#bengali love stories

[nymphiess]

Never going to play kfos because why does the bengali mc have a non-bengali last name???? Haven't met, seen or heard of a SINGLE bengali sharma. What the fuck is going on.

(anil is also not a bengali first name usually. where are my suprobhos and debnaths. why do they all have boring names)

[mirabel-on-a-bicycle]

8, 24 and 34 for the music asks <3

8. Is there an artist or song that you like, despite being of a genre you don't usually like?

Watsky and Animal Collective. I don't listen to hip hop or experimental much, but themm 😤✨

24. Do you play any instruments?

Tabla and ukelele :)

34. Your favorite song in your native language (if it isn’t English) OR in your second language (if English is your first):

(Been listening to this song since as far back as I can remember and Uttam Kumar's smile in the music video is honestly still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen)

music asks! :>

[vizthedatum]

The Furious Incineration After the Betrayal in Over a Decade of Friendship (2024)

(You can read the poem, stylized, on Instagram here) --

Over a fucking decade, I loved you so much,

A friendship I thought would never end.

But let me get to my long-winded point, entirely in touch:

You're a nightmare dressed as a best friend.

You spiral into self-centered chaos, completely unhinged,

Undiagnosed on purpose, dysregulated, and selfishly toxic.

Your love – a performance barely fringed,

Your actions: privileged and catastrophic.

And you, you privileged piece of trash,

Threw away my rent check on a whim.

February 2023, a Texas visit's shame,

My March rent-check envelope stamped, ready to mail,

To support your breakup, I loyally came.

You insisted on driving me to the post office under a "caring" veil.

"Can't you pay online?" you had scoffed with disdain.

I explained my landlady's old-school ways,

So you offered to drive, a kindness feigned in vain,

Exposing a ruse that would haunt me for countless days.

You spiraled about some random guy's digital interface,

A dating app match, now probably long forgot.

You handed me your phone, and I negotiated dates with grace,

While you "mailed" my check - or so I thought.

Later, my landlady called, rent check not received,

My world upended, stability gone.

You gaslit, denied, and shamelessly deceived,

Our friendship? I realized too late, forever done.

That hellish March week, more trauma piled high,

My autistic mind in overdrive with absolutely no rest or respite.

Job-hunting, side-hustling, barely getting by,

Defenses low and then raped by my girlfriend's husband,

who wanted to keep both of us oppressed.

Meltdowns erupted, friendships crumbled fast,

Regret still stings for bonds I couldn't save.

My soul subdued in a nightmarish cast,

Leaving me trapped in a mental enclave.

Doctor by title, fraud by nature's decree,

Prestige and parental pressure, seemingly your only guides.

Your stethoscope: deaf to humanity,

Your prejudice and arrogance, amongst your masked bedside manner, slip through the divides.

Homophobic jokes, transphobic sneers abound,

Your racism: a festering, putrid stain.

You scorn the homeless, curse Spanish translators around,

In Texas, where diverse tongues have rightful domain.

"My dad died," your perpetual battle cry,

In your twisted Struggle Olympics game.

Others' traumas you readily deny,

You wear your grief like a badge of fame.

Remember December 2022? My new start's light?

After fleeing violence, homelessness at bay.

You saw my progress on Facebook and felt small in spite,

Your insecurity, a trait you don’t want to work on, on full display.

Eighteen hundred, given in secret shame,

A donation hidden from all your kin.

Did you tell them of my hardships' claim?

Or was your silence another sin?

You donated, not through GoFundMe my friends did create,

But a private transaction known to few.

While I was healing in a fragile state,

You called, complained, then demanded anew.

"How can I help?" you asked, two-faced and sly,

After indirectly begging for your donation's return.

"Share my GoFundMe," I said with a sigh,

You refused, lest your image burn as much as your fake "concern."

Months later, after your own breakup's toll,

I came to support you despite my pain.

My mother hospitalized and sick, even with her abusive control,

Yet I showed up for you, my own healing on hold again.

Three grand returned, a move born of pride,

To pay you back for a decade of false gifts.

No mention of my love, my gifts, or the times I tried.

Our friendship reduced to monetary transactions and rifts.

You, with your wealth and family support,

Couldn't see beyond your gilded cage.

