I spent the past week ruminating about what to gab about (mind you, it’s not an easy task) and I came up with an endless list of bizarre (and the not-so-bizarre) topics. Still in pursuit of the I-want-to-live-like-Carrie life, I even though about blogging about random sexcapades – but ha ha – we know how well that’s gonna work *wink*
Anyway…I admit, I’m no writer…I do not have a degree from Cornell looking pretty on my wall, shouting silently to the world, “I’m from a fancy schmancy university - Worship me!” My Facebook profile just lists a top-25-in-the-UK University and not an endless list of Ivy League names. Apart from my failure to achieve a hot-shot degree, my knowledge of anything artistic or musical is severely stunted as well. Sure I love staring at beautiful works of art, ooh-ing and aah-ing appropriately…I also have the ability to “enjoy” Schubert’s fifth symphony. But hand me a canvas with blotches of paint and ask what it means to me, and my answer will invariably be - zilch! nada! no comprendo, por favor!
So what am I trying to say?
Simply put: I’m a failure as a Bengali.
I’ll never sit in a coffee house dragging on a cheap cigarette butt, drinking cha and discussing Marxism…I will also not be arguing why Tagore was, in some ways, a savior to Bengali literature, neither will I ever quietly sit around in a living room with close friends and listen to them sing Ranbindrasangeet with a certain melancholy which only a fellow probashi can comprehend…you get the drift…
Yet, in many ways, my ‘Bongness’ is even greater than - I daresay - Sharat Chandra Bose himself! My uncanny love for fish (be it salmon or hilsa) and sweets is a prime example. Hand me a something sweet and I’m your friend for life…hmmmm, yet, in so many ways I don’t feel the way I’m supposed to…Am I even making any sense?
Time to sign off before I start another crazy spiel!
Besos.
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