the two cousins who came over for dinner last night. The pests, they even toyed with my Fifa managerial career, and I let them because my mom kept reminding me they were my baby cousins.
I went over to my room to sulk, taking along a Mars bar. I was sad, not because the chocolates were given to the kids, but it was because it was the chocolates that were given to the kids. And some treats they were. It’s funny how I was sulking for things that probably never cared for me. The chocolates fulfilled their purpose, leaving behind a spurned lover.

But that’s desire, and that’s where it’s all so so different from longing, from affection, from love. Desire is passionate and mostly one sided, but the object doesn’t care. The object simply doesn’t care.

I realized how the chocolates were simply my objects of desire as well. Things I craved for, things I wanted to enjoy. But my desire went unfulfilled because of an unwanted intrusion. And that is what made me angry last night.

But I wondered, and I realized why desire is also a multidimensional phenomenon as well. Didn’t my object of desire realize how badly I wanted to taste the chocolates? Probably yes, just why they probably spurned me because they knew they were still leaving enough for me. They weren’t making the box half empty, they were leaving it half full for myself to enjoy, and letting the kids enjoy the same joy as well.
Maybe that’s the role of an object of desire. To keep all its subjects happy. Because it’s selfish and because it doesn’t want its charm to go.

I opened my packet of Mars and had a bite. Probably the kids had the Lindt caramel one. But it doesn’t matter anymore.

I have more in my refrigerator’s middle rack.