Skip to main content

Posts

The Manhattan project, Soviet espionage, and an equation for outcome & choices

The date is 06th August, 1945. The entire United States glistened with the lights of victory! Almost everyone on the streets was a little bit inebriated. In the midst of all that, one man, clad in a grey suit, with a cigarette between lips and a hat lowered slightly to cover his face, walked steadily towards the southern end of the Castillo Bridge station in Santa Fe.  He stopped at the end of the station area, lit up a matchstick and ignited the cigarette. As soon as his face lit up in the light of the matchstick, another man emerged from the darkness, and walked towards him. The stranger asked the man how to get a train to go to the east side, the man replied “I don’t know. Where are you coming from?” while carefully noting the dress of the stranger. The reply came in a measured tone, “I am coming from Julius” and the man with the cigarette extended his hand.  “My name is Dexter. You?” “Charles Raymond. How do you do?” “Can we sit somewhere?” “Come, I know a place just next to the st
Recent posts

Of pessimism, purpose and un-divine redemption! (TW// Suicide references)

Not all books one comes across can be audacious enough to start with a line as bold and provocative as this - “ There is but only one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide… ” but then again, not all writers are Albert Camus. As provocative as the opening line is (in " The Myth of Sisyphus "), Camus’s logic behind bringing up suicide is based not on an emotional but rather a rational, calculative look at the purpose of existence itself. As per Camus and many other existentialist philosophers, for the most purposes, the very existence of life seems to be pointless (or, as Camus calls it, absurd). We are all meant to die eventually and even the very Universe with all its complexities and all its unimaginable vastness is destined to end (in one way or the other) at scales of time far beyond what our primitive minds can comprehend. But if that is so, and if science fails to provide much optimism in this regard, then the proposition Camus makes seems logical enou

Satyajit Ray’s “Nayak”- a glance into the mind of a star

In the film “Nayak”, the life and inner struggles of an immensely popular superstar come to the forefront on the course of a train journey. What really goes on in the lives of the movie-stars and actors, the glamorous personalities we adore and ogle when the camera is not rolling and nobody is shouting ‘action’? How are these lives? Are they as wonderfully perfect and flawless as they are depicted on-screen? Or do they too, like the rest of us, have anxieties, dilemmas, betrayals and other such human emotions in their hearts? Well, Satyajit Ray’s ‘Nayak’ answers most of these questions. And by using an icon like Uttam Kumar himself to portray the role of an movie icon, Ray blurred the lines between reel and real, so much that one would, while watching the various scenes unfold and the deep lines being spoken, wonder whether they are viewing the life-story of Arindam Chatterjee or that of Uttam Kumar (whose real name was Arun Kumar Chatterjee). it was purely intentional on the

The Last Hallucination

I did not like him, that old, wretched doctor sitting there with his smug face trying to tell me how grotesque my entire existence was, I just wanted to run away from that place. I wanted to run away from the hospital and from all these morons in their white coats. But for Dr. Mukherjee, I would have probably fled long back. But I knew that if I ran away not one of the morons would even be slightly bothered but old Dr. Mukherjee would probably not be able to take the shock. He liked me more than anyone else and genuinely believed that one day I will actually get better and walk out of here a sane man. So I stayed on and thus the unbearable torture of being forced to listen to the obnoxious rantings of the miserable fool in his white coat sitting across the table continued. "When will Dr. Mukherjee be coming?", I ask rather impatiently. The smugness on his freckled face deepens as he shakes his head to indicate his ignorance of his boss's schedule. I have been staying

Witness

The tiny watch on the side of Bibek’s bed showed the hour-hand sluggishly bent past 3. Bibek threw up his hands in frustration. He was not being able to sleep. Not just tonight, he had been sleep-deprived for the last three nights. Ever since the day of that murder; no, not murder, the accident....since then he had been hearing sounds in his head at night. Terrifying, morbid sounds. Sounds which could awaken even the dead from their graves, horrifying wails like the ones he had heard that day, when he was there. The man’s shrill cry for help and the loud, deafening howls of his attackers; and those sounds played back and forth in his mind throughout the night. Three nights at a stretch! He knew he was losing his mental balance. But what could he have done? What could anybody do about something like that? Bibek sat up on his bed. Why was he hearing these voices? He did not kill the man. It was them, the guardians of religion, the protectors of faith. They who commanded over all men an

TRANSCENDENCE

TRANSCENDENCE Right now, I am walking down the street, and observing things, people, places--basically anything that lies ahead of me. I just love reading the untold stories from these observations, sometimes I make up, at other times, the stories come by themselves. All I have to do is look at a particular place or a stranger's face, and almost spontaneously a story comes up in my head. I see a middle-aged man with a brownish muffler and a green-and-black sweater, walking at a quick but alert pace with his hands moving, making invisible ellipses in the air, and I can visualise him sitting in front of his house physician, telling him that he was fine, it was just a normal thing at his age, and the doctor sternly advising him to take the matter seriously. His daughter rebukes him, with a bit croaked voice, tells him, 'Do as doctor uncle says...". The doctor bends down over his pad and starts scribbling illegible letters, while saying in the previous stern tone, that alo

The Bag Of Samosa

  The Bag of Samosa “ What do you mean? You haven’t made samosa today? Why? This.... this is not good… ” “I am sorry Mihirbabu, I know how much you like samosas, but I am helpless. The owner has ordered us not to make samosas today, apparently due to some weird belief of his. So sorry, but you’ll have to find it somewhere else…” Mihir Sanyal looked dejected while walking out of the sweet shop. Samosa had now become a bad habit, one which he was certainly not inclined to let go of on that day at least. He decided, he would walk to the next sweet shop and get his samosa from there. Mihir Sanyal was just another average middle-aged lonely Bengali man living a characteristic mundane and inconsequential life. His day started in his rented house with a cup of tea and his favourite samosa, both bought from the shop adjacent to his house. He would wake up each day, have his tea and samosa, get ready for work, and leave at exactly the same time, without fail, like he had been doing

About Me

SOUMYADEEP CHATTERJEE
A writer for the odd hours. Introverted. Anti-social.