theres nothing for it but to get it off my chest or as hugh would say make a clean breast of it. language is an awesome perversion. benefit it is to us that it aloows us to say, but woe to me that it makes it obligatory for me to say even when i dont have anything to. the needling provocation of words. i mean how far possible is it to stay calm, prepossessed, and quiet when there are words waiting to be uttered. so many of them just a whisper and the genie appears.
like i didnt want to go where ma ba want me to. i was sure till sometime back that im not going. i knew that il easily produce my infallible last minutes and vanish. stay back merely actually.
but then the parents induced first mistake, the fatal exception that occured in the afternoon.
namely, me going to drop them to howrah. i didnt want to go. thats what i kept telling myself throughout and for sometime. but then like my other helplessnesses. this too.
i saw trains, saw the station dog, saw the porters, the passengers, the retinue the see-off party, the welcome party, the touts, the taxi-wallahs and their touts, the police and the ticket checker, collapsible gates pushed wide open and on the high ceiling a fan whirring, of course purposlessly.
thats it. nothing at all had any meaning to it. no pilgrimage, no homecoming just an incessant horde grinding one insane machinery.
me too theres no meaning to it, il go to orissa i realised then. it follows i guess. because theres no reason for me to go nor is there any remorse in me not going. the circumstances and the situation had been shat out long time ago. il have to go for no greater reason than that there is howrah.