Curriculum Vitae

Cynthia is an acclaimed libertine, a truth-seeker in an economy of dogma and delusions, where such a pursuit is scarcely sought; where the puppeteers, the moral arbiters of a decadent society who with their clandestine tactics—ruthlessly operated under the neon-lit, razzling-dazzling, burgeoning empire of capitalism—undermine the last vestiges of our so-cherished freedom ever more. Bestowed a life from the marriage of sacred and profane, on the serene, lush, evergreen landscapes of rural Bangladesh, an abode to the luminary poets—each a philosopher of innate lyricism of the mortal coil—the maiden sought to unearth the impregnable abysmalities that shroud the human psyche, and shed light on the eternal chasm of the soul and mortal vessel, equipped with the fire of Durga, the wisdom of Saraswati, and the motherliness of Kali. Her father being the revered Pandit of a village in Sylhet, she drew aesthetic nourishment from the native language of the legendary Vedic bard, Kalidasa, a craftsman of words, whose nectar-drenched metaphors have enchanted our senses and enriched our cultural repertoire since antiquity. As she sprouted into the ravenous age of adulthood, her voluptuous form, as if a perilous ensnare of the beguiling temptress, preoccupied the hearts of many village knaves who sought to conquer her with their feigned tales of gallantry, but those profane golddigging creatures were inevitably fended off meticulously by her stern father, ensuring his daughter’s honor and sanctity. 1971, Operation Searchlight: As the rapacious wrath of Pakistani militarism blighted the land, wherein living deemed an insurmountable maneuver, Cynthia’s family fled the war-ravaged country with the scornful reputation of illegal immigrants into India, seeking shelter in the canopy-shrouded forests of Junglemahals—impenetrable, even to the sun. On one rain-drenched afternoon of September—air humid with the fresh musk of damp earth—what began as a casual stroll for her, turned into a solitary voyage deeper into the uncharted depths of the forest, where the foliage coalesced into dense thickets, obstructing her path ever so often until she reached a dilapidated shack enmeshed in vines, from where a faint glimmer of light had been emanating. Curiosity being intrinsic to her, in measured steps, as if cartographing the moss-laden path, she drew herself closer to its source, as if a moth drawn to the flame. The termite-eaten door, hanging on the faith of rust-plagued hinges, opened with a creek—a characteristic of such a decrepit foundation, unveiling a young man, almost the same age as hers, seated in Padmasana on an altar, bearing a wistful smile. “Come, fair child,” he greeted her. The man was Sri Sriman Riddhiman Abalbrahmachaari Gyantirtha Gyanratna Gyanambudhi Gyanchuramani Acharya Sadananda Puroshottam Trilokeshwara Ratnasambhava Swami Santacharya Advutsagar, under whose aegis Cynthia studied Vajrayana tantricism and passed with flying colors, subsequently having conferred the title of Srimati Riddhimati Jagadamba Jagatddhatri Haimavati Trikaldarshini Sunyavasini Anantrupa Kamakshee Parameshwari Bhairavi Mata Mahamaya Cynthia Advutsagar. Although a tangible connection of the vessel was initiated during the rites, her sanctity had been left intact, inducting herself into the hall of fame as an illustrious auteur of tantra, having assimilated all the wisdom of the Shastras and embodying the Panchabhoota. Endowed with spiritual grandeur and conquered all chakras, she, a distinguished alumni of the crown-jewel of Junglemahal, migrated to the bustling city of dreams and stars, Calcutta, within the span of a week, along with her father for the obedient daughter (daddy’s girl) she had been. Penniless and miserable, living in a messbari, she sought a method of monetary ingress, and as if blessed with a boon from the gods—seated in their high heavens—she embarked on a conquest, a path laden with thorns, to unravel the clandestine affairs of a particular knave under the guise of a guru, Virya Maharaj, and succeed in her perilous endeavor dismantle the ignoble empire of his, gaining fame and notoriety. She, in order to promote her lurid philosophies—potent with existential nihilism—set sail for pilgrimage Japan in 1993, and upon disembarking on the land of the rising sun, she met with a clinically depressed Hideaki Anno, whose tales of sheer agony and soul-crushing melancholia, moved even the impeccable philosopher. The aspiring animator was aided by the meditations of human nature communicated to him, and from the elixir of such psychoanalytical abysmalities, born Neon Genesis Evangelion (1995), an acrid portrait of the futility of human connection and havoc wrecked upon species who triumph over their impregnable fortress of knowledge, held aloft as if a beacon of knowledge amidst the ocean of cosmic nullity. However dissatisfied with output of her protégé, she persuaded him to enact another project to meditate carefully, avoiding an easy redemption of the banished soul condemned in the purgatory of instrumentality, which came to fruition as End of Evangelion (1997). Habouring a love for anime, including those which delve and contemplate on the nature of human desire (hentai), and rice—an essential component of Bengali cuisine—served with Catla grown in a dedicated pond, whose sole proprietor was the auteur herself. Around this period, she gravitated to the melodious heart-wrenching hymns composed by the renowned British lyric poet Thom Yorke, and called him “a harbinger of aesthetics, the crown-jewel of musicians”. Around 2010s, she gained notoriety for her eccentric mediations on the human nature, particularly appealing to the younger generation of Japan in throes of the Hikikkomori condition, cementing her reputation as a melancholic philosopher—a true successor of the mystics who preceded her—whose unflinching determination and never-decadent spirit of curiosity well into the meandering age of sixties where most succumb to the whim of the absurd, awaiting for the scythe of the grim reaper.