While I struggled, of poverty the sort,

You wallowed in your entitled rage.

"I need a new car!" you whined and cried out,

Your newer model still running just fine.

A week later, my junker gave out,

With the duct-taped trunk and bad alternator, another pitiful sign.

You spiraled endlessly, used us all,

Friends and family – your pseudo-shrinks.

Your empathy, superficial and small,

As fragile as fine china that clinks.

I tried to explain, to bare my soul's plight,

About poverty, violence, being trans.

"What would you do if you were at zero?" I asked outright,

"I'd never let that happen," you grandstand.

You criticized me at my lowest low,

Complaining about your petty demands.

Yet you sought out my empathy, as though

I had the strength to meet your reprimands.

Your love was never real, just a façade,

A transaction, a way to feel good.

You couldn't handle my unmasked guard,

My autism and my queerness, all misunderstood.

Boundaries crossed, jokes soured with time,

Your "straight" identity, a flimsy shield.

Unwanted and attempted kisses, weird sexual comments sublime,

Our friendship's trust, broken before your betrayal was revealed.

"HOW DO YOU NOT KNOW ABOUT LUXURY APARTMENTS?"

you unironically screamed,

As if that knowledge would save my life.

A simple package delivery seemed

To spark a battlefield of classist strife.

I regret the money, the time, the love,

I poured into our poisoned, toxic well.

You gaslit me, pushed and shoved,

Our friendship – a personal hell.

How many times must I be let down?

How many friendships will turn to dust?

Now, I reevaluate each bond around,

Searching for those I truly can trust.

We connected once, didn't we?

Bengali-American, in healthcare's fold.

But your self-absorption set us free,

Left me questioning all we once told.

Remember your undergrad roommate's baseless rage,

When I came out as bisexual in college?

I thought you were my defender sage,

Now I see through that false memory as merely symbolic.

She insinuated I took advantage,

When I wasn't flirting, not at all.

You were the one who caused damage,

Your fake flirting, because "that's what friends do,"

a confusing call.

Behind my back, your whispers flew fast:

"Worried about you," you falsely claimed.

Gossip masked as concern, unsurpassed,

Our friendship, forever stained and maimed.

Both Bengali, both Cornell alum, both of this Earth,

You, secure; I, in financial strife.

Your Brahmin name: a *castely* crown only given at birth,

Claiming Hinduism purity while you live a disdainful life.

We both have degrees in healthcare's realm,

But our paths couldn't be more diverse.

Your privilege a cushion at the helm,

While I fought for every cent, every verse.

Here's some pettiness, from me to you, served ice-cold:

I fought my way into direct admission.

You transferred, your struggle untold,

Your Ivy League dreams, a late addition.

Conservative, fascist values unchecked,

Your world view narrow and small.

I give honesty, which you reject:

While you only beckon judgment's call.

You say you don't recognize me anymore,

As if that's some kind of sin.

Do you know the honor of what I bore?

The vulnerability that lies within?

You think I'm crazy, unhinged, splintered,

For writing this, for being direct.

But this is me, raw and unfiltered,

My neurodivergence deserves respect.

So here we are, at the bitter end,

A decade of friendship turned to ash.

I'm angry, hurt, but I'll transcend

Your entitled, spoiled backlash.

To my ex-friend, I bid adieu,

Your cowardice and cruelty laid bare.

I'll heal, I'll grow, I'll start anew,

While you spiral in your self-made lair.

Fuck you, for the millionth time, I say,

For the pain you've caused, the trust you've broken.

I'm done with your gaslighting display,

These are among the last words to be spoken.

No more chances, no more pain to bear,

This poem seals our story's end.

May you wake up, heal, and become aware,

But I won't be there, my former best friend.

