Chintu and Pintu.

My fish turned a year old nearly a month ago and I realized that there are posts on this blog about old, dysfunctional, machine world equivalent of burger-eating, coke drinking.“dude” using obese slouches but not one about my fish.I had thought that I would put up a post with pictures and a video in November but never got down to doing it because procrastination is the most dominant behavioral aspect linking all life on earth and thus, God is to be blamed for it.

Chintu and Pintu were given to me by Anurina on my 18^th birthday who very thoughtfully decided to give me fish, post the cat incident thinking that my father cannot have a problem with two creatures floating around on their own in a corner of the house and doing all their businesses in the confines of a bowl. When someone later pointed it out to her that they are going to die one day very soon and then I will be sad, she was slightly taken aback and did not say anything in the light of this new realization but was not paid further attention to because my reaction at the subject of their death stole the show. I was exceedingly happy to get them and she was exceedingly happy to give them to me and therefore, nobody should ruin our joy.

They were named by Rupsha who does not miss any opportunity to establish the same.

Everybody in my house was happy only.

Over the course of the next few weeks, I happened to talk too much about them which often annoyed people. Several like Rupsha, who has no patience and is generally curt, rude and without compassion adopted a chant that revolved around the following:

They are going to die.

I have kept them in a bowl.

I have deprived them of their home.

I have imprisoned them.

I being a vegetarian have converted them to vegetarians.

They are going to die.

I used to feel very guilty. I still do. I used to think that if there was an equivalent of Steve Irwin’s national park in Calcutta then I would’ve taken them there.

I always had to call up RJ and make her convince me that my fish are happy and that in a pond, they would be eaten by other larger fish and catch horrible diseases and live in insecticide-infested water.

Everyone with such devious mindsets ultimately put an end to death talk because they realized that it affected me and were scared that what if my fish just died the next day.

You know, I always lie or get my way around using very logical, practical arguments but emotional blackmail is a pathetic yet powerful tool and I have learnt that it is wise and wonderfully convenient to use it more. I see my sister use it everyday with such subtle precision that no one can even detect it, not even me.

I started celebrating their birthday on the 14^th of every month because I was also scared that they might not make it till next year.

BUT.

THEY DID.

And they are happy beautiful, healthy fish growing smarter by the day.I make everybody wish them on their birthday.

They are leading an adventurous life on account of the fact that I break their bowl every month and a half so they get to explore other larger vessels like the tub. The first time they were put in the tub, they had to stay there for a week and they were understandably, apprehensive. On returning to the bowl, Pintu saw my face and for around 3 mins scolded me. He was very angry. He swam here and there and here and there very furiously right in front of face.

I googled goldfish and found that goldfish owners around the world are melodramatic idiots who scared the shit out of me with their description of goldfish disease symptoms.

There are very few of them who talk sense. So I don’t listen to them.

One said my fish suffered from wen and that bacteria were eating into his brain and that he was going to die and I should convert his water to medicine.

Piece of shit.

Nothing had happened. They were just males and therefore, developing white spots on their frontal fins. This one nice fellow told me this and even sent me a link to a picture of a male goldfish. Efficient, responsible man.

My fish are brilliant.

They are the best.

I love my fish.

I hope that they are in reality happy and don’t hate the bowl.

They seem to be happy. Every now and then I start feeling so guilty.

I wish they could be hugged and cuddled and kissed and I was not left hugging their bowl.

That is it I guess about my fishes.

(Screw you.

Fishes should be a word.)

They move too much so I get never get them both clear in the picture and again God is to be blamed for the fact that despite my trying to take one now because it is possible you know, the camera's batteries have died and I cannot find the charger.Now I can really really search for it but it's just God's fault.

Also, videos are not uploading.

So it's just bad pictures.

And now even the second bad picture is not uploading.

The Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of.

I wanted someone to tell me a story.
A happy story.
A nice story.
Like a movie at the end of which you smile.

Across the street lived the Man Who Told Stories You Could Live.
No.
He wasn't God.
He could untangle the threads of time and space and take you to a new dimension.
Where you could be the story.
Or in the story.
Whichever one you wanted it to be.
You knew it was just his imagination.
But it was real.
Almost.


We all went to him every now and then.
To live fantasy and fiction.
To live a different life.
To be someone else living someone else's life.

Seven year olds went to him,wanting to hear stories of the days when Santa Claus was real.
Jill only wanted to be Alice.

A little boy wanted to be a pirate.
So he asked him to tell the story of a pirate.
Of treaures and swords and maps and ships.
Of battles and Captain Hooks.
Every waking moment seemed like the end of the world.
And that,is not catastrophic.
It's beautiful.
The little boy was the hero.
We all want to be heroes.

Mrs.Bidge lived at the end of the street.
To state the obvious,Mr.Bidge was dead.
And to state the obvious more so,Mr.and Mrs.Bidge had no children.
And more,she had a cat.
Named Ginger.
She knitted the entire day because she had read about old women doing the same in cheap second-hand novels.
We all have.
Not that it made her think it was the thing to do but doing something else seemed unholy.
Almost like sin.
As if there were snooty old women in her head who like perfect English ladies of the eighteenth and nineteenth century would look down upon her if she did so.
It fitted the picture.
Who the knitted sweater was for, is unknown.
Even to Mrs.Bidge.

Mrs.Bidge secretly wanted to be Scarlett.
O'Hara..?
"Now that was sin,"said the woman in her head.
She was unable to hide her desire to go to the Man Who Told Stories You Could Live.
It is sad she had nobody to hide it from.
But then she had her own reality.
We all do.

She did go to him one day though.
Like we all wish we could?

So did I.
I wanted someone to tell me a story.

Jack was an atheist.
He wanted to be God.
It was fun.
He became more of an atheist after that.
He knew he could be God.

All stories do come to an end.
Like the universe.
Because the universe too is a story.
So we went back to him over and over again.
It's sad when stories come to an end though.
When you cannot feel the magic anymore.
And you wish you could return to being in the middle of the book.

He made chairs.
The Man Who Told Stories..?
His house was gloomy,the wooden planks damp.
There was a small patch of grass outside the front door.
Though the patch didn't qualify for a patch and neither did the front door.
You could smell rain when you walked in.
Always.
We lived in such a part of he world.
The skies were always dark.
As if something was about to happen and you were standing at the edge of it.

We never knocked.
The door was a bunch of unshapely planks.
You only had to push and free one of them that was tall enough to satisfy the intended height of the door.

He was working.
He always was.
Chisled wood and ribbons strewn on the floor.
Saw dust hung in the air.

I wanted him to tell me a story.
A happy story.
A nice story.
Like the movie at the end of which you smile.
I wanted him to tell me a story i could live.

He did.

He sang me a song.







It's addictive.