letter

Dear M or N or S,

I really dunno how to address you, you are all the initials I have used when I spoke to you, I am speaking to you, and I will speak to you. Its raining, hard very hard. I am drenched to be in the last rain of this city. The city that has gnawed my past, ripping apart a present I wanted to live. The rains come down to drain all of it, i can see blood all over, I have been murdered, I stand as a mutiliated soul - in the catacomb of this city - a city of joy, of love, of hatred, of pain. I see pain when it rains for the last time; as I give words to myself never to return. I have barren my thoughts, my fragile thoughts, my more trusted thoughts. I want to take that step, to set my foot on a novel thing as I wont fail you, I will - here I give my words ... but leave me tonight for the last time I want to burn myself in this yester, cry, rant, shout, break my voice to pronounce that nile has dried, it cannot harbour civilization. Its crippled, cold, dead. For tomorow will be another day and I will be another being.

luv,
S, B

The Japanese Wife!

 How do I put the entire visual journey in words? The film is a continuous picturesque, a photographic genius. The narration is an illusion. I missed Amitav Ghosh and Hungry Tide most of all. The mangrove forest, sundarbans, matla as tipsy a person can be even without a single malt. Rahul Bose has a screen presence, but I bow to Sen who has simply vanished that Bose charm. He was at times invisible, a thing that at times exists but often ignored. I went quiet after Mr. and Mrs. Iyer, but here I felt somewhere the scent of Arabia was lost while delivering its fragnance. I am little sad!