--

Rose the artist formerly known as she her Pri

~ গোলাপ্রী

[pebblegalaxy]

Echoes of Deceit: A Thriller Unfolding in Dhaka #Thriller #ShortStory

Dhaka, the city that never sleeps, the air thick with the sound of horns, the hum of rickshaws, the clamor of street vendors hawking their wares, the scent of fried samosas mingling with the stench of the Buriganga River. And here I am, Lieutenant Commander Tariq Ahmed, wandering the labyrinthine streets, each alley a mystery, each face a puzzle. The chaos feels like a mirror of my own mind,…

[doyoulikethissong-poll]

Abhijeet - Ole Ole 1994

Abhijeet Bhattacharya is an Indian playback singer who primarily sings in Hindi Film Industry. Apart from Hindi, he has also sung in other languages including Bengali, Marathi, Nepali, Tamil, Bhojpuri, Punjabi, Odia and his native language Bengali both in West Bengal and Bangladesh. Abhijeet has sung 6034 songs in more than 1000 films. He was nominated for Forbes Popular 100 Indian Celebrity in the year 2014.

Yeh Dillagi (This Cheerfulness) is a 1994 Indian Hindi-language romantic comedy-drama film directed by Naresh Malhotra and produced by Yash Chopra. Based on the 1954 American film Sabrina, its story revolves on two brothers (Akshay Kumar and Saif Ali Khan) who fall in love with their family driver's daughter, Sapna (Kajol), a successful model. The film released on 6 May 1994, and emerged as a commercial success, grossing ₹10.8 crore against its ₹1.6 crore budget.

At the 40th Filmfare Awards, Yeh Dillagi received 4 nominations – Best Actor (Kumar), Best Actress (Kajol), Best Music Director (Dilip Sen, Sameer Sen) and Best Male Playback Singer (Abhijeet for the song "Ole Ole"). The film's soundtrack album contains seven songs composed by Dilip Sen-Sameer Sen. It became one of the top three best-selling Bollywood soundtrack albums of 1994, with 4.5 million sales. The song "Ole Ole", sung by Abhijeet was a hit at the music charts. "Ole Ole" was remixed for the 2020 film Jawaani Jaaneman.

"Ole Ole" received a total of 68,2% yes votes!

[runningwithscizzorz]

Do you have any other drawings of Redboy (JTTW ver)? I absolutely love your design for him, and the henna is a beautiful touch, I'd love to see more if you have any other drawings of him! :)

I also wanted to know how you came up with your design for him, and what inspired different aspects of his design?

(I really admire you btw and your art is so beautiful!)

Thank you! Red boy is based a lot off of where I set him in the story. To me, Princess Iron Fan is Bengali and Demon Bull King is southern Chinese.

I believe he’s a total mommas boy since she misses him so much when Wukong meets her, so the pants and henna come from his love for her. I really really need to work on his design more, I’m not entirely happy with his outfit and I need to change his hair, but he’s still my cutie.

A lot of how I draw Red Son in LMK comes from my JTTW design for him, like his horns and tail, so I definitely need to mix it up haha. Truth be told, I’m actually nervous about showing my JTTW work here, since people have already started copying my designs for certain characters, but I suppose it can’t be helped haha.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

A List of "Beautiful" Bengali Words & Phrases

for your next poem/story

Āguna - fire

Amader - ours; belonging; sense of community and collectivism

Ami shobai ke bhalo chai - I want everyone to be good

Āśā - hope

Bolo na janoa kichu - say something, please

Br̥ṣṭipāta - rainfall

Buddhiman - intelligent

Cā - tea

Chokh - (or cōkha) eye

Chomotkar - said when one looks at something in wonder; magnificent

Cirantana - eternal

Diganta - horizon

Ghore - home

Golpo - stories

Haashi - (or hashi) smile; laughter

Kichu na bola jay - don’t say anything

Kotha - words; speech

Moner agun - the burning fire within one’s heart; passion, desire

Mukhosh - mask

Phula - flower

Prem - (or prēma) love

Raag - anger; rage

Samprīti - harmony

Shundor - beautiful

Śubharātri - goodnight

Sources: 1 2 3 4 5 �� More: Word Lists

If any of these words make their way into your next poem/story, please tag me, or send me a link. I would love to read them!

[tikklil]

[🗻THE FINAL TRIP 🗻] A new story from the comics Tikklil you know and love! A Bengali family goes on a trip to a hill station- it's a tale as old as time. But will they manage to catch a glimpse of the majestic Kanchenjunga, or will their plans fall flat again?

Stay tuned!

