is going home.

will have a dadu and a dida and mommy and a daddy and a kaka and a mani and a raka and a ruchi

and a bari.

a bari and a room and a bed and a bookcase

and a jude and a campus and a gang

and a city.

oh, calcutta, how i miss you and your pollution and your cacophony and the racous bangla on every tongue.

Packing

Things that you know you'll need:

Clothes.
Shoes.
Laptop.
Camera.
Books.
Bags.

Things that you realise you'll need:

Combs.

Hairgrips.

Socks.

Watches.

Pens.

Stationary.

Things that your mother tells you you'll need:

Detergent.

Nylon ropes.

Clothespins.

Mosquito coils.

Umbrellas.

Medicine.

in which there is a scream

A primordial scream, of the sort people utter when about to look at potentially scary things, for which parental support is deemed necessary. You know, the scream that goes 'Maaaaaaaaaa.' Yeah, that one.

Parental support proved fairly essential, because I realised soon enough that my name was not on the list. Or on the waiting list. So I was saddened but resigned--I hadn't thought I'd written a good exam, anyway, as everyone I whined at can attest.

Of course, then my mother fulfilled her true purpose as my mother, and pointed out the fact that I had--as bloody usual--been looking in the wrong place; at the wrong list, in this case. Yeah, I know. No, I don't know how I'm going to survive on my own either, thank you for your absolute faith in me. It's touching. Bitch.

But I guess I'll find out, soon enough (tick-tock). The M.A. list, the 'real' list, as it were, the one I was supposed to be looking at (thank you, Mommy, I love you), says I'm headed off to E.F.L.U in a bit less than a month. So, um.

Here goes?