[anonymouswarriorhumanist]

We Need to Talk About RC and South Asian Representation in its Stories

Hey beautiful people, this is going to be a long post yet a very important one. From a Desi (A South Asian) to my fellow Desis and non-Desis (who especially need to hear me out).

I know the popularity of Romance Club as an interactive game. And being a South Asian makes me wanna pick literally any story that represents us. So, I went into RC's stories promising South Asian representation: Kali: Call of Darkness and Kali: Flames of Samsara. Apart from the poor research done on Indian culture which is too niche and trivial to be understood by everyone (relating to Indian languages and North-South differences), there is yet another aspect of Indian society that the game not only completely misrepresents but even whitewashes and this is very harmful to people, especially those with no knowledge of Indian culture, picking up the game to learn smth and that is: CASTE.

While playing the game, I am sure many of u may have come across such terms as 'Brahmin' or 'Kshatriya', 'Vaishya', or even 'Shudra'. And I am sure many of u may even have a rudimentary understanding of the same. This is the caste/ varna (Sanskrit term) that has plagued Indian society for thousands of years. And these terms basically divide desis even today. I especially want non-South Asians to understand that these terms carry a history of violence and discrimation. This was the chaturvarna or the 4 varna/caste sys wherein groups were ranked on their superiority to each other.

1.Brahmin-Priestly class

2.Kshatriya-Soldiers/ warriors/kings

3.Vaishya-merchants and traders

4.Shudras-Servants/slaves, (the lowest rung on the caste ladder and the most miserable)

Do keep in mind that this is not some class sys similar to feudal Europe or France, but this is CASTE which is very diff from what a non-South Asian may imagine. Notions of purity and pollution guide the caste sys (which may not influence class). A Shudra person was considered impure and hence an 'untouchable' and their mere shadows were considered polluting on the other 3 castes, so much so that they were ghettoized. In South Asia, servile work is generally considered 'polluting' and a complex history of multiple factors relegated this strict division of labourers, In simple lang, a Brahmin priest's son could only be a priest (which was a divine occupation and revered) and a Shudra's son could only do work considered appropriate of his caste which usually translated to things such as manual scavenging (still in India) and servile work considered 'polluting' from which they had no respite. This system was horrible towards Shudras in general as their labour was appropriated by the upper castes for their own gain very similar to how African slave labourers worked at white plantations if I hv to draw a rough comparison. Shudras/Dalits (the term 'Dalit' means broken/oppressed and was given by a Dalit leader and Indian legend Dr. Ambedkar to help uplift this community in Indian society) are subject to not only physical but structural violence. They were barred entry in schools, wells, tanks, roads and literally everywhere since their presence of 'polluting'. Now I have 2 more points:

In RC, I know everyone loves the male leads, and rightly so. But u need to understand that Ratan Vaish and Amrit Doobay won't give a fuck if a Dalit person died in front of them no matter how caring they might be. Since Brahmins were the priestly class, they hegemonized control over Hindu deities and mythology and only they could 'talk' to Gods (according to them ofc and their superiority complex). Amala is a Basu (a Bengali Brahmin surname) and hence both Doobay (again Brahmin) and Vaish (def upper-caste surname) r after her. If Amala was a Dalit, Amrit would hv raped and even killed her (Dalit women and the sexual violence enacted upon them by upper-caste men....again to draw a comparison similar to black women being raped by white men during slavery and jim crow eras: Google Hathras Rape case) and Ratan would have ignored her. ( Notice how Amrit was having an affair with that temple lady. She is most likely a Shudra as most Shudra women were forced into sexual slavery in temples by Brahmins like Amrit. Therefore, he treats her like an object and throws her away once Amala i.e. a woman of his caste falls in love with him. A Dalit woman's body is disposable and objectified here. Look at the complete whitewahing of power dynamics in that sexual encounter with Amrit and the temple dancer).We all need to understand that a similar fate would hv befallen Deviya Sharma (again a Brahmin woman) as even she would have been raped and ignored by other Brahmins and upper caste men in the story such as Ram/or Kamal etc. Arhat is likely a Shudra and Deviya will never bat an eyelash at him since his only job is to be in service to her tiger which Deviya probably treats with more respect than she does Arhat. My point is RC is mass producing these stories for the hyper-privileged White people of India i.e. the upper castes and that is Brahmins and Kshatriyas and Vaishyas. Dalits have rarely been entertained in representation much less in India than in abroad. But that is not what I am pissed abt. What I am pissed abt is that an American sitting in their home will check this story and see terms such as Brahmin or Kshatriya thrown abt without understanding them and then even internalize the harmful notions about these terms and caste in general in both stories abt a bunch of upper-castes freaking out over some goddess ritual.

Be very careful people in what u accept and what u don't bcoz even if it is a game, many non-Desi people may not have the relevant positionality (and that is completely fine!) to understand how the insidious caste sys is being shown and represented by RC. It is being glorified even (ik in the earlier chapters of KCD where Brahmins r shown as saviors of society and keeping Indian society stable when in reality they have done nothing but dehumanize and alienate Dalits for generations) and downplayed and even whitewashed as some trivial division. If RC wanted to publish a story about upper-caste people then pls go ahead but don't you dare whitewash it and glorify the caste sys. When impressionable audiences see all this, it is in their best interest to know the ugly truth about Indian society and not some cheap exotisation of the same. BE BETTER, especially for the Dalits who have suffered so much in South Asia. I am also attaching some material as I would greatly appreciate it if more people knew about the horrors of the caste system and how it plagues Desi society even today.

Discrimination (all types) r shitty and needs to kicked in the balls. Many times, it is subtle and while we may not know much, it is our responsibility to know more and try our best to stop it in whatever way we can.

Thank you for staying and take care y'all.

[bhramarii]

https://www.tumblr.com/bhramarii/762466549592457216/chronic-decapitator?source=share

I really like this art but I find the art confusing as well

Idk about you but as an Indian these refrence feel really striking to the Indian goddess Sri Kali maa

For example the weapon she is holding kinda feels like it, the design and shape of the weapon really resembles a KHADKA which is the weapon Sri Kali maa is generally seen holding.

Even the heads under her feels like a direct give away. As the Indian legend says that the goddes Kali maa where's the limbs and heads of the dead 'men'. The heads symbolises the ego of humans and the hands symbolise the wrong doing of man. She wears the heads like a necklace and the hands as a sort of garment to cover her lower body (as usually depicted in Indian god imagery).

There is a story on why she looks as so, and even though she might looks hella frightening, the main reason it is so is that she is the archetypal function made to terrify terror.

OK SO LIKE BACK TO MY QUESTIONS UMMMMMM

I can't tell if the art that you have made is inspired from her or, was it just a design choice cuz the main reason why I ask is cuz of the weapon. The heads of the white men and the horse is the part that confuses me.

Either way, I love how it depicts female power tho. Even goddes Kali is a selection of female power (and alot more other stuff I may have trouble recalling)

But yea

hey I know you sent a follow up ask but I still wanted to acknowledge this lol

I'm bengali myself and take a lot of inspiration from old hindu mythology and art of such I reference it in my own art and writing all the time

I'm also a big fan of ma kali so that's why there are a lot of my art pieces that are in that vein if that makes sense

Here are some other pieces of mine with vague references

[jalebi-weds-bluetooth]

Saheb, Bibi aur Ghulaam

#2 Monta Re

For the lovelies who are celebrating IPK to its finest @arshifiesta

Character. Gentility. Obedience.

These were the jewels of being an honourable woman and Khushi Dasgupta had none of those.

Her character, a question ever since she was born out of a wedlock between a British soldier who never returned and a Bengali singer who never sang again. The only thing she had left was her extended family who reluctantly gave their name to her and her father’s hazel eyes.

Her gentility was nowhere to be found for she was to be often found at pro independence speeches or singing revolutionary songs. Her mother’s talent was the last thing she inherited. It is said she had driven off at least seven suitors with impeccable terrible grace, off key singing and barely controlled tongue.

Obedience was what her family tried beating into her. But perhaps it was her aunt’s gentility and selfless, guiding hand that Khushi obeyed her family as a debt owed to to the kind woman.

She took the effort to recount the love story the city never saw.

Shashikala never approved her sister’s decision of singing. Yet when Ganga Devi Burman took the stage by storm, she had no option but to smile. Especially when she fell right off the stage and landed into the arms of a British soldier - Lt. Kennedy Watson.

If it hadn’t been for the summer tan, Ganga would have never found him appealing. Definitely not for his hazel eyes nor for his flawless understanding of Bangla and its literature.

After all, he was born in the same city as her.

At first Kennedy fought with the feelings he felt for Ganga for she pushed him to unlearn the imperial love for his country if he wished to love her. Then he fought for the land he was raised in as opposed to land he was taught to worship.

The first day Kennedy returned bloody, with a rebellion in his eyes that Ganga saw in her revolutionary brothers eyes - she gave her heart, soul and a kiss-

This is the part of the story of the story where Khushi always giggled, making Shashikala shush her before continuing, continuing to stroke Khushi’s head on her lap.

And then, Kennedy did propose to Ganga. They had planned a long wedding. One Christian to honour his God. One Hindu to honour hers.

This is where Shashikala would end the story for the wedding never happened.

It was tale as old as time. Just when everything good was about to happen, the opposite occurred. The imperialists were not happy to find one of their own defect. He disappeared without a trace, leaving Ganga, their child and love without a name.

Khushi hugged her Mashi (aunt) even closer. Despite the tragic tale being her favorite lullaby, even as an adult, she could only hope for a love as strong as her parents.

And hoped to be a human as kind as her Mashi.

— — —

Things changed dramatically as Shashikala Mashi passed away due to an early sudden heart attack.

The house grew colder, the perceptions of her more apparent, and her burden on the financially strife family heavier.

Khushi had to be sent off. There were three other sons to marry and two daughters to be married off.

The man who arrived with gifts at her doorstep to relieve the Dasguptas of their burden neither promised a love story like her parents, nor kindness like her aunt.

Sharp eyed, broad framed, wealthy and the heir of the Mullick family - Shyam Mullick was here to find a second wife in Khushi.

Dread settled in her stomach as her relatives seemed pleased with the money in front, even though the man seemed at least twenty years older than Khushi.

Or that he was already married to the Anjali Rani Tagore. The finest lineage, and a pool of infinite wealth, wisdom and beauty.

Khushi ran up the stairs. She had to run. Run as far as her two legs could take her. Where did she make a mistake? When did that man see her and fancy her? Was her relatives so eager to dust her off their hands?

“Oh Maa, bachao amake,” Khushi prayed to her Goddess and ran through multiple roofs.

Except one gave away and she fell straight into someone’s arms.

She opened her eyes and stared into the strangers face. Brown eyes, clenched jaws, perfectly shaped lips and a gaze that set her heart fluttering.

Was he a prince?

But since when did princes dress up like an English babu?

The sound of hurried footsteps broke them apart. Khushi turned red, her skin flaming up at where his fingers touched her skin.

Gently, as if she weighed a feather, he set her down. Worry returned to his face and he seemed to have aged in an instant.

“Arnob-da…” a man panted.

“Ei boka, kotobar bolbo Arnav-da doesn’t like to be called Arnob” another said.

Arnav glared at the two men - probably his househelp?

“I know where he went.”

Rage filled Arnav’s eyes. And without another word he stormed out.

— — —

The monsoon storm died out overnight, leaving Khushi to enjoy one of the last things she could - a small ride on a ferry across Hooghly.

Her protests against the marriage fell on deaf ears. If anything, her ears still rang from the slap Pishimoni gave her.

Shyam Babu offered to assist in Payal’s marriage. Why was he so intent on marrying Khushi? What did Khushi even do? How did he even get to meet her?

“O Maa,” this time Khushi touched the holy Hooghly river, “please help me,”

The ferry bumped into the shore and Khushi collected herself to step out when,

“Tumi?”

“Aapni?”

Khushi blinked at Arnav. Standing tall, this time in not his entirety of a tailored piece suit, just in his full length shirt, suspenders and pant - he took a keen look at her.

Khushi touched her cheek. Did the slap leave a mark? She fixed the edge of her saree. After a moment alone, she spoke.

“Sorry, you must want this boat alone,”

“Are you going to the other side?” Arnav asked. Khushi couldn’t help but feel that she was being studied. She nodded.

“OI, TARATARI-” the ferryman swallowed his hollering as Arnav shot a glare at him.

Khushi didn’t know what happened when he boarded the ferry. Except that the ferryman must have taken his anger out on by moving it away before Arnav could fully stand.

Leading him to fall right on Khushi.

Khushi prayed her eyes didn’t reveal her secrets and desires. And prayed that he would be unable to read anything at all.

She scrambled to sit up and sat horrified at the red on Arnav’s chest.

Did she kill him?

“Oh this bloody pen!” Khushi sighed in relief at his curse and his discomfort over a broken red pen. The ferry rocked out of nowhere, splashing him with water.

Khushi could spy a devious smile on the ferryman’s paan stained lips.

Arnav let out a colourful string of words as he attempted to wipe himself, leading to the ink to spread more viciously on him.

Khushi burst into laughter as he got completely worked up.

Oh it had been years since she laughed this hard.

— — —

“Laughing suits you,”

Khushi laid awake all night. The depression of her impending wedding not settling in for the three words he said.

And the thousand he didn’t.

He saw the slap. And she saw the tick in his jaw. The questions he refrained himself from asking. The stories she refrained herself from telling.

Khushi tried sleeping, these days of Durga Pujo were peace. She could try running away for real.

But with whom?

Khushi’s heart twisted into knots as a face became clear.

Without a full name and more than twenty words exchanged, Khushi saw more hope in a stranger than a suitor.

Oh dear, none had a more foolish mind than of Khushi Dasgupta.

— — —

A/N: omg thank you for all the love before! Let me know how you liked this chapter 💕 (also sorry not proofread!)

Tagging some lovelies here @chutkiandchotte @barshifan @laadgovernorandsankadevi @laad-governess @shiyaravi @msbhagirathi @phuljari @hand-picked-star @aye-masakalii @featheredclover

[swanmaids]

Recent reads - women in translation

Child of Fortune - Tsushima Yuko, 1978, tr. Geraldine Harcourt

Orignally published in Japanese. A single mother with a difficult relationship with her 11 year old daughter finds herself pregnant again after an affair. A dreamy and flashback-centred short story of motherhood and alienation.

The Mermaid’s Tale - Lee Wei-Jing, 2019, tr. Darryl Sterk

Originally published in Mandarin. A lonely woman in her thirties with an obsessive love for Latin dance attempts to make peace with her past and her body. Blends the whimsical and the excruciatingly real.

Consent - Vanessa Springora, 2020, tr. Natasha Lehrer

Originally published in French. A wrenching memoir of the author's sexual abuse by a celebrated author as a teenage girl, and the culture that colluded with her abuser. Devastating.

A Woman of Pleasure - Murata Kiyoko, 2013, tr. Juliet Winters Carpenter

Originally published in Japanese. In 1903, a teenage girl tries to survive after being sold into sex work. The novel's brutality makes its moments of light even more poignant.

Masks - Enchi Fumiko, 1958, tr. Juliet Winters Carpenter

Both a novel of tragedy and manipulation and an exploration of the role of women in noh theatrical tradition and the Tale of Genji. Lingers in the mind long after reading.

Abandon - Sangeeta Bandyopadhyay, 2013, tr. Arunava Sinha

Originally published in Bengali. A mother's conflict between caring for her sickly young son and her desire to abandon motherhood to pursue her art is personified by two narrations by the same "character". A fascinating self-referential novel that raises many questions on the conflicts between art and humanity.

[inc0rrectmyths]

Silly stuff my professors do/have done:

1. History Professor:

He LOVES fried cutlets ok? And since he's too awkward to go to the food court and get some, he asks us to go fetch some for him. He gives us the money and tells us to get 5-6 cutlets and pack them up and hand them to him. And also gives us some extra money so that we can buy snacks for us.

2. Politics Professor:

He's so jumpy (he's comparatively young to other profs), most of the days he comes to class and after a few mins of studying, he starts singing some random old Bengali songs. And then again goes back to teaching. He sings like 3-4 times in our 40 mins class.

3. Sociology Professor:

Hates the society but teaches a subject that revolves around the society 💀 so his class is this hilarious combination of learning wonderful stuff about sociology and social anthropology and then a few roasts here and there about how fucked up the society is.

4. Language Professor:

I'M TELLING YOU SHES QUEER! She manages to find queer rep in EVERY piece of literature we study 💀💀 and goes on a rant of different possibilities. Also she makes AUs for some stories that dont have a satisfying ending. She's really cute.

5. Home Science Professor:

This has happened only twice, but still. He gave us an extensive lecture on how to NOT burn a cake/pie. And then immediately burned his own 💀

[imab00kwh0r3]

babel, and why i love it (SPOILERS!!!!)

ok im terribly late to reading it, for its not sold in many places where i live, so i found the pdf luckily.

babel is a book about colonialism and racism and oppression, it is about revolution and battling your inner conscience (in my opinion at least, i'll elaborate later). it tells the story of robin swift coming to the prestigious royal institute of translation or better known as babel, where during his yrs there he discovers that the glamourous oxford university isnt such a righteous place. his loyalty is tested, blood is shed and tears fall which leads up to a revolution to stop an incoming war.

there are many reviews regarding how its racist to white ppl (which is astounding to even think about) and that its not accurate as women werent allowed to go to university in the 1830s but im not going to talk about that, that much. i wanted to speak on the actual translation/language aspect of it.

throughout the book, translation and language r some of the main themes (obviously) but the impact it has on the people, both in the book and irl is smth i havent seen anyone mention. language isnt just a form of communication but it is part of our culture, it is part of our identity, and during colonial times many languages suffered, they were being erased as they were "barbaric" or "strange" they were banned and anyone who spoke them was punished like in victoires chapter. robin, ramy and victoire all can barely speak their native languages, robin has almost fogotten cantonese, ramy has very basic knowledge of bengali and victoire is never given a chance or is permitted to speak in haitian creole. they lost one of the main things that connects them to their motherland, they only have their appearance left. they will never be able to talk to their ppl properly.

victoire was frustrated that haitian creole isnt recognised as a proper language like how in their exams, her match-pair wouldnt be counted properly as haitian creole wouldnt be used much hence its "useless" in the eyes of prof. leblanc. she was beaten when she would speak haitian croele in her house in france. when she first came to babel she was correcting herself from "kreyol" to "haitian creole" and was unsure if she could even study it.

robin realised that prof.lovell actually knew more than him about his own language, his mother tongue. he could barely stand being back in canton and he felt isolated in a way as everything changed and was new and so was the language even though he was born hearing and speaking it.

not much is talked about this with ramy except that he barely knows bengali, even though hes fluent in english, latin, greek, arabic, persian and urdu. he knows 6 languages and in his chapter he is sed to "absorb languages like a sponge" and that he recited poems or writing in other languages he didnt know perfectly, even down to tone, only after having it read to him once but he barely knows his mother tongue.

this relates to modern times as many languages of previously colonised countries rely on english words like in india u will barely hear the word pathshala, instead u will hear school. in mauritian creole when people speak they will slip in english words, like "netwai whiteboard la" which means clean the whiteboard.

we dont know our language fully because of the erasure of them.

theres also 1st gen immigrant children where their mother tongue is smth they barely hear or they forgot after a while, they feel so incredibly disconnected once they realise. this is how robin is and this is how i am too, i was born in europe, then at 7 i moved to england and now im somewhere entirely different, i dont remember my mother tongue, i dont dream in it. which ultimately makes u lose ur voice in a metaphorical way.

u cant speak because u dont know how.

another important thing is the purposeful mistranslations and burning of books, thats not fully discussed in the book although it would have been a nice touch. colonisers purposefully mistranslated things to control the masses because when they burnt our books, they burnt our language, knowledge and people. and the exploitation of our languages like the statue at univ of william jones sitting at desk and 3 hindu sages on the floor infront of him exists, and how missionaries were taught our languages to help in conversion.

now onto the 1830s inaccuracies and racism:

its the fucking 1830s do u think white ppl were nice to poc at this time, like slavery just ended in the eyes of the law for britain but still continued in other places like america. reverse racism doesnt exist, white ppl can be prejudiced against but u lot r not oppressed and never will be, u lot wont be killed for being white, so stop crying. and about the women wouldnt be at university in the 1830s thing its fiction, r.f. kuang took some liberties.

and that is all i have to say, dont start an argument, anyways babel is great, go read it!!